With One Voice: Jesus's Lament of Abandonment

See earlier posts in this ongoing interaction with Reggie Kidd's With One Voice.

With One Voice: The Singing Savior

With One Voice: The Psalms

With One Voice: David

With One Voice: Reggie Kidd on Psalm 22

In chapter 5, he picks up with Jesus' use of Psalm 22 as his lament of abandonment from the cross. Reggie hits this chapter of the book out of the park. He brackets the chapter with gut wrenching stories from his own experience -- stories of faithful saints who in the midst of the mess of life, persist in singing songs of praise to the God who is there.

Using these stories, he shapes our understanding of Jesus' suffering on the cross. Many times in evangelical circles, we focus on the magnitude of the cosmic suffering -- or we gallop right ahead to resurrection. But it is in the suffering that Jesus comes and meets with us. Jesus' lament on the cross is the full expression of human suffering, Reggie tells us. “To know the God who is, is to look to him even when he won’t make eye contact. To know the God who keeps covenant is to sing to him, even, perhaps especially, when you fear he may not be listening.” (92) Wow -- again, it is this kind of writing that makes the book worth the cover price.

Reggie then delivers a bomb in the midst of self-help Christianity: “Many of us with stoicism seek simply to cope with life. We paint our canvas in safe, if bland, grays. But real Christianity surrounds us with the reddest reds and the bluest blues, the bleakest blacks and the most radiant whites. It is not about mere resignation and coping mechanisms. It is about resurrection and crucifixion, triumph and failure, redemption and sin.” (93) In the middle of motivational speeches masquerading as sermons, Reggie reminds us that our pain and lonliness and shame are but shadowy reminders that God has not left us alone. We don't have to bootstrap ourselves out of our mess -- rather we're called to sing to our God in the midst of our mess. “The cross brings God into deep places in our lives – places where artists, poets, and musicians go.” (93) The cross confronts us in our own anguish. It reminds us of our own fragility and enables us to worship in the midst of the pain.

Here's another winner quote: “Christ’s death song makes reality more real. It squashes fears, pulls us out of our self-absorbtion, and connects us to others. Songs that keep Christ’s death before us help us in another way: they help us acknowledge how messed up we are. That’s a good thing. It’s the cross that frees Rouault, in another panel from the Miserere, to do a self-portrait as a sad clown and to inscribe beneath it: ‘Do we not all paint our faces?’ We know we are base, but we cannot name our baseness until we see it borne for us. Once we see Christ as bearer of our foolishness, though, we gain the freedom to let go of our pretense – self-made happiness, self-painted beauty, self-generated dignity, self-defined rightness.” (97).

Reggie also makes a well needed detour into the realm of excellence, particularly as it applies to church worship. I believe that we ought to bring our best gifts to God -- we ought to do the very best we can in our music, preaching, and worship design. However, we dare not give in to the idolatry of excellence. That's the idolatry that measures worship as a performance - did we hit all the notes just right; did everything flow well. Such idolotry (and this is Russ, not Reggie speaking) manifests itself in the person who is put out that the organ is just too slow, or put off by the off key singing somewhere in the choir. It's the typo in the worship bulletin that makes their face sour -- whatever it is. There are a zillion other manifestations, depending upon what type of church you attend -- but it all amounts to the same thing: focusing on the show rather than upon the Christ that the worship service is for. It lies in the illusion that in worship we're the audience to be entertained, rather than in the reality that we're the performers before a celestial throne.

"Perhaps we will lament as oprhans or, perhaps worse, as spoiled whiners. But we can choose to lament as sons and daughters who know they are loved and are therefore being disciplined and shaped. The difference will lie largely in learning to suffer to the tune of the Savior's song." (102)

Soli Deo Gloria

Russell

PS -- Reggie indicates on his blog that With One Voice has gone into a second printing. Congratulations! If you've been enjoying reading about this book, you might want to get a copy for yourself -- and you might want to check out Reggie's latest post on Common Grounds online: Athanasius and the Incarnation: Why hope and history do rhyme -- he speaks of suffering and tells the story of speaking in class on the topic: "I made a passing comment about the martyrdom that is a mere theoretical possibility for Western Christians but a daily possibility for Christians elsewhere, when a student’s hand went up. Raised in North Africa, she recounted with proud tears how her father had been killed — after six attempts on his life — for not renouncing his faith in Christ. So much for theoretical possibilities. " And this is his intro to how the theology of Athanasius helps us in these trying times -- a great complement to this chapter we reviewed today.

RS

With One Voice: Reggie Kidd on Psalm 22

As we continue digesting Reggie Kidd's With One Voice, we come to his exposition of Psalm 22. Reggie covers some familiar territory here -- this is, after all, one of my favorite psalms to use during the Holy Week observances. It eerily prefigures what would happen to Christ on the cross. It is also a Psalm I use for comfort -- when I'm in deep distress, it helps me greatly to know that David was quite free in crying out to God "My God, My God why have you forsaken me". We have liberty to bring our anguish and disappointment and confusion to God. And strangely what happens for David, and what often happens for me, is that God uses the very act of crying out to bring healing and comfort -- thus the second half of the Psalm dealing with the feast celebrating God's deliverance.

Reggie does bring up one very important factor that I hadn't considered before about this Psalm: the people who are invited to the celebration. He points out the counterbalancing sets: Israelites and the nations, the poor and the rich, the dead and the not yet born.

With the first set of Israelites and the nations, Reggie brings up the old Biblical truth of God's design to bless the nations and have them all come under the banner of Christ. He describes this theme as a "whisper" in the Old Testament, and this instance being one of the whispers.

The second set caught my attention -- the poor and the rich will be at the feast. I'm so used to churchly criticisms of the rich, that it's almost startling to hear that yes, there are indeed some God fearing rich folk who will be welcomed at the feast. Reggie is quick to remind us that there are other plenty of scriptures that warn against "satedness" and self satisfaction in wealth and riches. However, this little picture shows us that grace will indeed be extended to the wealthy as well.

Then the third set started ringing my bell. I've spent the better half of 2006 making a case for our covenant responsibilities to one another across the generations, and here Reggie takes it even further. Both the dead and the not yet born also have a place at the table. “In Christ, the dead and the living make up one community of praise....David understood that whenever any of us comes along in the timeline, and from whatever angle, we are there to serve those who come after us. The yet-to-be are part of our song as well as those who have died in God.” (83) This thought alone could fill up a whole series of blog posts -- in what ways do we truly give our antecedents a place at the table -- do we truly honor the faith of the saints of the past, or do we pay it lip service so that we can inhabit their house and plunder their riches for our own gain. In like manner, do we truly think ahead for the next generation, or do we concern ourselves with sating our present needs, with no heed for the long term viability of culture or the church. How much do we really see ourselves in continuity with the saints of the past and future-- and more importantly, is our continuity based in our shared song of praise? Good stuff here, Reggie!

“In a sense Psalm 22 is the theological center of the book of Psalms. Like Israel’s pilgrimage it begins in lonliness and dejection and ends, on the far side of God’s miraculous intervention in comradeship and elation.” (86) Reggie sums up here by turning to the heart once again -- I would have liked stories of how David's (and Christ's) song have tangibly brought comfort to some beloved saint -- but that's not a serious flaw, just a stylistic preference. All told, this chapter presents us solid material, continuing on his Worship Theology of the Heart.

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell




With One Voice: The Singing Savior
With One Voice: The Psalms
With One Voice: David -- Israel's Sweet Singer and Architect of Praise

With One Voice -- the Singing Savior

I've had the book for about 6 months, but I've just not gotten around to it. This week I finally treated myself to starting through Reggie Kidd's With One Voice. Reggie was one of my profs at RTS. He teaches Pauline Epistles and Worship. On top of that he is the dean of the chapel, designing all the chapel worship services. I found his leading worship to be rich, thoughtful and Christ centered. His classes were a melange of art, music, scholarship, and spiritual exhortation. He came out with his work on worship last year, and so I'd like to process it together with you all.

One of the great things about Reggie is his lyrical writing style -- the man is a theologian with a poet's sensibilities. He begins with a quote from a sermon he heard once: "A theology that can't be preached is not worth having." and as he interacts with the quote he quickly tosses out the addition "A theology that can't be sung is not worth having either." Thus he begins what might aptly be called a theology of the heart. Before digging too deep into application, Reggie traces the Redemptive Historical line of singing through scripture and into the early church on to the Reformation and beyond.

In this first chapter, Reggie lays out this vision that our singing functions as a spiritual discipline to help us draw closer to God, it functions as a comfort in times of darkness (in this section he relates his own wrestling with melanoma and the experience of Eva Cassidy who died of melanoma -- a powerful tale of spiritual comfort in the valley of hte shadow of death), and it functions to help us hear the ongoing song of God (he gives the illustration of the barbershop quartet, which when they hit their notes just right, they hear a fifth voice -- “That aural illusion created by harmonics is, I believe, a divine whisper of something that is absolutely true of our singing when we gather in worship.” (citing Jesus leading us in worship as spelled out in Hebrews 8:2 and 2:12).

Then Reggie hits his stride as he lays out the missional purpose to our song. He asserts “disbelief today is not a function of logic; it stems from a loss of imagination.” (22) Reggie states that many students who hear faith assaulted in college acquiesce quickly because they have not seen the faith lived out in a community -- they haven't experienced a full-orbed, enfleshed living out of the faith that gives what thinkers call a "plausibility structure" to help concretely understand the ideas of faith. “…God’s people, gathered in life, in belief, and in worship, are his ‘plausibility structure,’ God’s people – loving one another, submitting to a common life, praising his name, and telling his story – are the case God makes to a watching world, both visible and invisible.” (23)

Reggie keeps pressing: “in the face of the deconstruction of the Christian view of reality, the great cultural task of Christians is the reclamation of the imagination. This needs to be worked out across a broad front – from the way Christians conduct themselves in the marketplace and in politics to the way they educate the next generations and shape their churches. As vital as anything is the way they engage the arts: painting, sculpture, literature, poetry, cinema, dance, architecture, and, of course, music.” (23)

And again: “Music opens the imagination to the possibility that what we see is not all there is. Felix Mendelssohn composed no religious works until he encountered Bach’s Passion According to St. Matthew – after that, his work was God-soaked. Our singing says clearly that all other loves are idolatries without the love of God.” (24)

Finally, he lays out the plan of the rest of the book -- not a theology of worship in terms of what is acceptable and what is not acceptable. But rather a theology of worship that focuses on a Biblical picture of what the Holy Spirit does to us through worship.

I'm going to take this one slowly and savor it like fine Belgian chocolate -- likely doing a chapter a week. Hope you'll pick up the book and join the conversation.

Soli Deo gloria
Russell

Ongoing Training: Leadership and Anxiety

Steve Brown used to tell me that I needed to develop a mean streak. For those of you who don't know Steve, he's a radio preacher. He thinks he's "got a voice like it came from on Sinai", but that's not really true. He's got the voice of a cranky old tarheel who smokes a lot, has sinned his share, and has experienced forgiveness beyond his wildest expectations. He's got the voice that communicates "sit down son, and listen up, and you just might learn something." So when Steve spoke, I generally listened.

But mean streaks don't come easy to me. I'm something of a people pleaser...I like being liked after all.

Now I take this one day training seminar on Leadership and Anxiety in the Church. It's all about how to apply Bowen Systems Theory in the church context. Too much to fully explain in one post, but the general thesis is this -- every organization constitutes an emotional system (family, church, workplace, etc). Each of us gets cast in a role in the system. Now here's the rub....in a system, all the parts influence each other. In other words, in a dysfunctional system (say a codependent relationship) the "problem person" is not the only one contributing to the dysfunction....so does the "enabler" (envision the spouse who continually makes excuses for her husband's drinking.....the rich parent who is always bailing out the delinquent child.... you get the idea how the bad behavior and the enabling behavior reinforce each other).

Now the interesting thing about systems theory is this. The goal for pastors is not to learn the theory so they can diagnose where all the problems are in a congregation or in their familiy. I've known colleagues that were well versed in systems theory...they'd read all the books and they could tell you right where all the systemic problems were in their congregations. But there wasn't any improvement there.

That's because the goal in studying systems theory is to encourage pastors that by working on themselves, they can improve the functionality of the system as a whole. If a congregation is an emotional system in which all the parts exert influence...then any one part that is functioning in a better more balanced way will influence the whole towards balance. Part of the challenge is that when a leader starts functioning better (say for instance, setting boundaries so that he has a healthy balance of family time and church time.... or perhaps exerting a little more self discipline in time management, which decreases the kind of "available at the drop of the hat" time that was there before.... ), there's always pushback because the change affects other people. It may challenge them to take more responsibility for their role in the system. It may force them to deal with some of their own anxieties that they didn't want to deal with. But in the long run, somebody is going to have their feathers ruffled...and they're going to take it back to the leader.

Hence the mean streak (and that's a bit of an exaggeration). The leader then has the challenge of not owning the ruffled feathers. When someone comes to the leader with anxiety, the leader can listen with empathy ... but as soon as he owns the anxiety, he's lost. The leader has to have the inner self-control to live a little bit with other people's pain. Because sometimes that pain is God's way of dealing with them. Because sometimes that pain is just redirected from some other real issue that needs to be addressed (for instance...my husband is diagnosed with cancer, but I haven't dealt with the anxiety from that...but the anxiety comes out in other areas of life).

The idea here is to stay focused on goals, the big picture. The practicioners talk a lot about using playfulness and paradox to defuse anxiety and invite people into creative engagement with it. My mind is still reeling with everything we covered in the one day seminar. But the big idea I got from it is an old one and a good one: "Why do you see the speck in your neighbor's eye, but do not notice the log in your own eye?" Work on yourself....deal with your own sin and avoidance and issues....and likely, God will use that process of sanctification of yourself to bring blessing to the family, the church, the workplace as a whole.

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell

With One Voice -- The Psalms

Reading Reggie's With One Voice is something like eating a well made pound cake -- the prose is rich and sweet with hints of subtle flavors (citrus, almond -- pick your recipie), but it's not so heavy as to leave you feeling fat and bloated and your head swimming in a sugar fog. He's got moments of prose that are so apt and right, that I had to copy whole paragraphs into my notes. I keep finding myself teetering on the tightrope between "Wow!!" and "Man, I wish I could write like that"

This second chapter introduces us to the book of Psalms as God's way of working on our hearts (just as the law works on our minds and the prophets work on our actions). He begins with the broad sweep of the book of psalms -- a slow movement from lament and struggle to ending with triumphant praise.

Then Reggie zeros in on Psalms 1 and 2, confessing that he's using them not only to introduce us to the purpose of the Psalms, but also to show us the personal soulcraft that has worked on him through the songs of Zion: “We are all inveterate idolators, little Pinocchios trying to work our way from puppethood to independent personhood. In this chapter, I want to confess my own false gods, because my passion for the importance of a snug theology lies in the way God has used music and song to carry out his campaign against my pet idols. Others may worship elsewhere, but I worship at the twin altars of Reason and Action – also known as Knowing and Doing.” (35)

Reggie tells the story of his coming to faith -- how he had started as a hard nosed intellectual who lusted for a clean and tidy intellectual system overseen by an aged-english actor type God (imagine John Geilgud portraying a Great Unmoved Mover). However, in college, he met Mort, a Presbyterian Pastor who challenged him with a vision of a God who intervened and meddled in the universe -- and by so doing, this God suffered wounds and hurt and bled:

“One night Mort heard me sing and play on the guitar one of the many love songs I knew. ‘From the way you seemed to feel that song, it sounds like you’re going to need a bigger God than just Someone who can explain why E=mc2 works,” he mused ‘Okay, but what did you think of the song?’ was my rejoinder, but some other voice inside of me muttered, ‘So he knows.’ Finally, there was the night Mort, frustrated after an extended conversation about whether God existed, blurted, ‘Reggie, I thinkyou worship your doubts. Could it be you just enjoy being the aloof inquirer?’ While part of me looked for a clever repartee, a deeper part confessed ‘He’s right.’ My intellectual curiosity was a smoke screen for a psyche that wanted to stay untethered. I wanted a God I could manage, not a God who would meddle. I was having a hard time admitting that I needed a God who would do a lot more than meddle – that I needed the God who had scarred himself to heal the broken and out of control places I hid from everybody else. Within a few days, I succumbed to Christ, figuring that any remaining riddles needed to be worked out from inside
of the faith. I sensed it was wiser to accept faith’s mystery than continue in unfaith’s befuddlement. I was starved for what Mort’s intrusive God offered.” (36)

Then Reggie talks about how he began to experience this overwhelming intrusive God through music, particularly a performance of the Messiah:

“I was completely unprepared for the experience. It’s not that I had never
heard any of the music before. But I had never heard it in context, all at
once, or more importantly, from the inside, from a posture of faith.
Minutes into the program I was weeping. I was overwhelmed by the beauty,
the majesty, the poetry, the melding of passion and thoughtfulness, of lovliness
and truth – the things that make Handel’s Messiah the special phenomenon it
is. I felt bathed in a new existential awareness: what Christ
brought was more than truths to learn or disciplines to master. It was
more like his coming made me – made all of us – the object of a passionate
courtship.” (37)

I've talked about having a similar kind of experience in seeing Les Miserables on Broadway. I've always taken this as being touched with an experience of glory -- yet Reggie here sounds the experience out in more detail than I've ever been able to. It's that experience of leaving the performance and feeling better, cleaner, brighter than you were before. I'm not sure if this is what Aristotle meant by catharsis in his poetics -- maybe it is catharsis viewed through redeemed eyes. And the book of Psalms points us toward having this experience on a regular basis through the songs of Zion. “Psalm 1 tells us that God simply does not care to satisfy the intellectual curiosity of coolly aloof inquirers: his passion is for dragging ugly wallflowers onto the dance floor. When we come to him looking merely for a respectable philosophical system, he not so subtly reshapes the question: ‘So it’s truth you think you want? Come sing in my choir, then we’ll talk’ In other words, learn to praise. Understanding will follow.” (49)

Reggie moves from there to talk about Psalm 2 -- how are we to understand God's interaction with the world -- particularly in the face of injustice. He retells his early passion for social justice, particularly in combatting the rascism that he saw so evidently in the 1970s South. He was desperate to show that Evangelicals cared for social justice and were thinking Christians.

“My zeal over race left me with little energy for other spiritual practices, whether personal holiness or individual evangelism.” (44) In a class on modern theology, he was studying liberation theology. He reports how the class was almost monolithically angry because of the inequities revealed in the book – how the haves oppress the have nots. Finally, one class member spoke up “The thing that troubles me about this book and the approach to God it represents is that, well, there’s no joy in it. There doesn’t seem to be anything to celebrate.” (44) Reggie at first internally objected, but then realized that the theologian they were studying had indeed abridged the gospel to a political platform. He instantly had an inner memory of sitting with this student and others singing songs of praise and realizing that one of the ways we build the city of God – and just as necessary as social action – was the worship of the people of God. Being shaped and formed by singing the songs of Zion. He saw that there wasn't a dicotomy between "worship Christians" and "social justice Christians" -- joyful worship should send us forth to be salt and light in a watching world so that they may see our good deeds and praise our Father in heaven.

“I realized then that our outlook on history and society is anchored in the conviction that above us stands a God who laughs. He mocks the arrogance of the exploiters who misperceive the kind restraint of his wrath and refuse to repent. He laughs at the folly of sin’s residium in a redeemed person’s rascism. He scoffs at the demons who mock my redemption, as though the besetting sins I have yet to shake in thirty years of following Christ could lessen my Father’s commitment to see my salvation through.” (46) The laughter of God is a key component of Psalm 2 (and 37 and 59). Reggie wrestles with the discomfort of this concept, but finally finds peace in it -- for we are included in the objects of God's laughter.

In many ways, Reggie hits on the theory of literary comedy -- Think of Shakespeares comedies -- they are all about wandering pilgrims faced with various tight lipped naysayers and villans. But in the end, even the rogues are reconciled, so long as they learn that the joke is on everyone -- as long as they stop taking themselves so seriously. I think Reggie's point here is that we need to stop idolizing our own actions, thinking that in our hustle and bustle and planning and conferences and efforts we save the world. We need to rest in the laughter of God who is sovereign and has called us according to his purpose -- we are called to be pilgrims with a song on our lips and blessings from our hands.

Heavy thoughts -- More to come next week.

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell

Peace Unity and Purity -- Further reflections

No, I haven't forgotten that I promised further interaction -- Honestly, Hurricane Katrina knocked me off my momentum on this topic -- and I just haven't had the heart to pick it up.

For those of you needing background on this topic see Post #1 and Post #2 on it.

Also see the archive of links that I'm updating regularly

Here's why -- I know that eventually, I have to deal with the Task Force's recommendations. I've tried to bring out positive aspects of the report, but I have serious concerns about one of the recommendations. Those of you who know me know I hate conflict, especially with people I like. I've met these folks on the task force; I like them. To a person, they're all very nice, very personable, and highly committed to their ministries. They are all people of conviction who long to serve Christ as they understand Him and to love other people as they love themselves. So, I hate to offer a critique that might hurt their feelings.

However, I've been following the posts on the web, and I've seen much harsher critiques than I have to offer. And thus, I offer my thoughts in what I hope to be a spirit of humility. That said, here goes:

Recommendation 1 "The task force recommends that the General Assembly strongly encourage a. every member of the Presbyterian Church (USA) to witness to the church's visible oneness, to avoid division into separate denominations that obscure our community in Christ, and to live in harmony with other members of this denomination, so that we may with one voice together glorify God in Jesus Christ, by the power of the Holy Spirit; and b. all sessions, congregations, presbyteries, and synods to renew and strengthen their covenanted partnership with one another and the General Assembly."

Interesting phrasing here -- Have the GA strongly encourage no division. Note that this doesn't preclude division, it is but strong encouragement. Implicit is the recognition that division may yet happen. The wording is strong, but not a club -- very pastoral and wise. As it is, not an objectionable recommendation.

Recommendation 2 "The task force recommends that the General Assembly urge governing bodies, congregations, and other groups of Presbyterians to follow the example of the task force and other groups that, in the face of difficult issues, have engaged in the processes of intensive discernment through worship, community-building, study, and collaborative work."

Again, nothing objectionable here. Indeed this might be the best thing to come out of the task force -- their capacity to work together despite deep (even foundational) differences is commendable. They have shown that it is possible to disagree about serious issues and still be warm, generous, and loving to one another. While they have not given up on core convictions, they have been able to connect with one another personally. For this, I have nothing but commendation to the task force.

Recommendation 3 "The task force asks the General Assembly to commend for study the Theological Reflection that heads the task force report."

Again, a great recommendation -- as I said in my last post, it would be a terrible shame if we jumped straight to the recommendations without first grappline with this theological interpretation -- while there is a lot of "wiggle room" in the reflections, an honest reading of them gives great encouragement to me. My main concern there is not so much with the words, but with the language games that are used by some interpreters -- language games that at times invert the clear intent of the wording of a document. That said, I think evangelicals ought to use this document to engage the rest of the church.

Recommendation 4 "The task force recommends that the General Assembly direct the Committee on the Office of the General Assembly and urge those who plan and moderate meetings of other governing bodies to explore the use of alternative forms of discernment and decision-making as a complement to parliamentary procedure, especially in dealing with potentially divisive issues."

Basically, this recommendation states "Roberts Rules is not authoritative scripture" Again, I feel pretty good about this. Roberts Rules are but tools to facilitate civil discussion and conversation, but they can also be cumbersome, bureacratic, and confusing. Especially for small groups (like a 10-12 member committee). Larger bodies benefit more from such structures, but smaller bodies benefit from greater flexibility. I can see some potential dangers in this in that we don't live in an environment of trust, so alternative forms of decision making could also be used as a club rather than a tool for civility. However, in principle, I think this is good food for thought.

Recommendation 5: The task force's "Authoritative Interpretation" of the G-6.0108 of the book of order. This is too long to effectively reproduce here. In effect, it says that the ordination standards are for the whole church and are not up to local option. However, local governing bodies are given leeway in granting exceptions to the ordination standards. They are subject to the review of higher bodies, however.

This is the recommendation that troubles me. It is the fruit of a lot of labor on the task force, and it is their best effort at placating conservatives by maintaining the national standard, while granting leeway to more liberal presbyteries to ordain who they clearly feel called to ministry. While De Jure, they have found a "middle way", De Facto, they have created local option.

Ironically, their own demonstrate the untenable nature of this main recommendation. In their section on resources for the church, they enumerate four tensions in presbyterian polity. Then, as they address application of these tensions they write "The opportunities and temptations of the culture that the church inhabits, discord over controversial issues, and other factors internal and external to the church can push the church to one side of the polity balance or the other. In certain situations they can even threaten to capsize the ship of faith by collapsing the necessary tension between its guiding principles. The church's calling in the face of such a challenge has been to seek an equilibrium rather than perfect and equal balance by weighting its polity for a time in favor of those principles neglected by certain trends in culture, controversy, theology or practice." Said in the words of my former seminary professor Richard Pratt: "the deck of life is always shifting -- balance is merely momentary synchronicity." -- to have the faith meet the contemporary challenge, we need to emphasize certain principles in some times and seasons, and other principles in others.

Keep that thought in your mind, and then read this quote from the section about the proposed authoritative interpretation: "These measures will not be effective, however, unless subsection (5) of the proposed authoritative interpretation is taken with the utmost seriousness. All parties must outdo one another in honoring the decisions of other bodies, presuming that other governing bodies have employed their best wisdom and sincerely sought the Spirit's guidance in all their deliberations. The proposed authoritative interpretation is not a license either to disregard standards or to override judgments of the fitness of persons elected to office."

Simply said, for this thing to work, we need to be in an atmosphere of trust. Sadly, this is not the atmosphere in which we live. The present circumstances under which our church is held together don't even come close to trust. By their own reasoning (see the first quote two paragraphs above) different times and seasons call for different responses. While the Task Force has worked hard to develop among themselves trust and mutual affection, such attitudes do not characterize the church at large.

I envision that should this recommendation prevail, we will enter a season of unfettered litigation -- for the church courts will become the sole means of wrestling with this issue. Rather than fostering the peace of the church, judicial warfare will ensue -- mainly because there is not the trust that the task force says is so critical and important.

Well, those are some of my thoughts -- for those of you in the PCUSA (and even those outside it), I would be interested in your thoughts as well.

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell

Narnia under assault

Browsing yesterday's Presbyweb, I came across the startling headline "Narnia represents everything that is most hateful about religion." The link took me across the pond to the British Guardian Newspaper and their columnist Polly Toynbee (photo at right, click here to read the wikipedia article about her).

Toynbee zeroes in on Disney's marketing strategy for the film, raising innuendo about less than appropriate involvement with right wing politicians. She then reminds us that the Christian imagery and subtext of the film will likely be lost on most of the British children who see it (given the decline of church attendance in the UK). She recaps the story quite nicely, lingering on the resurrection of Aslan "It does not make any more sense in CS Lewis' tale than in the gospels," she writes. Teetering upon this precarious statement (for the resurrection makes sense to millions of people) she dives headlong into harsh invective:

"Of all the elements of Christianity, the most repugnant is the notion of the Christ who took our sins upon himself and sacrificed his body in agony to save our souls. Did we ask him to? Poor child Edmund, to blame for everything, must bear the full weight of a guilt only Christians know how to inflict, with a twisted knife to the heart. Every one of those thorns, the nuns used to tell my mother, is hammered into Jesus's holy head every day that you don't eat your greens or say your prayers when you are told. So the resurrected Aslan gives Edmund a long, life-changing talking-to high up on the rocks out of our earshot. When the poor boy comes back down with the sacred lion's breath upon him he is transformed unrecognisably into a Stepford brother, well and truly purged."

Wow -- can we be a little more clear here? The idea of the substitutionary atonement is repugnant. Well, Paul does tell us the gospel is foolishness and a scandal (I Corinthians 1 -- "For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God." continue reading the whole passage for greater context). Toynbee lingers on the sour taste of shrewish nuns ladling guilt -- and truth be told, evangelical Christians are quite good at ladling guilt (though that is not a province exclusive to Christianity -- pick your cause and you'll find people pouring out guilt like bathtub gin. Check out PETA's protests for a fine example of guilt mongering.)


Toynbee is an atheist, and in our open and free democracy she's allowed her opinion, though it is an opinion that saddens me. But then she steps onto my turf -- the turf of defining orthodox Christianity "Christ should surely be no lion (let alone with the orotund voice of Liam Neeson). He was the lamb, representing the meek of the earth, weak, poor and refusing to fight. Philip Pullman - he of the marvellously secular trilogy His Dark Materials - has called Narnia 'one of the most ugly, poisonous things I have ever read'." I'll discount the Pullman comment as another angry atheist spewing his opinion (Thank God there are actually some irenic atheists) -- again, he's entitled to it, but it hardly makes him authoritiative.

However, we remember that the Lion is a Biblical image of Christ -- from the Old Testament (Genesis 49:9 "You are a lion's cub, O Judah; you return to the prey, my son. Like a lion he crouches and lies down, like a lioness -- who dares to rouse him? The scepter will not depart from Judah, nor the ruler's staff from between his feet...") where we see the lion used as a figure for a messianic king. And from the New Testament (Revelation 5:5 "Then one of hte elders said to me, 'Do not weep! See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has triumphed.... Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing in the center of the throne.") where the image of lion and lamb are combined to represent the triumphant Christ.

Indeed the image of the lamb conveys the very concept of the substitutionary atonement. The very concept that disgusts Toynbee lies at the root of the image she identifies with. Christ does identify with the meek and the poor and the weak -- but he also fills the role of a righteous and conquering king. We do injustice to the Biblical portrait if we leave one or the other out. Toynbee has every right in to say she dislikes the biblical picture, but she practices intellectual dishonesty in re-defining it.

Then she reveals her biases with this absurd claim: "Because here in Narnia is the perfect Republican, muscular Christianity for America - that warped, distorted neo-fascist strain that thinks might is proof of right. I once heard the famous preacher Norman Vincent Peel in New York expound a sermon that reassured his wealthy congregation that they were made rich by God because they deserved it. The godly will reap earthly reward because God is on the side of the strong. This appears to be CS Lewis's view, too. In the battle at the end of the film, visually a great epic treat, the child crusaders are crowned kings and queens for no particular reason. Intellectually, the poor do not inherit Lewis's earth."

Did she read the same book I did? The "distorted neo-fascist strain" that she describes is the methodology of the White Witch, not that of Aslan! The Witch uses force to bend all minions to her will. Aslan frees the creatures to be what they were made to be (of course, Toynbee might counter with saying that this is emotional manipulation and the real subtext is that of power games). The picture of four school age children defeating an adult witch of enormous power does not seem to me teach that the strong will be rewarded. Lewis prefers to honor the meek rather than the great and powerful (see his work The Great Divorce where a prominent artist is forgotten in heaven but a humble no-name housewife is one of the great ones there). Meanwhile, quoting Norman Vincent Peale as a spokesman for orthodox Christianity is like quoting James Doohan as an expert on particle physics (hey, he did play Mr. Scott -- he made physics look really cool and attractive).

Then she ends with a flourish: "Children are supposed to fall in love with the hypnotic Aslan, though he is not a character: he is pure, raw, awesome power. He is an emblem for everything an atheist objects to in religion. His divine presence is a way to avoid humans taking responsibility for everything here and now on earth, where no one is watching, no one is guiding, no one is judging and there is no other place yet to come. Without an Aslan, there is no one here but ourselves to suffer for our sins, no one to redeem us but ourselves: we are obliged to settle our own disputes and do what we can. We need no holy guide books, only a very human moral compass. Everyone needs ghosts, spirits, marvels and poetic imaginings, but we can do well without an Aslan."

I hate to argue, but Aslan is a character -- one may find Lewis' characterizaiton of him flawed, one may find his dialogue stilted or his motivations feeling artificial -- but these are all very subjective. Yet Aslan is a character -- not some abstract moral compass that in the end we define for ourselves. I suppose that's why atheists (or at least this particular atheist) object so violently -- for who wants to be in the unenviable position of objecting to a person who others find so very compelling. Mired in a worldview that refuses to recognize a living God, it is no wonder Toynbee spits so much poison toward Narnia and Aslan. And yet, it is so incredibly sad.

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell

PS -- the Blogosphere's been hopping about this one -- lots of people who think Toynbee's gone way overboard. Including one very thoughtful and articulate atheist -- indeed, he gives some of the best commentary I've read on the article.

Getting on the Cluetrain and being ourselves

I'll confess that I am a fan of the Purpose Driven Life. I've enjoyed watching it arouse the ire across the spectrum -- from stodgy old mainline church practitioners who feel threatened by its immense popularity ("it's shallow" they say); from spiritual life advocates who worry about the "drivenness" of the title ("when can we be still and know that God is God"); from my paleoorthodox bretheren who critique the minutae of the book (and rightly so, but they forget that they could also find just as many things to critique in the writings of Spurgeon, Calvin, and Edwards -- any writer, if you look deep enough, has serious flaws -- that is why Scripture is our rule and guide for life, not the writings of men).

Sure, the book is flawed, but it has a lot commend it.

My issue is not with the book -- it is with the people who read the book (and the Purpose Driven Church) as a mandate to become a cookie-cutter of Saddleback church. Too many churches look for the "golden key" in a series of programs or a series of tricks. Too many churches take too seriously the concept of demographic marketing ("we have to find out what appeals to X population, and then do everything we can to make that appeal").

Anytime a church makes an appeal to a demographic more important than faithfulness to Christ, there is a problem. CS Lewis taught me (particularly in his great book The Great Divorce) that we are capable of making idols out of anything -- even good methodology.

That's why I find Evelyn Rodriguez' blog so interesting -- she is a branding guru, but she is sensitive to this issue. She demonstrates over and over again that branding isn't about controlling the conversation, it is about engaging the conversation as the authentic person that you really are. Her latest post "Signature Voices, And Perhaps What I Learned About Branding While Strolling Galleries" provides a vivid illustration of this from the art world -- each artist has a distinctive voice -- and so long as they remain true to that voice, they are distinguished and compelling and we listen.

In this same post, she directs us to the Cluetrain Manifesto, a 95 Theses to the corporate world. Again, the theme is authenticity and being yourself -- genuinely engaging in the conversation without concentrating on massive amounts of spin. Too often, we talk about Evangelism and Transformation as though it were some kind of technique that if we just mastered, people would come through our doors.

Yet the key thing expressed here is that we find our unique voice -- even if that voice is one of traditional music. Even if that voice is one of art and movies and books as illustration of timeless truth. Voice has nothing to do with the content of the truth, but merely the way in which we present it. The truths of scripture will remain timeless and rock-solid, but each of us will see application of that truth in a slightly different way -- and part of our calling is to tell the stories to one another.

For instance -- It is a timeless truth that God created the heavens and the earth. It is a timeless truth that "The heavens declare the glory of God, the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech, and night after night they display knowledge." however Thomas Kinkade will shed light on this truth differently than the astrophysicist. And a good walk through the woods, with your ears attuned to the cadences of the cicadas, the sudden burst of flight from a bird, and the gentle rustle of wind through the leaves, will make my heart sing "gloria in excelsis deo" in yet a different way. (add to the list all the panolpy of artists and people who have reflected glory in so many different ways)

The point being, we each have been given calling and gifting by God to accomplish what we were created to do -- Bring Him glory. Yes we work this out in community under the authority of scripture and through the guidance of the Holy Spirit, but ultimately, we have a voice that is uniquely ours -- let us find it, and not try to steal someone else's.

Worship, Community, and the Triune God of Grace -- chapter 1

Previous Posts
About James Torrance

Last year, I started into Reggie Kidd's With One Voice, in which Reggie makes biblical case for Christ as leader of our worship -- not Christ as example for our worship, but Christ leading our worship. He started his book with this wonderful quote from Ed Clowney “Our worship on earth is a participation in a gorgeous liturgy that Jesus Christ himself leads from heaven.”

James Torrance makes the theological case for that statement in his work Worship, Community and the Triune God of Grace. I'll be honest.....I much prefer Reggie's book. Torrance writes like a scholar giving a lecture. He gives us valuable background and contrast to help sharpen our minds as to why Christ as Liturgist is important. Reggie, on the other hand, is a scholar who writes like a poet -- giving us stories and pictures that help us live the truths he talks about. I would suggest that after you're done with Torrance, you immediately pick up Reggie's book and see what I'm talking about.

That said.... Torrance offers some valuable insights.
First, he addresses boldly a deficiency in much contemporary worship today -- a deficiency which he labels as "Unitarian Worship". This is the emphasis on the transactional -- the me and God. I show up with my faith, and I encounter God in worship. The problem with such worship is that it leads to radically impoverished spiritual life. We hear people saying "I didn't get anything out of it" or we place undue worry on the externals of worship. It often leads to people viewing worship leaders as performers on stage, and the congregation as the audience in the position of evaluation.

In contrast, he advocates a "Trinitarian Worship." that recognizes that we are not an audience, but rather a body. But that the body isn't led by the people on the platform. The body is led by Christ. Christ, serving as our prophet, priest, and king, leads worship before the Father. We, joined to him by the power of the Holy Spirit, are along for the ride.

This is where Torrance gives us wonderful stuff. He reminds us of the language that Luther and Calvin use for the atonement - the "wonderful exchange" -- we bring our raglike offerings, our small toys, our widow's mite, and Christ exchanges them for his spotless perfection and then offers that to the Father. Christian worship is “…our participation through the Spirit in the Son’s communion with the father, in his vicarious life of worship and intercession.” (15) Where our faith is klutzy and klunky and kitschy, Christ offers lovliness and pure fellowship. Where our voices ring like tin in the ears, Christ's voice boldly proclaims harmonious praise that is sweet to the Father's ear.

And in the exchange what Christ offers is what we offer.

Simply put, we're not acceptable to God because of the rightness of the worship we offer. We're acceptable to God solely on the basis of Christ. And it is Christ's good pleasure to take what we bring and breathe life into it by the power of the Holy Spirit. The very fact that we worship at all is a function of the grace of Christ.

And that helps us understand that worship is not just an event that occurs at the regularly scheduled gathering of the assembly. Rather, worship is something that is lived on a daily basis.

Unfortunately, Torrance bombards us with theological diagrams and dozens of names of theologians. This is fine for the theology-heads, but it is quite intimidating for other folks (I've had several people remark to me that this book made them "feel stupid").

That said, let me further apply the truth that Torrance hits on -- God doesn't accept us based off the breadth of our knowledge of the history of theology. But as we make stumbling efforts to understand, the Holy Spirit leads us into all truth and Christ brings the humble offerings of our desire to understand to the father.

More to Come on this one.

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell

Prophet of the Sun Chapter 4

Welcome back for this next installment. For those of you just joining us who wish to catch up on backstory, here is a link to the Table of Contents.

Chapter Four

The Pharoah examined the row of statues he had commissioned, each one larger than life and elegantly carved of dark black rock. They were identical: a seated woman with a lion’s head topped with a disk. Her eyes looked serene, yet the black rock emanated ferocity -- like charcoal concealing embers underneath. Pharoah reached his hand toward a statue, not touching it. A man in a headdress quietly slipped beside him. “Over three hundred more, just like these, have been ordered.” he said “They are fine works; a glorious offering for Sekhmet.”

“Double it,” came Pharoah’s curt reply, “We must honor her lest she visit us again.” Pharoah’s belly fluttered. The stories told that Sekhmet had almost devoured all the inhabitants of Earth … and she was the expression of the wrath of Ra. The horrors unleashed upon the land could only have been expressions of her displeasure. He had to restore ma’at, the balance of harmony, to the land. It was his destiny.

The man in the headdress held his silence. Pharoah turned to face him “What else have you to show me, Amenhotep?”

Amenhotep led Pharaoh to his work table, scattered with scrolls, writing instruments, measuring tools, and inkpots. He gently moved the inkpots to the side and unrolled one great papyrus scrolls. “The plans for your great temple, my lord. See, this will be greater than the temples of your predecessors. The entrance is flanked by two colossal statues of you enthroned as king of the united kingdoms. We shall call it ‘The House of Millions of Years.’” He paused to let the flattering title sink in. “We’ll work gold all throughout the complex. Here is the sanctuary. We’ll purify the floors with silver – for here you will be worshipped in perpetuity. We will build it on the other side of the river, near the tombs of the kings.” Pharoah examined the plans and nodded “Well done… Well done, Amenhotep. You surpass my greatest expectations. How long will it take to complete.”

“I’m not sure, my lord. The master craftsmen are working on estimates for supplies – We will need timber, and our supplies are low due to the rebuilding work in the lower kingdom. The repairs there are costly, my lord.”

Pharoah’s face was a blank mask – the official face that he used when receiving dignitaries in court or in negotiating the complex agendas of his courtiers and officers. Finally he spoke “Can we ever recover our glory?”

Amenhotep nodded, “Yes, my lord, you will only be remembered for glory – glory and your dedication to the gods.” Pharoah stood unmoving. Amenhotep broke the prolonged silence, “You were tutored in the secrets just as I have been. Your great-grandfather, Thutmosis Menkheperre, erased the memory of the greatest shame the two kingdoms has ever seen – the witch Hatshepsut is remembered only by a few who must know, lest we repeat the errors of history. The past is as fluid as the future – no shame cannot be undone. By your decree, you will erase this shame.”

Pharoah had turned back to look at the statues in the middle of Amenhotep’s speech. “Hatshepsut…” he mused aloud, “Yes, you are right, we can learn from the past.” Pharaoh seemed lost in thought when a linen dressed man with a shaved head came into the room. He stood by the door quietly for a long time. Amenhotep coughed quietly. Pharoah broke from his thoughts. Amenhotep slightly inclined his head in the direction of the waiting messenger. “Come…speak” Said pharaoh in his official voice.

“My lord,” said the messenger, “Ramose is here, and he is prepared to present the reports for the day.”

“Send for him.” The messenger turned to depart, but already, the entourage had arrived. Led first by a man dressed in linen, head shaved and eyes decorated. He strode with purpose, a man accustomed to command. He was escorted by a retinue of clerks carrying scrolls, writing instruments, and papyri.

“Ramose, I read your proposal for a second Heb Sed festival – it has great merit.”

Amenhotep’s eyebrows arched slightly, a sign of great surprise for him. “My lord, it is quite unusual to have a festival of rejuvenation so soon after your last one. It is against custom.”

“’The past is fluid’, you said. Ramose has proposed an entirely different festival – an aquatic festival.” A smile flickered across Ramose’s face. “We live in times that defy custom, so let us have a second Heb Sed, even a third if must be – we must restore the confidence of the people.” Amenhotep bowed his head slightly in acceptance of Pharoah’s wishes. “Ramose, see to it that Amenhotep has a full report on our timber supplies and funds available for construction.”

Ramose gestured to one of the clerks who began to write on a scroll. “Also, search the records of Hatshepsut. I remember in my studies reading of a festival of Sekhmet – there was much drink and dancing and feasting among the people. See if we can include such celebrations as part of this aquatic Heb Sed.”

Ramose gestured to a second scribe, who left the room immediately. “My lord, such measures will be very expensive.”

Pharoah turned to his two advisors “By my decree, I will erase this shame.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Calvin awoke to the sound of the telephone. It was mid morning. “Calvin, I didn’t wake you, did I?” came the voice from the other end – Judge Hamilton, an old family friend and Federal Judge on the Atlanta circuit court.

“No, not at all” Calvin replied, with the raspy just awakened voice that made him sound like Elmer Fudd.

“Son, I just thought you needed to know this. I’m not sure what it means, but whatever it is, it’s not good.”

“OK, what is it?”

“Calvin, I was talking with your mother about your conversation with the Sheriff’s deputies. She was upset; it sounds like this Parrish fellow really was hostile toward you. I thought I’d give a call to the Sheriff just to check in. Ethically, I can’t interfere, mind you, but I thought I could reassure him about your character….” His voice dropped off.

“Thank you, sir. Was there something the matter?”

“There is no deputy Parrish nor is there a deputy Collins. There’s no investigation. This was the first that Sheriff Hollister had heard that John Carter was missing.”

     

Calvin and Judge Hamilton talked for a few minutes. Judge Hamilton reassured Calvin that he was going to talk to John’s parents. Calvin was befuddled. He drove to Biscuit Barn to get a fried chicken biscuit for breakfast. Sitting in the front seat of his car, he chewed mindlessly. His head felt light, as though the insides were filled with sticky helium that clouded his thinking. He turned the ignition and drove without aim, turning thoughts over in his brain, hiking the same paths, unable to leave worn spots that his mind had thoroughly covered. He became aware of his surroundings, realizing that on instinct, he had driven half-way to John’s house. Perhaps I can get some clarity of mind there. He continued on.

Pulling in the driveway, he saw no other cars. He got out, walked the steps, crossed the wide wooden porch, and tried the handle. Not locked. The door creaked as he opened the door. Stale air met him, begging him to throw open the windows. His fingers tingled, a slight whine rang in his ears, and his heart thumped as though he were entering a mausoleum at midnight. Try as he might, he couldn’t control his breathing. He gulped deep breaths, making more noise than he intended.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Nothing to be afraid of – he thought -- it’s the middle of the day. This calmed him somewhat.

A glance about the foyer showed no change. On a hunch, Calvin ascended the stairs, drawn to the upstairs library. The banister felt cool to his palm as he gently ascended up the center carpet runner. At the top of the landing he turned the corner and stood in the doorway to the library.
Books lay scattered across the room. The totem pole that had seemed so solemn before had been knocked over and cracked open to reveal a hollow chamber – fifty-dollar bills scattered all around, and a portfolio file with all the papers dumped out. The cushions of all the couches had been torn open. The desk drawers were emptied out onto the floor. The only thing untouched was the green plaster face of the leaf man, his lips pursed as though ready to bellow forth “There is no deputy Parrish”. Calvin stood still. His mouth dried. He was in way over his head.

Slowly he stooped down and gathered the scattered papers: copies of John’s passport, copies of newspaper articles from the New York World dated in the 1870s, a diagram of what looked to be a tunnel network underneath a building, a printout of an old photograph of a portly serious looking man in a suit. Underneath the papers lay a small green book, small enough to slip into a coat pocket. In gold lettering on the cover was the title “The Circle of the Green Man” and beneath these words, a small image of a man’s face emerging from leaves. Calvin looked to the plaster face on the wall. They were identical. The hair on his arms and back tingled. He’s mixed up with these nut-jobs? He’s in deep. He folded the papers inside the cover of the book and stuffed them in the back pocket of his jeans.

A car door slammed.

Calvin’s heart lurched. For one moment he stood unsure what to do. By instinct, he ducked through to the front hallway and into the guest bedroom. Struggling to control his breath, Calvin peeked through the shade of the window looking out over the front yard, taking care not to cause it to move. A nondescript maroon car had pulled up next to his. A man knelt down behind his car, while another man was coming out of the driver’s side of this new vehicle. Calvin recognized the driver as deputy-who-wasn’t-deputy Collins. The man behind his car stood up – it was Parrish, holding a wicked looking bowie knife. Calvin could see that the visible rear tire on his car was deflated. Parrish pointed two fingers toward the house; Collins reached behind his back, pulling something from what appeared to be his beltloop. He brought it around front quickly and jerked his hand back and forth once over top of it. Parrish walked in front of Calvin’s car, knife still in hand while Collins slowly moved up the steps to the front porch. A quiet Clomp….. Clomp sounded from the front porch.

Calvin pulled back from the window. He gulped air over his dry tongue…Are they looking for me? Or just back to tear up more of the house? Whatever the answer, Collins and Parrish looked to be in no mood for answering questions. Quick as he could, He went back into the upstairs hallway, plastered his back against the wall, and peered around the corner of the landing to see the entrance foyer. The front door creaked open. He saw the nose of Collins’ pistol come through the door, followed by his arm. Calvin pulled back two steps out of view. He took a quick look at the four doors behind him: the guest bedroom, John’s bedroom, the bathroom, and the library. Only one had an exit to the back stairs down to the kitchen – the library.

Calvin reached around and locked the handle of the guest bedroom from within. He quietly pulled that door shut. He did the same on John’s bedroom. All the while his ears were tuned to the slightest sound coming from the foyer. Collins’ cowboy boots made a gentle tap tap tap on the tile. He was moving slowly and deliberately down there. He hadn’t made it to the carpeted staircase. What if he doesn’t come up the stairs? – if Collins went to the kitchen and came up the back stairs, Calvin would be trapped. Calvin went back to the edge of the landing and peered down. Collins was almost immediately below him looking into the dining room. Calvin’s mind raced – out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Windsor chair and lampstand sitting in the middle of the landing. I sure hope this works.

As Collins poked his way into the dining room, Calvin picked up the Windsor chair, lifted it aloft, and hurtled it flying down at Collin’s back. He didn’t know if he hit his mark, for Calvin was back up the hallway when he heard it crash and Collins cry out with a string of expletives. Calvin heard Collins’ boots clap clapping across the tile and the first thump of him hitting the stairs. Calvin pulled the library door shut and locked it. I hope those other closed doors throw him for a second. Calvin was at the far end of the library when he heard a sound like muffled thunder once, and then a second time with a bang. Collins had just burst into one of the upstairs bedrooms. Calvin flew down the stairs to the kitchen. He searched for anything he could use to defend himself. The kitchen mocked him with it’s sterility: steel appliances, unused copper plated kettles hanging from a rack from the ceiling, the all too neat countertop, sporting a few empty flour and sugar jars and a butcher block with kitchen knives. He grabbed the big center chopping knife.

A muffled bang sounded upstairs.

Heart pounding, he took a deep breath, ready to run out the back door and take his chances with Parrish. Suddenly his eyes caught a wooden billholder and keychain rack – truck keys still hanging from the pegs.

A thunderclap came from the library upstairs, as Collins burst through the locked door.
Calvin grabbed the keys and flung open the garage door. Dashing down the steps, he knocked over a shovel. He fumbled with the keys of John Carter’s heavy pickup for a moment, panicking as he heard boots clattering down the stairs to the kitchen. He got the door open and vaulted in, slamming the key in the ignition, turning it and throwing the truck into drive all in one neat seamless motion. As he crushed his right foot down as far as he could, he heard the deafening squeal of tires. Collins appeared in the doorway and leveled his gun.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Parrish waited in the sun, unmoving. The crash from within the house set all his senses on high alert. He heard Collins cussing and smashing about the house. For a moment, he wondered if he should go in. No, that idiot’ll drive whoever’s in there straight to me. He walked to the center of the yard, eyes cutting from right to left to see if a figure came around the corner. He heard more crashes within the house. Parrish rolled his eyes. He startled when he heard a roar from the garage, followed closely by a high squeal. Before he could move, the door blew outward, splintering as an oversize mud splattered pickup truck came barreling toward him. Shots fired from inside the garage. Behind the wheel of the truck he saw the adrenaline crazed face of the driver. Poteat! Parrish dove to the side just as Calvin swerved to avoid him. He hit the ground with a hard thud, knocking the wind out of him, while the truck swerved around the parked cars to head for the main road. Within a few seconds, the truck was gone.

Collins was beside Parrish, and kneeling down to help him up. “C’mon, we can catch him.”

Parrish coughed as he stood. “No. We know that he’s got to go home. We’ll catch him there sooner or later. You drive, I’ll check in.”

“He’s not going to be happy.”

“I know, we didn’t find the diary or anything we didn’t already know. And now Poteat knows more than he ought to.”

Collins looked worried. “This is getting complicated – I wonder why they didn’t hire professionals to do this?”

Parrish burned. “They don’t need professionals!” he snapped, “I can handle this better than any of your so-called professionals.” He glowered for a moment, and then, getting hold of himself, he began to lecture: “The Green Man teaches that when your mind is cleansed, you have more insight than the unenlightened,” Collins looked like a child being chastised by a teacher. “Don’t ever forget that we’re smarter and better because we’re initiated into the mysteries of the natural rhythms of the universe.”

Collins didn’t say it, but he thought that Poteat had an easy time escaping for someone who wasn’t initiated into the mysteries of the natural rhythms of the universe. He also began to suspect that this adventure might take more vacation time than he’d allotted for. He’d have to call his secretary and get her to cancel some appointments, after he had a clearer idea of how long this would take.

Prophet of the Sun Ch 2

Link: Chapter Index for Prophet of the Sun

Hope ya'll are enjoying Prophet of the Sun. Leave a comment and let me know what a good interval between chapter posts might be .... I like to have at least a few days to give people a chance to read (and to build some suspense), but I don't want it to be so long as to lose people.

Chapter 2

A boy, scalp-shaven save for a braided tassel of hair dangling from the left side of his head, looked upon a crimson sky. Swirling black clouds spit cinders that grew into skull sized balls of flame. Between the explosions the boy heard cries and shrieks arising from the city. His eyes widened, his soft skinned jaw grew slack.

A black line snaked from the river below. The line doubled and tripled and quadrupled in width, growing into a phalanx of frogs, pitiless in their advance through the city. They poured over the walls, splashed in the basins, knocked over his mother’s perfume bottles and jars of ointments. They crowded through the hallways, and when he walked, they squished wet and jelly like under his feet. His enraged father, kicked them about, jabbing at larger ones with his spear – impaling them one two three four. His brother, the senior by far, dressed in leopardskin robes, chanted while holding a basin of libation above his head.

And darkness came over the household and the steps and down the street and across the land. No natural darkness, it chilled beyond the skin to muscle and bone and even the marrow– an enduring chill. His pulse throbbing in his ears, the boy looked to his father’s eyes for some sign that this horror might end. He saw only floating disembodied circles, straining to open wide enough to capture the hint of glow that emanated from the slave ghetto. He saw nothing of his brother – only hearing murmuring of prayer from where he stood.

A slice of air, sounding like an exhaled breath, whipped past the boy. He saw his father kneel before a crumpled form cradling its figure head, – its leopardskin robe stretched by the contortion of its body. “My son, O Thutmosis my son!”

     

Calvin woke in confusion -- his heart thumping against his ribs. Am I that far gone? Have I become as hard as pharaoh? Calvin, feeling the drilling pain behind his eyes, blinked four times, as though he could dispel the nightmare and the pain both. He rolled over to look at the bedside clock, an old fashioned radio alarm with the numbers that flipped. Half past noon. He ran a dry tongue over his lips -- he needed asprin, Tylenol, a replacement head – anything.

Stumbling out of bed, he scratched his chest and rubbed his scalp as he walked to the guest bathroom. He pulled the little metal tab on the side of the mirror only to find empty metal shelves. “Hey John,” he shouted, immediately regretting that he had done so, “you got any painkillers?” This time he spoke a little softer so as not to jar the pain too much. “My head feels like it’s declared war!” He turned on the faucet. Cupping a hand, he scooped cold water on his face once, twice, then sipping some on the third time around. He turned off the faucet and unfolded a washcloth, lying atop a step-pyramid of symmetrically folded oversize bath and hand towels.

Calvin had a natural propensity for remorse – he felt guilt about his anger; guilt about his rudeness to his friend; guilt about his out of control drinking the night before. He held the sides of the sink, staring down at the drain. He wished that he could re-do the previous night – wished he could re-weave the strands of the last three months of his life. His mind stuck on this wish, circling around it like a dog leashed for so long he’s worn the grass down. Calvin felt disembodied, as though his life were a movie and the credits were ready to roll and the popcorn would be swept up and discarded. His body had no reality for him as his own – it was a prop, a thing to be discarded.

He had no idea how long he stood there, holding the sink wishing his wish, lost in his movie, but the pain in his head stabbed with clarity. He closed his eyes, exhaled long and slow through pursed lips, opened his eyes again, and released his grip.

Calvin walked to the back staircase and called “John, you down there?” No answer. He descended the stair to the kitchen. In the center of the breakfast table sat a bowl of fruit – oranges and apples hinting at dietary redemption for the previous night’s foolishness. Wine bottles were arrayed on the counter, empty and hollow -- their best contents spent. The kitchen, decorated in a country yellow that made Calvin’s head hurt all the worse, looked otherwise undisturbed. No empty glasses in the sink. No cereal bowl. No note indicating that John had left. Calvin bit his lower lip, not wanting to delay in making amends for his sour behavior, but his headache compelling him to seek food and some painkillers.

Calvin opened the fridge, took out milk and Ducky Dawdle Orange Juice (“I’ve loved it since I was a kid” John had always said). He poured a glass of juice and a fixed a bowl of the most sugary cereal he could find. Following instinct, he opened the cabinet right above the microwave – there he found a neatly arranged row of plastic containers: Vitamin A, Vitamin C, Ginko Bilboa, Ginseng Extract, Multivitamin, Asprin. He gulped down two asprin with a large glass of water. Then, after finishing his hasty breakfast, he peeked into the garage – John’s truck was gone.

Calvin ascended the stairs and detoured back to the library. Hurlburt’s diary still lay on the couch where John had left it. Calvin picked it up and thumbed the pages, breathing the aged-paper smell that was released. He held it reverently, as though he could capture John’s enthusiasm simply by osmosis. Then he gently replaced it on the shelf from which John had taken it.

Calvin returned to his room, stripped his pajamas, and walked naked to the bathroom. He turned the tub’s handle for hot water and held his hand under the stream, the temperature changing almost imperceptibly, until the water was warm enough. He stepped into the tub, pulled the curtain and bent down to pull the shower knob. Steamy water wet his hair and ran down his body. He stood still for a time, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth like an embrace. The Spirit intercedes with groans too deep for words to express. His mind lingered on groans too deep – as though he might sink into the words and wallow there for a time.

After finishing his shower and grooming, he dressed and packed his duffel bag. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he went back downstairs to the kitchen where he poured another tall glass of water. Still no sign of John. Calvin felt out of joint – like a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces had been forced. He didn’t want to leave with the unfinished business of apology; he wanted to assure his friend that he truly was interested in crazy Allan Quartermain schemes.

Following instinct once again, Calvin opened a kitchen drawer – neatly ordered boxes of tin foil, wax paper, plastic wrap, and sandwich bags all stared up at him. He tried the next drawer beside it – a phone book, yellow legal pad, and a long thin container of ballpoint pens. Not even junk in his paper drawers – how does he do it? He tore off a sheet from the pad, accidentally leaving a small tear where the paper did not separate at the perforation just right. Sitting at the table, he wrote:

John,
Thanks for your time – a good one as always. I’m sorry I was a bit of a jerk there at the end of the evening. Your Egyptian treasure hunt sounds like a great adventure. I’ll give you a call this week, and I promise I’ll listen better. I’ll let you know if I’ve had any epiphanies on my end.
Cal

He let himself out of the house, locking the door behind him. After fumbling with his keys, he got the car door open, hefted the duffel bag in. One last look up at the house before he closed the car door. He turned the ignition and drove home.

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“Mike, I promise – I really didn’t mean to drink that much.”

“Cal, it’s OK” the voice on the receiver reassured, “given what you’ve been through, I think I’d have tied one on weeks ago. You’re not planning on making it a habit, are you?”

“No.” Calvin said, still embarrassed.

“Then don’t worry about it. Jesus is still pretty fond of you.”

“I know – but I still feel guilty.”

“Fine.” Said Mike with resignation, “You are guilty – guilty as sin. Confess, repent, move on.” A pause as Calvin switched the phone from one ear to another, “How’re you doing otherwise?” Mike continued.

Calvin paused again – he felt the need to report progress, but didn’t know what to say. Though it was not a trait natural to him, he opted for bluntness. “Awful.” He paused for a moment, “I don’t know how to be with myself – when I’m sitting in the apartment, I ache because they’re gone. When I jog, I make it about a mile, and then run out of steam – I just want to come back to the apartment and sleep. Three days ago, I found myself walking the aisles of Buy-Mart – just puttering about, picking up a magazine here, a DVD there. When I turned down the toys aisle – there was this Spider-Man action figure – it was what we got Calvin for Christmas this past year. It was all before me, fresh as if it were happening. He tore open the present – shouted “Wow, thanks Dad!” He ripped open the box and began to run around the house, pretending that Spider-Man was web slinging from the chandelier.” Tears burned behind Calvin’s eyes, and he struggled to keep them in. “I almost broke down in the store.” He said with a quiver, “I’m a mess.”

Mike’s voice reassured. “It’s OK to be a mess. You’ve lost your wife and your child – no-one expects you to keep it together. You yourself have said many times that everyone grieves in their own way – some folks take longer than others.”

“Yeah – well now I say ‘doctor, heal thyself.’”

Another pause. “Cal, what are you doing to take care of yourself?” Mike said, concerned.

“Oh, I still jog every day – just not very far. I talk to momma at least once a week – and my sister tells me she’s coming up for a visit soon. I’m hardly eating, but when I do eat, it’s mostly vegetables.”

“You able to pray yet?”

Calvin paused for a long time and then said quietly “No – no, I’m not on speaking terms with Him. Not yet.”

Calvin asked Mike how the church was doing in his absence. Mike reassured him that things were improving: the temporary supply minister was good, but not nearly as good a preacher as Calvin. On his end, Calvin smirked. He had tried to bear up nobly after the funerals. Everything seemed fine for a couple of weeks, but then crises slipped from whatever dark recesses in which they had been fermenting: The chairs of building committee and the worship committee began to openly undermine one another; complaints were whispered in coffee hour that the youth director was too “flippant”; once enthusiastic supporters whispered that Calvin’s preaching was “not what it used to be.” Mike, one of Calvin’s best friends in the congregation, had astutely observed the strain that was building during what should have been a time of mourning. He suggested to the elders that a sabbatical was in order. On the surface, Calvin was going away to heal. But he wondered if he would ever return…would he drift to a new line of work and lay the vocation of ministry into soft earth as he’d laid down his wife and child?

“And tell the elders – tell them I really appreciate their giving me the time off.”

“Wish we could do more. You call me if you need anything, OK?”

Calvin smiled, “Sure will.”

After hanging up, Calvin tried calling John again. No answer. It had been four days, and still no answer, no return call. He didn’t bother leaving a message this time. He hung up and busied himself about the small kitchen. Half empty coffee cups sprung up across the apartment like mushrooms. He collected them all on the countertop beside the sink, pots piled up, crusted with spaghetti sauce from last night. A few dishrags lay on the counter, damp and crumpled. A roll of paper towels stood in the corner, the bottom end swollen with absorbed water that had rebounded off the pots in the sink and spread across the countertop. Calvin emptied the dishwasher, put a few coffee cups in, then walked into the living room.

Instead of an office, Calvin had set up his laptop on a cheap coffee table made out of light white pine slats attached with thin tacks to a frame with legs. Every so often, one of the boards would rebel and pop out of place. Cal would have to get the hammer from the basket under the counter and bang it back into place. The table was big enough for him to spread out his Bible and a couple of commentaries. He had a stack of books on the corner: The Dictionary of Biblical Imagery; Exegetical Dictionary of the Gospels; Manners and Customs of Bible Times; Intermediate Greek Grammar. A disordered pile of CD-ROMs lay beside the laptop – on top of The Anchor Bible Dictionary: complete on 1 Volume.

He had bought a used couch from the Salvation Army – it was just wide enough for two to sit on: terrible for napping. He did this by design, for he was afraid that if he’d bought a long couch, the temptation to lie down and sleep would be overwhelming. Already it was hard enough to fight against the gravitational pull to stay in his bedroom and sleep. He still tried to lie down on the couch every now and again, and for that reason, one arm had become loose and wiggly, threatening to break off altogether.

On the floor, Calvin had a small TV, but no cable. He could only receive 3 channels well – one of them PBS, so he was satisfied. The circular dining room table was on the other end of the great room that doubled as living room and dining room. It was covered with mail, little flyers that kept getting stuck in his doorframe, newspapers, both from Asheville and from Cincinnati, and bags from the most convenient fast food restaurants near his apartment: Taco Casa, Burger Barn, and Hot and Fried.

Calvin returned to the couch, and picked up a book: Commentary on the Gospel of Mark by RS Blanchard:

Church tradition, dating back to Eusebuis, tells us that the apostle Mark brought the gospel to Egypt. Mark supposedly wrote his gospel in Rome as a summary of Peter’s teaching. Legend has it that when Mark arrived in Alexandria, his sandals broke – he went immediately to a cobbler to have the sandal repaired. The cobbler, named Ananias, drove an awl into his hand and cried out “God is one!” Mark was startled by such an unusual exclamation; he had not expected to find monotheism in Egypt. He healed Ananias and began to talk with him. He went home with him that night, and soon Ananias and his family were the first converts of Egypt. Most scholars believe this story is apocryphal at best.

Calvin looked up from the book, letting it dangle in his hands. He had been away from his church for two months, but he still felt a compulsion to write sermons. If he didn’t have it done by Friday night, he was fidgety all weekend. He could no more break the habit than a pack a day smoker. He used to enjoy feeling the thrill of knowledge coming together with insights on application of the Biblical text. He had once delighted in weaving jokes, anecdotes, historical and grammatical tidbits, and sprinklings of Greek or Hebrew into a presentation and then delivering that sermon. He remembered feeling connected with his congregants as he told stories and presented truth – as though for a brief moment in the midst of the sermon there was a union - time was lost for a little while and hearts were melded to one. But since Bethan and little Cal’s deaths, it all had gone stale and wearisome. There was no joy in the task. Now, it had degraded to nothing but a compulsion and he wished it would let him go.

The doorbell rang. Calvin rose and peeked through the eye-hole. Two men in uniform, round hats signifying they were either highway patrol or sheriff deputies. Calvin unlocked the bolt lock, and opened the door.

“Hello, officers, can I help you.”

“Rev. Poteat?” said the larger of the two – a thickset linebacker type. His hazel eyes set in a recruiting poster face.

“Yessir.”

“Rev. Poteat, I’m Deputy Collins and this is Deputy Parrish. May we come in? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly, officers,” said Calvin, stepping back and extending his arm toward the couch, “come in and have a seat.”

Deputy Collins went straight to the couch and stood waiting. Deputy Parrish, a slender man with a hungry look, took off his thick mirrored sunglasses to reveal sharp blue eyes and a bridge of freckles across his nose. He scanned the room, sized up Calvin, and moved to stand beside Deputy Collins while Calvin brought a chair from the dining room table. As he sat, both the deputies took their seats, Collins taking his hat off and holding it in his lap – Parrish leaving his on his head.

“Is there something wrong, officers?”

Collins begin “Rev. Poteat – you’re a good friend of John Carter’s aren’t you?”

“Yessir, I am – at least I like to think I am.”

“And you were at his house on Sunday night?” Collins continued.

“Yessir, I was. We were catching up on old times.” Deputy Parrish’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Have you talked with him since?” Collins continued.

“No sir. I’ve tried calling and left several messages, but no answer and no return calls.” Calvin had the feel of being a chess piece, so he broke in with a question, “Is there something wrong? Is John OK?”

“Rev Poteat,” Deputy Collins said, “John Carter has been missing for four days – and it seems that you were the last person to have seen him.”

Off the Shelf: World War Z (an oral history of the zombie war)

Disclaimer: I don't do horror/monster stuff well. Interview with the Vampire creeped me out so bad, I couldn't sleep. I refuse to watch horror movies anymore because they don't sit well with my overactive imagination.

Max Brooks' World War Z is not a horror book. It uses a motif from horror (the undead rising up to plague the living) as a plot device to tell the story of an international struggle against a highly contagious plague. Neither is it an action book; even though it tells the story of a war, it is written as "oral history" -- meaning that it is written in the voices of survivors of this fictional conflict. The survivors look back with the eye of "how did this happen", "what did we do well", "how did we triumph", and most importantly "how do we move on". Because Brooks choose this narrative style, his book reads more like a highly engaging PBS documentary script than it does a plotline for Dawn of the Living Dead.

It would be easy to dismiss the book without ever reading it: "Zombies -- oh, that's pulp fiction; don't waste my time." or better yet "I only read serious fiction". Don't make this mistake. Brooks has written what I believe to be one of the best pieces of social commentary that I've read in a long time. At the same time he finds a way to appeal to the inner William Wallace within us -- we can overcome great adversity and at the same time affirm that which essentially makes us human. This book demonstrates a familiarity with international politics, military strategy, sound economic practice (he actually deals with the problem of how does a country reconstruct itself after almost being overrun by zombies), tough ethical questions, materialism and celebrity culture, and the psychological toll of war.

What's even more engaging is that each character has his/her own voice. Brooks makes these characters breathe. As they tell their stories, they feel fleshed out and real. I cared for these characters; I celebrated their triumphs and ached for their struggles. I'm not alone in thinking this is a far more serious book than the title lets on. Read this excerpt from Jeremy Taylor's review:

World War Z is interesting and compelling and horrifying and heartwarming all at once. I would characterize it as being extremely well written, insofar as each of the three-to-four-page first-person accounts are told with a unique voice. Very often, items in a single-author short-story collection tend to run together and become almost indistinguishable from each other because all the stories, being written by the same author, have the same general voice. They all feel sort of the same, even though the subjects are different. That’s not the case with this book. Brooks was able to infuse different motivations, emotions, disappointments, and struggles into each different narrator with the end result being a real sense of collaboration rather than simple narration.Brooks’s sense of how the world would respond to an existence-threatening crisis is fascinating as well. Predictably, and probably accurately, the U.S. responds with collaborative military force. China responds by shutting down the flow of all incoming and outgoing information. Russia responds by returning to its Orthodox religious roots. Britain and Israel respond pragmatically, looking after their own citizens at the expense of all others. Discussions of political and military strategies, detailed examinations of the strengths and weaknesses of various weapons systems, and realistic military-sounding jargon and nicknames for the undead enemy add realism and a sense that events really could play out this way were the dead to rise.

Faithful Eagle and Child readers may remember last summer's series on the Fourth Turning. In it, Strauss and Howe posited that every 80-100 years or so a society wide crisis grips the culture and shakes it from top to bottom. This crisis creates the basis of a new societal arrangement and it brings into sharp light the failings of the previous era. That's exactly what Brooks does for us in this book -- he imagines the crisis and the kind of moral strength it will take to survive the crisis.

Be forewarned -- there's violence, there's profanity, there are bad people who do bad things (Brooks is honest about sin and its consequences). Yet overall, I found it actually inspiring. I believe it is a fine example of the kind of book that teaches - it makes one want to be a better person (much as Michael Flaherty suggests in this month's Imprimis article).

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell

The Gospel According to Shakespeare: Titus Andronicus (part 1)

Next week, I begin our Gospel According to Shakespeare class with Titus Andronicus. The concept behind the class is to show that good art reflects Biblical truth. Shakespeare opereated in a world dominated by a Christian worldview (albeit a medieval, transitioning to Renaissance, worldview -- a reformation-era-conflict worldview, but a Christian worldview nonetheless).

I'm following along the season of the Cincinnati Shakespeare Festival, and therefore, the play was basically chosen for me. Which presents a difficulty, for Titus Andronicus is Shakespeare's most violent play -- dealing with murder, rape, mutilation, and cannibalism. There's a reason the Shakespeare Festival chose to put on play at Halloween! Given the gore, is it possible to find biblical themes? (readers of the book of Judges already know the answer)

If we hold that all truth is God's truth, then we'll find, even submerged beneath the gore, some redemptive themes. (as an aside, realize that the gore was not that unfamiliar to the residents of London at the time. Greenblatt's Will in the World shows us that public executions were common; indeed, one of the bridges over the Thames river was adorned with the mutilated bodies of traitors to the crown. Death and gore were thrust in the faces of people of that era in a way we cannot fully appreciate.

But concomitant with such gore comes questions of justice and mercy -- lack of which drives the conflict in the play. We begin with Titus, a Roman general, victoriously returning from wars in Gaul. He brings in tow the captured Tamora, queen of the Goths, and her three sons, and the bodies of his slain sons. His surviving sons demand the life of one Tamora's sons in exchange for their brothers who died in battle. Andronicus, despite Tamora's pleading and tears, grants their request

"TAMORA: Andronicus...Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful. Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge. Thrice noble Titus, spare my first-born son.
TITUS: Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me. These are their bretheren whom your Goths beheld alive and dead, and for their bretheren slain, religiously they ask a sacrifice. To this your son is marked, adn die he must, t'appease their groaning shadows that are gone."

Tamora's appeal immediately takes us to the realm of the eternal -- divine justice is tempered by mercy. Perhaps the laws of war do permit the taking of a hostage -- but mercy is the higher virtue. Titus' religious claims strike us as hollow. He's simply saying "there's nothing I can do" when in reality Tamora has hit the nail on the head -- mercy is the mark of divinity.

Surely this longing for mercy puts us squarely on gospel grounds. God in his mercy graciously grants us new birth (see John Piper's exposition on this theme). Ephesians 2:1-10 is all about this mercy "But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions." (v4 -- see my sermon from Sunday for more on this passage). We have an inner need for mercy -- God graciously grants it not because He has to, but because He delights in showing mercy.

However, Titus does not take such delight. Tamora's son is executed and she vows revenge. And her revenge is awful. With her sons and the villanous Aaron the Moor, Tamora arranges for Titus daughter, Lavinia, to be raped, her hands cut off and her tongue cut off. As Lavinia begs for mercy, Tamora says to her sons "Remember, boys, I poured forth tears in vain To save your brother from the sacrifice, But fierce Andronicus would not relent, Therefore away with her; and use her as you will; The worse for her, the better loved of me." Again, we see mercy begged for, and mercy denied.

The revenge doesn't stop there -- Lavinia's husband, Bassianus is murdered, and Andronicus' two sons are framed for the murder. They are executed for the crime. But before the execution, Aaron the Moor brings a message that they will be spared if someone in Andronicus' family cuts off their hand as a peace offering to the emperor -- Andronicus in desperation to save his sons' lives, cuts his own off and sends it. The hand is returned to him along with the severed heads of his sons -- Aaron has pulled a wickedly cruel joke.

Now Andronicus is the one begging for mercy. His pleas for mercy for his son's lives were unheard by the government -- and with bitterness he says to his one remaining son "...Rome is but a wilderness of tigers...Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey but me and mine." Titus articulates an insight on depravity. Mercy is not intrinsic to the human heart. We may have a natural longing for it, but not an intrinsic desire to grant it. We see demonstrated once again the desperate need for spiritual rebirth to stop the cycle of revenge and violence.

Andronicus finally loses grip a bit -- we see a heartbreaking scene where he gathers his near relatives, equips them with bows and arrows. Tied to each arrow is a note to one of the pagan gods -- a request for their divine intervention for justice. He has had immense wrong done him, and he longs for things to be set right. "...sith there's no justice in earth nor hell, We will solicit heaven and move the gods To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs." This scene is almost Job like -- Titus sending his complaints for divine justice.

But Titus is no Job -- he does not hear the voice of God in the whirlwind saying "Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation? Tell me, if you understand...." (ch 38ff). Instead, Titus takes matters into his own hands -- he seizes an opportunity to take Tamora's remaining sons -- and then he out cruels her cruelty. He murders them, drains their blood, crushes their bones, bakes them into a pie, and serves the pie to Tamora at a banquet aimed at establishing peace between the warring houses (and for Rome) -- of course Tamora was planning her own betrayal, so any kind of mercy from either side was unexpected. In the end scene there is a bloodletting where Titus dies, Lavinia dies, and we wonder at the carnage left behind.

Yet we cannot forget the two figures longing for mercy, yet never granting. Longing for release from the cycle of violence, yet escalating it nonetheless. Locked in a struggle destined to consume both their lives and destroy their families. Full of the sound and the fury, signifying nothing -- to quote another play.

The redemptive element is to show that these are not mindless killers (ala a Jason or Michael Meyers or any of the other horror show villans of today). These are characters with an innate sense of mercy and longing for it. And they throw the deep human need for a new heart, birthed by grace, into unmistakable view.

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell