“What would constitute proof to you of God’s existence?” I recently asked an atheistic acquaintance. He replied that God would have to reveal himself in such a way that it would be apparent to the entire world that he was indeed God. Of course, this answer may not be every unbeliever’s request for theistic evidence, yet this response surfaces at least three components regarding awareness of God: human perception, God’s integrity, and human integrity.
I was born into a particular culture and time. I could not avoid it. My present perceptions are clouded, or clarified, by my setting. Therefore, if the God of the universe were to reveal himself all at once in one glaringly apparent brilliant episode, then it’s reasonably likely I would have a hard time making sense of what I was seeing. Whether I would even survive the encounter is another matter. And I say this as a believer in him already. So I’m not even addressing how peoples unfamiliar with God would comprehend this revelation. It’s likely we would have a variety of different accounts of what we witnessed--once again, if we would even survive the encounter. We would try to make sense of the experience in terms of pre-existing perceptions. This unavoidably timeless human condition Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel describes in his acclaimed text, The Prophets (1962): “What impairs our sight are habits of seeing as well as the mental concomitants of seeing. Our sight is suffused with knowing, instead of feeling painfully the lack of knowing what we see.” We do not, cannot, even will not, take in pure reality because we are finite (limited) and fallen (bent and self-absorbed). Since God would be the Ultimate Reality, our “habits of seeing” would color the whole encounter with him; in fact, they do already.
Secondly, God’s integrity, as I understand it, does not lend itself well to his roaming the earth revealing himself to just anybody. As the perfectly complete whole being, his integrity and self-respect prevent him from disclosing himself to those uninterested in seeking him. As healthy human beings do not reveal themselves to those not genuinely interested in them, God is discerning with whom he shares himself. Not surprisingly then, experiences of God are rather limited to those open and seeking such encounters. And those not so open or seeking would consequently have fewer to no experiences of God. Therefore, belief in God transcends morality, intellect, wealth, ethnicity--it’s primarily a matter of seeking openness. God condescends to anyone seeking. Like every genuine relationship, it begins with some desire. I realize the analogy has its limits, but I’m not inclined to share who I am with people not desiring a relationship with me. I’m not sure why we would expect God to be different in this regard.
Further, God’s wise hesitancy in forcing revelation upon humans also has to do with our character and freedom. God desires a genuine, transparent relationship with us. Forcing belief via undeniable encounters with him trumps our capacity for responsive integrity. Dr. Terence Fretheim in The Suffering of God (1984) confirms the importance of potential unbelief: “For God to be fully present would be coercive; faith would be turned into sight and humankind could not but believe.” Instead, “[t]rue human life is possible only if the vision of God is of such a nature that disbelief remains possible. The concern is not to keep people ignorant, but to preserve them.” We are well familiar with the tragic accounts of people being forced into any variety of beliefs, relational manipulations and acquiescences--mirages of trust and relationship rather than the freedom and subsequent vulnerability of authenticity. It ought not be surprising that the God of reality would prefer sincerity.
So how does God navigate the following: Initiating a relationship with the open and seeking among us, while revealing himself within the confines of our perceptions, while not overwhelming or forcing our wills into belief, all the while developing an authentic relationship with us, the kind of relationship that invites maturation into the kind of humanity that holds healing and hope--salvation--for the world?
Is it any surprise that the Bible, the prime source we have regarding our and God’s shared history, would be inspiring, complicated, transforming, messy, hopeful, disconcerting, vast, specific, historical, futuristic, metaphorical, literal, confusing, clarifying, dark, enlightening, tragic, beautiful, healing, discombobulating . . . even rather overwhelming? Could it be other? To open it is to begin “to see in a mirror dimly” (I Corinthians 13). To keep it closed is to dim the lights of our awareness, regardless of levels of belief.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Truth: Subjective NOT Relative
Mumford & Sons’ “I Gave You All” asks the question, “How can you say your truth is better than ours?” I confess my ignorance regarding the song’s context; nonetheless, the question seems the cry of the Post-Modern because relativism is now simply assumed. Truth does not exist in any absolute, objective sense; instead, truth is simply proportional to each of us. We define it. We live it. And, of course, others define their own truth and live it. Apart from the warm affirmations of whatever works for you, the discussion is over. To press further is to suggest my “truth” is “better than” yours. How dare you? How dare I?
Yet truth by its very definition is exclusive and absolute. Adjusting it to my personal history and agenda of comfort and security seems a hyper-overindulgence of my ego. Humility and sanity would suggest that truth be something to which I am ever-learning to adjust. Simply because I cannot grasp it absolutely does not negate truth’s absolute existence. It’s an impressively arrogant error to assume that because my mind is too subjective to appreciate objective truth that, therefore, objective truth must not be. To accept relativism kills the journey. Why head toward the destination if the destination is quite simply myself?
Still, any truth we claim to know inherently expects a knower and therein lies the subjective rub. Any truthful knowledge I claim to have is wrapped up in my subjectivity. While I need to be aware of my subjective propensities, an inherent beauty exists in recognizing that truth must be personally appropriated. And if it cannot be lived, how true is it? Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), arguably the genuine founder of existentialism, reminds us, “Lest we forget, the subject, the individual, is an existing self, and existing is a process of becoming.” Our relationship to truth determines what we are becoming. He adds, “true knowing pertains essentially to existence, to a life of decision and responsibility.” In other words, truth is lived subjectively. Hungering for more truth drives our journey, our maturation, our growth. Negating truth inflates the ego, justifies our immaturity, and stunts our growth.
Though we may yet be haunted by the Modernist’s anxiety that subjectivity can only corrode objective truth, philosophy Professor Esther Lightcap Meek echoes Kierkegaard: “Truth is not rendered arbitrary and relative by my involvement. It is embedded and actualized in my involvement” (Longing to Know: The Philosophy of Knowledge for Ordinary People, 2003). For some that could be seen as bad news. It’s a comfort to believe that truth exists in entirely objective notions. With that, I can simply acknowledge some facts, possess some knowledge, and be left alone to be however I want to be. And a step further, I think this leave-me-be-ism is relativism’s draw rather than some sort of objective conclusion that absolute truth does not exist.
We’ve developed insular philosophies--truth is only objective; truth is only relative--to protect us from having to become genuinely larger than we are. We’re like Bilbo Baggins in Tolkien’s The Hobbit, who chooses the shire over an adventure because adventures are bothersome inconveniences. Yet by choosing the adventure, he discovers an ever-greater truth that calls him to become more genuinely himself than he ever would have been had he remained in the comfy shire.
We stumble here into a paradox that truth, for all its objective benefits is always ultimately relational. It cannot be other. Every knower is a relational being created in the image of the Ultimate Knower. Madeleine L'Engle suggests that while we each have points of view, God has View. The faith journey is ever acclimating to that View in wonderful contrast (and relief) to one's one. Further, Kierkegaard continues, “God is a subject to be related to, not an object to be studied or meditated on.” Therefore, while yes, I need to and will continue to offer what I believe are objective evidences for the Christian faith, each of us needs to consider our level of relational openness to Christ. For to place your trust in Him is to engage in a relationship with Him. If you have already firmly decided you will not subjectively appropriate the truth of Christ, which is what faith is (not belief in the absence of reason), then no amount of objectivity on my part will matter.
Mumford and Sons’ “I Gave You All” also includes the intriguing line, “If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won.” Regardless of whether you’re agreeing with me or not, I do pray that in your search for truth, you will face enemies bigger than your apathy. If you do, I'm confident you will end up closer to Truth.
Yet truth by its very definition is exclusive and absolute. Adjusting it to my personal history and agenda of comfort and security seems a hyper-overindulgence of my ego. Humility and sanity would suggest that truth be something to which I am ever-learning to adjust. Simply because I cannot grasp it absolutely does not negate truth’s absolute existence. It’s an impressively arrogant error to assume that because my mind is too subjective to appreciate objective truth that, therefore, objective truth must not be. To accept relativism kills the journey. Why head toward the destination if the destination is quite simply myself?
Still, any truth we claim to know inherently expects a knower and therein lies the subjective rub. Any truthful knowledge I claim to have is wrapped up in my subjectivity. While I need to be aware of my subjective propensities, an inherent beauty exists in recognizing that truth must be personally appropriated. And if it cannot be lived, how true is it? Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), arguably the genuine founder of existentialism, reminds us, “Lest we forget, the subject, the individual, is an existing self, and existing is a process of becoming.” Our relationship to truth determines what we are becoming. He adds, “true knowing pertains essentially to existence, to a life of decision and responsibility.” In other words, truth is lived subjectively. Hungering for more truth drives our journey, our maturation, our growth. Negating truth inflates the ego, justifies our immaturity, and stunts our growth.
Though we may yet be haunted by the Modernist’s anxiety that subjectivity can only corrode objective truth, philosophy Professor Esther Lightcap Meek echoes Kierkegaard: “Truth is not rendered arbitrary and relative by my involvement. It is embedded and actualized in my involvement” (Longing to Know: The Philosophy of Knowledge for Ordinary People, 2003). For some that could be seen as bad news. It’s a comfort to believe that truth exists in entirely objective notions. With that, I can simply acknowledge some facts, possess some knowledge, and be left alone to be however I want to be. And a step further, I think this leave-me-be-ism is relativism’s draw rather than some sort of objective conclusion that absolute truth does not exist.
We’ve developed insular philosophies--truth is only objective; truth is only relative--to protect us from having to become genuinely larger than we are. We’re like Bilbo Baggins in Tolkien’s The Hobbit, who chooses the shire over an adventure because adventures are bothersome inconveniences. Yet by choosing the adventure, he discovers an ever-greater truth that calls him to become more genuinely himself than he ever would have been had he remained in the comfy shire.
We stumble here into a paradox that truth, for all its objective benefits is always ultimately relational. It cannot be other. Every knower is a relational being created in the image of the Ultimate Knower. Madeleine L'Engle suggests that while we each have points of view, God has View. The faith journey is ever acclimating to that View in wonderful contrast (and relief) to one's one. Further, Kierkegaard continues, “God is a subject to be related to, not an object to be studied or meditated on.” Therefore, while yes, I need to and will continue to offer what I believe are objective evidences for the Christian faith, each of us needs to consider our level of relational openness to Christ. For to place your trust in Him is to engage in a relationship with Him. If you have already firmly decided you will not subjectively appropriate the truth of Christ, which is what faith is (not belief in the absence of reason), then no amount of objectivity on my part will matter.
Mumford and Sons’ “I Gave You All” also includes the intriguing line, “If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won.” Regardless of whether you’re agreeing with me or not, I do pray that in your search for truth, you will face enemies bigger than your apathy. If you do, I'm confident you will end up closer to Truth.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
I'm Fallen . . . So Are You
In her move to an apartment in town, my mother, gradually cleaning out the storage spaces in our old farm house, found my baptismal certificate and the order of service from over forty years ago. “We are born members of a fallen humanity . . .” states one of the opening lines.
I am a member of a fallen humanity. My common ground with every other human is my flesh and fallenness.
The fall behind our fallenness certainly suggests a preceding precipice. To paraphrase G.K. Chesterton, we may not remember the fall, but we do remember its height. We are routinely reminded in our relationships with others, ourselves, and with nature, that we’re not who we could be, who we should be. Our encounters with these realities have and can become existentially bewildering. In fact, some struggle with a belief in God based on the inconceivable evil in the world. I’m inclined toward the opposite position. Not because I believe God is the source of evil. Hardly. Actually, His height of goodness provides the precipice for the Fall. Our capacity to dredge the moral bottoms is inversely related to our capacity to touch the moral, altruistic heights. And it is the existence of God which makes this range apparent.
In the previous post, I described a few of the vast differences between the Genius behind creation and the rest of humanity’s contrived gods, whether ancient or present. Of further intriguing contrast is humanity’s having at some time enjoyed a dignified relationship with this God. The Genesis account, of course, describes the ancient account of creation including the creation of humanity. I do not see a necessity to see this story literally; however, that does not mean it does not display truth. Its obvious contrast to other creation accounts is surprising in that it reveals one God, a natural world devoid of gods--simply alive and beautiful, and a dignifying relationship between humans and God rather than a subservient, capricious one--as is quite typical of the ancients’ relationships to other “gods.”
This relationship between God and humans held “no shame” (Genesis 2). No humiliation--respect and esteem were a given. Between God and humans, between man and woman, between humans and nature--the relationships were secure and transparent. Now, perhaps this relationship came about in the early days of developing human consciousness: Once humanity evolved to a place of significant consciousness, humans were able to enjoy this loving exchange of relationship with God. Regardless, I believe this collectively unconscious memory explains volumes about our brokenness and beauty, our capacities and incapacities.
For any relationship to contain the transparent freedom and dignity of genuine love, possibilities must exist to choose against the relationship. Envy enters the scene for the humans--a desire to possess God’s role; we developed an anxiety that he was holding back something from us to which we felt entitled--namely, His role. Tragically, we violated his boundaries in an effort to “be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:3).
Consequences have rippled out genetically and historically. In our godlike state, we now judge others perpetually as “good” or “evil” or place them in any other variety of predetermined boxes we have consciously or subconsciously created. “In a word, we like to pass verdicts. To some extent, we get our sense of worth from attaching worth or detracting worth from others, based on what we see” (Gregory Boyd, Repenting of Religion: Turning from Judgment to the Love of God 2004). Having usurped God’s role, we no longer enjoy transparent vulnerability with others--although there are moments we taste it; instead, we often categorize others and assess them as worthwhile or not against our own standards. This tendency provides us with a sense of identity. Having lost our spiritual identity, we now seek it from one another or at the expense of one another. We also endlessly justify our behaviors. We long for that secure rightness we once had; now we rationalize our wrongs to bargain for a cheap sniff of it.
And often what we justify is our often horrible treatment of one another. It’s intriguing to note that man and woman lived in an equal relationship with one another prior to the fall. It’s post the fall that woeful disparities begin (I’m indebted to John and Stasi’s Eldredge’s Captivating: Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman’s Soul for this concept). Our relationship to nature became strained as well: we now have to toil hard to get by. The natural world seems to have no natural place for us any longer. We are the oddball out in the natural order. Now, having usurped God’s role, we have hoisted our will upon nature, more often than not, to its own, our own, and our descendants peril.
Indeed, we humans have tumbled quite far from our original place in relationship with God, ourselves, each other, and nature. To borrow again from G.K. Chesterton, our world is like broken pieces of stained glass: each piece--whether of nature, spirituality, or human relationships--holds something of the original beauty, yet the fact that it is a broken piece is readily apparent. This broken beauty stirs within us that endless longing for something more, although we may not really remember exactly what. Nonetheless, it's worth remembering. Maybe the beauty will be more poignant and the brokenness more convicting.
I am a member of a fallen humanity. My common ground with every other human is my flesh and fallenness.
The fall behind our fallenness certainly suggests a preceding precipice. To paraphrase G.K. Chesterton, we may not remember the fall, but we do remember its height. We are routinely reminded in our relationships with others, ourselves, and with nature, that we’re not who we could be, who we should be. Our encounters with these realities have and can become existentially bewildering. In fact, some struggle with a belief in God based on the inconceivable evil in the world. I’m inclined toward the opposite position. Not because I believe God is the source of evil. Hardly. Actually, His height of goodness provides the precipice for the Fall. Our capacity to dredge the moral bottoms is inversely related to our capacity to touch the moral, altruistic heights. And it is the existence of God which makes this range apparent.
In the previous post, I described a few of the vast differences between the Genius behind creation and the rest of humanity’s contrived gods, whether ancient or present. Of further intriguing contrast is humanity’s having at some time enjoyed a dignified relationship with this God. The Genesis account, of course, describes the ancient account of creation including the creation of humanity. I do not see a necessity to see this story literally; however, that does not mean it does not display truth. Its obvious contrast to other creation accounts is surprising in that it reveals one God, a natural world devoid of gods--simply alive and beautiful, and a dignifying relationship between humans and God rather than a subservient, capricious one--as is quite typical of the ancients’ relationships to other “gods.”
This relationship between God and humans held “no shame” (Genesis 2). No humiliation--respect and esteem were a given. Between God and humans, between man and woman, between humans and nature--the relationships were secure and transparent. Now, perhaps this relationship came about in the early days of developing human consciousness: Once humanity evolved to a place of significant consciousness, humans were able to enjoy this loving exchange of relationship with God. Regardless, I believe this collectively unconscious memory explains volumes about our brokenness and beauty, our capacities and incapacities.
For any relationship to contain the transparent freedom and dignity of genuine love, possibilities must exist to choose against the relationship. Envy enters the scene for the humans--a desire to possess God’s role; we developed an anxiety that he was holding back something from us to which we felt entitled--namely, His role. Tragically, we violated his boundaries in an effort to “be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:3).
Consequences have rippled out genetically and historically. In our godlike state, we now judge others perpetually as “good” or “evil” or place them in any other variety of predetermined boxes we have consciously or subconsciously created. “In a word, we like to pass verdicts. To some extent, we get our sense of worth from attaching worth or detracting worth from others, based on what we see” (Gregory Boyd, Repenting of Religion: Turning from Judgment to the Love of God 2004). Having usurped God’s role, we no longer enjoy transparent vulnerability with others--although there are moments we taste it; instead, we often categorize others and assess them as worthwhile or not against our own standards. This tendency provides us with a sense of identity. Having lost our spiritual identity, we now seek it from one another or at the expense of one another. We also endlessly justify our behaviors. We long for that secure rightness we once had; now we rationalize our wrongs to bargain for a cheap sniff of it.
And often what we justify is our often horrible treatment of one another. It’s intriguing to note that man and woman lived in an equal relationship with one another prior to the fall. It’s post the fall that woeful disparities begin (I’m indebted to John and Stasi’s Eldredge’s Captivating: Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman’s Soul for this concept). Our relationship to nature became strained as well: we now have to toil hard to get by. The natural world seems to have no natural place for us any longer. We are the oddball out in the natural order. Now, having usurped God’s role, we have hoisted our will upon nature, more often than not, to its own, our own, and our descendants peril.
Indeed, we humans have tumbled quite far from our original place in relationship with God, ourselves, each other, and nature. To borrow again from G.K. Chesterton, our world is like broken pieces of stained glass: each piece--whether of nature, spirituality, or human relationships--holds something of the original beauty, yet the fact that it is a broken piece is readily apparent. This broken beauty stirs within us that endless longing for something more, although we may not really remember exactly what. Nonetheless, it's worth remembering. Maybe the beauty will be more poignant and the brokenness more convicting.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Reverb or Reality
Myriad divine options have existed, and in some places continue to present themselves to humanity. A supernatural smorgasbord of deity flavors “existed” in the ancient world, replete with idols, rituals, sacrifices, rigmaroles to procure security within a turbulent world. So what is one more? Is the God of the Jews and Christians simply the lucky survivor of that not so lucky myriad, yet offers no appreciable difference from them?
In the previous post, I described the credible presence of theism within the past and present of the science community. Of course, some theists do not believe in a personal God; they simply believe that the rationality, informational coding, and order apparent in the world lead to the evidential conclusion of a brilliant Mind behind it. I alluded to this as Einstein’s position, for example, and he merits quoting here: “Every one who is seriously engaged in the pursuit of science becomes convinced that the laws of nature manifest the existence of a spirit vastly superior to that of men, and one in the face of which we with our modest powers must feel humble” (ctd. in Flew & Varghese 2007).
Now, if this “spirit vastly superior” to us were to reveal Himself to us, it seems reasonable to conclude that given His brilliance in creation, He would be markedly different from the localized deities often representing or merging with elements of that creation or human political powers. Therefore, a God who genuinely transcends nature and humanity would indeed be different from the gods blended with nature and the human ego.
One credit the localized deities merit is their revealing of humanity’s natural religious impulse. And I have no problem citing that impulse as natural. It’s indicative of a desire for transcendence, further evidence of a divine presence beyond our world. Considering it a consequence of natural selection seems another imaginative stretch (see previous). Still, the ancient world being unfamiliar with God (having lost that relationship in the Fall--more on that in future posts), its peoples would logically extend their worship and spiritual adherence to natural and political powers--the moon, the sun, stars, earthly items, Pharaohs, Caesars, etc. It’s a reverb effect: the people call out and quest spiritually; they are not aware of anything beyond their immediate world, so their spirituality bounces back in idols representing familiarity--gods related to the skies, seasons, fertility, waters, storms, powerful political entities, etc.
Not surprisingly, people locked within nature become trapped within a deterministic fate--roles are assumed and assigned, hierarchies are established; temple prostitutes are determined, even human sacrifices are set. Of course, individual wills are not considered: your role in relationship to the order of things is predetermined. Individuality is a relatively modern notion as is linear thinking or the prospect of an open future.
With this, we need to be aware of anachronism--the tendency to assume the ancient mindset was somehow similar to ours, that concepts we take for granted were part of ancient people’s awareness. However, this is not the case: individuality, freedom, progress, future, justice, equality are not the products of evolution or localized deities. In fact, those concepts fed and continue to feed the demise of localized deities--our modern world’s familiarity with those concepts make it difficult for localized deities to sustain their powers once people become aware of those notions. These concepts are the products of the same “spirit vastly superior to that of men” (cited above). This Spirit approaches humanity in history and that has changed everything.
The Old Testament records God’s approach of Abraham and his subsequent Jewish descendants which display that gradual, progressively revealing--and thereby at times messy--encounter between the God of the universe and darkened human nature. Thomas Cahill’s The Gift of the Jews: How a Tribe of Desert Nomads Changed the Way Everyone Thinks and Feels effectively discusses the challenges and transformations the early Israelites partake in as they become the people to which and through which God introduces himself: For the ancient Sumerians, “only impersonal survival, like the kingship, like the harvest, mattered; the individual, the unusual, the singular, the bizarre--persons or event that did not conform to an archetype--could have no meaning. And without the individual, neither time nor history is possible. But the God of Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov [Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob]--no longer your typical ancient divinity, no longer the archetypal gesturer--is a real personality who has intervened in real history, changing its course and robbing it of predictability. He will continue to intervene. And these interventions will gradually bring about in Avrahams descendants enormous changes of mind and heart” (1998). These drastic changes clearly display that their source was not any localized deity, a projection of human desires, but rather from a Source with very different desires for humanity.
Of many examples that could be delved into, one I find particularly intriguing is God’s forbidding the ancient Israelites against representing Him with any sort of image or idol--a radically new notion, which the Israelites struggled with repeatedly--the golden calf debacle being among the earliest. They had to learn to relate to a God who cannot be contained or represented in any sort of image. However, the rationale for that command, and for this I’m indebted to Pastor and Professor Gregory Boyd, is because God created man and woman in His image. He already has an image--it’s us; therefore, no fabricated images or idols are necessary. Gradually through the Old Testament, wherein the prophet’s routine pleas for their fellow citizens to be attentive to justice and mercy if they claim to follow God, and culminating with sharp clarity in the New Testament in person of Jesus Christ, who routinely taught and demonstrated that love of God and love of people are intrinsically bound concepts, the binding of faith and love was formed. Sarah Ruden’s Paul Among the People: The Apostle Reinterpreted and Re-imagined in His Own Time thoughtfully captures the drastic contrast of the burgeoning Christian community against a backdrop that never would have naturally evolved it: New Testament content “shows a great concern with the link between religion and getting along with other people, caring for them, allowing communities to thrive. Among those who had grown up as polytheists, there was nothing trite about this program. On the contrary, it set out a new way of thinking that must have been quite exciting, a hope for something beyond exploitation, materialism, and violence--a plan not for competing in purity and denial of life, but for the sharing of life in full” (2010). This new way of thinking then eventually transformed our world in ways the modern mind cannot fully appreciate due to our distance from the ancient minds.
While certainly more could be said, clarified and exemplified, my intent here was to concisely demonstrate that the God of the Bible is well-beyond compare to any localized, mythical deities past or present. The contrasts are profound, and the subsequent impact on our world has been profound. I would suggest that humanism’s roots and the pillared assumptions of Western culture are comfortably traced back to what was supernaturally new to the peoples of the Old and New Testaments. Therefore, when non-believers suggest they can be “morally good” in our day without Christianity, I don’t find it surprising they can. And really self-assessed goodness is not the point of the Gospel. Nonetheless, we all presently exist in an inherited consciousness that history reveals carries God’s handprint. Still, while we enjoy the Giant’s shade of individual dignity and freedom and their necessary complements, it’s wise to recognize the Giant providing it, than to just assume these profound shadows were somehow simply contrived by humans alone (to borrow from G.K. Chesterton).
In the previous post, I described the credible presence of theism within the past and present of the science community. Of course, some theists do not believe in a personal God; they simply believe that the rationality, informational coding, and order apparent in the world lead to the evidential conclusion of a brilliant Mind behind it. I alluded to this as Einstein’s position, for example, and he merits quoting here: “Every one who is seriously engaged in the pursuit of science becomes convinced that the laws of nature manifest the existence of a spirit vastly superior to that of men, and one in the face of which we with our modest powers must feel humble” (ctd. in Flew & Varghese 2007).
Now, if this “spirit vastly superior” to us were to reveal Himself to us, it seems reasonable to conclude that given His brilliance in creation, He would be markedly different from the localized deities often representing or merging with elements of that creation or human political powers. Therefore, a God who genuinely transcends nature and humanity would indeed be different from the gods blended with nature and the human ego.
One credit the localized deities merit is their revealing of humanity’s natural religious impulse. And I have no problem citing that impulse as natural. It’s indicative of a desire for transcendence, further evidence of a divine presence beyond our world. Considering it a consequence of natural selection seems another imaginative stretch (see previous). Still, the ancient world being unfamiliar with God (having lost that relationship in the Fall--more on that in future posts), its peoples would logically extend their worship and spiritual adherence to natural and political powers--the moon, the sun, stars, earthly items, Pharaohs, Caesars, etc. It’s a reverb effect: the people call out and quest spiritually; they are not aware of anything beyond their immediate world, so their spirituality bounces back in idols representing familiarity--gods related to the skies, seasons, fertility, waters, storms, powerful political entities, etc.
Not surprisingly, people locked within nature become trapped within a deterministic fate--roles are assumed and assigned, hierarchies are established; temple prostitutes are determined, even human sacrifices are set. Of course, individual wills are not considered: your role in relationship to the order of things is predetermined. Individuality is a relatively modern notion as is linear thinking or the prospect of an open future.
With this, we need to be aware of anachronism--the tendency to assume the ancient mindset was somehow similar to ours, that concepts we take for granted were part of ancient people’s awareness. However, this is not the case: individuality, freedom, progress, future, justice, equality are not the products of evolution or localized deities. In fact, those concepts fed and continue to feed the demise of localized deities--our modern world’s familiarity with those concepts make it difficult for localized deities to sustain their powers once people become aware of those notions. These concepts are the products of the same “spirit vastly superior to that of men” (cited above). This Spirit approaches humanity in history and that has changed everything.
The Old Testament records God’s approach of Abraham and his subsequent Jewish descendants which display that gradual, progressively revealing--and thereby at times messy--encounter between the God of the universe and darkened human nature. Thomas Cahill’s The Gift of the Jews: How a Tribe of Desert Nomads Changed the Way Everyone Thinks and Feels effectively discusses the challenges and transformations the early Israelites partake in as they become the people to which and through which God introduces himself: For the ancient Sumerians, “only impersonal survival, like the kingship, like the harvest, mattered; the individual, the unusual, the singular, the bizarre--persons or event that did not conform to an archetype--could have no meaning. And without the individual, neither time nor history is possible. But the God of Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov [Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob]--no longer your typical ancient divinity, no longer the archetypal gesturer--is a real personality who has intervened in real history, changing its course and robbing it of predictability. He will continue to intervene. And these interventions will gradually bring about in Avrahams descendants enormous changes of mind and heart” (1998). These drastic changes clearly display that their source was not any localized deity, a projection of human desires, but rather from a Source with very different desires for humanity.
Of many examples that could be delved into, one I find particularly intriguing is God’s forbidding the ancient Israelites against representing Him with any sort of image or idol--a radically new notion, which the Israelites struggled with repeatedly--the golden calf debacle being among the earliest. They had to learn to relate to a God who cannot be contained or represented in any sort of image. However, the rationale for that command, and for this I’m indebted to Pastor and Professor Gregory Boyd, is because God created man and woman in His image. He already has an image--it’s us; therefore, no fabricated images or idols are necessary. Gradually through the Old Testament, wherein the prophet’s routine pleas for their fellow citizens to be attentive to justice and mercy if they claim to follow God, and culminating with sharp clarity in the New Testament in person of Jesus Christ, who routinely taught and demonstrated that love of God and love of people are intrinsically bound concepts, the binding of faith and love was formed. Sarah Ruden’s Paul Among the People: The Apostle Reinterpreted and Re-imagined in His Own Time thoughtfully captures the drastic contrast of the burgeoning Christian community against a backdrop that never would have naturally evolved it: New Testament content “shows a great concern with the link between religion and getting along with other people, caring for them, allowing communities to thrive. Among those who had grown up as polytheists, there was nothing trite about this program. On the contrary, it set out a new way of thinking that must have been quite exciting, a hope for something beyond exploitation, materialism, and violence--a plan not for competing in purity and denial of life, but for the sharing of life in full” (2010). This new way of thinking then eventually transformed our world in ways the modern mind cannot fully appreciate due to our distance from the ancient minds.
While certainly more could be said, clarified and exemplified, my intent here was to concisely demonstrate that the God of the Bible is well-beyond compare to any localized, mythical deities past or present. The contrasts are profound, and the subsequent impact on our world has been profound. I would suggest that humanism’s roots and the pillared assumptions of Western culture are comfortably traced back to what was supernaturally new to the peoples of the Old and New Testaments. Therefore, when non-believers suggest they can be “morally good” in our day without Christianity, I don’t find it surprising they can. And really self-assessed goodness is not the point of the Gospel. Nonetheless, we all presently exist in an inherited consciousness that history reveals carries God’s handprint. Still, while we enjoy the Giant’s shade of individual dignity and freedom and their necessary complements, it’s wise to recognize the Giant providing it, than to just assume these profound shadows were somehow simply contrived by humans alone (to borrow from G.K. Chesterton).
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