Semiological Argument for Faith

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come from?

My help comes from the LORD, the maker of heaven and earth.

- Psalm 121:1-2

Anyone who has owned a dog knows the futility of trying to point anything out to it. As intelligent as they are, dogs simply lack the powers of abstract thought that make humans unique. There is no intrinsic relationship between sign and signified, so if you try to point to a ball that is lying in the yard, the dog will come up and sniff your finger. It lacks the mental capacity to interpret from the sign (your extended finger) the existence of a no less real signified (the ball). While in the case of this example the ball is in fact an empirically verifiable object, it will remain entirely unobserved, for the dog will never learn to look past the sign. Yet although this power of abstract thought is one of the faculties that makes humans unique, many of us frequently deny ourselves its use.

Though cultural trends have been gradually shifting, there are still many in our society who consider it a mark of intelligence to disbelieve anything that cannot be empirically verified. Many boast of this, and many more operate under this presupposition without acknowledging it. Thus many deny the existence of God because he cannot be seen. In response to this, many Christians downplay the importance of the physical, or the logical, in support of the spiritual. The latter is almost as unfortunate as the former, for, among a host of other problems, it can create the attitude that faith is antithetical to reason. However, the perspective that the Bible gives is altogether different. The world that can be seen around us is undeniably real, yet the unseen world is not less real. Rather, it is more real, more substantial. The visible has been given to us as a sign to represent the invisible.

The Psalmist in Ps. 121 begins by looking up to the hills for a source of help. The mountains that surround Jerusalem provide a natural defense against enemies. The ridge of the hilltops is the place where a weary army looks in hope of reinforcements. Road up the mountains leads to the joy and safety of the Holy City, the end of a long and dangerous pilgrimage. The mountains are a symbol of hope and help, but they point higher. The help of the mountains is metonymic for the help that only God himself can give (that is to say, the mountains themselves are often part of that help, but God's help far transcends the aid of armies or the natural fortifications of geology). They serve as a sign to point us upwards. The wise person sees in the visible help of the mountains the no less true, though often less visible help of the unseen God. There are many who would see only the mountains, who would take pride in their refusal to see anything more. But in so doing, they restrict themselves to the sign, to the total neglect of the signified for which it was put in place. They are denying their God-given ability for abstract thought and restricting their mental capacities to only one of their functions.

While God created the entire universe to function as an enormous sign indicating his glory, humanity has persistently failed to recognize the Signified, desiring the signs for their own sake instead. The Bible calls this idolatry; the world calls it naturalism or materialism. In either case, the results are tragic and dehumanizing. Just like reading the words on this page without connecting them in anyway to the ideas behind them, such thinking necessarily ends in confusion, for signs were never meant to be an end in themselves. What can break us out of this futility? Many have tried to interpret the signs around them, and for many the mountains and hills have indeed directed them towards a spiritual understanding of the universe, yet they still fall short. Their reading is still faulty, for they have still failed to recognize properly what it is these signs indicate. It is only in Jesus Christ that sign and signified become one: the Word made flesh, the unseen God made visible, the Creator entering into his creation. In the incarnation, Jesus became the ultimate definition, for he was both the word and the meaning. He became the interpretative key by which we can understand all other signs. With Christ as our definition, the world around us, no less empirically real, now resounds with meaning, as everything points to something realer still. We look to the mountains, and the mountains point us higher.

New Every Morning

When I told a friend this summer that I was going to start blogging, he was gracious enough to tell me that he would read it, as long as I didn't become "one of those annoying bloggers who just write about what they had for breakfast and stuff like that." While I fully appreciate his standard of quality for online writing, sometimes you just have a really good breakfast. And so it is at the risk of estranging a devoted reader that I write to you about my foray into the world of artisan bread.

Over Thanksgiving, my sister introduced me to a simple bread recipe, and I was excited to discover that the dough keeps for up to two weeks, allowing for delicious fresh bread on demand. Thus the breakfast in question happened as follows: get up at 7:00, set out dough. Go for a 20 minute run while bread rises and oven preheats. Bake bread in oven for 30 minutes while showering and getting dressed. Allow bread to cool while brewing coffee (freshly ground, in a french press), cooking eggs, and preparing Greek yogurt. Slice bread and spread generously with butter and jam to taste. Enjoy.

There is something somehow right about baking bread fresh. The biblical metaphors are of course replete: give us this day our daily bread, the ravens that brought Elijah bread twice a day, the manna that comes sufficient for the day. There is a picture of perfect provision, but also of perfect timing. Bread without preservatives must be baked fresh; neither can we reheat yesterday's manna. How often we enter the day strong in the strength the Lord provided yesterday, that we have begun to think of as our own. But if even our righteousness is tainted by pride and our repentance by pretense, we are much in need of new mercies daily.

A World Upside-Down

Editor's Note: I wrote the following piece several years ago after reading Chesterton's biography on St. Francis. I thought it might be appropriate for the season, especially given the Chestertonian theme of this blog.

We need thanksgiving. Yes, I enjoy turkey and mashed potatoes as much as the next man, but that’s not what I mean right now. We, American society—we, the Church around the world—we, you and I—need thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is what keeps sharp the ever-blurring lines between creation and Creator, gift and Giver. It’s what keeps our hearts from becoming hard. It’s what separates icons, which direct us to God, from idols, which take his place. Thanksgiving is the discipline which enables us to see all things as coming from God and to bless him for it.

When I think of thanksgiving in this way, I can’t help but think of St. Francis, for whom everything pointed to God. The sun and the moon, the cold and the fire, each made him clap his hands in delight and call them “sister” and “brother,” for he and they shared one Creator. What he had he gave freely, for he himself had received it as a gift. What he did not give away, he kept freely, for, again, he had received it as a gift. The Church says St. Francis was a mendicant; his father said he was a beggar. He did know how to work, and worked harder than anyone around him, but it was in the sacrament of begging that he learned to receive, to give thanks, and to see all things as coming from the hand of God.

In this way thanksgiving makes you a little bit crazy. What could possess the son of a wealthy textile merchant to go off, clad only in sackcloth, and live on the road, in the wild, or in a worn-down church? Yet he might answer that the sackcloth and the leaky roof were both gifts from one who loved him, and so to him they were as precious as any fine silk. Francis (they didn’t call him “Saint” back then) was known to stand on his head in order to see the world from a different angle. No self-respecting gentleman would do such a thing, yet do we not carefully and lovingly turn a well-received gift over and over in our hands to examine every side and show our appreciation to the giver? Gratitude overwhelmed him, and he turned the world upside down in his holy acrobatics.

Francis lived irrespective of self. A troubadour—a reckless romantic—for him there was only his Lover. Lovers don’t worry about appearances. Surely he knew that normal people don’t talk to birds or ferocious wolves. Surely he knew that normal people don’t embrace their own death and call it “brother.” But for him, all of these things were gifts, for they pointed him towards, and ultimately took him to, his Lover. Thanksgiving places our gifts, our burdens, our surroundings, even our very selves, in proper subordination to the One who gives us all things.

During a difficult season in my life recently, I started each day by praying the Prayer of St. Francis. Make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon... O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. Little by little I noticed how selfless that prayer was—how selfless my prayers were becoming. Little by little I was coming to God, not to be heard, but first to hear him. I never stopped bringing petitions, but as I took my eyes off of myself, I began to see that all around me was grace, and I fell into gratitude—even gratitude for the discipline that proved my sonship. A self-absorbed life can give only a satisfaction as hollow as the idols we fill it with. But a life of prayer and thanksgiving turns our idols on their heads, turns the world upside down, and makes everything point to God.

We have been given much, and we are faced with much. We have much to mourn, much to repent of, much to petition for, and much to be grateful for. We have many questions to ask, even many objections to raise. But somehow, in a mystery that is itself a gift, we know that all things come from the hand of the One who loves us. And so, in joy and sorrow, we give thanks.

November

I find November

settled into her favorite rocker

where it has been sitting all year,

as if she'd never left.

I'd offer her tea,

but she took the liberty

of brewing a pot, thank you,

and would I like some?

She is comfortably dressed

in browns and tans

with the old familiarity

of a close neighbor just dropping by,

but in no hurry.

Her scarf rustles and gusts

behind her as the chair

rocks back and forth,

back and forth,

like the passing of time.

One of the things I enjoy most about my job is the relative freedom I have to study whatever interests me. Poetry has been a part of my life to greater and lesser degrees for some time, but never have I had as much freedom to work my poetic pursuits into everything else that I do. I began preaching a series on the Psalms with the college students, largely as a way to improve my Hebrew, but I have been finding my literary skills in my own language stretched as well. Most English translations are very good at giving a faithful rendition of the content of the Hebrew Psalms, even making the English translation aesthetically pleasing. But part of the beauty of poetry is that the partnership between form and content is far more intimate than it is with prose. Which words are chosen to rhyme together affects which ideas are emphasized. The rhythm and meter of verse will affect the feeling one gets in reading. Even the kinds of sounds used--hard consonants versus soft--can create an atmosphere of dissonance or tranquility.

As I study the poetic devices utilized in these Hebrew poems, I have begun asking myself, "How might this have been written had it originally been in English?" While this is generally a very subjective process, I have found it helpful in my understanding of each psalm. Psalm 8, for example, incorporates wordplay that draws attention to the word "name" (the word for "your heavens" can sound like "your name"), emphasizing the importance of God's reputation or fame. The poem is also written in a symmetrical form (what scholars call a "chiasm"), so that each line in the first half corresponds to a line in the second half. This draws attention to "man" at the center. At several places, internal rhyme also drives the poem, making the question in v. 4 ("what is man?") all the more powerful. Noticing these things has helped me understand where to focus attention in my preaching. I have also tried to replicate them in my own translations, staying as faithful as possible to the content, but trying even more to utilize form in such a way as to recreate the same sort of effect that reading it in Hebrew might.

Psalm 8

O Master Yahweh, all the earth magnifies your great name!

You, who drape majestic fame across the skies;

Infants’ victory songs rise as vengeful foes are vanquished under foot;

Skies scream out, lunar and celestial luminaries—all your handiwork.

And what, then, is the son of Adam?

Insignificant, unremarkable, you humble him

to be just under yourself. You glorify him

and crown with honor your son Adam.

You stand him, crowned ruler over all your handiwork:

Flocks and cattle, beasts that work—all things are placed under his foot

You raise and put his claim over the hosts of the seas and skies

O Master Yahweh, all the earth magnifies your great name!

Pig Roast: I get paid for this...

"And there came a voice to him: 'Rise, Peter; kill and eat.' But Peter said, 'By no means, Lord; for I have never eaten anything that is common or unclean.' And the voice came to him again a second time: 'What God has made clean, do not call common'" (Acts 10:13-15).

Our church celebrates the truth that the gospel has been extended to the gentiles. We also celebrate the freedom in Christ that extends even to dietary restrictions. In light of that freedom, we planned a pig roast.

First we dug a deep hole.

Then we lit a huge fire. (Yes, that's a leaf blower we're using to fan the flames.)

We got a small (read: 103 lb.) pig, filled it with apples, covered it in seasoning, and wrapped it in three rolls of aluminum foil.

We threw the pig on the hot coals, buried it, and let bake. 24 hours later we came back to dig it up and eat it. However, as we unwrapped the foil, we were greeted with a smell that communicated that our pig (we named it Antiochus Epiphanes) was only half-baked. Apparently, we hadn't gotten the rocks in the coals hot enough. Nowhere near safe to eat, we had to chop it up with a hatchet, wrap it in garbage bags, and throw it away. (Not a pretty procedure, nor pleasing to the nose.)

We ordered a dozen pizzas (sausage and pepperoni, in keeping with the theme), and everyone had a great time anyway. One of the highlights was an impromptu dance party in the pit as we filled it in. (We had to pack in the dirt somehow!) Yeah, I get paid for this!

Is my Halo Showing?

The last few weeks have pushed me into a world of board meetings, coffee shops, homeless shelters, sport coats, frisbees, commentaries, and Facebook. Life as a pastor--and particularly a college pastor--is so filled with otherwise utterly unconnectable elements, that at the end of the day I sometimes wonder if I've worn out my mental clutch from changing gears so rapidly. A typical day consists of an in-depth study of Hebrew poetry punctuated by interactions with people requesting financial assistance, staff meetings, and conversations with students about auto mechanics, recent movies, and their favorite preachers.

A few highlights of the job so far:

* A special budget for buying coffee with students

* Clergy parking spaces at the hospital (see picture above--and yes, I did go out of my way in the parking deck just so I could use one!)

* Getting to read Greek and Hebrew as part of my job

* Antics with my roommates

Next Stop: Wheaton

Several days into my new life in Wheaton, I'm quite pleased with my new house and housemates, I'm excited about my new church, and I can't wait to get started on my job on Sunday. Yet, I'm also finding that adjusting to life here in Wheaton is taking at least as much, if not more effort than adjusting to any of the places I visited in Japan. Maybe it's because I expected to be a foreigner there. Or maybe because I knew I was leaving again soon. Regardless, the prospect of entering into a new place, forming new relationships, even adapting to a new culture, is somewhat daunting.

Below is a poem I wrote along these lines. The form is a modified quatrina--the four lines of each stanza end in the same four words, like themes, though their place is shifted each time. I found the constant movement and the discordant familiarity of the repetition reminiscent of the feelings of moving to a new place.


"So this is home now"

So this is home now:
re-paint what were another's walls,
enclose in them my things and then call "home"
where moments ago was only "here."

My posters there, my favorite mug goes here,
old textbooks stacked (they seem less urgent now).
My life a mosaic of former homes
like the farrago of photos hanging on the walls.

Outside hang other lives on other walls
who lay a longer, stronger claim to here.
Our paths, though separate, intersect us now,
though for the traveler, any "here" is home.

Yet I, though foreign, may be most at home,
who still must learn this city's unseen walls.
Another language, culture to learn now,
in homelessness I make my home here.

For where is home but where God puts me now
and the jasper walls I'll find when I leave here?