"We live in a culture that has cultivated the idea that the skeptical person is always smarter than one who believes. You can almost be as stupid as cabbage so long as you doubt."

--Dallas Willard

I was having a conversation with a member of my adult faith class about the differences I saw between a religious versus a humanistic metaphysics.

Before the contrast, let me state the assumption I'm working with, an assumption people might disagree with.

My assumption is that everyone, theist and humanist, is involved in metaphysics. Specifically, systems of ethics and/or life philosophies (visions of a "good life") are inherently evaluative and axiomatic. That is, some values have to be taken as non-negotiable, axiomatic givens. For example, the inviolable dignity of human life. A historical example is the Declaration of Independence: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights..."

These self-evident, axiomatic values are metaphysical in that are not and cannot be derived from the laws governing the material cosmos. If anything, a rigorously empirical and reductionistic investigation of the cosmos undermines and sits in tension with axiomatic values. There are no values to be found the the equations of particle physics. Nor meaning in the Periodic Table. The more you drill down into the "building blocks" of nature the more devoid of meaning and value the world appears to be.

So that's my starting assumption. Everyone, theists and humanists, are engaged in some axiomatic evaluation of the world. Some values are taken to be non-negotiable givens.

Now if that's true, as I believe it is, it allows me to make the following contrast between a religious and a humanistic metaphysics, and why I think a religious metaphysics is better than a humanistic metaphysics.

Specifically, a religious metaphysics takes the self-evident, axiomatic, non-negotiable goods as real. Religion argues for values flowing out of being, ethics rooted in ontology, the good as being the truth.

By contrast, in a humanistic metaphysics the self-evident, axiomatic, non-negotiable goods are preferences. Without an ontological ground outside of material existence, values must be asserted as a matter of personal choice, an expression of the will. The self-evident, axiomatic, non-negotiable goods that guide my life are not real, they are my wish, my choice, my preference.  

The advantage, then, as I see it, between a religious versus humanistic metaphysics is that in a religious metaphysics your preferences don't make any difference about what is or is not good. The good exists independently of your opinion. The inviolable dignity of a human life isn't just my preference, it is real, and will always be real, no matter what I think about it.

In short, the good is good because the good exists, the good is real, the good is the truth. You don't have say in the matter. And because the good is real, the good doesn't cease to be good if you happen to change your mind.

All this leads me to believe that a religious metaphysics, one that roots values in ontology, is a more sturdy and robust ethical platform upon which to build a life, a society, and a world.

Three final observations.

First, I'm not critiquing the content humanistic metaphysics. On the issue of content, I think there's a huge, huge amount of common ground. For all practical purposes we're partners, not adversaries. We're on the same team, working toward the same goals.

The contrast I'm making isn't about the content, but the ground of metaphysics. And I think this issue is of some practical importance.

Is this good really true or is this good just the way I prefer to see the world at the moment? According to a religious metaphysics the good is good ontologically, so changing your mind cannot affect the good. You might go for a walk, but the good is saying put.

But with a humanistic metaphysics, changing your mind about the good is changing the good. For example, you change your ethical system--let's say you become a utilitarian--or you change your political views--let's say you switch from being Pro-Life to Pro-Choice, or visa versa. In each instance, you drop one set of ethical non-negotiables for a different set of ethical non-negotiables. This is, let's admit, really stretching the limits of what we mean by "non-negotiable."

Second, a person might object to this whole line of argument because they claim they don't need anything outside of themselves to seek and do the good. "I don't NEED to believe the good as being real. I simply love the world and don't need anything outside of my own desire to be a loving human being." The subtle comparison, accusation even, is that there's something lacking in you if you need something beyond your own goodness to motivate ethical behavior. It's a shaming tactic. In a debate this is a powerful strategy--"I don't need any of that stuff to be a good person. But you seem to. So what's wrong with you?"--as it places you on the moral high ground. And yet, outside of scoring a point in a Facebook debate, this appeal to our own innate saintliness doesn't have a lot to recommend it.

First, you're still stuck needing to explain why you chose this good over that good. And why you think people who violate these goods are wrong and need to stop.

Well, you might say, "I don't need to justify or defend it. I just do the good as I see it and don't worry about what others believe." But that's not the sort of thing we say about the goods we consider to be both non-negotiable and the highest, deepest values of our lives, the vital criteria by which we sort ethical horrors and heroism, the values by which we think the world will tip toward the darkness or toward the light. You're not picking the color of a new shirt or nail polish here. There's something in the good that we expect others to both recognize and submit to. But if the good is ultimately just a lifestyle choice, the entire world is perfectly at liberty to opt out. And you're suggesting that you'd be okay with that? That you'd just shrug and say "aw-shucks" as the world ignores and violates your most deeply held principles? My hunch is, rather, that you'd grow angry and speak your mind and demand that the world conform to the good, that people stop doing the wrong thing and start doing the right thing. But where, can I ask, are you going to get that moral leverage over the world if the good isn't both real and true?

Lastly, let's say, really truly, you don't need a good outside of yourself to do the right thing. Let's say you're a saint. You're never mean and don't hold grudges. You've never failed, not for a minute, to give fully and generously of your time, energy and treasure to those in need. You've never spent too much on Starbucks, golf, clothing, or haircuts with starving children in the world. Your house and garage aren't filled with superfluous cars, toys, and electronics. You are the perfect spouse. Never said a harsh word, committed adultery, or looked at porn. You don't have any addictions. You've never put work above your family. You have no problems with anger, envy, or jealousy. You've always given your children your full, devoted attention. Never shamed them, cut them down, or forced them to play a sport you happen to love. You've never let a friend or co-worker down. You've never hurt or betrayed anyone. Never broken a promise. You've taken care of your aging parents in an exemplary fashion. You've never cheated or cut corners. There's no one in the entire world who thinks you're a fake, liar, or jerk. The homeless can sleep in your house and eat at your table. You skip vacations to send money to the poor. And yesterday, you took your sick neighbor a cake.

You have always done the right thing, it's so natural. I can only say, I wish it were so easy for me.

For me, and for most of the rest of us human beings, we do need the good to exist independently of our preferences. We need a vision of the good that says, "I know you don't want to do this right now, but you can't opt out." We poor smucks need to stand under something that says Must, Should and Ought in a way that we can't avoid or talk ourselves out of. We need a good that makes us squirm, and even hurts. A good that interrupts, disturbs, and haunts us.

Take a long, hard, honest look in the mirror. And don't cheat, look at the dark stuff.

Maybe you don't need religion in your life.

But I do.

As I mention in Stranger God, St. Teresa of Calcutta was a practitioner of the Little Way, and took her name from Thérèse of Lisieux.

Next weekend is our bi-annual church retreat at the HEB Foundation camp down on the Frio River.

We love the retreat. The river is beautiful. You can't get cell service. And you're with friends all weekend. I spend most of my time reading a book by the water. It's just a lovely, restorative time.

Everyone has a job during the weekend, and for about ten years now the job of the Beck family has been to host the talent show on Saturday night.

We take our job seriously, and have left our stamp on the evening. When we inherited the show it mainly consisted of old camp gags, getting some unsuspecting person to come up to trick them into sitting on a wet sponge or get soaked with water. We nixed all that. The show is now geared toward talent and not making someone look silly.

Now, the word "talent" is broadly interpreted for our show. A small child might come up to tell a Knock-Knock joke or sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Middle-schoolers do comedy skits, some old camp standbys, but most are original works created by the kids. We get story tellers, dancers, and a lot of singing and instrument playing. It's just a fun, fun time.

But the biggest impact we've had on the talent show is the Scooter Pre-Show.

Smooth concrete paths link the camp, so children bring their scooters. All weekend they scoot around.

Well, a lot of these kids have a "talent" for riding the scooter. So every retreat kids come up to us wanting to ride their scooter as an act in the talent show.

Now, an important part of being the talent show host is protecting the audience. Jana and I try to keep the show to about 90 minutes. More than that it gets tiring. Your child is adorable, but not that adorable.

All that to say, we can't have ten scooter acts, each wanting to go round and round in a circle while we play an entire Taylor Swift song.

Still, we wanted to include these kids. So we invented the Scooter Pre-Show.

As the show gets ready to start, a line of kids on scooters begins to form just off stage left of the pavilion. About 15-20 kids get lined up each show. Then, to kick off the show, I crank up a rock song (my preferred song is "Sweet Child of Mine" by Guns & Roses). Once the music starts, each kid rides out, one at a time. Each child does two loops in front of the cheering crowd, and then exits stage right while another child enters from stage left. One song, 15-20 scooter acts, in and out, and everyone is happy. The child, Mom and Dad, and a grateful church family.

For many, the Scooter Pre-Show is their favorite part of the show. It's a blast, especially when really young kids come out. So cute. It's such a tradition that last retreat I joked that when Jana and I are dead and gone the most lasting impact we will have had on our church is the invention of the Scooter Pre-Show.

Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope.

Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith.

Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we must be saved by love.

No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.

― Reinhold Niebuhr

In Stranger God I have a chapter on the practice of "stopping," allowing yourself to be interruptible. Hospitality isn't just about making room in space, we also make room for each other in time.

This is very hard, given the pace of our lives. Consequently, I've come to think of patience as a practice of hospitality. When I talk to busy people about practices of hospitality I often start them off with patience.

"Work on being patient," I say, "Patience is hospitality when you're in a hurry."

One of the problems we have with the Greatest Commandments--loving God and loving your neighbor--is that many people seem to get fixated and stuck upon loving God and never getting around to loving their neighbor.

I'd like to explain why I think this happens by making a connection with Catholic sacramental theology. This is a point I've made before in relation to enchantment, but I'd like to show how it connects to ethical action as well.

Specifically, as physical creatures we can't relate to the spiritual world directly. We have to approach spirit through matter. You can't love spirit directly. You have to love spirit through matter.

Given, then, that God is a spirit, we can't love God directly. Oh, we can try, but we'll find that our "love" struggles to find traction and purchase in this unseen "spiritual" space. Trying to love God directly Gnosticizes our love, shifts love away from tangible, physical expressions toward something vague and abstract. A "spiritual" love that doesn't have a material object or outlet tends to reduce to mere sentiment.

I think that is what Jesus was getting at with the Greatest Commandments, that these aren't two different loves, but that we are to love God through loving our neighbors.

I know it sounds radical to say that you can't love God directly. But 1 John 4.20 makes the point well:

"If someone says, 'I love God,' but hates a Christian brother or sister, that person is a liar; for if we don't love people we can see, how can we love God, whom we cannot see?"

I know of no better translation of the statement "God exists" than the phrase "love makes sense." The place for verifying those statements is not the classroom of the old metaphysics...but life itself; a positive answer to that dual question cannot be proved, only demonstrated. It can only be indicated and corroborated through our own lives.

--Tomáš Halík, from I Want You to Be

Out at the prison on Monday night I was leading, as I do every week, our hymn sing, where we open up hymnals and the inmates call out the numbers to hymns they want to sing.

This week we found ourselves in "the Blood Medley."

Do you know the Blood Medley?

In many old hymnals some songs are arranged thematically. For example, songs about heaven or faith might be grouped together to create a "medley," songs to be sung in succession around a common theme.

Well, in many of these hymnals there is a group of songs called "the Blood Medley." What ties the Blood Medley songs together is their reflection upon the saving power of Jesus' blood shed on the cross. Songs that are often found in the Blood Medley are "Victory in Jesus," "Are You Washed in the Blood?," "Nothing But the Blood" and "Power in the Blood."

If you've never heard these songs, the Christian group Anthem Lights has a video on YouTube with them singing a mashup of the Blood Medley.

Now, I know these blood-themed hymns are currently out of favor. They are theologically "problematic" for many. But oh my goodness, how these songs move the inmates in prison. They live in a world of blood. And these songs speak to them.

And they speak to me as well.

Problematic and out of fashion they may be, but I love the Blood Medley.

"Passing through the valley of Weeping, they make it a place of springs."

--Psalm 84.6

You can read the Psalms for years and still you're interrupted by their poetry.

This image from Psalm 84 captured my imagination today. It's an image of God's faithful passing through "the valley of Weeping" (literally, the "Valley of Baca," from the Hebrew word for tears).

As they pass through the Valley of Weeping God's children transform it into a place of springs, a place of rest and refreshment. What interrupted me about the line was the word "they." You'd expect something like "the Lord" at that moment in the poem. As in: "Passing through the valley of Weeping, the Lord makes it a place of springs."

But it's not the Lord who transforms the valley of Weeping into a place of springs. It's God's faithful children who bring the refreshment and renewal.

So that became my prayer today, and may it be as well for you.

As you walk through the valleys of Weeping today, may you make them a place of springs. 

"For judgment will be merciless to one who has shown no mercy."

--James 2.13

I have to admit, I'm a bit of a fundamentalist and legalist when it comes to texts like these.

The eschatological imagination here in James is identical to that of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount. Yes, I'm saved by faith and grace, but when it comes to following Jesus in my daily life passages like James 2.13 are the ones I use to guide my steps.

I know there are both theological and personal problems here. Theologically, I know a strict, flat reading of texts like James 2.13 creates soteriological issues. And personally, I know a lot of us worry about carrying guilt and shame in relation to God's judgment.

But speaking only for myself, I don't mind carrying guilt when it is tied to the right things, like showing mercy. And while I can't tell you how God being merciless to my lack of mercy works out theologically, from a daily, pragmatic point of view it's a very clarifying perspective upon how to live and make choices today. Theology can be a distraction. When I'm faced with the choice of extending mercy, sometimes you just need James 2.13 to give you a very clear word:

Judgment will be merciless to one who has shown no mercy.

Theology aside, that sentence helps you make better choices.

"There is no neutral ground in the universe; every square inch, every split second, is claimed by God and counterclaimed by Satan."

--C.S. Lewis

One of the reasons I wrote Reviving Old Scratch was because it's my conviction that if progressive Christians don't get what C.S. Lewis is saying here, they will never understand Jesus, the Kingdom of God, or the New Testament.

In the quiet you come close
to me,
and I shiver, trembling
like a frail bird broken
and afraid.
The raw wounded
nerve of the world
wary and apprehensive of touch,
even the tenderest,
that also
is pain.
For there is so much wrong within me,
tangled and in sharp pieces,
and so much
I cannot see
that cuts me in dark places.
It is all weakness, fever,
and hurt.
And I am unable
to untie the knots.
Please save
my tearful
bleeding heart.

As I've written about in an earlier journal entry, I've been teaching a new class at ACU entitled "Psychology and Christianity."

This is the third time I've taught the class, and increasingly I find myself being an evangelist to Millennials.

(Are college students today still Millennials? I think they are a new, yet to be named generation.)

Obviously, I talk a lot about Christianity in the class, but so many of my students are doubting, disillusioned, or skeptical about the faith. Even at my Christian school. So I spend a lot of time trying to evangelize my students by talking about Christianity in a way that is both honest and surprising. That mixture, I think, is important. College students are very good at detecting BS, so you have to be brutally honest. That's easy for me to do. The harder part is surprising them.

My method is basically to evoke a spiritual ache within them. I try to do this by interrupting them with something so beautiful that a desire stirs within them, an ache for God. I then try to fan that ache into faith.

It is a maxim in the Christian tradition of hospitality that we are to "welcome Christ in the stranger." It's a notion neatly captured in a saying derived from The Rule of St. Benedict:

Hospes venit, Christus venit.

When a stranger comes, Christ comes.

In my own lectures, sermons and classes on hospitality I've routinely talked about this idea, how we see Christ in others, and how in our welcome of others we welcome Christ.

But from time to time, people have pushed back upon this formulation. When we see Christ in others are we not, in some sense, failing to see the other person directly and for who they are? Isn't this, to state the matter starkly, a subtle form of dehumanization? Or, at the very least, mishumanization (i.e., missing their particular humanity)?

In short, don't we ultimately want to be welcomed and embraced for who we are, and not as a cipher or stand-in for Christ?

To be sure, there are responses here. The "Christ in you" is your truest, most personal self and it is of inestimable and inviolable worth. Still, I think the pushback about seeing Christ in others is valuable, as it's very easy for people engaged in hospitality to miss the particular human being standing right in front of them in their pursuit of "serving Christ."

In light of that observation, I was struck anew by the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats in Matthew 25. Matthew 25 is the go-to parable for Christ coming to us in strangers. My book Stranger God is an extended meditation on Matthew 25, "meeting Jesus in disguise."

What's interesting in the parable is how the sheep react to Jesus' praise. Here's what Jesus says to them: "Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me."

And upon hearing this, the righteous reply: "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?"

Did you catch that? The righteous were not feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirty, giving shelter to the stranger, clothing the naked, and visiting the sick and prisoner because they were Christ. The righteous are surprised to hear that these people were Christ.

In short, the vision in Matthew 25 is one where people are welcomed for themselves and not as a proxy for receiving Christ. That revelation comes later, as a shock. And one wonders if the ordering in the parable is what makes all the difference.

Only when we welcome someone in their particular humanity are we, in that moment, truly welcoming Christ. 

I've never been a huge fan of William Young's book The Shack. There are moves in The Shack that I really like--the strong Trinitarianism, God as mother--but theodicy is just really, really hard to pull of, particularly for a tragedy like the one at the heart of The Shack.

But the men in my prison Bible study have loved The Shack, so they were really wanting us to bring them the movie to watch. So we did.

My reaction to the movie was similar to my reaction to the book. Loved God portrayed as a mother and the Trinitarian emphasis, but theodicy is just so hard to pull off.

But more and more, as I spend more time living on the margins and less in my head, reading the Bible with the damned to use Bob Ekblad's phrase, I've come to see how much of theology boils down to social location. I might not get The Shack, but these incarcerated men sure do. Many where in tears at the end. So I check my critiques. The critiques may be valid and important, and there's a time to bring them up, but I don't center or privilege them. I don't allow my academically sophisticated theology to win every argument or be The Answer to every question. Sometimes it's best for theologians to shut up and listen.

In our discussions after the movie, Nate said something that has stuck with me.

"God is always leading us to our own shacks, to that place in our hearts where we don't want to go. This place [the prison] has been my shack, the place where God brought me so I could finally be broken and open my heart up to him."

The dragon sits by the side of the road watching those who pass. Beware lest he devour you! We go to the Father of Souls, but it is necessary to pass by the dragon.

--attributed to St. Cyril of Jerusalem, as instruction to catechumens

This week out at the prison Bible study we were studying the healing of Jairus' daughter in Mark 5.

Casey was discussing the story, sharing his observations, and while he was sharing he said this:

"Jesus has this affect on dead people."

Casey was connecting the raising of Jairus' daughter with the healing of the woman with the issue of blood (which occurs in the midst of the story).

Both women are dead, one physically, the other socially and ritually. Jesus comes into contact with both, bringing both to life.

Casey's observation startled me. Its simplicity and its truth. So, so many of us have been brought to life.

Jesus has this affect on dead people.

Last Saturday Jana asked if she could show me a new (well, new to us) wine bar in town. So we went out for a date.

After finding a lovely table outside by the water under some fairy lights, I excused myself to go to the restroom. Upon my return, Jana had set up on the table a little gift for me.

It was the feast day of St. Michael the Archangel and Jana had printed out a picture and a prayer to St. Michael, and then glued it to some card stock to make a prayer card. She had also brought a candle to set up a little shrine on the table. It's pictured here.

Now, that's a wife who knows her husband! I'm a sucker for anything liturgical or related to St. Michael.

It was, I must say, a very angelic date.

And I'm not even talking about St. Michael.

As I pondered yesterday's post about the two Christian assertions about evil a third one came to mind.

To recap, the first Christian assertion about evil is that evil is not ontological, an eternal and permanent fixture of existence that we must become stoically resigned to living with.

According to Christianity, evil can be defeated.

The second assertion is that God is working to defeat evil, and we are called to that work.

A third assertion Christianity makes about evil is this: Humans are not the source of evil.

In Genesis, the snake is already in the Garden of Eden. Humans succumb to evil. That is, while the origins of evil are not described in the Bible the catastrophe predates human beings. Yes, humans frequently are a source of evil in our world, but they are not The Source.

I think this third assertion about evil is a helpful balance given the first. Evil is not an eternal, ontological aspect of existence. This prompts ethical resistance of evil over stoical resignation. But that ethical resistance must also recognize the third assertion, that humans are not the ultimate source of evil. This assertion is important for two related reasons.

First, the third assertion humbles the utopian aspirations of the Revolution. If evil were solely a human problem we'd be tempted to think that humans were perfectible. That's the utopian fantasy of the Revolution, the moral perfection of human society. But if evil exists outside of the human sphere then no matter how good we become the snake is always there to tempt us back into the darkness. Even the best of us and the very best of our political projects--I'm looking at you America--can fall back into darkness.  

Second, recognizing that humans aren't the source of evil helps us fight the temptation of believing that our fight against evil is a fight "against flesh and blood," against other human beings. If humans are the source of evil then fighting evil would mean fighting, ultimately and only, against other human beings. Resistance to evil becomes sorting the world into Angels and Demons and then eradicating the humans deemed demonic. This is the temptation that tips the Revolution toward blood.

(By the way, this is the temptation I name in Reviving Old Scratch when progressive, liberal Christians demythologize "spiritual warfare" to mean "social justice.")

So, this a third Christian assertion about evil. One that I think, like the other two, is pretty good.

Humans succumb, submit and obey evil, thereby bringing horrors into the world, but humans are not the source and origin of evil.

It seems to me that the Christian position on evil and suffering boils down to two assertions.

The first assertion: Evil is not ontology, evil is catastrophe.

That is, evil is not pre-existent and eternal. Evil is not the counterweight of a cosmic balance between Light and Darkness. Evil is not intrinsic to the cosmos, and therefore eternally inescapable. Evil is accidental, and therefore eschatologically eradicable.

Evil is a loss, a fall, a tragedy. Evil is wreckage, the devastation of a primordial goodness. Suffering is a blight, to be met not with resignation but with tears.

The second assertion: God is acting to rescue the cosmos from evil and suffering. God acts to restore, mend, heal, renew, liberate, rescue, and save.

As best as I can tell, this is all the Bible has to say about evil and suffering. How it all hangs together, we all know, creates snarly theological and metaphysical questions.

But the two assertions, taken by themselves, I think are pretty good.

Enemies
by Wendell Berry

If you are not to become a monster,
you must care what they think.
If you care what they think,

how will you not hate them,
and so become a monster
of the opposite kind? From where then

is love to come—love for your enemy
that is the way of liberty?
From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go

free of you, and you of them;
they are to you as sunlight
on a green branch. You must not

think of them again, except
as monsters like yourself,
pitiable because unforgiving.

On Sunday I was invited to preach here in town at the Hillcrest Church of Christ on the topic "Grace at Home."

After services I stayed for a combined adult class to have a conversation with the church about that topic. What does grace look like in the home? Within a marriage? Within the relationship between parents and children?

The big point I wanted to share was that grace, for me, isn't just about the Big Forgiveness, the heroic act of extending forgiveness to each other when we screw up and let each other down. Grace is that, but when we reduce grace to the Big Forgiveness we miss how the Big Forgiveness doesn't just drop out of the sky. The Big Forgiveness is a capacity we cultivate through extending the daily, small graces every moment of every day in the home.

So grace at home, for me, looks a lot like the Fruit of the Spirit.

For example, how do you make your home more gentle? How can you become a more gentle spouse, a more gentle parent?

And from there, how about more kind? A kinder spouse, a kinder parent?

More patient?

More joyful?

More peaceful?

More faithful?

More loving?

Before it can become the Big Forgiveness, grace at home begins with these smaller, daily graces that teach us how to love.