I'm going to try something on this blog. It's inspired by Brad's Sunday Sabbath poetry where he posts poetry on Sundays.

What I'm going to do is post a quote each week, with some commentary, from Henry David Thoreau's Walden. I'd been wanting to do this for some time but was waiting to visit Walden Pond before starting. But one programming note: While I'll try to post from Walden each week I'm not going to hold myself to having it occur on a particular day. I don't know if I'm disciplined enough for that.

Why spend this much time with Walden? Well, outside of the Bible, Walden is one of the most influential texts in my life (along with Thoreau's essay "Life Without Principle"). And by influential I mean not just intellectually. Thoreau has shaped how I approach my life, practically speaking. I'd like to share how that looks.

More, although Thoreau was skeptical of the Christianity he saw around him in Concord I've found a lot of his insights to be complementary with and supportive of my Christian walk. So, given the purposes of this blog I'll be filtering Walden through my Christian commitments.

If you've not read Walden, or did so a long time ago, some background as we begin with this inaugural post.

Thoreau began his "experiment," as he called it, on July 4, 1845. He lived on Walden Pond, squatting on acreage acquired by his friend and mentor Ralph Waldo Emerson, for two years, two months, and two days.

While living on Walden Pond Thoreau wrote about half of what would become Walden. (He mainly spent his time at Walden Pond writing A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers.) After Thoreau left the pond the original 117 pages written at the pond expanded, over various drafts, and was eventually published in 1854, nine years after Thoreau had left Walden Pond.

As most know, a part of what Thoreau did at Walden Pond was to build his own house and grow his own food (or sell for food). A part of his "experiment" was to live simply and independently. (Though some critics like to point out that Thoreau often dined with the Emerson's or had his sister or mother do his laundry from time to time. Still, a good part of his two years on Walden Pond was pretty frugal, simple and solitary.) Most of the details of this part of the experience is recounted, at times down to the penny, in the first, and longest, chapter of Walden entitled "Economy." You can see a replica of Thoreau's cabin next to the parking lot at the state park. The picture above of the replica was taken by Jana during our recent family visit. (The other pictures used for this post were also taken by Jana.)

Why did Thoreau go to Walden Pond? What was he looking for? What was his experiment all about?

One answer, Thoreau's own, comes from chapter two "Where I Lived and What I Lived For":

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and to see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

You could say these words changed my life. I don't think that is too much hyperbole.

The key notion here, one that still guides me, is captured in the word deliberately. That's what I admire so much about Walden. I'm less interested in Thoreau's answers in Walden than in the stated goal of the enterprise: deliberation. Thinking hard about life, about what is most dear, eternal, truthful, virtuous, or beautiful. Few of us slow down to ponder such questions. Consequently, we find at the moment of death that we had not lived. So I like to ask, over and over, as Thoreau asked later in chapter two, "Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life?"

This makes me think of the familiar passage:

Philippians 4.8
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

When I was young I hated this passage. It was used against us to preach against illicit and dirty thoughts. Not that this passage doesn't speak to those issues. But in light of Walden I prefer to think of this text as speaking about living deliberately. What is pure? (A question I ponder a great deal in my book Unclean.) What is true beauty? What should I admire? What should I applaud? What should I compliment? During his time at Walden Pond Thoreau wondered about this sort of stuff. And I think I should follow his example.


I also think of this passage from the gospels:

Luke 14.27b-28a
[W]hoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple. Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. Won’t you first sit down and estimate the cost to see if you have enough money to complete it?

Counting the cost. Being a disciple of Jesus means being, like Thoreau, deliberate. We need to think hard about following Jesus. Too many Christians, I fear, are simply mindless about their faith and what it entails. Do we really comprehend what our baptism signifies?

And so we've begun. Each week a thought from Walden Pond. With a bit of Christian theology thrown in.

May you live deliberately this coming week.

Yesterday I read this quote from Omar Khayyám:

So I be written in the Book of Love,
I do not care about that Book above.
Erase my name or write it as you will,
So I be written in the Book of Love.

One of my frustrations with Christian culture is its self-absorbed focus on getting to heaven.

I suspect that quite a few Christians think I'm going to hell. Consider a Reformed believer. I don't believe in the doctrine of election. More, I think the doctrine is morally odious, a heresy, an offense against the honor of God. So, given my feelings about the doctrine of election, I figure it's highly unlikely that I'm one of the elect. And if I'm not one of the elect then I'm going to hell.

But maybe not, maybe God has elected me and I just don't know it. But even if I was one of the elect I'd return my ticket. I'd give up my seat on the lifeboat to save some other soul. Why? Because that is what Jesus would do. If the doctrine of election is true please assign me with the damned. As Jesus was. I'm not interested in being saved over the screams of my neighbors.

But I don't want to pick overmuch on the Reformed. Because I suspect they aren't the only Christians who think I'm going to hell. The list of offenses here could get very long. The number of ways you can be damned in contemporary Christianity is pretty large. There's lots of ways of going to hell. Believe wrong. Worship wrong. Vote wrong. Live wrong. Fellowship wrong.

Still, I'm just not that interested.

That is why I was drawn to the Khayyám quote. For my own part, I don't care about the Book above. Erase my name or write it as you will. I'm just not that interested.

But I am interested in love. This is what draws me to the Christian faith. The vision of love I find in the life of Jesus of Nazareth.

Yesterday I talked about how suffering erodes my faith. In moments like those I ask myself, "What do I believe? Do I have any faith?" Truthfully, I'm not sure. But in one sense it doesn't matter. Faith has allowed me to move on to love. That is what remains.

This is the notion that Tomas Halik makes in his book Patience with God in his chapter discussing the life of St. Therese of Lisieux. At the end of her life Therese undergoes a dark night of the soul. And some have argued that she died without faith. But what Therese finds on the other side of faith is love. Love for God and love for humanity. Love comes to replace faith. Faith is the time of our infancy, our immaturity. Faith is meant to pass away, making way for the maturity and perfection of love. The goal is less about the Pearly Gates than having one's name written in the book of love.

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.

But the greatest of these is love.

Today I'm very sad. From news about a little boy.

On good days my faith hangs by a thread. Today is not a good day.

Today I'm reminded of this exchange between Ivan and Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov:

"Listen: if everyone must suffer, in order to buy eternal harmony with their suffering, pray tell me what have children got to do with it?...Tell me yourself, I challenge you answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature that little child beating its breast with its fist, for instance—and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the truth."

"No, I would not consent," said Alyosha softly.

Two weeks ago Jana and I were at my favorite place in the world, the Chautauqua Institution in Chautauqua, NY. Chautauqua is sort of a Disneyland for intellectuals. The day Jana and I were there Michael Sandel was lecturing.

We were sitting in the Hall of Philosophy (like I said, Disneyland for intellectuals) waiting for Sandel to start. Historically, Chautauqua is rooted in the Christian tradition but it is very ecumenical. People from a wide range of faiths are there. This is relevant because while we were waiting an older lady came and sat next to me, looked over and then asked what I was reading.

"Ancestral Sin by John Romanides," I say. "It's a Greek Orthodox view on what Western Christians call Original Sin which the Orthodox don't believe in."

"Well, I'm Jewish," she says with a laugh, "I guess don't believe in either one."

"I guess not," I say, "Just think of it as a bunch of Christians trying to make sense of the first couple of chapters of the Torah."

She nods then says, "You know who really screwed up the relationship between Christianity and Judaism?"

"Who?" I ask.

She leans in and whispers, "It was that bastard St. Paul."

I laugh and nod in understanding. We then had a wonderful conversation about the relationship between the life and teachings of Jesus with the theology of Paul.

I've been reading a very good biography, John A. Farrell's Clarence Darrow: Attorney for the Damned. Most of what I knew about Darrow was from his involvement with the Scopes Monkey Trial. But Farrell's biography has been a revelation about this iconic and iconoclastic lawyer. More, I hadn't expected Darrow's story to be so theologically provocative.

For example, Darrow was a determinist. A fatalist even. He felt that we were all just feathers blown in the wind. As Darrow once said, "We are all poor, blind creatures bound hand and foot by the invisible chains of heredity and environment, doing pretty much what we have to do in a barbarous and cruel world. That's about all there is to any court case." This perspective helped to support Darrow's work as a defense lawyer, speaking up for all sorts of shady characters, work that earned him the moniker "attorney for the damned." Farrell summarizes both Darrow's worldview and method:

It was not unusual, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, for lawyers to take many hours--spread over two or three days--to give a closing argument in a significant case. Darrow did so without notes, in marvelous displays of intellect and concentration. Taking his time, Darrow worked like a weaver, ranging back and fourth across the crime, laying down threads, reviving assertions in different form, showing the facts from different angles. To a modern ear, his rhetoric seems to sprawl. But when he was done he had reshaped the case. "He will travel far beyond the immediate issue of guilt or innocence," said Hays [Darrow's co-counsel in several celebrated cases]. "The whole background of the case takes on a difference coloring."

It was more than a tactic. It was his creed. Darrow was a determinist. He did not believe in free will, nor good and evil, nor choice. There were no moral absolutes, no truth, and no justice. There was only mercy.

Over at Two Friars and a Fool Dr. Kirk's response to my previous essay about the best ending of the Christian story is now up.

It's been a great two weeks of conversation. Thanks to TF&F and to Dr. Kirk. And thanks to those of you who weighed with your own thoughts and observations. A final recap:

The Lead Essays: What is the Best Ending to the Christian Story?

Richard Beck: Universal Reconciliation and the Christological Hymns
J.R. Daniel Kirk: A Non-Universal Story

Responses to the Lead Essays:

Beck responding to Kirk: Radical Continuity
Kirk responding to Beck: Beautiful Endings

This last spring at ACU we hosted a scholar who made a series of presentations about same sex attraction, with a particular focus on how a Christian university like ours should address the issue in the lives of our students.

After one of the presentations one of my colleagues asked me what I thought of the talks. I responded, "Pawn to King 4."

You might not know anything about chess, but "Pawn to King 4" is the most common opening move for White who starts off the game.

The point of my metaphor was that once the game opens with Pawn to King 4 the game is set upon a certain trajectory. A different trajectory than if White had made a different opening, say, Pawn to Queen 4 (1. d4 rather than 1. e4). King pawn openings are different from Queen pawn openings, and there are numerous other choices as well (for example, I like the English opening, 1. c4).

The point I was making about the presenter was that, once he deployed his opening assumptions about the bible and sexuality the rest of the talk, while very good, was fairly predictable. Once I saw his King Pawn opening I knew where we were going.

I think a lot of theology is like this. Pawn to King 4. You start with a certain set of premises and then work from there. But a different theologian might open with a different set of assumptions. Consequently, her game goes in a different direction.

In a related way, sometimes I think theology is kind of like geometry. For example, if you assume Euclid's fifth postulate, the parallel postulate where two parallel lines are assumed to never touch, you get Euclidean geometry, the math of flat space. But if you reject the parallel postulate and assume that parallel lines can touch, you get Non-Euclidean geometry, the geometry of curved space (the math, incidentally, that Einstein used to solve the equations of the warped spacetime of General Relativity).

The point is, sometimes I think of theology like Euclidean and Non-Euclidean geometry. Some theologians assume the parallel postulate, like some play Pawn to King 4. Other theologians reject the parallel postulate and play Pawn to Queen 4. Two different geometries. Two different chess games. Two different theological positions.

Do these observations have any practical relevance to non-theologians? I think so.

If you haven't noticed, people disagree a lot about religion. And sometimes those disagreements get nasty. Recently, however, in my discussions with Dr. Kirk about universalism, many have commended us on the civil and curious tone of the conversation. Why has this been the case?

I think it has to do with the fact that we're aware that we are playing different opening moves. Dr. Kirk is playing 1. e4 and I'm playing 1. Nf3. Neither is right or wrong per se. One is more traditional and orthodox. The other is less common and heterodox. Each has strengths. Each has weaknesses. But after the moves have been played we can sit back and enjoy the artistry of how the game unfolds from those starting points. For each chess opening has its own interior logic. And lots of hidden surprises.

In short, it's fun to watch how people play the game. And you learn a lot from watching.

I'm not suggesting that Dr. Kirk and I are theological grandmasters. (Well, he is, he's a professor of New Testament. I'm a theological hobbyist.) What I'm trying to say that theological dialogue becomes possible if we can sit back and enjoy watching the game unfold. To appreciate the internal logic of a system that is different from our own. True, you'd never open your chess game in this manner. But you can study and appreciate the way this alternative opening moves the game into configurations you've never seen, wrestled with, or considered before. More, it allows you to get out of a "right vs. wrong" frame where you can start having interesting conversations like "Now why did you make this move? Oh, I see. That's interesting, I never would have thought about that. Still, what about his line of attack, shouldn't you be looking at that as well?" And so on.

For example, I don't agree with Reformed theology. I don't like its opening moves. It's too Euclidean for my Non-Euclidean tastes. But I get the internal logic of Reformed theology. I understand its assumptions and how those assumptions work together to explain Scripture and the Christian experience. Reformed theology has a beautiful structure with great appeal to many. It's a Pawn to King 4 theological system that I can appreciate. I just don't open the game in the same way.

I guess the natural response of some will be to suggest that there is a "right" way to open a chess game. Obviously, given my metaphor, I'd disagree. The game has too much history, too many players, too many epic contests, and too much left to be discovered to believe that there is one and only one correct opening. Theologically speaking, if we always had to play Pawn to King 4 how could Fisher have surprized Spassky in Game Six with 1. c4?

Last week we were in Boston visiting some friends and the sites. The first thing we did was drive straight to Walden Pond. Visiting Walden Pond has always been a dream of mine.

We pulled up around 6:30 pm so the park offices were closed. The trail maps were also gone. But we consulted a map on a board to locate the site of Thoreau's cabin. Then we set off into the woods.

Trouble was, the trails weren't marked very well and we got to a fork in the path not knowing which way to go. Blast those trail maps being gone!

Pausing, I pulled out my iPhone and Googled "walden pond park trail map." And up popped the park site with the downloadable PDF of the map. I downloaded it and we found our way to the cabin.

While I consulted the map with the boys I quipped to Jana, "How ironic that I'm going to Thoreau's cabin following a map I downloaded on my iPhone." Laughing, Jana snapped a picture to commemorate the moment.

My response to Daniel Kirk's essay (published last week) is now up at Two Friars and a Fool.

The title of the essay--"Radical Continuity"--picks up on my attempt to address Dr. Kirk's worry, expressed in his essay, that universalism doesn't allow for our deeds on earth to "echo in eternity." In my response I also address Dr. Kirk's worries about how people like Rob Bell lean too heavily on free will.

I saw this the other day and thought I'd share it:

May God bless you with a restless discomfort about easy answers, half-truths and superficial relationships, so that you may seek truth boldly and love deep within your heart.

May God bless you with holy anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that you may tirelessly work for justice, freedom, and peace among all people.

May God bless you with the gift of tears to shed with those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation, or the loss of all that they cherish, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and transform their pain into joy.

May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you really can make a difference in this world, so that you are able, with God's grace, to do what others claim cannot be done.

Daniel Kirk's essay is now up over at Two Friars and a Fool.

Again, on Tuesday I gave a universalist take on "the best ending" to the Christian story.

Dr. Kirk's essay on the same topic is entitled "A Non-Universalist Story."

Next week our responses to each other's essays will appear.

In honor of the fact that the final installment of the Harry Potter movies opens at midnight tonight I'd like to try to answer a theological question:

Which Hogwarts house would Jesus be in?

Slytherin? Gryffindor? Hufflepuff? Ravenclaw?

As all the cool people know (Muggles and conservative evangelicals will have to catch up), the Hogwarts students are sorted into their houses by the Sorting Hat based upon the personality match between the student and the House.

Gryffindor values courage and bravery. Slytherin values ambition, cunning, and pure blood status. Ravenclaw values intelligence and learning. And Hufflepuff values...

Well, what does Hufflepuff value?

According to the song the Sorting Hat sings in The Order of the Phoenix (H/T to Andrea for helping me find this), the first three founders of Hogwarts were looking for very particular students. Here's the relevant part of the song:

Sorting Hat Song--Order of the Phoenix

In times of old when I was new
And Hogwarts barely started
The Founders of our noble school
Thought never to be parted:
united by a common goal,
They had the selfsame yearning
To make the world's best magic school
And pass along their learning.
"Together we will build and teach!"
The Four good friends decided
And never did they dream that they
Might someday be divided,
For were there such friends anywhere
As Slytherin and Gryffindor?
Unless it was the second pair
Of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?
So how could it have gone so wrong?
How could such friendships fail?
Why, I was there and so can tell
The whole sad, sorry tale.
Said Slytherin, "We'll teach just those
Whose ancestry is purest."
Said Ravenclaw, "We'll teach those whose
Intelligence is surest."
Said Gryffindor, "We'll teach all those
With brave deeds to their name"

As observed, Slytherin, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw pick very particular students. So who does Helga Hufflepuff pick? The song continues:

Said Hufflepuff, "I'll teach the lot,
And treat them just the same."

Hufflepuff takes the leftovers. The kids who don't fit into the other houses. This impression is strengthened as the song continues:

These differences caused little strife
When first they came to light,
For each of the four founders had
A House in which they might
Take only those they wanted, so,
For instance, Slytherin
Took only pure-blood wizards
Of great cunning, just like him,
And only those of sharpest mind
Were taught by Ravenclaw
While the bravest and the boldest
Went to daring Gryffindor,
Good Hufflepuff, she took the rest,
And taught them all she knew...

That's that theological point I'd like to hit on: "She took the rest." Hufflepuff took the misfits, castoffs and rejects. This isn't to say that Jesus lacked courage, intelligence, or cunning ("Be as shrewd as serpents!"). Just that, theologically speaking, I think Jesus' life and ministry identifies him more as a Hufflepuff, the willingness to hang out with and embrace the misfits, rejects, and castoffs.

So that's what I think: Jesus would be in Hufflepuff House.

So be sure to wear your black and yellow house colors tonight!

I accepted an invitation from Two Friars and a Fool to engage in a dialogue with Dr. Daniel Kirk, Professor of New Testament at Fuller Theological Seminary. Daniel also hosts an excellent blog--Storied Theology.

Two Friars and a Fool asked Daniel and I to engage in a bit of narrative theology. Specifically, we were tasked with answering the question "What is the best ending to the Christian story?" The prompt is trying to address a lot of the conversation surrounding the publication of Rob Bell's Love Wins. In this discussion I'm articulating an universalist reading of the "best ending" and Daniel is articulating a more traditional (non-universalist) ending.

The discussion will unfold over the coming days. To start, both Daniel and I have written a short essay articulating our visions of the "best ending." My essay starts us off and is up now at Two Friars and a Fool. Daniel's essay will follow. We then have responses to each other's essays. The schedule for the dialogue:

Tuesday, July 12: Beck Essay "Universal Reconciliation & the Christological Hymns"
Friday, July 15: Kirk Essay "A Non-Universal Story"
Tuesday, July 19: Kirk Response "Beautiful Endings"
Friday, July 22: Beck Response "Radical Continuity"

At the end of each essay and response Two Friars and a Fool will be posting their video reactions, adding their own insights and perspectives. With all five of us in play it should be a really interesting conversation. I'm mainly going to be following the conversation at Two Friars and a Fool. So if you post a comment/response here, please post it over there as well.

Finally, on a personal note, this whole experience scared the crap out of me. I kept asking myself, "Richard, how did you end up in a dialogue about eschatology with a professor in New Testament? Doesn't seem like a good idea..."

But I shouldn't have worried. Daniel was/is a gracious and insightful conversation partner. So my thanks to him and to Two Friars and Fool for hosting the conversation and inviting me to participate.

I'd just finished reading the entire Sermon on the Mount--the Gospel according to St. Matthew, chapters five through seven. After finishing, one the inmates raises his hand.

"Is this attainable?" he asks.

The question gave me pause because just the day before we had been talking about the Sermon on the Mount in our Sunday School class. The argument the teacher made in our class was that the Sermon was unattainable. He made the argument Martin Luther popularized, that the Sermon is intended to humble us, to show us how salvation by works is impossible.

So, is the Sermon on the Mount attainable?

I guess it all depends upon what we mean by "attainable." When I look at various parts of the sermon, even the hardest parts like turning the other cheek and loving our enemies, I am pretty certain people have attained these standards. Christian history is full of biographies of saints who have loved enemies and turned the other cheek.

The point being, in any given moment of any given day I think the Sermon on the Mount is attainable.

Given that assessment, the question might move on to issues of sustainability and maintenance. Is it possible to sustain, decade after decade, a faultless adherence to the Sermon on the Mount?

I think the Sermon on the Mount contains the answer to that question in the Lord's Prayer: "Forgive us our sins."

So we are walking a fine line here. On the one hand, you don't want to say that the Sermon is unattainable because clearly it is attainable. We really should try to attain to the ideals set out in the Sermon. And, with the help of God, we actually can attain these things.

But on the other hand, the Sermon is so imposing we know we are surely going to fail. A lot.

So how are we to thread the needle?

Well, this might be the worst metaphor you'll ever hear, but I'd like to compare the Sermon on the Mount to golf.

I don't golf a lot. But when I'm visiting my family I golf with my Dad. He's very good. I'm...less good.

If you don't know anything about golf all you need to know for our purposes is this: Golf is hard. It's a frustrating and infuriating game. Hence Mark Twain's quip: "Golf is a good walk spoiled." If you've ever played golf you know exactly what Twain was talking about.

There were times, particularly in my early years with the game, where I felt that golf was a form of Calvinistic self-loathing or Catholic self-mortification. That you could either whip yourself for your sins or go golfing. The two seemed equivalent, spiritually speaking. And there have been times on the golf course when I would have preferred whipping myself rather than looking for another lost ball because I keep slicing my drives into the woods.

The point here is that golf is attainable on any given shot but, due to its difficulty, not sustainable. Even the pros make double bogeys. Rory McIlroy, the young man who just won the US Open, had been leading the Masters just a few weeks before going into the final round. He shot an 80. Watching Rory on the 10th hole I thought, "Hey, that's where I end up on golf courses! In someone's backyard."

The point is, golf is so hard even the pros melt down. But look what happened to Rory. After his meltdown at the Masters he set the scoring record at the US Open.

In this, I think golf is kind of like the Sermon on the Mount. Attainable on any given shot, any given hole, any given round. But too hard to be sustainable. There will be bogeys and double bogeys. (Or, if you're me, a whole lot worse.)

And given this degree of difficulty and likelihood of failure you often see golfers come unglued on the course. I've seen golfers curse, throw clubs, break clubs, throw clubs into ponds. Or just give up and drive off the course. Some, out of frustration, give up the game.

Similar things, I think, can happen with the Sermon on the Mount. It's so hard we can become demoralized and self-loathing. And this can lead to quitting and giving up.

I've wrestled with these sorts of reactions in my golf game and in my Christian walk. In my early years with golf I got angry a lot. But as I've matured I've learned to keep my cool, even when I get an eight on a par three (this happened last week). I've learned to focus on the process rather than the outcome. And because of this I've improved a lot over the years.

In short, despite its difficulty and my repeated failures I've found joy in the game of golf. I'm happy on a golf course. Even when my score is bad.

I'm looking for something similar in my relationship with the Sermon on the Mount. If I approach the Sermon with a grim Puritan rigor I don't think I'm going to be very pleasant to be around. I'll wind up wrapping a Beatitude, like a seven iron, around a pine tree. But if I can find joy in the climb then I think I can make progress over time. The key to becoming a skilled Christian is to practice the faith with joy. Even in failure. The alternative is guilt, shame, and anger. Which leads to giving up on the game. The journey of faith becomes a good walk spoiled.

So pick up your clubs. Take up the Beatitudes. And be prepared to succeed. You can actually, on any given hole, in any given interaction, attain the state of perfection. Be that par or Christlikeness. The Sermon or a drive in the fairway really is attainable. Mere mortals can pull it off. Still, you're going to fail a lot. So be prepared for that. Because how you react to the failure will in large part determine if you keep coming back and if you'll get better and more skilled as time goes on.

So, blessed are the merciful and this putt breaks a little to the left.

Either way. Have fun out there.

If you'd like to participate in an interesting theological experiment let me point you to Leah's Christian versus Atheist Turing Test.

To given some background, let me first explain a bit about the history of the Turing Test.

The Turing Test was the idea of Alan Turing. Turing was a famous cryptographer (he helped the British crack the German Enigma code), mathematician, and computational theorist. Many consider Turing to be the father of computer science and artificial intelligence.

Turing conceived of his test as a means to answer the question about when a computer program could be considered the functional equivalent of a human being. Turing's test goes like this. Imagine a human and a computer program hidden in two rooms, their identity unknown to a human judge. The judge, however, can communicate with both the program and human via a keyboard and screen. Basically, the judge can live chat with the program or human.

Given this setup the goal of the Turing Test is to have the judge interact with both the human and program at great length and in great depth. After the judge is satisfied she then guesses which room contains the program and which the human.

According to Turing, if the judge can't decide which room contains the human--that is, if the judge can't discriminate between the program and the human--then the program "passes" the test and, for all practical purposes, should be treated as a human being.

Now, you might not agree with the logic of the Turning Test, but Leah isn't applying the test to computer programs. She's applying it to atheists and Christians.

Leah's test was inspired by Bryan Caplan's notion of an Ideological Turing Test where conservatives and liberals are asked to simulate the positions of their rivals. Caplan's pushing back against Paul Krugman's contention that liberals can simulate conservative views but that conservatives can't return the favor. The issue here goes to one of empathy and perspective-taking. Who is better at seeing with the eyes of their ideological rivals?

That is an interesting empirical question. More often than not, in ideological debates we often see people react to "straw men" formulations of their rival's opinions. Is that just a way to score easy political points or does it reflect a failure of imagination?

Running with this idea, Leah has constructed an Christian versus Atheist Turning Test. The test has two parts with Christians simulating the answers of atheists and atheists simulating the answers of Christians. Here is the list of questions Leah created for the two tests.

Right now Leah is having a group of Christians simulate atheist responses to a series of questions. Mixed in are actual atheists' responses to the same questions. The empirical question is if a judge can tell the difference. That's where you can participate. Go here to read the various responses and then go here to cast your vote about which responses are from actual atheists and which are from Christians simulating atheism.

In the coming round the test changes with atheists trying to simulate the answers of Christians.

Should be a very interesting experiment.

My recent book Unclean is mainly preoccupied with analyzing failures of welcome, hospitality, and missional engagement in the life of the church. I basically argue that the opposite of love is Otherness. And the psychological dynamics that create the experience of Otherness is the psychology of purity, disgust, and contamination. This suite of psychological processes erect emotional, cognitive, and behavioral boundaries between the self and the Other. Love, welcome, hospitality and missional engagement, by contrast, dismantle these boundaries. In the words of Miroslav Volf, love is the "will to embrace."

Given this analysis, one of the more provocative things I do in Unclean is to take on a fundamental truth of contemporary psychotherapy, the concern over "healthy boundaries." It is almost a given in modern psychotherapy that the client will be directed to erect, monitor, and maintain "healthy boundaries" between herself and others. In Unclean I challenge this notion (see Chapter 8).

Given how I'm challenging a sacred cow in modern psychotherapy, I've been very interested in seeing how the Christian psychological community responds to the argument in Unclean. In light of this, see Dan Brennan's summary and reaction to my argument in Unclean and how my analysis might relate to his own work exploring cross-gender friendships in the church (see Dan's book Sacred Unions, Sacred Passions).

If you want a visual depiction of my analysis in Unclean, try the Coke commerical "Border":

Over the years I've received a few emails asking about where I got the Pacman-themed "Love Your Enemies" t-shirt I'm wearing in a picture on the sidebar.

Last week, Ryan hunted down the link for Mardel that sells the t-shirt. Here it is.

Enjoy!

My family and I are traveling some in July and a few days ago we passed a spot on our travels where, last year, I got really lost and turned around. Ah, memories.

It wasn’t a good memory because I got really angry and frustrated. And some of this frustration got directed at Jana. Nothing big, but we both were reminiscing about the tense exchanges we had.

As I thought about what went wrong that day my reflections eventually settled on Immanuel Kant. Yeah, I’m weird like that. Marital spats make me think of deontological ethics.

Here’s where my reflections took me.

First, I’m not a stereotypical guy. That is, I readily admit when I’m lost. Mainly because I get lost so much there is no real point in pretending. Jana has the better sense of direction. So I generally ask her about how to get to places.

But while Jana has the better sense of direction she really doesn’t like maps. I, conversely, find maps easy and intuitive. So it’s sort of a paradox. She hates maps but has the great sense of direction. I get lost but love maps. Go figure.

Anyway, last year when I got lost I did what I usually do, I said something like “I’m lost.” I’m kind of obvious that way.

Being lost I hand Jana my iPhone and ask her to pull up Google Maps and get us located with the GPS.

This is Jana’s nightmare scenario, me handing her a map and barking questions at her because I’m lost.

Needless to say this doesn’t go well. I’m asking for help and she’s struggling to provide it. We keep making wrong turns and my temper rises. A lot of it is directed at myself. Some of it is directed at the gods. But some of it is directed at Jana. I want her to navigate me out of this mess but she’s not doing it.

This year, as we drove past the location of this mishap, I tried to reflect back to understand why I got so mad at Jana. We were lost because of my mistake. And while I handed Jana my iPhone I knew that she was going to struggle to make heads or tails of the map. So I’m expecting something of her that I know is unreasonable. And yet I got angry at her. Why?

In thinking about how to ground our ethical decisions Immanuel Kant famously came up with the categorical imperative. The categorical imperative goes something like this: Act in such a way so that you can will your actions to become a universal law. Basically, a deed is ethical if you can confidently assert that everyone should follow your example. For example, you shouldn’t steal because if everyone followed your example it’s pretty clear that the social fabric of society would fall apart.

While I like the categorical imperative it find it a bit too abstract for daily use. But what I do use a lot is Kant’s alternative formulation of the categorical imperative: Treat people as ends not as means.

I thought of that while I was reflecting on last year’s marital spat. The reason I was getting upset at Jana was because I was treating her as a means—a way to get me unlost—rather than as an end in herself. I wanted Jana to function in a certain way to help me with something I wanted, needed, expected, or desired. And when she failed in that function I got frustrated.

And frustration is diagnostic here. Freud said that frustration is the feeling we have when our goals are thwarted. When we are blocked from reaching a goal we get frustrated. Think of being late and stuck in a traffic jam. That’s having your goal blocked. And we all know what that feels like.

So I was frustrated with Jana because I wanted to get unblocked, I wanted to get pointed in the right direction again. The frustration was diagnostic that I was treating Jana as a means, as a tool, as a functionary to get to my goal.

Another way to say this is that I was being selfish. By treating Jana as a means toward my end I had placed myself at the center. I was the end, and she was the means.

As I stepped back from this incident and took in a wider view it dawned on me that this is the way it is everywhere in my life. When I notice myself getting upset at people it’s generally the case that I’m treating them as a means rather than as an end. The person I’m interacting with is viewed in functional terms. Are they helping me get what I want? And if not, well, I get frustrated.

You hear Christians say a lot “It’s not about me, it’s about God.” I get that sentiment, but I often don’t know what it means.

So how about this tweak? “It’s not about me, it’s about the person standing in front of me.” That is, one of the things we can to do to remove ourselves from the “center” of the universe is to stop treating people as means to our ends. For treating people as means is the very definition of self-centeredness, it is using people to satisfy your own needs. But when we treat people as ends in themselves we become, of necessity, de-centered. Their needs and desires become the focus, not ours.

Not that any of this is rocket science:

1 John 4.20-21
Anyone who says “I love God” and hates his brother is a liar, since no one who fails to love the brother whom he can see can love God whom he has not seen. Indeed this is the commandment we have received from him, that whoever loves God, must also love his brother.

Let me pass on a book recommendation. I've been reading a lot lately about Oscar Romero. And one of the best introductions to his theology is the edited book by James Brockman entitled The Violence of Love. In the book Brockman gives us short selections of Romero's sermons and writings during the three year period when he transformed himself from defender of the status quo to prophet and martyr. The title of the book comes from a quote of Romero's from November 27, 1977:

We have never preached violence,
except the violence of love,
which left Christ nailed to a cross,
the violence that we must each do to ourselves
to overcome our selfishness
and such cruel inequalities among us.
The violence we preach is not the violence of the sword,
the violence of hatred.
It is the violence of love,
of brotherhood,
the violence that wills to beat weapons
into sickles for work.

Most of the book consists of short quotations from Romero which are rendered like free verse (as illustrated above). I think this was Brockman's editorial hand at work. Regardless, it's wonderful. The Violence of Love reads like theological poetry.

If you want to be introduced to Romero's life you might want to start with the movie Romero, which, I discovered, has been uploaded to Youtube in eleven 10-minute segments. You can start watching the movie here.