Leaving Safe, Going to China

Over the past three years, I’ve been asked about my post-college plans 257,398 times (give or take). For the most part, my answer’s been simple and elusive: “I’m open to the adventure of whatever comes my way.” Loosely translated: I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do, but I’ll take whatever entry-level job I need to get started and work it with a positive attitude.

This was my answer even up to graduation.

Never did I imagine that my “adventure” might be quite so literal.

After a great deal of encouragement from profs, I tossed in a last-minute application as an alternate in a teach-abroad program, thinking, “It’s a nice thought, but there’s no way it could work out.” But they accepted me. And not as an alternate but as a teacher. In China. For a year. Paid.

Adventure much?

China was never on my radar. Grad school in the UK? Yes. Live with a host in France? Why not! ‘Splore Guatemala? Natalia, here I come! Visit my Norwegian homeland? Please! Putter about Germany and Austria? Still hoping for 2017. Teach high schoolers English China? What?

But here it is, and the decision was difficult. I’ve never been big on opportunity cost. Risk is risky. Fear’s my friend. Going to China necessitates leaving home. Leaving my language. Leaving my familiar, comfortable medical care system. Leaving Western culture. Leaving my sense of safe. But if not now, then when? I can’t live life in safety; there’s no life there. Lewis tried to teach me that a long time ago—Aslan’s not tame, he’s not safe—but I didn’t want to listen. 

As I was applying, I pleaded with God to make his will clear. Absolutely and irrevocably clear. After all, he’d never mentioned China before, so how was I supposed to respond? Then my late, scrambled, not-quite-finished application was accepted. I was given the go-ahead immediately after the interview. The job is paid, allowing me to pay back loans.  Travel costs there and back will be covered. Not a single roadblock appeared. Suddenly it was uncomfortably clear. For a few moments, I was angry that it was so clear, because it meant the uncomfortable and the unfamiliar loom ahead.

But for once in my life, I’m going to take the risk. It’s terrifying. It’ll be hard. Tears will happen, but memories will happen too. Life-changing ones. I’ll gain experience I can’t get anywhere else. I’ll teach—trial by fire, but I’ll teach. I’ll adapt to a wondrous and ancient culture. I’ll be challenged, and I’ll learn, and I’ll grow.

In a very real sense, “I shall go on and take the adventure that shall fall to me.”

Obedience

by George MacDonald

…

I said: “I shall miss the light,

And friends will miss me, they say.”

He answered: “Choose tonight

If I am to miss you or they.”

I pleaded for time to be given.

He said: “Is it hard to decide?

It will not seem so hard in heaven

To have followed the steps of your Guide.”

I cast one look at the fields,

Then set my face to the town;

He said, “My child, do you yield?

Will you leave the flowers for the crown?”

Then into His hand went mine;

And into my heart came He;

And I walk in a light divine,
The path I had feared to see.


Trip Details
Where: the city of Changle in the Shandong province.
When: August 2014 - June/July 2015.
Alone? Nope. With several other teachers selected by Northwest University.
Contact info: I'll let you know when I get it sorted.
Job description: teaching an elective English speech/writing course to high school students.
Living arrangements: on-campus apartment. 

Carpe Diem, I Suppose

Nearly three years ago I wrote of the fear that accompanies embarking on the grand collegiate adventure. Now I’m surrounded by graduation announcements, addresses, and books of stamps. The adventure hasn’t been so bad. In fact, most of my undergrad experience has been delightful.

But the fear hasn’t subsided. Actually, it seems to have morphed.

Aside from the wonderful friends and the professors who have so graciously mentored me—the memories made and knowledge attained—I also encountered that moment when life got real. For as long as I can remember, there’s been a plan. The details were hazy at times, but the structure was always there. Kindergarten. Elementary school. Middle school. High school. College. Graduation. And there it ends. For twenty-one years, I’ve assumed that I would make it to this point. What comes next, God only knows.

The life becoming real part comes with the shattering of that assumption.

Tomorrow is not guaranteed. Cliché, yes, but I had a hard time fully grasping it when I thought we were all invincible. My world couldn’t possibly be touched.

Then a good friend earns her degree while warding off a brain tumor. A professor teaches through cancer. A friend’s mother undergoes major heart surgery. Doctors diagnose my aunt with a rare cancer.  My dad suffers a mild but wholly unexpected heart attack. My mom finds herself looking for another position after thirty-plus years with the same hospital. A friend’s mom suffers a stroke.

My plan (what little there is left in it) may be broken at any moment, and that realization left me with a fear that that moment must be near at hand. Vague, “call me when you get a moment” texts accelerate my heartbeat, and my thoughts of the future are inclined to assume that I will always be in one area, clinging to what I’ve always known in the hopes that I can keep everyone and everything secure through sheer willpower. In my lawyerlike wrestlings with God, I adopt the stance that as soon as I let concern over all I hold dear go, He will take them all away; that I know this logic to be entirely illogical is of no consequence. I cling to everyone, and I will make all things well. My fear will hold life together.

Lies.

Joy Davidman won’t let me forget it. She challenges me: “Our life is based on fear; if we should ever grow brave, what on earth would become of us?” Grrar. She’s right. But if I let go, then I’ve let go. I don’t control it anymore. Sorry for the cynicism, Elsa, but it’s not easy.

But that’s out of my hands. Yes, everything I know that’s safe and ordered might be obliterated in ten minutes’ time—it was for families in Oso and China and Crimea. It’s the most terrifying thought my mind entertains at the moment, and I can’t do anything about. I can’t make all things well. Yet Julian of Norwich wrote that “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

So…what will happen if I make my goal bravery? What if I attempt to put aside what Davidman calls “the sin of fear”? What if I accept that whatever happens now, someday all things will indeed be “well”—whatever that means? What if I let go?

I haven’t the foggiest. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. 

For the moment, I’m merely working to accept that my God is neither a tame God nor a safe God. He is simply and complexly a good God. “Christ never offered us security,” Davidman tells me. I hate it, but I revel it in it—one of the great paradoxes His nature elicits. Sigh. And all shall be well…

And all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching.
     T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets: Little Gidding, III

The Donkey

A bit of G.K. Chesterton on the eve of Palm Sunday:

When fishes flew and forests walked
     And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
     Then surely I was born;

With monstrous head and sickening cry
     And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
     On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
     Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
     I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
     One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
     And palms before my feet.

Church Thoughts

Just a thought: I highly encourage you to find a church and stick with it through thick and thin. Like any community or institution or whatever you deem fit to call it, a church goes through the best of times and the worst of times. For everything there is a season, if you will. I know many choose to throw their hands up and walk away when the going gets tough, and why not? It’s a buyer’s market as far as churchgoing is concerned--why not exchange for a better one?

Now, I don’t mean to belittle those forced to leave a church for matters of conscience or orthodoxy. Such situations occur, and after all else fails, there may be no other recourse. But don’t church hop. Don’t choose a church based on the color of the carpet. Don’t come and go with the pastor or with your best friend. Don’t leave because you’re bored and feel the need for a change of stained glass. These things are trivial. They miss the point.

A church community endures for more than mere entertainment, more than social hours, coffee carts, and pep talks. It’s for the pursuit of life and godliness, the spurring on towards love and good deeds, the unified adoration of our Father and Bridegroom. Such things do not come in isolated units Sunday to Sunday. Growth comes not in abandoning ship when you see a puddle of water on the floor. A body that frequently dismembers itself and trades limbs cannot be healthy.

No, growth and unity is allowing kids to pass from VBS attendees to group leaders. It’s watching the youth evolve from the uncertainty of life beyond graduation to the young families running through the narthex. It’s puzzling at how the little old ladies remain little old ladies all your life.

It’s become cliché to say it, but life in a church involves knowing the people and knowing their stories, and it requires dedication and sacrifice beyond two year stints at a dozen congregations. Our society likes impersonal fast food, fast internet, fast cures, but let’s not give in to fast church.

I’ve been blessed to know one church throughout my life. I faced my irrational fear of abandonment to Sunday school, met my first best friend, sat through hours-long congregational meetings while precious snow melted outside, celebrated the church’s centennial, mourned the passing of pastors, and welcomed new chapters of its history. The grit, grace, and not-glamor has been laid before me as a lesson in the Christian life, demonstrating what it means to live together as fellow sinners saved by an incomprehensibly good God.

What does this look like? Lingering conversations after the service. Knowing where to find forks in the kitchen. Cleaning the flooded basement. Clearing the brush in the back lot. Restoring order to the windows left broken by vandals. Such intimacy with a church body does not come by running at the first sign of trouble or at the first spark of disagreement. It is not gained by jumping from ‘in’ church to ‘in’ church. Rather, it requires the long neglected virtues of faithfulness, dedication, commitment, perseverance, and hope. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it hurts. But in the end, the joys and fruits of long-term intimacy with a Christ-centered community are oh so worth it and ever so beautiful.

The Doctors and Frodo

If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next. - C.S. Lewis

In the past few posts, we have seen insufficient glimpses of the lives of four church giants, each of whom faced unique struggles and achieved notable success in the scope of their lives. Yet their brief lifespans were not the end. Each was selected as a Doctor as a result of the transcending value of their works, a characteristic easily traced as we look back from a vantage point of more than a thousand years. Jerome placed the Scriptures in the language of the common Christian, a gift that lasted many centuries. Ambrose added psalms and hymns to a lasting tradition of liturgy, some of which can still be heard in sanctuaries today. Augustine provided subsequent generations with the hope of rest and forgiveness in the arms of his Lord, a hope that later comforted one guilt-ridden Augustinian monk and prompted him to change the world. Gregory opened up the doors for the evangelization of Britain and provided bishops and pastors with a practical guide to church leadership, advice that remains relevant today.

 

Yet none of these men sat with the gray, glory-splashed beard of Charlton Heston or the glowing haloes around their heads as later paintings are so apt to demonstrate. Although they have been bestowed the title of saint, we ought not be intimidated by their goodness. Ordinary humans granted extraordinary opportunity, they too struggled with the temptations and sins of the flesh as they endeavored to serve their great God.

One final thought: each of these individuals felt some reluctance to step into the position presented them. Although I did not say much of their historical context, each faced turmoil, disunity, and opposition in varying forms and degrees. Their tasks were great, certainly validating Gregory’s advice to “let fear temper the desire” of office. Yet each faced their given situation with reason, wisdom, and great faith. Their strength and greatness laid not in their personal achievement but in their ultimate trust in their Savior. In the challenges you face today, tomorrow, and in the coming years, remember the great history of fierce believers that precedes us and know that you do not stand alone. The God who used a grumpy hermit, a reluctant bishop, a prodigal son, and a theology mangler to bring glory to Himself and His Church can surely sustain you and enable you to serve Him in more ways than you may ever realize.

 

Soli Deo Gloria!

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time given us.” - J.R.R. Tolkien

The Pastoral Pope

No one presumes to teach an art till he has first, with intent meditation, learned it. What rashness is it, then, for the unskillful to assume pastoral authority, since the government of souls is the art of arts!

Unlike our three other friends, Gregory did not have the opportunity to interact with his fellow Doctors. Born around AD 540, he already had five centuries of Christian history before him. Even so, his story is not so unlike that of those who preceded him.

Raised in an Italian family of means and prominence, Gregory received the benefits of comfort, stability, education, and opportunity. Like Ambrose, he pursued a career in politics, and by 573 he had achieved the position of prefect of Rome. When his father died, however, Gregory chose to sell his property and take up the life of a Benedictine monk, converting six family estates into monasteries.

Gregory soon found favor in the eyes of several popes as Benedict I ordained him as a deacon of Rome and later Pelagius II commissioned him as an ambassador to Constantinople. Tired of such public endeavors, he returned to his Roman monastic life in 586, although he was promptly elected abbot and called upon as an adviser to Pelagius until the Pope’s death four years later.

In keeping with the style of Ambrose and Augustine, Gregory found himself the elected successor to the papacy against his will. But the voice of the clergy and the people of Rome won out, and on September 3, 590, he was consecrated Pope Gregory.

By this point, Rome was far from its glory days, and the city itself had fallen into disrepair after floods, famine, and epidemics wrought their havoc. Gregory therefore took responsibility for more than the city’s religious state, and among other tasks, he repaired the aqueducts, replenished the grain supply, and fed the poor. With the once mighty Empire now in ruins, the papacy took steps to regain control of the situation and here achieved power and prestige beyond that which it had formerly experienced.

But Gregory influenced more than the humanitarian needs of his own city. In the course of his fourteen-year pontificate, he made peace with the ­­­­warring Lombards, sent missionaries to England, and promoted the advancement of Benedictine monasticism. Still, his rule was not free from flaws. An avid proponent of Augustine’s teachings, Gregory twisted his speculations into certain truth (compare this, perhaps, to a modern-day teacher or pastor advocating the thoughts of C.S. Lewis as unarguable certainties). Among these speculation-truths are counted the doctrines of purgatory and transubstantiation--doctrines that persisted and morphed in the following centuries until coming to a crisis during the Reformation.

Beyond the actions and accomplishments of his life, what more has Pope Gregory I (or, Gregory “the Great”) left us?

Words. Many, many words.

Although his writings are by no means speculative or original, Gregory does provide us with works that are “clear and powerful propounders of the practical orthodox tradition.” His letters, commentaries, sermons, and books reflect on the moral and practical side of church doctrine and theology more than on scholarly pursuits.

Out of his many works, let’s take a quick look at one book he wrote early in his papal career: Regula Pastoralis, or The Pastoral Rule. Composed as a set of instructions for bishops, it advises that those who would pursue clerical office ought to “let fear temper the desire,” but when one is selected, he ought to “let his life commend it” and practice what he preaches. The volume goes on to address the virtues necessary for a good pastor, the methods of ministering to a diverse congregation, and a reminder that pastors be aware of their own weaknesses. Such detailed instructions confirm Gregory’s belief that “the government of souls is the art of arts,” and that Christian leadership is never to be taken lightly, for the flock and the little ones are of great value.

 

Let me once more conclude by asking, “What makes Gregory ‘Great’ today?”

1)     Gregory’s Pastoral Rule gives modern readers a chance to put things in perspective and realize that we have more in common with our Christian forerunners than we might think. The temptation towards seeking the prestige of office has in no way diminished since his pontificate one thousand years ago, and human nature has not risen above the “hidden delight in self-display.” We often like to think we’ve risen above the sins of the past, yet here we see the struggle of leadership throughout the ages.

2)     On a similar note, Gregory was acutely aware of his own flaws. “I direct others to the shore of perfection,” he writes, “while myself still tossed among the waves of transgressions.” Here again we find a man who did not consider himself saintly or great but who affirmed his identity as a sinner saved by grace. He writes, therefore, not out of a spirit of superiority but out of empathy and experience. Such humility is admirable, especially in light of the position he held, a position, no less, whose power and authority was greatly elevated by his rule. Regardless of your rank, are you able to recognize your own short-comings, or would you rather dwell solely upon your successes and accomplishments? Human nature prefers the latter, but might not true humility and “greatness” lie most fully in the former?

I direct others to the shore of perfection, while myself still tossed among the waves of transgressions. But in the shipwreck of this present life sustain me, I beseech you, by the plank of your prayer, that, since my own weight sinks me down, the hand of your merit may raise me up.

A Restless Heart

Augustine. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. A saint of the Catholic Church, if you’ll recall. Namesake of a monastic order. Author of the first autobiography. Founder of a city in Florida.

Well, maybe not the founder but, again, the namesake.

Born in A.D. 354, baby Augustine was the third child of a pagan father and a Christian mother. Although poor, his parents recognized the intellectual giftedness of their son and did everything in their power to provide him with the finest education. Augustine’s intelligence didn’t keep him from rebelling, however, and he soon fell in with the wrong crowd. While reflecting upon his life, he later declares that he was “ashamed to be less shameless” than these friends.

I was applauded by those whom I then thought it my whole duty to please, for I did not perceive the gulf of infamy wherein I was cast away from Thy eyes.

By the time Augustine had reached adulthood, he had achieved the status of a master rhetorician and gained the applause of those whom he thought it was his “whole duty to please.” Still, he was restless and discontent. Looking back, he was also “far from Thy face in the dark shadows of passion.” After years of going astray and leading others astray, along with a few jaunts into Manichaeism and Neo-Platonism, Augustine came to a point where every book he read and every rhetorician he heard began slowly to point him towards Christianity. Cicero’s Hortensius pointed him to truth behind words and ideas. Bishop Ambrose of Milan (a fellow “Doctor”) pointed him to the truth of Christianity behind the eloquence of those words.

Finally, at age thirty-two, Augustine found himself reading Romans 13, a passage that became the turning point of his life. After years of roaming the broad road of the world in hopes of earthly success and pleasure, Augustine surrendered himself to the humble truth of Christianity.

Bishop Ambrose mentored him in the faith, and in 387, he was baptized. Four years later, in the style of his beloved mentor, he was reluctantly made bishop of Hippo. From his conversion until his death in AD 430, Augustine spent his life in the defense and advancement of Christianity. His literary output was immense, and with more than five million words from his pen, he out-wrote all other ancient authors. For this reason, I will only briefly mention one of his most famous works, his Confessions.

I continued to reflect upon these things, and Thou wast with me. I sighed, and Thou didst hear me. I vacillated, and Thou guidest me. I roamed the broad way of the world, and Thou didst not desert me.

Written much like a journal, Augustine’s Confessions recounts the course of his life through his conversion, in addition to a few chapters devoted to some of his key theological and social concerns. Throughout the work, he emphasizes the grace and goodness of God in his life in light of his rebelliousness and hard heart. Although a rhetorician trained in the art of eloquence, this work provides readers with an utterly real and open look at the contriteness of his heart and his struggles to accept Christianity. It is this work that makes him one of the most accessible and well-known of the ancient authors.

In the centuries after his death, his philosophical and theological works have maintained a significance on the level of Plato and Aristotle. His writings have percolated into the Christian church doctrines on sacraments, grace, original sin, and beyond.

Thou who dost teach us by sorrow, who woundest us to heal us, and dost kill us that we may not die apart from Thee.

But who cares? Yes, this man is admirable and intelligent, but he died more than 1,500 years before I was even born. Maybe he influenced things back then, but what does he matter right now in November of 2012? Here are just two ideas:

  1)  At the very least, Augustine provides us with an incredibly human connection to Christians of old. This man was no “saint.” His own pen shows us his vulnerability and frailness, and he gives modern Christians a glimpse into the universal and timeless struggles of the human will against its Creator. He lets us know that we are not alone.

      But is this okay? Many of us like and admire Augustine for being so human in his struggles. One of his most famous lines is his plea, “Grant me chastity and continence, but not yet.” Today, however, we hear of a pastor who struggles with certain temptations (never acting on them, mind you), and we find it appalling. Such spiritual leaders should not be tempted like ordinary Christians, right? Have the years distanced us so much that we are comfortable accepting Augustine’s struggles (perhaps because we saw the outcome?) while revolted by the struggles (again, not falls) of our present leaders?

  2) Augustine wrote and taught with Christ and His Word at the forefront of his mind. His defense of Christianity against Manichaeism and Pelagianism exemplify his earnest zeal for the guarding of the faith against those who would seek to twist the truth. After years of seeking to impress his peers by touting the academically acceptable ideas, he chose to forsake the popular for the sake of the eternal. He reminds us what it means to be not ashamed of the gospel. Am I willing to be set apart from popular opinion (socially, academically, politically) in order that God might be glorified? Are you?

For Thou hast made us for Thyself and restless is our heart until it comes to rest in Thee.

The Reluctant Bishop

"To You our morning song of praise, To You our evening prayer we raise; We praise your light in ev'ry age, The glory of our pilgrimage."

The year was 373, and with Milan at peace and the Emperor smiling upon his effective rule, all seemed to be progressing well for dear Ambrose, an intelligent Milanese governor of noble birth. From all appearances, a comfortable political career was almost certain.

 

Then came the death of Bishop Auxentius.

Deep in the midst of the divisive, theological controversy of Arianism, the city now needed to elect a successor skilled enough to unite the divided church and bold enough to set the situation aright.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Governor Ambrose grew concerned about the swelling unrest over the election. Hoping to see a swift resolution to the matter, he decided to attend the meeting. As he offered a few words to calm the masses gathered at the church, a child began to cry “Ambrose, bishop.”

The chant was taken up by the rest of the gathering, and it was soon evident that he had no choice but to accept the position. Eight days later, on December 1, 373, after a hasty baptism and push through the preceding ministerial orders, he was made bishop of Milan.

In the years that followed, Ambrose took his position seriously, placing himself under the teachings of a respected priest and protecting orthodox Christianity with great fierceness. He permitted no one to defile the faith he was charged with defending.

He opposed Arianism, even going so far as to refuse Emperor Justina’s orders to allow Arians the use of a church in Milan. He ensured that Emperor Valentinian did not give into the pleas to restore paganism to Rome. He excommunicated Emperor Theodosius until he showed signs of repentance after he had unjustly killed seven thousand people.

Yet he was not solely focused on theological defenses but also on the pastoral care of his flock. Not long after his consecration, Ambrose melted the gold of a Milanese church to provide the ransom for captive Goths. Later, he advised pastors to focus not on pleasing the rich but on serving the weak and the poor.

Over the course of his career, Ambrose produced a plethora of pastoral and theological works, providing future generations with detailed exegetical commentaries, sermons containing notes on social and political events, and letters in answer to theological and biblical questions.

Unique to this doctor, however, is his strong emphasis on psalms, liturgy, and congregational singing, which he first used as a means of comforting a congregation under siege. He even composed many hymns himself in an effort to communicate such themes as the Trinity and Christian devotion in the course of daily life. The practice of congregational singing and church choirs served to unify the body of believers and, for just a moment, eliminate the distinctions between rich and poor, young and old. Upon his baptism in Ambrose’s church, Augustine reflects on how “all the brethren singing together with great earnestness of voice and heart” moved him to tears and enabled that the “truth was poured forth into [his] heart.”

 

But again we must ask what significance this man holds for us today, and again I wish to propose two thoughts on the matter.

  1)  It would seem that twenty-first century Christians often take church music for granted, little thinking about its rich history. Before Ambrose there had certainly been songs in church, but their distinct and unifying nature had not been so clearly defined. Ambrose’s hymns and use of psalms arose during times of peril and need, and they served to eliminate distinctions within the congregation. After his death, church music would continue to grow and spread, creating a wealthy tradition of Christian song. With this knowledge before us, is not the thought of singing with the ages of believers sweet? How great an opportunity it is to join in worship with the voices that have come before us.

  2)  Secondly, Ambrose zealously defended the faith, even going so far as to excommunicate a Roman emperor in an effort to set him aright. He had played the political game before his time as bishop, and it would have been easy to continue in that role after his consecration. Instead, he chose to stand apart, preferring the integrity of the faith to the advancement of his social reputation. This is an intense test of character. In the face of power and prestige, would I choose to seek the right over following the enticements of my academic, professional, or political superiors? Would you? How great a test it would be to react with the wisdom and moderation of this church father.

"And now to You our  pray'rs ascend, O Father, glorious without end; we plead with Sovereign Grace for pow'r to conquer in temptation's hour."

Born an Old Man

"Exsiccatum est faenum cecidit flos verbum autem Dei nostri stabit in aeternum." Is. 40:8 

"The grass is withered, and the flower is fallen: but the word of our Lord endureth for ever." Is. 40:8

Jerome was the grumpy old man at church. The one who knows what he’s talking about, but everyone rather wishes he didn't.  And Jerome is only the name you use to talk about him behind his back. His real name’s Sophronius Eusebius Hieronymus. That’s Mr. Hieronymus to you.

Born to a wealthy Italian family in AD 342 (or thereabouts), little Jerome is said to have been “born an old man,” assuming himself to be older and more established than his contemporaries. From an early age, Jerome’s great academic potential was recognized, and he soon acquired a taste for classical writers, a love that was to him a guilty pleasure throughout his life.

Following the completion of his education in Rome, Jerome committed to the monastic life, although it wasn't quite as solitary as he initially imagined. The year 374 found him in the desert of Chalcis, where he lived in a hermit’s cell and debated (or quarreled) over theological matters with his fellow hermits. During this time, in an effort to distract himself from the life he’d left behind, Jerome took up the serious study of Greek and Hebrew, knowledge that would aid him in the most significant tasks of his life.

It wasn't long before Jerome returned to Rome, where he served as the private secretary to Bishop Damasus, the man who would later encourage him to start work on his greatest contribution to the church. During his time there, Jerome was a little less than tactful in his interactions with other clerics and scholars, and he gained the disdain of many peers. A few years later, he would even go so far as to  write snobbishly to one of the few men who would surpass him: a young whippersnapper named Augustine. Even so, he did make the effort to establish a monastery and a convent with the help of his close friend Paula.

But what made the life of this chronically old man of lasting worth? His translation of the Scriptures into the common tongue: Latin.

By the fourth century, Latin had come to be the primary language of the Western church, and although there existed several translations of the Bible in the language, none were based on the original Hebrew texts. Jerome’s greatest efforts were, therefore, spent on the translation of the Old Testament, a task that he found frustrating in light of the coarseness of the Hebrew language. In a letter to Paula, he laments that “every elegance of speech, and beauty of Latin expression, the hissing sound of reading Hebrew has sullied.” Even so, he completed his task with impressive accuracy, in light of his solo endeavor. Unlike the Old Testament, his New Testament was not an entirely new translation, but rather a detailed revision of the then current Vetus Latina.

This translation was not immediately well received, however, and it wasn't until after his death that the Latin Vulgate (as it came to be known), would find favor as the standard translation for the Latin-speaking church.

But who cares? Latin’s now a dead language. Jerome himself is dead. Why does his memory and work continue to matter? Let me end by proposing a few possibilities:

1)   On the basest level, he reminds us that the grouchy old man down the pew may be worth a little more respect than we’d like to give him credit for. Jerome’s efforts to learn Greek and Hebrew for the primary purpose of translating the Bible is worthy of admiration and provides an example of the great lengths to which our Christian forerunners have gone in order to provide us with the dusty Bibles on our shelves. In light of this, what effort do we make to understand and treasure the gift that is God's Word? The work's been done for us, all we have left to do is take and read.

2)   Considering it’s one of the most significant translations of Scripture ever made, the Vulgate was initially frowned upon by its recipients, largely because of its newness. And this is no isolated incident. Wycliffe, Tyndale, and even the original King Jamesers faced similar opposition. Although it’s important to be cautious and discerning when it comes to theological and Scriptural matters, we must be careful in our quick rejection of the unfamiliar. After all, is not our ultimate goal the spread of the gospel to the glory of God? Or have we allowed our nitpicky nature and personality preferences to distract and divide us from unity in our God?

"Vivus est enim Dei sermo et efficax et penetrabilior omni gladio ancipiti." Heb. 4:12

"For the word of God is living and effectual and more piercing than any two edged sword." Heb. 4:12

Doctors

Doctors. What’s your first thought? M.D.? Ph.D.? The Doctor?

How's about the Christian church?

Throughout the centuries, Christians have recognized certain individuals as heroes of the faith--men and women who have contributed to the advancement of Christianity in fair and foul weather. Among these, some have stood out as lasting contributors to the understanding of orthodoxy and the theological teachings of Christianity at large. In 1298, Pope Boniface VIII named four such individuals “Doctors of the Church,” people whose teachings and writings are useful to Christians in any era of Church history.

In the next few posts, I will endeavor to briefly explore the key aspects of the lives of the original four Doctors of the Western Church (Augustine, Ambrose, Gregory I, and Jerome) and take a look at the significance of their contributions. Although much could be written about each of these four men, space and format will not allow for great elaboration. Even so, I hope that you might learn a few new tidbits from the musings to come and find a new sort of admiration for these Christian brothers who strove to build and uphold the church long before we were ever thought of.

     "For all your saints, O Lord,
     Who strove in you to live,
     Who followed, obeyed, adored,
     Our grateful hymn receive.

     They all in life and death,
     With you, their Lord, in view,
     Learned from your Holy Spirit's breath
     To suffer and to do."
          Richard Mant

P.S. Please let me know if you note areas where I have misrepresented an individual or conveyed inaccurate information. As always, the goal is accuracy and improvement! Enjoy!

Screwtape Discusses Poetry

My dear Wormwood, 

Your usual ramblings in defense of your actions are growing tiresome, and I will not shield your every mistake from the review of your superiors. Your concerns about his churchgoing and “love” life remain unchanged, and if you’d only return to the instructions I have already deigned to lay before you, you’d find an answer. My concern lies in a passing comment that you seem to believe is insignificant--the patient’s revival of interest in poetry.

Are you blind to the effects of this turn? The serious study of poetry may be the nearest he ever comes to that which the Enemy calls Truth (aside from the words of His own blasphemous book), for poetry is not a mere outpouring of ideas cleverly phrased, as prose so often is (with the help of our more competent tempters), but rather the nearest point to which a writer’s pen touches the soul in a glimpse of divine Truth. For poetry is one of the Enemy’s favorite tools in the adorning of Truth. It teaches while it entertains. It leaves short, lasting impressions that, if left to unfold naturally, could result in irreparable damage. Furthermore, verse is the most perfect showcasing of the logic, wit, and intellect with which He has endowed His creatures, so that even the most base and seemingly wretched of poets cannot help but leave a trace of the Enemy.

No, what you must do is make the patient study a poem not as an intimate piece of writing, but as an abstract form of past art irrelevant to his present time. Let him dig for undiscovered coals in the diamond mine--obscure interpretations that leave him to speculate on fruitless thoughts. Let him compare the piece to his own cultural standards and critique it for its lack of sensitivity and modern propriety. Never let his mind slip to the notion that this couplet could possibly mean anything to him.

Moreover, if he must continue in his love of verse, make him content with the modern poets--Pound, MacLeish, and the like. The best philosophy is that poems “should not mean but be,” for then poetry becomes little more than a lofty appreciation for the tone and word choice of his fellow artist. Keep him locked in his own era that he might not open his eyes to the lineage of humbled souls dating back to the shepherd days of that wretched David. Even so, be wary lest he stumble upon those who have been called the War Poets, for though they seem dark and despairing, they too begin to trifle with the soul and cast the mind to pondering matters of life and death and the human condition. Such things, although valuable to the untrained tempter, quickly lend themselves to themes too close to the Enemy’s eternity and plan. There is one particular poet who seems to be toeing the line between sound atheism and disastrous discovery, speaking of “the clouds of God’s hate” and declaring that “Thou art not Lord while there are Men on earth.” His tempter had best handle him with great care if he wishes to avoid his patient’s awakening to the significance of his own words. Remember, the Enemy takes great pleasure in perverting our efforts in one man to transform the soul of another, if not also his own.

Still, the best method of all is to create an unexplainable disgust for the “intellectual snobbery” and highfalutin nonsense that characterizes all poetry. Allow him to judge all poetry by that one “hard poem” he read back in school and cast the whole lot aside for something more relevant, such as the sports game on the radio or the barking dog next door. Remember, one good sonnet could crumble all of the walls you now strive to build.

                                                                                    Your affectionate uncle

                                                                                    Screwtape

Snow White's Blush

Why have we allowed ourselves to lose our shame? What’s more, why are we proud to have no shame? What glory is there in it but the knowledge that we have been offered robes of white and yet choose to lounge in the revolting filth of our own creation?

Yes, I understand that “every saint has a past and every sinner has a future,” but when is it wise to revel in a past that withholds us from the promise of glory? Be it sexual sin or internal self-righteousness, Christians ought never to return to the slough from which they were rescued. Ought being the operative word. We struggle, we fall, we fail, but we ought not boast in falls or callous our hearts against the shame, lest we silence the voice of that “asphyxiating cloud” that so warmly whispers that we guard our hearts.

For to boast in sin is to tear down the brethren--for how hard is it to remain steadfast alone? To boast in sin is to reject the lost--for who seeks answers from one as lost as them? To boast in sin is to mock our salvation--for it is proof that precious pearls have been cast before swine. And I am a pig.

How often have I laid my palms at my King’s triumphal entry only to shout “crucify Him!” when the roar of the crowd swept me along?

Why do I not weep when my Savior is mocked---when I realize that I was the voice that mocked Him? I sin not even that grace might more abound, but simply because I seek to belong, because I want a story to tell, a moment to remember.

May I never let Snow White’s shocking blush fade from my face. Would that I be made unabashedly ashamed of my own unworthiness that I might seek to know the fullness of my Lord’s holiness and mercy. May the red of my shame burn brightly against the white of His cleansing purity, and may I always be granted the humility to fall at His divine feet in earnest repentance.

“My soul, bow down under a sense of your natural sinfulness, and worship your God. Admire the grace which saves you--the mercy which spares you--the love which pardons you!” - Charles Spurgeon

Flattery

"I have been used to consider poetry as 'the food of love,'" said Darcy.

 "Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."

Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice 

Speak not to me in measured numbers filled
With calculated praise; compare me not
To things soon dead and gone. Such words have killed
The mood that thou had sought to stir to thought.

Thou art too quick to speak and slow to think
Of all that love implies. Thy flow’ry tongue
Does drown thy good in faults as black as ink,
And make thy lusty youth look yet more young.

Oh, cease thy foolish flattery at once!
Thine outward praise is cold and sharp as rain--
For thou must think me an angelic dunce
Not to note that thy noble self is vain.

        But I beg, don’t stop on account of me,
        For with thine own words thou might happy be.

Churchgoing

I’ve been on the comfortable side of church for most of my life. Always at the same church, always with my family, always surrounded by familiar faces, always in the know. I may not be able to tell you everyone’s name, but chances are that I could describe who else they’re related to, where they stand on church matters, and whether or not they attend faithfully in the summer months. And of course the new people are always easy to spot.

For the past year or so, however, I’ve been given the opportunity to be the new person, the visitor. I’ve come to experience what it is to sit alone, to watch closely for cues as to what’s coming next, to walk quietly out after the service in hopes of avoiding the awkward aloneness of my state. Now, there's no need for concern; as a natural introvert and one who does not wish to draw attention, I easily manage this without a depressing thought, for I know that I’m headed back to a dorm full of friends and a room full of homework. But I realize that not everyone is so fortunate. For many, the simple act of setting foot anywhere alone is hard, and places of tightly knit community are doubly so. The act of breaking into an established group takes great courage, and the greatest battle comes not in choosing a pew but in deciding to step out of the car alone.

About four months after I started going to Sunday morning service alone, someone really said hello to me for the first time. Her simple introduction and invitation to sit with her family made my day a little brighter. A year after I began attending, a man deliberately tracked me down after church and introduced himself, inviting me to lunch with him and his wife whenever I had a free Sunday afternoon. He went a step further by giving me their phone number. Once more, his simple gesture of welcome made my day a little brighter. Even one who is content to be alone likes a little notice now and then.

Having grown up in a single church, I find it natural to look for the faces that I recognize, to speak with those I know share common interests, and I'm comfortable enough to keep to myself. I’m all too often blind to faces I don’t recognize, or I reason away why I, with many more qualified and friendly people surrounding me, should say anything--if I say nothing, surely someone else will. But I am no inventor of thoughts. I’m certain this same line of reasoning has passed through the thoughts of churchgoers for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. If I say nothing, chances are that no one will. The absence of welcome speaks loudly.

So, although I am not inclined to step out of my comfort zone and social circle, I am coming to the realization that I must open myself to the notion that the other person has already stepped foot out of his car, and perhaps I ought to congratulate him with a welcome.  What follows next is entirely up Christ.