Our actions in and reactions to the quotidian life are far better indicators of our philosophical and theological tenets than any creeds we confess or theological systems we espouse.

Master those books you have. Read them thoroughly. Bathe in them until they saturate you. Read and reread them, masticate and digest them. Let them go into your very self. Peruse a good book several times and make notes and analyses of it. A student will find that his mental constitution is more affected by one book thoroughly mastered than by twenty books he has merely skimmed. Little learning and much pride comes of hasty reading. Some men are disabled from thinking by putting their meditation away for the sake of much reading. In reading let your motto be “much, not many.”

- Charles Spurgeon, Encounter with Spurgeon by Helmut Thielecke, 197.

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring;
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.

- Alexander Pope

I like the poets whose writings reveal great moral character and passion–such as Tennyson and some of Browning. The works of others have light, but I prefer flame to light. Shakespeare? A mind as clear as a sunbeam–but passionless, light without heat. Shelley? Keats? There’s a sense in which they were perfect poets, but they don’t move me. Beautiful–but wordmongers. There’s an infinite difference between the beauty of holiness and the holiness of beauty. One leads to the highest, loftiest, most Godlike character; the other often–too often–lead to an orgy of sensation.

- Samuel Brengle, from his biography by C.W. Hall, 269.

Authentic wisdom hooks you into Truth in its living form and Truth drags you off to unfathomable depths. A living truth cannot be hauled home and hung over your mantle. By the time you get it to shore, the sharks of your ignorance and finitude will have reduced it to a skeleton. If you would pursue Truth, you must hold on and let it take you where it will. But there will come a point at which you must let go. For living Truth leads to God himself, and God will not be caught.

Psalm 32 (ESV)

A Maskil [1] of David.

¹ Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven,
whose sin is covered.
2 Blessed is the man against whom the Lord counts no iniquity,
and in whose spirit there is no deceit.

3 For when I kept silent, my bones wasted away
through my groaning all day long.
4 For day and night your hand was heavy upon me;
my strength was dried up [2] as by the heat of summer.

Selah

5 I acknowledged my sin to you,
and I did not cover my iniquity;
I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,”
and you forgave the iniquity of my sin.

Selah

6 Therefore let everyone who is godly
offer prayer to you at a time when you may be found;
surely in the rush of great waters,
they shall not reach him.
7 You are a hiding place for me;
you preserve me from trouble;
you surround me with shouts of deliverance.

Selah

8 I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
I will counsel you with my eye upon you.
9 Be not like a horse or a mule, without understanding,
which must be curbed with bit and bridle,
or it will not stay near you.

10 Many are the sorrows of the wicked,
but steadfast love surrounds the one who trusts in the Lord.
11 Be glad in the Lord, and rejoice, O righteous,
and shout for joy, all you upright in heart!

The way to get your kids to want to eat vegetables is not by promising desert afterward or by threatening to punish them, but by making tasty vegetables. Similarly, the best way to get yourself or anyone else to want to pray, read the Bible, go to church, or interact with the living God in any other way is not by holding up promises of worldly rewards (comfort, friends, money, success, etc.) or threats of punishment (failure, disappointment, depression, eternal torture in hell, etc.); but by giving yourself and others a healthy helping of the gospel of our gracious and loving God himself - “Taste and see that YHWH is good!” (Ps. 34).  The savor of his love makes all other foods taste bland.

I think this passage really captures the biblical definition of the “fear-of-the-LORD”, particularly the last two lines of verse 12.

2 Chronicles 20:1-12 (ESV):

¹ After this the Moabites and Ammonites, and with them some of the Meunites, came against Jehoshaphat for battle. ² Some men came and told Jehoshaphat, “A great multitude is coming against you from Edom, from beyond the sea; and, behold, they are in Hazazon-tamar” (that is, Engedi). ³ Then Jehoshaphat was afraid and set his face to seek the Lord, and proclaimed a fast throughout all Judah. ⁴ And Judah assembled to seek help from the Lord; from all the cities of Judah they came to seek the Lord.

⁵ And Jehoshaphat stood in the assembly of Judah and Jerusalem, in the house of the Lord, before the new court, 6 and said, “O Lord, God of our fathers, are you not God in heaven? You rule over all the kingdoms of the nations. In your hand are power and might, so that none is able to withstand you. ⁷ Did you not, our God, drive out the inhabitants of this land before your people Israel, and give it forever to the descendants of Abraham your friend? ⁸ And they have lived in it and have built for you in it a sanctuary for your name, saying, ⁹ ‘If disaster comes upon us, the sword, judgment, or pestilence, or famine, we will stand before this house and before you—for your name is in this house—and cry out to you in our affliction, and you will hear and save.’ ¹⁰ And now behold, the men of Ammon and Moab and Mount Seir, whom you would not let Israel invade when they came from the land of Egypt, and whom they avoided and did not destroy— ¹¹ behold, they reward us by coming to drive us out of your possession, which you have given us to inherit. ¹² O our God, will you not execute judgment on them? For we are powerless against this great horde that is coming against us. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.”

You wouldn’t be so surprised by your sin if you didn’t think so highly of yourself.

- Steve Brown

From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from the winds that beat on Thee,
From fearing when I should aspire,
From faltering when I should climb higher,
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee.

From subtle love of softening things,
From easy choices, weakenings,
Not thus are spirits fortified,
Not this way went the Crucified,
From all that dims Thy Calvary,
O Lamb of God, deliver me.

Give me the love that leads the way,
The faith that nothing can dismay
The hope no disappointments tire,
The passion that will burn like fire,
Let me not sink to be a clod:
Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.

-Amy Carmichael

I know things in the inner world which are like babies; the infantile beginnings of small indulgences, small resentments, which may one day become dipsomania or settled hatred, but which woo us and wheedle us with special pleadings and seem so tiny, so helpless that in resisting them we feel we are being cruel to animals. They begin whimpering to us “I don’t ask much, but,” or “I had at least hoped,” or “you owe yourself some consideration.” Against all such pretty infants (the dears have such winning ways) the advice of the Psalm [137] is the best. Knock the little bastards’ brains out. And “blessed” is he who can, for it’s easier said than done.

C.S. Lewis, Reflections on the Psalms

as quoted in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Wisdom, Psalms, and Writings, eds. Longman and Enns.

An idol is something you rely on instead of God for your salvation. One of the religious idols is your moral record: “God accepts me because I’m living a good life.” I’m a Presbyterian, so I’m all for right doctrine. But you can start to feel very superior to everyone else and think, God is pleased with me because I’m so true to the right doctrine. The right doctrine and one’s moral record are forms of power. Another is ministry success, similar to the idol of achievement. There are religious versions of sex, money, and power, and they are pretty subtle.

- Rev. Tim Keller, author of Counterfeit Gods: The Empty Promises of Money, Sex and Power, and the Only Hope that Matters, from an interview with Christianity Today (complete interview at http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2009/november/1.71.html)

Quote quoted from here.

So you feel distant from the Lord, cold, and unmotivated by the gospel. You would not openly say that you disbelieve what God says in his Word, it’s just that your life and actions show that you don’t believe it wholeheartedly - like the man in the mirror in James 1:22-25, you assent to its teachings but walk away unchanged in any deep way that will affect your future behavior or thoughts. You know that you need to avail yourself of the “means of grace”, to read the scriptures more, have them preached to you more, and to preach to yourself, to participate in the Lord’s Supper, to come to the Lord in prayer and ask for the grace to change and to grow.

But what do you do when you can’t even bring yourself to do these things? What do you do when you know that the only reason you come to church and take communion is because you are more afraid of what other people think and say than what God thinks and says and you don’t want them asking questions or criticizing or offering lame advice?

What do you do when you feel like the Bible has nothing new or helpful to say (or at least not to you - like maybe you’re not the intended audience), and most of the time you can’t do anything to make yourself read it, or at least read it with attentive hopefulness?

What do you do when it seems like your prayers are nothing but echoes into a big dark empty room, or maybe a room filled with the members of someone else’s family all crowded around someone else’s loving father, and you can no longer even bring yourself to open your mouth to speak to him for fear of somehow confirming your suspicions.

What do you do when people tell you what you need is just to pray more and read the Bible more, but you have run out of all motivations to do so (even the wrong motivations, like trying to make yourself and others think that you’re better than you really are)?

What do you do when you know that your biggest problem is that you don’t love and fear God enough (if at all), and that fact (and its very recognition) has effectively eviscerated your impulse to do anything else for the right reasons?

What do you do when the sluggard of Proverbs 26:14-16 and Israel as described in Jeremiah 2:25 both sound like you?

What do you do when the Bible tells you to change, and then also says that there’s nothing you can do to change yourself? Do you sit and wait? Do you do whatever you can do and hope that God will maybe give you the grace to do more?

Please, give me your thoughts, responses, and counsel.

When a given sentence has been artificially taken out of context…the features of the world that we take to be normal, and our usual expectations of our world (as far as [we may think] these are relevant to the utterance) serve as an implicit context (the default frame) determining our interpretation.

E. F. Kittay, Metaphor: Its Cognitive Force and Linguistic Structure

(Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1987), 55-59.

One of the things that has become clearer to me over this summer is the fact that each of us is always declaring some gospel - with our words, with our actions, with our tone of voice, etc… Whenever we interpret (to ourselves or to others) the significance of the circumstances of life (our personal lives, politics, relationships, etc.) and set a value on those circumstances (”good”, “bad”, “hopeful”, “hopeless”) we are locating those circumstances within a larger narrative - a big picture story of how we understand life in general and our own lives in particular.

For instance, if Laura and I come home from the grocery store and she runs in the house carrying one little bag and leaves me to carry in the rest, and then on the way up the stairs I badly stub my toe and trip and spill all the groceries I am carrying down the stairs, I am now presented with a set of life circumstances which I now have to (and will) interpret, and I will most likely proclaim my interpretation of these circumstances right then and there. If I am angry it is because I have opted for a particular interpretation of the events, not because I have simply responded to circumstances in the only way conceivable. From one perspective, my plight is morally neutral - you could say that nothing more is involved than bodies and matter in motion, and such things merit neither a positive or negative response. But as Cornelius Van Til has helpfully pointed out, for us, there are no “brute facts” - all facts must be and are interpreted in some way.

So then, why do I choose anger as the “appropriate response”? The answer to that question will extend far into the way I understand thing like the meaning of life, God’s sovereignty and attitude toward me, what people are for, justice and fairness, and so on. Likewise, my response to these circumstances will proclaim or “preach” the answer to these questions to myself and to those around me. If I let loose a string of profanity and complain to Laura that she hasn’t helped me like she should, or if I just quietly pick up the mess and am cold to her for the next couple of hours, I have just declared to her and myself what I believe to be the significance of what has just happened in the grand scheme of things.

The painful conviction that has struck me more and more is that the “gospel” I preach to Laura and to my friends and family by the way that I choose to interpret and respond to the circumstances of life is usually either the antithesis of the real gospel or some deceptive and twisted perversion of that gospel. I am rightly (albeit insufficiently) ashamed of this fact and brought once more to the place where I must say, “I am way worse than I thought, and way more in need of God’s grace and help to change than I thought”. Praise God for his merciful provision through Jesus Christ, who not only freed me from the eternal consequences of my sin, but has also set his Holy Spirit to the work of transforming me to the likeness of his Son!

The pastor who mentored me during my internship this summer challenged me by asking me to articulate the gospel of Christ in a way that is not only technically accurate but also winsome; in a way that shows that it really is “good news” to all who will embrace it; in a way that gets at the wonderful “old old story” that never gets old. This has proved a difficult task for me for a number of reasons. 1. Right now I am in a place where I am not particularly inspired or gripped by the gospel. 2. I feel like I don’t really have all of the details of it sorted out in my head in an accurate biblical way and I am prone to leaving out important details. 3. I’m having a hard time figuring out what makes it a “good story” that goes beyond either “pie in the sky by and by” or “Jesus came to fix up my day-to-day life”.

So I’m hoping that you will take a shot and give me your two cents. What is so great to you about the story of salvation?

(Colin’s going to say I’m cheating by asking you all this, but I don’t care )

In a discussion with a couple of pastors this morning on the topic of Christ-centered preaching/teaching it occurred to me that one can bring the accomplished and applied work of Jesus Christ to bear on any passage of scripture, but do so in a way that flatly and simplistically portrays Him. It is good to remember that, for whatever reason, God brought his people Israel down a very long road before fully unveiling the glorious salvation found in Christ. When the Messiah did come, everything that he did and said was pregnant with a profound significance that wove itself through every story of the Jewish scriptures. It is for this reason that we must continually dive back into the world of the Old Testament in order to properly understand and teach others about Christ. To sum up the identity and saving work of Jesus without reference to the story of His people as presented in the OT is to miss who He really is. In a sense, whether we are studying for ourselves or teaching others, we must continually retrace the lines of redemptive history in order to properly place any given element from God’s story.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.

- generally attributed to Abraham Lincoln

I’m going to post one of my favorite little pieces written by one of my favorite authors here, The Fantastic Imagination by George MacDonald. I know it’s a longish thing to post here, but it’s very worthwhile reading and it gets at a lot of ideas that have been influential on me and helped me think about a variety of topics in a different way. I hope anyone else that reads it here finds it equally fruitful.

The Fantastic Imagination

Introduction from The Light Princess and other Fairy Tales, also reprinted in a Dish of Orts.

That we have in English no word corresponding to the German Märchen, drives us to use the word Fairytale, regardless of the fact that the tale may have nothing to do with any sort of fairy. The old use of the word Fairy, by Spenser at least, might, however, well be adduced, were justification or excuse necessary where need must.

Were I asked, what is a fairytale? I should reply, Read Undine: that is a fairytale; then read this and that as well, and you will see what is a fairytale. Were I further begged to describe the fairytale, or define what it is, I would make answer, that I should as soon think of describing the abstract human face, or stating what must go to constitute a human being. A fairytale is just a fairytale, as a face is just a face; and of all fairytales I know, I think Undine the most beautiful.

Many a man, however, who would not attempt to define a man, might venture to say something as to what a man ought to be: even so much I will not in this place venture with regard to the fairytale, for my long past work in that kind might but poorly instance or illustrate my now more matured judgment. I will but say some things helpful to the reading, in right-minded fashion, of such fairytales as I would wish to write, or care to read.

Some thinkers would feel sorely hampered if at liberty to use no forms but such as existed in nature, or to invent nothing save in accordance with the laws of the world of the senses; but it must not therefore be imagined that they desire escape from the region of law. Nothing lawless can show the least reason why it should exist, or could at best have more than an appearance of life.

The natural world has its laws, and no man must interfere with them in the way of presentment any more than in the way of use; but they themselves may suggest laws of other kinds, and man may, if he pleases, invent a little world of his own, with its own laws; for there is that in him which delights in calling up new forms–which is the nearest, perhaps, he can come to creation. When such forms are new embodiments of old truths, we call them products of the Imagination; when they are mere inventions, however lovely, I should call them the work of the Fancy: in either case, Law has been diligently at work.

His world once invented, the highest law that comes next into play is, that there shall be harmony between the laws by which the new world has begun to exist; and in the process of his creation, the inventor must hold by those laws. The moment he forgets one of them, he makes the story, by its own postulates, incredible. To be able to live a moment in an imagined world, we must see the laws of its existence obeyed. Those broken, we fall out of it. The imagination in us, whose exercise is essential to the most temporary submission to the imagination of another, immediately, with the disappearance of Law, ceases to act. Suppose the gracious creatures of some childlike region of Fairyland talking either cockney or Gascon!  Would not the tale, however lovelily begun, sink once to the level of the Burlesque–of all forms of literature the least worthy? A man’s inventions may be stupid or clever, but if he does not hold by the laws of them, or if he makes one law jar with another, he contradicts himself as an inventor, he is no artist. He does not rightly consort his instruments, or he tunes them in different keys. The mind of man is the product of live Law; it thinks by law, it dwells in the midst of law, it gathers from law its growth; with law, therefore, can it alone work to any result.  Inharmonious, unconsorting ideas will come to a man, but if he try to use one of such, his work will grow dull, and he will drop it from mere lack of interest. Law is the soil in which alone beauty will grow; beauty is the only stuff in which Truth can be clothed; and you may, if you will, call Imagination the tailor that cuts her garments to fit her, and Fancy his journeyman that puts the pieces of them together, or perhaps at most embroiders their button-holes. Obeying law, the maker works like his creator; not obeying law, he is such a fool as heaps a pile of stones and calls it a church.

In the moral world it is different: there a man may clothe in new forms, and for this employ his imagination freely, but he must invent nothing.  He may not, for any purpose, turn its laws upside down. He must not meddle with the relations of live souls. The laws of the spirit of man must hold, alike in this world and in any world he may invent. It were no offence to suppose a world in which everything repelled instead of attracted the things around it; it would be wicked to write a tale representing a man it called good as always doing bad things, or a man it called bad as always doing good things: the notion itself is absolutely lawless. In physical things a man may invent; in moral things he must obey–and take their laws with him into his invented world as well.

“You write as if a fairytale were a thing of importance: must it have meaning?”

It cannot help having some meaning; if it have proportion and harmony it has vitality, and vitality is truth. The beauty may be plainer in it than the truth, but without the truth the beauty could not be, and the fairytale would give no delight. Everyone, however, who feels the story, will read its meaning after his own nature and development: one man will read one meaning in it, another will read another.

“If so, how am I to assure myself that I am not reading my own meaning into it, but yours out of it?”

Why should you be so assured? It may be better that you should read your meaning into it. That may be a higher operation of your intellect than the mere reading of mine out of it: your meaning may be superior to mine.

“Suppose my child ask me what the fairytale means, what am I to say?”

If you do not know what it means, what is easier than to say so? If you do see a meaning in it, there it is for you to give him. A genuine work of art must mean many things; the truer its art, the more things it will mean. If my drawing, on the other hand, is so far from being a work of art that it needs THIS IS A HORSE written under it, what can it matter that neither you nor your child should know what it means? It is there not so much to convey a meaning as to wake a meaning. If it do not even wake an interest, throw it aside. A meaning may be there, but it is not for you. If, again, you do not know a horse when you see it, the name written under it will not serve you much. At all events, the business of the painter is not to teach zoology.

But indeed your children are not likely to trouble you about the meaning.  They find what they are capable of finding, and more would be too much.  For my part, I do not write for children, but for the childlike, whether of five, or fifty, or seventy-five.

A fairytale is not an allegory. There may be allegory in it, but it not an allegory. He must be an artist indeed who can, in any mode, produce a strict allegory that is not a weariness to the spirit. An allegory must be Mastery or Moorditch.

A fairytale, like a butterfly or a bee, helps itself on all sides, sips every wholesome flower, and spoils not one. The true fairytale is, to my mind, very like the sonata. We all know that a sonata means something; and where there is the faculty of talking with suitable vagueness, and choosing metaphor sufficiently loose, mind may approach mind, in the interpretation of a sonata, with the result of a more or less contenting consciousness of sympathy. But if two or three men sat down to write each what the sonata meant to him, what approximation to definite idea would be the result?  Little enough–and that little more than needful. We should find it had roused related, if not identical, feelings, but probably not one common thought. Has the sonata therefore failed? Had it undertaken to convey, or ought it to be expected to impart anything defined, anything notionally recognisable?

“But words are not music; words at least are meant and fitted to carry a precise meaning!”

It is very seldom indeed that they carry the exact meaning of any user of them! And if they can be so used as to convey definite meaning, it does not follow that they ought never to carry anything else. Words are live things that may be variously employed to various ends. They can convey a scientific fact, or throw a shadow of her child’s dream on the heart of a mother. They are things to put together like the pieces of dissected map, or to arrange like the notes on a stave. Is the music in them to go for nothing? It can hardly help the definiteness of a meaning: is it therefore to be disregarded? They have length, and breadth, and outline: have they nothing to do with depth? Have they only to describe, never to impress? Has nothing any claim to their use but definite? The cause of a child’s tears may be altogether undefinable: has the mother therefore no antidote for his vague misery? That may be strong in colour which has no evident outline. A fairtytale, a sonata, a gathering storm, a limitless night, seizes you and sweeps you away: do you begin at once to wrestle with it and ask whence its power over you, whither it is carrying you?  The law of each is in the mind of its composer; that law makes one man feel this way, another man feel that way. To one the sonata is a world of odour and beauty, to another of soothing only and sweetness. To one, the cloudy rendezvous is a wild dance, with a terror at its heart; to another, a majestic march of heavenly hosts, with Truth in their centre pointing their course, but as yet restraining her voice. The greatest forces lie in the region of the uncomprehended.

I will go farther.–The best thing you can do for your fellow, next to rousing his conscience, is–not to give him things to think about, but to wake things up that are in him; or say, to make him think things for himself. The best Nature does for us is to work in us such moods in which thoughts of high import arise. Does any aspect of Nature wake but one thought? Does she ever suggest only one definite thing? Does she make any two men in the same place at the same moment think the same thing?  Is she therefore a failure, because she is not definite? Is it nothing that she rouses the something deeper than the understanding–the power that underlies thoughts? Does she not set feeling, and so thinking at work? Would it be better that she did this after one fashion and not after many fashions? Nature is mood-engendering, thought-provoking: such ought the sonata, such ought the fairytale to be.

“But a man may then imagine in your work what he pleases, what you never meant!”

Not what he pleases, but what he can. If he be not a true man, he will draw evil out of the best; we need not mind how he treats any work of art! If he be a true man, he will imagine true things; what matter whether I meant them or not? They are there none the less that I cannot claim putting them there! One difference between God’s work and man’s is, that, while God’s work cannot mean more than he meant, man’s must mean more than he meant. For in everything that God has made, there is a layer upon layer of ascending significance; also he expresses the same thought in higher and higher kinds of that thought: it is God’s things, his embodied thoughts, which alone a man has to use, modified and adapted to his own purposes, for the expression of his thoughts; therefore he cannot help his words and figures falling into such combinations in the mind of another as he had himself not foreseen, so many are the thoughts allied to every other thought, so many are the relations involved in every figure, so many the facts hinted in every symbol. A man may well himself discover truth in what he wrote; for he was dealing all the time things that came from thoughts beyond his own.

“But surely you would explain your idea to one who asked you?”

I say again, if I cannot draw a horse, I will not write THIS IS A HORSE under what I foolishly meant for one. Any key to a work of imagination would be nearly, if not quite, as absurd. The tale is there not to hide, but to show: if it show nothing at your window, do not open your door to it; leave it out in the cold. To ask me to explain, is to say, “Roses!  Boil them, or we won’t have them!” My tales may not be roses but I will not boil them.

So long as I think my dog can bark, I will not sit up to bark for him.

If a writer’s aim be logical conviction, he must spare no logical pains, not merely to be understood, but to escape being misunderstood; where his object is to move by suggestion, to cause to imagine, then let him assail the soul of his reader as the wind assails an aeolian harp. If there be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it. Let fairytale of mine go for a firefly that now flashes, now is dark, but may flash again.  Caught in a hand which does not love its kind, it will turn to an insignificant ugly thing, that can neither flash nor fly.

The best way with music, I imagine, is not to bring the forces of our intellect to bear upon it, but to be still and let it work on that part of us for whose sake it exists. We spoil countless precious things by intellectual greed. He who will be a man, and will not be a child, must–he cannot help himself–become a little man, that is, a dwarf. He will, however need no consolation, for he is sure to think himself a very large creature indeed.

If any strain of my “broken music” make a child’s eyes flash, or his mother’s grow for a moment dim, my labour will not have been in vain.

THE END