Wishful thinking

One of my favourite moments from C.S. Lewis' prolific career comes in his early allegorical novel, The Pilgrim's Regress. In his most obvious parody of Sigmund Freud, Lewis has his hero, John, imprisoned in "Zeitgeistheim", a prison where humanity is revealed "as bundles of complexes" and in which John concludes that "there may be no Landlord [the novel's equivalent of God]" and that "I am mad. I am dead. I am in hell for ever." John is rescued from the prison, however, by a woman called Reason, who is able to ask the giant imprisoning John a series of riddles he cannot answer. Once freed from the prison, John and Reason attempt to rescue the other prisoners, "those who have been Freudianised too long", but they refuse to be rescued, "wailing together and saying: 'It is one more wish-fulfilment dream: it is one more wish-fulfilment dream. Don't be taken in again.'"

The average Australian may not be consciously influenced by Sigmund Freud on a day-to-day basis, but in this one sense we are very much his intellectual children: we don't like to be taken in by anything. Think Darryl Kerrigan from The Castle with his catch-phrase of, "Tell him he's dreaming." We pride ourselves on our state-of-the-art b.s. detectors. There's no fooling us.

But, just as it was for Lewis' prisoners stuck in the "darkness of the pit...and the filth" of Freud's prison, the land of You-can't-fool-me can be a very lonely place to be. In fact, if you take it too far, you can start believing in nothing.

There's something about Christianity that seems profoundly too good to be true. Sin defeated, death overcome, eternal peace and happiness and fulfilment ahead of us...It does sound a little like a pipe-dream, doesn't it? But there's a flaw in our logic that kicks in at exactly the moment we call something "too good to be true". The flaw is this: we assume that something really good must be a fraud, or have some kind of "catch" hidden in it. Why? Because life disappoints us, constantly. So we guard against disappointment by...refusing to believe in anything enough to let it ever disappoint us. Which sounds kind of sad, when you think about it.

If a scientist developed an anti-ageing medication, we'd look into it. If a wealthy businessman offered us his secret to success and happiness, we'd pay to hear him speak, or buy his books. Well, Christianity can top that. Christianity had someone come to earth and say, "I am life. You can't have life without me." It had someone who said, "Death is not the end, and let me show you how I know." It speaks to our deepest cynicism, because it doesn't just come with the claim; it comes with its own credentials, and with its own proof. And those who first expounded its truth to the world knew that it was true, not because they were easily duped, but precisely because they weren't.

We know they all doubted. Some even doubted when Jesus appeared before them, risen from the dead (see Matthew 28:16-17 if you don't trust me). And they were well-acquainted with doubt. They'd found someone they felt they could put all their trust in, someone they could give their lives to follow, someone who (they were pretty sure) was the one God had promised. And then he died. Just like that. You don't recover from that kind of disappointment quickly. So if anyone in human history has reason to feel disappointment with life, any reason to be doubtful and cynical, it was them. So, when they found that it was true, that death had been defeated, that sin had been overcome, they knew they had to give their lives to tell everyone.

It's easy to say, from the sidelines, "It can't be true. Dead people don't come back to life." And you'd be right. They don't. But someone came to earth to change all of that, to show us another way. We don't experience it fully now. We only experience it in part. But, if you let it sink in, the truth of that event changes everything. However things look now, in the darkness of this pit, it will look a whole lot different when we can see it from Jesus' perspective. Because the boundaries have now been changed - the boundaries of what can and cannot happen, the boundaries of what is, and what is not, too good to be true.

What was the question again?

I'm not normally much of a thriller-fan when it comes to movies, but Doug Liman's recent based-on-a-true-story pic, "Fair Game", starring Naomi Watts and Sean Penn grabbed me mostly because the people involved in it made it worth a look. The film deals with the scandal involving CIA operative Valerie Plame-Wilson (Watts) and her husband US Ambassador Joe Wilson (Penn). When Joe is employed by the CIA to investigate an allegation that the Iraqi government is sourcing materials for MDIs from Niger, he finds nothing to support this allegation. Thus, when the US government publicly declares that evidence of such activity HAS been found and uses this to justify the decision to go to war with Iraq, Wilson goes public to discredit the government's claims. The result of this move is that government workers expose Wilson's wife's identity as a CIA operative, in an attempt to make his evidence seem invalid, disgracing both Wilson and his wife in the process.

There is a wonderful moment late in the film when Wilson is addressing a group of students to expose what has taken place. A trick, he declares, has been played on the American public. In revealing his wife's identity, the issue has shifted from the flawed basis for the war in Iraq to questions of his and his wife's integrity:

"How did the question move from 'Why are we going to war?' to 'Who is that man's wife?' I asked the first question. Someone else asked the second. It worked. Its still working. Because we still don't know the truth. But you all know my wife's name."

Something similar, I think, can often happen to us when we are attempting to tackle the big issues of religious faith, but instead get distracted by minute details that are really not important. It happens to me all the time. And the worst thing is that it keeps us circling around the same point and not progressing - that, or we fail to see what the issue really is.

That happened to me this morning. I was reading the story in 1 Kings 10-11, which tells of the great wealth of King Solomon, and then his apostasy from God, caused by his multitudes of foreign wives. Now, the story should have been a salient lesson. Solomon, the story tells us, was the wisest man on earth at the time. He was a great and powerful king, not because he was great or powerful in himself but because he knew better than any other person that "the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom". He began there, and wisdom came next, and with it greatness and power. Then we see the trajectory that, though perhaps unique in its specifics, is relevant to most believers: we may not be tempted to marry a thousand women, but we will all have that something which gradually comes between us and God until it is a veritable wall dividing us. And we can start off so well. But without caution, without a healthy continued fear of the Lord, it could happen to any of us.

But this was not what I thought about when I read that passage this morning. I thought things like, "1000 wives - that's rather a lot. Clearly exaggeration." Or I thought, "Isn't it strange that, given all of Solomon's greatness and splendour, there is no evidence of him as a king outside of the Bible?"

Well, these are important questions to ask, and they do have their answers, if you look for them. That's not the point. The point is that, when you always ask these questions - questions which serve to discredit the Bible when you most need to trust it - then you never get properly fed. You also never get to the real truth, the truth that matters most.

Valerie and Joe Wilson had a powerful government trying to undermine their witness. We too have a force opposing us. It's subtle, invisible, and deadly. For me, it takes on the appearance of a calm, measured intellectual. It will look quite different for you. But the effect is invariably the same. Wherever we should go, whatever questions we should ask, whatever issues we should concern ourselves with, it will do its best to ensure that we go elsewhere. And it can happen when we least expect it. It can happen to the wisest, and the best, among us.

Many notes, one song

Often, in the busyness of everyday life, I find that I either become too single-focused or too busy to keep track ofall the many different strands of life. Though quite different in their effect, each problem leads to the same core result: an inability to appreciate life fully. Either we are overwhelmed by multiplicity or ground to a halt by reductionism. It can damage our relationships: think of the times when, tired, you begin to obsess over the minute details of a conversation gone wrong, instead of seeing momentary thoughtlessness in the broader context of a rich and satisfying relationship. And it can damage our ideals: once we get caught up in living out our ideals, we can easily lose sight of what we first believed in. Picking at theminute details pulls apart the great fabric that once inspired us.

I have found this to be very true in my studies of the Bible. Many theology students will, I'm sure, testify that it is all too easy to become distracted by academic minutiae (was that particular verse really written by Paul?; why did people believe for so long that Song of Songs was written by Solomon, when it probably wasn't?...) that you lose sight of the (much more important) big picture. The small issues can be important but are rarely as important as we think. Nor are they the make-or-break issues that we turn them into. The adage about not being able to see the wood for the trees carries more truth than we often recognise.

Mercifully, God has made life sufficiently rich that we are forced to look at the big picture, at least from time to time. You can't learn right doctrine from looking at a magnificent mountain or hearing a sweeping orchestral movement, but you can be ripped out of your tunnel-vision into a sense of awe that takes you right out of yourself. We need to remember that the same God who created the Bible also created mountains and symphonies. He also created our minds and hearts to feel awe. It all works together in His plan.

Liberal theology comes from focusing on creation more than the creator. Blinkered theology comes from focusing on theology more than the creator. Neither is particularly healthy. So I for one will guard against my standard "bogged-down" perspective. I'll take a walk. I'll listen to some beautiful music. I'll rejoice in laughter and good friendship. None of these, when held in their right place, will lead me astray, though by themselves they are not enough. But God holds it all together - so I will focus on Him and let His fullness put everything in perspective.

Former Glory vs. Future Hope

I seem to have spent a bit of time driving through Heidelberg recently, and have been struck by how many places there carry the name "Olympic". The answer is obvious, of course - Heidelberg was the site for the Olympic Village back when the Olympics were in Melbourne in '56. Heidelberg has gone through quite a few phases in Melbourne's history, first as the beautiful, Yarra-side home of the famous Heidelberg School of artists, then as the Olympic Village, then as one of Melbourne's less glorious Northern suburbs, and now as a slightly gentrified rental refuge that isn't too far from the city. But looking at it you wouldn't see any of what it must have looked like in the '50s, all decked out for the world's finest athletes.

It got me thinking about the ways that places, and groups of people, can cling to their former glories, as proof that they once "meant something". Now, hopefully Heide is taking a turn for the better in this new century but it is unlikely to progress much by harping on about its days as the Olympic Village. That sort of thing doesn't mean much to people anymore, except perhaps for diehard Olympic nostalgists. Of course, our society needs to place more value on the past. We're far too quick to assume that all that has come before us is outmoded and irrelevant, an attitude that would hardly have allowed Egypt's 3000 heyday to happen. No, things of the past, whether recent or ancient, remain relevant to us. But the world is changing, and humans in today's society have a delicate balance to strike: one which allows for connectedness to our past, continuity with human history, and a continued movement into our future. Merely preserving a glorified past that no longer has meaning in our world is not a worthwhile project. But holding onto the threads that have been woven through all human history, and lead us to our true future - there can be nothing more valuable than this, I suspect.

So, when we look at old churches, for example, and remember a fading Christendom, we may rejoice that it is over, or may long for the past to be restored, or simply admire the beautiful architecture and thinking nothing more of it than that. But the past of Christianity is more than just old buildings, and the future is more than a blank space: it has power and definition; we simply have not experienced it yet. If we believe what Jesus declared, represented and achieved, he brought in a new age, one that is only growing stronger just as this world is ageing and dying. If we want to move with the times, that's a bandwagon we would be wise to hop onto. It is so much more than a bygone era of conservative morality; it is a kingdom that exists in this world but does not belong to it, and so is immune from the viruses, decay and general onset of obsoleteness that grind everything human and earthly to the ground. It would be as if the 1956 Olympics represented not only a single event that, once passed, had little significance anymore, but was instead the ushering in of a new age, one that would retain power and impact regardless of what happened around it.

When I think of the bygone days of Christendom, of Constantine and the tyrants of the medieval church, I feel cold and ashamed. When I think of the kingdom that is coming, I want to get to my feet and run straight into it. I hope you can join me.

The ratings are in...

In one of those classic 21st-century moments of "Follow the hyperlinks" while online, I found myself at au.rateyourteacher.com, a website where, as the name suggests, students can rate their teachers. I remember going there in my first year of teaching, finding that I wasn't rated, and moving on. I can't say I've even thought to look there again in the four years since. But there I was, and so I thought that, while I was at it, I'd have a look to see if I now appeared.

I steeled myself, of course, for disappointment - either that no-one thought of me enough as a teacher to even bother rating me, or that they thought of me, but all negative thoughts. Scrolling down the various names of Strathmore Secondary College teachers I told myself that it wasn't a very reliable form of feedback, that kids who went on to rate their teachers would really only bother doing that if they either felt strongly for or against you, that you were unlikely to find a balanced critique on such a site. Well, then I saw my name. Sure enough, I am now significant enough as a teacher to be rated. Phew.

To the ten students, of the several hundred that I have taught so far, who decided to rate me, I would like to thank you. Your average rating of 3.8 is certainly not going to make me seek another profession. But just for the record, my name is spelt "Pullar" not "Puller". A small mistake, I know, but please, our teacher-egos are very fragile things and something as subtle as a misspelt surname can send it crashing to the ground. I expect to see it corrected by the end of the week.

Fighting For Breath

I used to be quite a grouch when I was younger. One symptom of this was that I hated movies which you could describe as "inspirational". You know the sort: the ones ending with either a slow clap, an "Oh Captain, my Captain" moment, or sometimes both. I don't know why I hated these so much. You could say I found them overly sentimental, that life didn't really have these moments, blah-blah-blah. Then I saw a few genuinely inspirational movies and found that, sometimes, being inspired by a movie was a good thing.

There's still remnants of this old grouchiness in me, and some of it may be justified I suppose. I hate it, for instance, when iTunes describe Christian music as "Inspirational", regardless of actual genre. But I'm starting to see that, even when such terms are used as meaningless labels, we can wear them as badges of honour. I think I first began to realise this when I saw an old first-aid poster which used the word "inspiration" as the opposite of "expiration": meaning, of course, to breathe in. Which is basically what the word means: to take in breath. And who can possibly think that taking in breath is a bad thing?

In the Christian life, this is particularly important. It's very easy to think that, when you become a Christian, you breathe in once and then you're set for life. Most of us would at least accept that we need to breathe in once a week (we call that "Church"), and some of us breathe some mornings or evenings (we call that "Quiet Time"). But we still more or less believe that, once you're a Christian, your spiritual walk is a done deal. Yet there are far too many people I know who were once Christians and aren't any more to think that this could possibly be the case. I know all the theological debates, and it is a complex topic, but at the simplest level this is what I think happens - they stop breathing. I've found the temptation to do this in my own life far more strongly than I ever expected. And why ever would we do that? Why would we ever stop breathing? Because breathing is a reflex that we take for granted, and then sometimes it becomes harder than we think - when under pressure, when afraid, when hurried. Most of us do it at least occasionally - think of the phrases "shortness of breath" or "hyperventilating". And so we can do this spiritually just as much as we can physically. The spiritual version is every bit as dangerous as the physical version - more dangerous, because Christ is the source of all life, and being cut off from this is to be cut off from all kinds of life, however the outside may appear.

Think for a moment about the word "inspiration". Look at what word it comes from: "spirit". That's because, in Latin, "spiritus" can mean "spirit" as we understand it, as well as "breath" or "wind". Then look at the Biblical words for the same thing: "ruach" (Hebrew) and "pneuma" (Greek). They also, bizarrely, have that same double-meaning: spirit, and breath/wind. If you know anything about language, and know that Latin, Greek and Hebrew have remarkably little linking them together, you will be amazed to see that this link between breath and spirit is at the very core of the word we use to describe each. So to live without inspiration is not to live.

It's tempting, I know, to stop fighting for breath. It's a temptation that, right now, I face daily. But I won't stop fighting, because the moment I do, my life ends. So let's commit everyday - to be inspired. Read the Bible, pray, talk to other believers, be inspired by the life stories of other believers. But never stop being inspired by God. Never stop breathing Him in.

Ikea and Beautiful Feet

Sometimes life throws up situations where we feel that everyone else knows how to do something that completely escapes us. We scratch our heads wondering why it is obvious to everyone else. Was it taught that day of Prep when we were away sick? Did we not get the memo? Did we forget to buy the newspaper that day?

Most situations in life include handy instruction manuals; but not every situation does. Navigating the wilds of the Richmond IKEA store today, I wished that there was such a manual for first-time IKEA users. Now, my parents took me to IKEA when I was a child, but I can't say I paid terribly much attention to the procedure you had to follow. I remembered certain details - the shape and layout of the check-out area was vividly implanted in my memory; the smell of the Danish pastries available in the cafeteria will never leave me. But basic details such as "how to buy a bed" seemed to have escaped me. Everyone else knew what to do. Everyone else knew how to take down the details of the furniture they wanted to buy, which direction to walk in, where to pick up their actual furniture (because obviously you don't just take the bed that you like and walk out of the store with it). There's clear protocol, and everyone in the store seemed to know what it was, except for me. I felt like I had failed IKEA 101. Well, not failed as such, since I still succeeded in buying a bed, mattress and desk, but not without some embarrassment, and large amounts of confusion.

It makes me wonder if everyone else really understands IKEA, or if they are just good actors, because they too don't want to carry the shame of being IKEA virgins. There was certainly no-one there doing a "500 Days of Summer" routine, which seems the other option to managing the stress of IKEA - run with the chaos; confuse everyone else. No, everyone else was sedate. They seemed to enjoy it. But did they really?

But then my thoughts became a bit deeper, partly to justify my frustration at not understanding IKEA, partly because that's the way my mind works, and I moved into more philosophical territory: what about more important situations, where people need to know how to do something but no-one feels the need to explain it to them? Life, when you think about it, is full of these kinds of situations. I once had a segment in my Friday afternoon Year 12 Lit classes called "I know it's a stupid question, but...", based on the assumption that, if one of us has a "stupid" question we are too embarrassed to ask, at least a handful of other people will be wanting to ask just the same question, and will benefit from hearing the answer. The assumption proved correct. In life, we assume lots of basic knowledge which is not fair to assume. Everyone benefits from having the basics revisited, whether for purposes of reminder or to hear them properly for the first time.

Which made me think of a very moving part of a generally very moving letter - Paul's letter to the early church in Rome, when he asks them this series of questions: "How...can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can they preach unless they are sent? As it is written, 'How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!'" Paul wasn't writing about IKEA, of course, or anything like it. He was writing about the much bigger problem, of how to fix our broken human nature. Is there an instruction manual available for this job? There is, actually, but most of the time people don't know where to look for it. They're like me, wandering helplessly around IKEA, looking for instructions and not finding them.

I didn't notice any particularly beautiful feet today. I did notice that the people I asked for instructions had fairly grumpy faces, as if it should all have been obvious. I would have appreciated a few beautiful smiles. That would have been a good substitute for beautiful feet.

It makes me not want to go to IKEA again. But it does make me want to spend more of my life helping to answer the simple questions that everyone's too embarrassed to ask.