Suffering is the Limit

Mitchell, Brody, Shannon, and Shelby,

Recently I shared a quote from Pope Francis.  It stood out as very meaningful to me and my experiences, so I decided to share it via Facebook.  Sometimes I do these things and I'll get a few people to jump on the "like" button, but very often these little inspirational quotes go unnoticed.  Usually, it's the more complex quotes that people tend to ignore, and in hindsight, it should not have surprised me that the one acknowledgment I got was when someone replied saying that it was nonsense.  I was in the right position so that the language of Francis's thoughts on suffering spoke directly to me in a way that wasn't universal, but highly specific, almost tailored for my reception.  Others wouldn't understand, at least not right away.

Unfortunately, on Facebook people rarely ever ask for clarification and assume that I've phrased things as plainly as possible, so when I try to get across wisdom like this and it doesn't make sense right away, I've had it a few times where people have told me that I don't know what I'm talking about instead of being curious enough to ask "What exactly do you mean by that?"  This this particular instance, the person said "nonsense," that I should stop speaking heresy and start reading my Bible.

Meanwhile, I realize that, given the complexity of the thought, it would be best that I write about it in depth here, where it's more natural to go into depth and take my time.  Now let me repeat the quote, minus the typo:

"Suffering is not a virtue in itself, but the way we accept it can lead to virtue.  We are called to fullness and happiness, in search of which, suffering is the limit.  Because of this, we fully understand the sense of suffering only through the suffering of God made Christ."

Exegesis

I realize that this statement actually looks quite confusing.  The wording works for me, but had it not, what would the most appropriate response have been?  In his book Creative Ministry, Henri M.J. Nouwen says that we shouldn't be competitive with our opinions, but rather be perpetual learners ourselves and always be willing to ask others whose viewpoints don't immediately make sense to us, "Tell me more."  Communication is a two way street, and sometimes we on the receiving end must take the initiative in making sure that we understand.

Therefore, I have to ask three important questions:

1. What is the context in which Pope Francis said this?
2. How can we break this quote down and rephrase it?
3. What parts of this statement are semantically unique to the Roman Catholic vocabulary?

2

Because I'm rebellious and somewhat unpredictable, I'm actually going to start off with the second question.  How can this quote be rephrased?  This is actually, from an exegetical standpoint, the first step in understanding any text, since we must look at internal evidence for meaning to see if it answers itself before resorting to other, possible unnecessary measures for interpreting the text.

Let me brake it down into my more inclusive language:

1. We can't consider ourselves good simply because we suffer, since this is a universal condition of all mankind, but there is a Christian way of understanding suffering.
2. God intended Creation to be good and wishes to restore it to this perfect order.
3. We suffer in spite of this, and we can only find meaning to the sheer offensiveness of suffering in light of God's own voluntary suffering in Christ.

Once you break it down and actually think about what's being said, it's pretty straightforward and there's nothing here that's against the Bible.  It's very sensible, and in fact quite ecumenical.  This initial paraphrase doesn't make any particularly bold truth claims outside of its presumption that Jesus was God.

Yet, there's one thing that I didn't translate that doesn't quite make it into the breakdown.  What am I to make of the statement "Suffering is the limit?"  How does this fit in with the rest of the main theological points?

At this point, I will need to dig a little deeper, because I can't presume to simply know what this means merely by looking at the quote itself.


1

Looking at it now, the post really does need context, and the way I attributed the quote to him is actually a bit misleading.  This isn't a quote by Pope Francis as we know him, but actually before he was pope, and his name was Jorge Mario Bergoglio.  This isn't something that he said while in his current office.

Francis said this after due reflection on his own life.  I encountered this quote by picking up a booklet about him, and here's the two paragraphs that directly led into it:

The family was not rich, and his mother was temporarily paralysed [sic] after the birth of her youngest child, so when Jorge came back from school, under her directions, he would cook ingredients previously prepared by her.  Although they did not lack for the necessities of life, they had few luxuries either, so his father asked him aged thirteen to begin part-time work in a clothes factory alongside his studies.  After a few years, he began to work in the mornings at the Hickethier-Bachmann chemical laboratory, controlling food hygiene, while he attended afternoon classes till 8 pm.  In his interviews with Sergio Rubin and Francesca Abrogetti, published as El jesuita, he speaks of his gratitude for what he learnt through this work, especially concerning the importance of the quality of one's work, of the dignity given by work and of the social consequences of good work and leisure 

His own experiences of suffering, especially during a grace illness when he was twenty-one, in which he lost a lung, have formed his compassion in his ministry.  It was only when Sr Dolores, who had prepared him for first communion, said "you are imitating Jesus", [sic] that he found peace and could make sense of his suffering.  In the light of this experience he says [the quote that is the subject of this entry].

Interestingly, I was writing about the relationship between hard work and leisure a lot the other days.  I also wrote about the ironic sense in which work, in its own way, is a suffering of its own, and yet it can be so fulfilling.

Francis's motto is Miserando atque eligendo, which means, as I'm translating it, "Looking at him who needs mercy and choosing him."  Since Latin is fairly flexible, you could actually order these words in several different ways, but the formula and the relationship created is still the same.  There are two words, mercy and choice, which are conjugated into verb forms and are applied by the active subject of the sentence to a direct object.  "Miserando" means to have mercy, "atque" means "upon him," and "eligendo" is the act of making a positive choice regarding that person.  The theme for Francis's ministry, the words which he chooses to be forever remembered by, are words of compassion.

Taking all this into account, I let it inform me of the personality of the person speaking.  Pope Francis is a man deeply committed to service toward others, and I believe that when he speaks of suffering, he's really talking about two things.  One, he's talking about suffering itself, and two, he's talking about suffering as it relates to service.  Then he, like Mark, emphasized Jesus as the suffering servant.  He began to find justification for suffering once he began going into a vocation of lifelong service, at which point he would have undoubtedly also tried to find justification for service.


3

My sister and I had a talk the other day about how Catholics and non-Catholics often believe in the exact same things, but only don't realize it because different traditions use their own words for a shared belief.  In the case of Catholicism, I've noticed that suffering is uniquely honored in the faith in ways that at first seem unfamiliar to non-Catholics.  Suffering characterizes Lent, in which we are called to suffer like Christ.  Mass is traditionally also considered to be union in Christ's suffering.  Catholics have an intimate relationship with this word and it comes with many preconceived notions.

When a lay Catholic speaks on suffering, there aren't necessarily multiple layers of semantics.  However, when a well-educated Catholic speaks of suffering ---- particularly if he's in the priesthood ---- it's important to understand that his way of acknowledging suffering is intimately tied to a broader series of doctrines and insights that together create a holistic portrait for the faith.

In the history of the Christian tradition, one of the first arguments to end up defining the character of the church was the nature of Jesus.  There were those who struggled with the God-Man doctrine, because it was unseemly for God to empty Himself to the point of being a dependent infant, begotten of the line of Man, subject to the random and arbitrary nature of history, and to ultimately suffer and die.  These were a contradiction, because a God who was omnipotent and eternal could not become these things.  What's more ---- and I believe this is the real reason why most would struggle with this doctrine ---- they believed that God should not subject Himself to this.

In the words of Catholic Answers:

Words fall far short when we are undergoing suffering, and reasoning cannot remedy the profound sense of the offensiveness of suffering.

It's offensive.  It's our natural tendency, as theists, to believe that God should be revered.  Not only should we worship Him, but we should refuse to believe anything so as to make Him lower than what our preconceived notions of what an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, and omnibenevolent God should look like.  In that sense, I'm sure that the Gnostics believed that they were doing Him a favor when they denied His incarnation, and in particular His suffering.  Because suffering was offensive, and to believe that He took on such an offense was a further offense unto Him.

Even today, an occasional well-meaning Christian will struggle with the idea that God was completely human.  Acknowledging that doctrine sounds dangerously close to humanism.  Therefore, while they celebrate Jesus as God, it's hard for them to rejoice in Him as a man.  This still opens some tricky implications, though.  If Jesus was God, than everything He was and everything He did is to be celebrated.  That includes the Resurrection and everything good that happened to Jesus, but how do we celebrate His Passion?  How to we worship and celebrate in His death without indulging in a faith that professes a hatred of God?

Therefore, Gnostics radically reinterpreted history in order to fix this "problems."  The early church was divided, and many of the epistles, particularly by John, address the Gnostic beliefs within their midst.  The Gnostic solutions, to say the least, were contrived, but they had to be in order to counter the offensive claim that Jesus was a human being and that He became subject to the most human of all acts, suffering and death.

They said that Jesus was a human, but that Christ was a separate entity, not unlike the Holy Spirit.  An analogy that might work for some people is that Jesus was sort of like a character from an anime my sister's a fan of, Yugi from Yu-Gi-Oh!, who shares his body with an ancient spirit named Yami Yugi.  Jesus was a mundane human being, although through His miraculous birth He was prepared for His special selection by the Christ.  For thirty years, He lived a normal human life.  Then, upon His baptism, Christ descended upon Him, and He has the Son of God in Him.  It was for this reason that the first thirty years of Jesus' life were unremarkable (because Heaven forbid that the Messiah should enter into the world without fireworks going off every time He ate breakfast).  During His ministry, when He had Christ in Him, He did many remarkable things, and those things could be attributed to Christ in Him.  When He suffered in His Passion, it was Jesus suffering, but not Christ, and when Jesus died, the Christ left His body, because God was too good to die.

By denying suffering, the Gnostics made Jesus more distant and denied His mission, and it was against this heresy that the early church had to struggle against.  The early church fathers, and therefore the Catholic church, had to address suffering in order to make sense of their faith.  The very first Christians came to their faith not by being ideologues, but witnesses, and humbly accepted Jesus' ministry for what it was, no matter how much it challenged their preexisting suppositions.  Jesus' suffering was a fact, and therefore had to be understood.

Therefore, when an educated Catholic speaks of suffering, he identifies it very strongly with Jesus' experiences.  It's the lens from which he understands it, the direction that he's coming from.

According to Catholicism, and historic Christianity in general, the very fact that Jesus suffered validates our own suffering.  He didn't just tell us that it was bad and awkwardly say a prayer for us.  He had enough passion to come down and suffer like us, and with us.  I think it's very important to acknowledge that He suffers with us, because God has a heart for community and relationship.  He has a heart for togetherness.  He proved that those who suffer aren't alone, but rather that all that is good and true in the universe, Himself, the Logos, suffers along with them.  We treat a detached godliness as something to strive for, and sublimity as an ultimate desire, so that when we're suffering, we think something must be wrong.  Yet, Christ suffered, and everything was right with Him.

Suffering, therefore, is beautified.  Catholics respect suffering.  They respect those who go through it, because they are enduring something that Christ endured.  It almost sounds as if they're affectionate of suffering, though, as if it's a good thing, or a virtue, and that isn't the case.  That is why we need people like Jorge Mario Bergoglio to clarify that suffering is still an offense against us and therefore not a virtue, but it is virtuous to accept suffering as Christ did, because Christ did.

Why did Christ suffer, though?

While doing my research, an article on Catholic Bridge explained our reason for suffering in several ways, one of which happened to conform with my interpretation of the Pope's statement that we suffer in order to serve others.  Yes, it is good to find relief from suffering, and we should pray for God's intervention, but when He doesn't take it away, it isn't reason for despair.  There is a reason for it, and one of the reasons is service.

Catholics are not afraid of the Cross. We love the Cross. Catholics feel that if we prayerfully offer up their sufferings to God, they can benefit those in the world who are suffering but who do not know Christ. This is called "redemptive suffering." We don't go chasing after suffering but if it is persistently there even though we pray, then we don't waste the opportunity to use it for good. This is what Catholics mean when they say "I am offering it up."

Christ suffered for us, with us, because He was a servant to the poor.  His suffering was a part of a mission that could not be complete without it.  It had a purpose toward helping others and leading to our Salvation, and it's absolutely necessary.  In 2 Corinthians 5:21, it says that Jesus became our sin for us.  He took on our garbage and our filth, all that was offensive about us, and took the blame for it.  He couldn't just magically forgive us and say that He didn't hold it all against us, because He wanted to fully embrace what forgiveness entails, that is, restoring a complete relationship with us.  God needed to be with us much as He is with Himself in the Trinity, so He came down and forgave us by living life with us, both physically and, through His suffering and death, spiritually.

The Catechism puts it this way:

Moved by so much suffering Christ not only allows himself to be touched by the sick, but he makes their miseries his own: "He took our infirmities and bore our diseases." But he did not heal all the sick. His healings were signs of the coming of the Kingdom of God. They announced a more radical healing: the victory over sin and death through his Passover. On the cross Christ took upon himself the whole weight of evil and took away the "sin of the world," of which illness is only a consequence. By his passion and death on the cross Christ has given a new meaning to suffering: it can henceforth configure us to him and unite us with his redemptive Passion. (1505)

Where is says that He covers our sins for us, that He paid them for us, is standard Christianese and, pragmatically, all we really need to know.  Yet, I took the liberty of adding emphasis to where the Catechism goes the extra mile, right there at the beginning and the end of the paragraph.  It says that not only did He associate with the sick, but He was truly touched by them, inside and out.  He was touched not just physically, but at His core.  This is the type of God who would weep with us when we showed signs of death, because He didn't just intellectually acknowledge our suffering as real but experienced it for Himself.  The Catechism then reaffirms that suffering is purposeful if we don't deny it but accept it and allow Christ to take it on for us, because then we become united in Christ.

To that extent, Catholics believe that by suffering we show salvation to others, because we can more authentically live as one flesh when we suffer together.  It breaks down the barriers we have with one another, and we become one.  Extra ecclesia novum salus.  True salvation requires the reception of a relationship, and we cannot share that with others when we limit our ways of being spiritually available to others.  The Holy Spirit wants to be active inside the workings of interpersonal communion.

Even more poignantly, Pope John Paul II spoke about suffering as a vocation and its salvific implications.

Man hears Christ’s saving answer as he himself gradually becomes a sharer in the sufferings of Christ. The answer that comes through this sharing, by way of the interior encounter with the Master, is in itself something more than the mere abstract answer to the question about the meaning of suffering. For it is above all a call. It is a vocation. Christ does not explain in the abstract the reasons for suffering, but before all else he says: "Follow me!" Come! Take part through your suffering in this work of saving the world, a salvation achieved through my suffering! Through my cross. Gradually, as the individual takes up his cross, spiritually uniting himself to the cross of Christ, the salvific meaning of suffering is revealed before him.

That's a pretty heavy declaration, and very distinctly Catholic to the extent that non-Catholics would instinctively shy away from accepting it, but it also isn't one that's made lightly.  John Paul II knew what suffering was like.  He knew it well, more than most.  He had the right to talk about it.  He also looked at Christ and saw a God who, though He was better than him in every way, was nonetheless relateable.  As much as Catholics celebrate life every mass with the Eucharist, His suffering is still a historic fact of His ministry.  It's intuitively obvious that God should live.  That God should resurrect  --- that is to say that He must come back to life after having suffered and died ---- is another ordeal.  It says a lot about His nature.  It was such an out-there idea that many had trouble believing in it, and the Gnostics came up with wild theories about how Jesus and the Christ were two different people, and that the Christ was not in Him when He suffered.  He saw a Christ who didn't ask him to enter into the suffering to be more Christlike, but a Christ who entered into suffering much like him.

He speaks of taking up our own cross, and that could sound enough like a call to give up pleasure in pursuit of righteousness, but that isn't exactly what he's getting at.  After all, he had already been suffering.  It isn't something he chose to do; he received the offense of suffering in one form or another whether he asked for it or not.  Taking up one's own cross involves making peace with our own suffering and accepting it for what it is, that it doesn't distance us from Christ but rather gives us an idea of just how humble He was in order to experience what we experience.  Incidentally, this also gives us strength.  We don't become superhuman, but when we're free to make peace with our pain and offer it up to God, we're enabled to endure it better.

Some would still hold John Paul II suspect for claiming that through our own suffering we take part in saving the world.  That sounds a lot like humanism again, like he's claiming that Christ's sacrifice wasn't enough.  Except it is.  Christ's sacrifice, and particularly His resurrection, is enough.  He's saved us, and our salvation comes from having the identity of Christ in us.  Because God can't say our name anymore without acknowledging His Son, it transforms us.  If we confess that we're free to truly be who we really are, then we can truly be with one another.  We can live with them and die with them.  Through that relationship, the Holy Spirit works wonders.  Through genuine relationship, it redeems the messenger and the receiver of the message.  We share the Word with people by truly sharing ourselves.  That is how salvation spreads.

Another common opinion that people have is to suppose that we cannot possibly enter into Christ's suffering, that nothing compares to His sacrifice.  They're right.  They're also wrong.

Have you ever heard someone try to be optimistic and say "At least it can't get any worse!"?  Then, of course, the irony gods feel provoked enough to respond with a thunderclap, followed by an instant downpour of rain.  Things just got worse.  In the same way, imagine if Jesus, in the midst of His crucifixion, comforted Himself with the same motivational thinking.  Then it rained, or a Roman officer decided to stab him in the groin a few times, or scorpion crawled onto Him and stung Him several times.  It doesn't take much imagination to imagine how that death could have been worse.

As a writer, I've explored the idea of pain through science fiction.  I invented a character who had his spine ripped out, replaced with a cyborg spine, and had his brain altered to that he could experience pain beyond that which was humanly possible.  At the end of the day, we have only so many nerve endings to pick up pain, and our brain has only so many neurons to comprehend it.  This character had his limits unnaturally redefined to the point where he experienced pain fifty-three times greater than what a human technically can biologically experience.

At least it can't get any worse.  Well, no, not really.  This young man thought that he was the be-all and end-all of suffering, until someone else much, much later in the story came around and willingly suffered even more.  This person had his brain transformed so that it was bigger on the inside, the size of a universe, and converted into the substance of time-space itself so that it didn't have biological restrictions.  He was then inflicted pain to great that it literally filled that entire universe.  Every unit of quantum foam of space and time within him groaned under the weight of physical and mental pain.  He was in agony.  The human brain processes information at about forty miles per hour, but one side of his universe-sized brain could conceive the pain on the other side of his cranial universe instantaneously, a billion times over.  All the while, the people who inflicted this on him mocked him, and let him suffer while the wicked prospered.  They inflicted pain on those he loved, and those he loved turned their backs on him.  He was constantly reminded of his past sins and made to not only suffer, but to hate himself.  It shattered him.

Right there, I just imagined a type of suffering that technically eclipses Cavalry.  To enter into Christ's suffering, therefore, does not necessarily mean to be beat, whipped, and given a slow, torturous death.  I think that it's unfortunate that Catholic ministers use the term all on its own, "entering into Christ's suffering," when on its own it sounds so presumptuous.  It makes non-Catholics think that Catholics are full of themselves or blind to the blackness that Christ went through.  That isn't the case.

Catholic Answers puts it this way:

Indeed, the suffering of Christ overcomes the worst possible suffering of the human person—permanent alienation from God, the source and summit of all goodness. All suffering in this life—like all happiness—is imperfect, partial, and finite. Even the worst possible human life, spread over the longest spans, comes to an end. Hell does not. It lasts forever. In comparison to the pains of hell, the worst human suffering on earth pales. Jesus saves his people from hell.

All suffering is finite.  Even Jesus' suffering while on earth was finite.  Cavalry was finite.  It doesn't matter if we suffer in exactly the same way as Jesus did, but rather that we suffer at all, and that we acknowledge that through this suffering we share our humanity with Christ.

Christ's suffering came to an end.  He died.  No matter how much we suffer or how much we receive blessings, we all die.  It comes to an end, all of it.  Except, according to the [Apostle's Creed], which the Catholic church acknowledges, He descended into Hell.  This would, by definition, be perfect suffering, and one that I do not believe that we an ever truly endure in this lifetime.  I do not know if the Catholic expression that we enter into His suffering covers this area of Christ's ministry.  If this statement by Catholic Answers is anything to go by, and if the author's statements perfectly represent Catholic doctrine, than no.  We never have to consider ourselves as being peers in Christ's trip to Hell.

This now sounds more like something non-Catholics can be comfortable with.  That all sounds about right and consistent with ecumenical Christian beliefs, just expressed in different words.  It also leads into where they're technically right when they say that we can't truly feel what Christ felt when He suffered.  John Paul II says:

His suffering has human dimensions; it also is unique in the history of humanity—a depth and intensity that, while being human, can also be an incomparable depth and intensity of suffering, insofar as the man who suffers is in person the only begotten Son himself: "God from God." Therefore, only he—the only begotten Son—is capable of embracing the measure of evil contained in the sin of man: In every sin and in "total" sin, according to the dimensions of the historical existence of humanity on earth. (SD 17)

At the end of the day, our suffering is merely human suffering.  That's bad in itself.  I can't put a value on just how bad that is.  It's not like we can say "Look on the bright side: it's only suffering."  Only suffering?  Is there anything worse than suffering?  Something worse than suffering, though, would be suffering.  Still, there's an added dimension to this.  None of us can experience suffering on the sheer level offensiveness as it was inflicted on Jesus.  It is our place in life to suffer, but Christ was innocent, and furthermore, He was God.  Considering His divine identity, His was suffering on the most depraved level.  He took it on.  He accepted that insanity.  At least with us, we can suffer and call it just.  Yet, for God Himself to suffer, it's like dividing by zero, and it literally redefines the universe.

In this way, the Catholic faith reaffirms what non-Catholics believe about Christ's suffering.  It admits the greatness of His incarnation and His ministry and His death.  It also reaffirms that he truly suffered on our behalf, and that His life and only His life is sufficient for us to live ours in eternity.  The Catholic faith doesn't teach "He does His part and I do mine."  It teaches something very familiar.  Again, it's in different words.  It's painted in different colors, but it's there.  There are still some discrepancies, and among other things, not everyone agrees on exactly how much this peace, once it is revealed to us, outwardly transforms us.  Not even all Catholics agree on that one, so at this point I can't really speak for the Catholic church on what a Christian looks like, and I'm merely speaking from myself and my experience.

Finally, the Catholic church has to address this problem of pain.  It's a church founded by witnesses to the greatest representation of truth the world has ever known.  It's founded in history and in actual experience.  The church has to address suffering and synthesize it with its worldview.  Suffering isn't something that can be escaped but rather a universal, inevitable part of the human experience.  The job of any religion isn't to try and come up with a poetic story that sounds good on its own, or to force an agenda on reality that prevents us from seeing it as it really is.  It has to explain suffering as we actually experience it.  In the words of Dr. Robert Stackpole:

So, in Catholicism I found the bloody crucifixes not to be disturbing but just plain honest, because that's precisely where most of us are, most of the time, in one way or another: We are with Jesus, on the Cross. The fact that the Son of God Himself once cried out on the Cross: "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" (Mk 15:34) is one of the greatest comforts of the Catholic faith to me.

This isn't liturgical language, but a Catholic writing in his own words, sharing his own life with anyone who cares to listen, and I think it hits the heart.  Jesus shared in our suffering on that cross, admitted to its existence, validated it.  He didn't say "On the bright side, it's only suffering," because He knew how terrible and wrong even the slightest bit of suffering is.  This is a personal God.  This is a God who comforts us by being with us in Spirit and Flesh.  This God is the most realistic, personal God there is.  Once people realize that, they finally make peace with their suffering and live.  They will also become more compassionate, more honest, more truly themselves because of Christ's suffering.

Hermeneutics

Asides from the deep semantics, there's a personal reason why this quote stood out to me.  It brought out some thoughts that I had been having, and I thought that quoting the Pope on this could function as an appropriate prelude to them once I felt I was ready to share them.  Some of those thoughts I already covered when I explained the Catholic views on suffering, and that's natural, because I believe this is all tied together.

Around Easter time, I had made some thoughts perfectly clear: that I didn't believe that we could forgive out debtors but rather allow God to forgive them, and that Jesus' greatest achievement was not the crucifixion, but the Resurrection.  I've been thinking about what else I had to say on that subject.

When Francis said "suffering is the limit," then, it gave me something to think about.  I could explain everything else he said, but his use of that clause didn't make sense.  Even after all this exegesis, I still can't quite explain what he meant.  It's just sort of there.

So what I say now, I don't necessarily speak on the behalf of the Pope.  These are just my own thoughts, the things that he got me thinking about.  To say that suffering as the limit, though, strikes me, and it gets me thinking, because something about that made sense to me.

One thing I thought was maybe that when we pursue rebirth, it's necessary to die along the way.  Another thing I thought was that all suffering is suffering, and we can't say "On the bright side, it's 'only' suffering."  Also, I considered that there's something to say here about how death is the ultimate penalty for sin and, after that, we can do nothing more to pay for it.

Considering this within the context of servanthood, though, I thought about what we could do for others in our pursuit of the coming Kingdom.  How are we limited in our service?  What boundaries has God set in place?

Well, here's what I suppose.  Jesus died, and then He resurrected.  As it happens, I'm going to die, too.  That's an act of suffering, a curse put upon me for my sins and the sins of my distant ancestors, Adam and Eve.  Dying doesn't make me virtuous, of course.  It just makes me dead.  Everybody does it.  This suffering, this apparent final act, caps my ministry on this Earth.  The very best I can offer my neighbor is to love them unto death.

What I can't do for them is to resurrect myself after my death so that they may have life.  I can preserve life, for a while, but I can never create it.  I cannot be a source of life for them.  I can't.  Only Jesus can do that.  Only Jesus could rise from the grave.

Because of that, I suppose I will rise from the grave as well, someday.  However, by then, I think that my calling for service will be over.  I think it will have ended when my final act of suffering reached its limit.

I can suffer for them, but I can't give them life.  Instead, I pursue happiness and fulfillment, expressed through my hope for the coming Kingdom, by living it out today and living as Christ did, but lowering myself, emptying myself, and giving up glory for the sake of truly being with others by taking on the curse of the world with them.  In a way, that's life.  It isn't necessarily salvation, but I suppose that it make salvation possible.  My passion is the limit to what I can give others when I share the Gospel.

Acknowledgments:

These entries have lately become more and more about essays filled with research, citations, and challenging exegetical conclusions, and so as not to lose track of what I set out to do in the first place, I really want to really address you specifically, especially since time has gone by.

I want to give you all my heartfelt thanks.  Shannon, you were a godsend in helping inspire me to finish the second half of this entry.  You also such a sister in Christ when I expressed my love of Christ but my annoyance with Christianity.  From one blogger to another, thank you.

Mitchell, we're reaching the end of the spring semester and I suppose you'll be busy, so I think I'll wait for another couple of weekends before calling you.  The phone call I had with you this last Easter, though, was one of the freshest experiences I've had in all this last month.  I really look forward to the next time that we can catch up.

Brody, it was a pleasure talking with you on Easter, too.  I tried calling a lot of people, and you and Mitchell were the only ones who picked up, which was a happy coincidence.  You two are the two I consider my best of friends, and if I could have called only two people, it would have been you.  So that worked out just perfectly.  Anyway, I hope that things go awesome down in Mardi Gras land.  Also, though I don't want to call it quite yet, I just want you to know that I might get a new job over the summer and have that kind of work schedule you had last year, with work weeks totaling up to 80 hours or so, all of it dedicated to welding.  It's intimidating me, but you're an inspiration.

Shelby, congratulations on the engagement!  I know I told you that in person, but I just want to also get it in writing.  I'm officially congratulating you, happy for you, and wishing the best for you.  Justin's a great friend, and now I no longer feel uncomfortable and tentative about all those jokes I made about you two tying the knot.  Remember that painting I gave Justin?  I considered including you in it as one of the great things in his life, but at the time it was just a little presumptuous.  Now I know that if I do something like that again for him, I will have some interesting new things to include.  I hope to be able to make it to your wedding, and even if I can't, I also hope to have a great wedding present prepared.  And if neither of those things, by goodness, I'll just wish you the best!

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

The Easter Body

Mitchell, Brody, Shannon, and Shelby,

The other day, I came across a website that claimed that Jesus' death on the cross was a myth created by Christians.  One of the author's reasons for contention, besides his own wild conspiracy theories, was that crosses didn't start to adorn Christian tombs and art until a couple of centuries after Christ's death.  I don't know if that fact is completely true, since he was a conspiracy theorist and I have been able to verify many of his historical claims to be false, but since I'm currently writing this without any access to the internet and cannot Google "Earliest references to the cross," I'll assume he's correct.

The reason being that, even if this was true, it only emphasizes the main point of our faith.

It's weird that the cross would be the symbol for our faith, when you think about it.  It represents an important part of the process, Christ's sacrifice, which truly is important in how it allows God to forgive us while also being completely just.  Yet, that isn't what our faith is about.  It isn't about suffering.  It's about trusting in God's promise to sinners that we shall inherit eternal life.  It's about the completion of a covenantal bond.  It's about something good.

Just the other day, we celebrated Easter.  For some reason, I tend to see a lot of artwork right around this time of year having to do with the cross.  Even I, when I hand myself over to a fully automatic thought process, think of the crucifixion when I think of Easter.  "Christmas is for the birth of Christ, but Easter is when we start talking the important things that symbolize our entire faith.  If there's ever a time to spread the word of the main message of our faith, it's on Easter!  What's the one things that the world can't secularize?  Jesus' death.  It's the most distinctively Christian of all the Christian doctrines!"

Because, you know, the cross has become an ecumenical symbol of our faith.  What do you see when you approach a church?  Almost everywhere you look, you see artwork and architecture modeled after the cross.  That, and actual crosses.  "The Cross" has become a synonym for "Jesus."

So naturally, this holiday that gets down to the fundamentals of our faith must be about the cross.

Except not so much.

Actually, our faith is about the Resurrection.  Specifically, a bodily Resurrection.  Jesus had to overcome, on every level, the curse spread throughout Creation when Eve accepted the serpent's lie.  By defeating death, He undid everything that the serpent accomplished.  By removing the curse from himself, the curse ceased to be an absolute power within created order.

The way early Christians commemorated this was through something we call the Eucharist.  They took the bread and the wine, confessing that it was the the actual presence of the Lord.  This was their symbol, and this was how they marked themselves, for this was indeed who they actually were.  Through the Resurrection, we have actually become Christlike.  They saw people publicly tortured to death on crosses all the time, but it wasn't everyday that they saw a person come back to life.  The crucifixion paid the penalty for our sins, but we aren't restored to our proper relationship with God on such graceful terms unless we accept the Resurrection.  It's His gift, fully paid for on the cross, and fully given to us through the Resurrection, for all of us in His holy church to receive.

The Son rose to life from His grave.  Therefore, I believe that the Son rises to life in all of us who accept His incredibly expensive — and completely free — gift.  God points His finger at us and says "You are the body of My Own."  It's so ridiculously spendthrift of God, so generous beyond all human expectations, that it's no wonder that it takes great faith to fully accept it.  Yet it's true.  It's the Gospel, the Good News that Jesus preached when He repeated, again and again, that the Kingdom of Heaven was coming.

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

Forgiveness from a Cross

Mitchell, Brody, Shannon, and Shelby,

Jesus died on a Friday.  Many of His closest companions said that they would never turn their backs to Him, and yet that's exactly what they did when He entered into His darkest hour.  It's a pretty grim story.  For some reason, we make that the banner for our faith, as counter-intuitive as that seems.

For as long as I can remember, the main tenant of my faith, as taught by both my Catholic mother and Reformed father, was "God forgives."  That was the entire Gospel, all there in just two words.  Many might think that it was insufficient, but after hearing those two words to describe my faith over and over and over again, it was all I needed.  I believe in God.  I also believe in forgiveness.

Someone else will try to butt in and introduce their own buzzwords.  "We are righteous for God."  "Praise God from Whom all blessing flow."  "There is a God and you must be baptized in the Holy Spirit as evidenced through speaking in tongues."  "You have no need to worry for the future if you just trust God."  "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your mind and all your soul, and love your neighbor as yourself."

Interesting pieces of wisdom, but what about forgiveness?  When I speak of Grace, I'm always referring to forgiveness.  Forgiveness is absolutely central to our salvation.  It's nothing that we do.  It's merely accepting forgiveness for our past, present, and future iniquities.

But what is forgiveness?  It isn't necessarily just ignoring sin.  If anything, that's apathy.  God had pretty strong words to say about apathy.  He would rather us either to be hot or cold, but apathy is so dangerous that he spits lukewarm Christians out of his mouth.

Forgiveness isn't moving past the sin.  Forgiveness is dealing with that sin.

In the parable of the unmerciful servant, people always seem to end on the note that the servant should have pardoned his debtor just as his master pardoned him.  I never saw it that way; why didn't the servant go to his master and ask for him to help with the additional debt?  After all, the servant had already been pardoned of quite a huge debt himself, a few small silver coins shouldn't shouldn't make much of a difference to the master.

Think about this: The servant was not only in debt, but I'm just assuming that a significant portion of what money he did have he had lent out.  So even though he was no longer in debt, he was still in a financially precarious situation.  He was short on money.  Sure, he could have forgiven his debtor, but that would have meant accepting that he could never have again what was rightfully his.  It might be a noble sacrifice, but it's still altogether unjust.  We shouldn't have to be merciful at the expense of being just, because there will still be something unbalanced in the relationship.

So I just wonder why he didn't ask the master to pay the second debt.

The moral of the parable, for me, looks like this: "If you can trust me to forgive you of an unpayable debt (which, I know, looks too good to be true), then you can trust me to remedy the debt that someone else owes you."  I think that this faith requires some eschatological hope, since in the real world I can forgive someone for hurting me, but that hurt will still be there.  It won't, however, continue to be there when the Kingdom of Heaven arrives.

So when it comes to forgiveness, I'm going to be honest.  I'm not in the financial situation, spiritually speaking, to pay off any debts owed me.  I can't fix a relationship that's been broken, because I can't die for someone else's sins.

Because that's what forgiveness requires.  Forgiveness requires death, even death on a cross.

Which is why it's all the more of a relief to know that we have been forgiven!  You didn't think that Jesus would go all that way only to leave the job half finished, did you?

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

As We Also Forgive Those Who Sin Against Us

Mitchell, Brody, Shannon, and Shelby,

Also Levi and Valerie,

Not so long ago, I said that I didn't believe in forgiveness.  My ideas weren't particularly influential or popular, but I strongly stand behind my views on the human capacity for forgiveness.  That is to say, I don't believe that any of us truly forgive each other.  Not for the big things, not for the little things, either.

When someone commits a sin, they deliver damage.  They owe you a debt, as Jesus put it.  Sure, you can relieve them of the responsibility of paying that debt, but somehow that debt must be payed.  Until then, the damage is real.

"Forgive because you have been forgiven."  Except I don't see this ever truly at work in the lives of Christians.  I see hatred, sometimes right on the surface, other times merely tucked away.  Whatever the case, and however we try to rationalize it, I really don't think that human beings ever forgive.

I've been walking for some time and have had the opportunity to look around.  I've looked left, right, up down, inside, outside, and I have created panoramas by spinning around in circles to take it all in.  I've searched for things, and stumbled upon things serendipitously.  Whenever there's something worth seeing, I stop.    From what I've seen of the world, I'm certain of my opinion, and it's unfortunate that because it sounds jaded and pessimistic that people are going to assume that I'm just responding from bad experiences, that someday I will have a change of heart as I encounter something more inspiring.

This isn't pessimism, though.  It's just realism.  I believe in this because I believe that we need a Savior who had to take on all of our sins on the cross.  Forgiveness had to start somewhere.  It began there.

When we make forgiveness something easy, something we can simply do if we're feeling merciful, it isn't really forgiveness.  One of our best recourses is to say "I realized that it wasn't such a big deal after all, so I just forgave her."  Yet, if a sin was never a big deal, if it lacks a basic aspect of realness, then we basically forgive our debtors for nothing.  In order for forgiveness to be real, the sin needs to be real.

Sometimes we merely forget sins committed against us.  We run away from the possibility of considering them genuinely as bad as God considers them, and we file these sins away in our short-term memory.  I won't congratulate people for saying that they forgave someone merely because they forgot what the sin was.  "Forgive and forget" never really sat well in my book.  I don't want to ever forget about the things that happened in my relationships with people, the good and the bad.  I want to remember those relationships for exactly what they were.

No sin can ever go unpunished.  A crack in a relationship must be reconciled.  The way that we "forgive", those cracks remain there and we're content to merely walk along with a relationship that gets increasingly fragmented over time.

Once I talked with Justin about a cinematographic idea.  I thought about what it would be like to film a movie through a cracked lens, and to allow the lens to continually grow more and more cracked as the story went on, representing the seemingly irreconcilable brokenness of the family in the frame.  People would, at times, choose to feel good, but those cracks were always there.

So forgiveness, as we usually understand it, doesn't really make the sin go away or properly deal with it.  It's merely a means of managing the symptoms of debt.

There are some good things in this strategy, though.  I won't deny that.  I think it's a good decision, albeit not an entirely complete one, to choose to not obsess over a debt.  We shouldn't dwell on the sins against us, nor should we resent people.  I believe that it's possible to get rid of resentment without forgiving someone.

It's just that these sins do need to be addressed.  These cracks have to actually affect something.  Someone has to feel actual hurt for these actual sins.

How is it, then, that we forgive someone, being fully conscious of their sins and their true weight, and not in some way hold any resentment against them?  I don't think that we do.  Although I will say this: God forgave their sins.

"Shouldn't you have mercy on your fellow servant just as I had mercy on you?"

Maybe.  Maybe I should have mercy.  I can't bring myself to actually truly forgive, not as authentically as God does.  I can only mimic the symptoms.

However, seeing as their sins are forgiven and the lost relationship has been paid for and restored, I suppose that I can have mercy on them.  I can't forgive people with my heart, although maybe I can forgive with God's heart.

So your sins are forgiven.  Not by me since I never really fixed anything.  I didn't offer anyone life.  Your sins are forgiven, though.  So while I haven't learned the fine art of forgiving and I haven't seen anyone else actually forgive, either, I'm fairly sure that we can still get into a good habit of surrendering judgment to God.

Until then, I don't think I've ever forgiven anyone of any sin ever committed against me, and I don't think I will until the final judgment comes.  Then we will be given new bodies and new hearts, and there will no longer be any cracks in the lens.

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

Response to "Eleven Things I've Learned About Forgiveness"

Mitchell, Brody, Silly, and Shelby,

But in particular, Silly.  I said that I would call you that for the rest of the month, and today is the last day in March, so I figured I'd get around to that response to your blog entry, Eleven Things I've Learned About Forgiveness, now.  One, because I said I would.  Two, because this will give me as many opportunities as I can, in one entry, to call you Silly before April comes.

1) Posting a public list of insults against you is probably not for healing; it’s for sweet revenge. Knock it off. {I say this aggressively to myself, because it’s so classic and tempting.}

I guess I've never been tempted to rationalize one of these lists this way.  In any case, if I were to publicly list the sins someone committed against me, it would be because I wanted justice, not mercy.  And that's to say that justice isn't a bad thing.  There are times were I think that someone's sins should be known, because for the types of issues at hand it's important.  So in other words, I think the question is whether or not my desire for justice is marred with vengeful thoughts.

2) Going to sympathetic friends when you are hurt & wounded is not your first step towards forgiving the offender; it’s your first step towards hating the offender. Because good friends empathize and tell you what a beep beep beeeeep your offender is, they will fuel your fire of hatred. But great friends…great friends will empathize, love on you, give you all the hugs {physical or virtual}, and then move you toward a better version of yourself–a version not twisted with hatred.

Sometimes I wonder if a friend should sometimes actually sympathize with you and share your sense of justice.  As in, there are times when people have hurt me, and when I'm angry about it and go to a friend to talk about it, I really don't want them to play Devil's Advocate.  I do want them to be genuinely sympathetic.

However, I do also want a friend who who will steer me to being my best self and try to prevent me from wallowing in hatred.  I don't want them to do this by judging me for my hatred, though.

As it happens, I can think of that one grudge I had a year ago.  It was very strong.  I still have it, but I at least it isn't as strong now and it isn't directing my life.  Shelby, you and Justin really helped me wrestle with this, and I'm also glad that you really waited.  Hannah also waited for half a year before saying that the person in question really wasn't worth it.

As best as I can describe this experience, it played like this: You guys didn't necessarily reflect my passions the same way I did.  I wouldn't expect you to, since it was my own struggle.  You weren't part of that world and couldn't take ownership of the conflict in the way that I could.  It was uniquely my own.  I wouldn't want you to be quite as angry as me, although I did definitely want people to be on my side.  I wanted people who understood why I felt as wronged as I had been.

Otherwise, I guess I did hope for my friends who help me reach a resolution.  I'm not sure what I wanted.

In any case, those are my thoughts.  Not too different from yours, actually.  Although I'm trying to think of the best examples of what that looks like.  That, and I think that the unconditional love of the friend is the most important thing, and that we should love our friends regardless of whether or not they ever truly come up from that hatred.

And yeah, Silly, you were of help, too.  I know you were looking at me impatiently and waiting for me to give you your due.  Now you can stop it with that look.  No seriously.  Stop it.  You're freaking me out!

3) Sometimes you need to say goodbye to past people and things before you can say hello to new people and things. Say goodbye properly. Process through it.

This is more or less what I've done.  It wasn't truly forgiveness, though.  There are things that I don't think I can truly forgive.  I merely move on and decide that I'm not going to think about it anymore.

4) Forgiving the obvious sins of your offender is difficult enough, but forgiving the subtle nuances of things that drive you crazy and make you mad and don’t make sense is WAY HARDER. Because there’s no logical reason that something so small should drive you so crazy; it just does. 

Figure it out. Put a finger on all the little things twisting your mind up with bitterness. Bring it to God and ask him to wash it away. Or if you can’t let go of it yet, if your brain simply needs one. more. thing. to hold against your offender, beg God to set you free.

Usually I can put a finger on the little things because I'm aware from a very early stage why they irk me.  I don't know, though, that's just me.  They certainly add fuel to the problem, though, and make it more real for me.

5) Don’t be afraid of admitting to God all of those “stupid little things” that made you mad. Trust me, He gets it. Remember that our great High Priest is able to “empathize with our weaknesses,” for He “has been tempted in every way, just as we are–yet he did not sin.” {Hebrews 4:15} Jesus was probably tempted to be bitter towards Judas for betraying Him–a big thing. But Jesus was probably also tempted to be bitter when Judas stepped on the back of his sandal or cut him off on His way to the well–all of those “stupid little things” that add up. All of those “stupid little things” matter to God, because they matter to you. He’d love to hear about them from you. He’d love to process through them with you. He’d love to take them away from you.

You know, those stupid little things often don't bother us too much, when you look at the big picture.  99% of the time, they annoy us for one second, and then our attention gets diverted.  Just because we don't hold it over their heads, though, it doesn't mean that we forgave them.  It's more like we turned those small little things into infinitesimal, nonexistent things.

6) It’s okay to be tired. Allow yourself to be tired. Forgiving someone is exhausting. You may look like crap; you may be pale; you may have eye bags turning into Darth Vader’s helmet. Remember that you are beautiful.

Very helpful advice for someone struggling with forgiveness.  I think that it's basically what you guys allowed of me.  I got very, very tired and you guys still treated me like I was beautiful and worthwhile.

7) Don’t yell at yourself for being a jerk. Or being a doormat. Or being weak. Don’t feel shame about yourself–period. We all have our unshining moments. And God still loves us.

The duality of either being a doormat or a jerk reminds me of the book Boundaries.  Great book!  But yeah, there are different ways of going about unforgiveness.  When you're a jerk, you're overconfident in yourself as an agent of justice.  When you're being a doormat, you're using superficial forgiveness as a means of avoiding real forgiveness.

We do that because we're broke.  We're corrupt, spiritually bankrupt people, and we fall short all the time.  Yet, we're forgiven.  God expects us to forgive us, and yet...Somehow, even when we don't, He's surprisingly merciful and very patient.

So it's basically really important to always recognize how you are forgiven for not forgiving your neighbor before you can even begin the process of actually forgiving your neighbor.

8) You have been hurt, and you can admit it. I affirm your right to feel hurt. Mourn for yourself and for the hurt that you feel. Feeling hurt is part of being human. And God loves you for being human. He made you to be human. He likes you best this way. He doesn’t condemn you for feeling hurt. In fact, He feels your hurt and longs to heal it.

Wow, Silly!  Your wording here is so strong!  I don't have any additional thoughts, because you captured so well what I might have said, only much shorter.

9) Accept love. If you feel at your ugliest–unlovable and unworthy of love–then you need love the most right now. Let God love on you. Let your friends and family love on you. [And if no one is, if no one sees how desperate you are for love–ask them. Ask them to love on you.]

Thanks for the advice about asking.  That's actually a novel idea to me that I need to repeatedly remind myself.

10) Understand where your offender is coming from. See things from his perspective. If he is lashing out to hurt you and make you feel unloved and unlovable, that’s probably how he feels: unloved and unlovable. Apologize, when you can–especially now that you know what it feels like. Acknowledge that you played a role in making him feel like crap. Acknowledge that he played a role in making you feel like crap. Acknowledge that you have both hurt each other deeply; mourn that.

I don't necessarily think that this is forgiveness so much as immersing ourselves in accountability.  It's being more wise in our judgment.  It's recognizing that we both need forgiveness.  But in some ways, I really don't think that this really has to do with forgiveness so much as rationalizing away bad deeds, both those of our own and those of our neighbor, until we reach the point where we've decided that there's nothing to forgive.

Otherwise, it's good advice, but I want to be realistic about all the other things that are required.

11) Move on. If you have legitimately forgiven someone and feel at peace with him in your soul–move on. If you haven’t forgiven someone and are still festering, stay there until you heal. Don’t rush the forgiveness process just because you want to be rid of the offender. Chances are, if you still want “to be rid of” him, you haven’t truly forgiven him. And that bitterness will eat you up. It will make you an uglier version of your beautiful self. {psst! It’s not worth it!}

I think that very often we equate moving on with forgiveness.  I don't.  I really don't.  I think that all those times when I've moved on, I really just didn't want to deal with the hatred anymore.  And it did a lot of good for me, truly.  At the same time, no, it wasn't ideal.  I never truly forgave.  I just put those things on the backburner once they no longer became relevant to whatever I was doing at the moment.

Alright, that's it.  I responded to Silly's entry, like I said I would.  It feels good to have that out of the way.  Make sure to check out her blog at Silly Sparkle!

Yet, about a month ago I went to this thing with Shelby called the Elevate Conference.  Levi and Valerie were there.  We had an interesting conversation about forgiveness.  I think I will share some of my thoughts on that tomorrow.

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

The Nostalgic Now

Mitchell, Brody, Silly, and Shelby,

People in our family enjoy fishing.  I have to wonder how many people, in the business of life, take time out of their schedule to go out to a river or a pond, attach a string to a pole, attach a hook to the string, attach bait to the hook, and then throw it all out into the water to catch a fish.  When I think about it, contemporary America doesn't really give me that impression, especially now that I live in the city.  But my family enjoys fishing, and I grew up with it so that now I have a few memories that most people don't have.

My father loves to fish.  He loves the whole fishing season.  Now please don't ask why; no one quite knows the reason.  It could be that his head isn't put to much use.  It could be, perhaps, that his shoes are too loose.  But I think that the most likely reason, if you really dig, is that his heart is two sizes too big.

The great irony in this is that, by his own admission, he's not a good fisherman.  He rarely ever catches fish.  Still, he loads up his truck, finds a spot, and starts fishing anyway.  He doesn't even know what to do with the fish once he catches them, and just lets them go.  Yet if his actions weren't proof enough, you can tell how much he loves to fish when he opens his mouth and rambles on about subject matters that would classify him as a redneck if it wasn't for his clear "nerd talk."  I believe the term for it is "Asperger's Syndrome."

Fishing with my father is an insufferable experience.  He will talk on and on about things that interest him, and if you don't share that interest, too bad.  I sometimes go fishing with him, but mainly out of my determination to have a relationship with my father.  We all have to make sacrifices.

Yet, in spite of how boring fishing has become, I see why he loves it.  I see why people in my family generally enjoy it.  I hope to fish someday and enjoy it, too, and also be enjoyable while fishing.  I hope to talk about things that matter, talk about life.  The past, the present, the future.  Eternity.  That which we have faith in.  That which we hope for.  That which we love.  And to top it all off, things that are absolutely meaningless.  It seems to me that this is what fishing should be all about.

I was walking through town the other day, and I enjoyed the recent heat wave that rushed in out of nowhere.  For years now, my regular attire consisted of fine dress clothes, but I wasn't always that way.  I remember the summers where I only ever wore t-shirts, and I didn't care what I wore.  I remember being a kid.  I also wish I had enjoyed the moment.

Well, here was that moment.  I thought, "You know, I want to enjoy this."  So I did.  I now have a very good memory of that Tuesday afternoon, for no reason whatsoever than that I decided that I wanted to embrace that moment.  I loved it.  I loved the sunshine, and the hills, and the backstreets and the obscure parts of town.  I loved the silence of some neighborhoods, the robustness of others, and when I later told my mother about this over the phone, she didn't really quite understand why I loved it so much.

Now I want to enjoy it again, when I have time.  Except this time I would love to enjoy it with the people that I love.  Maybe longtime friends.  Maybe new friends.  I can see myself getting to know someone and spending a couple of days doing nothing but walking through town.  It's nostalgic for me, and it hasn't even happened yet.

And then, what if I took them fishing?  I didn't always find it boring, after all.  And you know, I felt something warm make its way through me.  That knot in my back that I've had this last week temporarily melted.  It felt right.  I want these moments to happen, those moments where you don't do anything but exist.  "Six days," said God, "ye shall work and do all your labor.  But on the seventh day, find rest."

Everything slows down.  Time halts to a stop.  The sunset glows with warmth and lazily overlooks its handiwork, knowing that it fueled a day of play and innocence.

These are the days of our lives.

Then Monday comes and we pick up our hammers, slam the iron over the anvil, and create sparks.  For some, this is Hell.  This is work.  This is the hectic work that detracts from life.

This lazy pastime, fishing, was also the primary source of income of the apostles.  It was work.  It was hard, manual labor.  It was hectic, full of worries about tomorrow.  Yet it wasn't Hell.  It was fishing.  It was intimate.

When Jesus walked up to them, most of the apostles were fishing.  It was what they had done for as long as they could remember.  I don't think it was easy for them to give this up in order to follow him.  As it turns out, they didn't quite have to.  He helped them with their fishing, and I wonder what that must be like.  To be on a boat with Jesus.  To have Jesus there, physically right beside them, with calloused hands and suntanned back, casting out a net with you.

Or maybe a net isn't your thing.  Maybe it's nursing.  Maybe it's welding, or carpentry, or farming.  Whatever it is, I can imagine Jesus being right there, working jut as hard as you.

"What are you doing?" you might wonder.  "Aren't you the Lord of the Sabbath?"

"Yes, I am the Lord of the Sabbath," says He.  "I am also the Lord of Creation, and in six days I created the Heavens and the Earth.  I am here.  I am working on Creation right now, with you.  I want to be with you, sharing in what I created you for, right this very moment."

Rest is a good thing, but that's not the only time that we enjoy life.  There's something very good about this hard work.  God loves it so much that for every Sabbath, He made six workdays.  When we think of people being at peace, we often imagine them resting, but I imagine a worker with seasoned shoulders lifting his tools of the trade high and leading the way for others with his industrious spirit.

You're a writer after my own heart, John Hooyer.
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Well, that's not exactly what I meant.  I think we might be inclined to ask ourselves which is more important, the workdays or the Sabbath days.  Is true spirituality fully found in our work or in our rest?  Even though I don't necessarily see the full relationship between work and rest, I don't see a conflict.

It is important to keep in mind that while good work is peaceful, work is not peace itself.  Work can be a sign that someone isn't overly caught up in religious Christianity and simply lives a life of faith, but hard work can and has — on very explicit terms — become a religion.

When traditional religion was outlawed in Russia, the Communist Party was ushered in to replace it.  In other words, Communism and communistic values became the new religion.  If you had asked Stalin if that was a fair description, I wouldn't be surprised if he agreed with that wording.  "Yes, Communism is our new religion."  Communism valued hard work.  They treated it like the ultimate spirituality, as the ultimate expression of a human's humanity.  With the hammer and the sickle, they glorified the worker.  Was there anything more noble and sweet?  Perhaps one: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.  The Communist Motherland was the ultimate cause, and hard work was the ultimate means to that cause.

History has another example in a Chinese rebellion.  Not so long after China adopted Communism, there was a rebellion among working class citizens who wanted to abolish all intellectual trades.  To them, there was nothing more noble than manual labor.  Everything else was a lie.  The writers, legislators, lawyers, judges, and so forth had no purpose.

This reminds me of the natural backlash that we might have against religious Christianity.  When we find that overseas evangelism and Bible study group leaderships aren't our things, it only takes one swing of the pendulum to say that "True Christians would be a hard and humble worker like me!"  In other words, we make a religion out of previously non-religious activities.

What is the difference between the spirituality of work as I see it and the spirituality of work as Stalin would see it?

The answer, you know, is Grace.  Grace that we might work not in order to earn anything, but out of a natural expression of our identities.  Grace we might not have to worry about success or failure.  Grace that we might be Christians on all seven days of the week.

Stalin saw work as something glorified, a necessary spiritual means to a spiritual end.  He saw work as producing spiritual fulfillment.

Whereas I guess I just sort of get nostalgic when I work.  Nostalgic for the past, yes, but I'm also reminded of that restful Tuesday evening where I walked through town and felt glad for my present.  So in a way, I'm caught up on the Nostalgic Now, and I let my work be a part of that.  I see how all of the past and the future come together to create these short moments.  I see how I've been made to live in the present, and how the only sane reaction is to love it.

My identity is not in the present, though.  The present is merely the point where our time touches Eternity, to paraphrase C.S. Lewis.

I believe that we humans are all homesick for our proper place in Eternity.  We're homesick for the relationship between us and God that we lost when Adam and Eve sinned.

That relationship has been restored, though.  And because of that, even though we don't fully live in eternity yet, we have blessings in the present.  We can live in the now and feel nostalgic for something other than the past for once.  We always long for something, but now we can direct our longing to something we already have.  The Present.  The Nostalgic Now.

This restores us in all things, our work as well as our rest.

As opposed to Stalin's worker.  Yes, the Communist will find something redeeming in his work.  He will put some identity in it, some faith in it.  And you know what, it's founded in truth.  There's genuinely something good about work, since it's what we're made for.  Yet, they can't access their spirituality without that work.  When they rest, it's in order to appreciate the handiwork of their labor.

For me, when I work it's to appreciate the handiwork of my rest.  And yes, that works the same in reverse.  Each is the fruit of the other.  Each is also independently its own thing with no need to be defined by the other.

Most importantly, both "work" and "rest" can describe the state of fishing.

In order to truly fish, someone must know something.  He must know himself, for sure.  Fishing builds that sort of internal relationship.  He also needs to know the Fisher.  The One who invented fishing, the One who spoke it into existence.  True fishing involves a relationship.  It involves Jesus.

I find it interesting that Jesus' inner three disciples were all fishermen before He met them.  Then, after they walked with him and had their world turned inside out, filled to the point of overflowing with revelations that changed absolutely everything to the point where they simply couldn't live the same way, brought to tears by a physical encounter with the Risen Lord, they returned to fishing.

It really almost seems anti-climactic, and yet that's how John ends his gospel.  You could say that it's a literary device to emphasize the importance of being fishers of men, but even if he hadn't emphasized it, that doesn't change the fact that the disciples returned to fishing.

You know what I think?  I think that it must have been one very special pastime.  And they evidently weren't doing it because they were looking for Jesus, either.

As flawed and as broken as he was, in spite of how much he had denied Jesus, and also in spite of how much he was about to inadequately confess his love for Jesus very soon, I think I saw something that only Grace could give.  In spite of how big his world had become, Peter had returned to fishing.  He found himself now a little more content with the relationship he had with the sea, a little more at peace with his work.  The sheer size of this new universe helped him appreciate the small things like fishing even more.  John never spells it out, but I do believe that Peter returned to his work with the faintest tingling of love.

That love which is given to us is the fuel that gives meaning to all that we do, in rest and in work, in sickness and in health.  Because God is big, we're free to be small.  Because Christ died for us, our small things are made big.  Because Christ is alive, He has a relationship with us.  Because we have that relationship, we can either work or rest and still be completely ourselves.  Because we are ourselves, we have the Truth.  Because we have the Truth, we have life.  Because we have any life at all, we have eternal life.

And our limited Now becomes an Eternity.

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

Religion of Anti-Religion

Mitchell, Brody, Silly, and Shelby

We've all heard of politically correct.  How about "religiously correct?"  That should really be a term.  It's applicable.  And these days, the religiously correct thing to say is that we're against religion and all for faith.

Except it gets a little formulaic.  "I'm not religious.  I'm just spiritual."  It's like we flex our Holy Spirit whenever we say this.  "Oh, religion?  Yeah, I have no need for that, because I'm Christian and counter-intuitive like that."

Then we call out people who do things that look "religious" instead of "spiritual."  Reformers call out Catholics.  Pentacostals call out Reformers.  People of the "Church of Christ" denomination claim that their not a denomination and anyone who does belong to a denomination isn't part of true Christianity (even though denominations are necessary in a world where not everyone comes to the exact same conclusions on some of the deeper questions of the Christian mystery).  Then, offering up their alternative, each denomination, church, and individual shows their way of being Christian that is so good that it doesn't need religion.

Yet I take a step back.  I look from the outside.  People who don't belong to Christ look at the church, and what do they see?  They see Christianity, and then Islam and Judaism and Buddhism and so forth.  They are all belief systems — religions — with their own unique creeds, codes, and conducts.  To many, Christianity's belief in a community in Christ is inherently a religious one.  If someone wants something purely spiritual, they might instead go to Buddhism, or Confucianism.  Definitely not Christianity, because it simply doesn't stand out in the way that we claim it does.

So perhaps we have to be a little more honest and reevaluate the way we experience this faith.

People still say, "No, you don't get it.  Just look at it.  All we do is love each other and read the Bible and follow Christ's lead.  It's not about what we do, but accepting Christ's forgiveness!"

Ah, okay, now that you put it that way...

No, it still sounds religious.

Now, reading the Bible isn't a bad thing.  Following Christ's lead isn't, either.  And loving one another most certainly should be commended.  It's just that, to be honest, we do use religious language to frame these ideals and put them into context.

Religion doesn't save you.  Absolutely not.  Yet, it's something that often leads people to faith, isn't it?  Just like the Bible does.  Technically, the Bible itself doesn't save you.  Neither does the Message it's preaching.  It's the actual historical fact of Jesus' death and resurrection — and the proceeding Grace — that saves you, if you accept it.  Yet, nobody's going to deny that the Bible is important and should be embraced by Christians.  So why not religion?  Properly understood, religion is a guide that helps us get to the point where we can make our confession of faith, and after that it can be a healthy expression of faith.

When people criticize Christians who are "religious," I think that they should step back and think about what it is that they should really be criticizing.  As it happens, I'm not incredibly "religious" most of the time.  I'm proud of what I do and the life that I'm living which, to the untrained eye, looks secular.  Yet, I don't harp on my friends who express themselves in more visibly religious ways.  I'm very happy for them.

What, then, is our real concern?  It's when religion, as a system or as a name brand, becomes the vessel for salvation.  It's when we begin to promote Christianity instead of Christ.  Or more subtley, when we begin to promote "being Christian," because it's the religiously correct way to say "Christianity" without making it sound like we're promoting organized religion.  It doesn't have to be organized in order to be religion, you know!  Any framework through which we interpret reality becomes, in effect, our functional religion.  It's an inherent part of being human.  Therefore, religion is inevitable, because we're always interpreting something.  The question is, will proper faith lead us to a proper religion?

More specifically, if religion replaces Christ, it's really a sign that we've reached the point that we don't believe in Grace.  It might be a part of the religion, sure, but the religion doesn't spring from the faith.  The religion comes first in the matters of the heart.  We put our faith in that, and we lose sight of Grace.  We aren't saved by Grace — we're saved by "being Christian."  Christ doesn't have all the answers — Christianity does.  We start believing that a certain set of behaviors, mixed with the right attitudes, will get us going in the right direction.

That's essentially the same thing that happens when we're saying that we're spiritual instead of religious.  We've learned the religiously correct terminology, the words that the censures inside our brains haven't so easily detected yet.  The word "spiritual" is still essentially religious, though.  If religion is ultimately our framework for understanding reality, then spirituality is another form of religion, only in this case it is a personal religion.  We should pay close attention to not put spirituality in place of Grace, either.  At the end of it all, it only becomes another way in which we "control" salvation so that it seems more acceptable and predictable.

It's come to the point where religion and spirituality, to me, only appear to be two different names with separate connotations but ultimately the same definition.  Even the golden word, faith, is often just a synonym for these.  The only difference between faith — that is, true faith — and religion is that someone can technically have a religion and not follow it.

Against many, I wouldn't be surprised if most of this is really only a straw man argument.  I think that most of us realize that religion has its place.  Still, I think that it's an appropriate reminder, and a call back to continual confession that by Grace alone we are saved.

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

P.S. I told you that I was going to call you Silly O'Wacky for the rest of the month, and I stand by that statement.