(a/ir)rationality

Yet among the mature we do impart wisdom, although it is not a wisdom of this age or of the rulers of this age, who are doomed to pass away. But we impart a secret and hidden wisdom of God, which God decreed before the ages for our glory.

1 Corinthians 2:6-7


Reality London has been focusing on this chapter in the past few weeks, and God has simultaneously impressed the deeper concepts here onto my heart.

Those that know me, know me to be quite 'cerebral' for lack of a better word. I tend to analyze almost everything. From my own thoughts and motives, to relationships and communication, to religion and philosophy, I apply a strictly logical lens to everything I come across. In these past two or three weeks, I've realized that I've greatly stunted the way I view people and the way I view God. I usually treat others in the attitude that if they cannot rationally explain themselves to me, then I don't accept what they have to say. I had a long conversation the other day with Sara, a friend on project, that made me realize that I treat other people this way. It's easy to scoff at someone who holds a fear they can't explain (irrational fear), but is it right?

Paul preached that it wasn't so. In fact, in 1 Cor. 2:5, he writes that he did not want faith to rest on the wisdom of men, but on the power of God. He's not saying that faith should be against reason, but that it should not be limited to resting on the foundations of reason. He's not aiming for irrationality (unreasonable things), but for arationality (things that expand beyond the scope of human rationality). There is a very real part of the human experience that goes beyond the limits of rational description.

What happens when we try to box this huge universe into our mental matrix? Exhaustion. Pure exhaustion. I've experienced it. Chesterton wrote in 'Orthodoxy', "To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain... The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits." This principle has a decidedly spiritual dimension. Trying to fit everything in the heavens into one's head was precisely the approach that the Pharisees took. As Keller writes in "Prodigal God" this leads to 'joyless, fear-based compliance.' Sound like the 'abundant life' Jesus came to give us? I think not.

C.S. Lewis, who is the very paragon of brilliance to me, discovered the shortcomings of his rational approach to life through the tragic story of his relationship with Joy Davidman. In 1940, Lewis published 'The Problem of Pain,' a rather cerebral work on the existence of pain and suffering and how we could view in relation to our understanding of God. Twenty years later after the death of his beloved wife, Joy Davidman, Lewis filled up a journal with bitterly-toned statements against God-among them, Where is God? ...Go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double-bolting on the inside. After that, silence.

Was Lewis wrong to theorize about pain in our world? No. Was he mistaken to think that a rational approach to pain and suffering could fully describe the human experience of it? Absolutely. Human logic is limited; it cannot define beauty or goodness or friendship or justice or loyalty. It can do its best to describe it, but even when it comes close, it is only a printed photo of the real landscape. Einstein wrote, It would be possible to describe everything scientifically, but it would make no sense; it would be without meaning, as if you described a Beethoven symphony as a variation of wave pressure

To finish this post, let me point out that this blog is written in rational language with ideas. I'm attempting to communicate rational thoughts here. But rational thoughts (even the ones here) only try to describe reality; they can never encapsulate the immense reality of the beauty in this world, namely God's love for us. So don't read this blog as you sip your morning tea, and think, 'what a nice idea.' If what I wrote resonates with you, take the day and try to plunge into the depths of this universe. Personally, I'd start by looking at the author of it.

[I pray] that He may grant you strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.

Infinite Skeptics

An infinite skeptic is a man whose position I do not envy.

I won't delve into specifics, but I really struggled about three weeks ago, when I was placed in a Christian community where I felt that the appearance of righteousness was valued more than a relationship with God. As I'm reading about in Keller's Prodigal God right now, this love of the appearance of righteousness is equally as poisonous to our relationship with God as a sinful lifestyle. Worse yet, it's probably the harder of the two errant lifestyles to be snapped out of.

A rampant sinner recognizes his sin, but someone who counts on saving himself through 'righteousness' thinks they need no other savior. Tim Keller points out provocatively that at the end of the parable of the prodigal son, the wayward son has entered the father's banquet halls, while the older son remains outside (at least at the point that the told story closes). Both disrupt the relationship with the father for material goods. The older son wanted celebrations and a fatted calf, and the younger son wanted his monetary inheritance.

My response to what I saw as a Christianity-sham was to want to run from this 'Everything-that-Rises-Must-Converge'-type Christianity. I found something I didn't like, and I chose to stand aside and point fingers. It's always easier to point fingers and to question than to answer. I started to question for two weeks what God really was doing in most Christian's lives. At some point during this past week, however, I realized that (1) God does act in Christian's lives through his Holy Spirit, but only if we don't opt for this 'older brother' sort of proclaimed self-righteousness and (2) if I continually question everything, I'm going to end up clutching at wisps of vapor as I sink through invisible floors.

In our minds, we build houses and cities and universes out of our beliefs. We start at the foundational level with observations of the world around us, and then start building concepts upon that until we have larger structures that we place on side-streets of cities that host a range of other similar concepts. We connect those cities super highways, and thus make little kingdoms in our minds based on our beliefs about the world. If we choose to begin questioning our beliefs to the point that we start on the path of an infinite skeptic, then our mental structures start to crash to the ground, and we eventually fall with them. It's easier to not believe, but then we become an empty soul. G.K. Chesterton wrote in Orthodoxy 'But the new rebel is a skeptic, and will not entirely trust anything. He has no loyalty; therefore he can never be really a revolutionist.' It's easy to live with no loyalties, but life becomes only about us and our instinctual desires.

How exactly would that sort of a life look like? In About a Boy, Hugh Grant does a pretty good job of showing what that life would look like. The movie opens with his claiming that man is an 'island.' Grant's character soon beings to recognize that his easy loyalty-less life has left him devoid of anything meaningful, 'I'm the guy who's really good at choosing trainers or records, okay? That's it. I can't help you with real things. I can't help you with anything that means anything.' Then at the climax of the film, he's stuck in the position of trying to stop his first real friend from becoming a social outcast in front of the whole school. He does all that he can, but then, as fate would have it, his friend is thrown out to the lions anyways.

Here's where the skeptic is separated from the stalwart. The skeptic would say, 'ah, he's so uncool. I warned him. His loss.' The courageous man says, 'my loyalties lie with him. It's not about consequences, it's about relationship.' Grant steps on stage to join his friend, and becomes part of his suffering.

I've been the skeptic in more than one way. I've stood by to criticize Christianity when I'm chatting about it to my non-Christian friends. I've preferred to do things alone rather than to have to work with someone that I think might 'hold me back.' I've left people hanging because I wanted to do things my way rather than to trust them. These are things I've done to other humans and their institutions. But I have also been a skeptic to God. I struggled near the beginning of this week to stand by my faith during studentlife outreaches. It's easier to distance ourselves from anything awkward about Christianity when we are talking to a skeptic, but if we start breaking down our loyalties simply because we find them uncomfortable, then we end up with a world full of comfort, but no meaning, for meaning is not constrained to the kiddie pool of comfort or pleasure. It is opened in the boundless oceans of frigid, tempestuous waters.

Sarcasm is a fantastic metaphor. I think sarcasm has a great place in community because it fosters an environment where people can let their guards down, and give and take friendly shots at each other in jest. It becomes dangerous, however when people can no longer communicate simple truths with each other. The benefit of sarcasm is that you don't have to commit to a truth. You can say something in a humorous tone and people can take it to mean a number of different things without accepting the spoken words on their literal face value. If we play at sarcasm with our life decisions where we prefer to play around with our purpose and make choices that don't reflect our full heart, than we cheapen the one life that we each were given. Make your choices meaningfully, even when they hurt.