For Lent this year I am spending time in the Psalms with the help of Elizabeth Caldwell’s new book Pause: Spending Lent With the Psalms.

The first week of Lent has found me in Psalm 25, considering the theme of “paths”. Caldwell leads her readers in a series of reflections regarding where we find ourselves in our present moment, and how we measure this moment according to this push and pull in Psalm 25 between its two central descriptives- waiting for God and taking refuge in God. Quoting Walter Brueggemann, she writes,

This mismatch between human ambiguity and divine singularity is the hallmark of biblical faith

Hence we find the invitation. The invitation from Caldwell to consider

• How has our path of faith been enriched or hindered by the ways we have come to or continue to understand the nature of God’s relationship with humankind

And then by the Psalmist to consider, could it be that in our turning our face upwards to God we might find that God is the one who has been waiting and present all along.

One of the outcomes of these invitations is encountering a very real and present tension- do we fear that instead we might find a God who is otherwise? If so, Caldwell’s question wonders about where this fear emerges from. As she says, we all inheret our paths of faith. We do not walk these paths apart from the world that shapes us. Thus part of the challenge, part of “seeing a way forward”, to borrow Caldwell’s words, “requires vision, strength and imagination.”

It is this last one that captivated me. For when we feel stuck in what what feels like a reality framed by God’s absence, God’s judgment, whatever it is that frames our beliefs in the present about the nature of  God in our lives, this is when those longings and desires for a God who is present and with us and acting for us requires seeing differently. It requires a sanctified imagination. Or in other words- a realized hope. It is here that the Psalmist can provide us a pattern for moving from a place of fear to a place of hope:

Psalm 25 is structured in the following way:

• Beginning (verses 1-3)
• Middle (4-15)
• Conclusion (16-21)

Caldwell points out the significance of two repetitions of three- 3 times of waiting (3, 5, 21), and three times of affirming God’s hesed, or love (6, 7, 10). Its here where we find that push and pull, that te

The chapter is also framed by two bookends which begins in verse 1 with an act of turning upwards (I lift up my soul) so that ones oppression and struggle might be made low. This has the sense of changing ones vantage point, of gaining a different point of perspective in the midst of difficulty and struggle. Of changing spaces in ones “imagination”, not to do away with the struggle, but to frame it in light of God’s promise to show up in its midst. An imagination that is able to hold the promise of God to make right what is wrong in this world.

The other side of the bookend, the concluding section, similary begins with a refrain, but this time it is marked by the request for God to “turn to me”, once again evoking the repeated phrase “do not let me be put to shame.” As in, do not let my act of turning be in vein. Do not let my act of turning show this hoped for expectation to be wrong.

In my struggle, I turn with the expectation that God will likewise turn and face my struggle.

This feels so resonant with my own life. In my experience, this is the tension that a life of faith represents, reality pushing in threatening to overturn my imagination, and my imagination pressing back to say no, there is more to this reality than I can see from this present vantage point.

My eyes are upward. God, please, make yourself visible in the silence, in the absence. This is the sanctied imagination, informing what it means to wait on the Lord.

The flow of the introduction outlines some first steps- To(wards) you I turn. To you I give my fears and longings and desires.

The next step, repeated three times in verses 1-3, is found in the refrain “do not”, which rings out simitaneously as both a proclamation and a request. Perhaps most striking is the way this phrasing appears to hold God to account.

It is as we enter the middle section that we hear what the Psalmist is holding God to account for- “your name” (verse 11). Thus this is not about getting God to bend to our demands, but about us trusting in who God has declared Himself to be. It is about claiming this to be true in the midst of a reality that appears to say otherwise. That appears to throw the whole thing into question.

Do not, O Lord, for your “names” sake.

These do nots then gain clarity and specificity in verses 4-7 as they morph into do’s.

• Make me
• Lead me
• Be mindful of me
• Do not remember my sins

If God has said, or more correclty in light of God saying that He is good and upright (verse 8), we come to an important therefore in the passage. Therefore,

• instruct
• lead
• teach

In what? In steadfast love and faithfulness (verse 10).

What’s striking here is the immediate connection that emerges within this tension filled plea for God to “do not” (and subsequently to do), and the clarifying invitation presented for us to choose one path or another. Or, as I imagine this phrasing, to either follow the path of our fear on one hand, or to follow the path of our hope on the other. As the Psalmist states, “teach them the way that they should choose.”

Theologian Michael Gorman has been a big influence on my life when it comes to my theology, adhering to what he calls participationalism, or participationalist theology. The philosophy behind this is simple- as opposed to propositional knowledge, knowledge (of God, of the world, of self, of others) comes through participation. We know by living. We know through participation in a given reality. But this pushes even further. More statedly, we know what we live. Thus to live differently is to see differently, to know the world, to know God, to know one’s self, to know others, differently.

This knoweldge, the knowledge we week when we turn our face towards God, is for those “who fear the Lord”, the Psalmist declares in verse 14. And in a fascinating use of poetic repetition, this arrives in response to the preceding question, who are they who fear the Lord (verse 12). This brings together the two fundamental relationship of this act of sacred imagination between doing and knowing. Who are the ones who fear the Lord? The ones who fear the Lord. To fear the Lord is to become one who fears the Lord.

Thus, although this sounds obvious and trite, I think it holds profound significance for our lives. The true essence of faith is not blind hope, but willful allegaince to that which we believe to be true. Faith is, more appropriately, rendered faithfulness. This is what brings the Psalmist to  the concluding verses.

To you I turn (verse 1) now becomes God, turn towards me (verse 16). Relieve me (verse 17), consider my affliction (verse 18-19), guard my life (verse 20). All of this is stated to be God’s action.

For I take refuge in you (verse 20). For I wait for you (verse 21). These thins are indicative of our action, setting us in direct relationship to the God we trust will meet us in this movement, in this dance.

If it is true, as Caldwell suggested at the start, that we all inherit the paths that shape us, the Psalmists firm conviction becomes this simple, stated truth. By allowing our imagination to change the space we occupy, the place in which we stand, we then find ourselves being shaped differently precisely as we begin to live into this new reality. As the Psalmist puts it, a new reality that is shaped through integrity and uprightness. This is the hoped for transformation that we seek in the midst of our present. Thus this should buffer any temptation to want to reframe this as “if I do this, God will redeem me,” which is one step away from rewriting this Psalm to read “if I do this, I will redeem myself.” This notion is precisely how we come to trade a sanctified imagination for our present reality in the first place. The psalmists call is for God to preserve (verse 21) them through their participation, a participation which flows from occupying a different vantage point, a different vantage point. Which is to say, our participation mirrors the reality which we occupy, the reality which we give allegiance to.

A final point I’ve been mulling over. The juxtaposition of the popular image of narrow and wide paths is familiar to most, even if one is not directly familiar with the scriptures. It has become part of our common language, not unlike the phrase “the prodigal son.” This may be taking too much liberty here, but I found myself wondering about the usual interpretation of this motif as representing the easy and hard path. Meaning, we are called to choose the hard (narrow) path over the easy (wide) one. Setting this within this context of this Psalm, with the Psalmist asking God to instruct us on the right path, it might then be understood that our present reality is easy, but the path that God requires of us is hard. This seems to be a bit at odds with what I’m hearing from this passage though. I wonder if there is room to consider a slightly different approach to that whole motif. Here the picture is one of uncertainty. I am on this path and the gap between my fears and my hope feels and appears wide. Thus the temptation is to align ourselves with this reality, acting as though our hope is not true. We begin to seek after the many ways this wide path affords to try and make it through on our own in a world where the promises we hold to do not prove true.

In contrast, the narrow path emerges as a reshaping of how it is we travel this travel the path we are on with God. It is a narrowing in on God’s persepective. It is obtaining a knowledge that reshapes not our circumstances, but how we see. It allows our circumstances to move us towards necessary transformation. It exchanges that uncertainty for hope.

The hard part then is not the travelling, but the turning. Why is that the hard part? Because we fear it might prove not to be true. We fear that our imagination, our hope, might prove false. Thus we stay stuck on the wide path, fighting our way forward on our own terms, desperate to cling to our illusions, or even giving in to them when they prove themselves to be false. This is easier than facing those fears head on, because the much harder thing is taking the risk that faith represents.

Perhaps this is where the books invitation to “pause” really comes into play, into a point of clarity. Pausing not so that it might lead us into a place of inaction, but rather to lead us towards a place of clarified action. Where we are free to act. The act of turning towards God so that our fears can be reshaped by hope. The act of reclaiming the freedom to imagine.

The final refrain in Psalm 25 reads as follows

Redeem Israel, O God, out of all its troubles

This is ultimately where this week has brought me. This is where the I, or the me, of the passage suddenly gets recast, at least for modern readers of the text whom might be conditioned to see everything through the lens of the individual, within a larger story called “Israel”. A story, if we’ve been paying attention, that is found both in the familiar language of exile which covers this text, but also in the language of promise, or covenant. The Psalmist is speaking not just of Gods particular action in their own life, but of the broader question of the expected promise of God’s redeeming act which holds each and every particularity, every hope, desire, and need, in its grip.. The ushering in of the promised new reality, the new creation that the story of Israel imagines for us in the face of what is the true enemy- the enslaving Powers of Sin and Death. Its a stark reminder that no matter where we find ourselves in the present, all of our particualars are caught up in this essential word- God is making all things new in our midst, and God has made all things new in our midst. God is true to His name, a name that has been revealed through the story of Israel.

This is in fact the good news of the Gospel. In the person and work of Jesus we find the inbreaking of this promise in the resurrection of the one who fulfills it. The story no longer speaks from the position of exile, it speaks from the position of this resurrected reality, echoing with the Psalmists own longings and desires by saying the time is now, the long awaited knidgom has finally come. God has in fact been turned in our direction all along. As modern readers of the Psalm then, what informs our waiting is the perspective of this new, resurrected reality where a redeemed Israel gets caught up in its own wanted vision and imagination- Jesus’ fufillment of this story, of this idea called Israel, is now, at long last, proclaiming the redemption of the whole.

How much more then do we stand with the Psalmist saying,

Make your ways known to me, Lord; teach me your paths (25:4)

On the latest episode of The Good Fight (title: Jonathan Rauch on the Politicization of Christianity), host Yascha Mounk interviews Jonathan Rauch about the role religion plays in society, the subject of his latest book. In it Rauch, for as much as I disagree with many aspects of his approach regarding religion and religious history, says something that I found both rare and shocking when it comes to how atheists often speak about religion. He calls out the “patronizing”nature of atheists attempting to make space for the good of religion while completely neglecting and ignoring its most necessary quality- the fact that people are only religious because they believe it to be true. If people didn’t think it was true they would abandon it. Mounk uses the parallel of secularized democracy, imagining what it would sound like if we said well, I know democracy doesn’t actually exist, but I’m glad people believe in it because we would be worse off without it.

Atheists who do this are essentially engaging in what is a condescending pat on the back, almost like using a perceivably amicable and friendly apologetic for secularism to say, oh look how silly their beliefs are, isn’t that cute. Why don’t we, standing above them in the great truth of secularism, pretend like we can have an intelligent conversation with them and maybe they’ll come around.

For as terrible as the whole new atheist movement was in all its vile hate towards religion, this new approach almost feels and appears to be worse. It’s like they are taking a page out of Christian apologetics, but doing it not in satire but in seriousness.

As Mounk and Rauch flesh out, this shift from seeing religion as the source of all that is bad towards seeing religion as a potential source of good, or from seeing religion acting in tension with democracy towards seeing religion as  a positive for democracy, is, to borrow Mounk’s phrasing, justified on the basis that “it is the right kind of approach to what religious faith means in the secular world.” This is the most telling qualification. We will tolerate it for as long as it doesn’t undermine our own beliefs. And yet, what becomes abundantly clear throughout the epidsode are the clear contradictions that underlay this sentiment when talking about they ultimately need from religion to make secularization true.

For example, while they acknoweldge that what lies underneath the clear politicization of religion we are seeing today, which they see as the source of its decline and failure, is actually the loss of that religious identity which can produce the sort of things that benefit societies. And yet, in saying this they are continually forced to straddle this line between entertaining religion as a social construct while ignoring the fact that these benefits are tied not to the construct but rather to a belief system, They want to acknowledge that the helpfulness of religion is bound to the necessary beliefs that allow for things like morality and meaning to emerge, while similtaneously ignoring the fact that they do not believe religion to be true. This actually strips the necessary foundation from the equation. It becomes a contradiciton.

Now, I can perceive that me saying that could be called out for placing too much burden on rationality, and likewise imposing unhelpful black and white binaries. I’ve been told this by many an atheist. Rauch at least admits this when he describes his own journey. He states that he has never been bothered by the question of mortality, and that he is content not being able to defend believing in morals without a foundation.

In other words, he knows and understands his limitations, and he is content with letting these contradictions be, precisely because he is certain religion, to quote, is silly on the level of belief.

Welcome to the patronizing being snuck right back into the equation.

Here’s what I find even more fascinating. Rauch centers his rejection of religion in his “not being bothered by mortality.” And yet he misses the actual concern of religion, which is what we can logically and rationally say about life, or the living. Which is awfully curious, because he goes on to assume all kinds of secularized beliefs about life and the living that, if I was afford it the same treatment and response he affords religion, could be deemed “silly” and irrational.

And yet, to his credit, he still acknowledges what is lying underneath the surface of his approach. Rauch states that he wants to get away from speaking of religion as social structure, where we might say “religion is not true, but I’m glad other people believe it.” This is the patronizing effect he wants to apparently avoid. And yet, seemingly because he cannot act otherwise given that he cannot escape the necessity of his own belief, he engages in it on the very next turn of phrase.

Also to his credit, I think he uses his awareness to bring two imporant observations or questions to the table regarding the questions secular liberalism cannot answer apart from religion-

• Why I am here
• What is the basis for understanding good and evil as something other than a competition between personal preferences.

He later calls this being “colour blind”, by which he means that people of faith are able to see this world with a deeper dimensionality than those without it. Rauch states that he himself, and thus his own belief system as an atheist, is incomplete without answers to those questions. Thus secular liberalism and religion remain in existential need of each other.

Mounk pushes back asking a necessary question- where do we draw the line between being jealous about how religious people see the world, see truth, and the need to understand when and how and why seeing something we don’t believe to be true can become a problem rather than a good? If we believe it is not true, is the virtue in exposing that as an untruth, even if it benefits society? He is pushing Rauch to actually attend for the inconsistency and contradiction that is created when we state on one hand that the religious are seeing something that we recognize as good and true, while similtaneously stating on the other hand that we don’t in fact believe it to be true. In one telling point, Rauch states that, in a society where religion exists, secular liberalism gains the freedom to not have to asnwer the bigger questions.

Which to me feels precisely the place where I have been told by many an atheist that I am placing too much weight on rationalism. Which has always been baffling to me. Its clear neither the host nor the author live this way, as though these bigger questions don’t matter or aren’t relevant. It’s clear they absolutely do and absolutely are. These truths are inteegral to how they live. Mounk describes himself as an agnostic, meaning he lives as though God is not true. And yet, based on this convo it becomes clear that he lives quite the opposite. He lives as a secular atheist (or agnostic) in a world where he can assume religious truths without having to acknoweldge their foundation (beliefs).

Things get more strange when Rauch moves to assess the present state of Christianity as the dominant religion and its possible renewal. I think he rightly describes part of the problem, even if his history is problematic, by parallelling the way the mainline churches shifted to a social gospel, eventually coming to believe they could serve the social Gospel without the trappings of religion, and on the other side the evangelicals calling for a return to the true faith embraced politicization, eventually comning to recognize that they can do politics without the trappings of religion. This is a sentiment I’ve heard in other circles as well, even from someone like Tom Holland (author of Dominion) and Alex O’ Connor The best thing the church can do is distinguish itself from secularism and get back to “being weird”, as Ive heard it stated.

Maybe. But here Rauch runs into another contradiction. He wants to isolate the things that he desires from the equation (such as the social Gospel), and make them the property of secularization, while relegating religion back to the arena of belief systems which he does not share and finds silly. Its as though he imagines a world where its logical to have the social gospel without an actual foundation (beliefs) through which to justify and make sense of it. This detached view creates a kind of smokescreen for what he is ultimately admitting- secular liberalism isn’t logical when it comes to its beliefs. Its adhering to illusions, falsehoods, things that should be deemed “silly” if it were being treated through the same lens. Even more so, its borrowing from the religion both authors seem to want to paint as dying out or losing their relevance. Is this really, then, the fading of religion?

And that smokescreen is made even thicker by attempting to reattach Christian belief to a greater adherence for the next world rather than this one, a statment that seems completely out of touch with the renewal that is actually going on and the scholarship that we find (just look at all the work N.T. Wright has done over the last 40 or so years deconstructing that exact thought. It belongs in the same category of caricature as his rendering of religion to a concern for mortality rather than life. He is quite wrong on this front. Religion isn’t an answer to death, its an asnwer to life. Its a belief that formulates out of observation and experience of this world, not some next world. Which not subsequently would, or could, be the answer to his incredulitity regarding how someone like Frances Collins, an intelligent man of God he cites and references, could believe both in science and faith. It is precisely because science illuminates this world, this reality, this life, that we arrive at God. That’s why we believe, whether we are a scientist or not.

I do find it extremely interesting how dialogue between atheist tend to get around these things. And to be clear, it could be that they are right and I am wrong when it comes to our fundamental observations about reality and God. That’s not the point. The point is how we justify our beliefs and whether we do so by appealing to logic and reason. There are reasonable grounds for arriving at an atheist position. I don’t think Rauch’s process and position are one of them, precisely because he cannot actually attend for the implications, even while I states the logical limitations of his own posiition. Or he doesn’t want to. Perhaps more importantly, arrving at atheism as a reasonable and logical conclusion can only happen if one allows for religion to be a logical and rational conclusion as well. The minute we abandon that is the minute we cease to be logical and rational about our own approach.

My church has this tradition called “guess who’s coming for lunch”, where a Sunday is set aside, speaking to those who want to participate, for the community to sign up to either host or be hosted for lunch following the service. Names are collected and paired by the church staff, thus who you are gathering with and where constitutes the guessing part, up until we receieve our emails in the week leading up to the event.

It’s a tradition I have always appreciated. It inevitably results in gathering with people you don’t really know all that well, which has the affect of opening us up to being surprised. Being willfully positioned within this intimate setting condusive to uninhibited and honest conversation and connection allows for great and unexpected stories to emerge, often ones that reveal these persons to be completely other than my perceptions or expectations might have assessed them to be from a distance.

And perhaps more importantly, while these momentary connections might not always be reflective of shared perspectives or life long friendships, they do inevitably bridge the gap between what was otherwise a name, or sometimes a role (I know that person as a greeter, for example), and what becomes an embodied story.

We held this event a few weeks back. We were hosted. The couple who hosted us was slightly younger than my wife and I. We shared space as well with a couple that was slightly older. What became immediately clear, aside from the fact that the host and myself shared a celiac diagnosis, was that the inroad into our shared stories, each being expressed from our unique vantage point in life, was our travels.

More specifically, we had one couple experiencing the momentary thrills of being in the present moment of their late thirties with energy and ambition and potential, one couple on the other side of 50 having been shaped by stories of crisis and struggle, and us, both fast approaching 50 and feeling the weight of looming crisis and anxiety that this transition tends to bring with it.

One couple not yet asking the questions that could and would inevitably come with age, another having wrestled with those questions and formulated a sense of renewal on the other side. 

And us feeling stuck right in the middle, feeling plagued by the questions of the present.

All of us subsequently shaping these things around significant, perspective shaping trips.

The younger couple revelled in a recently embarked upon bucket list trip to Japan, with all the necessary energy needed to make the most of it in their prime, the trip setting the stage for the opportunities for home, life and work that filled their time and energy. The older couple reflected on the ways 50 inspired them to start aknew following, among other things, divorce and upheavel, with a trip to England and Spain. For the former, the trip was inspired by their present passions and a sense of building their life in real time. Life is still an endless future. For the latter, these trips were a way of recovering who they were over and against the reality that life was an endless past, their present story being something that had gotten lost in the shuffle of that precarious decade between 40 and 50.

In the weeks following, questions that have been popping up with increased frequency in our home- how do we know what our story is supposed to be? How do we know we are living the story God desires for us? Do we write our stories and fit God into it? Do we live into the story God desires for us? Why is it that approaching 50 brings with it this sense of anxiety, this fear that the whole idea of our story has been lost entirely? As though the crashing inevitabilies of the prior decade coming to an end act more as a stark reminder of the fleeting failures of those once ambitions and promises enabled by our 30’s and 40’s, to produce and lead somwhere, anywhere, with realized clarity. If this is true of the prior 20 years, how much truer will it be of the next 20, which, given the assumption that we are lucky enough to play out an average life span, will place us near the end of our lives and subsequently the end of such questions?

Being stuck in the middle, we found these polarizing feelings. Cynicism, jealousy and skepticism of that familiar optimism undergirding the younger couple in the prime of their lives on one hand, and the hopeful possibility of this older couple story, whom found their way to the other side of their common crisis with some recognizble portion of grace, revelation and growth. Caught in the middle, we found ourselves grappling with certain temptations- solve our present crisis by using the jealousy to motivate us towards replicating the experience of the seasoned sourjourners. The immediate result of this temptation? Suddenly our home computers have flights to England logged in our search engines. Since relocation and renovations were also part of their story, we found ourselves at the bank talking about refinancing. Since the revitalization of their art and ambitions was on the table, everthing from job changes to scattered pipe dreams seemed to dominate our supper conversations.

At which point I found myself throwing up my hands this week and saying, hold up. I think we need to pump the breaks for a moment. I don’t have answers to our questions. I know the anxieties and fears intimately. Feeling lost is far worse than feeling the fleeting nature of time, although those things go hand in hand. Yet, I do know that attempts to wrestle with the questions, with those anxieties, with that feeling of lostness, will not be satisfied by replicating someone else’s story. It will not be solved by chasing after someone else’s story. By comparing our life, our story, to another.

If nothing else, seeking clarity in those questions above requires locating how God is speaking and what God is speaking into the present shape and moment of our own lives. Our story must always be in conversation with where we find ourselves, not acting in opposition to it. Not finding our answers in the present space of another. If we are to imagine one day that being us sitting at someones table over lunch representing the couple who is the seasoned sojourner, where we are in the future moment will only be able to make sense to anyone, let alone oursleves, if it is in dialogue with our present. If we are feeling lost right now, to find our story is to continue living the plot. An act of faith? If the older couple is a testament, then yes, definitely. An act of faith without precedence? Without hope? Absolutely not. If that older couple’s story teaches us anything, it is that growing into the next decade is as much about remembering as it is about continuing to shape a future.

Interestingly, for Lent this year I’ve decided to spend time in Elizabeth F. Caldwell’s new book Pause: Spending Lent with the Psalms. The first words of her introduction read the following:

Consider these words: running to the next thing. to do list. pause. interruption. wait for it. slow down. keep going. stop. Which of these defines the pace of your daily life…. (either descsribing the present, or what you need)

I immediately harkened back to the frenzy of feelings and emotions that followed this lunch, and my own cry to STOP. To apply the breaks. To pause. If these words apply to the daily pace of life, I think they also apply to this kind of human processing. Pause is a word that invites interruption. Interruption is what brings clarity.

As she says about the Psalms,

It may be helpful to imagine these words being written by someone just like yourself, who is experiencing both the challenges of life and the hope in God’s abiding presence….

Both a precedent and an invitation to forge a story anew.

And then perhaps most timely for my ponderings above, I come to this reflection for the first week of Lent

Sometimes the way forward is very clear. And sometimes you can barely see the path…. One of the yearnings we all share is to see clearly, to know what’s ahead, to find our own way through life. But we also know that paths through life change. Sometimes the path feels blocked or uncertain. Sometimes the only constant is change itself. And following a path or paths requires adaptability and the ability to deal with change. Lent gives us a chance to pause in the midst of all this change and listen to the rhythm and music of our lives It offers us time to reflect on our journeys, where we’ve been, and where we might be headed.

Make me to know your ways, O Lord, says the Psalmist in Psalm 25. Teach me your paths.

For YOU are the God of my salvation.

For YOU I wait all day long.

As the Psalm finishes with the plea to “gaurd my life and deliver me”, it becomes a vivid reminder, especially given the context of the Psalm relating to the story of Israel, that my story, our story/stories, belongs to something bigger and broader than our own specific place within it. This is what binds those three perspectives sitting around the table together. We do not write our stories from the present without precedence and without hope. We write it with the promise that salvation – the thing every story hinges on- is its defining point. It is the thing that frees us to live from the present into the questioned tomorrows.

*spoiler warning for Last Breathe

In 2018, a British documentary titled Last Breathe, directed by Richard da Costa and Alex Parkinson, detailed the story of diver Chris Lemons, one of a series of workers occupying what has been stated as “one of the most dangerous occupations in the world”, saturation diving with the task of repairing pipelines over 300 feet deep in the North Sea.

Long story short- a storm causes the primary vessel’s important positioning system to fail (the thing that keeps the ship anchored in place so as to ensure the divers below can stay tethered and connected to the main vessel above water). A failed system means the anchor vessel drifts, and the drifting causes the submerged vessel’s underneath to be carried with it. Which becomes an even greater problem when divers are actively outside of the submerged vessels attending to the pipes.

Lemons got caught in the pull, and as he was being dragged, the umbilical chord that maintains temperature (the water is cold enough to send one into immediate hypothermic shock) and oxygen get severed, leaving him lost on the floor of the sea without a sense of direction and his emergency backup oxygen source affording him five minutes to find his way back or be rescued.

The documentary is of course telling the unbelievable story of Lemon’s eventual rescue and survival, with the most striking point being that he was stranded unconconscious in the freezing waters without oxygen for over 30 minutes. That he recovered without brain damage or other physical issues is part of the puzzle left to be reckoned with by theorists on the other side.

This weekend (February 28th, 2025) marks the release of the feature length dramatization, likewise directed by Alex Parkinson. It’s his first feature, and for a film I had very low expectations for (it felt like a throw away, late February mid budget failure meant to buffer the bigger tentpoles and releases on either side of the equation), it proved surprisingly effective in creating a white knuckle experience with legitimate emotional depth and high stakes. It’s a tight script that keeps us focused on the small crew (one of a collection of vessels) and the extraordinary events that transpired, disciplining itself against the need to pad it with any unennecesary third act theatrics or embellishments. What we get on film is what happened in the true to life story, which proves to be a great strength of the film’s translation of the story to the big screen.

All of that though is not what I left pondering after my viewing. Anyone aware of Lemon’s post experience life will know that he has turned the experience into inspirational talks, particularly with the aim of speaking to people wrestling with tragic events. We get these thoughts in the film (and documentary), but he uses his near death experience, which interestingly enough he had other NDE’s previous to this event as well, to encourage and bring comfort to those wrestling with the hard questions.

With this one caveat- he is an atheist. He believes in the finiteness of existence. Thus his encouragement flows from his assertation that, from his vantage point, death is not something to fear because it is in fact a peaceful endeavor that finds reconciliation in the moment of its happening, as your brain shifts from resistance to acceptance.

I found this interesting, given NDE’s are often occupying the realm of those whom reemerge into this life with a renewed or new sense of life being more than what we see and understand from our finite perspective. So I went on a deep dive, looking into some of the online conversation surrounding his story. One point became startling clear to me- for a segment of athiests, his story was essentially functioning as an anti-NDE treaties. Instead of proof of the afterlife, its being touted as proof of the finite. Proof that NDE’s have their needed explanation in the function of the dying brain. This despite the fact that there is no concrete theory yet for exactly what happened to Lemon (as in, did he actually die at all).

These same people, however, respond emotionally to Lemon’s description of dying, comparing it to the peaceful act of falling asleep. They find his sentimentalizing of the act not only comforting, but inspirational. Which again, is super interesting to me, as the common dismissives of NDE’s tends to go after the intellectual credibility of such accounts. And yet, here we have someone recounting a single experience that may or may not corelate with an NDE, a story that also has to grapple with the wider body of science telling us that death might not be the rose coloured glasses he is seeing it through in every case, or even the majority of cases.

In fact, many of the studies I have encountered theorizing about the actual experience of the moment of death from a purely materialist vantage point are importing observations about living memory into the equation. The portion of the brain that gets supercharged in the moment of dying is the part that relates to and governs memory processes. Therefore it is believed that the experience reflects being disconnected from the physical senses (the peacefulness) and a heightened awareness of those detached memories being formed into a concrete narrative designed to partion out the inconsistencies reality otherwsiwe holds and represents.

Yet, stories of less than peaceful deaths abound, typically dictated by how one wrestles with the reality of that less than desirable narrative memory leading up to death. The science that sugggests heightened and elevated brain activity also suggests that we just might be aware that we are dead, stuck with whatever mental state our brains force us to endure.

Hardly the assurance that the supposed intellectual acceptance of this peaceful endeavor promises to offer. So why is it the case that I’m encountering so many atheists, supposely committed to rational thought, ready and willing to accept this explanation of an NDE and not the myriad of others, particularly when a purely materialistic approach to death binds us to certain conclusions that would challenge the reliability of such beliefs on a broader scale?

No matter where one lands on NDE’s, the lenghty history of its study and interest within the scientific community, leading back to the 70’s with Greyson and Moody and Saborn, and the re-emergence in the 80’s with the increased support and funding (Peter Fenwick, Jeffrey Long), offers us plenty of theoretical positions based on the data that is hard to ignore. One of the biggest things pushing back on Lemon’s sweeping generalization of the experience of dying is the fact that so many NDE accounts are not contained to the brain, but actively reporting things external to that narrative memory process. What’s a bit ironic is that a purely materialist approach would be forced to compare the experience of dying to a robust hallucination, effectively bending those final moments towards an illusion, something the atheists I am reading sort of glide past without actually attending for the larger and necessary implications. After all, if this is the case in death, this must be the case in life as well. If this is what we mean by peace, this is how we seek and find happiness in the present. Yet, one of the primary findings of NDE research is that they do not contain the markings of hallucinations. They expressely witness to something categorically different. Certainly when it comes to one of their key components (life transformation, something its worth noting that Lemon admits did not happen for him- his life remained the same, and in fact he was back out doing the same thing shortly after, unchanged).

This brings me to a key observation. So often atheists make something like religious convinction to be about life after death. They are seen as beliefs born out of fear of death, and constructed in order to deal with death. This, I think, miscaricaturizes what religion is actually about- life, not death. I think the hand that wants to play such things as escaping the here and now grossly overplay how much religion actually focuses on the “afterlife”. This is underscored by the fact that NDE’s tend to involve not an absolution of fear, but a heightened sense of the revelation that they afford, gaining a greater awareness of the meaning of ones existence. The transformation applies to how one sees the world they occupy differently, not into a hope that one needs to escape it. Further, how much difference is there in the atheist leaning on the myth of a “peaceful” death to deal with their fears than the hope of an afterlife they categorize as “superficial”? Does one have more integrity than the other?

One last thought. I get this from Dale Alison and Craig Keener, the former which has done his own work in the area of NDE’s, and the latter whom has done what might be the most definitive work to date on the question of miracles and spiritual experiences. Often an athiest (and I am speaking of a segment, not the whole) will question the reliability of religious belief/spirititual experience, which reflects the majority of people in history, by theorizing delusion and influence as a wholesale explanation. The problem with this is, and this is something I have become convinced of, when you actually do the research, and when you actually get out and talk with people across comparitive relgions, the vast majority of cases do not have these markers. They express themselves very differently, often appealing to real, measurable and tangible external factors. And perhaps the most compleling aspect of these beliefs/experiences, including NDE’s, is the transformed lives they leave in their wake.

James Monaco’s (fourth edition) How To Read a Film is a monumental and necessary read for anyone interested in understanding the art of film. It does get fairly technical, and the later chapters lean heavily into the functional details of the form, but it is framed by some incredible theory and often profound thematic insights, all of which help postion film within the larger history of storytelling traditions methods. Film might be unique in the broader scope of history, but it is not an island.

As the book repeats over and over, when storytelling methods emerge they gain a coded language. The uniqueness of film in this regard is not only found in its particular nature (capturing as it does the moving image in time and space), but in its indebtedness as an artform to technology. It is the technological aspect that sheds light on the ensuing relationship that develops between art, artist and viewer, leading the art of film to become a fluid and captive entity in ways that set it apart from other forms. On top of this, not only does there emerge a coded langauge necessary for reading a film, there is also a coded langauge for making a film. As such, the artform contains a kind of dynamism that ebbs and flows within it’s own advancements.

If film has shaped humanity’s story over the last 120 years, holding in its grip economic geo/socio-political and social evolutions, the nature of film has always straddled this line between the direction of its technological pursuits and its cultural applications. Near the end of the book the author talks about how we’ve spent most of those last 120 years learning what it means to read a film, and now we must learn how to see a film. Which becomes a kind of precarious endeavor since we find ourselves at a cultural moment where the technology is no longer about how we can push boundaries, but about how the technology is shaping us.

In one sense film is still anchored in its hisotirical presence, but the older our auteurs get, the more this history threatens to disappear into the ever increasing presence of the future, leaving emergent filmmakers with decisions to make regarding where they stand in that long line of storytellers and what and how we might preseve it, if at all. This is especially true given the ever changing economic landscape. In many ways film has morphed into something largely unrecognizable, collapsed as it is into the barrage of different social media expressions. And yet, for the time being, it still stands as stubborn resistance to the sometimes- or often times- shortsighted nature of progress.

Of course, with this future oriented progression comes the loss of coded language. Without a shared language film cannot funcion. And yet, one of the more compelling thematic threads that runs through this book is the question of whether the developed language of film has the capacity to hold these shifting tides in both tension and cohesion. If it does, this can only come from our ability to submit the technological form to the universal and etermal power of story and storytelling. This is, and must remain, its essential anchor. There must be a universal langauge behind the art that is able to navigate the changing tides of technology and culture. Meaning, no matter the form, and no matter the present state of the form, the truth of art, and the truth that art looks to reveal, remains its guiding light.

Without this, film, and it wouldn’t by hyperbolic to say humanity, stands to simply gets lost in the weeds of progress, without aim and direction and without that necessary sense of the meaning of things that inform the more scientific elements of form and function. It is easier for art forms like literature and painting to remember this. It’s much harder with an artform where the base level relationship between form and function is far more complex and allusive and fleeting. An artform tied to the very tehcnology that is presently lighting the way.

In some sense, and this is also something the author examines, film has grown from a once bastion of human creation and accomplishment into a godlike entity in and of itself. This is especially true where the loss of common setting and shared tradition are concerned (the role of the theatrical, the task of the filmmaker). As has been stated, the lines have been blurred between the artist creating art in the image of the world, and the technological creation now re-creating the world in its own image.

The final word of this book is one that I found to be rather powerful. It is a call to remember what art is- imitation. It imitates reality in order to illuminate the truths within. Thus it is always necessary to remember its aim- to equip and call us to reenter reality with fresh perspective and revelation. That’s every bit as integral to the process of reading a film as seeing a film.

Perhaps even more astutely, in some ways, in the present moment that we occupy, it’s even increasingly becoming about recovering reality.

I found myself contemplating these things as I finished the final words of this 800 page behemoth. As someone with a deep love of film, and who’s roots for this passion are founded in a love of literature, how do I become a better “viewer”. If this book has equipped me to be a better reader of film, how do I learn how to see more clearly? It just might be that the question of seeing a film is better framed as learning how to see the world. How to see reality. Even further though, and perhaps the much more difficult endeavor, is learning how to allow my engaging of film to push me to greater engagement with reality. To participate in the world rather than escape it. To find in the imitaiton something more true, something more real awaiting those final credits.

Near the end of Alizah Holstein’s captivating memoir, My Roman History, documenting her journey from Portland to Rome, and subsequently her journey into academia and ultimately out the other side, she poses an exercise. One that anyone can try.

Think back to a critical juncture in your life

Think about the narrative you have built up around it in your mind

Go through your documented memories that have accumulated between now and then (letters, emails, photos, posts, journals, ect)

Ask yourself, does your story hold

This exercise is meant to bridge your history with the fabric of your present life. Holstein’s book is essentially doing this by paralleling her year of researching history in Rome for her dissertation, with her search for self. As she writes,

Ultimately, the job of the historian is to help us, collectively, to hold on to time. To sew its fragments together into something that makes sense, like a quilt we cover ourselves with in the dark. Look at this quilt, we say. As long as we have it, we know who we are. We know where we come from, and because of it, we think we have the tiniest inkling of where we are going. In the morning we might toss it off, leap bravely forward into the unknown, but when night comes, we clutch it to our necks and console ourselves with the sounds of our own stories: “because… and because…. and because.” The narrative changes over time, we sew it, and resew it, and sometimes we fight about what should go where., which patches have been neglected, which others are monopolizing the center. But most of the time, we take it for granted, and night after night it keeps us warm and dry. (p323)

In this sense, it is both true that we do history by reading the history the historians have unearthed and preserved, and we are likewise historians, both of our lives and that which has captivated our attention and our passions in this world.

Life becomes the constant push and pull between where we percieve ourselves to be in the present, and the past that pushes in, reframing our vantage point. This is the dance we undertake.

Mere pages later she surmises about an analogy that can help frame this in proper perspective. In encountering a medieval tower, she imagines having spent ones whole life inside its walls, never having ventured outside. Your perception would be that this wall is what is true and real about the world you occupy. It might take different shapes and have different things mounted on them. But you would never understand “why”. It would simply be what it is.

Until you stepped outside. It is only by stepping outside of those walls that you gain that necessary vantage point. As she writes,

Had you not stepped out onto the street, you would never have known that what gave your living room wall its distinctive shape, what made it yours, was a vast history pressing in on it from outside. You would not perceive the extent to which the present, with which you consider yourself so intimate, has been sculpted by the past (p 330)

All things exist in relationship.

So it is with our lives. So it is with what gives our lives shape. The same can be said for the world at large. To understand how it is that the world has come to be, we step out of the walls of our present framework and begin to see from the outside. From a religious persepctive, this would reach even broader- to see from the vantage point of God. God pressing in. God relating to the present by way of the journies that shape the world, and likewise ourselves.

I sometimes wonder whether we know more than we think we do about our lives’ trajectories, whether the lines on which we travel come endowed with a few fixed points. Most of the time, they are invisible to us, or we are too distracted to notice them, but they trace our movements under the earth, or over it, or pierce us right through our hearts (p326)

To be present is to be aware of where we are beyond the present of where we are.

So it is with our lives.

So it is with the world

But there is more than awareness at play. We also must interpret. As Holstein writes,

It is true that the past is always there, behind us, about to catch up and overtake us, and- if we are not careful- swallow us whole. Such a fact is not to be discounted. But the past can swallow us only if, succumbing to our instinct to flee, we neglect to turn around. If we do not look it honestly in the face, and assess the people we once were, neither to valorize and amplify nor to castigate and erase, but to confront, to the best of our ability, how we have arrived where we are. We must grasp the shape of the past that defines by its very contours the structure of the room, otherwise known as the present, that we inhabit. (p332)

It is only in this process that we can come to the truth of who we are, what this world is. So much of Holstein’s book is wrestling with that gap that exists between the past the present, ancient Rome and the modern world. It’s not a coincidence that the modern narrative prides itself on its ability to deatach itself from the past. It is about progress. About the future. And yet her journey from Portland to Rome is marked by such assumptions continually being overturned. It pulls her out of the future and into the present by way of the past. Citing Nietzsche, she writes,

When the historical sense reigns without restraint, it uproots the future because it destroys illusions and robs the things that exist of the asmosphere in which alone they can live (p332)

In short, it changes our vantage point and reframes our perspective, challengiing the narratives that we beleive bring us to truth and contain the truth. It sets the whole of reality in conversation. The whole of oursevles in conversation. And as such opens us up to the necessary inbreaking of revelation.

As I often reflect upon, part of the fabric of the modern world is its perceived allegiance to a singular way of knowing- science. And this singular way of knowing is attached to a firmly entrenched myth of progress. This is the modern, western narrative, one built on strong cuts with the past, that past that it perceives holds it back. As long as progress is in motion, history is unecessary, even rendered non-existent. It is paved over quicker than it can be formed as memory, leaving nothing to be recovered.

One of the outcomes of this is a loss of perspective. A loss of truth. The turth about ourselves. The truth about this world, about Reality.

As she experienced, the loss of herself.

In reducing knoweldge to a singular way of knowing we essentially come to see this world as a set of walls. Walls in which a narrowly defined naturalism defines us according to its function and utility. It keeps us from stepping outside, of being able to gain that perspective in a way that can challenge our tightly guarded narratives of the present.

This is what getting on that plane and going is able to disrupt.

First off, if you haven’t heard of the book Judaism Is About Love: Recovering the Heart of Jewish Life by Shai Held, look it up, track down a copy, it will change your life.

I say this as a Christian. It not only lead me to an enriched understanding of Judaism, it’s humble and gracious approach to the conversation encouraged me to bring me to come into a greater understanding of where and how Christianity intersects and where it diverges.

To put it simply, Christianity does not exist outside of Judaism, and where it converses with Judaism boils down to these two fronts- its claims to the resurrection and the inaugeration of the new age, and secondly, a point which might be the most fascinating element of this book as a Christian reader, its commitment to the call to forgive ones enemies.

At one point the author is reflecting on the challenges, as a theologian, of holding faith and doubt in necessary tension. He references a dialogue in which one is being asked about his struggle. This person is asked, why does it matter that this is true. To which the person responds, because if God is not true, Torah is not true. Again, it is asked why does this matter. To which the person responds, because if God is not true, and Torah is not true, from where do I locate the meaning, value and purpose of this existence.

To which it is noted, it is the very act of needing to and desiting to and being compelled towards wrestling with this space that makes one a cultured Jew.

Indeed, it is this same space that makes one a cultured Christian.

Why does it matter? In some sense it could be said because how we understand the entire world hangs in the balance.

Held’s book is dedicated to fleshing this out through the lens of this singular word: Love.

Why does it matter? In another sense it could be said because how we understand Love hangs in the balance.

Here’s a powerful illustration:

God is said to be Love

We (humanity) are said to be made in God’s image.

Therefore another way to state this is, we (humanity) are said to be made in the Love’s image.

A further implication:

We (humanity, or in this story Israel) are said to be image bearers of God to the world

God is said to be Love

Thus we are to be image bearers of Love to the world. 

Held has this powerful section where he shows how Love in aramaic shares the root word from which we get all of these additional words, like compassion and mercy and kindness. If Love is, as he says, a disposition and a posture, Held notes that in ancient Jewish practice emotion and practice are held together as one in the same. From this angle, all such actions then are ones of Love. Held further describes this in the language of gift giving. Life is a gift. Without this gift we could not know love or love in response. We have been given this gift, and we have been tasked with the act of giving. This is at the root of understanding Love as a formative and transcendent truth. Not one that removes us from our context, but one which finds us in our context with an invitation to both be shaped by this grander story of Love and to participate in the particulars of its function. The way to the universal story of Love is through the particulars of love in action. This is how knowledge of Truth, or Wisdom, comes about- through participationist theology.

What makes this even more powerful is his reflection on why the figure of Adam matters. Not because Adam must be a literal figure that precedes all else, but because the singular Adam becomes the grounds for which Love can be built on the inherent value of the whole. In Jewish belief, what is done to one affects the whole. To build up one is to build up the world, to destory one is to destroy the world. This is precisely what we find the early chapters of Genesis. Held rightly notes the problematic nature of Protestant theology that has traded the Jewish idea of original goodness for original sin. in fact, sin is not mentioned in the scriptures until we get to Genesis 4 and the story of Cain and Abel, where it is a singular act of violence that fills the world with violence. This is sin. Or better yet, this is Sin. This is the enslaving force that calls us into a posture of protest, because by seeing what is wrong in the world we become compelled to remember what is right.

One final thought- I think this is why I still think that forgiveness of ones enemy is the most powerful liberating word that can flow from the cross of Jesus. When parlayed over the Cain and Abel story, it takes the mark given to Cain, a mark that intends to stop the inevitable cycle of Sin in this world, and recontextualizes it through the cross. A way of saying, the cycle stops here. If our experience of this present age is one in which desperate conceptions of justice continue to grasp for answers through continued restitution and repayment, the continued destruction of ones enemies, the vision of God’s world, of God’s creation is one in which Love wins over evil. The cross, or more aptly the resurrection, is the paradigmatic statment that what has long been hoped for has come to fruition. It is an invitation to begin to live in and into this new age today.

This feels like such a random read and response, but its what I’ve been mulling over these past couple days. In a Globe and Mail article penned by Canadian author Katherine Johnson, she laments a culture in which “we are living in a time when people do not take social invitations seriously.”

Or, as she labels it,

We’re in our ‘sorry, I can’t make it tonight’ era

She goes on to describe the many stories she recieved in response to publicizing a moment from her own life of being “stood up.” She mentions the ease by which people have become accustomed to holding commitments fast and lose, the emergence of technology affording us a plethora of ways in order to pretend to ignore such obligations. The most striking thing is, it seems evident that we have normalized making excuses valid even when we know they aren’t valid or true. They are worded just ambigiously enough to make them feel valid or true.

To the point where even the need to make excuses has become passe. If we are a proper citizen of the modern, Western world, we should just assume this to be the new norm and expect that obligations must and should be held loosely.

Although this deviates a bit from the direct subject of the article, I found myself wondering if there was more to the context of this article’s subject matter than first appearances might allow. I wonder if behind this change in social norms and expectations lies an even more difficult problem- social hierarchies.

Because here’s the truth. Even in such an era, it remains true that if a relationship serves someones social status and social needs/desires, they are likely to show up. On the flipside, the most telling sign of where you fit in the social order is whether someone deems it necessary/valuable to prioritize your relationship. And this can be true for good friendships as well as aquaintances. Those who experience the excuses intuitively understand that they are on the outside looking in, even if they are unable to articulate that in precise terms.

I brought this up in conversation with my pastor a while back. Thinking about  my life today, in this present moment, its striking how devoid of friends it actually is. And I don’t mean that in a self pitying kind of way, rather as an actualizing, reflective insight that I needed to grapple with. When I think about who those people are that I would call in important moments, I can fit it in one hand. If I push that further and wonder about which of these friendships are naturally present on a daily basis, meaning those relationships in which one doesn’t need to think about it or necessarily plan it, they just exist as mutally shared, accepted, necessary parts of our lives- the kind you would just wake up and take a trip with, for example- the number dwindles even futher.

And then I account for the ones that have relocated a long time ago and are living a long ways away, and  the stark reality is a life in which friendship has largely been relegated to the art of social invitation. And its precisely this art that emphasises the social hierarchies running underneath the above article.

As I was pondering this, I recognized that there are reasons for this. Part of it is the natural outcome of our dependence and acclamation to modern, technological tools. If these tools allow us to foster relationships within set parameters, and if they enable us to control the relationships in our lives without responsibilities or consequence, they also foster and create this kind of reality for us. We are the product of the world we live in every bit as much as the world is the product of what we make.

Another part of it is the further alienation that comes from the loss of our social customs. Which is a bit ironic, becauase a big part of where I am in my life today flows from those once tightly embedded social customs. Because I got married later than most of my friends, and because I moved out of my parents later than most of my friends, and because my wife and I weren’t able to have children like most of my friends, and because we moved to the north end rather than the more homogenized neighborhood of middle class, conservative family homes, the ensuing years were one long thread of disconnect from the relationships built on those important, formative, 20 year plus long investments. The people who know you grow apart the minute life begins to formulate into who you are becoming. Hence why those social customs become so important for bonding you along those emergent lines. However, when you find yourself on a different path, the distance covered in a very short amount of time is palpable, leaving anyone who deviates isolated from the masses. To the point where you suddenly blink, wake up and begin to wonder where everyone has gone and how its even possible to start over.

Life then becomes a series of social obligations and connections. I have my “friends” from work. I have my “friends” at church. I have my “friends” in various hobby groups. But these are not the same thing as friends in the truest sense of the word. They not only require those contexts to be maintained, they are relegated to these worlds, held captive to these worlds, and they are ultimately defined by the necessary hiearchies they expose.

But the thing is, as I’ve watched the world change over the years, I have found that a world in which these kinds of social customs and expectations have largely been challenged and deconstructed- marriage is no longer a thing, the notion of children has been reformatted as a matter of individual choice and identity, family has evolved form the once “broken” terminology that captivated the early years of deconstruction to being so ambiguously applied that it has lost any sense of relevance and meaning, moving out and buying a home is not longer the way, let alone a way- is in some ways even harder to navigate. Not only has the notion of social customs become politicized, the language of covenant and commitment, the language of family and relationship, the language that creates the space for friendship to emerge “over time” and with a shared language and within the framework of expectation and consequence, is no longer part of our venacular. So its not only about that feeling of looking in from the outside at the different hiearchies, the hiearchies themselves have become a constant, moving target serving a hodge podge of individuals. It has largely become about what’s making one happy now, in this moment, and who is skilled enough to achieve that. Which makes the whole game of “friendship” far more bound to ones accomplishements and works than I think its been at any other point in human history.

Which of course would create a silent epidemic of depression and anxiety, which I think the data bears out.

Coming back to the article then, it seems to me like there is far more at stake than simple social etiquette. What the author is picking up on is a feeling that I think is symptomatic of that increasingly hyper-individualized social trend. I once heard it said that the best friendships are the ones where you can go months, sometimes years, without connecting and still pick up right where you left off. I think this is absolutely true. This defines my closest friendships. I think the reason for this is, these friendships have a way of resisting the push and pull of life’s inevitable progression. No matter who you become, these sorts of friendships have the power of always measuring that evolution against the person that you are. They preserve the necessary context of where you started.

And yet, these friendships are also limited. Necessary, but limited. The question that emerges from a world wrestling against social expectation and obligation, and often resisting it, is, where do you find the sort of friendships that can develop with you in the day to day over time. That you are shaped with and bound by. Or perhaps further to the point, how do you learn to find and cultivate this in a world that is designed to tell you, rather consistently, that if you aren’t a, b, and c, you aren’t worth enough. good enough, necessary enough, accomplished enough, to be prioritized in that way. That, I think, is the draw of treating social obligation with the sort of distant and casual dismissives that has become so rampant. Its far easier not to put yourself in a position that stands to tell you where you sit on that hiearchy than to risk it telling you that you are on the outside looking in.

Its interesting how paradigm shifting works can quickly begin to reframe everything around it. This is what happens when you exchange one lens for another.

In this case I’m thinking about Jason Staple’s monumental work Paul and the Resurrection of Israel: Jews, Former Gentiles, Israelites. In it he proposes a blind spot in common theological and academic discussions, specifically relating to how we understand the use of these three terms- Jew, Gentile, Israel- in the scriptures. As he posits, even the most ardent scholar looking to reform a history of problematic viewpoints regarding the relationship between Jew and Gentile, long pitted against one another as opposing factions, doesn’t go far enough, and the key to addressing the problem is found in understanding the distinctive uses of these terms rather than, as is common practice, conflating them or collapsing them into a uniform and generalizing descriptives.

To summarize his most important point:

• The term Jew refers to Judean, the surviving faction of an exiled Israel
• The term Israel refers to an idea, not a people. God creates this idea when he calls a people to be His image bearers to the world. It is this idea, when considered against the reality of exile, that is considered “dead”.
• The term Gentile refers to the surrounding nations in which the scattered tribes that embody this idea called Israel have found themselves subsumed into- the Gentile world. Hence why Israel is seen to be a “dead” idea, and why the reformed movement being led by the Pharisees of the suriving Judean people was seen to be integral to the covenant promise being realized.

Why does this matter? Because in common efforts to tackle the Jew-Gentile problem, there has long been a resistance to letting go of the assumed distinctions Jew-Gentile contain. When we come to the scriptures, the tendency is to read them as one long treaties regarding the resistance of the “Jews” and the eventual inclusion of the “Gentiles”. Its this paradigm that is the root of the problem. Instead, what scripture details is an internal discussion and an internal critique in which the promise for Israel is ultimately fulfilled. Rather than co-opting passages and turning them into how-to statements regarding individual salvation, the proper vantage point for seeing and hearing these texts in their world would be to see the context of Israel’s promised renewal- what this and how that happens in the face of exile and in a second temple period that saw Judea grappling with this preoblem and the questions it evokes.

An example of how this works in real time from Luke 14:1-24, a passage I was reading through this weekend.

The context of the passage:

• It’s the sabbath
• Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem (hence the death and resurrection are in Luke’s focus)
• Jesus has been invited to eat at the house of a prominent “Pharisee” (read: Judean)

As the text states, in front of them sits a sick man. As “they” (the Pharisee and his honored guests, the experts in the law) are watching Jesus closely, Jesus tests them on their understanding of the Law. In their undestanding of the Law, Jesus asks, is it appropriate to heal this sick man on the sabbath.

Silence from the table, as a yes or no would both equally leave them condemned.

In the silence, Jesus gets up and heals the man.

And then follows up with a story, fittingly, about a feast. As they are watching Jesus, Jesus has astutely picked up on how the guests have seated themselves at the table. As Mcknight puts it in his commentary

“In the first century one’s status was embodied by where one sat at a banquet, and this meal has the appearnace of an evening symposium with Jesus as the guest speaker. The higher one’s honor the closer one sat to the host; the lower one’s honor the farther one sat away from the host. A meal put people in their place by a recognized pecking order.”

So Jesus, understanding that the Law is best understood not as a set of rules that define God’s promised kingdom, but as the story that proclaims and invites participation in God’s promised kingdom, tells a story. A story about a wedding feast.

A first story in which he flips their pecking order upside down and inside out.

And a second story about a great banquet that flips the grand story of God’s making right what is wrong in the world upside down and inside out.

The first story is an invitation to those at the table with Jesus to reorient how they understand their participation in the expected arrival of God’s kingdom.

The second story is a condemnation or warning regarding their preseent positioning in light of God’s kingdom having arrived in their midst.

Now, back to the above point regarding seeing this through the lens of Staple’s suggested premise. A common reading of this passage is to read these stories as commenting on gentile inclusion in the kingdom of God over and against Jewish resistance to this inclusion. But step back and ask this question. Who is being invited? The poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.

Now ask another question. If we assume this is about Gentile inclusion, how quickly would this lead to equating Jew with the oppressor and Gentile with the victim or the marginalized? Is this accurate? Is this helpful?

Now back up and look at the context once again. Sabbath. Jerusalem. Feasts. Banquets. Healing. All of these facets share one thing in common- they are marks of Jewish expectation, a Judean being faithful to the Law. They are marks of a Judean holding to the expectations of God’s promise to make right inthe world what is wrong.

So what were these expectations?

• A coming Messiah
• The arrival of God’s kingdom on earth marked by the renewal of Israel and the resurrection of all
• The ushering in of the new creation reality, or the new age

Expectations that had been recontextualized around Judea as a response to the problem of exile. A faithful Judean would have understood that “Israel”, as an idea, was dead. Exile meant death. Thus they saw their survival as the means by which God’s promises would be fulfilled through a resurrected idea. They were now the harbingers of this idea called Israel, hence the call to strident reform.

Another important point: this renewal of Israel was always seen to be the point in which salvation arrived for the sake of the world. It was always understood to be the point in which Gods kingdom would then spill out into all the nations.

Hence why reading this through that common Jew-Gentile paradigm does not make sense to the story itself. It fails to account for how the text would have been recieved and understood in its world by a Judean living in the second temple period.

Now, if instead we apply the lens of these distinctive terms acting in relationship to each other, what we find instead is a powerful portrait of God’s kingdom arriving in their midst and proclaiming the promised fulfillment. Only it arrives in an unexpected way.

As is typical to the parable, we expect to find the participants being represented in the story. The two stories are presented as contrasts, the first talking about a feast that they are throwing, the second applying the conceptual lens of the great banquet God is throwing, a motif that would have conjured up thoughts of the great promise. The one throwing the feast is Yahweh, the servant is Jesus, the ones who have been invited are the ones to whom Jesus has been sent (Judeans, or the representation of Israel). From which we get the invitation: “Come, for everything is now ready.” (14:17)

The response, the story imagines, is a series of excuses. The repeated refrain, “I have just…” therefore I cannot come. Leading the master to send the servant instead to the sick, the poor, the needy, the blind. This ultimatley culminating in the statement “not one of those who were invited will get a taste of my banquet.” (14:24)

When I set this all in proper context, within the world of second temple Judaism, how do I imagine these stories speaking to the prominant Pharisee and the experts in the Law which surround him? Do they imagine the story to be about the exclusion of Jews? Do they imagine the story to be about Jews being replaced by Gentiles? The only way such a conclusion could be upheld is if we misrepresent and misconstrue the terms, reading them out of context. This is not about individual salvation. It is not about persons getting in or getting out. It is not about God rejecting a Jewish world and embracing a Gentile one. It is about HOW the promise gets fulfilled.

As I understand it, the emphasis here is on how this promise gets fulfilled. Further, its about the shape of this kingdom. It is about the way it transforms or reorients the world.

For a faithful Judean, there was an intimate connection between Torah faithfulness and God’s promise coming to fruition. This was front and center because of the problem of exile. Thus the question becomes two-fold. How can we know God is true to His name? Through God’s promise being fulfilled. But as the prophetic ministry has underscored, being a part of this coming in to fruition hinges on the question of Israel’s particiipation. The long story of Israel is one of a people missing out as God contintues to move forward, with the tension of the story being, how can God fulfill the promise if Israel is left dead in exile. At the time of the second temple period, Judeans see their call to reform to  be integril to both.

This passage, then, does not mean the promise will go unfilled. Indeed, it is being fulfilled in their midst, that is the key proclamation. And it wasn’t about it happening at their expense. If the expectation was a true return from exile, the way this was going to happen was through the flow of the kingdom out to the nations. That’s the thing that is being flipped upside down. It is in this kingdom movement that an assimilated Israel gets resurrected, thus bringing about the new creation.

For the pharisee watching Jesus, the kingdom would come through their commitment to purity and faithfulness. In this the kingdom would flow out into the world making right what is wrong. Instead, Jesus begins with the Judeans they have marginalized in this process. This is in fact good news for the Pharisees. In fact, it is good news for the world.

“It is clear to what a degree the discovery- that is, the revelation- of a sacred space possesses existential value for religious man; for nothing can begin, nothing can be done, without a previous orientation- and any orientation implies aquiring a fixed point. It is for this reason that religious man has always sought to fix his abode at the “center of the world.” If the world is to be lived in, it must be founded- and no world can come to birth in the chaos of the homogenuity and relativity of profane space.”

“To whatever degree he may have desacralized the world, the man who has made his choice in favor of a profane life never succeeds in completely doing away with religious behavior… even the most desacralized existence still preserves traces of a religious valorization of the world.”

– The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion by Mircea Eliade

Eliade’s clasic and profound history of the nature of religion doesn’t claim to do this, but I think my most honest assessment would say that he has afforded me one of the most powerful arguments for not just the truth of religion, but of Christianity.

Eliade’s aim is essentially explore the premise that one cannot understand modern man without understanding those parts of him that are and remain deeply religious, even in a secularized, or what he terms “profane” world. This is as much a part of us as our material bodies- we are a religious species indebted to the history of our development.

There are two elements of this historical movement, the first being the modern West and its adherence to the Judeo-Christian Tradition. The second would be the backdrop from which the Judeo-Christian Tradition emerges (the broader primitive mythic state of the world), including the later developing Eastern religions. What’s fascinating about this is that every chapter ultimately ends up in the same place- at  the Judeo-Christian Tradition marking a specific kind of revelatory turn in the historical landscape. This becomes a common refrain throughout the book- the mythic world once had this shape, and then it was recontextuzlied through the Judeo-Christian Tradition. So much so that this becomes the measure for the shape of religious and world history.

Which is simply to say, What Eliade is picking up on is that the shared stories of our mythic history find their unifying shape in the specificity of a revelatory moment. One that has the power to make sense of all the world’s stories (to borrow from Tolkien).

What differentiates the Sacred from the Profane is that the Sacred is noted for its differentiation, whereas the Profane is noted for its homogenuity. Meaning, the sacred is built on the notion that reality is more than simply our observations of the profane. By its nature it finds something in the world, it speaks of spaces that are set apart from the profane, it pulls us towards mystery rather than mere explanation. The profane on the other hand, or the secularized world, is by its nature singular. Reality cannot be more than the same, material properties manifesting itself in different ways and capacities. Whatever it is that we find, it can be reduced to this singular plain.

There is another element at play here though, and that is the role of the Sacred in sanctifying the profane. This is why the mythic language begins, as Eliade points out, with a cosmological story before fleshing out its origins stories. The sacred assumes an orientation, a center from which all else flows. If this is, in the mythic world, things like ladders and trees and mountains, it eventually gets reconstituted in temples. The temples act as the space where the sacred and profane meet and communicte and interact. It is also what we do when we participate in these sacred spaces- we are reactualizing this center, this act of creation, in the profane. This is how the sacred flows out into the world.

“Every world is the work of the gods, for it was either created directly by the gods or was consecrated, hence cosmicized, by men ritually reactualizing the paradigmatic act of Creation.”

We know the true shape of the world by conforming it to its sacred shape. Or as Eliade writes, “The world becomes apprehensible as world, as cosmos, in the measure in which it reveals itself as a sacred world… Where the sacred manifests itself in space, the real unveils itself.”

The subsequent chapters of the book narrow in on the sacreds relationship to time, nature, and humanity. As Eliade suggests, Sacred time is “a primordial  mythical time made present”… and “by its very nature is reversible.” The past made present. On the other hand, for those who adhere to the profane, time is part of the material fabric of reality. It occupies the same thing as all matter and reality, and thus is devoid of mystery or break.

More profound is looking at the distinct way the Judeo-Christian narrative breathes into the story of sacred time this notion of historical time (profane time) being sanctified, or made sacred through the person and work of Jesus Christ. Here the whole of history becomes a theophany, to borrow from Hegel. And the implications of this is that time, in the Jewish sense, frames the familiar cyclical perspective within that which affords it a beginning and an end. It is in this way, that one succeeds in “living in the universal”, and in this way that experiencing the sacred becomes an experience of a continuous moments of eternity.

For me, this makes so much sense of the world I know, the world I experience and inhabit. This notion that we cannot create the sacred, we can only find it and discover it, was especially monumnental to me. We cannot fomulate these spaces, we can only happend upon them as we understand the profane to open the world up to its necessary mystery. As Eliade writes,

“Religious man’s profound nostalgia is to inhabit a divine world, is his desire that his house shall be like the house of the gods.

By which he means, this isn’t just part of a primitive and archaic past. Its a part of the true shape of reality, of this world. It is what shapes our desire, our longings, our restlessness. Even in a secularized, desacralized world, we intuitively know this to be true. The world is not singular, it is wanting. It is not without a center, it is shaped by a center that continues to flow outwards, informing the whole of history. to be without mystery is to be less than true, less than human- it is to be subsumed by the homogenous, the lifeless material shape of reality. To be informed by mystery is to have life, to be sacred and to live in the sacred spaces that define this worlds true nature.