"Ask now the beasts": Nature and the Word of God

Friends,

As a bibliophile, a week that goes by without getting a new book in the mail – or without a trip to the bookstore – is a sad week indeed. I have at least one unread book on my shelves for every book I have read. The journey to become well-read and impressive is long and laborious! “Vanity of vanities: all is vanity!” Evagrius Ponticus, a monk in the 4th century, apparently understood this long ago, when he wrote down this story: “A certain member of what was then considered the circle of the wise once approached the just Anthony and asked him: ‘How do you ever manage to carry on, Father, deprived as you are of the consolation of books?’ His reply: ‘My book, sir philosopher, is the nature of created things, and it is always at hand when I wish to read the words of God.’”

Anthony was not merely trying to remove greed by the endless accumulation of books: he knew his Bible. In Christian theology, our best thinkers and poets have often reflected on the way that God is the author of creation.

As I write this article, I am authoring something that cannot truly be said to be utterly apart from me. Yes, of course, this article will go on to the church website and will have a life of its own, but these words are mine, and they have no origin or substance apart from me as the author. And no doubt, you all will examine this reflection as a reference pointing to its author, and not simply a self-referential, self-created article. This article points to its author. In the same way, when we acknowledge, as Christians have always done, that God is the creator of all things, we acknowledge that the created world points to its author. The world is not God, but neither can it be utterly separated or disassociated from its author; it is not self-created. Its author has left his mark. We, as the reader, are invited to examine the world as a reference pointing to its author. 

The writers of our Scriptures knew this, not least the poets. In our Anglican tradition, the service of Morning Prayer begins each day with Psalm 95: “In his hand are the deep places of the earth: the strength of the hills is his also.” And Job, perhaps our oldest book of the Bible, makes the point very beautifully: “But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee.” And the profound Psalm 19 is clearest of all: “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork. Day unto day uttereth speech”. Without a voice with which to speak, creation tells us about our God. In fact, my Old Testament Professor during my undergraduate program told me that if I wanted to understand the Old Testament, I would need to become a farmer. Many of the authors of our Bible, indeed, did not have a Bible themselves: they had creation with which they would converse about God. This is the starting point for theology. 

Creation offers the servant of God something different than books. Creation is directly authored by God and is unmediated: in it we receive revelation (called natural theology, for some theologians) for which we do not require the interpretation of another. In this sense, nature itself is offering us a less illusory vision of God and his love. Thus, the vision offered by this story from Evagrius provides the framework for nature itself as a kind of sacrament. If one holds to a sacramental worldview, and if one believes that God is the author of creation, then the “nature of created things” is a prime candidate for a source of our understanding of and contemplation on the possibilities of God. What a book does very well is interpret and point. Indeed, often what books point to, is creation. Creation holds God’s signature – his image – and in it, we, with Anthony and Evagrius, can read the words of God.

-Micah

Faith & tragedy

In the past couple of weeks, our community has received news of numerous tragedies. Diagnoses and deaths are troubling, despite our faith in God and in the resurrection of the body. One question comes, almost without fail, in the middle of every tragedy: Why? 

The persistence of evil among our belief in a good God is typically framed as the so-called “problem of evil.” When someone proposes a solution to the problem, in theology we call that a “theodicy.” A theodicy is an answer to the question, a way to make sense of a few things we believe: God’s power, God’s goodness, and the tragic. 

I want to offer another perspective. Any “solution” to the “problem of evil,” I think, will end up somewhere we do not want to land. This is because if we say that we know the reason for evil’s existence, we are saying that there is, in fact, a place for evil in the good creation of God. It would be to say that evil is indeed part of God’s plan. 

For instance, take C. S. Lewis’s illustration from his book The Problem of Pain. For Lewis, pain is pedagogy. He uses the example of a puppy who needs training. Naturally, a dog is smelly and rather impolite; but, by training, washing, and teaching – which can involve pain – the trainer can, therefore, love the dog more fully. The puppies may not appreciate the pain that this training involves, but a well-trained, healthy, clean dog can be more fully loved by its trainer. So, for Lewis, pain is necessary for our development as human beings. Pain and moral disorder are rationally integrated within a cosmic moral order ultimately justified by divine goodness. A solution like this is, at one level, certainly attractive. It offers us an answer to give to those who question the goodness of God, especially among tragedy. 

But such an answer is not sufficient. Any solution, including Lewis’s, fails to truly account for the tragic. So much of the tragedy around us simply does not make sense. Real life is far too complicated and messy to fit into neat systems. The tragedies of our world should not be reduced. What if we are simply not capable of giving a reason for evil?

To use a contrary example, our own scriptures offer us plenty of tragedy (the story of Saul, the rape of Dinah, and that particularly horrific narrative of the levite’s concubine in Judges 19, to name a few) that only add to the tension and resisting theological coherence. The Bible does not tell these stories as pieces in a harmonized system; they are told honestly. 

By definition, we are limited beings: we are not self-created, and only in this context is our agency found. Therefore, any form of human action, including intellectual capabilities, are also limited to this constraint. Because we have not created this world and its systems, why should we assume that we have the capability of comprehension and systemization? We should acknowledge our limits and thus avoid cheap justification. Lewis wanted to harmonize tensions between the goodness of God and the existence of evil through reason. But any critical thought which has got everything ironed out – all of the world's most complicated problems solved – is not honest, but illusory; they truncate and reduce the irredeemable features of so much of our suffering. It seems to me that we have the option to avoid the cost of theodicy. Faith must live with tragic tension – occupy it and face it – and not resolve it.

So when we discover that members of our communities are in the middle of the most demanding and direful experiences of their lives, the Christian response is not to harmonize tensions in the language of platitudes (“God has gained another angel”), but to witness to the presence of Christ in the middle of tragedy. In our darkest moments, Christ is closest. In a diagnosis, death, or disaster, Christ is there and grieves with us. He does not offer an explanation, but a promise: “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”

Influences

Dear friends,

I do not believe that I have ever had an original thought. My life is apparently one amalgam of those who have influenced me in one way or another, for better or for worse. So, in the spirit of last week’s post, I would like to continue my introduction by introducing you to a few of those people who have significantly contributed to my sense of self and the world. Here are three in particular.

Thomas Merton (1915-68)

Merton was a Trappist monk in Kentucky and a prolific writer (a darn good one, too). I believe he is most well-known for his bestselling autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain. This makes him the first monk with a bestselling autobiography since St Augustine of Hippo and his Confessions in the fourth century! The Seven Storey Mountain outlines his conversion story in striking, inspiring terms; but his devotional writings, like New Seeds of Contemplation, have affected me the most. I could never get through very many pages in these books in a single sitting, because they really do inspire one to put the book down and go pray.

He died tragically young. This happened in Thailand during a conference, where he was at the forefront of interreligious monastic dialogue. His work in this manner made him a bit of a controversial figure. But chatting with Buddhists was not the only thing that got him in trouble with his own flock: he had much to say about war and social issues, especially around nuclear proliferation. It is most profound for me, as a reader, to see the way that Merton saw other people, and his capability to witness the unlevelled compassion in which God holds his creation. He models the monastic worldview, one drawn away from the world in order to see the world in creative light. Thus, we see in him a careful and sober vision of Jesus Christ within every one of his neighbors.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821-1781)

Dostoyevsky is, in my humble opinion, the greatest writer to have written. Devils and The Brothers Karamazov, among my favorites, see the human condition with such profound clarity. His work was lauded memorably by Freud, Joyce, Hemingway, Kafka, and Woolf, to name a few. The author himself is very complicated and difficult to get a handle on, and indeed wrote for many years, so it is a rather complex endeavor to find what he himself believed (albeit, in Devils, he does seem to let go a bit and reveal more about his opinions in his old age).

What truly sets Dostoyevsky apart is his honesty. He is apparently utterly unconcerned with smoothing over the difficulties of this life. Many of us struggle with the so-called “problem of evil.” But Dostoyevsky looks that problem in the eye and makes it even more difficult. One sees this so harshly in Karamazov, in which one character, Ivan, describes nauseating stories of the unmotivated killing of infants (which FD himself pulled from real events in the Russian newspapers). Where is God in situations like this? Karamozov seems to be one (very) long answer to the question.

Rowan Williams

Williams was the 104th Archbishop of Canterbury, and is a great hero of mine. This Welsh bishop-scholar led the Anglican Communion in perhaps its most turbulent time. He has a vast range of books, from a highly academic book on the early heretic Arius, to his recent, very accessible, Discovering Christianity, which is my favorite book to give to new Christians or those interested in the faith. He even has a number of poetry collections!

Williams has taught me, more than anything else, that God is not a thing that we can possess. God is completely other than the world: God has created the world, and is actively sustaining all life, but God is not another object in the world like you or I. In other words, God and humanity do not occupy the same space. This principle, once it is worked out, carries significant implications for our Christology, our understanding of ourselves, the way we read the Bible, and, indeed, our political convictions.

These three writers have meant much to me in the last years. They have been my mentors. I would love to hear about your mentors. I believe God puts certain people in our lives, either physically or literarily, for the sake of our growth and progression in the spiritual life. Whose writings do you cherish the most? Who are your mentors? Find me at church (or write me) and tell me about the people who have influenced the way you have become who you are today.

-Micah

Please allow me to introduce myself...

Friends,

I would like to take this unique opportunity to introduce myself. My name is Micah Brown, and I am a summer intern at St Luke’s. Though, I plan to stick around after the internship. I am originally from Oregon, but live in Alexandria with my wife, Dewey, and our dog, Ginny. I am heading into my final year of seminary.

My role at St Luke’s is not only an intern. Dewey and I consider St Luke’s our home church. God-willing and the people consenting, Bishop Stevenson will ordain me in the spring, and Fr Nick is my presenting priest for ordination. It is a great privilege to be back at St Luke’s – back home; we are slowly settling back in, with things like the Block Party and Supper Club. But the church is just as welcoming as it was when we left it, so it has been all too easy to settle back in.

Like many of you, I did not grow up in the Episcopal Church. I was raised a child of two Pentecostal youth pastors. I discovered the Anglican tradition while I was in college, where I was studying for a Bachelor of Theology with an emphasis in biblical studies. I'm very interested in theological studies and the biblical languages. (I am currently writing my masters thesis on biblical interpretation.) I also love youth group. But I've learned the hard way that these often don't mix well. I found that middle schoolers, especially, are typically asleep before I can say "theologically.”

On a slightly more interesting note, I very much enjoy English literature (Dickens especially) and some Russian literature (Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy), though I don't know Russian so I am bound to the translations. My favorite book is The Brothers Karamazov, but a close second is The Spiritual Letters of Abbot John Chapman, which has had an enormous influence on my prayer life. I also love music. John Mayer and Bob Dylan are most common, especially for their guitar playing. I’ve played the guitar for many years, and have recently begun learning the banjo. I always love to watch a new movie, but some of my frequent replays are Happy Gilmore, The Imitation Game, and The Departed. My favorite food is a croissant. (Especially those with chocolate in the middle!)

I hope to get to know you all more very soon. If you resonate (or, indeed, strongly disagree!) with any of my preferences in this introduction, please do come say hi and have a chat. Many of you already have. I am continually impressed by how welcoming our parish is.

In the gospel this Sunday, we will hear some words from Jesus that should encourage you all. He says to his disciples, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.” St Luke’s has created a culture of welcome. This church family is taking seriously that New Testament imperative, so that strangers – no matter how strange – are offered a new vision of a loving humanity, one so different from a vision offered outside the walls of the church. Hospitality is a particular gift of yours. Hospitality, philoxenia in the New Testament, means literally “love of the stranger.” Linguistically, it is precisely the opposite of “xenophobia” (“fear of the stranger).

I am excited to get to know our inspiringly hospitable community better this summer (and beyond!). Thank you for being so faithful to that New Testament description of Christian community, one that takes Jesus at his word when he says, simply: “​​everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Thank you for extending that love to Dewey and I for two years now. I look forward to learning this hospitality from you all this summer.

-Micah