H.B.log

The week that was...and is not over yet

Friday's Already-Not Yet
I haven't had time to pull my head above water to see what's going on in the world this week, so this Friday's Already-Not Yet will have to be grown from the dirt under my own fingernails.  I've said elsewhere that church planting has thrown me into a "daily grind of war."  There are victories and losses, often in the same day, always in the same week.  Here's a four-day run, during which I've been praying Psalm 86 over and over:

Sunday.  We had a fun church gathering.  The music was humming, the preaching was a solid C+, and we had several new people jump on board our mission.  I gave a state of the church update and got to recount the history of Fellowship Denver as tied into God's bigger story and what a pleasure it has been to "count all things as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Jesus Christ my Lord" (Phil. 3:8).  Then, I went home and took a long nap before getting up and going to The Decemberists concert at the Fillmore. It was one of the best concerts I've seen in a long while.  Rate this day an Already.

Monday.  I spent the day at Stella's writing a booklet on 1 John to coincide with our next sermon series.  I love writing and Stella's, and even better is writing at Stella's (even though the Platte Park knitting club created quite the hen-house effect for a couple of hours).  At the end of the day, I received my weekly list of Sunday sins from the theater where we meet (stuff like "putting signs outside on the sidewalk, even though it's public property").  Rate this day an Already-Not Yet.

Tuesday. It's late April.  We had a steady, cold, November rain all day with a few cantaloupe-sized snowflakes mixed in. I had two heart-breaking conversations/emails (details intentionally fuzzy) and got a phone call telling me we are getting kicked out of the Denver Civic Theater without notice.  Rate this day a Not-Not-Not-Not-Yet.

Wednesday. New life...I became an uncle.  Brent Walker Beaumont, Jr. (hereafter known as "Walker, Texas Ranger") born to my little brother who hasn't even gone through puberty yet.  Congrats, Brent and Katie.  Rate this day an Already.

Thursday.  A couple of appointments, some sermon prep, a 3-mile run, and a gathering with a few friends for The Office.  Rate this day Uneventful, thank you, Jesus.

          

Justice for Virginia Tech?

Friday's Already-Not Yet
I usually devote this space to something whimsical - how Denver Mexican food will be cast into the lake of fire when Jesus returns, for example.  But today is not really a day for whimsy in light of the Virginia Tech shootings.  It was interesting watching us try to publicly cope with something less shocking than 9/11, yet so horrible that we  had to mourn.  Baseball still played ball, but the Washington Nationals donned "VT" hats.  American Idol warbled on, but with a more subdued introduction.  Jon Stewart mentioned it apologetically before launching into his satirical skewering of lesser news.

But if we can stop for just a moment, almost all of us would find ourselves yearning for resolution, or to quote a conversation I overheard on Tuesday while standing in line at Starbucks, "Something is f**d up in this world."  Justice is what we want.   Even the most irreligious among us, too ambivalent on most days to pray, might have closed their eyes and said a few words for the victims and families this week.   And as Douglas Wilson reminded me in this insightful commentary, even some atheists can't bring themselves to proclaim as good news the logical conclusion of God's non-existence.

To give you some context, Wilson is reflecting on what we could say about such tragedy if the "new atheism" as preached by evangelists like Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, and Christopher Hitchens is true.  Wilson's piece is not a rant, but an irenic and reasoned appeal to the image of God in all of us - even when we suppress it the most.

Here is an excerpt (and here is the entire article):
"Given atheism, the Virginia Tech shooter is now in the same condition as Helen Keller, Mother Teresa, John Paul II, Ted Bundy, John Lennon, and Dolly Madison. The nirvana of non-existence is now his, and he successfully escaped to that haven from every claim of justice. That rampage is an atrocity which Harris, Dawkins, and Hitchens all believe will never be put right. Justice will never be applied to it. And this lack of justice is just the way it is. So what is wrong with this lack of justice now? Given atheism, nothing is wrong with it.

But even the new atheists cannot bring themselves to acknowledge this. This is because they are created in the image of God, and they know better. So my charge is not that they approve of such things. Of course not. Not a bit of it. My charge is that they are purveyors of an impotent disapproval. The shooting has stopped, the shouting has died down, the bullets are all spent, and the shooter has begun to decompose. And the infinite concourse of atoms that constitutes all reality continues to roar by us heedless, continuing, as always, to not give a damn."

A plug for Christian biography

The first step to growing up as a follower of Jesus is learning not to go into a Christian bookstore unless you know what you're looking for.  It's like grocery shopping without a list.  You'll probably wind up with a basketful of Doritos, Ding Dongs, and Fruity Pebbles.  And if you do know what you're looking for and you've taken care to select veggies, cuts of lean meat, and fish rich in omega-3 fatty acids, chances are good that the Christian bookstore in the strip-shop next to the Rite Aid doesn't carry them.  Translation: Amazon.com is closest good bookstore for most folks.

So here's a planning tip for your Amazon excursion: try Christian biography.  A good biography can provide all the snap and crackle of an Osteen "non" fiction without the sugary pop.  One good author put it this way: "Good biography is history and guards against chronological snobbery (as C.S. Lewis calls it).  It is also theology - the most powerful kind - because it bursts forth from the lives of people.  It is also adventure and suspense, for which we have a natural hunger.  It is psychology and personal experience, which deepen our understanding of human nature (especially ourselves). Good biographies of great Christians make for remarkably efficient reading" (John Piper, Brothers We are Not Professionals, 90).

With that endorsement ringing in my ears, I recently ran across this post from Al Mohler, who offers a top-ten list of Christian biographies, ranked chronologically.  I've read a few of these and now have some great ideas for more reading.  (Note: It has a decidedly Reformed - for those who know that that means - lean to it). Here's Dr. Mohler's list with a few of annotations on the ones I've read:

Augustine of Hippo by Peter Brown.  This is my favorite modern book ever, anywhere, any genre.  Period.  I read it at least once a year. The prose is poetic.  The subject is the second most influential Christian in history (1. Paul, 2. Augustine).   If you haven't read it, put down your Sue Grafton novel immediately and get it.

Saint Thomas Aquinas: The Dumb Ox by G.K. Chesterton.

Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther by Roland Bainton.  A solid book, and maybe a better place to start than Augustine because it's slightly easier reading, though not as poetic.  There's only one Peter Brown.

William Tyndale: A Biography by David Daniell

A Life of John Calvin by Alister McGrath.  It's unfortunate that there isn't a truly "classic" biography of Calvin.  This one is solid, but not spectacular. It was my constant companion during my Masters thesis research into Calvin's view of the Lord's Supper, so I have a special place in my heart for it.  I also have a special place in my heart for the 1984 Monte Carlo that I drove in high school, but that doesn't mean I would try to sell it to you.  We just spent so much time and kissed a few girls together, that I have fond memories.  To continue the car analogy, this is a reliable Honda Civic, not a BMW.

Jonathan Edwards: A Life by George Marsden.  Until Marsden published this book in 2003, Edwards was like Calvin: Mercedes man with a Honda Civic biography.  But Marsden cured that.  This will be a classic and is my second-favorite book on the list after Augustine of Hippo.  Kudos to my Aunt Mary Katherine who gave this to me for Christmas in 2003.

George Whitefield:  The  Life and Times of the Great Evangelist of the Eighteenth-Century Revival by Arnold Dallimore.

Harry Emerson Fosdick: Preacher, Pastor, and Prophet by Robert Moats Miller.  I haven't read this one, but it's a great opportunity to play the old game "Which of these is not like the other," which I haven't done since I took the SAT. Answer: Fosdick.  All the other men biographied on this list are positive examples.  Fosdick is not one I would follow, even if it was just to cross the street.  A whole bunch of people got hit by a bus while Harry was the crossing guard.  A good synopsis and rationale is given by Mohler.

Defending the Faith: J. Gresham Machen and the Crisis of Conservative Protestantism in Modern America by D.G. Hart.  To be frank, I've read this and one other biography by Hart and haven't enjoyed either.  He's not a very engaging writer and a little too curmudgeonly in his ways.  It's a shame.  Machen is a very important remedy to Fosdick.

D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones: The First Forty Years, 1899-1939 by Ian Murray.  Another I haven't read but will soon.  I didn't know "The Doctor" (as they called Lloyd-Jones) very well until the last year, but now I read him constantly (currently working through his 1 John book).  On several occasions when my first impulse was to curl up in a fetal position and suck my thumb, he saved my sanity and called me to be a man. 

Almost Kicked Out of Heaven: My Day at The Masters

Friday's Already-Not Yet

God said, “Be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth, and subdue it.” Bobby Jones was obviously paying attention in Sunday School, having perfectly tamed a postage stamp of land on the left bank of the Savannah River. Augusta National Golf Club, they call this little garden. In many ways, my Tuesday visit to The National was a practice round of the kingdom to come. Outside the gates, it’s a world not-yet subdued, where fast food signs, dated apartments, and a strip-shop church of miracles victory and deliverance crassly shout at the passersby. But inside, it’s a taste of the kingdom, a place where cell phones aren’t allowed and where it took me six hours of furious walking to finally find a weed – a discolored clump in the grassy triangle between #8, 9, and 18.

The dominant color, of course is green, found not only on the fairways, putting surfaces, and members-only blazers, but also in the passages where common patrons tread. Thick, lush grass in places where everyone else would put dirt and concrete – that’s what makes Augusta special. The accent colors are pink, as found on the azaleas and the frat boys, and white, as found on the dogwood blossoms, sand traps, caddie coveralls, and septuagenarian hair that sits atop the green jackets.

But like a naïve freshman, my green and white world would soon be grayed. Augusta National, it turns out, is much more like a Baptist church than the final Kingdom: lots of good stuff going on in there, but a few stern deacons can still make life miserable. I discovered this while sitting in one of golf’s most sacred sanctuaries, directly behind the #12 tee box, better known as Amen Corner. I noted that several of my fellow parishioners had removed their shoes for comfort. This felt like a good idea to me too, tired as I was from six hours of walking. So for a good 45 minutes, I dug my toes into the soft, cool grass while watching greats like Tom Watson and Ben Crenshaw loft practice shots across Rae’s Creek. 

“You boys wanna keep your shoes? Then I suggest you put ‘em on, or I will walk you barefooted to the gate.” To get the full effect, you need to see a humorless older gentleman clad in a rent-a-cop uniform (“Securitas”), and you need to hear an r-less southern accent. High-pitched apologies ensued, as I hastily tried to sheath my feet, blanched as they were to a blasphemous white by the long Denver winter. Still, the lecture continued. “You’re really testing my patience, and I’m not gonna tell you again. Either you keep your shoes on or surrender your badge.  Now I’m not kiddin, ya hear…..” The flogging continued for a couple of minutes as we were verbally stripped of our patronly dignity.

In the real kingdom, there will be precious words for such circumstances. “Grace” means not receiving the punishment you deserve because someone else took it. “Expiation” means having your sin covered, no longer laid bare. But no matter how hastily I apologized, there would be no gracious end to the lecture. No matter how quickly I re-socked my feet, my sin would not be expatiated. Augusta National is one of the prettiest spots on earth. But even the prettiest spot on earth still has one grass weed and a few rascally people – barefooted profaners and old man complainers. And so we keep on repeating the centuries-old cry of Revelation 22: “Amen (Corner). Come, Lord Jesus!”