How to Think in 2020

Each fall I get to read through How to Think by Alan Jacobs with a group of high school juniors.  It is an attempt to help students think about thinking, to consider why they have landed where they have landed on certain things.  We pick some of the threads back up in their senior year, though I fear much of what was read previously is forgotten.

It’s difficult to tell what students think . . . and know . . . about Our Current Moment.  It’s often difficult to tell what most adults think  . . . and know . . . about Our Current Moment, too.  Which is why I’m glad Jacobs continues to think about how we think.  In a recent blog post, “Thinking during Covidtide,” he revisits the threads of the Repugnant Cultural Other, Sunk Costs, and the necessarily communal nature of thinking.  He then pivots to a post by Rod Dreher over at The American Conservative that acts as a kind of “catalogue” of how those concepts might be working themselves out these days, particularly in Christian circles.  He then gets to his point, which is the point of so much teaching and learning if only we would remember it:

We are looking here at the consequences of decades of neglect by American churches, and what they have neglected is Christian formation. The whole point of discipleship — which is, nota bene, a word derived from discipline — is to take what Kant called the “crooked timber of humanity” and make it, if not straight, then straighter. To form it in the image of Jesus Christ. And yes, with humans this is impossible, but with a gracious God all things are possible. And it’s a good thing that with a gracious God it is possible, because He demands it of those who would follow Jesus. Bonhoeffer says, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” He doesn’t bid us demand our rights. Indeed he forbids us to. “Love is patient and kind,” his apostle tells us; “love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” Christians haven’t always met that description, but there was a time when we knew that it existed, which made it harder to avoid.

We are unlikely to act well until we think well; we are unlikely to think well until our will has undergone the proper discipline; and that discipline begins with proper instruction.

And he ends with the challenge of revisiting 1 Corinthians 13.

It is a hard medicine, the call to follow the way of Jesus.  But it is a medicine with deeper healing in mind than others you might find around.  And that healing might look and feel a little different on the inside than it does on the outside, which is where we often get ourselves into trouble, find ourselves distracted or disgruntled.  But it is there, and it is good.

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A Song of Self-Awareness

One of the things I enjoy most about the music of Andy Gullahorn is that he is able to move between profundity and parody with ease.  A few weeks ago I posted a recording of “Light a Candle,” which definitely falls on the profounder side of things.  A few days ago, Gullahorn released a recording of one of his more humorous songs, on in line with “Skinny Jeans” and “Holy Flakes” and “Green Hills Mall.”  It’s called “Self-Awareness” or “The Enneagram Song.”

The Enneagram is something that I’ve not gotten into, though I have a number of friends and co-workers who refer to it often.  Like some many other personality handles, it is probably good as a tool but falls short of being a total short-hand for people.

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The Ground and the Figure in Our Current Moment

There are a few technology writers that I both genuinely listen to and enjoy.  Nicholas Carr, writer of The Shallows, is one of them.  He recently did an interview concerning the place of analog in a post-pandemic world.  The site shared some of the interview in print.  It gives an interesting take on “the ground and the figure” in Our Current Moment: what do we perceive are actual reality versus what is the construct built on top of it.  Carr had this to say:

We’ve been getting very, very good at social distancing, you know, socializing without physical presence through our phones. And in many ways, that can seem like a kind of a narrowing of experience and a kind of a lessening of the richness of being part of society. I think that’s true.

On the other hand, in a time like this, a crisis like this, it’s actually very useful. What it underscores for us is that we’ve sort of had a reversion. If you think about the relationship of what we used to call the real world, you know, the physical world and the online world, it used to be that most of your time you spent in the physical world and then sometimes you sit down at your computer or whatever, you hook up to the Internet and you go online. I think one of the things that’s been underscored or highlighted by our experience with a pandemic is that relationship has switched, and now the real world, the physical world, is the place we kind of go to see now and then.

But really our main reality, I think, is the virtual world, the world we enter through our phones because we’re kind of constantly on them and doing all sorts of things through them. This experience is really emphasized. In fact, it’s kind of told to us, Oh, the physical world, that’s a dangerous place. You don’t spend a lot of time there. You don’t want to go out there. You’re going to get sick. It’s much, much better to just just stick with your phone and peer in that. So in a weird way, this has emphasized what I think is a fundamental shift and in the nature of what it means to be human.

It’s all connected, of course: the nature of humanity, the nature of the world around us, and what’s real in the first place.

+ + + + + + +

I turned 44 today.  It was a good day with some good opportunities to connect (an reconnect) with others.  And I had a good evening in the neighborhood eating amazing food and spending time around dear friends.  As the day ends, I am truly grateful.

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Ethics in Our Everyday

Many of us are armchair warriors when it comes to talking about Our Current Moment.  We speculate much, opinionate often, and are likely to find ourselves recanting a comment when a new article is published or a new announcement is made.  The Moment is big and multifaceted like that.

The question of ethics is at the heart of some of the most difficult conversations these days.  Judgments of value and obligation, questions of utilitarianism and moral subjectivism.  Stanley Hauerwas, an ethicist I greatly respect, brought some ethical thought to bear today over at The Living Church.  In an essay titled “Ethics: The Everyday Matters,” he writes:

The virus has wounded us. Life was pretty good. Most of us knew when and from where our next meal or paycheck was coming. We could plan visits to see children or old friends. Spring training was soon to begin. If you cannot trust spring training you cannot trust anything. And that is exactly where we find ourselves. This damned virus has made us unsure if we can trust anything — and that includes God.

He then goes on to revisit some of his ethical thinking from a similar historical moment during the nuclear crisis of the 1980s, where he questioned what he calls a “totalitarian sentiment” of survival as an end in itself.  He continues:

What does this have to do with ethics? Even more importantly, what does this have to do with being Christian and our commitment to live in the light of God’s good care of us? I think this: Ethics is often thought to deal with “big questions” and dramatic choices, but in fact the most important and significant aspects of our lives are found in the everyday. The everyday is made the everyday by the promises we make, which may not seem like promises at the time but turn out to make us people that can be trusted. Such trust comes through small acts of tenderness that are as significant as they are unnoticed. It makes a difference that I am told, “I love you” before I leave for the day even though the declaration may seem to be routine. It is often routine and that is why it is so important.

The God that we worship as Christians is a God of the everyday. To be sure, the One that is Lord of time has acted and continues to act in ways that are extraordinary. But God does so that we might live lives shaped by the love found in the cross of Christ. Because of the cross we can have lives that contain the time necessary to sustain the everyday routines that make peace and justice possible. No routine is more significant than the willingness of the community called Christian to have and care for children, some of whom will be born “different.”

The kind of ethics associated with this way of characterizing the moral life is called an ethic of the virtues. A concentration on the virtues, an emphasis that characterized most ancient understandings of the moral life, was lost in modernity.

That last statement is true because every year I teach students who have little to no concept of the virtues.  The closest they get is the idea that “patience is a virtue,” but they aren’t quite sure why or how that connects to anything bigger.  His conclusion then, is sober and strong:

The wound that the virus has inflicted on us is to tempt us to become impatient with ourselves and others in an effort to return to the “normal.” We had not realized how dependent we have become on the everyday habit of going to church and seeing one another on Sundays. We had lost track of the significance of our willingness to touch one another as a sign that we rejoice in their presence. In short, we had lost the significance of the everyday, and we rightly want it back.

But we must be patient. We are an eschatological people. We believe we are agents in a story we did not make up and it is a story that is true. That the story is true makes it possible for us to live truthful lives. Such lives require us to recognize that we are a people who must die. We are not meant to survive this life. That is why we live not to survive but to be in love with God and those God makes our neighbor. We have been wounded by this virus but we have not been morally destroyed. So, let us be patient with one another as God has remained patient with us.

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Ending 43

Well, 43 comes to an end for me tonight.  Tomorrow I wake up 44.  Here’s a favorite song to end the year:

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Easter and the End

Today we had our Easter chapel at school (having it right before Easter is often suggested, but that gets in the way of Holy Week gatherings).  I wrote and recorded it in the middle of last week, which feels like forever ago.  Here it is for any possible edification.

In 1992, political theorist Francis Fukuyama published a book based on an essay titled “The End of History.”  In the book, Fukuyama challenged the reader to consider the possibility that history had reached its end point: a good global order rooted not in savagery or self-absorption but in technology and economic growth.  A few weeks ago, as covid-19 took over the 24-hour news cycle, pundits were asking if anyone had checked up on Fukuyama, as it seemed like our current moment revealed that history was anything BUT settled.

History, of course, means many things to different people.  It’s a subject that we take in school (Hawaiian history or US History or AP European History), it may be a hobby reflected in items we collect (whether its coins or WW2 helmets or Native American arrowheads), or it may be a passion that pushes us to understand the world around us more fully Herodotus or Josephus or Gibbons).  For most of us, history is a collection of dates and events that shape the story of humanity. And there are a lot of events like that: wars, discoveries and inventions, religious movements, and yes, pandemics like the one we are experiencing now.

Because humans are creatures who long for meaning, who want understanding, we often find ourselves asking about the point of human history: why is this happening? Where is this going?  And, perhaps like Fukuyama, what will the end look like?

In our reading for today’s chapel, the apostle Paul is writing to Christians in Galatia about their own history, about the story that they are in.  Our ESLR of humility lines up well with what he wrote there. Humility acknowledges that “we are born into God’s creation, which is vast, and into God’s story, which is already in progress.”  In the letter of Galatians, Paul reminds Christians of the true through-line of history, the one thread that holds it all together, what thinkers like NT Wright call the one true turning point,  that points to history’s true end. It is the story of the God who calls out Abraham from Ur and Haran. It is the story of the God who brings His people out of Egypt. It is the story of the God who gives the Law to Moses on Mount Sinai to shape a people to be a kingdom of priests.  It is the story of the God who is faithful through the times of rebellious kings and weeping prophets, exiles and returns, until the fullness of time, until the set time fully come. That fullness of time, that set time fully come, that thread and throughline that reveals God’s purposes in history is when the God the Father sends the Son, born of a woman, born under the Jewish law, to redeem mankind, to give us the Spirit.

But this very big turning point in history comes with a very personal consequence for our lives.  Moments like ours remind us that God is concerned with both the big picture of history and the smaller but significant stories of our lives, that He is sovereign over both.  Because the Father who sends Jesus the Son does so to make US sons and daughters, to adopt us as heirs into his kingdom, reminding us that we aren’t just pawns in some cosmic chess game but that we are people for whom Christ died.  And if we are followers of Jesus, if we have His Spirit in our hearts, we call out to the God of the universe and we call him “Abba,” Father.

Over the last week, Christians around the world have been remembering and retelling the story of Jesus from his triumphal entry to Jerusalem Palm Sunday to his turning over the temple tables on Monday, from his final teachings in the courtyard to his last supper in the upper room, through his agony and betrayal, trial and crucifixion through a silent Saturday and to what the Gospels tell us was a quiet, confusing, but very real celebration of his resurrection on Easter Sunday as Mary Magdalene and other women found Jesus’ tomb empty but with an angel’s promise that Messiah who had been dead was alive once more.  If history has one true turning point, one true thread or throughline, one true end, it is revealed in the events that we have remembered and celebrated this past week and that we live out of each day as we carry our own crosses.

And just as the life and death and resurrection of Jesus is the turning point of history, so too can it be the turning point of your life and of our lives together.  Jesus doesn’t just give us “the answer” as if life was some short answer test; instead He gives us himself as that which points to meaning and purpose and the real end of history.  If you do not know Him, let today be the day that you turn to him. If you have questions about following Jesus, let me or another teacher or staff person at school know. If you are a follower of Jesus and you are struggling through these times of ours, I encourage you to reach out to your friends and family and your community here at HBA for support.  And as the writer of the Letter of Hebrews reminds us, let us all look to Jesus, who for “the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.  Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted.”  May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all this Easter season.

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Reading Resurrection Letters

A wonderful way to spend part of Easter Sunday . . .

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Rest

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Deeper Than What We Make of It

Tish Harrison Warren’s most recent piece on Easter for Christianity Today dropped after I had recorded my Easter “message” for school, but I was glad to see it when it came time to put together the reflective follow-up piece.  In the article, Warren makes the point that Easter is Easter regardless of how much we “make of it.”  She’s writing this, of course, as Christians around the world, most of them used to planning all kinds of things for the holiday, are now doing the celebrating at home.  The part that I adapted for the reflective follow-up piece:

I am a Christian today not because it answers all my questions about the world or about our current suffering. It does not. And not because I think it is a nice, coherent moral order by which to live my life. And not because I grew up this way or have fond feelings about felt boards and hymn sings. And not because it motivates justice or helps me to know how to vote. I am a Christian because I believe in the Resurrection. If it isn’t true, to hell with it.

On the other hand, if Jesus did in fact come back from the dead on a quiet Sunday morning some 2,000 years ago, then everything is changed—our beliefs, our ethics, our politics, our time, our relationships. If it is true, then the resurrection of Jesus is the most determinative fact of the universe, the center point of history. The Resurrection is ultimately truer and more lasting than death or destruction, violence or viruses. It’s truer, too, than our celebration of it, however beautiful, however meager.

You can read the whole piece here.

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Away from Trivial Grief

The particularities of life during a worldwide pandemic have brought some fresh urgency to how many are articulating their faith during this season of Lent and Easter.  Yesterday I recorded my Easter message for school chapel; there’s really no way around acknowledging Our Current Moment.  But it’s interesting to see how so many are responding in so many different ways.

Matthew Loftus, a teacher and doctor in East Africa recently posted his reflections to Plough.  I feel like it strikes the right chord with not just a Christian response but a Christ-like response.  He starts by recounting a story about children and the loss of precious little things as a consequence of living in a politically volatile place.  He talks about the “small sorrows” and the “deeper griefs” of the moment.  Then he writes:

I am not afraid of dying, I don’t think; I know I’ll stand before Jesus and thank him that it was only by his blood that I made it. No, I am afraid of mass pandemonium, of my neighbors starving, of returning home to the food we’ve carefully stockpiled over the last few weeks and filling my belly while it all happens. I am afraid of supplies running out, of our hospital not being able to make payroll because of the unjust structures that do not adequately compensate our institution for the work that we do, of trying to intubate someone and then losing power. I am afraid of watching my colleagues die, of leaving any child without a father, or of simply making a wrong clinical decision that leads to someone’s death. I am afraid of what I will say to my wife in anger and frustration or how I might lash out at one of the nurses when someone we are caring for dies. I am afraid of telling my children that they must isolate themselves from other children, or that we do not know when they’ll see their grandparents again. I might even be afraid of having to tell my children that their Legos are gone forever.

From there he writes about the difficult life of Helen Roseveare, a mission hospital worker who remained faithful to God and to her post even as she was personally ravaged by rebellion and rejected by her students.  She connected her own suffering with the suffering of Jesus, with what the apostle Paul says of his own body “completing what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions.”  Loftus adds:

What could be lacking in the sufferings of Christ? Only that which his hands and feet – us – have not yet experienced.

All of our griefs, big and small, fit into this. I think of Christ, sighing at unbelief and crying out in agony on the cross. He weeps at his friend’s tomb and gets exasperated by misunderstandings about yeast. He is betrayed by Peter but really saves his anger for a fig tree.

With the virus, for which we are woefully unprepared, flooding towards us in Kenya, I worry I have invested my life in this local healthcare project only to see it washed out in the end. I worry for the lives we will not save. And I still find it in my heart to worry about my son’s Legos.

Loftus concludes his own part of the reflection with this, something that can be a real struggle but also seems very true, Christ-like, amidst the posturing we all are too often guilty of:

Our ability to manage and live with grief depends on how much we are willing to identify with Christ. If we do not make ourselves vulnerable to the pains and sorrows of this world like he did, nor risk what we have for the sake of people who are hurting, then our griefs will be trivial indeed. The degree to which we are united with Christ – in spirit, in prayer, in suffering – is the degree to which he shares the burden of those sufferings with us.

There’s more in the piece definitely worth reading, including a closing quote from Bishop Ken Untener about stepping back and taking a long view.

May God bless your Maundy Thursday.

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