We may think God wants actions of a certain kind, but God wants people of a certain sort.

“We may think God wants actions of a certain kind, but God wants people of a certain sort.” (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity)




In one beautiful sentence Lewis points to a fine line in the spiritual journey that is challenging for any of us to walk. Those of us who are offspring of the Reformation are eager to agree that spirituality is not as much about what we do, but what God does in us. The first project for God is not the world, but the soul. Each soul. It is through recreated souls that God brings about certain actions that shape the world in a certain way.



The challenge though is to read this sentence and not jump to the conclusion that we are the certain sort of people God wants. Doesn’t God have more to do with you? One of the pitfalls of religion is to base the prototype of spirituality on ourselves. How boring and self-righteous! It’s what makes life exciting – to think that God’s not through we me yet! And the more we realize what more God has left to do in us, the less we might be worried about what more God has to do in others. Maybe that’s the sort of person he’s looking for – someone who graces others as much as she or he has been graced by God … to be as gracious with other’s faults as God has been with ours.



In the end, we will know what kind of people we are becoming by what actions we are performing. Is the nature of my behavior changing? Jesus said, “By their fruits you shall know them.” Is my fruit pleasing for those around me? That will go to show what tree I’ve become.

That which I greatly feared has come upon me.

You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England. Surprised by Joy, p. 228 I was rereading this account of Lewis’s transforming moment today and discovered something I don’t think I ever knew: Lewis when he tells his story tells it to us, partly, through the words of Job: “That which I greatly feared has come upon me.” (Job 3:25) Isn’t it interesting that Lewis quotes the terrifying experience of Job when he tells the story of his own epiphany? It is as if to suggest that truth – in whatever form – can be terrifying. A new reality is destabilizing. It can come in the form that we mostly greatly fear. Do you wonder if there are forms of the truth that we keep at bay because we are simply afraid to face them, or to have them face us? I heard a man recently talk about his decision for sobriety. It came when he had to confront something true about himself – he was causing too many other people pain. His problem was everyone else’s problem. That which he greatly feared had come upon him. He was powerless when it came to alcohol. Sometimes a new idea surfaces in our society and because we have spent so much time convinced of another idea we are afraid to consider something new. We don’t want to consider the possibility that we may have been wrong. And even though shades of the new idea are convincing, we still push it away. The new idea for Lewis was the credibility of God, and that which he greatly feared (being wrong in his atheism) had come upon him. Don’t worry if a new idea pulls you kicking and screaming into a new opinion. You join the ranks of many who have found new life. Lewis continues: I did not see then what is now the most shining and obvious thing; the Divine humility which will accept a convert even on such terms. The Prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet. But who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape? If you find yourself kicking and screaming – you might just be on to something. That which you’ve greatly feared has, maybe, come upon you.

Past Watchful Dragons

Lewis in his great essay on writing for children talks about the challenge of writing stories that bear the reality of the gospel but without the doctrinal and interpetive baggage that adults want to place on the simple story. Says Lewis, "I thought I saw how stories of this kind could steal past a certain inhibition which had paralysed much of my own religion in childhood. Why did one find it so hard to feel as one was told one ought to feel about God or the sufferings of Christ? I thought the chief reason was that one was told one ought to. An obligation to feel can freeze feelings. And reverence itself did harm. The whole subject was associated with lowered voices; almost as if it were something medical. But supposing that by casting all these things into an imaginary world, stripping them of their stained-glass and Sunday School associations, one could make them for the first time appear in their real potency? Could one not thus steal past those watchful dragons? I thought one could." There is something about us preachers and teachers that sometimes doesn't want to trust the power of the story itself. Somehow we feel the compulsion to tell people what the story means, instead of letting the story do it. I suppose in a sense that's what preaching is -- explaining the story. But maybe our preaching and teaching become the "watchful dragons" that prevent people from feeling the grasp of the tale. George MacDonald, Lewis's literary mentor, in his great essay The Fantastic Imagination compares these things to the experience of listening to a sonata: "If two or three men sat down to write each what the sonata meant to him, what approximation to definite idea would be the result? Little enough -- and that little more than needful. We should find it had roused related, if not identical, feelings, but probably not one common thought. Has the sonata therefore failed? Had it undertaken to convey, or ought it be expected to impart anything defined, anything notionally recognizable?" Can we trust that the story of Jesus through the work of the Holy Spirit will rouse in those who read and hear what can and should be roused? Jesus seemed content to tell gospel by simply telling stories. Why must we post watchful dragons of explanation and doctrine at the door?

Playing the Part Well

In C.S. Lewis's great essay, The World's Last Nighthe speaks of what it means to have a healthy appreciation of the doctrine of the Second Coming. Too many, he feels, are worried about the plot and ending that they fail to understand their own role. Writes Lewis, "It is (because of) our attempt to guess the plot of a drama in which we are the characters. But how can the characters in a play guess the plot? We are not the playwright, we are not the producer, we are not even the audience. We are on the stage. To play well the scenes in which we are "on" concerns us much more than to guess aobut the scenes that follow it." Lewis goes on to illustrate by talking about a minor character in King Lear to whom the playwright does not even give a name. In the third act he performs an act of instinctive loyalty and bravery and as a result is killed. His unnamed part is 8 lines long, but, as Lewis puts it: "But if it were real life and not a play, that is the part it would be best to have acted." The part best to have acted. It's nice not to have to worry about the ending of the play or the plot that leads to it. The key is play your part. When the director points our way, act! This is our contribution not only to the present, but to the ending. As students of the New Testament we may be given a peak at the ending, but there is a whole lot of acting that needs to be done in the meanwhile. Who knows? Maybe the whole play turns on our part.

There, but for the grace of God, go I

In the middle of 16th century a British cleric, John Bradford, got caught in the ever changing religious and monarchical landscape of England. Bradford was an ardent Protestant preacher and devotee of the Church of England itinerating in Lancashire and Cheshire. When Mary Tudor, a Roman Catholic, took the throne it wasn’t long before Bradford was thrown into jail for supposedly stirring a mob. He ended up in the London Tower and would never be released. While there, however, instead of lamenting his condition he gave over his time to the careful study of the New Testament with other churchmen including Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer. When Bradford glanced out the window of the tower one day and noticed a set of prisoners being taken to their execution he said aloud: “There, but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford.” Not realizing that he was coining a phrase used for centuries to come, Bradford was simply reflecting on how life and its goodness had much more to do with the conspiratorial movements of grace, than of his own devices. By the grace of God he was still alive. Later the queen conspired against him and he was burned at the stake. There, but for the grace of God, go I. It’s what we say when we see what good things and bad things life can sometimes throw our way. It’s like what Jack Benny said when once accepting an award: “I don’t deserve this award, but then again I have arthritis and I don’t deserve that either.” There, but for the grace of God, go I. We’ve read in the last couple of days about a young Yale graduate just a few days past her commencement and with a seemingly bright future ahead of her dies suddenly and tragically in an auto accident. It could happen to any of us. There, but for the grace of God, go I. A dear friend of mine, a young father in his late 30’s, having just accepted a new ministry post with great promise, while driving late at night on a country road, gets hit by a teenager asleep at the wheel. It could have happened to any of us. There, but for the grace of God, go I. The creation conspires, doesn’t it? Sometimes it conspires in our favor and sometimes it conspires against us. And there is so little of it we can control. But isn’t this where thanksgiving begins? When I combine the theory of causation with the composition of my genetic code and being knit together in my mother’s womb – the truth is I have very little in this life I can take credit for. It has come from somewhere else. Grace has conspired to give me so much. The psalmist put it this way: “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; I have a goodly heritage.” I didn’t pick my brain. I didn’t pick my family. I didn’t pick my childhood church. They were all chosen for me. And I realize my fortune. Whatever I have done with what I’ve received has far more to do with conspiratorial circumstances than with my own smarts. And even if my smarts were involved, they weren’t my smarts to begin with – they came from someone else!!! In the pool of four sons of which I am a part, all from the same parents, one has a brain that never allowed a word to pass his lips nor to think much past a three year old’s ability. There, but for the grace of God, go I!!! How can you not be thankful?? And in being thankful how can you not want to be a part of conspiratorial grace for others?

Is Hell Occupied?

I received this link from a dear friend.

http://www.reclaimingthemind.org/blog/2011/11/why-do-we-love-c-s-lewis-and-hate-rob-bell/

It's a discussion about whether or not we should love or hate a couple of contemporary writers (C.S. Lewis and Rob Bell). I find it strange that so many spend so much energy worried about other people who think that maybe God's grace is sufficient alone. So many want to believe that heaven is reserved for those with the secret knowledge. It's called gnoticism and the church considered that heresy a long time ago. Salvation is all from God, not an ounce from us. I'm too broken to figure it out. God has to do it. I am so thankful that God is not relying on me one bit to figure out what is needed for salvation. I'm not that smart. Instead I get to bask in the wonder of his grace and yearn to share it with others.

They used to say that the definition of a Puritan is something who is deathly afraid that someone out there is having fun. I'm beginning to wonder if there aren't some of us who are deathly afraid that hell -- as real as it is -- might still be empty. Could it be true?

In gratitude for Senator Mark Hatfield

Senator Mark Hatfield died two days ago. He was a 30 year Senator from Oregon and an instrumental person in my life. I was a Political Science major at Westminster College and in my Senior year became Chairperson of the college's Mock Republican National Convention. Admiring from afar the political career of Senator Hatfield, whose Christian conviction had often put him at odds with the Republican party (opposition to the Vietnam War, the arms race, etc.), I took the chance and invited him to be the keynote speaker at the convention. He accepted! We met a few months later at an anti-nuke rally in New York City that we were both attending and discussed his speech. Months following, whenthe convention rolled around, prior to his address we met again and had about a 20 minute conversation. At that time I was considering a career either in politics or in the church. I shared these thoughts with Senator Hatfield and asked him as a Christian in politics what he thought I should do. He said this: " Leadership in the Church has a greater chance to change the world than leadership in politics. If I were you I'd pursue the calling to the Church, before the calling to politics.". Those words came to me at a pivotal moment in my life and greatly impacted my decision to go to seminary and serve the Church. I've never regretted it. Mark Hatfield remained for me a model of a person who was willing to let his Spirit-guided conscience lead him into places where often angels feared to tread. In this age of hyper-partisan politics we should all pray for the likes of Mark Hatfield to appear again. Praise God from whom, and to whom, all blessings flow.