Chapter 3: A Disagreement

"I own part of these woods. The stone wall that runs not half a mile from here is the border of my property."

"It is all the King's land," says the gardener, "and under the King's rule through the authority He's given to His Ministers and to His Prime Minister."

"I recognize the King's authority, but not the Prime Minister's." I do not know why I am suddenly so offended, or why the bitter argument springs up out of me. But I am enraged.

"Regardless, His authority is the King's," says the gardener. "And, if I may, how can you recognize the King's authority if you do not recognize His Prime Minister's?"

I leave the garden angry. "He is a false Prime Minister," I say under my breath. "He reaches too far."

Why do I accept and even demand hierarchy and authority in every institution but the Church?

There is something in me that rejects human, spiritual authority. "I am Christ's man, and His man alone," I want to say. And that is correct: I serve no King but Jesus. But what if He has established His authority on this Earth in a man, in a council of men, in order to guide His Church? Or, to put it differently, is there another way, given the heart of man, to have His Church be one?

At the very least, can I say that perhaps it is true? If I could say, "Perhaps," then I may be able to approach the question honestly.

Unity is the fruit of charity. And without charity, who can be saved? What does that unity look like? Is it unity within diversity? Is it unity under the recognized authority of the Bishop of Rome? Or is it a completely invisible unity? Is invisible unity even unity? One thing becomes clearer to me as I get older: The gospel demands unity. In Question 3 of N.T. Wright's February 2006 Wrightsaid Q & A, Wright says that the existence and propagation of denominations is "a flagrant disobedience" to the teaching of the New Testament. That statement, if I believe it, demands something of me.

I walk through the woods, and then turn and run back toward the garden. The gardener stands and watches my approach as I crash gracelessly through the forest. He is grinning.

Sola Fide

How is one saved?

What are your arguments for "by faith alone"? And, perhaps more importantly, what do you mean by faith?

"You see that a man is justified by works and not by faith alone" (James 2.24, NASB). And "For we maintain that a man is justified by faith apart from works of the Law" (Romans 3.28, NASB). Paul and James seem to disagree sharply, though they do not. Together, then, what are they saying? The danger of "faith alone" is that we can believe that faith is simple intellectual assent. But faith as intellectual assent does not save, does it?

Also, what does Paul mean by "works of the Law"? Is he simply stating that works do not save, or is he saying something else entirely?

What do the Scriptures teach?

The Best Movies of 2005?

I did it. I stayed up until the last credit finished rolling on the Academy Awards. Sort of a bust. Afterward, I wondered if there had been any good movies made in 2005. Oh well. I'm not a big fan of Crash, myself. I know some of you liked the movie, but I found it too didactic.

Jon Stewart was funny. My favorite part? They'd just aired a montage highlighting the many social issues that movies have dealt with in the past and Stewart says, "And we've never struggled with those problems again." He then follows that comment with "Congratulations, us." Good stuff there.

And while I'm talking about movies, I watched Doctor Zhivago this weekend. It had been a while since I'd seen the movie, and I was looking forward to it on DVD. It was excellent. The older I get, the more I enjoy the movie. Of course it was long - so long that I had to flip the disc over twice to watch it in its entirety. Regardless, it was better than any of the movies up for "Best Movie" last night. Way better.

The Riches of Emmanuel

I know that most Protestants who have thought about and determined to be Protestants have manifold problems with the Roman Catholic Church - many of the problems arise out of competing worldviews (sometimes differing eschatologies) while most of them, in my opinion, bubble up out of simple misunderstandings of or misinformation about what Catholics actually believe. Though only a novice, I have begun studying the Roman Catholic Church, and I have found richness there. And, possibly, exceedingly great richness.

Let me share with you the true riches of the Catholic Church. It is not found in her history, and it is not in her unity or charity (or even her hats). I do not find it in her strong moral stand within our culture or in her unrelenting grasp of right. It is not that she has given us the Scriptures or that she is, after two millennia, thoroughly orthodox. Don't misread me - there are riches here. But her true riches are, unquestioningly for me, in her Mass.

Many of the riches in the Catholic Church I can explore as a Protestant. In many cases, I can even make them my own. But the Mass is wholly different, wholly other. It has its liturgies (the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Eucharist) that must be performed. And though the priest plays an essential role in the Mass, it is not about the priest. Or the music. Or the homily (sermonette). The Mass is a celebration of the Eucharist. And the Eucharist - and here lies the scandalon, the stumbling stone - is Christ.

The dogma of the Real Presence (the transubstantiation) is a difficult one. The Church claims that the wafer and the wine truly, really, and substantially transform into the body and the blood, the soul and the divinity of Christ - though completely indiscernible by the senses. The Eucharist, therefore, celebrated as such, is either the greatest good or it is foul evil. I don't know that there is a middle way.

And therein is my great struggle with Catholicism. It is the most profound and life-changing news I have ever received as a believer - that I can touch and experience and feast upon our Lord. And it is the most terrifying.

What am I to do with this Sacrament?

For the first millennium of the Church's existence, the Real Presence was never questioned. And it was not rejected until the Reformation (even Luther and Calvin believed in the Real Presence, though they rejected the Catholic Church's teaching about its transformation - some of our "higher" Protestant traditions still believe in the Real Presence as the real spiritual presence of Christ). The Early Church Fathers write about the Real Presence and believe it. The Scriptures certainly allow and even suggest such an interpretation (This is my body, whoever does not discern the body, etc.). Is the Reformation more weighty than the first 1500 years of Church tradition? Wouldn't the Early Fathers have better known what our Lord intended than Luther or Calvin?

If the Real Presence is true, then I cannot keep myself from the Catholic Church.

What am I to do with this Sacrament?

Chapter 2: An Encounter

I walk through the woods. A brown-headed nuthatch appears, hopping from branch to branch, chasing after her bridegroom. They chirrup smart sensuous songs to one another. A stream, clean and new and cold, runs through birches and white pines. I step over the low, broken stone wall that marks the far edge of my property. Ivy runs over it and a variety of mosses huddle together in community. I am crossing into another's woods. Whose, I do not know. The woods are not wholly lovely. There are dead trees and rotting trunks, just as on my property. Here an old oak, once a prince of the forest, lies split asunder. It rots. There are also denser spots that are dark and leave me feeling rather uncomfortable, making me look nervously over my shoulder.

The Church is sensory. It fills my five senses until I know somehow the spiritual. Pictures and smells and symbols, water and bread and wine - the invisible becomes incarnate. And I find myself remembering Jesus. The Church calendar takes me through the birth and life of my Lord. It participates in his passion. It mourns his death and celebrates his resurrection. It adores him in a world that forgets him. Many churches are letting go of the Church calendar, claiming that every day is new in the newness of Christ (which, of course, is true). But I wonder if, in removing the celebration, we have removed the reason for the celebration. We make ourselves a dead and empty marriage without memorial, devoid of intimacy or anniversary, reft of romance.

As I continue, I come into a clearing. And before me is a garden, perfectly kept and newly in bloom. Rose bushes are red-and-green alive, though still without rose. Forsythia shine. Dogwoods unwrap themselves in an ever-widening circle, white and pink, and spread gloriously into the forest beyond - ethereal beauty floating between heaven and earth. Sounds catch my ears and draw my eyes. They are gardening sounds: pruners pruning away dead branches and shovels shoveling soft, good earth. The gardener wears white, somehow kept clean. I greet him, and he I.

"I was walking through these woods," I say, "but I do not know whose they are."

"They are the King's," he answers.

Chapter 1: A Walk

Wooded acres stretch out from the back of my house, seemingly endless woods. They begin rather abruptly at the crest of the hill that rises up from the quiet pond; they have always been present, mysterious, wanting exploration, and quietly beckoning. I've heard godly people tell stories about the woods, horrific stories: It has lapped up the blood of the martyrs; within it there is worship given to strange gods and goddesses. But I wonder at them, for there are also those whom I've heard, other godly men and women, tell such beautiful stories about it - of celebration, of fullness, of seeing their Lord.

As a Protestant, one of the first things that one notices about Catholicism is its otherness. It is, in many ways, wholly different than Protestantism.

I was in the Catholic church until I was about ten. Baptized into the Church, old enough to take First Communion, but not yet old enough for Confirmation. So when I think about the Church, much is familiar and much is foreign.

As I draw nearer, I discover that the forest is carpeted in yellow daffodils and shades of mossy emerald - it is that time of year. A time when all things are being made new. The air is incensed with honeysuckle.

Protestantism did not spring up out of a vacuum. Christ did not come down from Heaven and establish the Church in the sixteenth century or bring her a new rigidity in the twentieth century, but most of the time we believe that it is so, we act as if it is so. "Ah," we say, "after 1500 years we have reclaimed the true church - we are like that first-century church." We pretend that, immediately following the death of the Apostles (John, A.D. 100), the entire Church began to go off the rails and that by the fifth century, institutionalized and now the state religion, she no longer even resembled what Christ had called her to be, made her to be.

I read about her early councils and find the Trinity, the Virgin Birth, the hypostatic union of Christ, the canon of the Scriptures - our heritage, our life, the very substance of who we are, the very hope of who we will be, the very charity of Christ.

She is not perfect. But then did anyone ever think she would be? "Of course not," I hear, "but that imperfect?"

The Church has had truly miserable moments in her history as well as truly glorious ones. She has been both adulterous and faithful, murderer and Mother. Sometimes more miserable than glorious. But as I rise to condemn her, I realize that I am she.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Coping, Poping, and Alliterating

Where have I been? I've been resting from the Michigan trip, feeling tired (fighting something?), and enjoying time with the fam. I've also been reading vast quantities of Catholic materials. (The people cheer; the audience roars.) I know, I know, you don't want to hear about it, but I'm just saying. And, of course, this will be fodder for future posts - maybe later today even. I'm telling you so you know where I've been and where I'm going.

At this point in my reading and studying, I already feel somewhat disabused of my Protestantism. And, to be a teensy dramatic, I also feel somewhat used and deceived: too much information, of the truth, has been kept from me. I know it is not a malicious dissemination of disinformation, but all the same, I feel a little angered and slightly slighted. (I plan on sharing some of this information at a later date.) It is almost as if after struggling financially for much of my life, I've just discovered that there is, in my name, a bank account with several million dollars in it.

I mean to cash in on and even share some of my newly found wealth. I won't be angry if you don't want any of it. Regardless, I hope you keep hanging with me.

---

To do something completely different and unrelated now: Here's an alliteration piece I worked on over the weekend to post at Jamie Dawn's blog (see blogroll). I wasn't going to post it here, but I spent an hour to an hour and a half on it late Saturday night. It uses the word "ass" frequently, so skip it if that will offend.

Arthur's ample ass, attired appropriately, acquired attitude at an All-Ass Amble, accomplishing an acrobatic and arresting antiphonal air.

Addie, awestruck at Arthur's artistry, asked about acquiring Arthur's adept ass at April's assembly. Addie's assistant, Abigail, aghast at approaching an ass-artisan, almost appealed Addie's adjuration.

Arthur's ass ambled ahead.

Abigail approached and ass-ambled, albeit awkwardly, alongside Arthur.

Arthur ass-ambled astoundingly.

Abigail's arms ached after Arthur and Arthur's ambling ass.

Arthur approached. Abigail, anxious about appearing amateurish, angled away.

Arthur advanced again, almost angrily at Abigail's angling.

And Arthur's arms acquired Abigail. Abigail - alive, Ah! alive - acquiesced and alluringly ass-ambled against Arthur. Arthur assessed Addie's assistant approvingly. Abigail ass-ambled and Arthur accompanied.

And asking Arthur about April's assembly abandoned Addie's assistant - Abigail adrift, Abigail adored, Abigail accepted, Abigail angelic.

Ah! Amore!

There and Back Again

The drive was not nearly as bad as I imagined - neither to nor from Michigan. The kids were wonderful. They didn't sleep well at Grandma and Grandpa's (it always takes a couple of days for them to acclimate), but the trip was pretty okay.

It is so nice being with Laura and Sophie again.

Thanks for your prayers.

When I got home Friday night, just as I lifted Will out of the car, he began vomiting. Laura took him and felt his forehead; he had a fever. He hadn't felt hot on our last stop and had been asleep for the past three hours. And though I'm so sorry the little guy was sick, I was sure glad he had waited until we got home.

Oh, and no gold. No dragons.

Expecting You

I keep expecting you to walk into the room, to ask me if I’ve seen your brush, to sit next to me, to lay your head on my shoulder. But you don’t. I wait for you to come down the stairs from your shower. But you don’t. I keep expecting you, but you are not here.

I thought I’d see you as I turned the corner into the dining room, but the table was empty and there was only food for me.

And as the sun set and the children fell asleep, I was sure you would be in your chair with your legs curled under you – knitting, reading, or growing tired. But the chair is quiet and empty, because you are not here.

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Sweet Afton

FLOW gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

- Robert Burns

The Drive

I will be traveling tomorrow with three little people: a five-year-old girl, a three-year-old girl, and a crazy toddler boy. They're all mine, as far as I know. Laura and Sophie can't go because of school. So it's just me and them for twelve gr***ing hours. I am traveling to the edge of the Great White North - to Michigan - for an interview or two.

I had a dream last night that my wife told me she didn't want me coming back until I found a job. I was crushed. But then I woke up and now I'm okay. Mostly okay. Really. Mostly.

So here I am contemplating this trip from The Place That Shall Not Be Named (that would be "Hell" for my slower readers). And twelve hours, by the way, is only the trip there. At some point we will need to make the trek home, unless my dream prove prophetic.

Anyway, I'd appreciate your prayers throughout the day on Tuesday. I may just buy diapers for the older kids and slap them on them for the trip. Maybe for me too. That'd save some time. Now if I could only find some legal, ethical way to make the children sleep the entire trip. I'll have to burn some new music for the trip - something that will drown out my yelling and crying, preferably, and something that will keep me awake. Any suggestions?