Mere Academics

I read an article in the newspaper today that got me thinking. It was about a researcher who suggested that there is evidence to suggest that the Ebola virus may be airborne, and on the off-chance that it is, those who are caring for Ebola patients should be wearing full respirators rather than just face masks. His suggestion was soundly refuted by a chief medical officer who said, "Besides, there likely aren’t enough respirators to go around, something an academic . . . doesn’t need to consider . . . . Researchers have the academic luxury of making comments that don’t have an impact in the real world." (Quote from LFP, October 15, 2014)

I'm not going to talk about Ebola. There are plenty of people who know far more about that than I do. I'm not going to talk about whether or not health-care workers should be wearing respirators. I have no clue. But I am interested in the intersection between "researchers and academics" and "the real world".

I work in an academic setting. I have even been called an "academic" and a "theologian". And I have been repeatedly puzzled by the insinuation that there is this enormous divide between "academics" and "the real world". Somehow, academia is fine for pie-in-the-sky, ivory tower dreaming, and academics and theologians are out of touch with reality and not quite "normal". They have the "luxury of making comments that don't have an impact in the real world". Really? Is that what people think? Do they really think that I and other "academics" (I hate the very term) go around saying stuff just for the sake of hearing our own voice and to show off how smart and wonderful we are, without thinking about the practical implications? Do they really think that being an academic somehow protects us from the common lot of humanity, that somehow our world of ideas and research insulates us from love and heartbreak, joy and heartache, the wonder of a sunset, the delight of a child's laughter, sickness and health, birth and death, fear and courage? Do they really think that the world goes by us like a stream around a rock while the rest of humanity is carried along like sticks in the current? That we'll be safe in our ivory towers from things like loss and pain and cancer and Ebola and death?

Because that's a pile of crock. Which is an entirely non-academic way to say that I am as human as anyone else who walks this earth. If I'm ever tempted to hide in an ivory tower (as others might hide in booze, drugs, sex, work, shopping, TV shows, romance novels, approval, family, etc) life has a way of knocking down the tower and burying me under the rubble.

I love ideas. I have thought about Trinity and divinity, about ecclesiology and eschatology, about the finer points of total depravity, unconditional election, limited atonement, irresistible grace, and the perseverance of the saints. I have wrestled with the sovereignty of God, the will of God, free will, and the problem of evil. I have thought about heaven, the new heavens and the new earth, resurrection and death. I have a new stick to chew on pretty much every week. It is honest, deep, and academic wrestling. I have read the Word, and words about the Word. I have learned hard truths, truths which are difficult to live. But just because they are difficult to live, just because sometimes the ideas that I think make me feel bad or stretch me out of my comfort zone, does that make them luxurious ideas that don't have an impact in the real world?

I don't think so. I think it makes me more acutely aware of the complexities of this wonderful, horrible world in which we live. It makes me responsible to line the real world up to the truth, however complicated that might end up being. I love ideas. I love thinking about them and discussing them. But a big part of what I love about them is exploring their implications. I live with those implications as certainly as anyone else who draws breath. Perhaps, dare I say it, I live with them more, because I have thought about them hard.

So don't talk to me about an ivory tower, about "living in the real world", or about academic luxury. It's a stack of nonsense. The logic goes like this: Ebola might be airborne, so we should use respirators, but we don't have enough respirators, therefore Ebola probably isn't airborne. Or maybe this: God calls us to sexual purity, so we shouldn't have sex before marriage, but I really love the guy, therefore when God calls us to sexual purity, he wasn't talking about sex before marriage. Or this: God is totally sovereign, so everything that happens is in his control, but I can't accept that he was in control of this horrible thing that happened to me, so maybe he's only sovereign over the good stuff and not the bad stuff. We cannot talk about academic ideas without understanding and living with the implications. It betrays the very academic integrity we cherish. It is not academic luxury to discuss complicated or uncomfortable ideas. What is luxury (or downright foolishness) is to discount the ideas as mere academics just because the implications are hard to implement.

There is no such thing, at least in my world, as mere academics. There is a such thing as ordinary people who live fully, love deeply, hurt profoundly, cry and laugh with liberty, who think about and discuss big ideas with life-changing implications, and who then seek diligently to make those implications a reality in their lives, no matter how tough that is. From there, they teach those ideas to others, so that they, too, can fully enter into the mix and mess of following Jesus faithfully in an unfaithful world.

On the off-chance that the researcher was right, and I had to care for an Ebola patient, I would want a respirator.

Wouldn't you?

Worth It All

I got a new CD recently, by Meridith Andrews, called Worth It All. The title song contains the refrain, 

"I"ll let go of all I have just to have all of you,

And no matter what the cost, I will follow you.

Jesus, everything I've lost, I have found in you

When I finally reach the end, I'll say, 

'You are worth it all. You are worth it all.'"

It's worth a listen. You can do that here. I've been listening to it over and over. It's made me think hard.

There are people around the world at this moment for whom this song is profoundly and literally true. My brothers and sisters in the Middle East are letting go of everything they have to follow Jesus. The cost is high -- all their possessions, their homes, their jobs, their families, even their lives. The world seems paralyzed about what to do. There seems to be a lot of posturing, shouting, disapproving, even a few aerial bombardments, but basically, the world is standing by, albeit in horror and disgust, unsure how to proceed. In the meantime, there are people who are letting go of even their lives to have Jesus.

I've been praying for months now to have all of Jesus. Well, at least to have more of Jesus. I don't want to stagnate. I want to know him better and trust him more this year than I did last. I want to feel his love for me more. I want to see him answer prayers more often, in more profound ways. But what I have felt is not more, but less. Or perhaps more, but more of hurt, silence, and sadness.

I experienced unexpected circumstances. The phone call at night that no one wants. Days of waiting for tests and procedures. Long and lonely drives up and down the highway. Long and lonely hours in a hospital waiting room, wondering what was happening. Desperate cries of prayer to God for the trust to believe he would do something if I asked, in the face of a fear that he would be silent. It all worked out happily, but it created a shock wave that has yet to subside. Life is short. It is fragile. There is nothing certain. Sometimes the people you expect to "be there" just aren't. And death is just a heartbeat away.

I experienced sudden loss. The email that wrapped cold fingers of dread around my heart. Days of waiting. Long and lonely hours, desperate cries of prayer for God to intervene, for him to do something only he could do, stunned disbelief when, it seemed, he did nothing at all. It didn't work out happily, and while the first wave was still crashing over me, the second wave caught me and thrust me under before I could catch my breath. Life is short. It is fragile. There is nothing certain. Sometimes you don't even get the opportunity to say goodbye, to say, "I love you," to say, "You meant the world to me and God used you in ways you will never know." Sometimes the people you expect to "be there" just aren't. And death is just a heartbeat away.

I experienced deep hurt. Days of waiting with an aching, aching heart. Desperate cries of prayer to God to intervene, for him to do something only he could do, and once again it seemed he did nothing at all. Desperate clinging to him, refusing to let go, refusing to stop believing that he loves me. I'm almost getting used to feeling like I'm drowning. Life is short. It is fragile. There is nothing certain. Sometimes the people you expect to "be there" just aren't. Death is just a heartbeat away.

All that fragility frightens me. The people I love the very most can be gone in a heartbeat. How do I dare to love? My heart already hurts so much, how could I stand another blow? Sin is so very close. I can put things in place to keep myself accountable, but even those things can fail in a heartbeat. How can I be sure that I will not fall away? I know God's grace is sufficient, and his forgiveness is profound, and I'm certainly not trying to be perfect, but I know my heart. I know there is no besetting sin into which I could not fall if I am not on my guard. And oh, my Jesus, I do not want that. But I don't know anymore how to stop it. I once thought I knew, but I don't anymore. I don't know anymore how to dare to love, how to dare to trust, how to dare to live a holy life without it breaking my heart.

Then I hear about Christians in the Middle East who are dying for their faith while the world stands by in impotent rage. What if it comes here? What if a man hidden beneath a black mask held a sword over my head and told me to give up my faith or die? What would I do? Because it could come here. Someday, it will come here. There was a time when I thought I knew what I would do. There was a time when I was sure I would give my life. I want to believe that still. But I'm not sure anymore. I'm not sure I'm sure of anything anymore. I'm not even sure sometimes who I am. "I'll let go of all I have just to have all of you?" Will I? I'm not sure how much more of my heart I can give without there being not enough left to keep going.

I have kept singing the song. Over and over. Not because it expresses what I believe. I have been singing it because it expresses what I want, desperately, to believe. I want to know, to really know that he is worth it all. He is worth the uncertainty, the loss, the hurt, the fragility. He is more precious because of it. I want to know that.

Then last Sunday, the preacher asked, "What if you got to heaven and heaven was everything you thought it would be, with the streets of gold, the jewels, all your loved ones, perfect loveliness in all things? (Well, that's sort of what he said, but I'm ad-libbing.) What if you got there, and it was all that?" I was listening to him and my heart cried out, Oh, I can't WAIT! I was thinking of a world without black-robed beheaders, without cancer, without heart attacks, without hospital waiting rooms and funeral homes and hurt and tears and brokenness and struggles with sin. Honestly, my heart was beating faster, dreaming of that moment. And then the preacher said, "What if it was all that, and Jesus wasn't there?" In that instant, tears sprang to my eyes. In that instant, my heart broke. In that instant, I knew.

If Jesus isn't there, no matter how great it is, it's not heaven.

If Jesus isn't there, I'd rather be here, with a broken heart, with Jesus.
Because he IS here, in the midst of it all.

And I'd rather have Jesus.

Because he is worth it all.

"When I'm there in your glorious presence,

Every knee is bowed before you.

Hear the sound of heaven singing,

You are worth it all.

All the saints cry, Holy, Holy!

Angels singing, Worthy, Worthy!

Forever I will shout your praises,

You are worth it all."

To The Very End

Have you ever noticed how some people just never give up?

The husband of a friend of mine just biked from Vancouver back home to southwestern Ontario. Over 4000 km. Up and down three mountain ranges. Across the prairies. Through the Canadian Shield. Kilometre after kilometre after kilometre. Pedal stroke after pedal stroke after pedal stroke. For four weeks. He just never gave up.

I would have quit. I would have hit that first mountain range (if I made it that far) and my backside and legs would have been sore, and I would be tired already, and I would have looked way, way up, and it would be too hard, and I would quit.

Or the four guys who decided to row across the Atlantic Ocean, from Senegal to Miami. Yes, row. In a rowboat with no motor or sail in sight. They almost made it, too, until a rogue wave capsized their boat and sent them scrambling for their life raft. They had gotten pretty much nine tenths of the way across. Six weeks alone in the Atlantic Ocean with nothing but water and sky surrounding them, kilometre after kilometre after kilometre. Oar stroke after oar stroke after oar stroke. For six weeks. They just never gave up.

I would have quit. I would have rowed for two days and realised I could still see the African shore from whence I had come, and my backside and entire body would have been sore, and I would be tired and seasick and claustrophobic (think of being with three other people on a tiny rowboat), and I would have looked way, way out into an endless sea of blue, and it would be too hard, and I would quit.

Most of us would quit. But some people just never give up.

I'm beginning to see that people who don't quit are the exception.

We buy a gym membership and within two months have stopped going.
We start a diet, and it lasts two days or two weeks or two months, and then we go back to eating the way we always did.
We start saving, and we save until the next shoe sale.
The people who start a thing and see it through to the end, who not only begin well but end well, are the exception rather than the rule. Most of us just don't hold on to the end.

And while I might, and do, give up on many things, there is one thing I pray that I never give up -- my faith.

I realise that statement opens up a massive theological debate that has raged for hundreds of years. All the Calvinists are crying out, "You can't lose your salvation! Salvation is based on the divine election of God, and if God sovereignly decrees to redeem you,  you shall be redeemed. Period." I get that. I believe it. There are enough texts in Scripture that speak about God's election and my salvation that I can't not believe it.

But then there are the texts like Hebrews 6:4-6:  "It is impossible for those who have once been enlightened, who have tasted the heavenly gift, who have shared in the Holy Spirit, who have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the coming age and who have fallen away, to be brought back to repentance." It's not the only text that suggests that we can fall away. And while we can debate the theoretical nature of that falling away (we can fall away, but we won't), it is enough to give me pause. It is enough to make me say, "There is one thing I pray that I never give up -- my faith." I want to hold on. I want to persevere. I want to finish well.

And that's what the author of Hebrews is driving at, too. He goes on to say, "We want each of you to show this same diligence to the very end, so that what you hope for may be fully realized. We do not want you to become lazy, but to imitate those who through faith and patience inherit what has been promised." To the very end. Day by day, step by step, moment by moment, until Jesus calls me home. It's not enough to say that I'm never going to lose my salvation. I can sit in my comfortable chair on my soft backside and rest in my comforting Calvinist theology, but the fact is Scripture doesn't allow me to do that. "We want you to show this same diligence to the very end. We do not want you to become lazy."

Trust me, I want to quit.
When I want to be happy and God is more interested in my holiness, I want to quit.
When I want what I want and not what God wants, and the two are not the same, I want to quit.
When I want to entertain this thought or this dream, even though I know it's not "obedient to Christ" (2 Cor. 10:5), I don't want to take it captive. I want to give it free rein. I want to indulge in it. I want to make excuses and think that God will understand. Surely he wants me to be happy. What harm will it do? I'm tired of trying to fight it. If God doesn't want me to think this way, he should just take the thought away. It's not like I don't believe. I still believe. Why should I have to be so holy, when Tom, Dick, and Harry, Sally, Sue, and Samantha get to have their fun and God doesn't seem to mind? It's just so hard!

And it is. It is hard. It makes me want to quit. It makes me want to entertain the thought that, after all, I'm saved, and I can't lose my salvation, so now I can just live my life the way I want. Like a normal person, not like some whacko holy judgmental Bible-thumper who can't enjoy a naughty little thought or habit once in a while. What harm can that do, anyway, when my salvation is secure?

"It is impossible for those who have once been enlightened, who have tasted the heavenly gift, who have shared in the Holy spirit, who have tasted the goodness of the Word of God and the powers of the coming age and who have fallen away, to be brought back to repentance . . . . We want each of you to show this same diligence to the very end."

One of my profs once said, "A saving faith is a persevering faith." How do I know I'm elect? Because I am saved. How do I know I'm saved? Because I persevere. But if I do not persevere? If I deliberately and willfully choose to walk away, to indulge in sin when I know it to be sin just because I want to? A saving faith is not a one-time prayer. It's not the faith of yesterday. It's not the faith of tomorrow. A saving faith is a persevering faith. If I do not persevere, perhaps my faith was never a saving faith.

It's not merely a theological question. It's not about a theological system. It's about the choices I make today, in this moment. Choices to obey rather than to disobey. Choices to follow rather than to fight. Choices to do things God's way even when it hurts, or it's hard, or it's exhausting - and it can be all of those things. Choices that recognise that my choices do matter, that somehow, even though God is supremely sovereign over my life, he has created me with free will, and I must be diligent every moment and to the very end to exercise my free will for him and not against him.

Because it does matter. It matters supremely. I know me. I know how easy it is to quit.

And I pray to God that I never quit.

"Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,

Prone to leave the God I love.

Here's my heart, Lord, take and seal it,

Seal it for thy courts above."