Image Bearer

 Consider what follows part literary analysis (but only a very small part, because I know nothing of literary analysis), part rant (probably a fairly big part, because I'm quite good at ranting), and part act of worship (because in the end, what I am about to discuss has brought me to my knees).

I have been reading classics. For over a year now, my reading-for-pleasure has consisted solely of classics. And my latest consumption was Frankenstein. If you haven't read it, this blog may contain spoilers. If you care about that, stop reading.

I thought I knew broadly what the story was about. Some guy creates a body out of bits of other bodies cobbled together and brings the body to life. Turns out he created a freakish green monster with bolts in his head named Frankenstein, which goes on a murderous rampage killing everything in sight. I assumed that the monster would be killed and that the man who created him would learn his lesson and go on, older and wiser, and everyone would thenceforth live happily ever after.

Umm, nope.

Turns out Frankenstein is the name of the man who did the creating, not the monster.

Turns out that the monster he created isn't really a monster after all.

And there is no happily ever after.

Instead, what happens is that Frankenstein (the man, not the monster, and henceforth referred to as Victor, which is his first name, and much shorter and more ironic than Frankenstein) creates a creature. He does indeed cobble it together with bits of cadavers, and somehow, mysteriously, brings it to life. But then, horrified at the physical appearance of this living apparition of dead bits that he created, he utterly abandons his creation. (What did he think the thing would look like when he'd made it from bits and pieces of various dead bodies - Hugh Jackman?)

But the creature is not malevolent. He is innocent. He learns to survive, learns to speak, to love, to act kindly. He is good. But he is lonely, and everywhere he goes, he is rejected because of how he looks. As the years pass, the weight of loneliness presses on him more and more. He was created, brought forth into being, but has no name, no purpose, no connection. Cosmic loneliness. Absolutely abandoned. Complete disconnect from everything and everyone around him. Desperate, he sets out in pursuit of his creator. Surely, when he finds his creator, his creator will care.

But Victor doesn't care. Wrapped up in his own sense of guilt, unable to see past his own selfishness, and victim mentality, even when confronted with the terrible, terrifying suffering of the creature he created, Victor does not care. Repeatedly, he rejects the one he created, and indeed, swears upon his own willingness to die in order to kill the creature he made.

It is only then that the creature turns to killing. In desperation, he tries to make Victor feel a fraction of the pain he has suffered for years.

And still, Victor rejects him, swallowed up more and more by his own self-absorption, unable for one second to see past himself to the suffering of the one he created. He is no victor, only a weak coward. Frankenstein the man is the one who is truly the monster.

He infuriated me. His portrayal of himself as the victim in the drama when he had been the instigator of it nauseated me. His bleats about how lonely he felt, carrying the secret of the creature he had made mocked the true isolation of the poor creature himself. His solemn oaths to do whatever it would take to stop the creature flew in the face of the reality that he refused to give the creature the one thing he needed: love. Or even acceptance. His frequent swoons and brain fevers belied his declarations of action. His refusal to take genuine responsibility for his actions was reprehensible. He was small-minded and despicable while portraying himself as heroic and self-sacrificing.

But, mostly, he was the antithesis of God.

God, the creator. The giver of life. Who created mankind, not out of bits of death, to be shrouded in a corpse, but out of the dust of the earth, and infused with the breath of life. God, the creator, who created mankind in his image. Not in the image of death, but in the image of God. God, the giver of life, who named his creation. Think of the wonder of a name. Adam. Man. Eve. Woman. Created to be known, to be truly known, to have fellowship with the Creator. God, the one who created mankind with a purpose, to be his regents on the earth, to glorify him and enjoy him forever, as the old Confession says. God, who saw his creation and said, "It is very good."

God, the pursuer. The Saviour. Who created mankind innocent, but the creature ran away. And God the pursuer set out in pursuit of his creation as his creation quivered and hid in the bushes. "Adam, where are you?" God, the Saviour, who did not abandon his creation to cosmic loneliness, forever cut off from his Creator, but who came, who sought, who called, and wooed, and won. God, the Son, who was willing to die not to kill his creation, but to bring it back to life. God, the Son, who allowed himself to feel the fullness of the pain of a fallen humanity.

My goodness, what a story. My God, what a love. It could have been so different. You could have turned your back on us, justifiably, because we walked away from you. If you had been a Victor, we would have been that creature. But Jesus, "being in very nature God, emptied himself and became nothing, taking the very nature of a man; and being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death, even death on a cross." You sent your Son to be a loser. To win us.

And then to become the Victor over death.

"Therefore God has exalted him, and has given him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus, every knee should bow."

Jesus. Victor. Thank God.

Facing the Death-Dew

He lay, shrivelled and gaunt, under the sheets. It was hard to see him like that, this man who, all through my growing-up years, could do anything. He could carry a 50-lb backpack and lead a group of two dozen high school students up and down the hills of the Highland Hiking Trail in Algonquin. He could swing a canoe onto his shoulders and portage it with ease the two kilometres in to Gordon Lake from Rock Lake. He could carry a pack of shingles onto the roof and install them all with ease. And now, he lay, shrivelled and gaunt, withered away by the cancer he had battled for the last four-and-a-half years, and it was hard to see him like that.

He was conscious, but just barely, confused and petulant. It was hard to see him like that, this man who, all through my growing-up years, knew everything. He knew about the stars in the sky as we stared up at the pinpricks of light spread across the vast canvas of a northern Ontario summer sky. He'd use a flashlight to trace out Cassaeopea, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and the various other constellations. He knew about the trees, the flowers, the animals. He knew which berries and mushrooms were good to eat and which ones would poison us. He knew about cars and computers and electrical circuits. He even knew how the milk got into the milk bags. We didn't believe him when he told us, but a letter to Neilson confirmed that he was right about that, too. And now, he lay, confused and petulant, his mind stretched and broken by the cancer that he had battled for the last four-and-a-half years, and it was hard to see him like that.

It was hard to see him like that. He lay there in that hospital bed, and I thought, My goodness, he looks so terrible. He looks more dead than alive. I stayed, I visited, I talked to him when he opened his eyes. I told him I loved him, kissed him goodnight and left him sleeping peacefully.

Just hours later, the phone rang.

The phone ringing in the dark of night is never a good thing, is it?

He was gone.

I drove through dark streets, shivering so hard I had to clench my teeth to keep them from rattling. You read about stuff like that in stories. I never knew it was a real thing. I rode the same elevator up, walked down the same hallway, into the same room, past the same guy in the other bed I'd passed on my way home, just hours earlier.

And I realised instantly that when I had left, he hadn't looked more dead than alive. As frail and as sick as he had been, he had looked very much alive.

And now he was dead.

The gossamer thread had snapped, and everything was different.

"I'll love thee in life, I will love thee in death,

And praise thee as long as thou lendest me breath.

And sing, when the death-dew lies cold on my brow,

If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."

It is in the face of death that I realise how much my faith matters. If Jesus is not Lord in the face of death, he is not Lord at all. It is in looking down on that dear face, so alive just hours before, now slack-jawed and grey in death, that Jesus matters most. It is mostly easy to love Jesus in life, in mansions of glory and endless delight. It is somewhat doable to love him in trial, when there is still hope for renewal, when life still clings. But it is most necessary to love him in death, when there is nothing left but a dusty shell and the maw of the hole in the ground. Paul says it this way: "If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied" (1 Corinthians 15:19).

It is when I face death that my faith matters most.

Because when I see the death-dew cold on the brow, I catch a glimpse of the full horror of the enemy. I see him in all his undisguised hideousness, his unabashed bent for destruction. No more masquerading as an angel of light, he is revealed plainly in all his grotesque horror. Never again will I think him a joke, a red-tights-wearing, pitchfork-toting, shoulder-perching cartoon. He is a beast, a monster, a vile and repulsive demon.

We hide from that horror. We cover it up. We try not to talk about it. But when you have seen it once, you never forget. Death is the last enemy, the evil one's last laugh, and if Jesus is not Lord in the face of that desperate evil, he is not Lord at all.

But he IS Lord. And in the face of death, I know it. With as much certainty as I know the horror of death, I know the power of Jesus. "But in fact." But. Death is the devil's last laugh, BUT. "But in fact, Christ has been raised from the dead" (1 Corinthians 15:20). But in fact, death may be the devil's last laugh, but it is not God's last word. And God gets the final word. But in fact, Christ has been raised from the dead, and death is an enemy being destroyed.

Take that, filthy nightmare.

It is in the face of death that my faith matters most. It is in the face of death that I see most clearly the battle lines between the vileness of the evil one and the greatness of my Jesus. I love thee in life, I will love thee in death.

Because Christ has been raised from the dead, the "firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep" (1 Corinthians 15:20). Just the first. We all will follow. All those last-laughs of the evil one will be God's final word. "All shall be made alive" (v. 22). The gossamer thread will be restored, never again to be broken. Risen, redeemed, restored.

Because Christ has been raised from the dead. Lord, in the face of death. Lord, even then. Lord, especially then. Lord now.

If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now.

Tell Me a Story

For the last seven years, I have driven to the barn pretty much every Saturday morning between 9:00-10:00 in the morning, and for the last seven years, as often as I could, I listened to as much as I could of Stuart McLean's The Vinyl Cafe. I am late to The Vinyl Cafe; apparently, it has been running for two decades. I have grinned and laughed and thought and even shed tears with Dave and Morley and the gang. I have lingered in the car to ensure I heard the end of the stories, and when I heard the words, "I'm Stuart McLean; so long for now," I would turn off the ignition, sigh, wipe tears, laugh again, and get out of the car.

This past Saturday, I missed Stuart. I was just a bit too late leaving the house, and all I heard was the final song of his story-and-song show. That made me especially sad because this last Saturday was Stuart McLean's last show. He's leaving The Vinyl Cafe in order to fight cancer - melanoma. The airwaves next Saturday will be lonely without that slightly raspy voice that always sounds like it's smiling. I will miss his stories.

I have often marvelled at the genius that is Stuart McLean. He tells simple stories - stories about ordinary folk, absurd folk - in a simple way. He read his manuscripts straight up, no extemporaneous speaking, no stand-up comedy, just a well-written story read well, and people flocked to listen. I wonder sometimes if we have a bit of a snobbish attitude toward stories. We adults listen to propositions, lectures, sermons, speeches, and TED Talks, but stories? Stories are for children. And yet . . . here was a guy who read stories in halls around the country, and people bought tickets to hear him, and they tuned in to listen to him on the air. Nothing high-tech. No computer-generated imagery, no special effects, no 3-D, immersive, large-screen glitz. Just a voice. A quiet, wry, raspy voice. And we listened and laughed and cried and thought and laughed and cried some more. Dave and Morley became friends. We cried when their dog died. We laughed when Dave got himself into his endless scrapes; he was so much like all of us. We were glad when the two of them, even when it was really tough to do so, made choices for love and loyalty and kindness and decency and courage and neighbourliness. Just a story, but it made our lives richer.

That's the beauty of story. It disarms the hearer. It draws him in and gets him invested and then it turns and prods and convicts.

God knew that. I think that's why so much of Scripture is written as a story. "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," and we immediately recognise the opening lines of a story. Oh sure, there are laws and psalms and letters and sermons, but underlying all of them is a story. Think of how many psalms are embedded in story, just as an example. Because while we are taught by law and psalm and letter and sermon, we connect most deeply, I think, with story.

Jesus knew that. I think that's why he told so many parables. Oh sure, he gave instructions and teachings, but so many times he answered with a story. The story has a way of getting in behind defenses and presuppositions and forces us to look at things through new eyes. Instructions and teachings are important, but they engage the head. Sometimes it is the heart that must be turned, and the heart is most easily turned, I think, by story.

But we are a society that has lost our story. There was a time, not so many years ago, that most people shared a story. The fancy word is "metanarrative". Most people knew and believed the biblical master-story, at least at some level. That is no longer the case. We no longer know the story. And, I think even as a church, we have lost our sense of story. We have relegated the story to Sunday school, considering the story to be the "milk" from which we must grow up so that we can eat the "meat" of theology (or something), forgetting that story is also theology. We no longer trust story.

But the really awful kicker is that we no longer trust proposition, either. Information and mis-information is so easily obtained. "Fake news" has become a thing. Pictures lie all the time. We live in a "post-truth" society that is suspicious of all proposition, lecture, sermon, speech, and TED Talk. We don't know what or who to trust anymore.

I wonder if the two are connected. Perhaps when we cast off story as something childish and silly, something from which we grow up, our theology loses its moorings and is cast adrift into "post-truth". I wonder if, in our quest for solid proposition and sound theology, we have forgotten the power of the good story well told. Of course, the solid proposition and sound theology are important, but so is the story.

Stuart McLean knew the power of story. For 20 years he wrote and read stories for and to adults. People didn't come to his shows to hear propositions about Dave and Morley. They came to hear stories.

Perhaps we should take a page out of his book. Perhaps we should return to the story. Perhaps we should tell more stories. Perhaps we need to remember that the story is theology, too.

"Tell me the old, old story of unseen things above,

Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love."