Humility
Lewd and Low-Brow: Phil Johnson Scolds Mark Driscoll
This intrigues me to know end.
On Tuesday Phil Johnson articulated his answer to objections and questions he received in regards to a latenly Mark Driscoll addressed lecture he gave at the Shepherd’s Conference.
What fascinates me about it? Good question.
This Was News to Me
Well, to begin with, not sure whether I’ve been living under under rock or not…
But I wasn’t even aware Johnson and MacArthur took issue with Driscoll’s lewd and low-brow language. Or that there was a camp of pastors who did.
By reading Johnson’s post and the comments, concerns about Driscoll’s CNN appearance and Song of Solomon sermon series seems to top the list.
Hear me out, though: I haven’t read Johnson’s sermon transcript from the Shepherd’s conference, so I can’t judge his response or views…and whether the critique on Driscoll is warranted.
I do respect MacArthur mightly. And if Johnson and he are in league, there’s probally meat to his arguement.
But I’m not there yet. Cause I have something to confess first.
My Dirty Little Secret
I’m intrigued by Driscoll’s handling of MacArthur and Johnson’s critiques. To use Johnson’s words, “He doesn’t take his critics seriously.”
How did Driscoll respond? In a nutshell, Driscoll blew off both Johnson and MacArthur for months before replying. And when he did reply, he chose to send a video to Johnson and an email through HIS secratary to MacArthur’s secratary. Neither of which addressed their concerns.
So, couple things I have to confess.
First, I put Driscoll on a pedastal a long time ago. But it wasn’t until I read Johnson’s blog post and saw Driscoll so poorly handle the situation that I recognized how I nursed this amateur idolization.
Whether Driscoll did wrong or right…the fact still remains: I didn’t think he was flawed.
Second, I thoroughly enjoyed Driscoll’s Song of Solomon sermon series. But I did walk away from it wondering if I just heard a preacher preach Christian sex or a sex therapist quote the Bible.
Which I think brings me to the heart of the matter: If Driscoll isn’t in the pulpit to preach Christ crucified…then he’s overstepping the position of the preacher.
Tim Keller and Michael Horton would agree with me that the pulpit is the catapult from which you launch the Gospel week in and week out. Do you agree?
Let me know what your thinking. Brutal thoughts and all.
Fundamentalist Atheists Scare Me
But so do Christian fundamentalist. Let me explain.
What Is Fundamentalism?
Britannica defines fundamentalism as a “type of militantly conservative religious movement characterized by the advocacy of strict conformity to sacred texts.”
Richard Dawkins expanded fundamentalism to mean religious advocates who stubbornly cling to entrenched positions that defy reason…or evidence that prove otherwise.
And Alistar McGrath suggested fundamentalism characterized atheists as dogmatic.
What ever the stripe–it scares me. And it reminds me of a book by Chris Hedges called I Don’t Believe in Atheists.
The Scary Essence of the Fundamentalist
Hedges levels this: ”The fundamentalist murders, plunders and subjugates in the name of humankind’s most exalted ideals.”
And then: ”All fundamentalists reject intellectual investigation.”
In essence, Hedges argued that just as Christian fundamentalist avoid complex arguments and stick to sensational, general and sweeping claims to brush aside arguments–Mark Driscoll’s been accused of this–atheist fundamentalists like Sam Harris and Christopher Hitchens do the same thing.
I’ve seen this on the micro level, too. It hit me hard yesterday during a brewing discussion over homeschooling at Daniel Florien’s Unreasonable Faith blog.
Claidheamh mor interrupted: “Will my fellow nonbelievers let the f*ck up on homeschooling a bit, and see the real danger in the anti-science brainwashing of children?”
He goes on to quote Evita, “Get them while they’re young, Evita; get them while they’re young,” missing the obvious: Wouldn’t he want to teach his children evolution while they’re young…BEFORE they could think for themselves?
An Extraordinary Statement by a Non-Believer
Here’s my point. Hedges says:
We build a democracy by accepting that we are all tainted by prejudice, often captive to the irrational, and frequently blinded by the self-interest.
I confess: I fall into this category. So would Claidheamh mor. So would you. We are all guilty.
The danger is not pacifism or militarism. It is the poisonous belief in human perfectibility and the failure to accept our own sinfulness, our own limitations and moral corruption. IDBiA
This last statement I find extraordinary coming from a professed non-believer. But I head the very same thing from British writer Theodore Dalyrmyple.
It’s a recognition of Romans 3:23: we’ve all fallen short of the glory of God. We are corrupt. Broken. And perfectibility in this life is impossible.
Total Corruption
Fundamentalism of all stripes scares me. That I could fall into the trap, too. It humbles me in the way Romans 3:9 humbles me:
What then? Are we better than they? Not at all; for we have already charged that both Jews and Greeks are all under sin.
None of us has an advantage over the other.
Romans 2 tells us we all practice iniquity–whether we admit it or not–and store up wrath and the revelation of the righteousness of God for the day of judgment.
Towards the end of his book Hedges writes:
The danger we face does not come from religion. It comes from a growing intellectual bankruptcy that is one of the symptoms of a dying culture.
Over to You
There is a good argument that God has abandoned this culture. This country. Maybe even you. What do you think? Do you believe in the perfectibility of the human race in this world or not? Do you have horror stories of fundamentalists–in any camp? Am I irrational?
I look forward to your thoughts. Brutal and all.
Fasting: The Danger of Doing It for Selfish Reasons
About two weeks ago Richard Reeve wrote a contemplative, somewhat haunting piece on fasting and solitude. Absolutely beautiful in it’s lilt.
It’s worth a read.
In his post, Reeve begins by suggesting we can fast and seek solitude to combat indulgence and anxiety–things I agree with him that overwhelm our culture.
However, the essence of Reeve’s post recommends we fast as a way to experience the numinous, the unconscious, new dreams. In other words, we fast to indulge our soul and mind.
Yet, when we fast for personal gain, we’re headed for addiction.
I think Richard is aware of this, because he says that dieting eventually leads to addiction. And I imagine, too, that he might agree one could become an addict of fasting, even solitude, too.
Thus, you end up at square one: Indulgent and anxious.
The Alternative: Here’s How I Understand Fasting
Part of my critique of Richard’s elegant piece is to create a conversation on the meaning of fasting. My understanding of fasting–a biblical one–regards fasting in a much different light. I’d like to hear Richard’s comments. I’d also like to hear yours–no matter how they differ.
I owe John MacArthur much for my thinking on fasting. And John Piper. Here are four thoughts to begin with.
1. Biblical fasting is complete abstinence from food. It’s complete abstinence that demonstrates humbling yourself before God in a spiritual struggle.
2. Biblical fasting is spontaneous and voluntary. It depends on the individual and it could be one meal or 40 days.
3. Biblical fasting is something we are expected to do.
4. Biblical fasting is provoked. Something urges us to fast.
It’s this last point I want to expand. And it’s this last point–the stimulus of fasting–that demonstrates where secular fasting and biblical fasting differ. Take a look.
1. Lamentation. We fast when we are grieving. When my father died, I didn’t eat for a day. The thought of food was distant.
2. Protection. We fast when we fear for our lives. Or someone else’s life. Like our children. This includes both the physical and spiritual realms. Read Joel 2 to see what I mean.
3. Humiliation. We fast when we are guilty or sorrowful over sin. When my wife discovered my infidelity, I was broken. And could not eat for a day.
4. Revelation. We fast when we are fervently praying, studying the Bible or meditating on verses. So focused on what we’re doing, we wouldn’t dare interrupt our work until God cracks open the box.
5. Condemnation. We fast when we fear divine judgment. Not only for ourselves, but others. See Jonah 3 for a remarkable illustration of this.
6. Selection. We fast when we have to choose spiritual leaders. Look at Acts 13 to see what the early church did.
7. Direction. We fast when we face critical decisions. This is what the servant in Genesis 24 did when he was hunting down a bride for Isaac.
8. Anticipation. Paul said in fastings often, in watchings often. Watching for what? God to unpack His will.
As you can see, the common denominator among these provocations for fasting involves times of deep struggle. It involves a tug on the heart so powerful that you are pulled into the presence of God. In this sense fasting is caused by outside forces, not personal desires, and avoids the trap secular fasting lays.
What Do You Think?
Listen: I’m guilty of fasting for selfish reasons. Once I fasted for three days to rest my digestive tract. Another time I did it every Monday for months so I could boast.
But what I’ve learned is this: Authentic biblical fasting is like the ocean’s undertow–it’s powerful and comes out of nowhere. It will overpower you without your prior planning. And if you ignore it, you will grieve.
So tell me: Ever been overwhelmed to fast by protection, condemnation or revelation? Or one of the other stimulus’ above? What’s your personal experience with fasting? Am I missing something? I’d like to hear from you.
Nurturing Fame: Marcel Duchamp’s Unorthodox Approach
Stranger things have happened.
On Tuesday social media consultant Chris Brogan challenged us to think out loud with him on his idea of microfame.
If I’ve got Brogan right, microfame is nothing more than popularity within a small context.
High school, for example. Or maybe church.
Brogan’s example was a business network. And niche bloggers.
He asked some challenging questions. And was looking for profound debate.
I, however, after reading Brogan’s post, couldn’t get the French artist Marcel Duchamp out of my head. And the comical, unorthodox methods he used to nurture fame.
See, a couple of years ago I read a number of biographies and articles on Duchamp’s life. But it didn’t take me long to notice something stunning about Duchamp: he used obscurity to promote his career.
So, in honor of Marcel, Brogan, you, and all our tiny little quests for micro fame, let me share with you some of the more unconventional methods Duchamp used to nurture his fame.
Make Obscure Statements
Duchamp excelled in obscure art. He also excelled in obscure statements. Case in point:
“I have forced myself to contradict myself in order to avoid conforming to my own taste.”
You sort of kind of know what he’s talking about. But not really. Yet, no doubt a little cottage industry of Duchamp junkies have deconstructed this statement ad infinitum.
Take Away: Mumble. Don’t look people in the eye when you speak. And for goodness sake never say anything the common person can understand.
Be (Slightly) Unpredictable
You. Me. Chris Brogan. Archie Mckinlay. Were all bewitched by the loose cannon.
Marcel Duchamp–who was an aspiring painter at this time–submitted a urinal into an art competition with the words “R. Mutt” painted in black on the side.
That’s something the committee didn’t expect.
Take Away: Now, it’s debatable whether our fascination with unpredictability is a healthy fascination or not. And seriously questionable whether you should cultivate such a habit.
But look at it this way. What if you surprised your wife by taking the day off of work and pampering her with a day of shopping? My wife would need a few minutes to recover from the shock.
Avoid Media Exposure, Interviews
Naturally, a recluse who refuses interviews and publicity is mysterious and compelling. Weird. Especially if he’s famous.
Just look at J. D. Salinger.
On a micro level, when Merlin Marvin kicked off his Twitter sabbatical, I was drawn curiously to his Twitter page ten times more often just to see if he’d come back. And I was on his blog more than I was before.
Absurd, I know.
Take Away: Well, I think you actually need to be famous have people calling you for interviews first for this to work. I’m not there. I have no advice for you.
Don’t Comment on Your Own Work
Duchamp had a personal policy to avoid explaining his art to others. His reason? He didn’t want to interfere with their interpretation.
What always happened was an enormous firestorm of combative discussions erupted. And his reputation, on each new piece of art, spread rapidly.
Take Away: Refuse to explain yourself. Say things like, “I said what I said.” In addition, launch books, papers or blog posts on half-baked ideas–just like Brogan did–and let the people run with it. 
Grant Small-Time, Occasional Interviews
Duchamp liked to frustrate the elite. The stuffy. He said of the typical artist:
The individual, man as a man, man as a brain, if you like, interests me more than what he makes, because I’ve noticed that most artists only repeat themselves.
He also demonstrated this snobbery to the media. Shunning the big papers, Duchamp would surprise the press–thus employing unpredictability–by allowing a small, no-name magazine to interview him.
Take Away: If you’re like me–with little to no micro-fame–small-time interviews is about all you can grant. In truth, I’d be grateful for an interview with a warm body.
The Larger Take-Away: Duchamp Is Dead
You’re probably wondering why a blog devoted to living a vivid, meaningful Christian life is toying with ideas like fame and people like Marcel Duchamp.
Here’s where I’m going with this: Humility is a core virtue for Christianity. And at odds with fame. Brogan summed it up well:
“So for anyone kind enough to call me famous, I appreciate the mindset, but I’m hoping to be trusted, respected, and to be worthy of your time. That’s my daily goal.”
Listen: A servant’s heart and an attitude of humility are the true measures we should be after. Because microfame–in fact, all fame–is fleeting in a perishing world.
Duchamp died. People pretty much say he’s weird. You will die. What is it you want people to say about you? Now get back to work.
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