Sunday Morning Musings

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A Modern Dialogue Between Jesus and Young Scholars at a University

The first skeptical student steps up and asks, "If you're real, why don't you prove it? Why not write your name in the sky or something?"

Jesus answers, "You already trust the sky without seeing the One who holds it in place. You trust the air you breathe without knowing where it begins. Why demand more proof for me than for the things you stake your life on every day? Besides, if my name blazed across the heavens, you would call it a trick, or a glitch, or a hallucination shared by millions. And even if you believed for a moment, you would soon forget—as you did in the beginning—and return to skepticism born of pride. I will not coerce you. Love does not force belief. I only ask you to use the freedom I gave you to choose what is true."

Then skeptic number two asks, "But the world is full of suffering. If you're good, why don't you stop it?"

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The Cowboy's Dream

One night, after a long day riding fence, a cowboy fell asleep beside his dying campfire. And as he slept, he dreamed of riding across a vast desert under an iron-colored sky. The wind carried the smell of fire and brimstone.

In the distance, he thought he heard thunder, but it wasn't thunder—it was the pounding of hooves coming from a herd of ghost cattle stampeding across the sky, their horns glowing like embers in a furnace. Behind them thundered ghost riders—gaunt, relentless, with eyes fixed on the horizon. Their ropes swung like lightning, their horses snorted fire, and the cowboy felt the earth tremble beneath him.

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Crossroads

Last night I dreamed I was standing at a crossroads. One road wandered downward into a valley of noise, glamor, and crowds—a place where no one ever had to think about what lay beyond the horizon. The other road rose upward, quiet and steep, disappearing into a pale, beckoning light. I could hear and feel the whisper of a steady Wind at my back, gently rustling the leaves scattered along the road ahead of me.

As I hesitated, an old traveler approached—a man whose face was lined with both joy and grief, as if he had walked both roads and remembered every step.

As he came closer, I asked, "Which road should I take?"

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Men Without Chests

C.S. Lewis once wrote that the term “emotion” is a relatively new word, and its current connotations have emerged from a secular worldview. In earlier times, men spoke of the affections and the passions, not of the emotions. The Greeks spoke of the passions: the feelings that emerged from the “gut” (koilia). These were described as impulsive, sensual, and even animalistic urges and appetites. Amongst these might be lust, envy, cowardice, rage, hilarity, gluttony, laziness, revelry, and so on. For them, these were to be governed very strictly. They also spoke of the affections that emerged from the chest (stethos). For them, these were the noble and gracious feelings which produced nobility, courage, honor, reverence, joy, mercy, kindness, and patience. The Greeks taught that the passions always won over the intellect in any contest, unless the intellect was supported by the affections.

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This Christmas season finds America embroiled in a Civil War. Not two armies engaged on the battlefield, but a very uncivil political war. It brings to mind the Christmas ceasefire of December 25, 1862, along the Rappahannock River near Fredericksburg, Virginia. The event was a seemingly impossible moment of civility following the devastating Battle of Fredericksburg, where Union forces under Maj. Gen. Ambrose Burnside suffered a humiliating defeat against Confederate troops led by Gen. Robert E. Lee.

How shocked those survivors, on both sides, must have felt after the carnage—the absolute slaughter of so many souls of all ages is mind-boggling! Think of it, old men and boys, all of them Americans, were blowing each other to pieces or desperately fighting hand-to-hand—sometimes literally brother against brother. Yet, amidst it all, a spark of humanity, brought on by the Christmas spirit, reminded them of their commonality and the futility of war.

[Editor's Note: Apologies to author and readers. I goofed on the category and it didn't appear on Sunday. But better late than never?]

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           A Parable of Noise and Silence 

C.S. Lewis once wrote a short book about a senior demon in Hell exchanging letters with his nephew, offering him guidance in his role as a junior tempter here on earth. One of the letters to his nephew went something like this: "Music and silence—I can't stand either of them! Thankfully, ever since our Father arrived in Hell—so long ago that humans couldn't measure it, even in light-years—not a single inch of this place or moment of its time has been surrendered to those awful forces. Instead, it's been filled with Noise—glorious Noise, the sound of everything bold, ruthless, and strong—Noise that keeps us safe from pesky doubts, moral scruples, and hopeless dreams. One day, the entire universe will roar. We've already made great headway on Earth, and the songs and silences of Heaven will be drowned out. Still, I have to admit, we're not quite loud enough yet. "

This got me thinking about a famous pop/folk song of the'60s—Simon and Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence." The following story is the result. 

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December 7th

Eighty-four years ago today, 2,403 Americans (mostly sailors and civilians asleep on a Sunday morning) were killed in a single surprise attack at Pearl Harbor. It was the moment the country realized the world was bigger and more ruthless than many had wanted to believe. Within hours, the generation that grew up in the Depression was lining up to enlist, knowing they might never come home.

What hits hardest on this date is how quickly that kind of shared, visceral memory fades. Pearl Harbor, Antietam, Chosin, Khe Sanh, Fallujah… each one cost blood that most of us today can barely comprehend, and yet a lot of people under 40 couldn't tell you what happened on December 7, 1941, let alone name the battles their great-grandparents fought in 1861–65 or 1950–53.

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The Eternal Story

C.S. Lewis once remarked that when we pray about something—like the outcome of a battle or a medical consultation—it may occur to us that the result is already decided. But that is no reason to stop praying

In a sense, the event was decided "before all worlds," yet our present prayer could be one of the very factors that brought it about. Strangely enough, this means we might, at noon, be part of the cause of something that happened at 10 a.m. (a concept some scientists accept more easily than most people do).

Our imagination quickly raises tricky questions: "If I stop praying, can God go back and change what has happened?" No, the event has already happened, and one of its causes is that you are pondering instead of praying. "If I start praying, can God go back and change it?" Again, no, the event has already happened, and your current prayer is one of its causes.