On Javert, Breaking Rules, Love, and the Easy Burden

Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart,

and you will find rest for your souls.(Mt. 11:29)

In Rafael Yglesias' screen play of Victor Hugo's timeless Les Miserables, Javert, the soul-less villain, finally captured the convict Valjean for good and has a gun to his head.

“It's a pity that rules don't allow me to be merciful,” Javert says. “I've tried to live my life without breaking a single rule.”

The line is thunder to the human heart. We imagine the keeping of rules is a good thing and the breaking of them is bad. We are right, and suffer the pride or shame that goes with either.

And yet Javert, it seems, had made rightness his highest goal. Separate from God, rightness builds its own prison, an echo-chamber of moral superiority that, in the end, can justify almost anything. Javert had devoted his life to rightness and in the end his life was forfeit at his own hand: he self-destructed in suicide. Javert found himself in a vortex from which not even Valjean's mercy could save.

And how else could life end for us if we make our supreme goal – the idol to which we daily bow – “living without breaking a rule?” Rules beget rules and crush the soul. Mercy cannot breath, and eventually dies.

A dear friend once said this to me in a different way. Listening to my struggle through tears and meandering, he said, “Sounds like you are in a valley.”

"Yes," I replied. "But what are we doing looking at all of this stuff, misunderstandings, stubbornesses, ideals all but crushed. What is this!?”

“We are in the laundry room, sorting.”

I liked the analogy, helpful instead of condemning. I wanted to say something about diapers and their messes, for that was the kind of 'laundry' at hand.

“I think you are fighting a phantom,” he continued. “I think the answer will be found when you quit straining. I think the answer is gentle, and you've not tried that much. How 'bout gentle?”

I didn't know what to say and then the conversation was abruptly interrupted.

And so I have often wondered: “Gentle. What does that mean?”

The Canadian teacher and psychologist, Jordan Peterson, gives a clue in one of his life rules: “Learn to treat yourself like someone for whom you are responsible and for whom you care a great deal.”

Really?! “Care for a great deal?” I care for myself well enough, especially my bodily wants. But can I be tender with myself? Can I forgive? Can I begin to ignore, and eventually quit the negative, perversely addictive self-talk? I think Peterson has it right. If I cared for someone else a great deal, how would I treat them? The answer gives guidance for how I should treat myself.

And so, how does this come around to Javert? Javert was his own cruel task-master. There was no room for love, only rules. He could not show mercy to himself, nor, in turn, to others. He self-flaggelated, and in it all a creature emerged whose only goal was to avoid breaking rules.

This is like Lewis's deep remark about selflessness. “We have it backwards” – my paraphrase. “The emphasis must not be on avoiding selfishness but on showing love, learning to demonstrate care and consideration for the needs of others.” Merely avoiding selfishness, like Javert's avoidance of rule-breaking, defines our life by a negative. It is a trajectory of despair. Love could not save him because he was bound to rules.

How we need this lesson. Do I care about others, or do I care about being right? We can live both of course. But we will find, I think, we are most right when we lay aside a singular focus on rightness and consider those around us. In this, love sets us free and we find the gentle way, learning to be free of striving, learning to be gentle with ourselves so we can, in turn, be gentle with others. How I long to learn this good way, this easy way to carry burdens, this letting go of the need to be right.

God is with us, and Jesus calls us, so beautifully, to His easy burden. That's the one I receive today, with gladness. And I want to be together on that journey with my wife and family, and with all who share this wonderful gift of life.

On being "Merely Dead"

Wonderful lines from Wendell Berry

What hard travail God does in death

What hard travail God does in death!
He strives in sleep, in our despair,
And all flesh shudders underneath
The nightmare of His sepulcher.

The earth shakes, grinding its deep stone;
All night the cold wind heaves and pries;
Creation strains sinew and bone
Against the dark door where He lies.

The stem bent, pent in seed, grow straight
And stands. Pain breaks in song. Surprising
The merely dead, graves fill with light
Like opened eyes. He rests in rising.

Keeping Relational Reverb in Check

My friend, Roger, explained how reverb works in recording. “While playing in a room with normal recording, that is recording as heard in 'the house', there will be reverb: the normal echoes and bouncing of sound the ear is accustomed to. Then, when the recorded music is played back in a room, especially the same room, the reverb is doubled and can be unmanageable to the ear.”

The same happens in our relationships, especially those 'in the house.' We have all kinds of reverb going on in our souls and minds. We see shortcomings that trip us up. We can't quit a bad habit, we feel cantankerous most of the time, or we are self-critical without relief. This creates reverb. It bounces around within and drags us down in self-imposed defeat.

Then, the inevitable happens. Our faults, for which we already feel deep pain and which cause no small bit of internal noise, irritate those closest to us. Well-meaning, having borne with us for long days and years, they do not mean to add to the noise. But often that is exactly what happens. Either we assume they feel this way, or they actually say it: “Must you really keep doing that? Is something wrong?”

Now the sound is doubled and spills out, either silently or in painful words: “Want to know what's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong. You! If you would leave me alone we'd be ok!”

And so it goes, one pain feeding another, rebounding, unmanageable, painful to the ear, devastating to the soul.

There is a better way. Take it to the Lord in prayer. Let him heal both the self-talk and the behaviour it breeds.

How does he do this? Time, talking, others, learning. There is no other way but the the patience and quiet and taking it on the chin when others object, learning to help them bear the burden you yourself have helped cause. Without this we never grow. But when we give up our selfish desires and refuse to insist on our own way we die the death of Psalm 126, putting the seed of self in the ground.

And then, as with all seeds, “the corn of wheat” comes to life and we find a harvest of joy, bitter tears forgotten.

Relational reverb is real and when it doubles we can't live with it for long. Learning the peace of Christ brings the sound of forgiveness which doubles joy instead of pain.

The Indispensable Attitude of Gratitude

Today is the anniversary of my father's passing in 1993. We miss him every day, with gratitude for all he was and gave. In the goodness of God his life lives on and we want to do the same, live beyond our years in the lives of those we love.

Below is a piece that ran in the local paper for a weekly ministerial article to which I contribute. Some family asked me to share it and I do so in the happy memory of my Dad, Larry Huff.

The Indispensable Attitude of Gratitude

The joy of Thanksgiving has been deep in my soul since a teen-age November on my Grandpa's Kansas farm. While Grandma, Mom and others prepared a feast in the warm kitchen, Grandpa fired up the old John Deere and powered a buzz saw with a long, heavy belt. My Dad and Uncles joined in and we cut limbs for hours. I loved the work so much it hurt, a deep joy I hoped would never end, a sense of grasping the immortal for a moment before it is gone. Those times are the right stuff of life. They feed body and soul: teach, nurture, strengthen. They remind us why it is good to be alive, and they keep us going, even on our worst days.

I needed that thirteen years later when my Dad died the day after Thanksgiving. He had been recovering from a terrible injury and was due to begin rehab the next week. And then the call came: “Your Dad suffered a seizure and did not recover. I am so sorry.” My wife and I embraced and wandered through the mist, arranging a flight back to Kansas. In those hours my Grandma called, the one who always had the right words. “I am sure there is nothing I can say to help you work through these moments.” And she was right. There were no words. In the midst of hopeful expectation, two young boys still at home with Mom, one grandchild and another on the way, my Dad was gone. This was zero-option full stop, the deep pain of soul known by those who have lost.

And so I reflect on this at Thanksgiving time and wonder how we navigate life with these extremes. Joys that make life rich, mixed with pains that can make one wonder, on the worst days, why we are even here. A simple answer would not be an answer at all, but we seek answers still. In Peter Kreeft's winsome book “Making Sense out of Suffering” he wisely refuses to give answers but instead offers “clues” to this problem. And so it is true. We make it through with clues, possibilities, hopes. Such is the nature of faith, an impossible belief that the impossible, after all, will come to pass.

The remarkable British journalist of a century past, G. K. Chesterton, offered clues about the whole gamut of life, and he was often keen to remind us gratitude is indispensable. “Gratitude,” he said, “being nearly the greatest of human duties, is also nearly the most difficult.”  

Indeed how can we be grateful in the midst of death, suffering and disappointment? One clue is to remember life itself is an incomparable gift, something we could never create and which we should celebrate with feasts and work and laughter. Even watching – (better to play!) – football helps us celebrate this gift of life and remember our blessings.

What can you and I do to cultivate this vital attitude of gratitude? Here are a few things I will try this year:

• Find someone who feels the ache of loneliness and share a gift and a listening ear. “To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.” The best gift you have is yourself. When you give you affirm the value of yourself and others, and you say “thank you” to the God who gave us both.
• Dare to celebrate, even with a feast. But don't enjoy gifts and pleasures without gratitude for God who gave them. After all, we do not create them on our own, and thinking we do is it's own painful dead end.
• Say grace before a meal, even if you are not accustomed to it. This simple gesture reminds us our life and livelihood is a gift, and it directs our attention to the Giver, helping us see the world as it really is.

Do you long for the eternal, the joy for which there is no word, only yearning? I do. And I believe Thanksgiving offers a window, a reminder that we can know this joy even in the midst of death and loss. But we can never see the world aright without this “difficult duty”, gratitude to God who made life possible. This year I want to learn again to be thankful and taste the surpassing joy of a grateful heart. 

One of my favorite pictures of my Dad, ever in my heart.

New Post n.i.

"Effective writing springs from the creative joy of the writer. Readers gain the most when they are an unintended audience; not a target, but a happy participant in another's joy."

When one insists on inspiration to write, one insists on not writing much. Thus, I am a learner at writing n.i., that is, "no inspiration."

Of course the kind of writing I now indulge is mere string-pushing. I take a thought, such as the idea of writing itself, and push it as one would push a string. It goes in unpredictable ways and yet remains connected to itself.

This, as observed elsewhere, is close to real essay style. Establish a beginning thought and pursue it in a meandering fashion.

So what is my thought? That writing needs to be done. Maybe I'm like the natural-born chef who sees culinary affections on the random grocery store aisle; or the carpenter who imagines architectural wonder arising from a stack of lumber. For me, the writing bent results from jumbled thoughts begging for clarity. My mind resists from laziness because this is hard work, sorting out ideas. But now and then it simply must be done...because.

What needs disentangling at the moment? A thousand thoughts, and one. If I were to grab one from the thousand flitting by it would be, "What makes writing effective?"

A few bullets may address this helpfully so I'll give it a go. To be effective here are three essential ingredients for writing:

• The writing must be real, a clear and honest reflection of the writer's mind and heart. In this way it partakes in the universal human reality of life, the most common ground for connection. How to do this? Just explore what you are thinking or what you have experienced and then talk of it candidly, artfully, transparently. This transparence includes openness to be sure, but you needn't let all your guts spill. If you learn to be appropriately real and open, you will find yourself writing well.
• The writing must be clear, exhibiting a creative and experienced grasp of the language. Quality and beauty co-habitate: where you find one you will have the other.
• Finally, the writer must hold loosely the opinions of the reader and even of herself. Writing is a glad expression of the human heart, much as Creation is an overflow of the grandeur of God. It is not foremost to win or cajole, persuade, entertain, enlighten, impress. Rather, writing springs from the creative joy of the writer. Readers gain the most when they are an unintended audience; not a target, but a happy participant in another's joy.

Writing n.i.? Indeed! But these thoughts help me be more clear about what matters. And so I will leave be, joyful to have written, glad if an unintended reader is helped along the way!

Reformation Sunday: "When the church intercedes, the result is in the hands of God alone."

"Intercession helps us trust God with the outcome of our deepest concerns."

Like most, I presume, my knowledge of reformation history is all but nil. Did I know, for example, that Luther's 95 theses are 95 one-sentence statements? Had I ever read them? Did I know they dealt with purgatory at length, a doctrine which most of his church progeny disavows?

The list of similar questions could pass 95, and the answer would continue to be "No", or at best, "maybe."

So I thought it might be good to take a look, this being Reformation Sunday and all. In doing so I ran across this gem in theses 27/28:

• They preach only human doctrines who say that as soon as the money clinks into the money chest, the soul flies out of purgatory.
• It is certain that when money clinks in the money chest, greed and avarice can be increased; but when the church intercedes, the result is in the hands of God alone.

I think we know well enough money can not affect the destiny of the dead. But what of this last comment: "When the church intercedes, the result is in the hands of God alone."

Normal conservative Protestantism, of which I am a grateful beneficiary, might apply the following qualifiers:

1. Where is this dictum found in the Bible, explicitly?
2. Can the church intercede for those already dead?

I would respond regarding number 1 the Bible is likely not explicit on this point. But it does declare God as one who hears and answers intercession. And it seems self-evident only God can deal with matters of the hereafter and ultimate destiny of the soul.

As for 2, to the church interceding for those already dead, I know the conservative Protestant tradition finds this anathema. My limited study requires I fall back on general theological principles. There is a God, there is a heaven, there is a hell. It is perilous to attempt overmuch detail in those matters, especially with regard to timing. For example, many biblical understandings suggest those who die in the faith are in some kind of dimly understood 'limbo' until the final return of Christ. Yet Jesus told the thief on the cross he would join him that very day in paradise. Certainly that specific example seems outside our normal understanding.

But if I set aside the specific context of Luther's comment and consider the larger claim I am greatly encouraged. Intercession helps us trust God with the outcome of our deepest concerns. When we intercede we do not find 'the answer' as much as we learn to know the One who is the answer. We intercede, and in so doing we learn to rely on His handling of all things. In learning to rely we are assured He does all things well, in His time.

Did Luther's theses say that? Indeed! As with all ruminations on God, they feed the soul.

What are you praying for today? Rest in this assuring reminder: intercession will help you put things in the hands of God. 

That is where they belong. That is where they are best handled. Let go, already, and let God handle the problem. That which wears you out is likely way beyond your capacity. But it is no trouble for Him.

Selah.

Lost Value of Solitude (from Peter Kreeft)

We avoid solitude and silence because when alone and quiet 

we must deal with who we really are.

Working through Peter Kreeft's Making Sense Out of Suffering, I hope to share a few of the great many quotable sections along the way. Here he addresses the deep inner pains of life, how silence and solitude are necessary antidotes, and why we avoid the cure due to the very pain we wish to avoid. Solitude requires us fundamentally to deal with ourselves; when closed in and quiet there is no one else but self. Here is Kreeft, page 11:

"Suicides are up. Depression is up. Mindless violence is up. Boredom is up. Loneliness is up. Drug escapism is up.

But the barbarians are no longer at the gates. The Huns and the Norsemen have long gone. What are we escaping from? Why can't we stand to be alone with ourselves? Solitude, the thing which ancient sages longed for as the greatest gift, is the very thing we give to our most desperate criminals as the greatest punishment we can imagine. Why have we destroyed silence in our lives?

We are escaping from ourselves (or trying to, since yourself is the one thing other than God that you can never escape from) because we all hurt, deep down."

I have been reading lately about the restoring nature of the Gospel, how the work of Christ -- so much more than paying a ticket to heaven -- enables us to live as He would live if He were us in our everyday normal existence. With that in mind, I wonder about this pain of which Kreeft speaks. I know he is right that it is universally true, even for believers. But I also believe that -- now-and-not-yet -- believers have found, in Christ, the answer, the incipient healing. I know Kreeft's discourse will give some marking answers along the way and so this question, for me, comprises part of the prism through which I will read.

But as to the difficulty of solitude, I believe he indeed pinpoints the general problem of humanity. We are most uncomfortable with ourselves -- the real us inside -- and thus avoid solitude and silence because when alone and quiet we must deal with who we really are.  Much easier to never go there. But the "way everlasting" only comes when we let God search us, know us, and cleanse us from unrighteousness (Ps. 139).  Then we are free, especially free to be quiet and alone.