The Final Revelation, At Last

Among this generation is a disturbing trend of disregard for the sacred words of C.S. Lewis. Children are being raised without The Chronicles of Narnia, and self-professed Christians are saying that Till We Have Faces is just weird. More and more, we see this folly played out in declarations that "the Bible is enough" for a vibrant relationship with God.

It brings me great joy, then, to announce the upcoming release of the C.S. Lewis Bible: a union of the Old, New, and Newest Testament. Finally, American Christians can have the full revelation of their faith.

Unwarranted Magic

"People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh.Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy.They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic."

-Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale

Last week, a friend asked me who I would date from the Bible*. A silly question, but not one I can honestly say I haven't thought about before. It's probably the good Christian thing to do, after all--picking a spouse from a list of dead guys so you know the right living one when you see him. But, of course, we're really picking from a small body of knowledge when you consider an entire person's life, and when I can across the quote by Diane Setterfield, I couldn't help tying the conversation to the risks of being a writer.

We're either the cockiest or most insecure type of people--demanding that the world listen to us and feeling entirely useless when it doesn't. And yet, given to these screwed-up people is the gift of immortal thought. 

With just a few words, we can forever destroy the reputation of another. Whether a good life was lived outside their offense toward us, or he was thoroughly evil, there's a chance our words will be the only lasting testament of him. That historians will look back at Jim Misterson and remember him as ignorant and rude based only on one writer's relationship with him. 

In the same way, we can build others up to be romanticized in the future. Or we can ignore the good because it's too boring, letting our descendants believe our time was simply awful.

The scariest thing about it all is that the people around us don't have a say in the matter. While we immortalize our thoughts, we immortalize actual people as good or bad, role models or repulsive figures, dateable or undateable. 

If used correctly, that immortality is a beautiful thing, setting the record straight and recognizing people for what they are. But if we let our all-too-human nature get in the way, then the magic becomes a fearsome thing. For the truth is, after we die, we don't live on in this world. And the words we've said are then unchangeable, standing in time as the thoughts of who we were, but perhaps not the thoughts of who we became--when we'd lived a longer life, and started the next. 

So I'm considering the risks of writing my thoughts, of publishing them online, of asking others to print them. In my cocky, insecure state, I don't consider the risks great enough to stop writing, but they are great enough to make me double check research, refuse writing a popular lie in the face of potential accolades, and remember that I can easily be taken down by another writer--or even myself.

It's an awesome responsibility, preserving the world. I pray that I will use it well.

*That would be Barnabas, the brother of encouragement.

A little security

It became a security blanket of sorts, the half-finished application sitting on my desk. It said I was going places--down the hall for a cup of water, to my favorite class at school, over to a friend's house--and yet it also let me not go anywhere at all. I could ignore my thirst, close my eyes a little longer, or turn on a flashlight and read a book instead. Of course the blanket would take me where I needed to go, but it would also keep me immensely comfortable if I never got out of bed again.

And so, one week after my month of filling out that application, I'm feeling a little skittish. Way down in Texas (because distance makes a difference, of course) people are reading my application, calling references, and basically scrutinizing my life. And whatever they decide through their investigation, I will face big changes.

If the answer is "yes," I get to cling to the happy news as I, to quote my recruiter, "close down" my "old life," leave my family, and begin living--by the support of others--in a land of sweltering heat and a complex about its size. If the answer is "no," I'll be back to square one, with a million places I could go, not an inkling which is the right one, and feeling less capable of choosing anyway because I was really sure about this one.

I know it was time to drop the blanket and step out. But a part of me wants to ask to have it back so I can fix the stitching, patch that raggedy corner, and put it through the wash two or ten more times. I want everyone to know how much I cared for this blanket already. I want to wrap it tight in my arms one more time.

But I hear my Father saying, "You're getting too big. You're ready for what's next." And amid my protests, I know He's right, whatever "next" happens to be.

So I breathe deep and take His hand. And as we head off on the path He's made, He whispers in my ear, "Besides, you didn't give it to anyone in Texas. You gave it to Me."

Real life apologetics

A year ago, I was on a plane, reading the Bible while the guy next to me read some secular book about religion. I was on my way back from volunteering with a missions organization, I was totally "on fire" for God, so I did what was natural: I sat there hoping the guy would be interested in this real life example of religion and ask me about my faith. Then we would have one of those awesome pastor-on-a-plane conversations where he confesses atheistic confusion and starts on his way to Christianity.

Turns out, he didn't care.

Who knows what would have actually happened if I'd spoken up, but I've long puzzled over how people have those drop-of-a-hat deeper-than-life conversations, and I regret missing the opportunity for one. So fast forward last week, and you'll understand why I was excited when it seemed God was giving me a second chance.

I was visiting a business so I could write an online listing for them, and the home theater system the owner wanted to show me wouldn't work. We talked while we waited for it to reboot, and he decided I was a thinker when I told about my fascination with the Holocaust. In response, he decided to tell me his thoughts about death.

Yeah. When does that happen?

After he told me he believes in God and that we go to heaven if we're good, we talked about death, missionaries and whether my beliefs were just happenstance. The whole time, I thought, "I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now!(!!!)" And maybe my inability to get over that reality is why, the entire time, I never said anything truly compelling.

For the rest of the day, I thought about the responses I should have given, until I found myself, sitting in a parking lot, yelling at my windshield, "Who cares, Harold?! Who cares if you hope God has a family and that good people go to heaven? Who cares if it's not true?" All week, I've been wishing I had asked that very question, thinking about the business card he gave me, and wondering if I should call him or visit again.

It is beyond frustrating to be so close to really explaining the Gospel and then... not. To know all kinds of apologetic arguments and to not have used one. But for what it's worth, I learned something, even if Howard didn't.

See, 1 Peter 3:15 tells us to always be ready to give a defense for the hope in us, and I've always looked at that from an intellectual perspective. So I study, I take classes, and I discuss the issues with my friends and family. But maybe that's not enough.

Maybe I've become like a coach, who knows what plays to announce and how to build up other people's skills, but my own muscles have atrophied. Because I don't speak up when I see someone on a plane, reading about my faith. Because I don't speak up... ever. I sit around, praying that God will give me an opportunity to share what I've learned, but when the big moment comes, I ruin it with my own lack of practice.

It's a scary realization, because it means becoming more like those people who walk up and witness to others all the time, and that will mean a lot, lot, lot more failure (because I have no idea how people do that). But if my choices are failing a lot or always failing, making a small difference or not making one at all, I have to choose the former. And maybe, before I know it, I'll have a few airplane illustrations to give after all.

True story: In the five months since I graduated with a professional writing degree, nothing has frightened me more than... writing.

The bedrock of this fear was laid during my first semester at college. All through high school I had blogged my life away, letting every Tom, Dick and Harry (or, you know, my friends, youth pastor and mom) know my outer-innermost thoughts--and then my professor told us that journaling and blogging was a waste because we were wasting the energy we should be using on writing marketable copy. It's not entirely why I stopped doing fun writing so much, but it is a part. I bought into the pressure of writing perfect copy every time, and I forgot that my writing was enjoyable before I started working on a schnazzy degree.

Recently, a lot of my friends have started blogs, and I've thought, "Golly, it would be fun to join in on that." But like I said, my fingers have been paralyzed with fear. That I won't be witty enough. That I won't be thoughtful enough. That I won't be fantastically poetic. (See how I didn't follow the rule of three completely there? That's what I'm talking about.)

The truth is, though, I love to write, and I've had about 80 bajillion things I've wanted to write about while I was wondering what people would think about the way I wrote the things I never wrote. So, I'm going to. And if it's wonderful, I will make all kinds of money off the ads I sell and the book deal I get. And if it stinks... Um... I've already got a degree in this stuff, so let's just hope it doesn't.