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It is a little know fact that philosopher and mathematician René Descartes was an avid runner long before the sport achieved its current fanatical status. Descartes found in his running the opportunity to chew on puzzling questions of existence and meaning which he would later rework and record.

Returning home one afternoon after a furious and philosophically productive run he was confronted by his roommate. Offended by Descartes’ foul smell, the roommate shooed him out of the house at which moment all that he had been thinking came together in a lightning bolt of insight.

Descartes stared deeply into the eyes of his accuser and said, “I run, therefore I stink. I stink, therefore I am.”

And the rest is history.

Sort of.

Many psalms enter the brokenness of life and give vent to human anguish and confusion. And these usually, somewhere, all breathe a final breath of hope. There is always hope. In every psalm, that is, except Psalm 88.

Psalm 88 knows nothing but despair, the pain of rejection, the darkness of the unknown. It is the black hole of the psalter, sucking into itself everything that is dark and refusing the emission of light.

The psalm is so dark that some read it with no pleasure. It is a strange world to them. But to others, it is a place of refuge because it gives expression to emotions previously unspoken. To these, Psalm 88 feels like the world in which they live. It is a bleak world, stripped of hope and light, but it is familiar because it is their world. Here is just a taste of that world:

O LORD, why do you cast my soul away?
Why do you hide your face from me?
You have caused my beloved and my friend to shun me;
my companions have become darkness. (Psalm 88:14, 18)

With such unrelenting words the psalm becomes the friend who can say for us what we dare not say ourselves. It says what we might be shocked to find that we are feeling, and assures us we are not alone. There is comfort in that.

Psalm 88 therefore joins us in the dark and gives us a voice. But Psalm 88 never shows up alone.

To get to Psalm 88, we have to trip over Psalm 87.

Glorious things of you are spoken,
O city of God.
(Psalm 87:3)

And from Psalm 88 we can glimpse Psalm 89 on the far side.

I will sing of the steadfast love of the LORD, forever;
with my mouth I will make known your faithfulness to all generations.
(Psalm 89:1)

The question “Why” is the question of the heart that is so battered it cannot imagine enduring another blow. It is the question of Psalm 88 that receives no answer. But those unanswered questions are asked of a God whose favor, obscured, invisible, questioned, and doubted, is no less real. The inexplicable pain of life in the valley of death’s shadow exists in the context of the ineradicable promises of God’s favor and life.

Psalm 88 leaves us with no hope, and for that I’m grateful, for it feels much more real. But hope is still here, standing guard, on either side, for this is the psalm in the middle. And someday, those who feel at home in the darkness will lift up their eyes to see what lies on either side. And that will be a good day.

A few days ago I shared with my oldest son how hard it was sometimes to hold on to hope when hope itself seems to be so fragile and hanging by a thread. His wonderful response was, “Dad, remember Who’s holding the other end of the thread.”

I shared this with a friend who spun from it a further application. With her permission I share her thoughts here thinking that those whose grasp of hope is tenuous at best might be encouraged by her words.

I was thinking about what you said about hanging on by a thread right now. You came to mind this morning when I was thinking about John 10:10 “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”

Jesus said that was His reason for coming. And we know that His reasons are never thwarted. Not by exhaustion. Not by frustration. Not by fear. Not by violence. They just are not thwarted.

But I also realized that He didn’t say that he came to give us an easy life to the fullest. Part of life is suffering. I know He was talking at least in part about eternal life, but that’s not what He said. He said “life”—and that includes the now.

So, I think what this means is that even in the now, He is with you. Giving you life to the fullest. If he wasn’t at the end of that thread—which to be honest, I picture to be one of those thick, heavy ropes used for anchoring cruise ships to the deck—there wouldn’t be life to the fullest. But because He is there, in the midst of our fullest suffering, we can also have our fullest hope. And that hope is in the promise that He made. He’s not going to let go.

Kathleen Norris, in her book Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith, which I’ve been working through slowly, tells a story the conclusion of which is worth extracting for our public rumination.

At a time of spiritual struggle in her life, she struck up a correspondence with a Benedictine monk. Though he thought he had no wisdom to share, his replies to her were rich with spiritual insight and sober sense. She was moved and deeply impacted by his words.

Later, she had an opportunity to tell him how significant in her life his words had been. He attempted to deflect her praise, being humble and uncomfortable hearing it. She was finally able to get him still long enough to listen.

“Well, this is good to know,” he said, giving me a quick, sidelong glance, and then looking off into the distance, “I mean, that my words have done some good. I’ve certainly devastated enough people with them.” Then he walked briskly away.

Fresh reflection on old words is why I’m reading Kathleen Norris’ Amazing Grace. I don’t expect to agree with everything she says, but it is good for me to step out of my tradition and examine the ideas central to my faith from a fresh pair of eyes.

Though I continue to find the book helpful, I’m dismayed that she begins one section like this:

The word “conversion” comes from the Latin for “to turn around.” Thus it denotes….

Whenever one sees such logic in writing or hears it in preaching (and it seems common in both) one’s critical radar should begin beeping wildly. The meaning of a word depends on the context in which an author uses it. It’s etymology might be interesting (“Ah…”), but it is never definitive (“Thus…”). And it at times might be misleading.

It is interesting, for example, that the word ‘nice’ comes from the Latin nescius mediated into English through French and Middle English. It is interesting that in the Latin and Middle English it meant “ignorant, incapable, foolish, stupid”. It is interesting, but you would be justifiably shocked if I punched you for calling me “nice”. And if I tried to justify my action by saying,

The word “nice” comes from the Latin for “ignorant.” Thus it denotes….

you would rightly be mystified that I had so easily misunderstood you.

When we as teachers, writers, or preachers try to prove a point using the etymology of a word, we run into muddy waters. Just because a word I use today in English comes from a word with a certain sense in Latin or Greek or Middle English does not mean that is the sense with which I use it today. My atheist friend will without a doubt say goodbye to me when we part, but I cannot assume that he’s had a sudden conversion (!) and sincerely wishes “God be with ye”.

I’m particularly sensitive to this because I spend so much of my time trying to translate ancient concepts into modern terms. It can be a dicey business to to take biblical language from 2000 years ago and accurately convey its meaning in 21st century English. Biblical interpretation is marred by the dual danger of improperly importing a word’s origins into its New Testament usage, for example, and of importing a modern meaning back into the text which would have been foreign to the original author. Both need to be avoided, and often aren’t.

The sagest advice (of course!) is found in the words of Mortimer Adler whose admonition is to ‘come to terms’ with an author. I wish I had Adler’s How to Read a Book at hand so that I could quote him directly. His point is that we must learn the way an author himself uses particular words and accept the meaning that he embraces. Only THEN will we be in a position to genuinely understand what we are reading or hearing.

Wise advice that if heeded might keep us from getting punched. Or worse.

“Love” and “marriage” may go together like “baby” and “carriage” but the relationship between the two is obviously a lot more complicated than our 90 minute romantic comedy fairy tales suggest. (I, by the way, like a good romantic comedy.)

Over lunch recently a friend pointed out how his wife and he, after several years of marriage, were working on and addressing issues that they never new existed prior to marriage. It was hard work, but they were getting through them. They are an example of the old maxim that says that no matter how well we know someone, and how much effort we invest in getting to know someone, before marriage, when we marry, we are still marrying someone who is largely a stranger to us. We have a lifetime to get to know each other, and in that lifetime we will learn to love a person we only marginally knew before. And that takes a significantly deep commitment.

Romantic love is a wonderfully warm and endearing thing, but it is no guide to deep and lasting relationship in marriage. We have to learn to love, and learning to love means sacrificing ourselves for the sake of another. Since that is something most of us are loathe to do, marriage vows are imminently wise, and deeply helpful when taken seriously. Without the commitment to love someone, we might not actually come to love that person in the way that they need to be loved.

I’ve always been touched by the wonderful segment, called ‘Bastille‘ in the movie Paris, je t’aime. Thought the overall story is sad, the confession that ‘by acting like a man in love, he became a man in love again’ has always seemed just right to me.

Last night I received a text message asking prayer for a woman stranded in her commute by the snow in the Atlanta area. How that situation ended for her is a wonderful story of warmth displayed in surprising ways. Here is the account as her mother shared it:

Thanks to the prayers of many people, [our daughter] made it home safely at 3:30 am (14.5 hours after leaving work). Thanks also to the kindness of the CVS store manager, the pastor and some church members of a small church near the CVS store and a man with a 4-wheel drive. The CVS store manager brought out some lawn chairs and chaise lounges for the some 25 people to sit on and kept his store open all night. Around 9:30 p.m. she moved to the church who had opened up their fellowship hall for food and drink and their sanctuary for people to stretch out on the pews to sleep. And around 2:30 am, the man with the 4-wheel drive, who came to pick up another stranded person, followed her home to make sure she made it safely. At 2:30 am there weren’t many cars driving on the road but many abandoned cars on the side and in the middle of the road.

She will remember Tuesday, January 28, 2014 for a long time because of the snow and ice but mostly how God does answer the prayers of His people

A prayer, this, linked to Simeon’s prophetic hopes in Luke 2, and written by Charles Wesley. Christmas reminds us that that which brings us sorrow us will come to an end.

Come, thou long-expected Jesus,
born to set thy people free;
from our fears and sins release us;
let us find our rest in thee.

Israel’s strength and consolation,
hope of all the earth thou art,
dear Desire of ev’ry nation,
joy of ev’ry longing heart.

Born thy people to deliver,
born a child and yet a king,
born to reign in us forever,
now thy gracious kingdom bring.

By thine own eternal Spirit
rule in all our hearts alone;
by thine all-sufficient merit,
raise us to thy glorious throne.

Come, Lord Jesus.

I’ve been accused of ‘channelling’ A. A. Milne’s (or Disney’s) Eeyore. If something can possibly go wrong, I expect it will. If I get a headache, I expect to die of a tumor. If there is an unusual noise coming form the microwave, I immediately calculate how we are going to afford the new one I know we are going to have to buy. And if things are going well, I worry about when they will fall apart.

I defend my identification by saying that people like Eeyore, or C. S. Lewis’s Puddleglum the marshwiggle (surprise! – my favorite Narnia character) are not pessimistic, just ‘realistic’. They don’t get caught up in unrealistic expectations from a fallen world. But that logic simply covers up my sin.

My love affair with Eeyore is really one of pride.

I, and perhaps Eeyore, are terribly proud and self-protective. If I say that things are going to get worse, and they don’t, everyone is happy, and no one cares what I said. If I say, though, that things are looking up and they go south, I look stupid. So, being negative is positive. See?

But this unfairly slanders Eeyore. I’m the one who is proud. The Eeyore I channel has lost his childlike faith and drinks deeply from a cynical well. I live on the down side of life because, at my most Eeyorish, I have lost hope that there is an up side.

I’m grateful to Paul Miller for shining an honest and penetrating light on my inner Eeyore. In his wonderfully helpful and practical book (A Praying Life) Miller strips my so-called “realism” down to its cynical core. My ‘realism’ is really cynicism which at heart is hopelessness, a hopelessness that suggests that one has lost touch with the reality that he is a son or daughter of a good and kind and gentle God.

Ouch.

When I first read Miller’s reflections on cynicism, I was deeply touched. I am so accustomed to things not working out that when things are going well I wonder where (as he puts it) the cloud is in that silver lining. I have forgotten that I have a compassionate heavenly father. Not even Eeyore or Puddleglum can be accused of that.

This does not mean that I do not still lie awake at night puzzling over problems I cannot fix, or ponder unhappiness at 5:00 AM Monday mornings. But it is good to know what I am doing, and to know why, and to remember that the God I’m having so much trouble trusting is one who did not spare his own Son, and therefore can be trusted to graciously give all things. (Romans 8:32)

Disney, though, is going to sue me before the day is out, I shouldn’t wonder.

Even a non-Latin scholar can figure out the meaning of the title of this post. It reflects what is so hard for us to swallow, isn’t it? There are paths down which our rational intellect can’t lead but for which we need revelation and the admission of the supernatural. But it has always been hard to swallow.

[The virgin birth] is highlighting the essentially supernatural character of Jesus and the gospel. Alluding to Barth again, the virgin birth is posted on guard at the door of the mystery of Christmas; and none of us must think of hurrying past it. It stands on the threshold of the New Testament, blatantly supernatural, defying our rationalism, informing us that all that follows belongs to the same order as itself and that if we find it offensive there is no point in proceeding further.

If our faith staggers at the virgin birth what is it going to make of the feeding of the five thousand, the stilling of the tempest, the raising of Lazarus, the transfiguration, the resurrection and, above all, the astonishing self-consciousness of Jesus? The virgin birth is God’s gracious declaration, at the very outset of the gospel, that the act of faith is a legitimate sacrificium intellectus. (37)

That is from Donald Macleod’s marvelous book The Person of Christ, in a section in which he also says that

“The truth is, man will always find God’s procedure offensive.” (35)

My desire is that my heart and mind will find less offense and more faith and hope this Christmas. I pray that for you as well.