Around Christmas time, I saw a man with cropped hair, olive skin and arms that tried to squeeze out of his gray tank top. As he ducked and weaved his way through the crowds at Westfield shopping center, one bright Unicef worker dared to break through the blur and stand up to the tanned hulk.
Commence the pleading! First came the convenience: “just 2 mins of your time sir.” Then as his clipboard rattled, the cause was put forward — “a cure for AIDs.” But it was too little. And too late. The tank top’s bags had too much momentum. They propelled him forward rolling past the clipboard and spectacles with the polite flash of pearly teeth. Maybe he was shopping for a girlfriend. Then there would be no stopping him.
I shook my head at the man. Now I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t even the most generous person. But at least I wasn’t like that man. That’s what I thought. I enjoyed the amusement fo a second and then used the distraction to skip past the Unicef booth — hopefully unnoticed. The booth was an island among the 7 seas. Currents of people would ripple away from it. And there water often dried.
So I escaped. I survived not just the harassment to my schedule but the pangs of my guilty conscience. After all, who were they to ask for my money? How did one choose between all the noble causes that existed? What about the money I already gave? The entrance to Platypus shoes ended my day time reverie. I slowed my pace as I relaxed into the glassy cases of Vans and Timberlands and Converse. Not even the shop assistant’s questions fazed me. I was there to do my Christmas shopping. I was there to find the right Vans for me.
The Vans expressed how I felt about myself at the moment. Black and white. Size 10s. Lows. They are me. I am them. I would get around to other needs eventually. But 1st I needed to be me. I checked the label for its authenticity and satisfied with it, walked out with a black box. At least I’m keeping it minimal. So I thought.
“For twenty years I labored in the mission.” With emotionless voice Ferreira repeated the same words. “The one thing I know is that our religion does not take root in this country.” “It is not that it does not take root,” cried Rodrigues in a loud voice, shaking his head. “It’s that the roots are torn up.” At the loud cry of the priest, Ferreira did not so much as raise his head. Eyes lowered he answered like a puppet without emotion: “This country is a swamp. In time you will come to see that for yourself. This country is a more terrible swamp than you can imagine. Whenever you plant a sapling in this swamp the roots begin to rot; the leaves grow yellow and wither. And we have planted the sapling of Christianity in this swamp.”
Over the Christmas break, I witnessed the most intense film that I’ve ever watched. That’s what Scorcese’s Silence was for me. Not content being sad or suspenseful it provoked thought through its sheer intense psychological torture. And it forced you kicking and screaming to live through its characters. Based on Shusaku Endo’s book Silence, it follows 2 Portuguese Jesuit priests’ search for their mentor Ferreira whom their order has lost contact with. Rumor has it that he has apostatized and is now living as a Japanese man. Through a grueling 2 hours, we come to learn of the villages who worship in secret, hoping for the return of the Jesuits and the agonizing deaths suffered by those who refuse to renounce their faith by committing fumi-e – stepping on a picture of Christ or the Virgin Mary. As a result of Japan’s purge of foreign influence all missionaries have also been expelled from Japan. Rodrigues and Garupe are the last 2 priests remaining.
That isn’t the horror of the story. After Garupe dies trying to save the Christian villagers condemned to drown at sea, Rodrigues comes face to face with his Ferreira to see that the rumor has been true. He has become Sawano Chuan, a Japanese man with a wife who now writes as a Japanese buddhist. How did the swamp of Japan finally defeated the missionary spirit of Christ? This is where Scorcese blows the flame of his paradox. Instead of threatening Japanese converts by death, the roots were ripped out by killing and torturing Japanese believers if Jesuit priests refused to renounce the faith themselves.
For the 2 men, Rodrigues and Ferreira, the straw that finally broke their backs was anazuri. The Japanese are suspended upside down in a pit and left to slowly bleed out over the course of days, sometimes weeks. The pit is covered so their heads are enclosed. It can be filled with blood and their excrement. It is like the vicarious suffering of Christ was hit with an Uno reverse card. Just as humanity suffered for Adam’s sin, so the Japanese Catholics die for the confession of the priests’ own faith. Throughout the movie, you’re prompted to ask “where is God in the midst of such oppressive silence?”
The answer is found when Rodrigues sees a vision of Christ who assures him of his presence despite his apparent silence and permits him to step on image of him in order to ease the suffering of others. After all, that is what he came for. Rodrigues lives out his days as a Japanese man with a wife and child and helps the Tokugawa government identify any Christian contraband coming into the Christian. Although he appears to have forsaken his Christian beliefs, the last scene of the movie is a shot from within his cremation barrel where he can be seen holding a crucifix hidden within a paper parcel.
In Christianity, martyrdom for your beliefs is often honored as a heroic expression of faith. But what if others are martyred because of your beliefs? That’s the question that Scorcese wrestles with so well. The movie seems to answer that God works in the silence even of his followers. And that it’s okay to deny him to ease the suffering of others. Like a parent lying to protect their child, we want to be able to let this little lie slide and confess Jesus in our hearts though our mouths may tremble shut. The emotional force of suffering is so great that it would seem a greater evil than even apostasy and the renouncing of one’s faith – essentially your beliefs.
The reason behind the emotional force of the movie is because of the argument by the daimyo Inoue. Christianity is not welcome in Japan. It fits worse than an old shoe with no soles. No fruit can grow out of such a swamp. Such language reminded me of the way manipulative people speak, like a father blaming his child for the way he beat his mother. The responsibility of killing Japanese Christians is shifted by Inoue to the missionaries themselves. Yet no amount of forced decisions can hide that anymore than a tortured testimony can be upheld in a court of law. Their own people could have stopped it at any time. We feel its guilt though, because it appears as though the priests could’ve done something to stop it.
But what’s worse than any physical and temporary suffering? Denying that you don’t know nor believe nor love Christ…That’s the pain Peter felt as the rooster crowed. That’s what the Father felt when he condemned Jesus on behalf of humanity, when he bore the weight of the world’s sin and was abandoned and disowned so that we could be reconciled to him. For God to ask that of us would be for us to do something’s he already done – condemn his Son on the behalf of others. But for us to renounce him is to condemn him as a liar in whom no salvation can be found. We would be saying that Jesus is not worthy of full allegiance nor of more honor than even kings.
It helps if we imagine Christ in the same position – would he deny God his Father if it meant being able to save some of his followers from persecution? While it can be tempting in this cultural age to believe that what we believe and think is of little importance, remember that to Jesus the greatest sin was the blasphemy of God’s Spirit – to call God and his work evil and denounce Christ before men. Jesus alone is the savior of all men: both those bleeding to death upside down and those watching them. To deny that compromises your soul though it might save the momentary suffering of others.
What is hardest is to trust God that even in the face of such an impossible decision his purposes are good and that he is not and will not be silent as the blood of those who die for his sake cry out against their true oppressors and not those they try to blame, manipulating Christian compassion to cover their inhumane apathy. I write all this not because I believe I would be able do what I think is right in such a situation. Because I know that I wouldn’t. The swamp of Japan has defeated the spirit of many. And I wouldn’t be the last. Even if I survived such an ordeal I would be a permanently broken man. So I hope I never have to face such a situation. And if I do I hope that God will sustain me on such a day. All in all, it would’ve been a great film if it wasn’t so dragged out and its attempt at redemption wasn’t just a whimper. But real life is often like that. So watch it. If you dare.
On an evening stroll along the streets of Strathfield, I saw a now abandoned construction site. A shed was in the middle. It had no door. Its dark unlit cavern emitted the sound of scrapes and clinks. A Korean man with a black receding hairline and a white tank top was pumping his arms on top of a mound of dirt. He worked with a vigor and speed that was more appropriate for 7 am than 7 pm. I couldn’t stand to watch. The orange glow of the sky turned purple, its tone telling me that I had to return home to fix something edible for my wife. It was getting dark.
“Baek Sang Min, are you still going?” The voice rang out and cascaded over the shed. All but 1 other man had left. Sang Min had been like this the whole day. The only response was an affirmative grunt. The other worker sighed, took his bucket helmet off and before long was a fading neon speck approaching the Boulevard. It was happy hour.
There was a stillness that lay heavy on the air broken only by the chirp of magpies. Sang Min looked around and realized he was alone at last. This was the 1st time he had stopped working all day. “Sang Min.” A voice croaked from behind the mound, not from weakness but an ancient power. Behind the mound was a gaping black hole. Its bottom was invisible. From below came faint chirps and one could just make out a giant yellow eye as it glinted out at Sang Min.
“It’s time.” Sang Min moved closer to the hole. Trembling, he bent over, hands over his knees and retched. All he had eaten that day was regurgitated into the darkness and was devoured in a harmony of gulps and tweets. He fell onto all fours from the effort. The feathers under his neon vests ruffled. A claw the size of his body came out of the pit and lay gently on top of him. Its talons surrounded him both caressing and caging him in. “Thank you”, the voice crooned. “Don’t forget next time. You know what happened to your siblings. I think you would taste especially great in snow cheese.” “Yes your Incredible highness.” Sang Min staggered out of the shed and before long, the site was cloaked in darkness except for that yellow unblinking eye.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go…” I’ve heard those lyrics crooned in every department store in every town and city of this country. Ad nauseam. Any time I realize that I should really get some Christmas shopping done and I walk into the mall there is a faint chance that some shuck with a PA system will play those lyrics. And then I’ll feel like popping a Buble.
But underneath my old man’s cantankerous demeanor is a child who realizes this truth – that Christmas is a special time of year whether or not you’re religious. It’s been that way for most of the English speaking world. And it’s increasingly exported to other unfamiliar countries. In Japan, they celebrate Christmas with KFC. Upon tasting some mince pies or seeing a neighborhood lit up under the night sky, I remember that there was something magical in that December air. There was the damp air of Kuala Lumpur next to the Christmas tree. There was that chilly and sharp gust that blew across Shanghai’s Bund.
God knows we’ve outgrown believing in magic. But every Christmas seems like people want to relive these childhood illusions or drug themselves into doing so until they forget that fateful day they realized that Santa didn’t exist. Then they can play and pretend it’s all for the kids. Or is it? How can such desires come from illusions?
The yearning for something magical reminds me of the insights we have after finishing a book and scaling the peak of some great mountain and staring into the expanse of the starry starry night. It’s the yearning for the transcendent – a desperate desire for a time and space that exists outside this world yet can only be found in it.
In it, the divorce never happened. The kids are quiet and happy. The family is united around the dinner table. The turkey and the gravy blend together in perfect harmony, each flavor enhancing the other. Not just that but on a Christmas night, the inanimate world finally becomes what humans have always thought it to be – magical and personal. Reindeer speak. Old men climb down chimneys and leave half eaten cookies and milk. Jack Frost greets us at the windows. Whether it is before us like Eden or beyond us like heaven, we crave a taste of it with the ones we love on Christmas and with the world’s creatures.
But then the turkey sucks away the moisture of your mouth and mom and dad end the night screaming at one another again and your uncle is drunk from too much wine. You can’t help but feel just as Sylvia Plath did. “I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.” Is that all there is? Is that all there is? I’ve often asked God that very same question. Every Christmas over promises and under delivers like some cheap motel. The cynical of us just get on with the show. We hope the whisky can drown out the fake smiles and presents.
God’s answer has always befuddled me. A good father meets his kids where they are. If they want to build a robot, he’ll make one alongside them rather than give a lecture about mechatronic engineering. So 2000 years ago God answered our yearning not by giving us more rules as ladders to heaven…but by reaching down into something wholly other to him. He became a man. There was no fire and smoke. There was just a crying baby in Bethlehem in a manger with no cradle for a bed. In the most mundane of all things, eternity entered time and the infinite became finite.
Christmas is special. Because the incarnation is special. God answers us in the most paradoxical way. He doesn’t get rid of our yearning just giving us what we want but what we need. We don’t make things magical. He does. So the beauty and meaning of Christmas can only be received by knowing him. 2000 years ago he met us in a little Jewish boy. He was born in darkness so that the world might know light. He was lowly so that he might lift us high. I don’t need to grasp in the dark anymore, hoping for that Christmas spark. It’s already there. I just need to see it and receive it. If God became man, everything is possible. We just need to see it. Every Christmas we don’t need the gift of having more but seeing more. Because even a manger can reveal him.
Is it harder to lift your eyes to lead a service or to say goodbye? Today Sophia and I formally we were leaving St. John’s Anglican Cathedral. I’ve never enjoyed public speaking and I was definitely not going to enjoy it now. St. John’s had been my home for the last 4 years and Sophia’s for the last 11. I’ve said goodbye many times in my life. I’ve moved around 10 times. It never gets easier. But today announcing that we were leaving our church was one of the harder goodbyes I’ve had to say since I became a Christian.
St. John’s has been a home away from home this side of eternity. And it was a good home for 4 years. It wasn’t perfect just as no hotel or roadside inn is. There are some doors that need mending. And sometimes the roof would leak. You didn’t always like those you ate dinner with. And you would sometimes wonder whether the inn down the road had a better bed and breakfast. We are a weird bunch. And yet we were still together.
Our lives had intertwined for a brief period. Yet we find ourselves coming away from St John’s bearing the marks of every person we have met. Like soldiers who have gone through a war together and survived, we served together for a common cause: to see the city of Parramatta transformed by the hope of the risen Christ. Sometimes in those few short years it seemed to me like every day was the same. And yet looking back, I can see glimpses of God at work in our city, in maturing our growth groups and in drawing people of all colors and ages to him. There was no big battle. There was only the quiet hum drum of St John’s on Hunter St. We met countless toddlers, youths and university students and elderly folk who had come to meet Jesus.
But what ultimately bound us together was not what we did. We were soldiers who had survived. The resurrection of our souls brought this weird eclectic bunch together and continues to do so today, tomorrow and in eternity. I know we’ll be united again some day because we’ve been raised to new life with our Creator. And that day will make today a momentary pause; just a gentle breeze that passes through life. It would as though we had never said goodbye.
Here and now we’re separated by time and space, near yet far. I may see someone from St. John’s on the street again someday. And if I do I hope it’ll be like old times. And we might say ‘hi’ and ‘how’re you doing?’ And some I know I will never see again at least in this lifetime. So for now it’s not so much goodbye, but ‘till we meet again’, when we will see one another through clearer mirrors than we have ever known.
Stop. Breathe. Hear the wind around you. You too will be gone like it. Breathe. Just as the flowers on that curbside bloom on this sunny spring day you too will be gone tomorrow. Winter is coming – that cold dark uninvited guest.
When you look at a childhood photo of yourself you can recognize who you are. But your appearance then and now are completely different. What remains? This remnant of you, this essence, doesn’t seem tangible. You can’t pick it out of a facial feature like a bushy eyebrow or a bulbous nose. Still, you know deep down that something remains. Something or someone has reminds you of what and who you are. No matter when and where, no matter how much time has passed, you remain to yourself and to those who know you.
Surely you’re more durable than a year old Big Mac. That’s why Eastern wisdom doesn’t sit well with you. We’re just one drop returning into the ocean? When one is all and all is one then there is no individuality, no uniqueness, no you. No, there isn’t even love because love requires a relationship between different human beings. You’re indistinguishable from everything else.
When finally you return to the dust you came from then all will be one. No mom, no dad, no sister or brother. Nothing separates you. And nothingness unites you. Should you go gentle into that good night? Or does someone else remember you? Someone out there – the other. Someone from the stars? I shook my head. My breath sighed into the chilly night air and I walked in the theater. The Avengers were playing.
Can life make any sense? Or are you doomed to make the same mistakes and hope Fortune will smile on you once in a while? In all the apparent randomness of our world, what’s surprising is for anyone to claim to have the answers. Because as we all know, no one can have all the answers. And that seems like that’s just what I’m doing here and what my church St John’s is attempting to do in October as we seek to do a series of online talks on honor, joy, fulfillment, meaning, certainty, and the most Aussie value of all: a fair go.
But whether you think there’s an answer or not, your response and attitude to the big questions of life like meaning and fulfillment will impact how you live. I was encouraged to watch our pastors David ask his barista about why she believed fulfillment was the important question and Ronaldo who interviewed his barber in a similar way. Despite all the corruption in the world, I was reminded that in each of us the pursuit for life remains. Whether it is man’s search for meaning as Victor Frankl recognized or Pascal’s observation that “all men seek happiness. This is without exception. Whatever different means they employ, they all tend to this end. The cause of some going to war, and of others avoiding it, is the same desire in both, attended with different views. The will never takes the least step but to this object. This is the motive of every action of every man, even of those who hang themselves.”
So why ask these questions? Because while I believe no one but God alone has all the answers, everyone looks for them. But why would we look for something that we would never have a capacity for? As CS Lewis said, “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.” Without joy or fulfillment, meaning or certainty, honor or equality, death is the only logical choice. We need these answers. Not because we can know all of them. But because we were made to know the ones that matter to us. We need them to live a proper life.
I suppose what I’m saying is not to waste this opportunity. You can avoid thinking about these things. You can live hedonistically only for your own pleasure. But that is still an answer. And we would love to know what you think. How is it working out for you? Join us online athttps://www.facebook.com/stjohnscathedralparramatta stay tuned for Oct 18th, 25th and Nov 1st where we’ll answer a survey of the people of Parramatta to provide some and not all of the answers. But we hope they’ll be the ones you need.
The crazy apocalyptic guy has existed in society for a long time. After awhile it can be easy to tune out. You can only predict the end of the world or the return of Jesus at decade intervals so many times before the whole thing starts to look like a sham. And besides, who’s more convincing – the guy with the billboard on the streets or the climate apocalypse espoused by Greta Thunberg on a UN podium?
But interestingly enough with Greta Thunberg is that the amount of attention and press she was receiving (before the coronavirus shut down that whole thing) I think showed that more people than I think know inevitably that the curtains will be drawn up, the show will end and leave us looking at one another in the dark. We differ as to how to handle that or what the end will look like but we can agree that this life is not going to go on forever.
Yet we so often live our lives as something infinite until the day death knocks on our door or we face the catastrophe of a crushed civilization. As a postmodern millennial whateveryounameit, it seems like the rejection of meta narratives in the West have reached they completion at times. But at other times, that search for a transcendent meaning to life and something universal leaks through our daily facade. Beyond self development courses and career progression, beyond hobbies and investment properties, we see something wrong with where the world is going and we inevitably care. But a transcendent yearning without a transcendent framework means all we can do is vaguely empathize and hope and maybe…protest? I don’t know what else society would expect us millennials to do.
It’s becoming harder and harder to live in our self secured bubbles. We can’t turn a blind eye to the injustice and suffering we still so often see in an interconnected, constantly available media. But at the same time, we can’t go back to religion. Our parents jumped off that cliff years ago. We can only fly as Ichabod did towards the vague and distant sun. In such a helpless position, what else can we do?
Here’s a novel thought. Maybe it’s time to believe in the transcendent again. We’ve had enough little stories. What we need is a big one, one that we can see and touch and taste for ourselves, like all the ones we were told when we were children which break through the screen of our superhero movies into the world as we know it. One that has a beginning and an end and of course a battle to be fought in the middle, inclusive of every nation and people and with a final and complete ending. It’s one that John receives ironically in the book of Revelation. “Grace to you and peace from him who is and who was and who is to come, and from the seven spirits who are before his throne, and from Jesus Christ the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of kings on earth.” (Rev. 1.4-5). To the one who has ears let him hear!
Restlessness is a lot like a vague itch. It hides under your clothes. And sometimes it feels like no matter how much you try to scratch it through your sweater it’s hiding right under the surface of your skin. Itches are rarely seen and most of the time they’re pretty benign. But sometimes you take off your coat and realize you’ve been nursing a pressure sore that is slowly eating you away.
I listened to Tim Keller’s sermon on Hebrews 4 last week and realized that restlessness is seen in the boredom of being alone and the inescapable cycles of busyness we live in. We like to deal with our restless itch by scratching it with our activities and rituals and relationships, as though being busier would make that itch go away rather than eventually break out of the skin and bleed out our soul.
Some people have a megaphone conscience and acutely feel the restlessness it generates. Others more self assured, pour themselves into their accomplishments, unable to stop, not so much ignoring the restlessness but being unaware of what truly drives them. They can only sense a vague unease and the inability to be alone by themselves. No wonder laying down to sleep can be a terror for so many. Restlessness can have many masks and who knows where else she lurks? Underlying all of that is a relational problem of your self’s inability to relate its self to its self.
I wish I was like a child again! When we were children we would fear the boogeyman at night but as adults we dread ourselves. While half of me is faced with my shortcomings the other looks up into the blinding radiance of God’s being. The infinite gap between God and myself, is like a beautiful woman that terrifies and makes you conscious of your own deficits. As Keller preached on Hebrews 4, I was reminded that we’re always trying to cover that up by our own priestly sacrifices to get rid of that unclean restlessness.
Like every human, I long to be okay. But what do you do when the measuring stick is an infinite being and the chase is endless? What sacrifice is ever enough? Sometimes I think maybe if I just knew a little bit more anatomy I would be a better physiotherapist. Or if I just could make some money I would be a more loving husband. And so on until what I’m really hoping for is to be a better person. With each sacrifice, I secretly hope it’s the final one.
A popular saying is that ‘there is no rest for the weary’. Restlessness doesn’t go away no matter how much we sacrifice ourselves to appease our conscience because they’re never good enough. We often think that rest comes at the completion of our work the way God rested on the 7th day of creation from his. But true eternal rest is a gift of God. What blew my mind as I listened to Keller’s sermon was that entering God’s rest meant putting down every pretense in our life, to recognize our shame and nakedness before his piercing Word and to come weary to Jesus who would take our burdens. I only wish that entering that resting was as easy as I heard it preached. I guess that’s why it’s a gift. It’s something to ask for not earn.
I think that to truly understand a book you have to both know what it’s about and understand it enough to give your opinion about it. Unfortunately there are few books I have time to truly understand. But it doesn’t mean that I haven’t benefitted from reading them. First impressions are important and so I wanted to start writing ‘half time’ reviews of books that have shaped me during my first reading. I don’t claim to give an analysis of the book. I’m simply reflecting on its effect on me and what I think it’s about. This week, the book I read was In Praise of Folly by Eramus, the last medieval humanist of the 16th century.
In Praise of Folly is a speech given by Folly who’s personified by a woman. In it she extols herself as the god above gods because underneath all appearances, it’s folly that makes the world go round. Life is absurd. The foolish truly know how to live. The wise are truly fools. Folly shows no quarter as she goes after peasants and knights but especially priests, popes and kings. It’s almost as if she’s saying, ‘is life really what we think?’ The world of folly is a world up side down and yet…it’s the real world she’s referring too.
Folly of course mediates Erasmus’ voice through biting satire. It doesn’t come across as bitter but playful. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which meaning he intends to convey because of his paradoxical prose and double entendres. It’s common wisdom never to listen to someone sing their own praises. But at the same time, truth is found in the strangest places. If Folly is the jester’s voice to the enthroned king shouldn’t we pay attention to her? I think by the end of Folly’s speech the message is clear: while much of what passes for wisdom in this world is folly like the scholar who publishes works no one will read, what is foolish is what is truly wise. A Christian is God’s fool – a holy fool whom no one takes seriously but is really how life ought to be lived.
I loved Erasmus’ wit and use of irony. In a dark world, humor refreshes the heart and cuts through hardened spirits. He rightfully exposes the corruption in much of Christendom at the time. But for all his perceptiveness, I can’t help but pity that he couldn’t link his high sense of morality with the truth of Christian faith. He is like an artist who paints a clear picture of the world but then walks away when it finally looks like his painting. He had no problem poking the stick at bad popes but never paused to think about whether there was a problem with what the church had taught herself. Either way, In Praise of Folly made me laugh and smile and I hope it’ll do that for you too.