The Apologetic of Significance

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

English author Samuel Johnson once wrote, "There lurks, perhaps, in every human heart, a desire of distinction, which inclines every man to hope, and then to believe, that nature has given himself something peculiar to himself."

I was startled by the clairvoyance of an editorialist who once connected these sentiments with America's escalating fascination with book writing. His comments put flesh on the motive often hidden behind the guise of individuality. "The search for personal significance," he explained, "was once nicely taken care of by the drama that religion supplied. This drama, which lived in every human breast, no matter what one's social class, was that of salvation: would one achieve heaven or not? Now that it is gone from so many lives, in place of salvation we have the search for significance, a much trickier business."(1)

Though the author does not necessarily articulate a sense of loss in regards to the replacement of one pursuit for the other, his thought process is helpful. As religion continues to be eclipsed in the West as a provider of significance, humankind is left searching for other sources. From the increased interest in book writing, to social networking, to extreme sports and hobbies, it is a quest clearly observed. Nonetheless, the quest to find significance apart from God is hardly a modern phenomenon. The desire to make a name for oneself is as old as the hills upon which we have built our grand towers and conquered great cities. The drive to define significance on our own is as ancient as the Garden of Eden and the Tower of Babel. The aspiration is nothing new; book writing is just one more outlet.

But what is interesting, in terms of understanding human history and behavior, is that we should have this longing for significance in the first place. If we are merely products of an indifferent materialist universe, why are we not more at home with our own insignificance? Why should we seek a transcendent sense of meaning at all? Unless, indeed: there is something about us that is neither temporal nor insignificant.

Within the Christian worldview, the cry of the heart for personal significance is a cry the Christian has both owned and contended with. When a person answers the call of the Lord to "come and follow," she admits she has found in the person of Christ an answer to a cry she was incapable of answering personally. When Jesus proclaimed, "Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it" he was stating something essential for the one searching for significance. Knowing who we are and what we need is the starting point for what we will become. The quest for personal significance commonly among us today reverses this, telling us that we must first become something in order to meet our own needs and make a name for ourselves.

Christ is the one in whom our lives find their greatest significance because he is the only one who accepts who we are and offers us what we need. Is my search for significance really panning out? Will writing a book or climbing the corporate ladder really hush the cry within me? Attempts to define life's meaning apart from God will always be empty, for significance, like life, is not manmade.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Joseph Epstein, "Think You Have a Book in You? Think Again," The New York Times, September 28, 2002.

Narrative, Time, and History

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

The gospel is often condensed into a story that affirms the basics of our faith: God loves us and has a wonderful plan for us. But we have sinned and are therefore separated from Him. Jesus Christ on the Cross is the answer to our predicament, and if we will accept him as our personal savior, we will have eternal life.

Though accurate in what it highlights, such a simplified presentation can wrongly convey the idea that the gospel is primarily about individual fulfillment and satisfaction. "God loves YOU and has a wonderful plan for YOU." "Live your best life now!" Such a shortened story seems to place Christians in the center of the message and not Jesus.

On the contrary, the heart of both the Old and New Testaments is the fulfillment of God's plan. The story of our redemption is God's complete and multifaceted movement among history and people and nations. It cannot be reduced to mere highlights without compromising the story. What about the resurrection of Christ? What about his return and the promise of our own resurrection? What about the new heaven and new earth? There are many books that make up the Bible, all of which tell a part of a great and magnificent story.

The Christian faith is rooted in thousands of years of the history of humanity, and it is this rootedness that makes Christianity so relevant to each of us, both individually and corporately. The person of Christ and the salvation he offers are meaningful to us today because Jesus is historical, because he is the same today, yesterday, and forever.

In contrast, many other systems of belief hold history as something that is cyclical. After someone dies, he or she is thought to be reincarnated or rebirthed. As a result, history is of little significance or meaning. Events are merely occurrences.

For Christians the reverse is true. Our faith is defined by significant events in history. The past and the future are momentous because they greatly inform the present. While the past offers both perspective and purpose for our current situation, the future gives us hope and meaning. No matter what we are going through today, this, too, shall one day pass. Promised is the future that is hinted at in history. There comes a day when all tears will be wiped away, a time of complete fellowship with God.

Yet today, regardless of worldview, we seem to be unfortunately suffering from historical amnesia, where we have lost our interest and understanding of history. As evidenced in the popularity of fictitious histories, the fascination with purportedly long-lost gospels, or the contentedness with a lack of historical perspective entirely, history has little existential meaning for us. This ahistorical climate is affecting the way we perceive truth in relation to reality.

The message of Christianity stands counter to this climate, proclaiming the acts of God in human time and space. As believers in a savior who lived and died and rose, history is imperative; it is a significant part of our identity. God has been working out his plan for thousands of years, first through the nation of Israel and now through the body of Christ. When we profess Christ crucified, we are remembering the historical character of our faith, which in turn echoes the all-encompassing sovereignty of God. When we live as Christ's followers, we proclaim a narrative that encompasses past, present, and future; we proclaim in finite stories the one who was and is and is to come.

I'Ching Thomas is associate director of training at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Singapore.

The Storyteller

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Frank Boreham's childhood brimmed with storytelling. They called it "The Hassock Hour," which came on Sunday evenings and commenced at their mother's feet. Kneeling on hassocks beside her, Frank and his nine siblings heard storytelling as children that rivalled everything they heard as adults. Their favorite story was one their mother told of herself at seventeen.

She had made plans with her cousin, Kitty, to spend the afternoon at Canterbury Cathedral. Neither had been there before and they were excited about the adventure. But when the time came for their meeting, Kitty was no where to be found. Ten a.m. turned to half past eleven, and Kitty had still not arrived. "I was just about to turn away," said Mrs. Boreham, "dejected and disgusted, when an elderly gentleman approached me." He seemed to notice she had been waiting for someone, and proceeded to ask if she would like a tour. "I am deeply attached to the place," the man said, "and happen to know something of its story."

This turned out to be quite true. As they moved from point to point, the stories came alive. She saw before her the arrival of Augustine in the sixth century, the first archbishop of Canterbury. She beheld the pilgrims of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and she witnessed the Danes' disfiguring attack on the noble building. Beside the shrine of Thomas Becket, the grim martyrdom of 1170 came to mind as never before. She had discovered adventure after all: "Concerning every pillar and arch, every cranny and crevice, my eloquent guide had some thrilling tale to tell."

We often speak of the influence of story in our lives. I think the influence of the storyteller is equally profound. F.W. Boreham long cited his mother's masterful storytelling as the tool God chose to most shape his ministry and imagination. Her storytelling made visible the wonders of God at work. "The Hassock Hour" brought past and future, story and Scripture to life for Boreham—much in the way the guided tour brought Canterbury Cathedral to life for his mother. Through the eyes of one who knew well the story, both learned to see.

The early church is full of similar testimonies. As Philip ran beside the chariot of the Ethiopian official, he heard a fragment of a story. The official had been in Jerusalem worshipping at the temple, and on his way home he was reading from the book of Isaiah. Hearing this, Philip asked the man if he understood what he was reading. "How can I," he replied, "unless someone explains it to me?" and he invited Philip into the chariot. Then Philip began with that very passage of Scripture and told him the rest of the story. The one whom Isaiah foretold, the one who would be "led like a sheep to the slaughter," was crucified in Jerusalem and resurrected to life. Seeing water, the man stopped the chariot and asked Philip to baptize him: "I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God," he said (Acts 8:37).

Storytelling is profound because we live our lives in the midst of story. Mrs. Boreham's encounter at Canterbury invited her to see her own life among a great history of belief. In that cathedral, she was one among countless pilgrims to stand in awe before the Lord. Likewise, the Ethiopian official found himself a part of the same grand story, invited to life as it reached far beyond the words of Isaiah—from Eden to Nazareth to Ethiopia. The stories we tell remind us continually that life is indeed first a story.

They also remind us that there is first a storyteller. When at long last the cathedral tour was finished and they were heading out the great doors, Mrs. Boreham's guide suggested they exchange cards. She thanked him sincerely for his time and courtesy and tucked the card in her pocket. On the train ride home, she pulled it out. It simply read: Charles Dickens. Many of us learn to see life as a story, never fully realizing the storyteller in our midst.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

Truth as a Person

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

On my first day at seminary, I met my husband in the cafeteria. We were married a year and a half later. What I remember about our first meeting was my husband's long, black hair tucked neatly under his New York Yankees baseball cap. The bits and pieces of our first conversation have faded quite a bit. I do remember as we dined on institutional fare that we spoke of our favorite movies, places we had visited, and our plans after seminary. I learned enough about my future husband that night to know I liked him, and I hoped I would be able to dine with him again—preferably over better food.

On that night, sixteen years ago, I received but a glimpse into the man who would become my husband. But real knowledge—really knowing him—has been an unfolding process over these years we have shared together. Certainly, learning facts about my husband helped me to get to know him, but facts about him do not encompass my knowledge of him. Knowing him emerged as we forged a life together—a life filled with ups and downs, with challenges and opportunities—and with the intimate knowing that grew only through sharing life together. Real knowledge emerged when I stopped looking at my husband and began to look through him—understanding the world through his perspective, seeing the world through his eyes. Knowing him and loving him became inseparable realities.

The knowledge that can arise in a marriage relationship is a helpful picture for understanding the phrase "truth is a person." Truth is not simply arriving at all the right facts about a subject, nor is it exclusively contained within the world of philosophical systems, theological constructs, or clever argumentation. When the author of Hebrews explains that "in these last days God has spoken to us in the Son," there is the underlying assumption that this person is God's definitive Word to humanity—God's truth revealed in the person of Jesus.(1) When we know Jesus, we know the truth, and that truth is bound up in the very person of Jesus.

The temptation, of course, is to equate knowledge with facts about someone or something. When we think we know certain things about someone or certain ideas about something, we think we know the truth. This kind of knowledge breeds arrogance, as the apostle Paul suggests in 1 Corinthians 8:1-3. "If anyone supposes that he knows anything, he has not yet known as he ought to know; but if anyone loves God, he is known by God." How does one come to love God? Is it by accumulating doctrines and principles and ideas about God? Or is it by knowing God in the person of Jesus in unfolding relationship? Knowledge, Paul suggests, is bound up in love for God. More than knowing the facts about the God revealed in Jesus, love for God gives us a way of knowing that colors our vision, informs our living, and penetrates our very being. We come to know the truth as a result of love. And as we truly know Jesus, just as in any relationship, we begin to see the world through the eyes of the beloved.

My husband no longer has long hair, and he rarely dons his Yankees cap. These two "facts" that identified him to me long ago no longer reflect the knowledge I now have of him. I've learned a great deal about him in the sixteen years of our life together. Granted, my knowledge of my husband encompasses certain "facts" I know about him, but truly knowing him comes from loving him. In the same way, truly knowing God comes in loving God; indeed, as we love God "we are known by God" in return. In this sense, we have a new understanding and are on our way to a new definition of knowledge as love. As N.T. Wright has written about the search for knowledge, "We might perhaps expect that in studying Jesus himself we would find the clue to understanding not only the object we can see through the telescope, the voice we can hear on the telephone, but the nature of sight and hearing themselves. Studying Jesus, in other words, might lead to a reappraisal of the theory of knowledge itself."(2)

Indeed, knowing Jesus means loving Jesus, and loving Jesus alters the nature of knowledge from simply being the pursuit of an object to the transformation of the subject itself. With knowledge as love, we stop looking at Jesus, and start living through him.

Margaret Manning is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1) Hebrews 1:2
(2) N.T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 96.

The Apologetic of Story

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Gregory Wolfe, editor of Image journal, tells a story about telling stories for his kids. He describes the memorable bedtimes when he attempts to concoct a series of original tales. "My kids are polite enough to raise their hands when they have some penetrating question to ask about plot, character, or setting," he writes. "If I leave something out of the story, or commit the sin of inconsistency, these fierce critics won't let me proceed until I've revised the narrative. Oddly enough, they never attempt to take over the storytelling. They are convinced that I have the authority to tell the tale, but they insist that I live up to the complete story that they know exists somewhere inside me."(1) Children seem to detest a deficient story.

There is no doubt that our sense of the guiding authority of story and storyteller often dramatically lessens as we move from childhood to adulthood. And yet, regardless of age, there remains something deeply troubling about a story without a point, or an author not to be trusted.

In an interview with Skeptic magazine, Richard Dawkins was asked if his view of the world was not similar to that of Shakespeare's Macbeth: namely, that life is but "a tale told by an idiot, filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing."(2)

"Yes," Dawkins replied, "at a sort of cosmic level, it is. But what I want to guard against is people therefore getting nihilistic in their personal lives. I don't see any reason for that at all. You can have a very happy and fulfilled personal life even if you think that the universe at large is a tale told by an idiot."(3)

His words attempt to remove the sting his philosophy imparts. And yet, it stings regardless—both with callousness and confusion. If I am but a poor player fretting my hour upon the stage of a tale told by an idiot, what is a "fulfilling" personal life? There is no basis in the naturalist's philosophy for intrinsic dignity, human worth, or human rights. There is no basis for moral accountability, right or wrong, good or evil. There is no basis for the layers of my love for my husband, the cry of my heart for justice, or the recognition on my conscience that I am often missing the mark. There is no room for my surprise at time's passing or my longing for something beyond what I am capable of fully reaching in this moment. This is not the story I know.

In the words of G.K. Chesterton, "I had always felt life first a story: and if there is a story there is a story-teller."

Could it be that our relationship to stories, our first love of the tale beyond us and the author beside us, conveys a deep truth about our own cosmic tale? Are not the very philosophies we carry attempts to make sense of the grand story of which we find ourselves a part?

The first words of Genesis 1 boldly claim that we are not lost and wandering in a cosmic circle of time and chance. There is a story that emerges from the beginning, and we have a place within it. Similarly, the writer of Hebrews describes Jesus as the author and finisher of our faith, where ultimate significance is aptly defined as being written into the story of God. God's Word places us in the timeline of a coherent history, delivering us from the deceptions of the enemy, telling us who we are, and where we came from, what is wrong with us, how we are made whole, and where we are going. We are placed within a story of which we know and celebrate the outcome, even as we wait for it through time and trial. In Christ, history's outcome—its ultimate end—is revealed. Dark days may follow, but the ending is known. It is a story neither deficient, nor untrustworthy.

C.S. Lewis fittingly describes heaven at the end of his Chronicles of Narnia as a place where good things continually increase and life is an everlasting story in which "every chapter is better than the one before." His compelling reflection has often reminded me of Christ's beloved disciple in the closing chapters of his testimony to the significance of Jesus Christ. Notes John, "If all of the acts of Christ were recorded, the world would not have enough room for all the books that would be written" (John 21:24-26). Like children, eyes widen at the thought. What a story to be a part of, a life to find touching your own.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Gregory Wolfe, Intruding Upon the Timeless: Meditations on Art, Faith, and Mystery (Square Halo Books: Baltimore, 2003), 81-82.
(2) Skeptic, vol. 3, no. 4, 1995, pp. 80-85.
(3) Ibid.

Grace for Mary Magdalene

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Mary Magdalene has been given much publicity, and like the tabloids, not much of it is true. Allegations that she was married to Jesus or founded a community steeped in Gnostic belief are unfounded historical claims. They have no basis in the New Testament and do not seem to have any foundation in traditions before the second century.

What we do know about Mary is that she was possessed by evil spirits—seven to be exact—before she met Jesus. Much speculation has been assigned to what this possession meant; many have argued that she was a prostitute and thus was deemed filled with unclean spirits. But regardless of whatever life she had come from, it is clear that everything changed when she met the one who healed her. Mary joined the ranks as a follower of Jesus, and she never left him, even to the end.

Scholars remind us that this says a great deal about Mary, but even more so about the one she followed. "The most striking thing about the role of women in the life and teaching of Jesus is the simple fact that they are there."(1) Jesus stepped into a world that largely discriminated against women. Women were forbidden to go beyond a certain point in the Temple; they were excluded from conversations in public and restricted to roles as spectators. Jesus not only rejected this practice, he radically acted in opposition to it. He shocked his disciples by talking to those who typically were rejected—a hemorrhaging woman on the road, a Samaritan drawing water at the well. He brushed aside every discrimination and injustice, and received the courageous women who were a part of every event outlined in the New Testament.

Watching Christ, we begin to see a God who is entirely countercultural, who affirms those who are rejected and overlooked, who gives women a voice and safe place to be heard, and who calls everyone to transparency, compelling a broken world to come to him with their pain and shortfall, sickness and sin. We see a God who not only can handle our real stories—but demands them—because He Himself is real.

Mary Magdalene's is one such story. She left behind the life she knew to follow the one who knew her. To this day, her story remains one God has deemed worth retelling (and this is no doubt related to the curiosity and speculation about her life; unfortunately, like the game of telephone in the mouths of children, the story has not been improved). The book of John depicts a few of her most crucial moments.

On the morning after the Sabbath, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb. She was bent over with grief. She had followed Jesus and his disciples from city to city, watched him heal the sick and free the captives, turn ashes to beauty and mourning to gladness. She looked on as Jesus was taken and beaten and bound to a cross, and she watched as they buried him in a tomb, death having silenced the very life that changed her own. Like many women in Scripture, Mary's tears were perhaps the last desperate words to the God she hoped was listening. The body she had come to anoint was missing, and she thought the gardener had something to do with it. In devastated affection, she pled for the body of the one she loved: "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him" (John 20:15b).

It was the sound of her own name that opened her eyes. Jesus said to her, "Mary." And she turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, "Rabboni!" (which means teacher). Jesus later appeared to all of his disciples, but it was Mary—a life once filled with hopelessness turned around by a compelling love and the courage to follow—to whom Jesus chose first to appear. She who loved much was given a place in his story, not as a testimony to her sins or in rebellion to a cultural norm, but as yet another reflection of his radical grace.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) James Hurley, Man and Woman in Biblical Perspective (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1981), 82.

A Mighty Evangel

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Years ago, I read a definition of worship that to this day rings with clear and magnificent terms.(1) The definition comes from the famed archbishop William Temple: "Worship is the submission of all of our nature to God. It is the quickening of the conscience by his holiness; the nourishment of mind with his truth; the purifying of imagination by his beauty; the opening of the heart to his love; the surrender of will to his purpose—all this gathered up in adoration, the most selfless emotion of which our nature is capable."

The more I have thought of that definition, the more I am convinced that if worship is practiced with integrity in the community of God's people, potentially, worship may be the most powerful evangel for this postmodern culture of ours. It is imperative in planning the worship services that church leaders give careful attention to every element and make sure that the worship retains both integrity and purpose. People come to church generally "beaten down" by the world of deceit, distraction, and demand. There is an extraction of emotional and spiritual energy that brings them on "empty" into the community. The church's task is to so prepare during the week that it is collectively the instrument of replenishment and fresh energy of soul. Even being in the presence of fellow believers in worship is a restorer of spiritual hope. We so underestimate the power of a people in one mind and with one commitment. Even a prayer can so touch a hungry heart that it can rescue a sliding foot in a treacherous time.

A few years ago, two or three of my colleagues and I were in a country dominated for decades by Marxism. Before we began our meetings, we were invited to a dinner hosted by some common friends, all of whom were skeptics and, for all practical purposes, atheists. The evening was full of questions, posed principally by a notable theoretical physicist in the country. There were also others who represented different elements of power within that society. As the night wore on, we got the feeling that the questions had gone on long enough and that we were possibly going in circles.

At that point, I asked if we could have a word of prayer with them, for them, and for the country before we bade them good-bye. There was a silence of consternation, an obvious hesitancy, and then one said, "Of course." We did just that—we prayed. In this large dining room of historic import to them, with all the memories of secular power plastered within those walls, the prayer brought a sobering silence that we were all in the presence of someone greater than us. When we finished, every eye was moist and nothing was said. They hugged us and thanked us, with emotion written all over their faces. The next day when we met them, one of them said to me, "We did not go back to our rooms last night till it was early morning. In fact, I stayed in my hotel lobby most of the night talking further. Then I went back to my room and gave my life to Jesus Christ."

I firmly believe that it was the prayer that gave them a hint of the taste of what worship is all about. Their hearts had never experienced it.

Over the years I have discovered that praying with people can sometimes do more for them than preaching to them. Prayer draws the heart away from one's own dependence to leaning on the sovereign God. The burden is often lifted instantly. Prayer is only one aspect of worship, but one that is greatly neglected in the face of people who would be shocked to hear what prayer sounds like when the one praying knows how to touch the heart of God. To a person in need, pat answers don't change the mind; prayer does.

Ravi Zacharias is founder and president of Ravi Zacharias International Ministries.

(1) Adapted from Beyond Opinion: Living the Faith We Defend (Thomas Nelson, 2007), ed. by Ravi Zacharias.

The Really Real

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

The line between real and imagined is sometimes a little blurry. At least this is the conclusion of one report on the business of cyberspace, where thousands of people have imaginary lives and some are actually making a living at it. The creators of several popular online role-playing games recently completed a year-long study of the very real transactions that are taking place in their imaginary worlds. The results portray a flourishing economy that is rapidly grabbing advertisers' attention. The sellers are role players who have taken the time to find marketable goods in their virtual worlds—and they are clearly putting in the time. Between June 2005 and June 2006, 9,042 role players spent $1.87 million dollars on virtual goods ranging from swords to special powers. In one popular game, a gnome is sold with a basic skill set for $214; in another, a virtual cherry dining set for a virtual home runs about 250 actual dollars.

It is entertainment I don't claim to fully understand. But it is fascinating (and maybe frightening) to see how integrated the real and the virtual can become. Of course, this idea applies to far more than online games. What we imagine can become so enmeshed with what is real that we scarcely notice a difference. That is, until something real reminds us otherwise—like an outsider's perspective or a credit card receipt.

Jonah was a prophet by profession. He knew the liturgy and worship of the people of Israel by heart. So it is not unreasonable that as his life was ebbing away in the depths of the sea, Jonah cried out with the words of a psalm he had certainly heard countless times before. And yet, the words no doubt had a depth of meaning for him unlike anything they had ever had. As he was losing consciousness—literally in Hebrew, "in the feebleness of his person,"—Jonah not only remembered the LORD, but in some ways was seeing Him for the first time. Like one woken to a world both real and imaginary, Jonah quickly clung to what was real.

Jonah's behavior up until this point suggests the mentality that God was not entirely omnipresent, but present only in Israel, in the temple, and in the places of his own interest. As Jonah ran to Tarshish to avoid the call of God to go to Nineveh, he ran believing there was a place he could go where God could not find him. But as he sunk further into the depths of the sea, the prophet realized he was mercifully mistaken. His language seems a play on words—As I was losing consciousness, I remembered the LORD—or else, it was a sudden recognition of the Really Real in the imaginary world he had occupied. Losing consciousness, Jonah was actually gaining it.

Perhaps not wanting to consider the discomfort it would take to uproot our own embedded fallacies, we often minimize the distress that broke Jonah's silence with God. But the popular notion that Jonah went straight from the side of the ship and into the mouth of the fish is not supported by either the narrative as a whole or Jonah's cry for help. H. L. Ellison suggests, "[Jonah] was half drowned before he was swallowed. If he was still conscious, sheer dread would have caused him to faint—notice that there is no mention of the fish in his prayer. He can hardly have known what caused the change from wet darkness to an even greater dry darkness. When he did regain consciousness, it would have taken some time to realize that the all-enveloping darkness was not that of Sheol but of a mysterious safety."(1)

In the mysterious safety of the fish, Jonah shows us the strange world that unwound his imaginary one, and in it, the God who hears. Though the deep surrounded him and reeds were bound to his head, Jonah was heard—and his awareness of this was an essential turning point in his story. In prayer and darkness, Jonah admitted that the role of salvation is not in his hands. If only momentarily, the drowning prophet clung to a truth more hopeful than escapism and more able than idols: "Salvation belongs to the LORD" (2:9).

It is hard to believe that Jonah would have considered being swallowed alive a rescue, and yet it is precisely Jonah's considerations from which he needed to be rescued. At times, the deliverance we need is that of deliverance from ourselves. The reluctant prophet introduces us to the reality of self-deception and what is all too often our ironic refusal to face the face of God. Though our thoughts be wound in self and seaweed, and the depths of our imagined autonomy threaten to drown us, rescue is a valid hope. God is far more real than we often imagine.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) H.L. Ellison, "Jonah." The Expositors Bible Commentary, ed. Frank E. Gaebelein (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1985), 374.

Can We Abandon Violence?

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

As is my custom most mornings, I wake up early to take a walk in the still quiet of the day. The morning offers a time for me to pray and to reflect on what is ahead of me that day. But when I returned home on a day not unlike other days and turned on the morning news, the onslaught of violent headlines assaulted my peaceful reflection. In one short broadcast, I learned that a local police officer was shot dead without any provocation by an arson suspect he was investigating; I heard about a disheartened and disgruntled former employee who returned to his workplace to enact vengeance on his co-workers and employers by firing upon them; and I heard the grim and horrific story of soldiers in a processing center in Ft. Hood, Texas being cut down and murdered by one of their own. At the end of his rampage 13 were dead and 29 others wounded. Like it or not, my morning routine was upset and unsettled by this horrific news.

Disheartened by this relentless barrage of violent headlines, I cried to my husband, “Why do people love violence? With all the heartache and despair left in the wake of these tragedies, why won’t people tire of violence?”

Of course, violence comes as no surprise. Unfortunately, it is as familiar to us and our world as my morning exercise routine. And yet, its occurrence is jarring. Somehow, thankfully, we never get used to it, and its commonplace existence does not dull our senses to it when it happens. The familiar reminder of violence calls us to attention over and over again as a sign and a symbol that something is wrong in this world. If we are honest with ourselves, we know that evil is not just out there, apart from us, but dwells all too closely within our own hearts. The ancient prophet Jeremiah understood this dark reality when he spoke: “The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked; who can know it?” (Jeremiah 17:9).

While I wish Jeremiah’s indictment was for everyone else out there—the murderous assassin, daughter, or political rivals—I know too well my own heart’s violence. Just the other day, for example, I became incensed because a car cut me off in traffic. Or I became infuriated when I was patronized by a colleague. And why would I wish to recount the careless words spoken in anger leveled against my loved ones? Disheartened, I cry out, “Why won’t I tire of violence?”

Jesus, like Jeremiah before him, understood humanity’s violent tendencies. He understood that violence is not something “out there” but something within us. He told his disciples, “That which proceeds out of the man, that is what defiles the man. For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts...thefts, murders...deeds of coveting and wickedness, as well as deceit...envy, slander, pride and foolishness. All these evil things proceed from within and defile a person” (Mark 7:20-23). Jesus didn’t say these words from the cross of violence that took his life, but he very well could have. Indeed, his offering of himself and his death on a cross is the very embodiment of his teaching in the Sermon on the Mount:

"But I say to you who hear, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who mistreat you. And if you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. And if you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. But love your enemies, and do good and lend, expecting nothing in return; and your reward will be great, and you will be sons and daughters of the Most High; for God is kind to ungrateful and evil men. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful."(1)

Jesus endured the violence that ultimately led to his crucifixion. He endured violence to offer another way in our world of violence. Yet, his way offers a challenge to our everyday embrace of violence in large and small ways. Until I tire of violence, I cannot expect the world to tire of violence. Until I embrace Jesus’s solution to violence, I cannot hope for peace. Yet, since Christ came near and bore our violence, the lion and the lamb can hope for the transformation that is our peace.

Margaret Manning is associate writer at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington.

(1) Luke 6:27,28,32,33,35,36.

Coming to Ourselves

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

There is a line in the story of the prodigal son that is easy to miss. It comes as the transition in the story, but it also seems to mark the transition in the son. Not long after the younger son demands the right to live as he pleases, after he leaves with his father's money and gets as far away as possible, and after he loses everything and is forced to hire himself out in the fields, the story reads that the prodigal "came to himself." At this, he decides to turn back to the father.

Today it is often translated that the son "came to his senses," as we might describe a man who, on the precipice of a bad decision or impulsive act, decides to turn around. But the phrase in Greek literally describes the prodigal as "coming to himself," and seems to point at something more than good decision-making. The Greek expression can be applied to one who comes out of a deep swoon, someone who has lost consciousness and comes back to himself again. The expression can also be applied to one who is recovering from insanity, someone who has been lost somewhere within her own mind and body, only to come back to herself once again.

With both of these metaphors, the prodigal son is one who wakes to health and life again, having been unconscious of his true condition. Standing in a foreign field hungry and alone, the prodigal comes to something more than a good decision. He is waking to an identity he knew in part but never fully realized. He is remembering life in his father's house again, though for the first time.

Human identity seems a succession of inquiry and wakefulness. Who we are is discovered in layers of life and realization, questioning and consciousness. Essayist Annie Dillard articulates the progression of awareness and the rousing of self as something strangely recognizable—"like people brought back from cardiac arrest or from drowning."(1) There is a familiarity in the midst of our awakenings. We wake to mystery, but so somehow we wake to something known.

Trapped in sin that controls the mind and keeps us in darkness, our condition is similar to the prodigal son in a foreign land. We are like those who have lost consciousness, caught in the madness of our own condition, until we are awakened to life with the Father. The apostle concurs: "As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient" (Ephesians 2:1-2). "Coming to ourselves" is, thus, about waking to our human condition, claiming in our very identities our need for resurrection, our need for home.

Yet another use of the expression comes out of the old world fables of enchantment. With this metaphor, "coming to ourselves" is like coming out of a magician's spell and assuming once again our true forms. It is reminiscent of the scene in The Silver Chair where the children are trapped beneath Narnia in the land called Underworld and persuaded to believe there is no such thing as a Narnian. The Queen of Underworld, who is really a witch, has thrown a green powder into the fire that produces a sweet and drowsy smell. In this enchanting haze, their identity as Narnians becomes hazy, and the world they thought they knew begins to disappear. But it is at this moment of despair that Puddleglum makes a brave move. With his bare foot he stomps on the fire, sobering the sweet and heavy air with the smell of burning marshwiggle. "One word, Ma'am," he says coming back from the fire, limping, because of the pain:

"Suppose we have only dreamed, or made-up, all those things... Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one... We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow... I'm on Aslan's side, even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as much like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland."(2)

Coming out of their enchantment, the prisoners of Underland remembered they were children of another kingdom. Coming to themselves, they began to realize who they were all along. What if waking to our identities as children of the Father is like uncovering the people God has created us to be from the start? What if coming to ourselves is like remembering we are citizens of another kingdom, a kingdom we vaguely recall and yet long to return? The prodigal's awakening from the enchantment of his own sin and a foreign world came as the startling recognition of two palpable facts: First, that there was plenty in his father's house, and second, that he himself was starving. Waking to these two vital spiritual truths today, we reclaim the very identities given to us in the beginning. And so doing, we come to ourselves because we are setting out for home again. We come to ourselves because we are going to the Father.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Annie Dillard, An American Childhood (New York, Harper & Row, 1987), 11.
(2) C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair (New York: HarperCollins, 1981), 190-191.