Tag: gospel

Posted on

Death vs. Ascension

By Jim Spiegel

One of the most fascinating scenes in the New Testament—to my mind, at least—is the ascension of Jesus Christ. As Luke records the event in the book of Acts, he notes that after his resurrection, Jesus appeared to his disciples over a period of forty days and on one occasion:

They gathered around him and asked him, “Lord, are you at this time going to restore the kingdom to Israel?”

He said to them: “It is not for you to know the times or dates the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”

After he said this, he was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight.

They were looking intently up into the sky as he was going, when suddenly two men dressed in white stood beside them. “Men of Galilee,” they said, “why do you stand here looking into the sky? This same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you have seen him go into heaven.” (Acts 1:6-11).

And that was the last they saw of Jesus. It was their final, unceremonious goodbye. And yet, apparently, there was no weeping or wailing. No one cried. No one mourned. In fact, the disciples simply got to work building the church and joyfully proclaiming the Good News.

What a contrast between this and when Jesus died six weeks earlier. And yet, from the standpoint of saying goodbye, at least as far as anyone could tell at the time, the situation was no different. A beloved friend was leaving for good. Why such a different response?

Was it the manner of death? This can’t be the explanation, since it is the loss of our loved ones that we mourn, not their manner of death. This is reflected in the (very reasonable) common expression, “I’m sorry for your loss.” We never say, “I’m sorry your loved one died the way they did.” Yes, an especially painful or violent death may exacerbate the pain of loss. But the essence of sorrow regards the loss of the person, not how they died. And yet, when Jesus ascended, the disciples lost their friend. So why no mourning?

Was it the presence of Jesus’ dead body that made his death so much more painful than his ascension? No, this can’t be it. If your loved one were to die in such a way that their body is out of sight or irretrievable (e.g., sunken in the ocean depths, lost in space, etc.) you would mourn every bit as much as if their lifeless body was present. The presence of a corpse may make some psychological difference (for better or worse), but that’s not the source of our sorrow. Again, it is the loss of the person we mourn.

Or maybe the difference lies in the fact that by the time Jesus ascended, he had proven he was the Messiah, that the disciples’ personal investment in him was not in vain, and that their trust in him was vindicated. Perhaps this is why
the disciples didn’t mourn his ascension. Again, this doesn’t account for the fact that, just as in the case of a physical death, by ascending Jesus was leaving them for good.

Or was he? It seems to me that the key to understanding the different responses is that Jesus’ ascension proved his departure was only temporary. That by his resurrection he proved that he had conquered death and that he could be trusted in his promise that he was going to return and bring about his everlasting kingdom. This meant, again, that the goodbye was not permanent but only temporary.

So the difference has to do with Gospel hope, something that the disciples definitely did not have immediately after Jesus was crucified and buried. In fact, they had lost all hope. But with the fact that the ascension occurred after his resurrection made all the difference. Moreover, his resurrection proved that all death is conquered and that, as Christians, all of our goodbyes are only temporary. And this is why the Apostle Paul would later dare to mock death, saying, “Where, O death, where is your victory? Where, O death, where is your sting?” (1 Cor. 15:55).

Of course, I am not saying that our mourning the death of friends and loved ones is not rational or that we lack faith in doing so. Rather, we mourn with hope. And, as Christians, we understand that our goodbyes really are temporary—that we, too, ascend after death and, like our Lord, we go to await our final reunion with the people of God. That is Gospel hope, and it makes all the difference in the world.

Posted on

Remembering my Friend, Ben Arbour

By Jim Spiegel

Aristotle said there are three kinds of friendships: those based on utility, those based on pleasure, and those based on a shared commitment to the good—wisdom and other moral virtues. Most of our friendships fall into the first two categories. Aristotle tells us that rare are those friendships truly grounded in a mutual pursuit of virtue. So I consider myself blessed to have had several of these friends. Humanly speaking, they are the principal reason I display any virtue or wisdom myself. Such friends are absolute treasures, benefitting us not only here but for all eternity. Because the joy and blessings they bring are so immense, losing them is especially difficult. Last week I lost such a friend—Ben Arbour, as he and his wife, Meg, perished in a car accident near their home in Fort Worth, Texas.

It was nine years ago that Ben introduced himself to me at a meeting of the Evangelical Theological Society. I was instantly struck by his exuberance, wit, and sharp critical mind. “You and I have a lot in common and we need to get to know each other,” he declared. Thus commenced our friendship, which he initially characterized as a mentoring relationship. But the truth is that I learned more from Ben than I ever taught him.

An irrepressible extrovert, Ben had a list of friends whom he would regularly call to discuss whatever was on his mind. And he constantly had a lot on his mind. Sometimes he would hit you with an argument he’d just dreamed up. Sometimes he would have a list of topics to discuss. Other times he would simply have a question. These conversations often pertained to some philosophical point, whether concerning the metaphysics of God and time, the ethics of human sexuality, or a practical implication of Berkeleyan idealism, but just as often his concerns were theological, ecclesial, or pastoral in nature.

I was just one person on Ben’s list of regular interlocutors. His philosophical-theological motor never turned off, seemingly even while he was at work, appropriately enough, as finance manager at Sewell Automotive. And sometimes he would begin these phone conversations by saying, “Jim, I have some great news.” To which I’d reply, “Yeah, what?” Then he would declare, “Jesus has risen from the dead, our sins are forgiven, and we will live forever with him for all eternity. Isn’t that great?” Indeed. And this reminder would suitably frame the discussion, debate, or goofy banter that would follow, just as Ben’s entire life was framed. He was a pure Gospel man.

Ben was also a multitrack thinker, known among his friends and colleagues for playing video games on his iPhone while attending highly technical conference presentations. The first time I witnessed this, I figured Ben was simply fatigued and had tuned out of the presentation. But when the speaker was finished and invited questions from the audience, Ben immediately piped up with the several apposite and incisive comments. This was typical for Ben, as I would eventually discover. It was also Ben’s routine, when especially intrigued or unsatisfied with the presenters’ responses to his questions, to pursue the discussion with the speaker outside of the conference room. And on at least two occasions he followed the presenters into the bathroom while doing so. I am thinking specifically of Robert Audi and Nicholas Wolterstorff, who, I am sure, handled Ben’s indefatigable questioning with grace and good humor.

Another fundamental aspect of Ben’s personality was his love for people, especially fellow Christians. He had a voracious appetite for fellowship, which always included rich conversation, clever wit, and good food. Ben was expert at two of these, and he tried to be a decent chef. I can’t say he always succeeded. But he did try. Thankfully, Meg more than made up for whatever Ben lacked in cooking skills.

Ben was also a sports fan, especially, and rather determinedly, of baseball. He frequently made known his conviction that baseball is the best of all sports (a conviction I share, so the matter occasioned no debate between us). Though seemingly trivial, somehow even this conviction of Ben’s was theological, and this carried through even to his rooting interests. For example, in the most recent World Series Ben pulled intensely for Los Angeles just because he was aware that Dodgers pitcher Clayton Kershaw is a committed Christian.

Ben was a great family man—a dedicated husband and father, and it was a joy to see him interact with his four sweet kids. In my last visit with the Arbours two weeks ago, I was struck by Ben’s tender, Socratic interaction with his youngest son, Noah, about some theological point. Ben’s fatherly care, his readiness to help Meg around the house, and the whole Arbour family dynamic of hospitality were a tangible testament to the man’s humility and genuine servant heart. “Mi casa es su casa,” Ben would say. And he meant it literally. The Arbour house constantly buzzed with guests, all of whom seemed to be special friends. One of Ben’s greatest pleasures was connecting his friends with one another. This was not merely some extrovert compulsion or professional networking but a ministry of catalyzing koinonia. It was a spiritual gift that easily surpassed that of the most socially inclined pastors I have known. Almost unconsciously effected, it was borne out of Ben’s boyish joy in the people of God.

Many a devout Christian talks a good game when it comes to intentionally and compellingly integrating the Gospel of Christ into every aspect of their life. Ben Arbour actually did this—to the delight of many and to the annoyance of some but to the benefit of everyone. Those who were close to Ben know how he was always encouraging, even when offering critical push back. Our final conversation two days before he died provides a good case in point. I had shared with Ben the possibility that I might take a teaching job at a school in Asia, which would require my being away from my family sixteen weeks each year. Rather than bluntly asserting that this was a bad idea, Ben simply said, “I don’t think I could handle being away from my wife that long. But maybe I’m just weak in that way.” This humble way of registering his reservations was particularly impactful. And it vividly illustrates the beauty of Ben Arbour as a third-level Aristotelian friend and faithful Christian brother

At this point I am still in the stage of grief that sometimes lingers in outright disbelief. It seems impossible that Ben is really gone. Eventually it will sink in, and I will grow accustomed to the fact that this world is no longer graced by his presence. In the meantime, I consciously remind myself of what Ben repeatedly reminded me: Jesus Christ has risen from the dead, our sins are forgiven, and we will live forever with him for all eternity. Crushing as it is for those of us who love them, Ben and Meg have together begun the next phase of their everlasting lives with Christ. Even now I can hear Ben’s voice: “Isn’t that great?” Yes, Ben. It surely is.

Posted on

Billy Joe Shaver

By Jim Spiegel

In his 2009 song “I Feel a Change Coming On,” Bob Dylan sings, “I’m listening to Billy Joe Shaver and I’m reading James Joyce.”  When I first heard that line I didn’t know who Billy Joe Shaver was.  Since then, however, I’ve become familiar with his music and have realized how fitting it was for Dylan to mention him with James Joyce.  For, in their respective artistic realms, both Shaver and Joyce adapt styles and ideas in unique ways.

BJSurl
chrisfelver.com

Shaver’s songs have been recorded by rock and country legends, including Elvis Presley, Kris Kristofferson, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings.  And he has worked with many other notables, including Johnny Cash, Tanya Tucker, and Charlie Daniels.  To me, some of Shaver’s most intriguing recordings are his gut-punching Gospel songs.  Check out the videos of “If You Don’t Love Jesus (Go to Hell)” and “Get Thee Behind Me Satan.”  These are what happens when you combine a bar brawling sensibility with Pentecostal theology.  And here’s Shaver performing a live version of a bit more tender Gospel tune: “You Can’t Beat Jesus Christ.”

Whatever you think of the appropriateness of the lyrics or message, this is darned good country music.

Posted on

The Slumdog Gospel

By Jim Spiegel

The Academy Awards garnered by Slumdog Millionaire last week were well-deserved, to say the least.  Amy and I went to see the film a few weeks ago, after multiple recommendations by friends.  Even going in with high expectations, the film floored us.  It had been a long time since we’d seen a film that tells a story that is true to the human condition yet also dares to hope so exultantly.  Not many works of art, films or otherwise, can get you to look evil squarely in the eye and in the end have you crying tears of joy.  Slumdog Millionaire does just this.

For those who’ve yet to be graced by the beauty of Slumdog, here’s a quick summary.  The film follows one Jamal Malik, a kid from the slums of Mumbai India, who appears on the TV show Who Wants to be a Millionaire?  Somehow Jamal has answered all of the questions correctly and is “one question away from winning twenty million rupees.”  Time runs out before he can answer the final question, thus building suspense for the next night and also allowing the Mumbai authorities to brutally interrogate him to find out how he has managed to answer all of the questions correctly to that point.  Surely a slumdog like Jamal doesn’t possess such knowledge, right?  From here the action bounces back and forth between the torturous questioning and a review of Jamal’s life, showing how the answers to each of the questions were emblazoned on his mind through traumatic childhood events—from his immersion in outhouse waste to the murder of his mother.  Each of these events, painful as they were, accrue to his advantage at this fateful hour on national television, where Jamal is poised to become wealthy beyond his dreams.

But wealth is not Jamal’s true dream.  His sights are actually set on a girl named Latika, his childhood friend and now love of his life.  She and Jamal’s brother, Salim, had been abducted by ruthless criminals who cripple orphans to use them as beggars.  The brothers escaped, but not Latika.  Jamal resolves to rescue her from her captors, and the film follows his tireless efforts to do so—a quest which culminates, of all places, on the set of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? 

Critics have frequently called Slumdog “Dickensian” for the power of its narrative eucatastrophe and Capra-esque for its irrepressible hopefulness.  But I can sum up in one word the real magic of the film which makes it so transcendently inspiring: Gospel.  That’s right.  It’s the theme of unconditional love, where a savior emerges from squalor to put his life on the line for the object of his affections.  And don’t think that the film’s creators, director Danny Boyle and screenwriter Simon Beaufoy, didn’t have this in mind.  Jamal Malik, of course, is the Christ figure, and he practically journeys through hell to rescue his darling Latika from those who enslave her.  Jamal rises to public prominence through an extraordinary display of knowledge and understanding, much as did the Nazarene, albeit through the unlikely vehicle of a TV quiz program.  And this same display leads to his arrest and trial in a kangaroo court, where his prosecutors take care to beat and humiliate him, before actually hanging him by his hands for more torture.  Jamal also has his own Judas—his brother Salim, whose actions both guarantee Jamal’s suffering and prepare the way for his heroic liberation of Latika, consummated not in a steamy sex scene but in a poignant embrace in a train station—an unmistakable image of transport to another land.  They will no doubt live together happily ever after.  And, the filmmakers ask us, how do we account for all of this?  Their answer, quoting one of Jesus’ favorite phrases: “It is written.”  Indeed.

It is appropriate that so pure a Gospel story came not from Hollywood, but out of the slums of Mumbai.  For all its pretense to the contrary, Hollywood culture knows little of the abject poverty depicted in this film, much less the possibility of mirth in the slums.  And Hollywood most certainly knows nothing of the self-sacrificial commitment of unconditional love.  Slumdog Millionaire doesn’t flinch at social chaos, cruelty, or the tragic ironies which characterize life in Mumbai.  Nor does it tell us what to feel about these things or patronize us with leftist clichés, as most Hollywood directors do these days.  No, like the great storyteller he is, Boyle simply describes, letting the narrative do its profound work, leaving us to make our own judgments.  The result is a story more full of truth, wisdom, and Gospel hope than we have seen in many years.

Posted on

It Just Isn’t Fair

By Jim Spiegel

“It just isn’t fair.”  How often we hear those words, or utter them ourselves, and in so many contexts, ranging from NCAA football rankings to the problem of evil.  When our sense of justice is offended, we sometimes express our indignation with these four simple words.  Justice is defined generally as giving to each its due.  And when we complain about the injustice of a situation, it is because we believe that someone has not received what they deserve. When a good deed goes unrewarded, when a person’s integrity is overlooked, or when a crime goes unpunished, it just isn’t fair.

Well, lately I’ve found myself using this phrase—if only in my mind—in a different way, to express my incredulity at how blessed I am.  It isn’t fair that I should have a wonderful family, a decent house, a satisfying job, good health, fine friends, etc.  As I count my blessings, it’s really overwhelming that a flawed mortal like me should be lavished with such gifts.  But, of course, the injustice is more profound than this.  Given original sin—that natural state of rebellion into which we all are born—it isn’t fair that God should even allow us to take a single breath on this planet, much less to enjoy ourselves and have fulfilling relationships.  If God were to give us all what we deserve, well, we’d all have been vaporized early on.  But, thankfully, “he does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities” (Psalm 103:10).

If it is unjust when someone is not given their due, then the Christian gospel is founded on a sort of injustice.  That God would condescend to redeem fallen humanity, to take our sin upon himself, and to rescue us from our rebellion is unfair to the extreme.  We call this injustice “grace”-a profoundly unmerited favor.  But it is precisely because we benefit from this injustice that rarely, if ever, do we think to declare it is unfair.  Just as we call a “good deal” a purchase in which we receive more than our money’s worth, we are likely to categorize the Gospel similarly.  When Jesus atoned for our sins, we got a “good deal,” right?  Yes, in the sense that we benefit in unfathomable ways.  But the truth is that it isn’t fair.  In fact, it is unfathomably unfair that the almighty, holy God would humble himself by taking on human form and then suffer a criminal’s death for the sake of those whose sin begat such evil in the first place.

Of course, there is justice in the atonement in the sense that—through our mystical union with Christ—the crucifixion and death of Jesus satisfied God’s wrath.  But the mindblower is that God would take this step to begin with, that he would subject his only begotten Son to such unspeakable torture for our sake.  Amazing grace, indeed.  And it’s more to be thankful for than we can possibly comprehend, even if, strictly speaking, it just isn’t fair.

Posted on

Mirror Images

By Amy Spiegel

One of the most embarrassing moments of my life happened several years ago when I was supposed to be meeting a friend at a local night spot. (Okay, it was a club. There are you satisfied? I used to go dancing at night clubs. Sue me.). This was at a time in my life when I was extremely conscious of my appearance and looking “cool.” I found that at least one cure for this self-consciousness is giving birth to four kids as well as going out of the house on a daily basis with vomit, snot, or poop smeared somewhere on my clothing. Anyhoo, back to the pre-vomit-stained version of myself.  I was sitting at a table waiting for my friend, when I saw him walk by. I attempted to get his attention but failed to raise my voice to the decibel level required to exceed that of the music giving me permanent hearing loss. I hopped up and bopped after him. (The pre-vomit-stained version of me often bopped along, here and there. Sadly this too is no more. Sigh.) I followed him up a ramp and encountered a back room to the club that I hadn’t realized existed. As I was heading into the room, a girl was blocking my way. I stepped to one side, as did she. I stepped to the other side and she did as well. I looked up and laughed, feeling like I was in an episode of I Love Lucy, when I noticed this girl was rather cute. Then to my horror, she stopped being cute and became my own reflection. I was standing in front of a mirror and had been attempting to side-step myself.

In a lot of ways, this experience sums up my life. I spend most of my time thinking about myself, trying to make myself happy, admiring my brilliance, etc. When I am not thus occupied, I am wallowing in disgust at my self-centered hedonism. It isn’t as though I wake up every morning in love with myself, longing to see what great deeds I will perform today. Despite appearances to the contrary, I have a fairly realistic picture of my many faults and limitations. (Dare I say I pride myself on it?)  Yet thoughts of self-interest and self-congratulations pop, seemingly unbidden, into my head continually throughout the day. It is as if I am trapped in front of that mirror, desperately trying to get out of my own way so I can move on.

It is an astonishing paradox to me that I find myself to be the most obnoxious and morally repulsive person I know, yet throughout the day I constantly think how to gratify and admire myself. When trapped in the corner of my own self-loathing and faced with the bleak landscape of my inner thought life, I become like a crazed beast, desperately seeking escape. (It’s like being trapped in a Gap fitting room wearing pants that are at least one size too small.) Cheeks burning with shame, I cast around wildly in a vain attempt to prop up my quickly wilting self-esteem. Sometimes I begin sizing up others (literally and figuratively) in some sort of warped moral version of a beauty contest: “Okay, Miss Down-the-Street is a better cook and kicks my butt in the ‘Consistent Quiet Time’ segment of the evening but I could definitely take her on in bread-making and bedtime reading. If I work out three times this week and dust of the old Bible, I think I could make it to second runner-up for sure.” Unfortunately, I know a lot of really good people and too often looking outward doesn’t do that much for building up my self-image. So then I turn inward and go for old reliable—my good intentions. Sure, I just lost it with the kids on the way out the door today, but my intention was to be on time and I did apologize and smooth it over with a slushy, so there. Or maybe not.

This is where that other old reliable comes in—the Gospel. It is in its reflection that I see with great clarity those dusty corners no one else knows. But it is also in its reflection that I see the grace and mercy that has been purchased for me—at great cost and effort but providentially, not my own. So the next time you find yourself trapped in the mirror of your discontent, look that image straight in the eye and say “Hey you’re kind of cute—in a saved but still-in-progress kind of way.”