The Bachelor: The Law Before the Final Rose...

As you're all well aware, I'm a reality TV junkie. I watch Top Chef, Project Runway, Little People Big World, Dirty Jobs, Mythbusters, Dinner: Impossible, Ace of Cakes, What Not to Wear, and even (gulp) The Hills. But, of course, the class of the reality shows, at least as far as Gospel theology goes, is The Bachelor. Clearly, it's not the best hour of TV entertainment on this list (in fact, other than The Hills, I prefer ALL these other shows), but it so clearly illuminates the Law vs. Gospel distinction that we talk about in these pages.

Picture it: A man and a woman go on a date. Will it work? Is there chemistry? On the old-school show Blind Date, the climax was always when the participants turned to the camera and said whether or not they would go out on another date. As you might imagine, the men almost always said they would, and the women almost universally said that they wouldn't. On The Bachelor, the question is, "Will he give her a rose or won't he?" This is how a bachelor lets us know that he wants to go on another date with this woman. The wrinkle is that if he DOESN'T give her a rose, she has to go home immediately. She has to be packed and ready to go before the date.

The hilarious (and profound) addition on the Bachelor is that they turn the ethereal pressure of a date into a physical object: a rose. And then, they have the rose sitting there for the whole date! Both people comment about how the rose ruins the evening. They can't stop looking at it, wondering what the outcome will be.

We've said before, and in fact, we say often, that judgment kills love. It's one of the maxims that we live by. The presence of the rose is the embodiment of judgment. The sword of Damocles (will he or won't he) hangs over the date from the very beginning. The knowledge of impending judgment kills any possibility of love. Rather than discovering whether or not she is in love with the bachelor, the woman toils under the weight of being the kind of person who gets a rose. And, so, love dies.

The conclusion? Love can thrive only without judgment; without roses. What if The Bachelor gave the rose to the girl at the beginning of the date? Before she proves her worth? What might happen then? They could get to know one another without the pressure, without the judgment, and see if they might fall in love.

A Little Bit of Pixie Dust

My four year old daughter is really into Disney movies now (and has been for a long time!). She has gone through phases of loving everything from Snow White to Ratatouille. Their catalog is extensive enough that we don't have to repeat very often, though she often gets stuck in a rut, requesting the same film over and over again. The Lion King and Beauty and the Beast are her two favorites. Recently, though, we watched Peter Pan, and, as I sometimes am, I was struck by a theological chord in the first scenes.

When Peter tells the Darling children that they can go with him to Neverland, they ask how to get there. He tells them that they'll fly. When they try and fail, Peter is puzzled. "This won't do," Peter mumurs. "What's the matter with you? All it takes is faith and trust." I could almost hear the frustrated preacher behind those words. "What's the matter with you, congregation of mine? Why aren't you doing Good Christian Thing A or Good Christian Thing B? All it takes is faith and trust!"

Most pastors, and for that matter, Christians in general, have too high a view of human ability (anthropology). We are left wondering what is the matter with us when we try to do something and fail. We wonder why our minds drift to the same selfish or impure places day after day, despite our efforts to control them. We wonder why our children exasperate us so...they're just kids. We wonder why our relationships seem to falter when we've tried so hard to make them work.

But Peter Pan is forgetting something: "All it takes is faith and trust. Oh! And something I forgot...dust! A little bit of pixie dust." And so, the magic ingredient introduced into the situation, flight is possible. Sure it helps to set your mind on "the happiest things," but the pixie dust is the key. It's the fuel that makes the flight go.

In the same way, it is the Holy Spirit that makes our "Christian" lives possible. But unlike Tinkerbell's dust, we can't grab the Holy Spirit and shake a little out. No, it's better than that. The Holy Spirit is promised to us.

But it's the pixie dust that allows for flight, not the quality of the faith and trust of the Darling children, and the Holy Spirit that allows for Christian life in the Christian. Someone said that as one's anthropology increases (as one's opinion of human ability goes up) one's Christology decreases (one's reliance on Jesus goes down). Let's always remember that, without that pixie dust, no one's getting to Neverland.

The Long Arm of LeBron's Law

I've never been more happy to be wrong. In both my NBA Playoffs preview column and my Finals preview, I picked the Heat (and therefore LeBron James) to lose in the NBA finals. They (and he) didn't. LeBron played so excellently that many of his critics have had to reconsider their criticisms. And it's that reconsideration that has been so interesting.

The most common talking point of the post-championship coverage (other than the celebration of LeBron's performance) is a question: Who will the pressure to win, that pressure that was once LeBron's, pass to? In other words, who will the sports world now begin to judge for their failure to win a championship? For several years, it was Phil Mickelson who "couldn't win" a major. He consistently fell short in big tournaments, seemingly wilting under pressure...until he won. Then it was LeBron...until he won. The question that sports pundits have been asking each other all week is...so who's next? Here's an example.

A wittier man than I once said that we are born lawyers, and that we have to learn about grace. The urge to judge, the urge to find fault, is powerful, and seemingly inbred. It is sourced in self-justification; that is, the desire to find at least one person who is worse that you, so that if someone's going down, it's them, and not you. This is true from elementary school playgrounds to high-powered boardrooms.

The urge to transfer the "Why haven't you won yet?" pressure to another athlete puts the lie to the claim that LeBron put the pressure on himself with "The Decision" and with the Heat's welcome party, etc. Certainly those things intensified the pressure, but the fact that everyone agrees that the pressure must go somewhere proves that it exists outside of Mickelson, James, and "not five, not six, not seven..." We require someone to put the pressure on because we cannot bear the thought that it might end up on us.

This is the most generic of all laws, and therefore perhaps the most powerful. Even when we reject directives like "Honor your father and mother" or "Love your neighbor as yourself" we find ourselves beholden to the law of "be good." But what's good enough?

Our number one job as self-interested human beings is self-justification. It was a great comfort to be able to say, when confronted with a personal failure, "Well, at least I never jilted a city, joined another superstar, and then failed time and again in clutch moments!  At least I'm not a championship level loser!" Now that LeBron is no longer such a loser, we are thrashing around, flailing, for some other poor (read: wonderfully talented) athlete on whom to pin our outrageous expectations, all in the hope that they'll fail, so that we can look better by comparison.  If we worry about living up to the law of "be good," we can least be better than someone.

Tellingly, the thing that LeBron credits with enabling his success this year is his "owning" of his failures from years past. It is when we can stop our search for someone to whom we're superior that we can have the freedom to be ourselves...and possibly succeed.

Would a Human Help a Sister Out?

Near the end of a 3,200 meter race at the Division III girls state high school track meet in Columbus, Ohio, on Saturday,  June 2, last-place runner Meghan Vogel noticed something strange on the track ahead of her: Arden McMath, the only other runner yet to finish the race, had collapsed on the track with only 20 meters to go.  Vogel says that she did what any other runner on the track would have done for her: she picked McMath up and assisted her over the finish line, being careful that she finished behind the girl she was carrying.  As you might imagine, the two girls have become instant celebrities, meeting again a few days later for an interview on “Fox and Friends,” this after speaking to media outlets too numerous to count all weekend.

“It’s been crazy,” said Vogel. “I can’t understand why everyone wants to talk to me, but I guess I’m getting used to it now,” she said. “It’s strange to have people telling me that this was such a powerful act of kindness and using words like ‘humanity.’ It’s weird. When I hear words like that I think of Harriet Tubman and saving people’s lives. I don’t consider myself a hero. I just did what I knew was right and what I was supposed to do.”  It’s ironic, of course, that Vogel is hearing words like “humanity,” because she did something that no human ever does: put herself second.

Humans only ever invoke their humanity when they’ve done something wrong.  When was the last time you heard someone, celebrated for doing a great thing, say, “Well, I am human.”  Never.  Not once. We say “I’m only human” to apologize for our mistakes.  The Human League got it right in 1986: “I’m only human/Of flesh and blood I’m made/Human/Born to make mistakes.”  Jeremiah said that the human heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure (Jer. 17:9). Meghan Vogel should have been hearing about her humanity had she taken the opportunity to pass McMath and avoid finishing last.  That’s what a human would do.  Anything else is a miracle.

Another interesting thing at play here is Vogel’s shock at the public reaction to her story.  Any runner would know the inspirational story of Derek Redmond, the Olympic runner who was helped across the finish line by his father.  Any rational person should have expected to be lionized for such a selfless (read: gloriously inhuman) action.  That Vogel is surprised proves that her actions were completely un-considered.  In other words, her left hand didn’t know what her right hand was doing (Matthew 6:3)!

Vogel was so tuned out to the world that the human ulterior motive machine was turned off completely, and a miracle happened in her: she thought of someone else before herself.  And in so doing, proved that, for a moment at least, she was something much better than human.  Martin Luther talked about sin being humanity curved back in on itself, and that redemption in Christ allowed humans to be what they were created to be: full of true humanity, loving their neighbor as themselves.  Of course, he also said that, even as redeemed, we are, at the same time, justified and sinner, so both “humanities” are ever-present.  Therefore, to invoke Vogel’s “humanity” is doubly fascinating, both as an ironic comment on what most humans would naturally do and as miraculous evidence of the kind of re-creation that Christ makes possible.

Community and the Law of Letter Jackets

Anyone who played sports in high school knows about letter jackets.  It was the thing you always wanted to get, and the thing your wore at every opportunity.  My own relationship with my letter jacket was a complicated one: I was awarded a letter during my sophomore year...for marching band.  As if that wasn't indignity enough, the marching band letter was a totally different style than the sports letters, making it impossible for me to pretend that I was a "real" letterman.  Eventually, though, I was awarded several athletic letters and could wear my letter jacket proudly.  I never got to let a girl wear it, but you can't have everything.

The most interesting thing about letter jackets is what happens to them after graduation.  In other words, where do letter jackets go to die?  If there's one ironclad rule about letter jackets, it's that you can't wear them after you're out of high school.  There's nothing lamer than holding on to past coolness.  Check out the below clip from the show Community, wherein Troy (Donald Glover) tries to make a decision about his letter jacket, because people at the community college that he now attends have been making fun of him for wearing it:

Now, it may be obvious to all of us that Troy's mistake was wearing his letter jacket to college in the first place.  That's not what I'm interested in.  What interests me is the theological insight of his new friend Jeff Winger (Joel McHale):  Whether he takes the jacket off or keeps it on, he's doing it for "them."  That's what's weak.

This is a gorgeous (and when you add Donald Glover's bulging eyeballs, hilarious) illustration of the inescapability of the Law.  Whether we struggle to obey the law or whether we reject it, we are under its power.  Think of your parents: whether you are just like them or are committed to being nothing like them, they are still the ones influencing you.  If we strive to mold ourselves into today's Barbie-doll aesthetic or go the other way into shabby-chic, Barbie is still directing our decisions.  "Do not be fooled," St. Paul writes to the Galatians, "God will not be mocked" (6:7).  In other words, don't think that you can avoid the reach of the Law.  You can run toward it or away from it...but it still controls you.  There is no escape.

Well, except for THIS.

What God is Like

Here is my friend, Jono Linebaugh, talking about what God is like.  Watch; you'll be glad you did.

On The (Im)Possibility of Human Imputation

"Imputation" is a theological word that can be defined as something like "the act of regarding something or someone as having qualities that it or they do not naturally possess."  Imputation is HUGELY important in Christian theology; it is no exaggeration to say that its importance cannot be overstated.  For sinners such as us to stand before the judgment seat of God and be declared righteous, we must be regarded as righteous (via the "imputation" of the righteousness of Christ to us).  God's word, of course, is creative (as in, "Let there be light"), so when he regards someone as righteous, they actually become so.  In this way, imputation can be said to "work," that is, imputation is the mode by which life can come from death.  Imputation, therefore, is so important and so very full of grace that Christians are overwhelmed by the desire to "pay it forward" and "impute" to each other.

That's how we get situations like this:

 

As Joe House said in his piece on Grantland.com

I have watched the "GOOD JOB, GOOD EFFORT" video 391 times since Tuesday night. Because I can't believe the kid is being sincere with that sentiment. Tuesday night's Heat performance was not a "good job" and it was most certainly NOT a "good effort." I know this because I performed a very scientific study (i.e., scanned YouTube for five minutes) of the 10 hustle/effort plays that could have gone either way in the game, and my conclusion is the Celts won Every. Single. One.

So.  Humans generally "impute" when they want it to "work" in the same way it does when God does it.  When we want to encourage, or cajole, or build up, we "impute" in the same way the kid in the video did.  We don't actually think that the Heat did a good job, but we want them to be more likely to do one next time. But it rings hollow, just the way the video kid's words do.  Note the expressions on the faces of the departing Heat.  No new buoyancy, no encouragement.  They know that what the kid is saying just isn't true.

And this is the key: Human words are not creative.

Try it sometime.  Walk outside at 3:30 in the morning (in temperate latitudes...no cheating) and command light to come forth.  See what happens.  The same failure is true when we tell someone that they're successful when they know they're not, that they're thin when they know they're not, or that they're a "good person" when they know they're not.

During a summer that I spent as a hospital chaplain, I came across a dying man.  When I asked him how he was doing, he said that he thought he'd lived a good life.  After a pause, he looked at me and said, "I'm just not sure it was good enough."  Hearing the story later, my supervisor told me that I should have assured the man that his life was good enough; that he didn't have to worry.  In other words, that I should have "imputed" righteousness to him. In the moment, I felt differently.  I told the man that Jesus had come for those of us who hadn't lived lives that were good enough.

That man wouldn't have believed me if I'd told him that his life was good enough; who was I, anyway?  How would I know?  He didn't need faux-imputation...and it wouldn't have worked.  Though humans can't impute (we can only, like the "Good Job" Kid, pretend), we can announce that true imputation, through the creative word of God, has come.