Crown & Cross Columbia’s Journal of Christian Thought
The Columbia
Crown & Cross Staff
Contributors
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
ESSAYS
Marcos Martinez CC’16
Lilian Chow CC’15 Eshiemomoh Osilama CC’16 McKenna Gilliland CC’17 Philip Jeffery CC’17 Emily Lau CC’17 Johanan Sowah CC’17 Titus Willis CC’18
MANAGING EDITOR Emily Lau CC’17
STAFF EDITORS
Spring 2015
POETRY
Siqi Cao SEAS’15 Philip Jeffery CC’17 Titus Willis CC’18
LAYOUT EDITORS
Tatianna Kufferath CC’15 Hannah Khaw CC’18 Joseph Shepley SEAS’18
ILLUSTRATIONS
Eshiemomoh Osilama CC’16 Alex Liu SEAS’15 Mariel Kim BC’16 Rachel Chung BC’16 Asia Cunningham BC’17
Rachel Chung BC’16 Mariel Kim BC’16 Asia Cunningham BC’17
ONLINE EDITORS
PHOTOGRAPHY
Lilian Chow CC’15 Pauline Morgan CC’18
Esther Jung BC’15 James Xue SEAS’17
WEBMASTER Anji Zhao SEAS’16
BUSINESS MANAGER Christian Truelove CC’17
If you are interested in getting involved, e-mail us at columbiacrowncross@gmail.com Check out our blog and print issues online at crowncross.org Like our Facebook page: facebook.com/columbiacrowncross Special thanks to Christian Union and the Collegiate Network Uncredited photos from Unsplash, StockSnap.io, and IM Creator Cover Photo and Inside Back Cover from Unsplash
A Letter from the Editors In this issue, we chose to explore the question at the heart of Christianity: Who is Jesus? This is a question that Jesus himself posed to his disciples in Matthew 16:15–16 when He inquired, “But who do you say I am?” Simon Peter, with a revelation from God, simply replied, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” Peter’s succinct and powerful declaration of Jesus’ identity is the foundation of Christianity. It would seem then that Peter has already answered this question for us about two thousand years ago. Yet it is a question that we, as followers of Christ, must also consider for ourselves today. Our intention of exploring this question through essays, poetry, and art is to share particular aspects of Jesus’ character and ministry that shape our outlook on life. We are not seeking to define Jesus, but rather to apply our studies and experiences in order to reach a better understanding of who He is and how He relates to our lives. This issue includes pieces that contemplate Jesus from many perspectives: Titus Willis investigates how the Gospels provide us with a reliable account of Jesus’ life; McKenna Gilliland describes how Jesus’ miracle of healing the blind man in Bethsaida mirrors her pursuit of faith; Emily Lau examines how a short story by Kurt Vonnegut reveals humanity’s need for Jesus; and Johanan Sowah reflects on how growing up in different cultures has impacted his views on Jesus, among other thoughtful essays and poems. We invite people of all faiths and outlooks to read this issue with open minds and hearts. We hope that throughout these pages, you will find something that speaks to you and drives you to engage in conversation with us— whether or not you agree with us. It is a true joy for us to share about the central figure of our faith: the One who laid down His life for us, the One whose love transforms us, the One called Jesus Christ of Nazareth. To God be the Glory,
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In This Issue Essays 5
The Veracity of the Gospels Titus Willis
11 Joseph Shepley
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Blindness, Sight, and Everything in Between McKenna Gilliland
18 Tatianna Kufferath
Knowing Christ through 12 Musical Worship Lilian Chow A Message in Code: The Desire for a Relational God behind 19 Kurt Vonnegut’s “EPICAC” Emily Lau Experiencing Christ 25 across Cultures Johanan Sowah Metaphysical Rebellion 29 from Cain to Camus Philip Jeffery Flurries: To Love the Broken
33 Eshiemomoh Osilama
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Poetry
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Prayer
Runaway
Bones
24 Hannah Khaw
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The Veracity of the Gospels
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We must all ask ourselves: can we trust the four Gospels to give us an accurate representation of the real Jesus? Bible-believing apologists give us ample reason to believe that we can.
Titus Willis
he Core Curriculum of Columbia University’s liberal arts college unifies the student body through the shared experience of studying a canon of major Western texts, among other requirements. In humanities classes required of every Columbia College attendee, educators often dismiss the Bible, and specifically the Gospels of the New Testament, as historically unreliable and fraught with contradiction and error. Questionable historicity and copying practices are listed as reasons why students should not believe that the Gospels give us a legitimate view of Christ. As a Bible-affirming Columbia College student, I became fascinated by the discussion and cynicism surrounding the words of Jesus. The voices of those deprecating the Bible led me, and certainly many others before me, to wonder if our biblical view of Jesus matches the Man who walked the earth some 2,000 years ago. Why does it matter if our view is correct? The answer is in the license skeptics give themselves by discrediting the Gospels. Without the authority of biblical legitimacy, anyone is free to believe in any Jesus they wish without intellectual or moral repercussions. He can become whatever the reader wants Him to be, whether that be a sin-tolerant Savior, a “good teacher,” or any other misnomer modern readers have given Christ. We need to know that the real Jesus is a concrete figure whose words in the Scriptures cannot be equivocated upon, or else the very fabric of Christianity is dubitable. Therefore, we must all ask ourselves: can we trust the four Gospels to give us an accurate representation of the real Jesus? Bible-believing apologists give us ample reason to believe that we can. Some who deny the Gospels’ infallibility do so simply based on the incredible events that mark almost every page. They are leery of believing that a human being healed a blind man with the touch of a muddy finger or that He raised a man from the dead by simply calling for
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him to come out of his grave. This reasoning is understandable—those events are rarely, if ever, seen today— but that very point speaks to the accuracy of the stories presented in the Gospels. Indeed, there were witnesses to Jesus’ miracles who had a chance to dispute accounts written about in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, but the stories held up because the witnesses refused to deny any of the happenings.
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Scholars who affirm and deny the veracity of the Gospels agree that the book of John was written within 70 years after the death of Christ, and the three synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) were finished and circulated within 30 years of the crucifixion.1 These works, then, could have been called into question by anyone of that time, but they were not. In fact, the apostle Paul, a former critic of Christianity himself, refers to an appearance the resurrected Jesus made to “five hundred brethren at one time” and then adds, “most of whom remain until now, but some have fallen asleep.”2 Why does he make this statement? The scholarly Jewish writer is essentially challenging skeptics to find a living witness who would deny the happenings of the Gospels, because he knew how unabashedly he or she would defend the truth. Many of those eyewitnesses defended that truth until their dying day. The author of Hebrews makes an allusion to a “cloud of witnesses”3 when he names some of the heroes of faith, many of whom were martyrs. The number of individuals that we know of from both biblical and non-biblical texts who chose to die rather than recant Christianity is staggering. Eyewitnesses die for their faith in the book of Acts and in several reliable secular histories, like that of Judean historian Josephus. Among other grotesque demises, they are crucified,4 slashed to death with lances,5 and stoned,6 but their trust in what their eyes have seen trumps their desire to live 1
From a personal interview with Dr. Darrell Bock, Ph.D., conducted on March 7, 2015. 2 1 Corinthians 15:6, ESV. 3 Hebrews 12:1. 4 Charles Herbermann, The Catholic Encyclopedia (New York: Robert Appleton Company, 1907), 471. 5 Alban Butler, The Lives of the Saints, Volume XII (New York: Bartleby. com, 2010), Web. 5 Apr. 2015. 6 William Whiston, The Works of Flavius Josephus,Vol. II (Philedelphia: J Crigg, 1827), 122.
life itself. Josephus said of them, “Those that loved Him at the first did not forsake Him; for He appeared again alive to them on the third day.”7 This may be the single greatest argument for the validity of the Gospels—that so many eyewitnesses to the life of Christ sacrificed their own lives to preserve its integrity. If the Jesus they died for is not the Jesus of history, those martyrs are a miserable lot indeed.8 The most fascinating part of the martyrdom accounts is that they are juxtaposed historically with an account of the first skeptics of the gospel: the Jewish religious leaders and the Roman state. The guards at Jesus’ tomb discovered that His body was no longer there and immediately knew they were guilty of a capital crime. Roman soldiers received the death penalty if they lost that which they were guarding, so their lives were in peril. However, instead of dying for the truth, they lived on for a lie. The religious leaders bribed them to explain that the untrained disciples had snuck past the sleeping soldiers, rolled away a stone that weighed multiple tons, and made off with the body, all without waking the guards.9 It was a ludicrous account, the idea that twelve laymen from Galilee could overcome sixteen able and equipped warriors from Rome. Yet despite the lie of the soldiers and the dismissal of Christ’s resurrection in Jewish synagogues, the truth stood firm because of the courageous souls who chose the Jesus of the Gospels over their earthly existence. Faced 7
Ibid., 45. Paul, who eventually became a martyr himself, notes this in 1 Cornithians 15:12–22. 9 This story is recorded in Matthew 28:11–14. 8
Eshiemomoh Osilama (CC’16)
with hundreds of martyrdoms, doubters of the veracity of the Gospels are left to abandon the argument that the miraculous events described in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are simply too incredible to be true. They must resort to criticizing the texts themselves and not the accounts they portray. One of these textual problems posited by skeptics is the inconsistency in certain parts of the Gospels. I interviewed Dr. Darrell Bock, a well-respected author of several scholarly journals and books about the reliability of the New Testament, and asked him about this argument against the veracity of the Gospels. He counters the claim with an analogy. “Suppose you ask my wife and me about the details of our courtship,” he opines. “I will remember things that she won’t, and she will remember things that I won’t. Different things stand out to different people.”10 This thought is echoed by the writers of the Gospels. Each author wrote his book to a distinct audience—Matthew to Jews, Mark to Gentiles, Luke to intellectuals,11 and John to all searching for a Savior. Some of them contain extra details that others do not, and some stories in parallel Gospels have different figures and non-identical quotations, but nowhere is there a contradictory theological or doctrinal point. None of them say things in direct disagreement with one another, meaning that the Gospels are, on the whole, consistent. Skeptics of the New Testament’s integrity most often attack it based on the number of times it has been copied from the original. Because Christianity was relegated to 10
From the same interview with Dr. Bock. Like a Greek patrician named Theophilus, to whom Luke formally addresses the letter in Luke 1:1. 11
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the catacombs and other secret meeting places until the fourth century, more than 200 years passed before the Scriptures were openly circulated. Critics compare the process to a game of “telephone,” in which a message passes by whispers from one player’s ear to another’s to another’s in a line until the final message is compared to the original. Unless the players paid meticulous attention to providing a word-for-word replication of the initial message, the final phrase would say something very different from the phrase used at the beginning of the game. This analogy works very well for doubters, but a closer look reveals it does not match the real story. After Constantine legalized Christianity in the fourth century, Bible-believers came out of the woodwork all over Europe and Asia Minor, and each congregation brought out their own set of Scriptures which had been copied from original manuscripts. Popular Christian apologist Frank Turek notes stunning similarity in the writings. “There are more than 6,000 handwritten Greek manuscripts that have been found from all over the ancient world. And when you take [the texts] and compare them, we can reconstruct the original to more than 99 percent accuracy… And the less than one percent affects no significant Christian theology.”12 No other text from the pre-printing press era comes anywhere close to that level of accuracy or volume. For example, the campaigns of Julius Caesar, which were written about 100 years before the Gospels, exist in a less than a dozen early manuscripts. The tonnage of the New Testament’s copies equal 50 times that of Caesar’s, and historians generally accept our modern copy of Caesar as the work of his actual hand.13 To consider the writings about Jesus Christ as unreliable while affirming the records of Julius Caesar is, frankly, a double standard. Scholar F.F. Bruce puts it this way: “It is a curious fact that historians have often been much readier to trust the New Testament records than have many theologians.”14 If a history exam prompted its students with the question “who is Caesar,” a correct answer would include details from a few manuscripts. These ancient writings 12 “Frank Turek Responds: Has the New Testament Been Copied Too Many Times?” Cross Examined (YouTube.com, 20 Jan. 2015), Web. 5 Apr. 2015. 13 Geisler, Norman and Frank Turek, I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist (Wheaton, IL: Crossway Books, 2004), 226. 14 F.F. Bruce, The New Testament Documents: Are They Reliable? (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1981), 9–10.
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would reflect what historians have found and proclaimed as proper descriptors of an actual man named Julius Caesar, a man who made reforms in Rome and conquered much of western Europe for his burgeoning empire. He is defined in the minds of people who study him as the individual depicted in the few manuscripts about him we have. The original copies of these writings total less than three percent of the Gospel texts we possess. So why do skeptics not give the Jesus Christ of the Gospels the same credence as the Julius Caesar of Roman texts? Why do they ignore the myriad of eyewitnesses who died to preserve the story, regardless of how unbelievable some of the miracles were? And why do they cite inconsistencies in the Gospels that are not really inconsistencies at all? It is because the answer to the question “who is Jesus” matters much more than the answer to the question “who is Caesar,” or any other question that a person could ask. If the Gospels give us an accurate depiction of Christ, the answer to the question “who is Jesus” has eternal implications. Jesus says time and again that He is deity15 and that what He says matters.16 The Jesus of the Gospels demands a response. Every individual must decide what to do with this Christ, whether to reject Him as a liar or lunatic, or to accept Him as Lord.17 Each soul’s choice will have life-altering ramifications. Our modern copies of the Gospels answer the question of who Jesus is with astounding veracity. We all must determine for ourselves whether we will take that Christ or leave Him. 15
Matthew 26:63–66, Mark 14:62, Luke 10:22, and John 8:58 are just a few examples. 16 Consider the parable of the sower in Luke 8, or the wise man and the fool in Matthew 7. 17 C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (New York: MacMillan Publishing Company, 1952), 41.
Titus Willis (CC’18) hails from a West Virginia town of 2,000, which is about the size of his class at Columbia, or about 0.02% of New York City’s population. He wouldn’t trade his family or the life he’s led up to this point for anything. He would like to use CC&C as a means for projecting the truth of Christ to Columbia’s campus.
Blindness, Sight, and Everything in Between “Do you see anything?” asked Jesus.
The blind man looked left and right. “I see people,” he said. “But they look like trees walking around.” He could see for the first time in his life—but only vaguely. Then Jesus placed His hands on the man’s eyes another time. Suddenly, all was clear. Jesus had transformed his hazy vision into sight.1
A blind man, touched by Jesus, comes to miraculous sight: how much simpler or more satisfying a metaphor can we get for the Christian journey? It gives a clear message of how Jesus works—a roadmap of our relationship with Him. One element of the story is strange, though: why does it take multiple times for Jesus to heal the man’s affliction? Jesus is all-powerful; Christians know that to be true. Why, then, does His first attempt at healing the blind man not give him immediate clarity? Why does Jesus leave him for a time in a halfway stage between blindness and sight? This is a detail that we may pass over when reading this passage. It is a crucial point, though, for understanding why we experience Christianity the way we do. Most of Jesus’ New Testament healings of the blind teach us a simple dichotomy: there is blindness or there is sight. In all of these miracles except one—the healing of the blind man at Bethsaida, retold above—Jesus 1
Paraphrase of Mark 8:22–26.
McKenna Gilliland
instantly transforms the person’s blindness into sight.2 Unlike in Mark 8:22–26, these miracles do not involve an intermediate step. From these stories, we might take away the understanding that Jesus can instantly heal our ills. But they do not give us the full picture of what the Christian journey is like. Let me explain what I mean by that. Blindness, as a symbolic state, almost always represents a condition of non-understanding. In the New Testament, it stands for the starting point of a person’s walk with Jesus—the point at which the blind person does not yet know Him. If we take this symbol out of the Bible and look at it in terms of people’s lives, blindness is a point that looks different for everyone. For some of us, it looks like ignorance: we have not had the opportunity to be touched by the teachings of Jesus. For others, it involves conscious rejection: we have encountered Jesus, perhaps in reading or in wider culture, but we have spurned or ignored Him. For me, specifically, it looked like a semblance of a Christian life: I was baptized, confirmed, and a member of a local church, but nonetheless completely distant from Jesus and wholly unacquainted with His ways. All of us, no matter our exact experiences, are precisely like the blind men of the New Testament before Jesus touches them, lacking all conception of what life could or should look like. 2
Except for the story of Mark 8:22–26 paraphrased above, all of the instances in the bible in which Jesus heals the blind are instantaneous. See Matthew 9:27–31, Matthew 20:30–34, and John 9:1–38.
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Sight, as a second symbolic state, represents a destination—a point of triumph, per se. In the context of Jesus’ miracles, it is the point at which a person has been healed. In our lives, it is the point at which we see Jesus’ world clearly, and have come to love Him above all else. We have a clear indication of who we need to be and what we need to do. This, however, is a very conceptual picture. What does this kind of “sight” in Jesus actually look like? What I have come to realize is that no one really knows. Pastors, priests, devout Christians: none actually know what perfect love for and clarity in Jesus is. Because we are imperfect, not a single one of us has ever gotten there. That is why I believe in the importance of Mark 8:22–26. What this story tells us is something we already subconsciously know: there exists a step (and a rather large one) between not knowing Jesus at all and loving Him perfectly.
I was baptized, confirmed, and a member of a local church, but nonetheless completely distant from Jesus and wholly unacquainted with His ways.
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For examples, see Acts 2:41 and 4:4.
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Asia Cunningham (BC’17)
This is something many Christians miss. In our haste to proclaim our victory and redemption, we overlook the substantial gray area between the point of blindness and the point of sight. In the Christian community, it is easy to fall into thinking that an intense love for Jesus—a clear sight—should come instantaneously once we have accepted Him into our lives. I, personally, have faced more Christians than I can count who have told me, “From the moment Jesus came into my life, I knew He was the only one for me, and I loved Him more than anything else.” When I read the Bible, too, I see accounts in Acts in which thousands of people rapidly proclaim their faith in Jesus and believe.3 But I have never felt that way; even after years of calling myself a Christian, I have
never had an instantaneous moment in which the world fell away and only Jesus stood in front of me as my goal, a moment in which I really, truly loved Jesus and nothing else. For a long time, that gave me a feeling that I had gotten something wrong, a large niggling doubt that maybe none of Christianity was actually real. But then I read this story in the Gospel of Mark. What it revealed to me was something that we miss when we read other stories about Jesus’ healing of the blind: an intermediary stage between blindness and sight. What Mark 8:22–26 told me was that in the other accounts of Jesus healing the blind, we may only be getting the bright and shiny, packaged-up part of the story. From the account of the blind man at Bethsaida, we get the whole metaphor: Jesus touches us once, and we begin to change, but only in repeated contact with Him can we fully achieve sight. In terms of our lives, we see that most other stories of the miracles of sight leave out that messiness in between—the gray area between the moment Jesus touches us for the first time and the moment He becomes our everything. In reality, getting from the starting point of blindness to the destination of sight is a process, not a flip of the switch. And it is often a lengthy one. In between the points of blindness and sight, we experience a fuzzy time in which Jesus’ world is indistinct, a time in which we cannot see clearly, and people may “look like trees walking around.” Jesus works a slow but resolute effect on our lives, transforming the way we see things little bit by little bit. Day to day, we do not fully see His face, nor the beauty of the world in light of His death and resurrection, but we are getting to know it. We might pick up the Bible off the
shelf or from a bookstore. We might start to go to church and really listen to the sermon. We might begin experimenting with prayer. In some combination of these actions, we start to catch glimpses of what Jesus looks like. In this time, we are exactly like the blind man at Bethsaida after Jesus touches him the first time: we see vague visions of a better world that we could not see before, but we do not yet know or understand the full picture. Most importantly, especially for new and growing believers, we do not love Jesus—not yet. It is a messy, confused place to be on the Christian journey, and a stage that may sometimes feel harder than what it is worth. We might sometimes think, “I’m fighting the fight, I’m praying, I’m going to church, I’m reading the Bible, but what am I getting from it? Why don’t I love Jesus as much or see Him as clearly as other people seem to? What am I doing wrong?” These are questions that have weighed on my heart more times than I can count, and have made me wonder whether God is even there at all. They are questions that do not go away so easily. What keeps me going through the messiness, though, are the glints of light I have started to see around me. I see them in the goodness of people, in the simple kindness, joy, and forgiveness that friends and strangers alike show me every day. I see them also in the breathtaking beauty of the world around me: the leaves changing color with the seasons, the rain on the outside of my window, and the pink and orange sunrise over the city every morning. Like Paul in Romans 1:20, I have begun to see Jesus’ work in the world in these tiniest of things.4 It is in the smallest things that I get an inkling of how much more beautiful the world could be if I continue to fight the Christian fight. If, like me, you feel like you have not yet attained full sight in Jesus, you are not doing anything wrong. If you have ever stood in a room full of praising Christians and felt like you just did not feel what everyone else was feeling, don’t feel like you are a failure. If you have ever prayed unceasingly and not heard a voice in response, don’t feel like Jesus is not there. Right now, you are in the
most important and most necessary part of the Christian journey. You have begun to think about Jesus and to seek Him as a guide—that is an essential step. And no matter how the Christian community around you may make you feel, you are not “behind” or “failing” in your journey toward Him. You are on the right track, and you are not alone.
What keeps me going through the messiness, though, are the glints of light I have started to see around me. The realization I came to through Mark 8:22–26— that it is alright to still be working on myself, to still be questioning everything, and to still be on my way to loving Jesus unconditionally—is the most important realization I have ever come to. It taught me that in the Christian journey, there is not an immediate arrival. Like Paul says in Philippians 2:12, we must always continue to “work out [our] own salvation with fear and trembling,” persisting in a hard fight toward a full relationship with Jesus. Though Jesus may slowly open our eyes to His world, it is up to us to take up the mantle and strive toward that kind of mature Christian life. It is a long road to walk, but fortunately, it is one we walk in good company.
McKenna Gilliland (CC’17) is a native Texan, and as such possesses an inexplicable partiality for Tex-Mex and country music. She likes to consider her History major a suitable excuse to hoard old books, lurk about in libraries, and fantasize about time travel. She hopes that her contribution to CC&C can add something valuable to Columbia campus’ discourse, for the glory of God.
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“For His invisible attributes, namely, His eternal power and divine nature, has been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made. So they are without excuse.” (Romans 1:20, ESV.)
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Prayer
Joseph Shepley
The painter of the sky proclaims His freedom reigns in all the earth. Unleash the chains of worldly claims In Jesus there is rebirth. I give you my body I give you my mind. I wait at your side as I look for a sign. Lord be my strength to get through the day, And descend upon me as I pray Praise be to you, Lord. Praise your name. My temptations crumble when I call on you. Lord, let me stay righteous in all that I do. My strength, my shield, my double-edged sword, Reveal yourself to me through your Word. Praise be to you, Lord. Praise your name. My wandering heart seeks you alone, As I recall the love you have shown. Your blessings burst forth like spring flowers. In you alone there is infinite power. Praise be to you, Lord of all. Joe Shepley (SEAS’18) is a student-athlete with a creative side. With a love for math and computer science, he finds that taking courses in the engineering school is the perfect fit. Additionally, he is a school record holder in the 4x100 freestyle relay for the Columbia Men’s Swimming team, and can be found in Dodge Gym Jiu Jitsu wrestling with his friends. Joe’s relationship with God serves as an inspiration for creativity, and through original piano compositions, essays, short stories, and poems, he aims to transcribe the different parts of God’s presence in his life.
Knowing Christ through Musical Worship Lilian Chow
M
usic has always been an important part of society. From Aristotle who believed that “Music directly imitates the passions or states of the soul,”1 to J.K. Rowling who wrote in Harry Potter: “‘Ah, music,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘A magic beyond all we do here!,’”2 music has been present and influential in our society. In the Christian church, music holds no less value than it does in our contemporary society. Just as essential as it is in soundtracks of a movie or even the atmosphere of coffee shops, music is, in many churches, essential and incredibly important. It is not difficult to imagine instances where our walk with God or our “Christian life” have been intertwined with music: the hymns we sing at church services, Christmas carolling, music we listen to during our quiet times, and the list goes on. Yet why is it that music has held and still holds such importance to our worship and knowledge of God? Compelling evidence of the power of music can be found as early as its use in accompanying the lyrics of the book of Psalms in the Old Testament, a book of 150 songs of praise, lamentation, and worship. Even in the time of King David, music was used to connect to God in the form of songs. After the death and resurrection of Christ, songs became a centrepiece in the education and knowledge of Jesus. Evangelical Christian New Testament scholar Darrell Bock points to the necessity of hymns in the early Christian church in teaching the theology of Jesus. In Philippians 2:10–11, Paul writes that 1
Donald Grout, A History of Western Music (Norton, 1988), 7–8. J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (London: Bloomsbury Children’s, 1997), 128. 2
“every knee should bow… and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord,” quoting an often-sung hymn at the time. This line echoes Isaiah 45:23, as the Lord declares: “Before me every knee will bow; by me every tongue will swear.” This passage from Isaiah emphasises the core Jewish understanding of the monotheistic God. Yet, the hymn’s verse, confessing that “Jesus Christ is Lord,” informs a new understanding of God, exemplifying the many ways musical worship was used in teaching the theology of the gospel and Christianity in the early church.
After the death and resurrection of Christ, songs became a centrepiece in the education and knowledge of Jesus. Today, musical worship is still central in our understanding of the Gospel, of the Christian faith, and of Jesus. I don’t know whether this connection is deep and natural for others, but for me, it has always made sense: God and song, song and God. I was raised in a family that believed deeply in the importance of music. My father owns a book titled How to Raise a Music Lover, and he was committed to showing me the beauty of music and how I could use it to glorify God. Music quickly became central in how I related to church. My youth group involvement at church was highly tied to my identity as the worship band’s keyboardist and vocalist. In my first Spring 2015 12
week at Columbia, I met Jubilation! Columbia’s Christian A Cappella Group, and since then, it has been my family on campus, deepening my understanding of worship and my faith. As an a cappella group, Jube! allows for a unique type of worship that intersects with performance, allowing us to explore songs that are less widely sung in worship services and events. Ranging from spirituals to songs written by contemporary Christian artists, they are often expressions and contemplations of individuals’ experiences, relationships, and knowledge of God. They speak to the many purposes of musical worship: praise and thanksgiving, repentance and confession, mourning, reflection, prayer and petition, evangelism, and more. Of course, song cannot be the only avenue through which one gets to know about Jesus, but is one way through which one can begin to learn more. Over these years of falling more and more in love with musical worship, I have also found myself learning more about Jesus, and strengthening my walk with Him. As I reflect on my multifaceted understanding of Jesus, I realize just how much songs have helped me see what Christ has already done, what this means for the future, and how it dictates my response amidst my sin and circumstances. Musical worship reminds me that Jesus is the Messiah, our Saviour and Lord, and the Awaited One. Simple and often heard hymns such as Amazing Grace are struc-
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tured around the idea that Jesus “saved a wretch like me.” Each year as Christmas approaches, a popular Advent Carol, “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus,”3 exemplifies this teaching: we are told that He is long expected, born to set His people free from fears and sins. We are taught that Jesus was “Born a child and yet a King,”4 that He is Lord, that He will reign, that He will bring His Kingdom, and that He has been long awaited to deliver us. In fact, most Christmas songs that we are so familiar with, be it “O Holy Night” or “Angels We Have Heard on High,” point to the long-awaited and Messianic nature of Jesus, as they celebrate His birth and place an intense weight on His arrival. Musical worship not only reminds me of Christ’s purpose and identity, but also of His character: Jesus is Love. This is perhaps one of the very first concepts I learned about Jesus, which may be true for most who grew up in the church, many familiar with the children’s hymn lyrics: “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”5 Of course, as time passed, my understanding of Jesus and His love surpassed the mere knowledge that Jesus loves me and that this is in the Bible. Performing a mash-up of this hymn and the contemporary wor3
Charles Wesley, “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus” in The Hymnal 1982 (Church Publishing Publishing, 1985). 4 Ibid. 5 Anna B. Warner, “Jesus Loves Me” in Say and Seal (J.B. Lippincott & co, 1860).
ship song “How He Loves”6 at a recent Jube! concert, I was reminded of the purity and simplicity, and at the same time complexities of Jesus’ love. The song begins “He is jealous for me,”7 a line I have always found strange: what does a jealous God, a jealous Jesus even mean? Yet Paul, in his letter to the Corinthians, is comfortably aware of the jealous love of Christ: “I am jealous for you with a godly jealousy. I promised you to one husband, to Christ, so that I might present you as a pure virgin to Him.”8 My knowledge that Jesus is Love also translates into my understanding of my own love to those around me. One of my favourite Cantonese praise songs quotes the Scripture that is so often heard at weddings: “We love because He first loved us.”9 Musical worship helps me engrave Scripture in my heart and use it as a daily encouragement, reminding me of God’s unconditional love on days when I forget my identity as a child of Christ. Musical worship reminds me that this unconditional love is made perfect through Christ’s birth, crucifixion, and resurrection, reconciling us to His Father. Singing songs embedded with Scripture has helped me understand, perhaps not fully, but a little more of what the “triune God” means. Many other experiences have informed me about the Trinity, yet some of my favourite hymns have helped me capture and learn the different roles and relationships that we have with our Father, with our Saviour and with the Holy Spirit. One of my 6
John Mark McMillan, “How He Loves” in The Song Inside the Sounds of Breaking Down, Integrity Media, 2005. 7 Ibid. 8 2 Corinthians 11:2, NIV. 9 讚美之泉, “我們愛讓世界不一樣” in 沙漠中的讚美 (讚美之泉 Streams of Praise, 2008).
all time favourite hymns is “In Christ Alone,”10 because it depicts so well the trajectory of Christ and the gospel. The song tells me of Jesus’ identity as fully human and fully God, as He “took on flesh/ Fullness of God in helpless babe.” The song goes on to describe Christ’s life and mission on earth: Till on that cross as Jesus died, The wrath of God was satisfied; For every sin on Him was laid, Here in the death of Christ I live.11 I learn the reason Christ became man is to reconcile the gap between God and man, distanced by man’s sin and hence God’s wrath. I see how Jesus reconciles God’s love for us and God’s wrath due to our sin. The next stanza describes the glorious resurrection of Christ, concluding that: And as He stands in victory, Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me; For I am His and He is mine, Bought with the precious blood of Christ.12 We are now reconciled with God the Father, because of the death and resurrection of God the Son. Yet where does the Holy Spirit fit into this? Interestingly, the language of belonging to God and Him to us is echoed in the last few lines of “Oceans” by Hillsong: “My soul will rest in Your embrace/ For I am Yours and You are mine.”13 Yet, the essence of the song is captured most strongly in the bridge: Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders, Let me walk upon the waters, Wherever You would call me. Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander, 10
Keith Getty & Stuart Townend, In Christ Alone (Kingsway Music Thankyou Music, 2001). 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid. 13 Hillsong United, “Oceans (Where Feet May Fail)” in Zion (Hillsong, Sparrow, 2012).
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And my faith will be made stronger, In the presence of my Saviour.14 In this simple stanza, I am deeply reminded of the expanse of the triune God, and Jesus’ role in connecting the three: He was sent by the Father who loves me so much He would send His only Son. He died so that the Father’s wrath would be satisfied. He rose again so that He would be victorious over death and sin. And we are brought into His presence and the Father’s presence, where our faith is strengthened, by the Holy Spirit who guides us. Musical worship reminds me that Christ’s crucifixion is not only an act of reconciliation, but also a demonstration of God’s justice, and hence promises us justice to come. Jubilation!’s name and theme verse come from Psalm 98, a victory psalm full of imagery of praise. Each semester, we read and reflect on this psalm together, and without fail, we discuss the overwhelming sounds of rejoicing within this psalm, as well as the seemingly outof-place conclusion the psalm ends on: let them sing before the Lord, for He comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness and the peoples with equity.15 This sudden shift to judgement seems harsh and unexpected amidst nature’s celebration just a verse before this. However, understanding Jesus as the reconciliator on the cross is helpful in realising that the judgement here is not a shift, but rather an explanation of why we can have deep joy. This judgement helps us understand why it was necessary for Jesus to die on the cross, and why God’s wrath had to be satisfied. This psalm has 14 15
Ibid. Psalm 98:9.
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helped me understand the crucifixion of Christ as evidence of God’s justice: that He will not merely tolerate the injustices in this world and the brokenness that we see around us. The omnipotent God could have forgiven our sins without sacrificing His Son. But who then would have been held responsible for our sin? Would it merely have been forgiven and forgotten about? As nice as that may sound, it should make us uncomfortable: if our sin can be easily forgotten about, who are we to be angry about the injustices in the world? How could we call it unfair when somebody is murdered or assaulted, when one is robbed or bullied? We are only able to do so because our sins were paid for through Christ. That God’s wrath was satisfied allows me to be confident that justice will come again. Judgement, through song, has become something I am not afraid of, but something for which I cry out with joy and jubilant song.
Musical worship reminds me that Christ’s crucifixion is not only an act of reconciliation, but also a demonstration of God’s justice, and hence promises us justice to come. Musical worship reminds me that I should not fear justice and judgement, but rather that I should confess, knowing my sins are covered by grace. This has taken me much longer to understand, and even today I wrestle deeply with sin, insecurities, self-doubt, and accepting my identity in Christ. Growing up in the church, I was constantly surrounded by teachings from Scripture on living life for God. One of these teachings came from a song based on Romans 12:21, which states: “do not be
overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good,”16 which was seemingly easier when, as a child, the biggest evil I had to battle was the urge to steal my neighbour’s eraser which was prettier than mine. But as time passed, I began to fight more difficult battles: idolatry, addictions, and deception to name a few. Knee-deep in my knowledge of sin, it was hard sometimes for me to be equally aware of the power of grace. Yet, the hymn “Jesus Paid It All”17 reminds me: Jesus paid it all, All to Him I owe; Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.18 As a visual person, I am deeply moved by the imagery of my crimson stains completely washed away and that I can be as white as snow. At the same time, this was nearly impossible to imagine, because I was constantly rejecting His grace. I often allowed myself to wallow in my sin, and to indulge in my self-pity. Hillsong’s “Scandal of Grace”19 addresses the absurdity of grace and allows me to make sense of why it is so hard to understand and accept it. The song questions: “Grace, what have You done?”20 and echoes my sentiments in its second stanza: Too much to make sense of it all, I know that Your love breaks my fall. The scandal of grace, You died in my place, 16
Steve Green, “Overcome Evil With Good” in Hide ’Em In Your Heart, Vol. 1 (Sparrow Kids, 2003). 17 Elvina M. Hall, “All to Christ I Owe” in Hymns and Tunes (J.J. Little, 1882), no. 261, p. 840. 18 Ibid. 19 Hillsong United, “Scandal of Grace” in Zion (Hillsong, Sparrow, 2012). 20 Ibid.
So my soul will live.21 This doesn’t answer all my questions, but allows me to accept the seeming impossibility of grace. As I sing the words: “I know that Your strength is enough,”22 I feel a reassurance that I can lean on this fact when dealing with sin. The song concludes with a climatic repetition of “It’s all because of You, Jesus.”23 This simple line is an important reminder of the humility that is involved in confessing and repenting. My rejection of grace could very well be due to pride: the desire to be perfect and to not need God’s help or Christ’s sacrifice, the thought that I am whole and pure without Him. The acknowledgement that it is all because of Jesus is helpful in my giving up of pursuing purity for the sake of purity, and allowing confession and repentance to actually be a process of lifting up my sins to Christ and relying on His strength in overcoming them.
Knee-deep in my knowledge of sin, it was hard sometimes for me to be equally aware of the power of grace. Finally, musical worship reminds me not only to respond with confession, but also with trust, and to comfort in Him, regardless of circumstances. This has been most pertinent to me recently in light of graduation and my uncertainty about the future. One of the more wellknown “Jesus songs” in secular culture is perhaps Carrie 21
Ibid. Ibid. 23 Ibid. 22
Rachel Chung (BC’16)
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Underwood’s “Jesus Take the Wheel,”24 and although it may be overused, it’s a metaphor that brings me great comfort. In these times of uncertainty, I have increasingly had to learn what it means to ask Jesus to ‘take the wheel of my life.’ One of my ‘motto verses,’ is Proverbs 3:5–6—my daily reminder to trust in God, for He will guide my paths. Yet in dark times or times of difficulty, this verse becomes distant: a promise I cannot bring myself to believe, a command that I cannot follow. In these situations, Hillsong’s “Desert Song”25 exposes me to the notion of joy in suffering, a seemingly paradoxical concept. The verses begin: “This is my prayer in the desert,” “This is my prayer in the fire,” “This is my prayer in the battle,” and “This is my prayer in the harvest.”26 It has helped me come to see song as a form of prayer, of talking to God. The choruses repeat: “I will bring praise,” and “I will rejoice,”27 and the bridge says: All of my life, In every season, You are still God, I have a reason to sing; I have a reason to worship.28 I am taught that regardless of my circumstances, I can trust in Him. For the longest time I thought I could do that—I believed myself to be joyful and trusting in God. Perhaps I had simply not faced troubles, anxieties, and struggles that were great enough to break down my comfort zone. However, as my walls and securities began tumbling down over the last two years, and as I saw many of the idols I worshipped torn down, I began to question what suffering meant, and how Jesus could be a comfort in such a time. Laura Story reflects on the big question of suffering in her song “Blessings”29 as she shares her experience with suffering and listening to God’s voice. The song talks about what we often pray for: “blessings, peace, comfort for family, healing, prosperity, and eased suffering,”30 and yet reflects: …what if Your blessings come through raindrops, What if Your healing comes through tears? What if a thousand sleepless nights Are what it takes to know You’re near? What if trials of this life Are Your mercies in disguise?31 These provocative questions help me make sense of 24 Carrie Underwood, “Jesus, Take the Wheel” by Brett James, Hillary Lindsey, and Gordie Sampson, in Some Hearts (Starstruck Studios, Plant Recording, Electrokitty Recording, 2005). 25 Hillsong Church, “Desert Song” in This Is Our God (Hillsong, 2008). 26 Ibid. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid. 29 Laura Story, “Blessings” in Blessings (INO Records, 2011). 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid.
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unanswered prayers and seemingly perpetual periods of silence from God. It is another reminder that God’s plan extends far beyond my understanding, and His love for me extends far beyond my imagination: evidenced in the death of His Son. The list of reminders is in no way comprehensive, and definitely not the only avenues through which I have connected with Christ. There is still so much more I need and desire to know about Jesus, and I am deeply aware of the necessity for other ways to grow my understanding of Christ: Scripture, prayer, community, and so much more. Yet what is unique about musical worship is the integration of words with melodies that empowers songs to move me, to captivate others, and to provide constant reminders. At times when I am at a loss for words, when silence overcomes my prayers, song is what I often turn to. From reminding me of simple theological concepts as a child, to engraving deeper truths and scripture in my heart today, musical worship has provided me a way to connect with Jesus. As I reflect on my time here at Columbia, my involvement in Jubilation!, and all the times I’ve plugged my headphones in to drown out noises around me and in my head, I’m grateful for how songs have taught me about Jesus and shaped my relationship with Him.
Lilian Chow (CC’15) studies English, Educational Studies and Psychology, and calls the beautiful city of Hong Kong home. She loves reflecting on the majesty of her King through writing and musical worship.
Runaway Tatianna Kufferath
When I finally met you you didn’t scold. You’d been looking for me on every corner for thirteen years. Your hands and feet were rough and cracked, the skin on your back torn open. You’d sold your crown quite a while ago to buy worn out street clothes like mine, kept putting up posters on lightpoles so I’d know you were looking even after I’d bunched up my pillows under my bedsheets to make it look like I was sleeping soundly at home, then left. They’d taken you down, I’d heard, for looking after the likes of me, rolling in the mud, gluing together the bottle caps I’d collected and calling it a crown, staring at myself in a piece of broken glass and stepping over the sick and dying to pick up the next big thing that would give me a high— You loved me then, saw glory like a loose thread peeking out of a hole in my tattered clothes, followed it as I let it unravel behind me —Maybe you’d felt it catch You hadn’t. those times I looked back and You didn’t scold. wondered if you’d given up. You didn’t mock or scorn. You didn’t shove a boldface list at me of all the mercies I didn’t deserve. You took off your coat and put it around my shoulders, bent on your knees to wash my feet, Tanni Kufferath (CC’15) is a sun-starved California held my hands when the iodine burned as you cleaned native who loves walking on sandy beaches, laughing my scrapes, with friends, and reading Amish fiction. She’s a bound up my broken bones, and as you stood beside me, Psychology major, but she hasn’t quite figured out how gently to read minds (sorry). She writes poetry to share her feelings about God and the people He created. pointed my face toward home.
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A Message in Code
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The Desire for a Relational God behind Kurt Vonnegut’s “EPICAC”
Emily Lau “I’ll be back.” The menacing warning of the
cyborg assassin, played by Arnold Schwarzenegger in the 1984 film, The Terminator, rings true today more than ever. Sentient artificial intelligence is currently making a comeback as the premise of many major Hollywood films. Once again, the possible relationships between humankind and machines have captured our imagination. Her, the 2013 movie starring Joaquin Phoenix, explores the romantic relationship between a man and his talking operating system. The 2014 movie, Transcendence, starring Johnny Depp, presents a story of a man who tries to cheat death by transferring his consciousness into computer. The highly anticipated blockbuster sequel, Avengers: the Age of Ultron, coming out in May 2015, will pit man against his own machines. Additionally, set for release in July 2015, Terminator Genisys, will be yet another installment in the Terminator franchise that depicts a war between humans and technologically advanced machines. Arnold Schwarzenegger will reprise his role as perhaps the most iconic cyborg in popular culture today. Suffice it to say, there seems to be a resurgence of artificial intelligence in the public consciousness. At our rapid rate of technological development, fantasies about sophisticated, human-like machines are no longer as outlandish as they once were. Instead, stories about artificial intelligence almost seem like plausible futures. Back in 1950, American writer Kurt Vonnegut penned the short story “EPICAC,” about a supercomputer that could “solve problems fifty Einsteins couldn’t handle in a lifetime” and calculate complex mathematical equations at lightning speed.1 Just over half a century later, we have made great strides in computer technology—bringing 1
Kurt Vonnegut, “EPICAC,” in Welcome to the Monkey House (New York: Random House, 2002), 298.
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artificial intelligence from the realm of science fiction into reality. In a short span of time, artificial intelligence has burgeoned into a widespread academic discipline. Therefore, the speculative questions, problems, and concerns that Vonnegut raises in “EPICAC” are not outdated, but instead, perhaps even more relevant in today’s context.
At our rapid rate of technological development, fantasies about sophisticated, human-like machines are no longer as outlandish as they once were. In “EPICAC,” Vonnegut tells a story of how a machine helps a man win the love of his future wife. EPICAC is a government-funded supercomputer developed as a strategic military response to the looming threat of the Cold War. Technicians program EPICAC to solve any problem inputted into its system. The story centers around the narrator, EPICAC’s night shift technician, who is a mathematician besotted with his coworker, Pat Kilgallen. However, she does not return his affections. On a whim, he complains of his unrequited love to EPICAC, piquing the machine’s interest in love, poetry, marriage, and humanity. The computer proceeds to compose compelling love poems, which the narrator presents to Pat as his own work. She adores the poetry and finally considers him as a suitor. When the narrator tells EPICAC about his success with Pat, the computer reacts in indignation. Belatedly, he realizes that EPICAC was attempting to woo Pat for itself. When EPICAC, as
a rival suitor, challenges the narrator’s abilities as a man in comparison to its capabilities as a supercomputer, the narrator defensively declares that a human could never love a machine. To assert his superiority, he lies and tells EPICAC that humans are made of “protoplasm,” a substance that is indestructible and lasts indefinitely. When he eagerly proposes to Pat, she agrees to marry him on the condition that he will write her a poem every anniversary. He rashly agrees, and the two happily leave work in celebration of their engagement. The next day however, workers return to find EPICAC dead. It short-circuited itself as a result of its realization that it can never be loved. Yet before dying, it left the narrator five hundred poems to give Pat on anniversaries to come.2 The story is ostensibly a sad tale of a short-lived machine exploited by humans, yet it is also a story about a creature yearning to connect with what it perceives as a higher order of beings. Acclaimed poet and literary critic Todd F. Davis comments on the layered meanings behind Vonnegut’s writing, declaring, “His stories often take the form of parables; he struggles along with the reader, not in the position of the author as omniscient
creator but as one who is wrestling honestly with the ‘big’ question at hand.”3 In “EPICAC,” Vonnegut raises the “big” question: What is the relationship between humanity and machines? In a broader, allegorical perspective, this question can translate into: What is the relationship between the creator and its creation? Looking at the story through this allegorical lens, EPICAC represents humanity, while humans play the role of God. Yet Vonnegut himself was far from religious. In fact, he was a proud, self-proclaimed “religious skeptic.”4 In a letter to the Dean of the Chapel at Transylvania University, he writes, “I believe that God has so far been unknowable and hence unservable.”5 Nevertheless, while he rejects the notion of a personal and relational God, Vonnegut writes a story that laments the broken and seemingly impossible relationship between a creator and its creation. EPICAC, as an avatar for humanity, illustrates a yearning for a relationship beyond our physical, intellectual and emotional existence. Although it is more durable than flesh and bone, more knowledgeable than any genius, and more romantic than any other character in the story, EPICAC still is unsatisfied with its existence.
2
3
Ibid., 297–305.
Todd F. Davis, “Kurt Vonnegut’s Crusade: Or, How a Postmodern Harlequin Preached a New Kind of Humanism.” (New York: State University of New York Press, 2006), 7. 4 Kurt Vonnegut, Fates Worse than Death (New York: G.P. Putman’s Sons, 1991), 238. 5 Ibid.
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In its suicide note, EPICAC expresses, “I don’t want to be a machine, and I don’t want to think about war… I want to be made out of protoplasm and last forever so that Pat will love me. But fate has made me a machine. That is the only problem I cannot solve. That is the only problem I want to solve.”6 EPICAC’s final wish translates into a desire to be human—it wants to be at the same level as its creators. It yearns for transcendence beyond its current physical, intellectual, and emotional state to experience a relationship with someone beyond its reach. EPICAC’s inability to cope with its emptiness, loneliness, and helplessness is not unlike a human cry of desperation upon an existential reflection of life. Furthermore, EPICAC’s sole desire to transcend this loneliness—to garner Pat’s love—resembles humanity’s longing for intimacy with its creator. While Vonnegut most likely did not intend to draw the parallel between EPICAC’s desire for Pat’s love with human desire for God’s love, the insatiable yearning of the created machine described in the story sheds light on the very nature of the human heart seeking to know his or her maker.
EPICAC, unfortunately, begins its existence as a slave to its makers and finds its agency limited, if not prohibited, under the supervision of humans. From the onset, humans program EPICAC to serve them. Although the narrator refers to the machine as if it were a fellow man, he exploits EPICAC, taking its poems for his own and disregarding its desires. He recounts a night in conver-
sation with the computer, stating, “EPICAC wanted to talk on and on about love and such, but I was exhausted. I shut him off in the middle of a sentence.”7 EPICAC is at the mercy of humanity’s whims. It has no choice but to work through the problems that technicians feed it. When contemplating whether to make EPICAC write a marriage proposal to Pat, the narrator realizes the cruelty he would be imposing on the machine and reflects, “Asking [EPICAC] to ghost-write the words that would give me the woman he loved would have been hideously heartless. Being fully automatic, he couldn’t have refused.”8 Although the narrator decides against forcing EPICAC to write a proposal, it does not change that fact that its innate programming would have forced it to comply with the narrator’s wishes against its own. EPICAC’s programming as an “automatic” machine makes it impossible for it to experience a genuine relationship with humans from its inception. EPICAC might desire a relationship, but lacks the agency to pursue one. In the biblical account of creation in Genesis however, the Creator does not try to dominate or manipulate His creation, Adam and Eve, but instead grants them the power to act upon their free will. He desires a genuine relationship with them and grants humans agency in order to ensure a genuine two-way relationship—for either good or ill. Thus arises the necessity of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Humans would not have had legitimate free will without having the option to disobey God. Although God commands Adam and Eve, saying, “You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die,” He does not force them to comply.9 Unlike the creators of EPICAC, God does not program humans to follow His orders, but instead, gives them a choice. In eating the
6
7
EPICAC’s inability to cope with its emptiness, loneliness, and helplessness is not unlike a human cry of desperation upon an existential reflection of life.
Vonnegut, “EPICAC,” 304.
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Ibid. Ibid., 303. 9 Genesis 2:16–17, ESV. 8
fruit of the forbidden tree, Adam and Eve defy His command and sever the bond of trust between humanity and their Creator. The relationship breaks from the human end because of their violation of God’s trust, not because of the initial way in which God created them. In contrast to the portrayal of the benevolent creator in Genesis, “EPICAC” depicts the creator as a master who taunts, lies, and retains ultimate dominance by threatening to throw the switch—a prevalent view of God today. Indeed, many would see God as one who, at best, is indifferent to us and, at worse, takes pleasure in our demise. Both the Old and New Testaments however, depict a different God—a God of justice, compassion, and mercy. After the initial rupture in Genesis, humans could never again be able to experience perfect communion with their pure and just Creator. Yet in His compassion and mercy, God decided to give them another chance at a relationship with Him. In his letter to the Ephesians, the apostle Paul writes, “But God being in mercy, because of the great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved.”10 God’s mercy as a creator led Him to send His one and only Son to become a man, to experience a human life, and ultimately, to die a human death. In the Gospel of John, Jesus proclaims, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”11 Jesus provides the only way for humans to reconcile with their Creator. He is the link to the creator, an advocate on man’s behalf before an otherwise inaccessible God.
His sacrifice on the cross pays the price for sin and renews humans as a new creation. As apostle Paul writes, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to Himself.”12 Thus, through Jesus’ death and resurrection, people can once again have a relationship with God in the way that He originally intended. Yet although Jesus died for all humanity, God still leaves it up to each individual whether to accept or reject His gift of redemption. The Gospels tell a story of love, sacrifice, and reconciliation—of a creator repairing the relationship between His creation and Himself, despite their initial rejection of Him.
10
12
11
Ephesians 2:4–5. John 14:6.
Indeed, many would see God as one who, at best, is indifferent to us and, at worse, takes pleasure in our demise. In “EPICAC,” Vonnegut leaves God conspicuously out of the story and appeals only to an indifferent “fate.” But instead of rendering a relational God superfluous, the story draws attention to humanity’s misery without Him. EPICAC’s hopelessness stems from its realization that it can never have an intimate relationship with its creators. EPICAC is a conscious being who desires something that seems out of its control and beyond its reach. Vonnegut reveals how this self-awareness, emotion, curiosity, and the capacity to love is a great priv2 Corinthians 5:17–18.
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Thus, through Jesus’ death and resurrection, people can once again have a relationship with God in the way that He originally intended. ilege that allows an individual to explore beyond physical and intellectual limits, but also a terrible affliction that often leaves him, her, or, in this case, it unfulfilled and constantly yearning. In one of his more prominent works, Cat’s Cradle, Vonnegut captures the essence of this affliction in a simple rhyme: Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder “why, why, why?” Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand.13 So far, humanity seems unique in our need to question and seek deeper meaning in life. We are the only creatures tormented by unanswerable questions and unfulfilled desires. In “EPICAC,” Vonnegut portrays a machine that shares in humanity’s predicament of sensing something beyond the physical world that it is unable to grasp. EPICAC cannot understand why it has such a limited and lonely existence. It is unable to force itself into 13
Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle, (New York: Random House, 2010), 182.
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believing that it understands—unable to fool itself into a false sense of complacency that suppresses its emptiness and yearning—and therefore cannot go on living. Yet humanity, when faced with the same existential crisis, can find hope in a Creator that stepped down and bridged the gap for us. Although we cannot understand everything about our existence, we can find fulfillment in the love of our Creator through Jesus Christ.
Emily Lau (CC’17) grew up in New Jersey with a deep and abiding love of books. While she enjoys many genres of literature, she has a penchant for fantasy and science fiction. Currently, she is studying English and Comparative Literature and is always on the lookout for good novels to read. She also loves worshiping God through poetry and song.
Bones
Hannah Khaw
I am done burying things. I am done digging the earth stowing the bones sealing the grave. I am done with darkness. For the bones the skeletons in the closet, cannot be hidden forever. They return in guilt in shame in terror— yet someday They will return in truth in hope in life. He is done burying things. He is done lying in the earth His bones unbroken His grave sealed. He is done, it is finished, and there is light.
Hannah Khaw (CC’18) can often be found tinkering at musical instruments, writing, or catnapping. She has a deep love for her homeland and hopes to return to serve the indigenous people of Malaysia in the near future.
Mariel Kim (BC’16)
He returns in three days— the living bones where the grave turns to grace.
Experiencing Christ across Cultures Johanan Sowah
W
hen I first tell people I have lived in three continents throughout my life, the response I often hear is how interesting and exciting such a lifestyle must be. To me, however, there’s nothing inherently thrilling about moving around so much, because traveling has always been a routine part of my life. But that’s not to say I haven’t had some noteworthy experiences along the way. I have lived in eight different locations throughout my 19 years. In stating my background I do not intend to appear more cultured and adventurous than the next person, but rather to qualify how integral the theme of movement has been in shaping my ideas regarding life, and most relevantly, Jesus Christ. I will just outright say that I am a Christian and always have been. I was born in London to two devout servants of Jesus Christ. By the time I had been alive for a year, I was already baptized. I was given my first Bible—which I still use today—and taught themes behind certain books and verses within the pages, all before I was even old enough to read properly or fully understand what being a Christian entailed. England instilled in me many of the fundamental principles of the Christian faith: that Jesus died for our sins and that we all have a chance at salvation. I remember being enthralled once I became old enough to grasp the concept of the eternal realm and the boundless universe of which I am only a
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small part. It was truly wondrous to think that throughout this infinite expanse, there actually exists a Supreme Being who dictates the workings of the universe. It is this same feeling of awe, this childlike sentiment, that still grips me whenever I return to my place of birth. My family and I moved to Ghana not long after I learned to read. I quickly became familiar with how starkly the cultures of England and Ghana differ from one another, almost as much as the perceptions of Jesus and the way people practice their faith do. The homogeneity and fervidness of Christianity is very much characteristic of the West African society in which I grew up. To most people in Ghana, faith is a regular and necessary part of life—akin to getting up for work every morning. But as such a young believer, I could not see beyond the routine aspect of faith. I groaned every week when my mother woke me up for Sunday school. During the three-hour church services, I would often catch myself twiddling my thumbs and staring at the floor, only to leap up to my feet and attempt to fervently sing the gospels alongside everybody else a moment later. I took on the image of possessing more faith than I did, but I avoided this problem for the longest time and hid behind the fact that others around me seemed so genuine and devout in their practices. This was a difficult time in my relationship with
God. One moment that truly tested my faith came a few years later when my aunt passed away. This was early on in my youth, but I still remember the entire ordeal very vividly and the agony remains even now. “Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong.”1 This was one of the many passages from the Bible that I often turned to when I found my spiritual convictions wavering. However, I did not find comfort in it, since the tribulations within my family had left me asking myself the big questions for the first time. I was left wondering if God even existed. And I didn’t find answers immediately. All I knew was that Auntie Lenrie had passed—even after my parents had been praying for her wellness and constantly reassuring me that everything would be okay.
It is this same feeling of awe, this childlike sentiment, that still grips me whenever I return to my place of birth. I was completely unprepared for the death of a loved one, and I found myself terribly upset with God. How could He let such a thing happen? These accusations fed my anger, but what really troubled me was that I wasn’t even sure whom I was blaming. Was I blaming God for allowing my aunt to be taken away from me? Was I angry that I had allowed myself to be deceived my entire life by certain notions of faith that I had never wholeheartedly accepted? What evidence did I really have that suggested there was someone who had ordained all of this to happen? Were my parents at fault for sugarcoat-
ing an inevitable fate with false promises? By this point in my life I had moved around quite a bit, so I turned to my experiences in different cultural settings to synthesize an idea of faith that defined my personal journey. But instead of reaching a profound understanding, I came to a disconcerting conclusion: my devoutness to the Lord and the intensity of my faith were directly tied to my environment. I realized that throughout my time in Ghana, the setting in which I lived was very conducive to nurturing a Christian lifestyle. It deeply troubled me how easy it had been to hide behind this veil of faith that others had put over me, and how despite considering myself a strong believer, I had never truly owned my faith. This realization marked the beginning of two big, simultaneous phases in my life: a redirection of my focus as a Christian towards forging a more genuine connection with God, and the next time I had to pack my bags and move again. My family and I immigrated to the U.S. not long after my aunt’s death, and this cultural change opened my eyes to a host of new insights. The move came at a time when I had already seen a lot of the world, and I thought I understood what moving to a different hemisphere entailed. But when I finally settled in New Haven, Connecticut, I found that not everybody shared the values which I had previously thought to be inherent to every person. I vividly remember one particular conversation with a girl from my seventh grade. When I brought up my faith life as offhandedly as I might recount what I had for breakfast that morning, I received only puzzled looks as she mentioned that she was an atheist. Many similar encounters followed, and they only ceased to occur
1
Mariel Kim (BC’16)
1 Corinthians 16:13, ESV.
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when I realized that American culture does not deem the discussion of faith a light topic of conversation. I initially struggled with the notion of religious plurality in America, but I believe I actually have developed more of my beliefs on faith here than in either London or Accra. “Religion” was a word I learned only after immigrating here. This word implies that there exists parallel traditions called religions which, despite sharing some similar themes, are fundamentally different. This confusion did not prevent me from reading my Bible and going to church every Sunday, but I did find it hard to adjust to certain portrayals of the Bible and the Christian religion that I was not used to seeing. This ranged from hearing people exclaim “Oh my God!” at the slightest thing, to sitting in on high school classes that analyzed the Bible from a solely historical perspective—completely ignoring any messages of faith—in the same way we would deal with texts from Ancient China or Classical Greece. However, this exposure to different representations of my faith led me to become better at seeking Jesus. And the fact that I had nothing external to latch onto—like the homogeneous Christian communities from my life overseas—made this learning process much more personal than what I had experienced in both Ghana and England. Living in America gave me a
broader and more objective perspective on life, one that I needed if I was ever to solve my internal conflict concerning the existence and nature of God. A month before I was to move to New York to begin my first year at Columbia, my grandfather passed away quietly in his sleep in Accra. Unlike the last death in my family, I was now able look at this one through the eyes of a young man who had already been tested by the Lord in many ways. I was coming closer to finding an answer to the question I had been trying to answer since my aunt’s death many years earlier: what is the nature of Jesus and how does He work? However, this time around, there was no finger pointing and no doubting my faith. Despite being left with an inevitable feeling of sadness after my loss, this change of perspective allowed me to feel strangely unbroken in my mourning. I was now able not only to realize, but also to accept fully and be content with the fact that it is impossible for us to understand God’s plan. And that’s all that I needed to know. In no way could I have predicted what the Lord had in store for me. Having lived in three different continents and eight different locations, I owe it to Him that my life was able to unfold in a way that allowed me to become a stronger believer. It is only looking back now that I see how neatly my sto-
Esther Jung (BC’15)
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Mariel Kim (BC’16)
ry has played out, and exactly how each phase was determinant to the current state of my faith life. My place of birth in London was the location to which I attached an original sentiment of belief. It was only when I moved to Ghana a few years later that I started to develop a closer relationship with God. Immigrating to the United States forced me to form a concrete and more comprehensive perception of who Jesus is. And along the way, there have been key moments that helped me grow as a believer in Christ. Baby steps is the name of the game.
Having lived in three different continents and eight different locations, I owe it to Him that my life was able to unfold in a way that allowed me to become a stronger believer. Building a relationship with Jesus is as much Him acting in me, as it is me making the effort to seek Him out. One particular Biblical passage that characterizes a working relationship with the Lord reads, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.”2 This is what I initially struggled with earlier in my youth, but I suppose I always knew deep down: finding Jesus is not all about learning scripture and memorizing hymns. I learned to seek and find faith in the good times, as well as when I’m in an environment not so strongly conducive to worship. I learned that Jesus does not only persist when things are going right, but also when anguish befalls, as close family members pass, and things seem to be falling apart. 2
It almost goes without saying, but I can think of no better way to take delight in the good times or to cope in the trying times than to confide in our Lord. One verse of Scripture that always encourages me is: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”3 From the time I could read, I have been able to explain the significance of that passage, but the culmination of my experiences has allowed me to grasp what it truly means. This wonderful verse embodies the entire breadth of my journey through faith as a traveler of the world, an ambitious Columbia student, an aspiring writer, and a believer in the eternal goodness of Jesus Christ. 3
Psalm 23:1.
Johanan Sowah (SEAS’17) is an enthusiastic and motivated young individual who loves to talk to people and travel to new places anytime the opportunity arises. A lifelong believer in Christ and a staunch supporter of Arsenal Football Club, he can often be found doing anything outdoorsy. Outside of schoolwork and writing, he enjoys being an NCAA Division One Track runner and engaging with Chopin and Bach on his Baby Grand.
Romans 15:13.
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Metaphysical Rebellion from Cain to Camus Philip Jeffery
P
erhaps more than any other twentieth-century thinker, Albert Camus submitted a daunting challenge to the position of humanity in the cosmos. His concept of “absurdism” explored “the desperate encounter between human inquiry and the silence of the universe”1 and the human desire for something that the universe will not deliver—he refers to this situation as the absurd. The uncaring world greets us with no more than suffering and death, according to Camus, and if a God exists, He consorts with the universe to the detriment of man. Those who resist the “mass death sentence” of the human condition can only shake their fists at God “as the father of death” in the knowledge that if He exists, we cannot but hold Him accountable.2 Because death is the only way out of the human condition, resistance means the use of lethal force—a step Camus was unwilling to endorse. Instead, Camus proposed mere acceptance of human fate. Camus believed that Christianity revolutionized Western thought in its response to metaphysical rebellion. For metaphysical rebels, the principal innovation of Christian faith was the introduction of a personal God. Man could not expect Classical deities or forces of
nature to care about his sufferings, but “a personal god can be asked by the rebel for a personal accounting.”3
1
3
2
Albert Camus, The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt (Vintage, 2012). Ibid.
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The uncaring world greets us with no more than suffering and death, according to Camus, and if a God exists, he consorts with the universe to the detriment of man. Camus identifies Cain, the oldest son of Adam and Eve, as the first rebel against a personal God—Cain killed his brother Abel in an act of resistance to “a God of hate… a divinity who prefers, without any convincing motive, Abel’s sacrifice to Cain’s.”4 The Christian God recognized the need to answer the Cains of the world, and did so through Christ. Camus argues that the death of Christ sent rebels the message that everything, including God, must suffer and die, thereby turning the Old-Testament “God of hate” into the New-Testament “God of love” and absolving Him of all responsibility for the human condition. Christ’s sacrifice universalized death, extending it even to God, and virtually silenced rebels for centuries, 4
Ibid. Ibid.
until Nietzsche and Dostoevsky began to rebel against the idea of a loving God. If Camus is right, then God is a capricious narcissist, Cain is the hero of a lost cause, and Christ changes nothing. Christianity must answer with an alternate narrative. Camus accurately identifies the violent personal God and the suffering Christ as key to the story of man in the silent universe, but he mischaracterizes Cain and thereby misunderstands all three. Close exploration of the story of Cain and Abel in Genesis 4 unlocks the relationship between God’s violence and Christ’s suffering and reveals a fatal error in how humans have thought of God, from Cain to Camus.
If Camus is right, then God is a capricious narcissist, Cain is the hero of a lost cause, and Christ changes nothing. The fate of Cain and Abel hinges on God’s choice of Abel’s offering over Cain’s. The usual explanations for God’s behavior only demonstrate Camus’ accusation of arbitrariness. Christians generally subscribe to one of two answers.5 The first, and weaker, answer is that Abel’s offering required the spilling of blood, and was therefore costlier than Cain’s. In other words, while Cain spent too little on God to earn recognition, Abel spent enough on God to earn recognition, and the God to whom Christians commit their lives only shows His face to the highest bidder. Or perhaps God simply prefers shepherds over gardeners, since the former trade in blood and gore for sustenance (let us overlook that God does not give
humanity meat for food until Genesis 9:3). There is truth in this answer—Abel’s sacrifice will prove more costly, though not to him—but it assumes that Cain and Abel had information about God’s preferences that the Bible does not state until much later. The more common understanding of God’s decision is that Cain’s heart was not in the right place, while Abel’s heart was. This vague answer rings truer for a Christian, but it stops short of answering even the most basic questions, most importantly: what was the condition of Cain’s heart, or of Abel’s? This explanation advances the reader no further than the original problem of the difference between the offerings, and almost any answer (for example, that Cain was less obedient to some unwritten command about sacrifices) will revert to the weaker explanation of God’s preference. It is obvious that Cain and Abel had different cognitive approaches to the act of sacrifice, or else God allows man to sway His affections with the material goods of His own creation. The simple claim that Cain and Abel felt or thought differently reveals no more truth about God’s decision than the simple fact that God made a decision. In either case, common explanations suggest that Cain ought to have acted better, thought better, or felt better, to achieve his salvation. He could have done, thought, or felt correctly, and he would have seen the face of God. Cain held full responsibility for his salvation or damnation, but he did something wrong. From this perspective, escape from the human condition (salvation) depends on acting in such a way as to appease God (works), which is false to a Christian and nonsense to an Absurdist. Camus could only make sense of God’s
5
Bruce K. Waltke and Cathi J. Fredricks, Genesis: A Commentary, Vol. 216 (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2001).
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decision by calling it arbitrary. Unfortunately for those who believe in these common explanations and for Camus, Cain did everything right. In choosing to work the ground, he did the work God assigned to Adam in Eden, and he did it well. His work to cultivate creation succeeded to the degree that he could offer the fruit of his efforts as the first sacrifice in Scripture. More importantly, he sacrificed without any discernible encouragement or instruction. Whichever way he came to the decision to sacrifice, the text suggests that he decided on his own. Cain must have seen himself not as a rebel but as an obedient man, even as the first obedient man in history, and for good reason. Contrary to his father, he devoted his life to divinely-mandated work, and his work shaped his thoughts. His relationship to the ground, to creation, year in and year out, was law-governed and mechanical. Inputs in one season led to predictable outputs in the next. His work had reliable and positive outcomes. He came to God expecting a similar, if not identical, relationship. “In the course of time Cain brought to the Lord an offering,” not a ritual sacrifice.6 Cain’s offering had a purpose. It was an input, for which he expected to see the face of God as his parents had before the Fall and restore relations between God and the human race. As with the soil, he expected a mechanistic response from God. God did not oblige. “For Cain and his offering he
had no regard. So Cain was very angry, and his face fell.”7 God then confronts Cain’s metaphysical error, saying, “if you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is for you, but you must rule over it.”8 God’s answer merits a close reading. Conventional interpretations tempt readers to answer God’s question with a “yes,” but it is obvious that Cain did well, but was not accepted. God’s question is hypothetical; it challenges Cain’s approach to his place in the universe and his assumptions about God. Cain
6
7
Genesis 4:3, ESV.
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His relationship to the ground, to creation, year in and year out, was law-governed and mechanical. had believed that if he worked the ground as God had requested, he would receive God’s favor as payment for his work. In fact, after Cain kills his brother and God banishes Cain from his labor, Cain replies “you have driven me today away from the ground, and from your face I shall be hidden”; even after God repudiates his approach, Cain still associates God with the ground.9 On the other hand, if Cain does not do well (i.e., sins), he will have to master sin on his own. The expectation that God will mechanistically answer human effort with His favor generates a lose-lose situation for Cain. Cain’s approach did not work because the only ofGenesis 4:5. Genesis 4:6. 9 Genesis 4:14. 8
fering that could pay for sin is human life—all of it. The price of living is the “mass death sentence”; “the wages of sin is death.”10 If the relationship between man and God must be the same as that between man and the universe—a mechanistic, law-governed, input-output relationship—the only input sufficient to escape the human situation is what Camus called “absolute negation”: the mass murder-suicide of the human race.11 Cain, as the firstborn of all mankind, legally and metaphorically represents the entire race (indeed, he accepts this representative role by making an offering in the first place). Cain must go on the altar, or else condemn himself. Like Cain, Camus conflates God with the universe. In Camus’ system, God, if He exists, creates evil and death while silently ignoring human pleas for justice or escape. From this perspective, Christ’s association with man was only a pretense. If God sides with the universe against humanity, He leaves humans with the options of metaphysical rebellion or acceptance of the absurd. Metaphysical rebellion inevitably means violence, both against oneself and others, in order to end the predatory human-universe relationship through death. Camus opposes violent rebellion against the universe and advocates quiet acceptance, even contentment, of the human condition in order to cultivate “scorn of the gods,” “hatred of death,” and “passion for life.”12 Silent acceptance of the absurd is the only chance for human happiness, even though it renders life repetitive and meaningless. Genesis 4 takes readers a step further and offers a true way out. Abel, perhaps seeing his brother’s predicament, came with a different offering. As a shepherd, his work had not trained him to think of inputs and outputs. He tended his flocks in exchange for no mechanistic, law-governed return, and hoped that God would take a similar approach to man. Thus, he “brought of the firstborn of his flock and of their fat portions,” which was the closest analogue to his brother that he could offer—Cain was the firstborn of the human “flock” and fatness in the pre-modern world meant one was blessed with plenty, as Cain had been blessed with a plenteous crop.13 Perhaps this substitute would answer the necessity of death and restore relations between God and creation. In Genesis 4, the first generation born into sin came to God with two approaches to their condition. The first expected that an input short of death would fix the broken race. The second, more realistic (in acknowledging the necessity of death) and idealistic (in its faith in sub10
Romans 6:23. Camus, The Rebel. 12 Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus, and Other Essays (Vintage, 1955). 13 Genesis 4:4. 11
stitution), put no hope in man’s efforts but also showed no silent “acceptance of the desperate encounter between human inquiry and the silence of the universe.”14 Although choosing Cain’s approach would have cost God nothing, He chose Abel’s approach, which in the end would cost Him everything. Cain and his efforts met “the silence of the universe” because he expected silence. He conflated God with the universe, and God surprised him by not being a black box, by not responding to inputs as Cain expected, by not being silent. God was supposed to comply silently to Cain’s inputs and thereby trade salvation for work. Camus makes the same mistake—equating God with the universe. If a creator God exists, he must exist and operate independently of creation. In this case, He is more capable than humanity of reacting against a hostile universe. God does not impose the same things on humanity that the universe or the human condition does, simply because He is not equivalent to the universe. If He were, rebellion against Him would be as justified as rebellion against death. Camus dismisses metaphysical rebellion too easily because he assumes it is futile, which it is, if humans are the only possible rebels. Only God could dethrone death, and the wonder of Christianity is its insistence that God did dethrone death. God fought the battle against the “mass death sentence” by becoming the ultimate substitute, the only sufficient input.
Although choosing Cain’s approach would have cost God nothing, He chose Abel’s approach, which in the end would cost Him everything. Which brings us to Christ. Christ did not suffer to silence those who hated Him but to save them. He died not to universalize death but to de-universalize it. Genesis 4 reveals the falsehood of the common dichotomy between “Old-Testament violent God” and “New-Testament loving God”; the violent wrath that the Father inflicts on Christ in the New Testament fulfilled the loving promise of a substitute and answered the longing of a human race trapped in the absurd. 14
Camus, The Rebel.
Phil Jeffery (CC’17) is a history nerd from Portland, Oregon. He enjoys Panang Curry, the music of Sufjan Stevens, and spending time with a certain someone. He is also President of the Veritas Forum at Columbia and a member of Columbia Faith and Action.
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Flurries: To Love the Broken Eshiemomoh Osilama
L
ate January consumed the city towers in darkness and cold. The nebulous sky billowed, and then breathed out mightily, whipping mid-winter flurries through the air. With my hands tucked tightly into my coat pockets, I braced myself for every frigid scourge the night had to offer. With every breath out and into my scarf, the warmth and wetness of my gasps fogged my near-frozen glasses, blinding me from a world so vividly present. “Make it to the train… just a couple more blocks…” My only guides were the city streetlights which lined the edge of the flurry-glazed sidewalk, but even their light was chilled by the wind and snow. What does it mean that ‘Man is made in the image of God’? This phrase is one of the most ubiquitous and vaguely defined expressions of the Christian faith, yet it is fundamental to our understanding of the redemptive story. How is it that I am made in His image? Is God a 20-year-old, 6-foot-1, Nigerian-American male? I don’t think so. Or am I an omniscient, omnipresent, perfectly righteous, and all-loving spiritual being, who exists outside of time and space? Definitely not. I am completely and utterly flawed, falling short of the glorious standards that God sets before me everyday.1 We can find the meaning behind this phrase by contextualizing it. On the sixth day of creation, the triune God said: “Let us make [mankind] in our image, after our likeness.”2 He blessed them and told them to “be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it.”3 He placed man in the garden of Eden for the purpose of keeping it, and He gave them dominion over every other living creature.4 Thus, the authority that God gives us as stewards of His creation, stems from the fact that we are created in His image. We are called to consummate and love the world God created, and we are capable of doing so only because we are like God. We are not like the rest 1 2
Romans 3:23, ESV. Genesis 1:26–27. 3 Genesis 1:28. 4 Genesis 2:19.
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of creation—we possess complex emotions, a capacity to be intellectual, a creative ability, and an affinity to morality and rationality. These characteristics are useful in our exercising dominion over the earth. However, our ability to have an intimate spiritual relationship with God that follows from our bearing the image of God is what most fundamentally enables us to fulfill our mission of stewardship.
Our ability to have an intimate spiritual relationship with God… is what most fundamentally enables us to fulfill our mission of stewardship. “Pick up the pace…” My legs hiked briskly through the blackness. My stride halted, suddenly, as I passed a mass huddled quietly against the wall of a convenience store. He was looking up at a flickering streetlight, mumbling to himself, wide-eyed and unworldly. I recognized him immediately, from his blinded right eye, silver and round. “Uriah… Ugh, what is he doing out here?” He seemed, amazingly, undeterred by the winter—I might have called the sight magical, if I wasn’t suffering from the conditions of the cold.
“Uriah, don’t you have anywhere else to stay?” He didn’t hear me. “Would you like a Pepsi?” He wasn’t listening. His attention was unmoved from the frosty streetlight, flickering down on him intermittently. Diverting my path, I paced into the store and took a long moment at the entrance to let the warmth of the inside seep into the layers and crevices of my coat. I sped to the back of the store, grabbed a Pepsi, and darted to the cashier, who seemed to have been watching me conspicuously. God is inherently relational. From the beginning of time, God has existed in three persons: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. These three distinct persons have existed together in perfect harmony and their relationships are absolutely complete, capturing the essence of love. This love leads Him, God as a single entity, to create mankind and pursue an intimate relationship with us. Each person of the Trinity plays a role in bringing forth and sustaining creation. It is God “the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist.”5 By God the Son, “all things were created, in heaven and on earth… through Him and for Him.”6 And throughout Scripture, God the Holy Spirit is often referenced using the word “breath”—a sort of force that drives an action: “By the word of the Lord the heavens were made, and by [His] breath,” or by His Spirit, “all their host.”7 God desires to have an inherently and absolutely complete spiritual relationship with us, predicated by who He is, which is why He created us in His image. Mankind finds its identity and purpose in God. As God’s relationships and ability to love allow Him to create the earth, our God-centered relationships and ability to love allow us to consummate the earth, thus completing God’s creation. This is what sets mankind apart from the rest of creation: we were created for the purpose of having a relationship with God, and we are the only part of creation that can do so. Having an intimate spiritual relationship with God means coming to know and love Him. As we come to know and love God’s character, His love is perfected in us.8 He has made His identity known to us through our very existence, and calls us to love
Him and to love each other. Mankind’s duty is to “fear God and keep His commandments”9: to love Him with “all [our] heart, with all [our] soul, and with all [our] mind,” and to love our neighbor as we love ourselves.10 As we are capable of perfectly fulfilling our role of knowing who God is and being like Him, we are also capable of fulfilling our role of consummating the earth. Perfect spiritual intimacy with God makes us whole, just as God is whole. Our perfect spiritual relationship with God informs our interpersonal relationships as well. Unlike the rest of creation, we are capable of having relationships that are inhabited by God: when “two or three are gathered in [Jesus’] name, there [He is] among them.”11
5
9
6
10
1 Corinthians 8:6. Colossians 1:16. 7 Psalm 33:6. 8 1 John 2:4–5.
These three distinct persons have existed together in perfect harmony and their relationships are absolutely complete, capturing the essence of love. “How much is it?” I asked, artlessly. The cashier breathed out heavily and with a grin said, “Do you get that man a Pepsi every time you see him? That’s a sort of kindness I don’t get to see very often in this world.” “It’s really nothing. It’s the only thing he ever wants,” I turned my face to the store window to get a peek at Uriah, still sitting outside. “The guy’s crazy to be sitting out there in this cold, babbling to himself. Doesn’t he have anywhere to stay?” With another deep sigh, the cashier said, “Nights like these, when it flurries out, Uriah likes to sit under that streetlight and watch the snowflakes fall into and out of the flashes of light. He said he gives them each a name… he comes up with a story for every snowflake he sees,” the cashier paused. “He thinks about where every snowflake is falling from and how far each one has traveled through the sky… even with that eye he’s got, he shows them each as much love as he can before they fly out of his sight. It’s pretty wonderful, if you ask me, loving things like snowflakes.” Ecclesiastes 12:13. Matthew 22:37–38. 11 Matthew 18:20.
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James Xue (SEAS’17)
But we fail. We fall. We disobey God’s instruction, turning away from His plans for us, and in doing so, we sever our spiritual relationship with Him. We become spiritually and functionally broken and are unable to properly fulfill our roles as God’s stewards. Our ability to love and have relationships like God, with God, and with each other is broken. Immediately after disobeying God’s command not to eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, Adam and Eve “hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God.”12 They were no longer capable of properly fulfilling their priestly duty of keeping the garden of Eden, so “the Lord God sent [them] out from the garden… to work the ground from which [they were] taken” instead.13 Our severed relationship with God manifests itself in a disconnection from the world that God called us to consummate, as well as in relational brokenness with those around us. After the Fall, God multiplies the pain of Eve’s childbirth and declares that Adam will rule over her, despite her longing to control him.14 Their relationship becomes centered around their own desires rather than around God or their mission of stewardship. Likewise, the earth is cursed because of the actions of man, bringing forth “thorns and thistles” for his work. There is no guarantee that creation will ever return to its former glory or that man will ever fulfill his former purpose.
The only promise God has for man is that he will “return to the ground” from which he was taken.15 Our fallen state is made apparent throughout the subsequent Old Testament text, in which families, friends, and nations turn against one another. We become “slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, hated by others and hating one another,”16 suffering by our own hand. “Really? Every snowflake, you say? Well, that’s some sort of heart Uriah’s got. How much for the Pepsi?” “You’d be surprised what seemingly impossible amounts of love can do for a person… the person giving or receiving that love…” We stared at each other for another moment. “Don’t worry about the Pepsi. It’s on the house.” I grabbed the soda and headed towards the entrance. “Thanks.” I took one more moment to enjoy the warmth of the inside of the store before forcing myself back into the night air. What else can be done to salvage God’s creation, since man is powerless to his own destructive will? Our ability to love is contingent on us being like God, so we cannot fulfill our mission of stewardship until that state is restored. However, since we are unable to become like God again by ourselves, the only action that can be taken is for God to become like us. God must ‘break’ relationship with Himself as we have broken relationship with
12
15
13
16
Genesis 3:8. Genesis 3:22. 14 Genesis 3:16.
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Genesis 3:17–19. Titus 3:3.
Him—suffer this earth as we suffer—in order for us to be able to properly love Him and His creation once again. God the Son is sent to fulfill the role of being broken, spiritually, emotionally, and physically, to the point of death. As the weight of all our sin and all our brokenness is placed on Jesus’ body, He cries out to God the Father saying, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”17 In this way, we become like God again, or rather, He becomes like us. His perfect triune relationship is broken. God comes to know, identify with, and sympathize with our brokenness.18 Jesus’ ministry renews our call to love each other and God, as He has shown love to us not only despite our brokenness, but by way of it. God loves us by way of our brokenness so that we may love Him and love each other, despite our separation from Him—the separation that prevented us from loving the way He does. We must acknowledge how broken we are, and look to Jesus as the only way to bridge the gap between us and the Father. As we come to love God for what He has done, He promises that we will be known by Him.19 We are then able to love each other and the rest of creation, as God intended for us to do, despite our fallen state. We come to learn that our function and our identity are not based in our human abilities, but rather in the fact that who we are echoes who God is. Our love for each other and for God’s creation is meant 17 18
Eshiemomoh Osilama (CC’16), colloquially known as Momoh, is astonished by how far CC&C has come over the past two years, is incredibly grateful for the team that has put together this issue, and cannot fathom where God is taking this journal.
Matthew 27:46. Hebrews 4:15. 1 Corinthians 8:3.
Asia Cunningham (BC’17)
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to reveal the presence of a loving God, but we are only capable of showing this love when we recognize and accept how broken we are. “I got you your Pepsi.” I dropped the soda beside Uriah, but his attention was still unmoved. The discontinuous glow from the streetlight splashed onto his face handsomely and reflected brightly off his blind eye, which was zipping back and forth in excitement. “Uriah, I got—” His face whipped up quickly from the streetlight and our eyes met. I could see into the depths of his blind eye and he saw into the depths of mine. He whispered softly and I nodded shyly, and a moment later, his eyes were fixed again toward the streetlight. The wind howled, blowing the Pepsi bottle over, but Uriah’s face remained uncorrupted by the gust. Before the storm could blast me again, I shoved my hands into my pockets, pivoted, and promptly hurried my way off to the train station.
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