Christian George

Yesterday Rebecca and I made our way down to the coastline of St. Andrews. Having spent the majority of our time in the city, it was refreshing to see the sea–so blue and expansive. Norway is not far into the horizon (and the water temperature certainly reflects it). The ocean always has a way of turning my thoughts outward, and eventually upward. The juxtaposition of the ancient churches to the expansive horizon creates and forward/backward sensation as you walk along the cliff. In one sense, you are pulled back into the past–back to the days of Knox, Luther, and Calvin. Yet, forward and outward–continuing their reformation as we hold all things up to the canon of Scripture. Attached are some photos of the beach and other views we encounter of the course of a day. May they be a source of inspiration to you.

Rebecca and I attended an induction service at St. Salvator’s Chapel (14th century). Their were no pews as we in America have come to know them. Instead, the nave of the cathedral has two choir sections facing one another. We sang “Great is thy faithfulness” among other songs. My second supervisor, Dr. Ian Bradley (who, turns out is the head of religious broadcasting for BBC Scotland) preached a well crafted sermon on the Word becoming Flesh. It was quite moving. He had one line that still sticks with me–”The Word became Flesh, but often we return it again to the Word.” His point, as I understood it, was that we must resist the urge to sugar coat Christ by remembering that indeed the Logos became skin (and is still skin in heaven). Jesus became human for us and remained human with us. This was a profound statement coming from Dr. Bradley, an expert on Celtic illuminated manuscripts where the inky written words were actually and physically inscribed on calf skin.

Concerning the pictures, I took several panorama shots and stitched them together to give you the entirety of the perspective. Some are a bit scatter-angled. Some other pictures include our new bicycle, which Rebecca bravely acquired, the castle ruins where John Knox was imprisoned for a year, the cathedral ruins which used to be the religious capitol of Scotland in the medieval era, some pictures of the coastline, one of the many golf courses (by the way, Rebecca insisted that I take golf lessons, so I begin 10 weeks of golf lessons next week on the old course), and our beach. It’s altogether lovely here.

For you Jane Austen fans, Rebecca and I went to a theological tea the other day and it was exactly out of Sense and Sensibility–the accents, the formality, the little crumpet looking things…perfectly fantastic.

The journey from America to Scotland has been a difficult, but rewarding one. On Saturday, I become a fully matriculated Ph.D student at St. Mary’s College at the University of St. Andrews. On one hand, we live in a one bedroom flat (bathroom/kitchen/closet/study/bedroom, etc), about a twenty minute walk from the center of town. On the other hand, we know that God has led us here for a reason, and Rebecca and I believe the next three years are going to be the best in our lives.

After leaving New Orleans for New York, we arrived in Edinburgh for a two day visit. Of particular interest to me there was the John Knox House, where John Knox lived and died.

John Knox was a Scottish Reformer and masterful preacher who aided the acceptance of the Protestant movement in Scotland. Without going into too much detail, he earned a degree at St. Andrews, spent a year in exile at the castle of St. Andrews, was taken prisoner for a year and lived on board a French vessel (that’s where when asked to bow and kiss a wooden statue of the virgin Mary he threw her overboard and yelled, “If she’s really the mother of God, let her swim!”), moved to Geneva where he interacted with John Calvin and preached at an English speaking church there, and is said to have lived and died in Edinburgh (at the John Knox House).

St. Andrews is a medieval town on the eastern coast of Scotland. Norway isn’t too far away (and it is bitter cold all the time). Yet, Rebecca and I were strolling along the beach side (or cliff-North Sea side, to be more particular) two days ago, and were struck by the great theological tradition that seeps down the cobblestone streets.

It is so ancient here.

To think that Knox himself lived and breathed in this town! It is so humbling to see the castle on the shore where Knox was taken prisoner. And I ask myself at what great cost is my own Christianity? The only persecution I’ve thus faced has been some rather indecent remarks from some college party folks concerning the sign that I placed on the outside of my door (”As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord”).

St. Mary’s college sits just off South Street (one of four main streets in St. Andrews), and opens into a medieval courtyard surrounded with ornately stone-worked buildings, grass greener than I’ve ever seen in America, and a tree that Mary Queen of Scots planted. By the way, there are bunnies everywhere (I told Rebecca that even if things get grim, we can at least eat well–that is, with some archery practice).

St. Mary’s quad is filled with bustling new theology students (mostly Masters level) no doubt turning their affections away from the rigors of moving in (and the many hassles thereof) and onto the deep things of God.

On another note, at my orientation speech from the dean I learned that the past three days have been the first sunny days all summer. He quickly assured us it would indeed come to an end and in 6 weeks time twilight will begin to set in at around 2:00 pm (reaching for the Vitamin D).

Thank you all for your constant support and encouragements. I have come to believe that God has brought us to Scotland for a purpose, and we are purposely his.

Here is a sermon I preached at First Baptist New Orleans this summer called “The Roses Will Bloom Again.” The great Baptist preacher R. G. Lee was pastor of this church in the 1920s and he preached a sermon with this same title just before the Great Depression hit. It was a crazy time back then. World War I had reeked havoc on the optimism of the previous century. Charles Darwin insisted that humans only get better and better, and people began to realize the cold and shocking truth that humanity might not be as pretty as we thought. If anything, we were getting worse. Trench warfare and genocide were on the forefront of the American mind. And it is against this background that Lee preached “The Roses Will Bloom Again.” In his sermon he talked about the hurricanes of life, the storms that we can’t understand. Lee’s most famous sermon is “Payday Someday,” preached thousands of times in thousands of churches across the south. But “The Roses Will Bloom Again” spoke to the mysterious way God reveals himself, sometimes even in the storm.

In light of hurricane Katrina and all the devastation First Baptist Church sustained, I picked this text because I wanted to offer a word of encouragement to the congregation. Many families in this church left and never came back, other lost everything in the storm.

Continue to pray for this church as they are faced with a rather active hurricane season.

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Jesus was no stranger to wind and waves. In fact, most of his ministry took place along the perimeter of the sea of Galilee in towns like Tiberius and Tabgha. This was the Savior’s stomping grounds and from time to time storms would erupt on the lake.

Once Jesus and his disciples were crossing from the east side of the lake to the west and a great storm threatened to break their first century wooden boat to pieces. The disciples were all in a tizzy, yet Christ was getting some shut eye. How odd–the God whose eye is on the sparrow takes a snooze when the disciples thought they needed him most! But what the disciples didn’t know is that the guy sleeping in their boat had created the water. He had created the wind. He was the one who fastened the hydrogen molecules to the oxygen molecules and showed it how to behave. The God who created the lake could certainly calm it whenever he wants to, and that’s exactly what happened. “Peace, be still,” Christ said, looking out over the waves. What choice did the water have? It had to behave itself. And the disciples discovered that day that Christ was sovereign over his creation.

As Hurricane Gustav bedraggles the city of New Orleans, the city I have come to love, I think about the gentle yet powerful words of Christ, “Peace, be still.”

For some reason, God does not calm every storm. He does not dissipate every hurricane. One day, sure. But not yet. Perhaps his peace is aimed at his people. “Christian, peace be still.” “Rebecca, peace be still.” “Peace be still because even in the storm I will manifest my grace to you. Stop trusting in yourself, in your levees, in your abilities. Start depending on what you can’t see, what you can’t build. Because even when the winds and water try to wash you away, I am your rock upon which you can stand. Your city might be destroyed, but you belong to another city. Your possessions might be waterlogged, but I have heavenly treasures for you beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Peace, be still.”

Yesterday I saw something I haven’t seen in quite some time–a baptism. Commanded, of course, by Christ, this is an ordinance of the church I surprisingly rarely see. Maybe it’s the dwindling numbers of new Christians in our churches. Or perhaps the lack of emphasis in our sermons. But one thing’s for sure–the sacred practice of baptism (at least within the Baptist church) is on a record low.

And yet few practices are as fundamental to the faith as this one. When Jesus began his public ministry and was immersed in the Jordan River, the father came down to the Son in the form of a dove. “This is my beloved son,” the Father announced. I think this solidified for Christ his identity. Of course, he understood that he was God-that his mission in this world was to redeem and rescue–but he also needed to hear it. He needed to feel it. Jesus was as flesh as you are and he needed to know that he was on the right track.

I believe those words “This is my beloved” followed him through the rest of his ministry. When he was in the desert dueling with the devil, those words undergirded his defense against the enemy. When he was walking on water, he must have recalled that uplifting encouragement. When he was hanging on the cross, drenched in the very hurricane of hell, he must have sucked some comfort from that statement.

When you and I come to understand that we are the precious beloved of God, it changes everything. It changes our attitudes and our confidence in the future. It alters our self image and shows us that we are valuable not because of what we do, but rather who we are (and whose we are). Baptism calls us to remember these things. To remember that we are dead to sin, but alive to Him who put death to death so we could live.

I look forward to seeing another baptism soon. Perhaps it will be yours.

So I’m standing backstage at a youth camp in Colorado and I’m like “God, don’t make me do a Flying Bruce Lee Dragon Kick.” Now if you know me at all, you know that my flexibility really isn’t all that great. I’m hard pressed in the morning to sit Indian Style. But I was talking that evening about how to train in the Christian faith–spiritual disciplines like prayer, fasting, meditation, and so on.

Paul says that physical training is of some value, but godliness has value in all things. So I tried to challenge the kids to train in their faith like they do in their sports, in their school, in their hobbies. I believe that Christianity should not be a casual endeavor. Instead, it should be all consuming. God doesn’t just want us on Sunday. He wants us Monday through Saturday, too. I remind myself of that every day, but find that it’s so easy to fall back in a comfortable Christianity that doesn’t really take root in my life.

So after a brief prayer and a deep breath, I jumped in the air, spun myself around, and prayed that I wouldn’t pull my groin. I should have prayed harder.

So I just got back from a weekend of waterskiing in Florence, Alabama. Rebecca and I were visiting Marge, a friend from college. It was my first time waterskiing and I must say, I took it in the face the first few times. Granted, the water was too choppy to ski on, but that’s really no excuse. It’s the strangest feeling being motionless in the water and then blasting off. Your body surges forward, your abs and lower back tense up, and before you know it you’re standing straight up on top of the water.

I often wonder what was going through Peter’s mind when he swung his first-century, hairy fisherman leg over the side of that boat to stand on the water. Talk about putting your weight upon your faith! Was it like glass? Or concrete? What about the water? Perhaps the water had an identity crisis. Normally it would allow a man to sink right through, but not that day. That day it behaved like asphalt or gravel and supported Peter’s 175 or so lbs. Sure, we all know that Peter doubted and eventually sank. But he also walked. Those first few steps must have stuck with him for the rest of his life. And how interesting–at the end of his life, the feet that had witnessed the awesome power of God supported the weight of his body when he was crucified upside down.

I think sometimes wiping out is the best thing we can do for our faith. It’s the questions we miss on the exam that we always remember. It’s the times when we deny Christ like Peter, that healing comes and Jesus says “Feed my sheep.” How can shepherds understand what their congregations are going through when they themselves have never experienced the lonely separation from God? Not that we should seek rebellion or sin, but God’s power is best displayed through our weaknesses. His mightiness always overcomes our fecklessness. God’s muscles are bigger than our cellulite.

Here’s another watercolor I did recently entitled “The Contemplative Life.” As a Protestant, we are very good at productivity. We live for it. Our churches thrive on new programs and building projects, our lives themselves are consumed with producing results–40 hours a week at work, etc. I am the chief of sinners, when it comes to this. I suppose we find our value, to some degree, in what we do. When asked to describe a friend, I usually say, “Oh he’s a lawyer, or she’s a med student.”

Recently, however, I have been absorbing the nourishment that comes from reading the contemplative writers–St. John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, Henri Nouwen, Thomas Merton, etc. I am discovering that true identity comes not from what we do, but from who we are. When we realize that we are the beloved of God (Song of Song 2), it transforms our relationship to God and others.

I painted this painting for a friend who has discovered the beauty of the spiritual disciplines. He has taken some radical leaps of faith in his life, leaving a very successful job to pursue uninterrupted intimacy and community with God. Chatting with him the other day, I have been astonished at how different he is. We often say that God changes a person, but it’s really true. When God gets a hold of someone’s life and they pour themselves into the Scriptures, they become something altogether different. Their attitudes are redirected, their conversations, too. There really is power in the Gospel, and I’m discovering it afresh in the lives of people who are willing to take radical leaps of faith to encounter the God who demands our everything.

I recently painted this picture for a friend in Birmingham. It’s a watercolor. I stylized the Japanese characters a little, but the top character means samurai and the bottom means faith. As I was painting this, I began to think about how the two of them are related.

Thucydides once said, “The nation that makes a great distinction between its warriors and its scholars will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools.” In my own experiences, I have always tried to marry my faith with my martial arts training. I have come to believe that Christians must take the gospel out of the church, out of our homes and into the remote places . . . to the very ends of the earth, so to speak. It’s not very popular to do that these days–we live in a culture that is morbidly afraid of pushing an agenda on anyone, especially a faith agenda. But to be a Christian is to spread Christ’s love. This is simply the great commission.

During my training in Aikido, I resonated with the Japanese honor system expressed in the dojo. The discipline of this art also caught my attention. What would happen, I wondered, if I could approach my faith with the same intensity and dedication as the Aikido practitioners around me? Would it transform my relationship to God? Would it make me more serious about practicing the spiritual disciplines. Would it spark revival in my own heart? Perhaps. So that’s what I have been attempting to do this summer. . . to take the lessons from the dojo and apply it to my every day life.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Two days ago I finished Godology. Well, no one ever finishes a book, but two days ago I abandoned it to my editor. It should come out next year sometime. That’s the thing about books. You spend several months writing them and then by the time they hit the shelf it’s like, “Did I write that?” Here’s a portion from a chapter entitled “Mardi Gras and Icicles:”

“So I’m standing on a parade route in New Orleans yelling my head off for beads. It’s Mardi Gras and electricity zigzags through the air. The jazz is swinging, the floats are rolling, and I’m dancing like the world’s about to end. To my regret, I catch a glimpse of a topless fat guy catching doubloons. On his belly was a bright red fleur de lis, the official emblem of New Orleans. The pedals wiggled as if independent from his body. I winced—it’s no wonder they call it “Fat Tuesday.”

The next Sunday I stumbled into church. The excitement was low and a general boredom hung over the congregation. As the music played, I didn’t feel like getting my praise on. My hands wouldn’t clap. My feet wouldn’t dance. I tried to squeal out a few notes, but my throat was hoarse. I was all used up—just another dehydrated Christian sucked dry by the fangs of worldliness.”

. . .

“The Trinity is a mystery. No doubt about it. But this is what we know: God has forever existed in three persons—Father, Son, and Spirit. Before cities were constructed or worlds created, God hung out with himself. He was His own party. Some say three’s a crowd, but in this VIP club, the King, Prince, and Advisor share a perfect blend of intimacy, community, and eternity.

I’ve always been a sucker for thrift stores. Give me a few dollars and a free Saturday and I’ll come back with anything from a torn up pair of jeans to a urine stained couch. On one such day, I stumbled upon a faded blue Bruce Lee T-shirt. He was really laying down the law with a flying dragon kick. The shirt didn’t have any bloodstains, so I decided to try it on. As I stepped into the three-way mirror, a thousand kung fu kicks appeared in the distance. Each pane of glass reflected the images of the others. And I stood in awe, gazing at the Bruce Lee infinity.

How can God be one and three at the same time? Got me. I’m still trying to figure out how Bruce Lee jumped that high. The English language can’t articulate the unity of God. Though grammatically troubling, it’s perfectly accurate to say that God are one and They is three. Like a three-way mirror, each person in the Godhead satellites the other—an eternal reflection—forever bright, forever burning, forever dressed in glory. Most families have some degree of dysfunction, but not God. In Him there is no distant stepfather, prodigal son or absentee spirit.

Believe it or not, the word Trinity is actually not written in the Bible.3 But the Scriptures clearly teach the unity of God: “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one” (Deuteronomy 6:4, NIV), and they also teach the diversity of God: “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit” (Matthew 28:19, NIV). So we believe them both.

One of the beauties of living in a postmodern era is that we don’t need a cold scientific explanation to believe in the supernatural anymore. Modernism is behind us. In the eighteenth century the Age of Faith gave way to an Age of Reason. But now in the twenty-first century, we are entering into another great Age of Faith. We are living in an age when we know that the more we know, the more we know that we don’t know much at all. You know? And such knowledge makes us small again.”