In Our Midst (Christmas Homily)

"...eyes to see..."

"O taste and see that the Lord is good." Ps. 34:8

The goodness of God is not an abstraction, not a mere dog- matic assertion requiring no more than intellectual assent. Rather, the goodness of God is to be a sensory experience (and not the only one). It is meant to be tactile and fragrant, audible and visible and flavorful. This does not mean that you will suddenly receive complete comprehension of the incom- prehensible God. What it does mean is that His goodness is meant to be experienced in the actual moments of your life. It is to be a point of contact between you and the Divine, a moment of Incarnation, a moment where God leaves the ivory tower of your mind and becomes real in the midst of your experience.

As close as the house you're standing in.

If our God is hidden, it is because He is too immense and not because He is too obscure, like the house you're living in, which is the only one you don't see when you look out your window. It is too close for perception, and so is God. The incomprehensibly im- mense God is in your midst always, and though the limits of our mind cannot grasp Him fully, He is meant to be experienced. He is meant to be met in the moment. In ancient days, though veils and walls kept Him separate from His people, He still had a place amongst them, an actual dwelling in the Holiest of Holies. Today, though time and space and perception seem to separate us, He is not far from any one of us (Acts 17:26-28). Furthermore, He has made His people His dwelling place (John 14:23; II Cor. 6:16), a body fitly joined together (Eph. 4:15-16), so that He may be experienced by us as well as through us to the world (Matt. 5:14-16).

Our God believes in making Himself known, believes in revelation and incarnation, believes in proving Himself to be real. If he had not spoken through His word, if He had not come in the likeness of men, then we would have cause to call Him an obscurantist. But He did, so we do not. He has proven His presence (Is. 45:18-19; Heb. 1:1-2), he has proven His love (Rom. 5:8; I John 4:9-10), and He continually proves His goodness. Therefore, ask for eyes to see Him, to see His goodness, and to let that goodness build a monument to His presence in your life.

"I have not spoken in secret...."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2013

Further Up, Further In (Homily 55)

What hath God wrought?

"I have trusted in Thy mercy. My heart shall rejoice in Thy salvation. I will sing unto the Lord, because He has dealt bountifully with me." Ps. 13:5-6

The foundations of the past are hope and strength for today; light and guidance come from what has already been established. "Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path" (Ps. 119:105), a word written long before I was born and spoken long before the foundations of the earth were laid. In fact, the Christian life is all about foundations, about seeing them laid thick and solid. It is all about God setting precedent, of watching Him build His case in your life like a man builds a tower, or better yet, a cathedral. Watch each brick be laid and ornamentation carved, and slowly but surely the monstrous edifice takes shape before your eyes, and what was once an amorphous rubble becomes a sublime work of art.

"I support which candidate?"

It is all art with God. All beauty. All true beauty and beautiful truth. It is not about machinery or efficiency. God is not reducible to a system. We are not here to deduce and define some divine algebra. We are not here to "figure it out," not because there is nothing to figure out but because the figure is too great for us, a figure shaped in the Person of God. We do not comprehend Him; we stand in awe, in overwhelming humility and wonder. We stand still and know that He is God and that we will never reach the end of Him. We can never reduce Him to our myriad manias, to our legalistic claptrap or liberal corrosion, to our efforts to explain or obscure Him. Thank God that He is greater than all our rabid reductionism, or innate and insane desire to make everything smaller than us.

God has revealed Himself, not that we may "figure" Him "out," but that we may begin to know Him (John 17:3), not as a principle or some cosmic machinery, but as a person, as a friend would a friend or a lover a lover. To this end He is building His presence into your life, brick by brick, moment by moment, until He is the most real thing you know, the one true thing, the Fact above all other facts. The point of Christian living, of the life of faith, is to know that God is real: vividly, intimately, personally real. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something: an ideology, a gimmick, or another reductionism. They cannot give you God, the reality of God spreading over and through every inch of your life like waves to the sand of the shore.

Nope. Still haven't arrived.

Like a good marriage, God is known over time, not grasped in an instant. You must never fall into the snare that says, "I have arrived" when it comes to your relationship with God, that you have discovered all there is to know about Him and now the adventure is over. That can only lead to boredom and despair (and perhaps an abandoning of God for something more "exciting"). The truth is that we never arrive, even throughout eternity, not because there is nothing to arrive at, but because God is incomprehensible, beyond our full comprehension, which means it will take all eternity to know Him fully, and therein lies hope and peace and joy.

Further up. Further in.

Hope because even if we cannot see far ahead, we can see for miles behind us, and all of God's bountiful goodness and love trumps our doubts. Peace because all things are working together for our good (Rom. 8:28), working towards are knowing of God, until we finally see what life was meant for: all knowing, all intimacy, all a drawing further up and in to divine love. And joy because identity and purpose and meaning are found at last, not by an arbitrary fiat of our own but by the God who created us for Himself. So see your life for the divine art that it is. Look and see God building His presence into your days, becoming more and more real. See all that you've been through, even the hard and horrible (II Cor. 4:16-18), as the foundations of a yet greater structure, one that will stretch on into eternity, deeper and deeper into the heart of God.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2013

The Decadence of God (Homily 51)

"Why do you spend money for that which is not sustenance? Or labor for that which never satisfies? Harken diligently unto Me and eat that which is good and let your soul delight itself in richness." Is. 55:2

"You will show me the paths of life. In Thy presence is fullness of joy; at Thy right hand there are pleasures forevermore." Ps. 16:11

How full is your God? How rich? How vast? How measureless and strong? Every false god is a thin, pale thing, whose pleasures are paltry and whose potency is fading. The real God of the real universe is no limp thing, no phlegmatic amoeba glazing over into apathy and weariness. His stars are bright enough to burn up the sky: the light is relentless and stretches to the uttermost. His goodness is all-consuming: whither shall you flee from it (Ps. 139:7-12)? On earth, it meets you at every corner, at every turn and tilt of your life, interweaving the texture of your existence with the colors of His presence. In Heaven, you find its very home, the fountainhead bursting all boundaries, pulsing with furious joy and love. And in Hell, you find it still, for goodness does not let evil go unanswered, and it will not release until it is paid the uttermost farthing, for love is as strong as the grave (Song 8:6-7).

Ask God for eyes to see His rich love. Ask Him to open the sight of the real eyes of your real heart to see the chariots of His fire encircling you, the pillars of cloud covering you, the columns of fire guiding you. Ask your Lover-God, for He desires to prove Himself (Mal. 3:10), to show Himself strong (Jer. 33:3), to put another brick in the wall, to fill your life with evidence insurmountable, so that no mouth will be able to gainsay it, not even your own. Ask your Father-God to make you speechless before His love, to strike you silent before the ignorant wrath of the skeptic or doubter, who being in the darkness outside cannot begin to comprehend the light. Let them rage; your joy is beyond words. Beyond categorization and argument. It is neither here nor there but everywhere, in every iota in the book of your life. It is beyond summary, which is all a part of the joy: it will take an eternity to express it, to know it, to trace every thread to its final consummation, for our God is rich. Decadently rich. Full to bursting with glory divine, calling everyone who thirsts to come to His waters (Is. 55:1) and taste and see that He is good (Ps. 34:8). Amen.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2013

A Part of the Play (musings on sweet desire by an orthodox rebel)

"Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desire of your heart.... [He] opens [His] hand, and satisfies the desire of every living thing.... He fulfills the desire of those who fear Him." Ps. 37:4; 145:16, 19

I saw a beautiful sunset last week at Shelby Farms. The sun set behind some trees on the other side of a lake. The sky became prismatic, split perfectly into the shades of the spectrum. The trees were jet black in return, and the smooth surface of the lake doppelgangered the whole image. As I stood there trying to take it all in, I attempted to assess the feelings moving inside of me. For some reason, I felt it was not good enough to simply stand and watch. I felt the need to do something, anything. Write a song or poem, do a dance or clap my hands, shout to the sky or even go for a swim. Dive right into that glassy, cold water, swim across it and then right up the trees and into the colors of the sky. Whatever it was I felt like doing, one thing was certain: being a spectator just wasn't satisfactory.

The experience reminded me of every time I go to see a play. I love plays, partially because of my education and partially because I've acted in them before. So I try to go see them whenever I can. However, I also hate plays because they make me sad in the end. Comedy or tragedy, I invariably discover that being a member of the audience is dissatisfying. I want to be in the play, to take up a role like one takes up a mantle, and be a part of that stage and in the midst of that story. Something bigger than me is happening before my eyes, something too glorious and important to just sit and watch. I want to become a part of what I see, to perform with the performance, to be one with the play. That is how I felt watching the sunset.

Some might say (not unfairly) that my analogy breaks down. I had said that one of the reasons I love plays and want to be in one is because I've been in them before. It is a desire for return, but how exactly can I "return" to the sunset? Have I ever before been one with that kaleidoscope ceiling of the soon sleeping sky? It sounds impossible, of course. However, if I feel bound to remain consistent with my analogy (and I do), then I would have to say that I have indeed been one with the sunset at some point in time. We all have. That is what Eden means. It is not just some tale about naked people in a jungle. It is about original humanity living an existence that we have long forgotten, and yet not completely forgotten. It has been imprinted onto our very souls, for our souls were made to walk with God.

At the origin of all things, we walked with God and all that He is. We were not spectators then: we were part of the play. How horrible is the separation Sin has wrought upon us! We have deliberately flung ourselves away from the central light of the stage to the outer dark of the audience. Worse still, we cannot even see the play anymore, for a veil is erected between us and it. Between us and Him. For now, we can only sense hints and riddles, seeing patchworks of shadows and colors, and even the small joys of spectating (which do exist) are reduced to aching guesswork. So now we sit in the dark, with our guesses, and our painful longings to return somewhere that we can't remember anymore. Of course, in Christ the veil is torn in two, but we too easily lose the wonder of it. We forget that Christ did not tear down the veil between us and moralisms or good behavior; rather, He tore down the veil between us and God, us and the Play, us and the Beauty at the back of all things.

Take your wildest dream or imagination, the one that haunts and hurts your whether waking or sleeping. I tell you that it is all true. One day, it will all be true. One day, faith shall be sight. We will return to the stage, we will cross through the woods, we will dive into the ocean, we will swim across the waters and through the trees and into the sky and then past the sky and stars and spheres to where we will come face-to-face with the King in His beauty and bright array. All the hints and hurts of glory on this world are but the screen upon which Reality is only a blur. That sensuous curtain is not a cheat, but a promise, a promise of greater things yet to be seen, yet to be done. One day it will roll away like a scroll being rolled together, and we will see and be like and be one with the One whose colors are the colors of the dawn. Amen.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2012

Touched by the Gospel (The Ministers of God, Part 4)

"...in all things we commend ourselves as the ministers of God...through honor and dishonor, through evil report and good report, though counted as deceivers and yet true, as unknown and yet well known, as dying and yet behold we live, as chastened and yet not killed, as sorrowful yet always rejoicing, as poor yet making many rich, as having nothing and yet possessing all things." II Cor. 6:4, 8-10

Paul established that we are the ministers of the gospel of reconciliation with God. He then asserted that we are to prove ourselves to be such ministers in the midst of any situation and by the might of God's goodness. Knowing that no situation can break us and that God's goodness strengthen us, Paul moves on to the final truth about being a minister of God: we prove ourselves to be His ministers through every circumstance. Whatever context befalls us, we are to plow through with all the magnificence of those called by God to proclaim His good news, and Paul lists three kinds of contexts: cultural, spiritual, and physical.

"...through honor and dishonor, through evil report and good report, though counted as deceivers and yet true...." As the ministers of God, we are not bound to cultural drifts and tides. All the cultures of man (whether they be decadent or wise, secular or religious, barbaric or civilized) will find some reason to despise us and our God and His gospel. Every fashionable fad or thought will have occasion to rise up against us, claiming and saying all manner of ridiculous things against us. The worst thing we can do (as some have done) is to surrender to and compromise with our current cultural paradigm, to give in to the crushing pressure of the passing whims of the world. The best thing we can do, however, is to live in the light of the fact that our true honor and acceptance is found in Christ, and our true report belongs with God; and if the world calls us liars, it is because they belong to the father of lies (II Cor. 4:3-4).

"...as unknown and yet well known, as dying and yet behold we live, as chastened and yet not killed...." As the ministers of God, our prime reality lies with what is (for the time being) unseen and not with what is seen (II Cor. 4:18). You may not be known by the world at large in any significant sense, but you are known by God in every significant sense. He knows you and sees you. His piercing gaze of light and love cuts through all the muck and murk of the world and finds you right where you are currently standing or sitting or laying. He knows you not just factually but intimately, because He made you, and He has made His home with you (I Cor. 6:19; II Cor. 6:16; Rom. 3:20). And though His hand may seem heavy upon you sometimes, so that you die daily and seem to be constantly chastened, yet it is done out of love for your good, to bring you to glory unspeakable and full of joy (Rom. 8:29-30). The worst thing we can do (as some have done) is to grow weary with God's penetrating presence and His constant "meddling" and to desire a repose into spiritual stagnation, holding fast to whatever fleeting pleasures and peace that, if you wish to go deeper into the divine heart, you would have to give up. The best thing we can do, however, is to let goods and kindred go into the hands of God, and in every circumstance march through as one who is known of God.

"...as sorrowful yet always rejoicing, as poor yet making many rich, as having nothing and yet possessing all things." Every truly serious-minded civilization has known that the world is built on sorrow. The Christian knows this as well, and yet we rejoice; not in ignorance of sorrow, but in the midst of sorrow. We rejoice because there is a God beyond all sorrow; and yet He is not untouched by our infirmities (Heb. 4:15), and He takes pity on we who are of the dust (Ps. 103:13-14). His goodness outshines all the horrors of evil. Beneath the deep tragedy of the world lies the deeper comedy of the Trinity, and we have been made privy to its inside jokes: even while poor and having nothing, we are rich and have everything, because we possess and are possessed by God. Silver and gold have we not, but we do have the Mighty Maker and His all-consuming redemptive goodness that is full of life and light like lightning caught in a coal cellar.

So you see, we go through every circumstance differently than others, for our reality has changed. The gospel is not pleasant thoughts and phrases to us; it is not mere terminology. Rather, it is our context, our existence, the very air that we breathe. Circumstances cannot touch us like they did before, for we know too much now. We know God and are known of God (Gal. 4:9a). We know Christ and are bound to Christ (Col. 3:3). We know the gospel and have seen its power in our own lives, and we will see its power in the lives of others. So help us God. Amen.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2012

An Autumnal Devotion on the Eve of Spring (the expressions of an orthodox rebel)

I remember when my grandparents were alive they would invite my brother and I to our family reunion in a little town called Williamsburg, Kentucky. You would think such a thing would be a kid's worst nightmare. I mean, there was absolutely nothing to do there except watch adults we didn't know talk with adults that we sort of knew.

However, I often find my mind returning to Williamsburg. Though there certainly wasn't anything to do there (even if you were an adult), I enjoyed my stays nonetheless. Of course, I loved spending time with my grandparents: my grandfather with his kind-hearted obliviousness and my grandmother with her smiling sighs. There was an even greater reason than them, however, and that was Williamsburg itself.

Williamsburg is located right in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains, and the reunion was always held in mid-October. Try to imagine the transition I took: from the oppressive heat of a muggy Memphis October to the cold and colorful autumn-life of the mountains. That transition alone was reason enough for me to go. I would gladly remain somewhat bored for five days just so I could wake up to the crisp mountain air, back-dropped by the Appalachian foothills, canvases of the colors of fall.

Since my grandparents' deaths, I don't go to Williamsburg anymore, but I still feel its pull. I felt it every time during the late autumn that I sat down in a recliner in the living room to read a book. To my right was a window that revealed a yard covered with leaves of all types, a burning carpet of color, the bed coverings of November. You could argue that God used moments like that to encourage my love of reading. I wouldn't disagree.

I feel the pull whenever I drive down Rust Road on a clear blue-sky day in late October. The trees that flank the roadsides hang down low, their limps limbs holding heavy burdens. As I drive past, the unseen wind would blow and relieve the trees of their burdens, sending a sudden shower of red and gold flakes onto my windshield. It's moments like those that make me feel as though I am outside time, gliding along like a blessed observer of some secret scene that only God, in His perfect omniscience, can see.

As the crushing humid tides of spring and summer begin their looming tyranny, I strive to let my mind glide along those roads and hills as often as possible.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2011

Mythic Eyes and the Mythic Life (as explained by both an orthodox rebel and an Original Orthodox Rebel)

I created a term years ago called "mythic eyes". A "myth" is a story that leads to some truth. If something is "mythic," then it either has this quality or the ability to spot this quality. "Mythic eyes" means being able to see the truths (the reality) behind the visible, physical world. Specifically in regard to Christianity, it is about seeing God in the midst of real life: His invisible attributes (Rom. 1:20) and His glory (Psalm 19). In short, it is a practical and consistent application of II Corinthians 4:18.

This idea did not come to me out of thin air. Obviously, it found its first anchor points in Scripture, but it was first elucidated through the writings of Oswald Chambers. The following is an excerpt from his book If You Will Be Perfect (pp. 223-24). Here he spells out the idea of "mythic eyes" in simple, straightforward terms.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2011

To be a son or daughter of God is to be free from the tyranny of the show of things. Adam preferred to take the show of things [instead of] the substance; that is, he preferred not to see that the "garment" was not the person. He refused to listen to the voice of the Creator behind the garment, and when the Creator moved quickly, all Adam could do was to hang on to the skirts of the garment, clutch at the show of things, and the human race has been doing it ever since. [...] The spiritual has been bartered because we preferred the natural.

The natural is only a manifestation of what is behind. If we walk in the light...as God is in the light, we see behind the show of things [to] God. We become the offspring of God by a regenerated internal birth, and when that regenerating principle inside takes its marvelous sway over the natural on the outside, the two are transformed into exactly what God intended them to be. That is the full meaning of the redemption, but in order to get there the natural must be sacrificed.

If I prefer to hug my Father's [outer garments], I must not be surprised at finding myself in darkness when He gives it a sudden pull; but if I let my Father take me up in His arms, then He can move His [garments] as He likes: "Therefore we will not fear, even though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea" (Psalm 46:2). I am no longer caught up in the show of things. The saints who are alive when Jesus comes will be "changed--in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye" (I Corinthians 15:51-52): all the show of things will be changed instantly, by the touch of God, into reality.

  

Into the Meat-Grinder: Or, On Christ-likeness and Seeing Reality (a lecture by an orthodox rebel)

"Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the Devil." Matthew 4:1

The Christ-like life is never a matter of anemic safety. It is a head-on collision with the darkness, often in dry and desolate places. The red-cross of Christ is not to be borne by the fainthearted or apathetic. No naivete or cynicism is allowed, because no naivete or cynicism would survive. One's mind, heart, and senses must be attuned to the reality of Evil and the presence of God. Lose one of those two truths and you will fall away from Christ-likeness into ignorance or despair.

"...led up by the Spirit into the wilderness...." God is not interested in placating our preference for limited liabilities and safe investments. If we are being conformed into the image of Christ, then we are cast into the meat-grinder daily. This is a fact that the Enemy does not want you to understand or consider. Everyday guided by God is a step across the divine adventure, and every step contains perils of enormous spiritual significance. The Enemy would take advantage, however, of our one true handicap (i.e., our literal blindness to the spiritual) and convince us that life is a mere traipsing and traversing from one doldrum to the next. Read the word of God; it makes no such claim: We who live are always delivered unto death for Jesus' sake (II Cor. 4:8-11).

-Jon Vowell (c) 2010