The Not-So Yuppie Word

Everyone dies. Everyone loves a fight. Nothing is sound. Nothing is right-side-right.

Happy is a yuppie word. Nothing in the world could fail me now. It's empty as an argument. I'm running down a life that won't cash out.

I went to a museum today, the Orange County Museum of Art. It wasn't fun. But if you're looking for a thorough collision with the world that exists underneath the make-up and advertisements, the reality behind the curtain—this is where you'll find it.

We walked up to a plain, square-ish building with a few flags and dark cobwebbed windows. We thought it was closed—maybe abandoned—but it was as alive as it would ever be. A few visitors milled around inside, their eyes glued to the white walls, to the pops of color composing the artwork which hardly pretended to decorate them, to the concrete floor, or to their own shoes—never to each other. We walked to the front desk, paid for our admission, and proceeded to explore the museum itself. The first room was okay...strange, I think, but okay. You must know that all the art in the museum was abstract. We knew that coming in.

We tread slowly through the rooms of the museum, our initial curiosity fading into a somber disquiet as our eyes introduced us to the hard-edged remains of consumerism. Every piece of art, from the gloppy paintings to the careful geometric sculptures, throbbed with emotion. I saw pain there, very raw pain, captured in the distant swirls of paint, in the dank, unforgiving colors, and in the struggle to call it all order. Even the most natural thing I could find, a block of wood crafted into the exact likeness of a giant pink eraser, tore my heart. An eraser? What are they trying to forget? Every work seemed to be drooping. Every almost-human figure was wailing. Eyes burned everywhere with an anxiety I didn't know art could capture. The whole display was aching, trembling, it seemed. It was, really, the embodiment of the unquenchable thirst that drives us all, that undeniable angst that reigns in the wake of any even momentary realization that our culture has told us a great lie. We sink when we realize it. They said one more, one more...one more...They said one more would do it. But it doesn't. We're stuck in an endless cycle down here. Nothing fulfills.

Happy is a yuppie word.

Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound.

We get it now, we think. The splattered paint and the dark colors...they get it too. "Happy" is just for the yuppies: the young professionals with sunshine in their pockets and gold in their skies. But they're blind, aren't they? Trouble will come. It always does.

Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound.

Looking for an orphanage. I'm looking for a bridge I can't burn down. I don't believe the emptiness. I'm looking for the kingdom coming down. Everything is meaningless. I want more than cash can buy. Happy is a yuppie word.

Switchfoot nailed it. That italicized stuff is theirs, if you were wondering. That's what we're feeling, even if we can't quite explain it. Happiness seems to be an illusion in a world that is gasping for air, straining to find some hope somewhere.

But look at it again.

Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound. Nothing is sound.

This is not how the world's supposed to be, is it? We know what soundness is, and this isn't it. And doesn't that—mustn't it?—mean that there has to be something more? something that is sound? We'd be content, wouldn't we, if the "not sound" is what we were made for, if sadness was all for which we could dare to hope? But we're not content.

G.K. Chesterton puts it this way, "The mass of men have been forced to be gay about the little things, but sad about the big ones. Nevertheless...it is not native to man to be so. Man is more himself, man is more manlike, when joy is the fundamental thing in him, and grief the superficial. Melancholy should be an innocent interlude, a tender and fugitive frame of mind; praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul. Pessimism is at best an emotional half-holiday; joy is the uproarious labor by which all things live."¹

You see, we know that the hopelessness is not the end, that it really must be a small corner in the vast universe of a joy we can't yet comprehend. But the problem is that we can't comprehend it.

But we can know One who could. And that makes all the difference.

Chesterton enlightens us again: "The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth."²

You know what mirth is, don't you? It's joy. It's the incomprehensible delight, the sheer gladness, that isn't restricted to the yuppie.

So why does it matter that Jesus had it? Wonder at this. Chesterton's Jesus—the Jesus smiling through the Gospels—came down on earth and suffered and died not because He had to. Chesterton's God—the God smiling through all of Scripture—created not because He had to. This God, our Savior, did all this because He knew joy and wanted to share it. Jesus walked through life with an almost secret smile on His lips, nearly bursting—sometimes really bursting—with a joy that could scarcely be contained. Look! Paul writes, "I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us" (Romans 8:18, NIV 1984).

What the joy of Jesus means is that someday we will know fully, in Him, the joy that He knows. But you know what it also means? It means that right now, right here, we can know that joy. We can have a relationship with Jesus Christ. We are indwelt by His Holy Spirit. We can begin to taste that joy—and the taste will be absolutely as much as these mortal bodies can handle. Why? When you walk next to Jesus, it just bounces off of Him and lands on you. You can't help it.

So what now? Let the fact that nothing is sound remind you of the not-so yuppie word: the joy of Christ that really comes from a life surrendered to Him.

Blessed is the man who's lost it all.³

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¹ Orthodoxy, p. 151. Barnes & Noble, Inc. (2007).

² Ibid., pp. 152-3.

³ All bold and italicized words in this post are lyrics from Switchfoot’s “Happy Is a Yuppie Word” (2005).

America the...um...well...I guess we'll see...

I don't know if you have ever had the opportunity to visit Disney World's Epcot Center in Orlando, Florida. It's a neat place, really. I was able to go about a week ago on an off-day during a missions trip to the headquarters of Wycliffe Bible Translators. I and my team walked happily through the park, admiring the detail that Disney incorporates into all of its attractions and marveling at the many different cultures represented in the World Showcase, a circle of grand buildings depicting the traditional architectural styles of twelve countries. While we were there, we watched a show called The American Adventure, which—with impressive audio-animatronics—told a brief history of the United States in the voices of Benjamin Franklin and Mark Twain and highlighted those attributes of the country that made her look best on-stage. It was...patriotic...I mean, I guess that's all I could call it. They used red, white, and blue...and, yeah...Go, America.

It was a good play, honestly. And I'm not saying that America is absolutely horrible. There are some qualities defining this country that made it a great place. Years ago, many called it the "greatest." To the persecuted immigrants, America looked like Disneyland today: "the happiest place on earth."

But the ending of the play left an unforgettably sour taste in my mouth, a sore disgust with what our nation has become combined with a halfhearted wish that what I had seen didn't have to be true. The finale of this creative history lesson depicted Benjamin Franklin and Mark Twain standing on Lady Liberty's torch and discussing the future of America. In a sarcastic grumble befitting the ingenious satirist, the animatronic Twain quoted John Steinbeck and prophesied a dim future for his nation, saying, "We now face the danger, which in the past has been the most destructive to the humans: Success, plenty, comfort and ever-increasing leisure. No dynamic people has ever survived these dangers."

I was impressed that they mentioned this quote and quite happy that, at last, someone was reflecting my own thoughts on the danger threatening the too-comfortable United States. But the quote was quickly forgotten as Franklin convinced Twain that America would survive these dangers because she was, after all, America. Hard work had brought her this far, and it could surely bring her farther.

As I walked out of the theatre, reflecting on this solid circular reasoning, my eye wandered over the six statues which proudly lined the wall and pointed us to the exit. Each statue embodied one "spirit of America" which distinguished the nation. They all sounded nice. "Spirit of Tomorrow," "Spirit of Independence," "Spirit of Innovation," "Spirit of Discovery." But the last two didn't fit. I'm sure they sounded just as nice to most people. For me, however, they stood out as if they had been painted purple. 

The first of these statues, a female doctor, bore a placard which claimed a "Spirit of Compassion." That's all fine and dandy, except that the next one, a noble cowboy, exemplified a "Spirit of Individualism." Yes, I'd say that both of these have been used countless times to describe the United States. Yes, at times, they might each be true descriptions—but never at the same time, because they are exactly opposite of one another.

Think about it. What is compassion? It's thinking of other people, seeing their pain, and sympathizing with it. What is individualism? It's promoting yourself over community, taking pride in your work, your position, your accomplishments...and it necessitates ignoring everyone else in the process. You see, these "spirits of America" can't possibly work together.

So what's the point? 

I think we have a decision to make. Which spirit are we going to live out? Will we boast our individualism and bring Steinbeck's prediction to fulfillment? If we are focused on our own prosperity, the destruction he describes is inevitable. But we're Americans, animatronic Franklin argues. We'll make it anyway. Right.

But suppose we decided to throw out the individualism, to see the pain of others, and to make America a country that really is compassionate. What if we had the guts to set ourselves aside for a minute, to pick up humility with both hands, and to start serving others? What would that look like?

Call it ironic if you want to, but I think it would start to look a lot like Christ had started a church.

The King Who Wasn't

There wasn't any particular reason I should have stopped on the road that day. I walk down it every other day without hesitating. I know it as well as that inscrutable mouse seems to know every bit of my master's home. As much as I am at a loss to determine the whereabouts of that ashy-brown creature, I am even more unable to describe precisely what made me stop that day. I remember shifting my delicately woven basket from one hip to the other as my sandaled feet resigned from sending the dry dust in choking swirls across my path. I stopped and stared at a man traveling easily in the opposite direction.

I know I'm just a servant. I don't know why I stopped. I shouldn't have looked at him...but I couldn't help it.

It wasn't that he was handsome. I had spent countless hours with my master's daughter at her window, admiring the soldiers who passed by day after day, their dark eyes flickering suspiciously back and forth and their gleaming armor shining with each ray of the sun. He wasn't like any of those soldiers. He was just...normal. He had simple clothes, a bit of dirt under his fingernails, and callouses on his feet. He had no feature worthy of capturing the eyes of those who acknowledged him. He was just...human. A normal human, plain and simple...

His eyes were different though. They were dark, like those of any other Jew. But they were different somehow. Maybe that was what stopped me that day. I looked into his eyes as I paused in the road. He looked into mine, and he smiled at me—faintly and simply. I think the smile was more in his eyes than it was on his face. Those eyes had so much in them—such gentleness, such joy, such love, a twinge of sorrow, a glimmer of contentment. They seemed to burn right through me, as if he knew everything about me in a single glance, but there was no hostility there, no strange motives. I didn't—couldn't—fear his penetrating gaze. I should have followed him.

But my master needed me. When the man had left the street, I continued on my way. Duty calls.

I heard that he died last week. Crucified, I think. They say he broke some law of his people, claiming to be their king. I nearly laughed when I heard that. He looked nothing like a king.

I wonder what was in his eyes that day. I still remember his gaze as if he were looking at me now. Even while dying, I can't imagine those dark depths filled with anything but love and joy, gentleness and peace—more sorrow, perhaps, and pain, undoubtedly—but otherwise the same as when I saw him in the road.

This morning, I finally learned why his eyes were so remarkable, so catching while the rest of his features were so plain. The reason why he looked so human is that he was much, much more than that.

You see, those gentle hands with the dirty fingernails were nailed to a gruesome cross. His calloused feet shared their fate. His loving eyes were blurred by his thorn-pierced brow, and his simple smile was twisted for a bit to reflect the pain that his body bore. He died that day, and those beautiful eyes were closed. It seemed like the end.

But the grave only held him for three days. His eyes, burning with unparalleled love and unfathomable joy, were open again. They'll be open forever.

I guess He was a king. He wasn't the king we thought He would be. He died. And even when He rose again, He didn't bother building a kingdom. He just encouraged His followers to do what He did, to live a life of love for God and man—a life of pure unselfishness and sacrificial love.

He never was what we expected. But, as it turns out, He's everything we actually needed.

God Is for Everybody: In Defense of the Theology of Sherlock Holmes

I've been a fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories ever since I can remember. The beautiful writing style, the brilliant detective and his fantastic observations and deductions, the captivating story lines—in short, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work is an unceasing pleasure to read. I've enjoyed the movies which have sought to replicate this famous character as well. You can guess, then, that when I heard about the BBC series Sherlock, it did not take much convincing for me to jump into it.

I must say that I think the show is well-written, well-casted, and definitely enjoyable. Nothing compares to the original stories, of course, but this is certainly one of the best renditions I have encountered. Even so, my admiration of the work is stunted by a few depictions of the character of Sherlock which appear to be entirely inconsistent with Doyle's portrayal, though I suppose they align with the dominating worldviews of our time. One of these came across in a suddenly and passionately critical yet almost discreet comment in Sherlock's best man speech in "The Sign of Three." (Don't worry. I won't spoil the story.) After describing some differences between himself and Watson, Sherlock notes wildly, "And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."¹

I hope you were as shocked as I was to discover this quote, whether you watched the episode or read it for the first time here. Its use is understandable. Why would any secular writer portray a detective who is, supposedly, the most brilliant individual in all the world (save for his brother) as a theist of any sort when today's intellectual standard is an uncompromising adherence to atheism? Let me phrase this more simply: It makes sense that a modernized Sherlock would fit with the reigning worldviews of today, namely, that God is nothing more than an invention of the human mind meant to satisfy a thirst for purpose.

However, the quote is inexcusably wrong on two accounts. First of all, despite its connection with the favorite worldview of today, it does not fit with the characterization of Mr. Holmes in Doyle's writings. In fact, to me, it seems as though Sherlock's theology in the original narratives is pretty sound. Take this quote from Holmes himself in "A Case of Identity," for instance: "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence."² Or this one, from "The Naval Treaty": "There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion...It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."³ I'll leave the explanation of these quotes to your own capacity for reasoning. However, I will note that they, at the very least, contradict the idea that Sherlock Holmes thought of God as merely a "ludicrous fantasy."

Secondly, even if this quote was taken directly from the lips of Doyle's detective, it would still be drastically inaccurate. Why? Because God is not just for the "family idiot." God is for everybody. For the intellectual who embraces logic and the power of human reasoning for discovering truth, He is the best answer to the universal questions of humankind. For the simple heart that longs not for complicated creeds but for simple goodness, He is everything that one could ask for. For the easygoing individual who merely wants a happy life, He provides the most inexplicable joy and the most solid purpose. For the lonely, impoverished widow, He is True Love and Faithful Providence. For the child, He is a Father. For the weak, He is strong. For the successful, He is meaning. For everyone, He is everything. And we all stand before Him equally, each desperately needing Him to be who He is.

So what does this mean for you, my reader? It means that God is for you too. What are you needing today? For what does your desperate soul hunger? Is there a thirst that nothing seems to quench? Take it to God. He is the answer. He is the One who fills us completely.

My dear friend, turn to Him. Like Sherlock Holmes, look at the flowers. See how He cares for them and wonder at His perfect care for you (Matthew 6:28-30). He is exactly what you need: the answer to your questions, the cleansing for your broken soul. Go take a look.

"My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken." —Psalm 62:1-2 (NIV, 1984)

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¹ Sherlock Season 3, Episode 2 (2014).

² The Complete Sherlock Holmes, p. 174. Barnes & Noble, Inc. (2009).

³ Ibid., pp. 425-6.