Why we rarely go to church: Pascal's Wager for the modern world

A quote passed through my Facebook feed earlier today that read like this, "I would rather live my life as if there is a God, and die to find out there isn't // Than to live my life as if there isn't, and die to find out there is."

This is not exactly a new idea. In the 17th century, the mathematician, philosopher and physicist, Blaise Pascal, basically made the same claim, albeit far more philosophically and far less poetically. He argued for God's existence based on the logic of gain and loss in an argument famously known as Pascal's Wager. Here is his logic, quoted from his work, Pensées, first published in 1669.

1. "God is, or He is not"
2. A Game is being played... where heads or tails will turn up.
3. According to reason, you can defend neither of the propositions.
4. You must wager. (It's not optional.)
5. Let us weigh the gain and the loss in wagering that God is. Let us estimate these two chances. If you gain, you gain all; if you lose, you lose nothing.
6. Wager, then, without hesitation that He is. (...) There is here an infinity of an infinitely happy life to gain, a chance of gain against a finite number of chances of loss, and what you stake is finite. And so our proposition is of infinite force, when there is the finite to stake in a game where there are equal risks of gain and of loss, and the infinite to gain.

My philosophy professor in undergrad explained the wager in a chart that looked something like this:

The Internet and the "Devil's Work" of Abstraction

Today I was reading from a collection of Wendell Berry's essays when I came across two paragraphs that left me both vindicated and convicted. What I read so perfectly applied to everything that I have lately been pondering as our little corner of northwestern Minnesota has seen the harvest ending and Thanksgiving looming. I should say that I felt the hypocrisy in this post from the very start, and so I promise to get to that before this is over. Firstly, however, I give you what I read: Wendell Berry on the characteristics of the failed hero of modern industrialism:

"This would-be heroism is guilty of two evils that are prerequisite to its very identity: hubris and abstraction. The industrial hero supposes that 'mine own mind hath saved me'--and moreover that it may save the world. Implicit in this is the assumption that one's mind is one's own, and that it may choose its own place in the order of things; one usurps divine authority, and thus, in classic style, becomes the author of results that one can neither foresee nor control. And because this mind is understood only as a cause, its primary works are necessarily abstract. We should remind ourselves that materialism in the sense of love of material things is not in itself an evil. As C.S. Lewis pointed out, God too loves material things; He invented them. The Devil's work is abstraction--not the love of material things, but the love of their quantities...It is not the lover of material things but the abstractionist who defends long-term damage for short-term gain, or who calculates the 'acceptability' of industrial damage to ecological or human health, or who counts dead bodies on the battlefield." (from "The Gift of Good Land," 1979)

Wendell Berry (image from Wikipedia)

If you skimmed the quote go back and read it again. Then stop for a minute and think about what he is saying and how in the last thirty-three years abstractionism has penetrated the very fibers of our lives. Many of us who have grown up with the internet as next-to-kin have lived in a world where "The Matrix" is not just a fascinating idea for a movie but part of the genesis of our digital lives. We don't just do Facebook or tweet to the realm of Twitter; we have online identities. We share our lives digitally to such an extent that many of us are more comfortable online than in day-to-day dealings with other human beings. I recognize this in myself from time to time--even if I abhor it.

Let me step back for a minute.

A couple of days ago I heard a comment from an atheist that the worst of all careers is a pastor, who, by definition, does not contribute anything to society. Anybody thinking of attending seminary, he suggested, should instead become a mechanic or a pilot or a nurse or an engineer. Of course, I think this person is wrong... and yet... there is a grain of truth in what he says. Many pastors end up in their own theological worlds and don't actually produce anything. For the last few days, therefore, I have been on my own personal hunt for the good I do on a day-to-day basis.

This morning I was preaching and offering communion at worship services at the nursing home in town when I was finally struck by the absurdity of that person's comment. Here I was offering something that was profoundly necessary for these elderly and enfeebled people--people who didn't care if I had a great sermon or a horrible one, people who didn't mind if I stuttered or spoke with clarity; all that mattered was that I was there. I had left the world of abstraction in my office, and I found myself in a place where presence is the only qualification for good work. My success in the nursing home is purely dependent on how present I am. And lest you think that is hardly a unique vocation, I ask: What is my purpose for visiting the elderly? It is theological and pastoral; it is part and parcel of the call. It is by no means the only things I do with others for the sake of the betterment of the world, but it is perhaps the simplest and most honest. A nurse can be a loving servant to the elderly (and believe me, they are!), but a pastor is still capable of bringing something unique that the nurse cannot--a purpose for their life that is bigger than the walls in which they are confined.

You see, that atheist commentator was right to the extent that it applies to Berry's insight; the Devil's work is abstraction. If my work were only to think thoughts about God then, yes, I would be doing nothing for the common good. If my thoughts weren't borne out in actions then my life would be meaningless. This could be leveled as an critique of academia--and, Lord knows, it has been!--but in truth the best professors are teachers who seek to impart what are often abstract ideas into the day-to-day material lives of their students. They are training their students for a physical world, and in-so-doing entering into it with them.

But now, I fear I must return to the place where I will prove myself a hypocrite. On the internet we are able to share ideas in real-time across wide reaches of the world, but the abstract often stays there. We argue endlessly about ideas; we treat our online world as if it is a product of our own making; we become online gods, smiting those who question our omniscience with a single mouse-click. All the while we find ourselves doing the Devil's work, feeding the insatiable monster of abstraction. This blog post could be just that.

But I hope not.

Instead, I have a different hope, but it will take your help to accomplish. I hope that you go out and do something; that you get off the internet and into the lives of people you love and people you don't yet know that you love. I hope that you treat the internet as a tool in the service of doing rather than a place where you can be. Just as C.S. Lewis reminds us that material things are not, in themselves, bad, so too is the internet a creation capable of being good, but it runs the acute risk of abstracting everything that gives our lives meaning and purpose. Don't let it do it. That is the Devil's work. And it can happen to pastors and students, politicians and business people. Our lives are not our own, so we had better start attending to what we are doing with them.

I'm off to visit our new food shelf. How about you?

A Tale of Two Kingdoms: The Hunger Games and Harry Potter

"God has ordained the two governments: the spiritual, which by the Holy Spirit under Christ makes Christians and pious people; and the secular, which restrains the unchristian and wicked so that they are obliged to keep the peace outwardly." -Martin Luther, On Secular Authority

"God rules the earthly or left-hand kingdom through secular...government, by means of law (i.e., the sword or compulsion) and in the heavenly or righthand kingdom (his spiritual kingdom, that is, Christians insofar as they are a new creation who spontaneously and voluntarily obey) through the gospel or grace." -"Doctrine of the two kingdoms, Wikipedia.

I was at the theater last night at midnight along with one hundred people younger than myself and one or two older for The Hunger Games spectacle. At this point I should probably spout the usual necessary background info: I read the books, enjoyed them thoroughly and was looking forward to the movies, and I also didn't particularly care how closely they followed the books because it is a different medium--and if you continue to pout because directors don't make movies word-for-word out of books (especially 30 seconds after getting out of the theater) I might just punch you in the face... but I digress. The HG trilogy is a story that grabs you with characters that make you care whether they live or die. Many tales don't ever reach that point, so it's obvious enough that Suzanne Collins tapped into something... but what?

I struggled with this. For all their entertainment value, I wondered all through my reading where to find the moral center of the Hunger Games universe. An author can craft any story, theoretically, when she first puts pen to paper (or fingers to keys), so why this one? There are a few simple readings: this is an underdog story, a political warning, and a cautionary tale of the forces outside of ourselves that consciously or unconsciously rule our lives. I think all of that is true, but it doesn't exactly answer the question of ethos. I mean, Collins could have sent any final message in such a story. She could have utterly decimated the villains; she could have made the symbols of purity and helplessness (Prim and Rue) win the day instead of the symbols of defiance (Katniss and Peeta). One could say--and I think they do--that Rue wins vicariously through Katniss and through the revolution. That is the underlying message, isn't it? And therein lies the ethos. The Hunger Games is tied to a kingdom of this world philosophy where secular authorities wage war with and often against their own people. The kingdom of the left-hand is ruled by laws that humans can so easily manipulate for their own political agendas. So we have the reaping.

With this insight in mind, let me be clear about one thing: I don't think it is a bad thing for this story to be one of the left-handed kingdom. There's a reason it resonates and I'd be willing to bet it's because we experience that kingdom and its laws and rules (principalities and powers, says Robert Farrar Capon) everyday of our lives. It's not impossible to imagine a reaping, or a corrupt dictator--we know intuitively that our leaders may very well show those same colors in a different political environment. This is the left-handed kingdom; a place where force rules and we can only wonder, as Peeta does, if there's any way to show them they don't own us.

A wand over a bow

There is, Peeta, but in your universe it will only be a shadow of a promise. This is why I cling to Harry Potter over against Katniss Everdeen. You could say it's because she is a female protagonist, but I think that's an unfair out. In the Chronicles of Narnia I am drawn in by Lucy over the many boys in the story because hers is the vision I want to dream. Katniss is a strong female character and should be applauded for it; she is everything she can be in such a time and place. My own favoritism has nothing to do with the characters and everything to do with the resolution of the stories and the ethos of the authors. While Suzanne Collins was out to tell a story of the kingdom of the left, J.K. Rowling offered us a portrait of the right-handed kingdom that dwarfs politics. She made death into a calling, an invitation home, and claimed all the while that ultimate victory does not come through the ethos of Voldemort ("flees from death" in French) but Harry who walks willingly to his demise and so becomes "master of death." She changed the rules of the game.

Katniss has no choice but to escape death; it is the haunting specter over everything that she does. And rightly so, since her most immediate need is to come home to her mother and her sister, Prim. The fact that she is able to achieve that end speaks volumes about the human spirit, the power of love and the triumph of good over evil. But I need to make a weighty distinction here: Katniss' love is not as powerful as Harry's. I realize that might sound borderline blasphemous; after all, she is willing to die for her sister. What greater love is there than that? I think Jesus would say, "Not much!" However, the answer lies again not in Katniss' motivation (in truth she is as strong a character as Harry and probably by necessity stronger given the circumstances she faces) but instead in the universe in which she was planted. Collins created a world lacking what C.S. Lewis described as the "Deeper Magic."

In the left-handed kingdom love is still king, but it is a kind of love marked by grief. As Wendell Berry wrote, "The world of love includes death, suffers it, and triumphs over it. The world of efficiency is defeated by death; at death, all its instruments and procedures stop. The world of love continues, and of this grief is the proof" (from Health is Membership). Katniss tries with all her might to inject the world of efficiency with love, but ultimately the only reason that love wins is her indomitable will. But wills do not last and the specter of death never hovers from her life--not through three books of immense loss.

I applaud The Hunger Games for their honest portrayal of ourselves as who we are. It is never sugar-coated or served up with useless platitudes. Every one of us can see ourselves in Katniss or Gale, Peeta or Rue. Yet, I ultimately want more than what we see ourselves to be in this little life. I want a story that gives weight to the mystery that is our purpose; a story that overthrows the tyrants of this world--yes--but that doesn't stop there; a story where romantic love conquers not just because it is love but because it is a symbol of a deeper something that points beyond our meager feelings. I want not just an underdog story but resurrection.

And so, Katniss Everdeen, I applaud you for being one of the greatest heroes of fiction I have ever come across, but if I ran into you in this world I would find you a preacher... and his name is Harry Potter.

Light, C.S. Lewis, and letting it burn.

John 1:6-8, "There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He was not himself the light, but he came to testify to the light. 

C.S. Lewis once said, “I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.” You can tell that Lewis was intimately aware of John’s Gospel, especially these verses. John the Baptist comes on to the stage, testifying to the light, and causing us to pause—as we should with any metaphor—to wonder, “Who (or what) is this light?” Our Sunday school answer tells us: Jesus. But what on earth does that mean?

Try explaining to Confirmation students that Jesus is the light, and he is also the Good Shepherd, and he is also the lamb… and, oh yeah, he’s the prince of peace… and watch as their eyes gloss over. Metaphors are rough. At their best they open up worlds of interpretation and get us to see things in new ways; at their worst they positively turn us off to everything that the story is saying. Take this light image: Jesus is the light, the true light, the light of the world.

You have undoubtedly heard that a thousand times. Now let’s unpack it. If Jesus is the light that means that it is through Jesus that we see the world. Without light your eyes are useless; try walking alone in the woods on a cloudy night with no moon and thick tree cover and that’s about as close as you can get. So, we could say that Jesus allows us to see, but that opens up further possibilities. Is Jesus the sun?

This would be, I suppose, taking him literally, but it doesn’t really tell us much about God—unless you believe that God is a flaming ball of fire… I hope you don’t. It seems to me that the best way to think about Jesus as light is to think of his immanent presence. Light is all around us but we can’t touch it and have only our eyes to tell us of its existence; we can’t smell it or taste it; it might give off heat but the light itself doesn’t feel like anything.

So the obvious answer to the riddle is that light surrounds us, and so does Jesus. This is a single layer, but a good metaphor like this begs us to go deeper. To do so let’s return for a moment to C.S. Lewis’ quote. Lewis connects Christ as light to the way we believe. There’s a well-known Bible passage from Hebrews 11 that reads, “Faith is the evidence of things unseen.” Pardon the pun but Lewis sheds new light on faith, suggesting that faith isn’t only evidence of things unseen; it is also the very act of seeing itself. Everything visible, everything that our eyes take in is an article of faith, because the light itself is Christ—giving us sight just as he gave sight to the blind.

One of my favorite books is Blindness by Jose Saramago, a story about a sweeping pandemic of white blindness that quickly envelopes a country. The story follow a group of diverse individuals who are never named, led by a single woman—given only the title, “the doctor’s wife”—who is the only person in the world that can still see. Without ruining the whole story—because I strongly recommend it—they encounter all the horrible means to which people go in a society completely devoid of sight. Near the end, the doctor’s wife reflects on the ordeal of blindness as the sun rises over the city with a quote that is as haunting as it is profound. She says,

“I don’t think we did go blind, I think we are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see.”

  

Life without Christ is to be “Blind people who can see, but do not see.” You can physically see the world, but the true light of it is missing. To see the world without Christ is to be blind but seeing. Light is Christ in and through us.

This is all well and good, and we can certainly feel good about ourselves for believing in a God who is light to the darkness of the world, but here’s the thing: if we live like the light we experience is merely light, then we too remain blind. If we take the metaphor and think, “Well isn’t that a nice image for Christ… well, isn’t that Advent candle a great ritual… well, isn’t that Christ candle or baptismal candle a wonderful ritual…” then we remain blind, because we are forgetting the nursery rhyme that we really have no excuse not to remember. You know the one: “This little light of mine. I’m gonna let it shine... Hide it under a bush, O no! I’m gonna let it shine.” It changes things when that light is Christ.

I imagine when you hear that song you think of holding a candle. Yet, I wonder if we’re not thinking big enough. Christ isn’t a puny little flame at the end of a wick; we don’t need to protect Christ from going out. Instead, Christ is everything that we see; not just the candle but the space in between us as we meet each other face to face. The candle is our faith, hanging tenuously on the end of that wick; it is ours, but not ours to keep. Our faith is to be shared with the world. The light that we hold is more powerful when it lights the wick of another.

Some peoples' approach to evangelism is to take their candle and drop it on the floor and let the whole place go up in flames. You see these people on TV with their altar calls, exorcisms and strong language of conversation. For them, faith is something shared by force; they don’t have candles as much as flame throwers to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The problem with this approach is that many will smell fire and bolt before they ever see Christ. The strong act of sharing their faith is off-putting to those standing by the exit in the first place.

We have a different problem up here in the northwest corner of Minnesota. We take our little lights and we hold them close, so close sometimes that no one else can see them. We hold them tightly because it is what we value, what we love, what we care about deeply. Our problem is not the depth of our devotion but our willingness to let it burn for the world to see.

So, here’s my hope this Advent season. We let it burn. We don’t need to burn the place down with our faith, but we should not be afraid to let it shine for the world to see. It’s the season of light. Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.

Why I love Lucy

No, this isn't about an old television show.  I just saw Dawn Treader for the second time (not because it was that good... it was good... but mostly to get away from homework and hang with some other friends).  There are several reasons to love this movie.  For one, it is the best book of the series.  I'm sorry to the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe fanatics.  Yes, Lewis opened up Narnia in that book, but here he gives it form and function that is rivaled only in The Horse and His Boy.  The setting, the magic, the idea of Aslan's country and the scene on the precipice of it are just splendid.

But none of that is why I adored this movie.  In fact, I found this most attractive for something that the producers changed from the original stories.  I know the Lewis die-hards will hate this, but one of the reasons the Narnia series has never reached the level of appreciation in my life that Harry Potter and even the Chronicles of Prydain have is because the characters in Narnia are so one-dimensional.  I don't understand this from Lewis because he writes in On Stories and elsewhere that the imagination of children should not be limited by adult misconceptions, and here he is crafting the main character (outside of Aslan) in his series as a one-dimensional child.

I'm talking about Lucy Pevensie.  In the books I can sum her up with a sentence.  She is a pure child whose only challenge is fighting off the temptation to seek earthly beauty and grown-up-ness at the cost of a child-like attitude and faith.  It's a great example, but hardly one I can relate to.  And I think it is one hard to relate to for kids today who are actually at the point of social pressure (which is happening earlier and earlier).

But I said I liked what the movies did.

And I do!  It started small in the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by giving her a dagger.  It didn't matter much to the plot, but it was a sign of things to come.  We didn't see much in Prince Caspian, so I have to admit I feared she would sink into oblivion.  And then came the Dawn Treader.  Here we have a Lucy with a sword, a Lucy with an attitude, a Lucy still tempted but growing, learning, becoming more than a childish girl.  It's not fair to apply Lewis' standards for girls to a different era, so I'm not going to blame him for his Lucy of literature.  Instead, I want to lift up the Lucy of this film.  She was brilliant.  Cute.  But a whole lot more than that.  As much as Eustace Scrubb was the character that will be remembered, Lucy is the character that gives meaning to the story that brings us oh so close to the boundaries of Aslan's country.