Goodness

I like making theories.  In a high school class entitled "human behavior," I'd make up theories about psychology.  One, which I'm pretty sure was wrong, was that each person can only retain a set amount of knowledge, and their personality is totally based on the knowledge retained from their first years of childhood.  It's bogus.  In college, I tried to limit myself to theories on history.  I had a good one in my "History of China" class, but I'm not terribly interested in Chinese history, so I used it in a paper and promptly lost the data.  Teaching has led me to come up with some educational theories, the main one being that learning has almost nothing to do with the teacher (I know it's not true, but sometimes I wonder...).  Mostly, though, my life experience deals with being a Christian, so I've made plenty of theological theories.  One of these, and I think lots of Christians share it, is that Christians go through phases of being taught certain lessons, to the point that most believers can say "God has really been teaching me _____________ lately."

Well, God has really been teaching me that He is the Author of Goodness.  I've spent the last year and a half or so thinking of Christianity as a privileged duty.    I've been thinking in terms of my response and not in terms of God's grace.  I act as though my faith starts with God but ends with me.  In reality, my faith starts with God and ends with God, extending an undeserved and unreturnable grace to me.  I'm starting to understand the answer in the Westminster Catechism to the question of "What is the chief end of man?"

Answer:  Man's chief and highest end is to glorify God and fully enjoy Him forever.

In Stephen Lawhead's book series The Song of Albion, the Celtic characters sometimes refer to God is the "Gifting-Giver."  Should I meet God on a mountain, I want it to be Calvary and not Sinai.

Adam of the Amazon

Standing on the peak of a South American mountain, overlooking the Amazon, I felt the same feeling as when I viewed the source of the Nile in Africa, the one Mark Twain writes about as he stands in the ancient city of Tangier, Morocco, in The Innocents Abroad.  I was too modern to juxtapose myself with this place.  My blue jeans, faded by manufacturers more than wear, clashed with the endless jungle.

Longing to be Adam, to be a part of the pristine world, I removed my clothing.  My attempt to be a part of a fall-less world was impaired, however, by the trail behind me.  Someone might come, might laugh, might feel embarrassed.  Someone might see me.  I took a quick glance around and slipped my legs back into my pants.  I couldn't stand there in "all my glory," because I was no longer glorious.  I was not Adam of the Amazon; I was a tourist from a broken world.

The desire to regain that place, to stand in Adam's steps, is one I feel no shame in possessing.  But the shame itself is another thing.  Meditating on this experience, I am forced to see that my own humiliation is nothing compared to the Incarnation, let alone the Crucifixion.  And because of that, a brighter glory is ahead, one with white robes to wear, with a more pristine world to stand proudly in.