Pics

For those of you who have been wondering what's going on with The Woman, here are some pics for you. We're doing great, by the way.

These first two are old ones from my birthday surprise. (At least they seem old -- it seems like it's been a while since we took them.) This photo shoot did double duty: (1) it gave us some nice photos and (2) it served as a stalling tactic so that the folks could get to Calientito's for my surprise dinner party (!).

No, she's not ours. Kathryn and I with little Lelia Thames Siple. Isn't she adorable? (And the baby's pretty cute, too.)

Flotsam and Jetsam

Last day of classes is next Monday. Tons of grading to do til then, but with Kathryn out of town until tomorrow, hopefully I won't goof off too much and will get most of it done. That is, if I don't go see another movie like I did yesterday afternoon.

I saw Fracture and enjoyed it. Not a great film, but a good one. Hopkins did a good job playing another intelligent, calculating, psychologically tilted character. I liked Ryan Gosling in it, too, actually. I like his slur.

Cool Hand Luke is playing at a local bar Monday night. Now that's a great film.

My Existentialism class asked me what we would be doing on Monday, our last day. I told them that I would answer the question, "What is existentialism?" They laughed. I don't know if they were making fun of me or if they thought I was kidding. Either way, at least I made them laugh.

I got a really nice email today from a student in my intro to philosophy class. She was wary about taking the class at first, but turned out to really enjoy it. "I was never a deep thinker, but your enthusiasm throughout the semester encouraged me to ponder the subjects we discussed." Sweet. That's what I like to hear. "I just wanted to take the time to thank you and tell you that you made a positive impact on me." Now, I've never heard that before, but I think I appreciated this comment more than another other the student made. Awww.

Last week on the walk from my apartment to work, I spied a squirrel carrying a whole donut in its mouth. That's right, a whole donut. The little critter didn't even try to break it up in pieces before it headed for the tree.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that I gave the keynote speech for the Phi Kappa Literary Society banquet last Saturday night. I'm making sound much more important than it really was--I mean, the speech was only 10 minutes long, if that. But it was quite an honor to be asked to do it, and they seemed to enjoy it, which really was the point of the speech anyway. Plus Kathryn and I got a free meal out of it and got to dress up for an evening out. Unfortunately, we didn't think about getting a dress-up picture taken until after the fact.

Paradox Of The Incarnation

Working through parts of Kierkegaard’s (pseudonymous) Philosophical Fragments in one of my classes, Johannes Climacus discusses Christ’s incarnation as a paradox, an affront to reason. The way in which I typically think of the incarnation as an affront to reason is in (probably far too simplistic and unhelpful) terms of percentages: Christ is 100% human and 100% divine. The problem, of course, is how something—anything—can be completely one thing and also completely something else, how it can “own” in its entirety and identity two sets of incompatible or contradictory or opposing attributes. (Which one of the three disjuncts we choose to describe the sets of attributes is important, but one that I’ll leave aside for now.)

Another way to put this is in terms of communicable attributes. There are certain attributes God has that are said to be communicable, or capable of being attributed (though in an analogical rather than univocal sense) to humans: loving, just, merciful, etc. And there are incommunicable attributes that specify characteristics unique to God, ones that can’t even analogically be said to describe creatures: omnipotence, omniscience, aseity (independence), immutability (unchangeableness), perfect, infinite, etc. (Because these latter characteristics are supposed to be describing a being completely different from us creatures (at least in those ways), they often have negative (a-, im-, in-) or superlative (omni-) prefixes attached.)

Apart from the question of whether or not we can even talk intelligibly about God’s incommunicable attributes (Michael Horton in his Lord and Servant has a very interesting argument for how we can), there is the question of whether, or how, God’s attributes can also be human attributes in the person of Christ. Of particular concern are the incommunicable attributes, but, really, both these attributes and the communicable attributes are problematic, for if Christ is God then he would have even God’s communicable attributes univocally and not just analogically. What has the finite to do with the infinite? Can omniscience be predicated of Christ as human or can mercy be predicated univocally of Christ as God?

In his chapter “The Lord as Servant,” Horton discusses some of the pitfalls of non-Chalcedonian takes on Christ’s two natures, in which there is either too much separation (emphasizing Christ’s humanity) or too much confusion or melding together (ultimately divinizing Christ). Horton, of course, wants to steer the course set by Chalcedon: one person in two natures without division and without confusion. One way to separate the natures, for instance, would be to say that some attributes apply to one of the natures (e.g., the communicable ones to Christ’s humanity) while other attributes apply to the other nature (e.g., the incommunicable ones to Christ’s divinity). But this makes Christ schizophrenic at best and is an unbiblical view at worst (e.g., Acts 20:28 – God purchased the church with His own blood). The way of confusion would be something like Barth’s position that Christ reveals God only in his divinity, only in terms of his divine attributes.

So how does Chalcedon steer clear of the paradoxical nature of the incarnation?

“The doctrine of the two natures of Christ must be articulated within a thoroughly Trinitarian framework, without simply reducing one nature to the other. The paradox must never be resolved in any final synthesis: this, it seems, is precisely the point that Chalcedon makes.” (176)

What is this Trinitarian framework? It has been easy for theologians in the past to view Christ’s humanity as being wielded by his divinity, like someone wielding a tool (e.g., Athanasius held this view). This would ease the tension brought on by the paradox, but it fails to give full weight to Christ’s humanity. Horton’s answer is that when we put Christ’s work, and, thereby, Christ’s nature(s), within the context of covenant—the covenants of redemption and of creation—we see him as both the eternal Son and the second Adam, respectively. It is particularly in his active obedience regarding the covenant of creation—accomplishing what Adam could not—where Horton sees the Trinity at work, for

“the Son of Man claims victory for himself by right and not merely by gift, nor indeed by virtue of his deity.” (172)

Christ, obedient in his humanity, was upheld by the Spirit of God to accomplish and fulfill the task set before him and not just because his humanity was carried along like so much baggage on the back of the Logos. The paradox is not finally resolved—at least not in the sense that it now becomes rationally acceptable and ceases to be an affront to (unregenerate) reason—but perhaps the tension could be eased a bit.

Horton has us think about the two natures—the finite and the infinite—in terms of containment, what is called the extracalvinisticum: the finite cannot contain the infinite. Reformed folks have not interpreted this to mean that there could be no uniting of the two, but to mean instead that the two couldn’t be confused or commingled. That is, the infinite will not be contained in the finite without remainder; the former will always outstrip the latter. Heidelberg Catechism Q. 48:

“Since divinity is not limited and is present everywhere, it is evident that Christ’s divinity is surely beyond the bounds of the humanity he has assumed, but at the same time his divinity is in and remains personally united to his humanity.”

One of the problems with the paradox is thinking of the divine attributes as applying in the same way to the Logos as to Christ, without taking into consideration the humanity with which those attributes are united. Is Christ infinite in exactly the same way as the Logos? No. Is Christ infinite? Yes. QED

80s New Wave Is Back, Baby

Was introduced Monday to a new band: The Epoxies. I've read it described as the bastard child of Debbie Harry and Devo, and this isn't far off the mark. Add a little Talking Heads, Joe Jackson, and some top-40 to the gene pool, but be sure to go heavy on the synth. Being a musical child of the 80s, I am thoroughly enjoying it.

The Amorality of Movie-Making

No, not the immorality of movie-making, though there is plenty of that to go around. The Federal Trade Commission is considering cracking down on the marketing and public advertising of gory thriller movies—keeping disturbing images out of the public eye, that sort of thing. Flipping around the channels the other day, I alit on an entertainment news show and caught a brief interview with one of the actors in the new thriller Disturbia. When asked what he thought of the FTC’s plan of action, the actor drew an analogy with Picasso and Warhol. Honestly, I can’t recall what his conclusion was, but he rhetorted* something like the following: “Were Picasso or Warhol censored? No.” Perhaps he said, “Should Picasso or Warhol be censored?” No matter. The reconstructed argument behind his question-and-answer might go something like this:

Picasso and Warhol weren’t/shouldn’t be censored for their artwork.
Movies are works of art.
Therefore, movies (and the marketing that goes along with them) shouldn’t be censored.

Assuming that the work of Picasso and Warhol counts as art, which I am willing to admit, I find it odd that movies would be in the same category. I don’t find it odd that movies are works of art—I think they are, though they can be well or poorly done. But I wonder whether it makes sense to say that movies are in the same league, in terms of artistic value, as Picasso and Warhol. Perhaps his point was that Picasso and Warhol were not in the mainstream and shook art up a bit, or that there were off-centered and even disturbing aspects to their artwork. Even so, there are a couple of considerations about the analogy to keep in mind.

1. The value of the art is a different issue from whether or not it ought to be publicly advertised. Even if the art is considered “good” art, it still may not be appropriate for public consumption. Typically, artistic value is the judgment of the artistic community, which doesn’t have a de facto right or obligation to put the art up on billboards.
2. The extent of just how disturbing the images are should be a consideration. Even if movie posters, as still image advertisements of movies-as-art, count as art in the same way as “Guernica” or Warhol’s soup cans, this doesn’t give advertisers carte blanche to put them up anywhere they please. Perhaps an analogy with Maplethorpe would be more appropriate.

But this wasn’t the most interesting part of the interview. He went on to say:

"We [the movie industry] can’t do anything wrong. We can do good stuff and bad stuff, but that’s opinion-based. You can’t [stop – not sure what word he used here, bnb] artwork."

Granted, this is one actor from one movie, so his view doesn’t necessarily reflect that of the industry. But it struck me that there is a lack of ethical obligation or even ethical judgment in his words. “We can’t do anything wrong.” Morality doesn’t apply. It’s not that he is saying that movie makers have a right to be immoral—the interesting thing here is that moral categories simply don’t apply to movie-making. There is no moral or immoral movie; there are only good or bad movies, where “good” and “bad” do not reflect moral judgments but instead reflect judgments of amoral opinions, whether personal or corporate.

Can movie-makers “do wrong” in their craft, in an ethical sense? If there is no area of life or culture that is outside of God’s dominion, what place does art have (whether visual art, movies, or literature)? How should God’s standards be applied? I honestly haven’t done as much thinking about answers to these questions as I’d like. I am disinclined to make application by counting the number of curse words and gratuitous acts of violence, not the least reason for which is that I enjoy (most of) Tarantino’s movies.

Why do I think his movies are good? What do I mean by “good” here? What standard am I applying? I recently finished a short article by Ross Douthat in First Things, “Lost and Saved on TV,” where he discusses religious themes and themes of redemption in TV shows. (Yes, he discussed LOST at some length.) One of the more interesting parts of the article, and one that is perhaps relevant to this post, is his discussion of The Sopranos. He had high praise for the show, even though it is filled with infidelities, corruption, and violence, for Douthat’s point was about how these things were portrayed. They are not glorified in the show but rather shown for what they are: things to avoid.

"The Sopranos dares instead to explore the terrible banality of evil, depicting ordinary people held prisoner by their habits and appetites who choose hell instead of heaven over and over again, not with a satanic flourish but with an all-American sense of entitlement. Sin is never glamorized or aestheticized: The violence is brutal rather than operatic, the fornications and adulteries are panting and gross rather than titillating. The characters’ sins breed even physical dissolution: obesity, ulcers, hemorrhoids, constipation, cancer. The show offers a vision of hell as repetition, ultimately, in which the same pattern of choices (to take drugs, to eat and drink to excess, to rob and steal and bully and murder) always reasserts itself, and the chain mail of damnation—in which no sin is an island, and gluttony is linked to violence, sloth, and greed, and so on—slowly forges itself around the characters’ souls."

Perhaps this could be a clue to how we view movies (and TV shows)—don’t count the acts of violence but rather think about what role that violence plays in the broader aesthetic context, think about what view of violence is being portrayed. But, then, this requires us to think, and these things are often hard to think about.

* I made this word up. I suggest the following definition of “rhetort”: “to reply rhetorically.”

Fight Club on PBS

Well, not really.

While flipping around the channels the other day, I was stopped short by the surreal: Edward Norton narrating a scene on PBS of a scientist in a lab coat doing something or another with little beetles, clamps, and syringes. Yet another anarchistic plan staged by Project Mayhem? Turns out the special was about the environmental effects of climate change. I just kept expecting him to start into something about Tyler Durden or Jack’s sense of environmental responsibility. It never came.

Coffee Cost Confusion

Just about every time I get morning coffee in my own container at Hot Corner, it costs something different. This morning it was $0.88. Earlier this week it was $0.92. Last month it was $1.75. I like surprises and all, but this is just a little bit odd. But, then, so long as they keep it under $1, I don't really care.

Kierkegaard and Apologetics

Christianity has always rooted itself and its claims in historical fact, not only in the Scriptures themselves but in the creeds of the Church—after all, Pontius Pilate makes his way into the Apostles’ Creed. In the Philosophical Fragments Kierkegaard’s pseudonym, Johannes Climacus (“John the Ladder”), considers the role of historical evidence, particularly regarding the Incarnation, in providing a basis for faith. Climacus claims that historical evidence is neither necessary nor sufficient for faith, yet it plays the role as an occasion for faith. In fact, Climacus argues that we can’t reason our way to God at all; the attempt is doomed from the start, for we cannot raise ourselves, epistemologically speaking, to God’s level in order to know Him. One reason, I think, that Kierkegaard has Climacus say this is because Kierkegaard is very much concerned to counter a kind of intellectualized Christianity that he saw permeating Denmark, one where Truth was not seeping into the very persons who assented to Christian doctrine. Another reason, closer to Climacus’ concerns, has to do with the nature of the relationship between us and God. A problem arises between unequals for any love affair (as Climacus calls it), but this is especially so in a love affair between an infinite, holy God and finite, sinful human beings. How can this inequality be overcome? What point of contact could God have with human beings?

Climacus begins the work by considering two contrasting ways of coming to a knowledge of truth: Opinion A and Opinion B. Opinion A is essentially a Socratic/Platonic view of knowledge from Plato’s dialogue, Meno. In the dialogue, the truth is seen as something that resides in the person and knowledge is brought about by a teasing out of this truth by the teacher through Socratic questioning. In this case, the teacher imparts nothing but acts as an intellectual midwife (as Socrates once called himself), birthing the truth that was already within. The learner is not transformed. According to Opinion B, on the other hand, the learner is transformed by the teacher, who imparts upon the learner the condition for understanding the truth. The learner is unable to come to a knowledge of the truth on his own but needs help—he needs a savior, a deliverer, a judge (as Climacus says). He needs what Climacus calls “the god” as teacher.

Climacus claims not to be a Christian; he has not ascended to a knowledge of God, even through faith. But, I think, Kierkegaard was a Christian, and Opinion B clearly has God (and not just “the god”) as teacher in mind. The reason why we cannot ascend to a knowledge of God on our own, the reason we need a teacher, a deliverer, a savior is, ironically, the very point of contact that God has with human beings: the Incarnation. Human reason cannot comprehend the Incarnation; its paradoxical nature offends reason, so reason (apart from faith) decides not to believe it. Faith, says Climacus, is a gift from God that allows the individual to believe what reason could not. Reason, in this case, is not abrogated but rather fulfilled.

But, and this is closer to whatever apologetical implications Philosophical Fragments might have, reason is also unable to believe—at least with any certainty—based on historical evidence. Climacus’ reasoning for this claim is admittedly difficult and convoluted, but it amounts to seeing an historical event as being contingent by virtue of its coming into being, since that which comes into being from not-being cannot be necessary (for what is necessary cannot change or not-be). The upshot here is that reason is unable either to accept or reject any historical event with complete certainty—including the Incarnation. Because of the paradoxical nature of the Incarnation, reason takes offence and refuses to believe. Although this may seem like a “reasonable” way for reason to react, it can’t disbelieve with certainty—it can’t say, “It is absolutely true that the Incarnation is impossible.”

Belief is a function of the will, a conclusion of the will. Both reason and faith can be grounds of belief (in a causal sense, at the very least), but as belief is a function of the will, reason and faith will ultimately both be grounded in passion. Reason, the intellect, for Climacus, is not some neutral arbiter with regard to what it accepts or rejects. In the end, it has as little (or as much) rationale behind its decisions as does faith. It is no better; it is no worse. But because of its imperialistic nature, because it wants to impose its rational standards and criteria upon the world, because it refuses to see its own limitations, because (as Climacus says) its capacity to understand the things of God is affected by sin, there is the need for God to provide the condition necessary to understand the things of God: faith.

The apologetical implications are these. In the end, historical evidence will not decide the acceptance or rejection of the things of God. Understanding will ultimately come from God in the form of faith, not from reasoning our way through to an understanding, because the intellect has been made incapable of understanding the things of God through sin; that is, the problem is ultimately moral rather than epistemological. Yet, evidence can provide the means by which God transforms the individual.

As C. Stephen Evans notes in his essay on Philosophical Fragments, this looks a lot like Reformed epistemology: beliefs can be warranted even if they are not based on any evidence that can be appealed to, and beliefs are warranted by virtue of their being the result of “faculties designed to reach truth that are working properly in the kind of environment in which they were designed to function” (Alvin Plantinga, Warrant and Proper Function). Our faculties were designed to reach the truth by working properly in God’s creation. But sin got in the way—our faculties no longer work properly, though they remain in the environment in which they were designed to function. So, (un)naturally, we’ll mess things up about God’s world. Where faith comes in is that it reorients our faculties to their proper working order. So, as Augustine and Calvin claimed, faith is necessary for understanding and for properly warranted belief.

LOST (3x16): "One of Us"

I absolutely loved this episode. Peeling back the layers a little more, giving us a little more information. Setting up a good sub-plot with Juliette on the beach.

Juliette's Infiltration

I guess the Others' leaving Otherville was a big ruse (based on Ben and Juliette's discussion of the plan at the end of the episode)--but to what end? Why would they want to infiltrate the Losties' camp and have Juliette be seen as one of them, be someone they can trust? Since she's involved with fertility research, both on and off the island, I would surmise that that would be the connection. But who does the connection point to among the Losties? Claire? They've already done things with/to her--injecting her with some DI serum, putting some sort of implant in her. What was the implant for? It apparently creates a pretty serious-looking reaction, but was Claire ever really in danger from the implant's activation? If not, what need would they have for such a thing to be in Claire? If so, was this part of their plan all along, to create a situation in which one of Them would need to win the trust of the Losties? Perhaps it was part of Plan B once Ethan took matters with Claire into his own hands...assuming, that is, that Juliette is telling the truth about that.

Would Sun be Juliette's target? When Juliette told Jack and Kate about the problems that pregnant mothers have on the island, the camera (but not Juliette) panned to Sun. Do the Others know about her pregnancy? I don't see how. (1) Sun has always been on the beach, so there have been no cameras or mics (as far as we know) to pick up any conversations about her pregnancy. (2) Neither Ethan nor Goodwin (the only pre-Juliette Others who were among the survivors) were around when they found out about Sun. Sure, They know a lot about the dealings of the Losties pre-island, but there are informers and ways of getting information that they don't have for those on the beach. Even Sawyer's mistake the night before the flight could be known, though their intelligence would need to be pretty tight to know something like that. (BTW, I think that the scene in Mikhail's place is proof that the plane crash was not some big DI/Others conspiracy or orchestrated by Them. It also shows how tight their intelligence is, a la Richard shooting video of Juliette's sister.)

Perhaps Juliette is simply there to pick up information and report back to Ben "in a week." They only said they would see each other in a week, not that Juliette would be gone from the beach by then. Maybe she'll make weekly reports back to Ben about the goings-on on the beach.

Mothers and Babies

When Juliette was telling Jack and Kate about the fate of those who get pregnant on the island, I tend to believe her based on the flashback of her, Ethan, and Goodwin in the OR and her and Ben on the rocks. I'm guessing that both the babies and the mothers die. But it seems that this only happens to those who get pregnant on the island--Rousseau is proof of that, Claire is not such a clear case. What muddies the water in Claire's case is how much we can believe Juliette the Manipulator when she says that the reason they took Claire is that she was showing signs of the same problem they had encountered with those who got pregnant on the island, and they wanted to save her life. I have a problem believing her, especially given Rousseau's case. What makes Claire's case different? But, the fact is that they WERE shooting Claire up with that stuff (which, incidentally, I think was the same stuff that Desmond was shooting up!) for SOME reason.

Is there a connection with this problem among those who get pregnant on the island and taking the children from the survivors? Since the Others can't reproduce while on the island, are they taking the children for new recruits? To satisfy parental urges?

And what about Ben's claim that he was born on the island? If the problem has been going on for a while, then that would have been impossible. If it were a relatively new development, then what initiated it?

Health on the Island

Scott made an excellent observation about the contradictory forces at work on the health of those on the island (whether the Others or the Losties). Part of this goes back to the discussion between Locke and Ben about the island's healing touch. For Locke and Rose (if we can believe her intuition) especially, the island has had a miraculous effect. Ben also notes to Juliette that she has not seen one trace of cancer in any of the Others. (Up until his tumor, that is, which we're not completely sure is cancerous or not--Juliette's language gives evidence of both its being and not being cancerous.) But there is a trade-off with those who get pregnant on the island: they die. What's the deal?

One of the more interesting things about this episode was that the freedom from cancer does not just affect those on the island. If we can believe Ben, who is "not a liar" (ha!), Jacob (whoever he is, but he is important for sure) was instrumental in curing Juliette's sister of cancer. Let me repeat: Ben is suggesting that Juliette's sister's cancer WAS CURED. These people have a cure for cancer?! What the heck? And the cure is not confined to those on the island.

Okay, so why did the Others leave Otherville? Why did Locke go with them? I can't help but think that the answers to these questions are, somehow, bound up with Locke's chastisement of Ben. Locke is playing the Hunter-Gatherer, the Naturalist, he-who-is-one-with-the-island. The island cured him...immediately. Ben's recuperation, however, is not going quite so quickly. What is Locke's explanation for Ben's slow recovery? It is because the Others are exploiting the island, misusing it, rather than trying to understand it. They are bringing down their heavy hammer of research and experiment to beat the island into scientific submission. But the island pushes back; it refuses to submit; it will not be tamed.

So, what does this have to do with the Others' leaving? Honestly, I have no idea, but I can't help thinking that maybe Ben heeded Locke's point. Maybe they left in order to get "back to the island." For some reason, I like this reason for their leaving. But it just doesn't seem like the Others. They are all about deception, trickery, and drama. There has to be something else going on here, some grand scheme being played out behind the curtain, and the strings are tied to Locke and Jack.

But not to Sayid! That guy is my rock throughout the twists and turns of this show. It seems like he can see through everything that the Others bring at them. Locke, on the other hand, just seems too accepting, too gullible...though, perhaps, this amounts to a different kind of seeing. He certainly does not have the same eyes in perceiving the goings-on of the island as everyone else. Juliette and Ben are like onions: just when you think you've got them figured out, that layer is peeled off only to reveal another layer, and the frustration just makes you cry. But Sayid, I haven't doubted him for a second.

I'm in Atlanta, sitting at a Cuban restaurant eating a Cuban sandwich after a tiring couple of days for Daniel's wedding, biding my time until I pick Kathryn up from the airport (coming in from Mexico) and (hopefully) drive us over to Eddie's Attic for the Matthew Ryan show. But the way Colin tells it, K will be tied up in customs for a while, which means we'll probably miss the show. But that's okay, 'cause I haven't seen her in nine days and not seeing her for one more day is not an option at this point.

I need to grade some papers while I'm here. Hopefully they won't kick me out if I get some coffee.

Did You Know...?

The best way to check for bad breath, besides having someone else tell you about it, is to lick the back of your hand and smell it. If it smells bad, so does your breath.

The results of messing around with Photo Booth the other day.

Why am I blogging so much today? K decided to leave me...on a trip to Mexico next week and to be in a wedding this weekend. I won't see her again until next Saturday in Atlanta (where I'll be part of a wedding), so maybe I'll get around to blogging about LOST again. But then again maybe not. I've enjoyed these last several episodes (except the one about Nikki and Paulo--I'm with Sawyer on this one: "Who are YOU?"), but I'm afraid that the bulk of my blogs would be more questions (and not many answers) beginning with "Why", "Who", and "Where." Plus, the few times I remember to record the episode, I end up with the less interesting ones.

Family Beach Pics, Part Two

Here are more beach pics -- ones that are actually from the beach, short trip to the sand as it was.






Getting ready for the bike ride to the beach. Aren't my nephews so cute?










Well, when I picked Colin up I didn't expect the wedgie! Those college kids in the background don't know the fun they're missing.













Boys and men.










Every time I made a little sand pillar with the bucket, Caleb would smash it with his shovel and say, "It broke!" Broke? Hmph. We'll have to work on his conceptual skills...








Colin and I burying Caleb's legs in the sand. Man, my legs are just about the same color as the sand!









Little Nathan trying his hand at playing in the sand. We didn't let him eat too much of it.

The Tax Man

Well, according to my calculations, I owe money to The Man once again. As it turns out, he's taking around 80% of whatever my investments managed to get me. Granted, my investments didn't do so hot, but still I can't help asking, What's the point in trying to grow my money? If I hadn't made anything from investments last year, I wouldn't have to pay anything in taxes this year. Twisted.

A bit of trivia: the actor who plays King Xerxes in 300 also plays (the buried alive) Paulo in LOST.

Let's Fight

Finally got around to seeing 300. Visually stunning, as I expected, but not just in the battle scenes. There was a nice flowing feel to movement on and off of the battle field, a graphic novel come to life with slow and real-time motion, stops and starts, that added to rather than detracted from the visual experience. I suspect this was largely the point as the movie was based on Frank Miller’s graphic novel of the same name. The battle scenes reminded me of the descriptively stunning battle scenes in the Illiad where larger-than-life men are leaping through the air, lopping off heads and popping out eyes. Good stuff.

A few weeks ago Don preached on God as the Divine Warrior (Hab. 3). It really is a glorious passage of God’s authority and power over creation and the heathen nations. God in His splendor goes forth, and the earth and peoples react accordingly:

His splendor covers the heavens and the earth is full of His praise…. Before Him goes pestilence, and plague comes after Him. He stood and surveyed the earth; He looked and startled the nations. Yes the perpetual mountains were shattered, the ancient hills collapsed…. Thy bow was made bare, the rods of chastisement were sworn. Thou didst cleave the earth with rivers. The mountains saw Thee and quaked…. Sun and moon stood in their places; they went away at the light of Thine arrows, at the radiance of Thy gleaming spear. In indignation Thou didst march through the earth; in anger Thou didst trample the nations. (Hab. 3: 3-12)

In stories like 300 and the Illiad, too, are warriors going forth in the knowledge of their strength, fighting for glory, honor, and loved ones, refusing to either retreat from or submit to their enemies. It is a picture, both in Scripture and in ancient Greek literature, that I think is appealing to most men. We want to be warriors. We want to fight for glory and honor. We want to fight for those we love and hold dearest to our hearts. We want our enemies vanquished.

Ultimately, though, as Paul says:

For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war according to the flesh, for the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh, but divinely powerful for the destruction of fortresses. We are destroying speculations and every lofty thing raised up against the knowledge of God, and we are taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ, and we are ready to punish all disobedience, whenever your obedience is complete. You are looking at things outwardly. (2 Cor. 3:3-7)

In the end, the battle is the LORD’s, not ours. Yet we must fight. King Leonidas in 300 refused to retreat from the powerful and more numerous Persian army. He refused to heed Xerxes’ call of wealth, pleasure, glory, and power because it came at too great a price: submission. True, Leonidas’ pride was a human one and, thus, ultimately as groundless as the things Xerxes promised him. But he recognized that those things were worthless if gained at the cost of bowing his knee, at the cost of recognizing that his enemy was greater than he. That, too, is defeat. A greater defeat than dying on the battlefield, a defeat that would taunt and burden him every second of whatever life he chose to live.

I submit that we should have the attitude of Leonidas. There is, I think, a place for battle, even with the weapons of this world. But we must remember that we do not fight in our own strength but in the strength of the LORD. We do not fight for our own glory, but for the glory of the LORD. We do not fight for our own sense of justice, but for the LORD’s justice.

Thou didst go forth for the salvation of They people, for the salvation of Thine anointed. Thou didst strike the head of the house of evil to lay him open from thigh to neck. Thou didst pierce with his own spears the head of his throngs. They stormed in to scatter us; their exultation was like those who devour the oppressed in secret. Thou didst tread on the see with Thy horses, on the surge of many waters. (Hab. 3:13-15)

With the LORD at our side, we must not retreat. We must not submit to His enemies.

Yet I will exult in the LORD, I will rejoice in the God of my salvation. The Lord God is my strength, and He has made my feet like hinds’ feet, and makes me walk on my high places. (Hab. 3:18-19

Oh, and there's one more thing that 300 reminded me of: I don't have six-pack abs.