The quickly lowering price of Earthen Vessels for the Kindle (now $3.49, for a limited time) prompted this question from a friend:
At what point is that kind of painful? It’s such a great book; you slaved over it for ages. And now Amazon wants to charge less for it than the latte I’m drinking?? This is a very messed up country.
The real question, of course, is why she was drinking a latte when there are digital copies to be sold. Does it matter that the supply is limitless? I think not.
But there’s a serious question here that prompted a lot of thought. I’ve specifically avoided writing about writing and publishing, in part because it’s rather clichéd for writers to go meta as soon as they’ve found a little success and in part because I still haven’t found much success. Ask me again when I write something that comes out like Oliver O’Donovan, Annie Dillard, or Rick Warren—three writers who all mastered their respective approaches, different though they might be. In other words, it seems presumptuous to speak about the craft of writing at my age (though probably not more presumptuous than speaking of theological anthropology—consistency, who needs it?).
Yet I have realized that with respect to this project, at this stage in my life, I simply don’t care how much the publisher charges. The less it costs, the better, if it increases the odds that the thing will be read.
As an author, I sometimes feel a tension between something like charity for my audience and a burning to simply say something that needs to be said, in the precise way I want to say it. Such a burning isn’t necessarily rooted in a lack of concern for the audience. Rather, there is a sense of disaffectedness, a detachment from the need to listen to the market’s opinions that selling a book necessarily introduces.
It is a little weird that we sell books at all, actually. Yes, we need to eat and publishers have to pay bills. All of that is well and good. But every now and then, we ought to think about our books outside that context and hope that we’ve written something that is good enough that (paradoxically) it should still be around even if it doesn’t make any money at all. Continue reading “The Price of Earthen Vessels ($3.49) and the Value of Writing” »
Chuck Colson passed away this weekend, leaving a massive vacancy within the evangelical world. Colson’s work was remarkable for its diversity, a diversity that Sarah Pulliam Bailey astutely pointed out reflected the evangelical movement that Colson was so much a part of:
In many ways, Colson’s life encapsulated the eclectic nature of evangelicalism. His example shaped how evangelicals would promote ministry and social justice, evangelism and ecumenicism, cultural and political engagement, radio and writing, and scholarship and discipleship.
I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Colson. Though he was kind enough to send me an encouraging note after Christianity Today featured me, we were never able to get our paths to cross. I’ll regret the missed opportunity, naturally, as many people I know speak highly of him.
Colson’s most lasting legacy will be, I hope, to serve as a reminder that the transformation wrought by Jesus is a genuine possibility for our lives. There’s not many people in the public eye whose lives have gone off in such radically different directions than Colson’s did after Jesus found him. That alone would be enough witness to a culture that can’t persuade itself that change is possible, even while we deploy every remedy imaginable to find it. That Colson did not merely reform himself, but set out reforming the world is a testament to the power of goodness at work in his life.
Like many people my age, my familiarity with Colson began in the later part of his life. My parents had read his earlier books, but he was by no means a household name for us. (That changed when Colson and my friend Nancy Pearcey published How Shall we Then Live? Though I’ve not read it in years, it lingers somewhere in the back of my consciousness.) Colson’s work with the Manhattan Declaration was controversial within evangelical circles where, admittedly, the differences of opinions make nearly any position on public matters reason for dispute.
But while Colson was often included within the “Religious Right,” his politics were conservative but not particularly partisan. His positios on prison reform are the most common referent for this point in the tale. But two years ago, before the 2010 elections, Colson floated the idea of Christians voting for a third party on grounds that Republicans had become nearly as useless as Democrats. No one took him very seriously, which is understandable given how implausible the call was. But as someone who thinks that we ought to avoid partisanship for its own sake even while we affirm broadly conservative positions, Colson’s candor was refreshing.
One word about “worldview,” which Colson famously championed: Evangelicals are currently in the midst of trying to move beyond it, and probably for good reasons. It is not the perfect category, and changing hearts and minds may not change the world.
But for many younger evangelicals, “worldview analysis,” as the task is known, functioned as something of a halfway house between the uncritical anti-intellectualism of our pulpits and the more dialectical approach of the great books world or the more directly scholarly mindset of the academy. Within the evangelical world, the approach necessarily shifted attention away from questions of politics per se toward those fundamental human questions that lie at the heart of any society. In that sense, Colson’s work opened up the space for a rethinking of the civic order along nonpartisan lines, even if for the most part the worldview crowd caucuses with Republicans. Which is simply to say, his mission and message all seemed to be of a piece. And in a fragmented world, that is itself an impressive accomplishment.
There will, no doubt, be some question about the media about who will step into the yawning gap that Colson has left. Michelle Boorstein raised them last year in her profile on Colson, and there will doubtlessly be others. (It is significant how few, if any, of the original signers of the Manhattan Declaration were under the age of forty.) Folks like my friends John Stonestreet will doubtlessly soldier on, working for the renewal of society (language that seems to be generally acceptable everywhere except Charlottesville).
But the question itself, I think, is nonsense: the moment that made Chuck Colson will never make another and the legacy he has left will invariably be altered even as it is carried forward. The generation that comes receives in gratitude, but that which is received is altered in the saying. The germ will unfold in new directions, directions that Colson himself may have even resisted (like challenging the concept of “worldview”). That is simply how tradition works, when it works at all.
It was eight years and six days ago that Mere-O first became a reality. A small group of friends, all student of the Torrey Honors Institute, realized that we could carve out a space online for a classically minded, conservative Christianity that was cheerful in its outlook, irenic in its tone, and thoughtful and considerate in its arguments.
Most of those guys have moved on now to new phases of life. Some of them are doctors. Some of them make movies. Most of them are happily married, and a few have kids. Eight years later, I still find myself scrolling the internets looking for the next gem to write about and staying up long past a reasonable bedtime trying desperately to get that day’s post done.
For most of these eight years, my occupations and day jobs have only imperfectly aligned with my writing. I taught high school for two years, which provided all sorts of excellent fodder. But then I planned conferences and freelanced, before going on to work in finance and (this is not a joke) in what was functionally a digital stockroom. I eventually went on staff at my church, which has gotten me closer, but over the past six months have slowly realized that even this wasn’t quite right.
It’s a gift, really, to have our incomes align with our passions and with our skills. For the better part of human history, those things may have not met at all: people would work for their subsistence and keep the family together as they could. I have been given so much more than that and want to steward it well.
The past three years have introduced a phase of life for me, and for Mere-O, that were totally unexpected. It began nearly three years ago now, with the publication of The New Evangelical Scandal (still, yes, the best thing I have yet written–it’s tough peaking out of the gate). The opportunities to write have often come faster than I can put words together. The whole process takes me quite a bit longer than people realize, I think. Today, possibly while you are reading this, I will be participating in a public dialogue with John Corvino about homosexuality. He’s one of the countries leading gay rights advocates, someone who signed a two book contract with Oxford University Press. Which means, if nothing else, that I lead a strange life.
But it means more than that. I have, for these past three years, been playing in spaces well above my credentials. I wrote, after all, a book. A book. On theology, and on something that touches the Incarnation. ($4.99 on Kindle, right now. The love of my publisher impels me.) No, it didn’t sell as well as I had hoped. And yes, I’m prodding all my writer friends to own the topic like I couldn’t. But a little perspective is helpful here: eight years ago, I could barely put a paragraph together. Really. Don’t believe me? Go read the archives, if you can find them. (There’s a reason that you can’t–yet).
I’ve had plenty of fear and trembling along the way, especially in putting together Earthen Vessels (Did I mention the Kindle…nevermind). But I have lately realized that I long for more training. I long for the space, the freedom, the opportunity to reflect deeply again at the well of books and to lose myself in a library while the sun is still up and it’s not a Saturday. I need the dedicated community who can help me work out my thoughts, who will be willing to challenge me with patience and charity as (I hope) I will them. The time has finally come for me to pursue a graduate degree, to leave behind the loose qualifications of merely being young and thoughtful and pursue serious vocational training.
My wife and I will be moving, then, this fall to Oxford, England where I will pursue a Masters of Philosophy in Theological Ethics and my wife will become a post-doctoral research fellow in philosophy. The year that I spent as an undergraduate at Oxford was one of the most formative in my life. It was not until then that I gained the confidence that I might someday think well. But I left without hopes that I’d ever return, and the opportunity became a reality before I’d even really had the time to dream about it.
It’s hard to put all this into words. And in one sense, this whole post is a little silly anyways. People go off to graduate school every year, and to Oxford even. But for me, this feels like the end of the diaspora and the beginning of the next phase of my life, a phase that I hope is marked by deep reflections about both the world around me and the world of academic theology and political theory. And, well, Oxford’s unique charms and my own attachment to the place fill me with a joy that I have not felt in too long. The Lord has been exceptionally kind to me.
This means something for Mere-O as well. I still (alas) am the dominant voice in these parts, a fact which I have sought to remedy in recent weeks by introducing a few new guest voices. I’ve a vision for my time in Oxford that involves musty libraries, walks through the countryside, and scribbling contemplative musings in my Moleskin while sitting in pubs. It includes writing, yes, but probably of a more personal (and photogenic) nature for Mere-O than we’re all accustomed to. I suspect there will be some about Oxford, about my studies, about Lewis and Tolkien. Though I’m doing a degree in theological ethics, so there will probably be a bit of that going on as well.
This way or that, my only objective is to live and write deeply the next few years. Which I frankly hope translates into fewer blog posts, more long-form pieces. I’ve long held a desire to become an essayist, as it’s a format I enjoy and think I could excel at. I’m viewing the transition to Oxford as a chance to make my blog posts a little less formal and reserve my better thoughts for broader formats. More depth, less speed. Which is how we all ought to operate, anyway. (Though if you want photos of Oxford and reflections on life from there, you only need ask. The more you request, the more I’ll post.)
I’ll also hopefully be continuing to introduce new voices to Mere-O. Some of the guest posts we’ve had this year have been the most popular that have ever been published at Mere-O, which is incredibly exciting to me. I have devoted countless hours (literally) to building this platform, but I’ve never wanted to hoard it. And seeing others take advantage of the launching point, well, more of that please (ahem, Cate and Andrew). I want to find more voices that are thoughtful and interesting, that are irenic without being dull or muddled. Orthodoxy, after all, is as fascinating a phenomenon as the world it leads us into.
As to us, well, my wife and I would request your prayers. The past four months have been very hard on our marriage, and we’ve countless decisions ahead of us. At the same time, the anticipation has its own set of joys and we are making the most of them as we can. You can pray about the finances, as much of that is still uncertain (and the degree and cost of living is quite expensive). I’ll be continuing to work with my pastor, Darrin Patrick, in some capacity which will help quite a bit. But if you know someone who wants to advertise around these parts, every little bit helps.
Actually, about that Darrin fellow: A lot of people my age have taken to writing things about how terrible the church is and how hurt they’ve been by it. I understand. Really. I have my complaints. But I wrote in the Introduction to Earthen Vessels that in The Journey and in Darrin, I’ve seen evangelicalism at its best. They have both been instrumental in helping me discern the way forward and I have nothing but gratitude in my heart for the many ways they have been kind to me. There are hardly a perfect place. But they are a fundamentally good place. (Someday, we will speak of those 18 months I worked in finance and how every week for months I would cry during communion, exhausted from overwork and refreshed by their preaching and worship.)
All this has been a bit blubbery, but I suppose this is what happens when the joy overflows. Most of our readers (that’s you) haven’t been here all eight years. To those who have, thanks for sticking with us as we’ve learned to move the words around. And to those who are new, thank you for giving us hope that the next eight years will be just as stimulating and envigorating as the last. Because as Sheldon and Davy VanAuken would say, “If it’s half as good as the half we’ve known, here’s ‘Hail’ to the end of the road.”
I first met Chris Krycho after he reviewed Earthen Vessels and proceeded to grill me about it. He’s a thoughtful fellow and wrote the following. As I had been planning on addressing the same piece soon, I asked if I could post Chris’ insight instead. I am grateful and honored he agreed. For more, follow Chris on Twitter.
In an interesting piece inThe Atlantic last week, Rachel Hill highlighted David Jay and his organization, the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network:
But what all asexual people have in common — and what defines asexuality as an orientation — is that, while they may have a desire to connect with other people, asexuals have no desire to connect with them sexually. Asexual people are not the same as celibate people: it’s not that they are purposefully or unintentionally abstaining from sex they would otherwise like to have, but rather that they have no interest in it.
The article is fascinating on several levels: its examination of asexuality as a “sexual orientation,” its exploration of the idea that for some people, sex just isn’t that important (however odd that may seem in our society), and its recognition that a sex-defined culture is perhaps not always beneficial. Continue reading “An Aspen in a Forest of Pines: Thinking through Asexuality” »
I’ve been remiss in posting this, as last week’s travels kept me busier than I’d hoped.
But last Monday I had the opportunity to tape an incredibly fun dialogue with Sarah Posner that started with Andrew Sullivan’s now infamous essay on Christianity’s crisis and eventually became me trying to make sense of evangelicalism from a younger standpoint.
I’ve been reading Sarah’s work over at Religion Dispatches over the past couple years and have always found it interesting. Especially when we disagree, which happens to be relatively often. But she’s always interesting and has always done her homework, which makes her an enjoyable and instructive interlocutor.
Let me know what you think in the comments.
The news that John Mark Reynolds is leaving Torrey was a bit of a blow to those who attended the program. John Mark’s personality and drive have left a mark on the program that will endure long into the future, even as he takes his talents to Houston Baptist.
We were all naturally curious who might replace him. Today, Torrey has announced that Paul Spears, a longtime member of the Faculty at Torrey will become the new Director. Spears is probably best known publicly for his excellent book Education for Human Flourishing.
I couldn’t be more excited for Paul and for Torrey Honors. Paul is a philosopher who thinks deeply about how education should look and is someone whose presence has shaped and guided the Torrey ethos in ways that are irreplacable. He has been a friend and mentor to countless students and his steadiness in the classroom always made him a favorite tutor of mine. I am excited to see how his deep wells of reflection about the nature of Christian higher education shape Torrey in the future. He knows better than most what it is that makes Torrey so wonderfully quirky and so student-centric, and we have every reason to believe that he will continue to make Torrey Honors one of the most exciting places around.
Congratulations to Paul and to the alma mater. Here’s to many more years of fruitful and productive dialogue within the Institute.
The letter from the Dean of the Humanities at Biola announcing the news is below:
I am writing to you with happy news: With the strong consensus of faculty and staff and the support of our Vice Provost, Provost, and President, I am appointing Dr. Paul Spears as the next Director of Torrey. I wanted you to be among the first to know.
Many of you have known Dr. Spears as a faculty member and mentor. Some of his time will still be dedicated to the classroom. Dr. Spears has worked for Biola in Torrey since 1998; he is part of the history of the Torrey Honors Institute. He knows the program and will carry forward the vision, mission, and values of THI and Biola. Dr. Spears cares about program, but even more importantly, he cares about the people: the faculty, staff, students, and alumni. As the Chair of Morgan House, he has been a significant part of the leadership in Torrey and in this role has already demonstrated his capacity for caring servant leadership.
A few weeks ago, we learned that Dr. John Mark Reynolds, the Founder and current Director of Torrey, had accepted a position as Provost at Houston Baptist University. We will miss him and the impact he has had on so many of us at Biola, and we also celebrate for him and for HBU. Dr. Reynolds remains Director until he assumes his new position at HBU on June 25, 2012, at which time Dr. Spears’ appointment will go into effect. We will ceremoniously invest Dr. Spears at the Torrey graduation in May. This is a historic transition for THI as it is the first time the Director is not also the Founder. The program is strong and thriving, and I look forward to working with Dr. Spears in the years to come.
I am particularly grateful to the faculty and staff who have so thoughtfully interacted with me about the appointment of the next Director. Their care for the program, each other, and current and former students was clear throughout this process.
Cassandra Van Zandt, Ph.D.
By this we know love, that he laid down his life for us.
There is a moment for explanation, for inquiry and exploration. And there is a moment for wonder, for pausing to take the thing into yourself, to turn it over and inside out–which it will also do to you.
This is the Friday that we call “Good,” a descriptor that rarely gets its due. We know well of pleasure and of the pursuit of happiness, and know much of their absence and their opposites. But it is goodness we are unacquainted with, especially when pain is not merely the precursor or the byproduct of the good but central to the thing itself.
In orienting ourselves toward this good, we give it permission to permeate our souls and shape us in its image. By now it’s nearly a cliche, but we do indeed become what we worship. Easy enough to say of idols, I suppose, since we’re all (ostensibly) too happy to get rid of those. It is far more daunting when we look at Jesus.
But our fixation must mark us with the same goodness we eventually see there: the only way to really get inside a good is to, in a sense, bring it inside you. (The language is metaphorical, naturally, but no less real because of it.) In gazing upon this good, ruminating upon this text, we take the events and people into our minds and make them our own in a distinct way. And through that process, we are altered and conformed to the reality that we perceive.
Ours is a trivial society, whose interests shift faster on every passing day. There is little room now to cultivate the steady gaze at the Cross that is at the root of the steadiness of faith. If there ever was room, that is. We become what we worship, which means cultivating our love and affection for the one who died for us means going and doing likewise. The death of Jesus does not free us from our own: it empowers us to imitate his. But it is easier and decidedly more comfortable to turn our gaze away, as the nature of this good presupposes that we are not.
Which is why naming this Friday is a confession, not only a fact. ”Only,” I say, and not “merely.” For facts are terrible moments of judgment that demand a response, but also opportunities for joy. They define the world and in our confrontation with them they invariably define us as well, establishing the limits upon us that are central to our humanity. But calling this Friday “Good” is also an acknowledgment that we have yet to plumb the depths of it, that if we have seen the fact we have not yet understood it. To do so requires walking along the same path. But if we have caught a glimpse, a fragment, and are able to say of this day that it like no other since the world began is pervaded by the presence and power of love, then that–for the moment–is enough.
I participated in a semi-f0rmal Twitter chat this evening with Fred Sanders on Andrew Sullivan’s Newsweek essay. It was a fun exercise and an interesting discussion and I am grateful to Biola for taking it on and to Brett McCracken for inviting me. You can read the whole thing here (find the bottom and read up.)
I thought I’d put a few of my favorite tweets here.
Newsweek has a tradition of running Easter week cover stories angled to irritate Christians. That shadows Sullivan’s piece. #WhoIsJesus
— Fred Sanders (@FredFredSanders) April 5, 2012
@biolau “Red letter” Christianity is at its worst when it says the Gospel writers themselves distorted the message of Jesus. #WhoIsJesus
— Fred Sanders (@FredFredSanders) April 5, 2012
The orthodox point would be that the person of Jesus, his incarnation, is the deepest miracle. Sullivan drives a wedge… #WhoIsJesus
— Fred Sanders (@FredFredSanders) April 5, 2012
…between Jesus’ message and his person. #WhoIsJesus
— Fred Sanders (@FredFredSanders) April 5, 2012
Following the real Jesus? Name one thing in your life that the moral authority of Jesus has made you change. #WhoIsJesus
— Fred Sanders (@FredFredSanders) April 5, 2012
3rd-to-last paragraph, rephrased: “The Kingdom of God’s wonderful as long as it doesn’t meddle w/the District of Columbia.” #whoisjesus
— Philip Tallon (@philiptallon) April 5, 2012
The awareness that we need “radical spiritual change” does not come from “something inside us.”Nor will the change itself. #whoisjesus
— Matthew Anderson (@mattleeanderson) April 5, 2012
The church is ever in need of returning to its font, Christ and Scripture. Faithfulness, not selectivity, is the way forward. #whoisjesus
— Matthew Anderson (@mattleeanderson) April 5, 2012
And my most popular and favorite tweet of the night:
The bitter irony of Sullivan’s piece is what he rejects (church/doctrine) is the only way toward what he wants (mystery/change) #whoisjesus
— Matthew Anderson (@mattleeanderson) April 5, 2012
Thanks again to Fred, Biola, Brett, and everyone who came out and played.
The response to Andrew Sullivan’s cover story on the crisis of Christianity has surprised me, if only because his appeal seems to go no deeper than rehashing the sort of anti-creedal theological liberalism that mainline Protestant denominations have taken to.
The concerns that Andrew lays out are common enough. Christianity, we are reminded, has become overly and reductionistically politicized. Rather than embracing Jesus’ mindset of renouncing power, contemporary Christians have been seized by the temptations of coercion and so have eroded the distinctive Christian witness.
Yet while nearly everything in Sullivan’s essay skews toward a radically internally oriented, pietistic Christianity, he holds on to–or tries to, anyway–Christianity’s public dimension in a single paragraph:
This doesn’t imply, as some claim, the privatization of faith, or its relegation to a subordinate sphere. There are times when great injustices—slavery, imperialism, totalitarianism, segregation—require spiritual mobilization and public witness. But from Gandhi to King, the greatest examples of these movements renounce power as well. They embrace nonviolence as a moral example, and that paradox changes the world more than politics or violence ever can or will. When politics is necessary, as it is, the kind of Christianity I am describing seeks always to translate religious truths into reasoned, secular arguments that can appeal to those of other faiths and none at all.
Little in the paragraph is objectionable: Sullivan’s distinction between “public witness” and “politics” (the latter of which I take he is defining narrowly, as the sphere of the government’s coercive authority) is one we can happily affirm.
And yet, for a piece released around Easter, Sullivan’s Christianity seems to have nearly forgotten the Resurrection.
In both his original piece and his reply to Trevin Wax, Sullivan contends that the cross is the “great symbol of the Christian faith” because it is a “total renunciation of worldly power.”
While the qualification of “power” to “worldly” and “earthly power” is itself an interesting adjustment, the cross is the “great symbol of the Christian faith” precisely because the renunciation of power was revealed in the Resurrection as the manifestation of power. The kingdom is “not of this world,” but it breaks into this world and radically reshapes “every square inch” of it, as folks are rather fond of saying, if not today then when Christ eventually returns. Sullivan points to the crown of thorns and the mocking of his doubters as further evidence of Jesus’ renunciation of earthly power: yet the irony of faith is that the crown of thorns is revealed as the crown of the King of Kings. The one enthroned in heaven laughs, after all, because he understands that the joke is on those who scorned him.
Pointing at the cross and repeating “renunciation” may be an important step for a political theology, but it is not the only step. There are other moments in redemptive history that need consideration. And those make it difficult to buy Sullivan’s claims that the transcendent kingdom is an apolitical kingdom, even where “apolitical” is meant in the narrow sense of governmental coercion. Romans 13 is a thorny passage, but one thing seems clear: political authority is given by God and subordinated to him. God may want things to run things liberally, on secular grounds because he cares about voluntary entry into the church–but I suspect even saying all that still wouldn’t be sufficient to escape charges of “Christianist” or “theocrat” or whatever the popular pejorative is these days.
Which is to say, the question has never been–nor can it ever be–whether Christianity can be fully and finally depoliticized, such that its concerns can be entirely aired in a court where Caesar is not present. Instead, as Trevin argues, the challenge is discerning what the shape of Christianity’s political witness must be.
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