Choosing blindness?

"There is, we are aware, a philosophy that denies the infinite. There is also a philosophy classed pathologically, which denies that sun; this philosophy is called blindness. To set up a sense we lack as a source of truth, is a fine piece of blind man's assurance. And the rarity of it consists in the haughty air of superiority and compassion which is assumed towards the philosophy that sees God, by this philosophy that has to grope its way. It makes one think of a mole exclaiming, 'How they excite my pity with their prate about a sun!'" (Hugo, Les Miserables, "Cosette", Book Seventh, VI, 450)

The sun remains fixed, constant, set in the sky, the orb around which our world revolves. I do not understand the sun, what it is and how it shines. I can learn a small amount by studying its effects on the world around me, but most knowledge must come from scientists, whose study has made them experts. No one, however, can approach the sun, because it consumes anything to comes too close. If I were to examine the sun with my own eyes, I would descend into blindness, unable to see the sun any longer. Its brightness overwhelms unless its light is filtered. Would my blindness cause me to stop believing in the sun? And if I chose not to believe, would the sun cease to exist? If I acted in unbelief, would its rays still burn my unprotected skin?

Likewise, God remains unchanged by human questions and doubts, fixed as the center of our lives. I can study the world and learn about God, but assuming that I can discover Him or describe Him completely, without the filter of His Word, can lead to spiritual blindness. I can never fully understand him, because I cannot approach His glory. My pride and lack of understanding could cause me not to see at all. Would my blindness mean God is not there? Or perhaps I would prefer blindness and unbelief because I could live as if no sun existed. I would not allow its light to constrain my activities, could forget the hassle of covering my skin. Ah, but blindness cannot prevent sunburn.

What pride to assume that my disability, my weakness, means that God does not exist! I can choose this foolish blindness, or I can remove my blinders and choose the truth. I can test and examine God, but only the filter of His Word and His commands will keep me from being burned.

Progress toward what aim?

"We will only say that we do not comprehend either man as a starting-point, or progress as the goal, without those two forces which are the two great motors, faith and love. Progress is the aim, the ideal is the model. What is the ideal? It is God." (Hugo, Les Miserables, "Cosette", Book Seventh, VI, 451-2)

Progress stands as the great ideal of modern civilization. People allow, even encourage, anything that points to such progress. Stem cell research, cloning, homosexual marriage, safe and legal abortions - all count as progress. "But," one must ask, "progress toward what goal?"

This progress originates in pride. Societies set their own rules, their own standards. Thus, one reasons, "Embryos cannot be alive if I do not believe they are. Homosexuality cannot be wrong if it feels right to me. I should not have to carry or give birth to a baby if it inconveniences me or jeopardizes my plans." Do faith and love drive this progress? Does this progress aim for the true ideal?

To what aim do we progress? These developments lead only to a society where the individual replaces God. True progress only occurs when society moves toward God, instead of rejecting Him; when it conforms more closely to His perfect ideal.

A Moon in Me

I have a moon in me, a waxing and waning light of hope that illuminates my nights. Sometimes it grows so large that I feel I might burst trying to contain it. Such intense hope must subside, or it would overwhelm me. Other days, it hides, dark and unseen. Has hope died? No. This is the new moon, not the death of hope, but a fresh beginning. Hope must begin again. Seasons change; hope swells and shrinks with the cycles of life. "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven" (Ecclesiastes 3:1). What comfort exists in the patterns of our lives! I have a moon in me - though sometimes hidden, it never dies.

Peaches

Beautiful piles of ripe peaches, fiery red and golden yellow, beckon to me from across the produce section of the grocery store. But their appearance deceives. They must be handled, pressed, tasted, and smelled. One feels soft and sweet, giving beneath the slightest touch. Another remains hard and cold. One is fresh, another spoiled. At a distance, they all seem flawless, but an intimate encounter reveals the truth.

Likewise goes the church - perfect families, perfect lives, shiny and bright on the surface. What lies beneath the skin? Often, a “perfect” peach is hard and bland, while a bruised peach is soft and sweet. Will our judgments continue to be skin deep?