The Gospel of Desire

In one area, the late pope was not traditional at all. By emphasizing that good works are the fruit of God's grace, he had many Lutherans and evangelicals thinking that Catholics now agree with them on justification by faith. But the pope applied this principle to other religions, as well. If Muslims and Hindus demonstrate good works, that must be a sign of God's grace. Now, Catholics are teaching that not just other Christians but believers in other religions can be saved, even apart from conscious faith in Jesus Christ. This ecumenical theology tallies well with relativism, making Catholicism palatable to our new polytheistic culture.

"All men, if they do not take care, go downhill to the animal's country; many men are actually, all their lives, going to be beasts. People knew it once, but it is long since they forgot it."

"I am not surprised to hear it, ma'am, when I think of some of our miners."

"Ah! But you must beware, Curdie, how you say of this man or that man that he is travelling beastward. There are not nearly so many going that way as at first sight you might think. When you met your father on the hill tonight, you stood and spoke together on the same spot; and although one of you was going up and the other coming down, at a little distance no one could have told which was bound in the one direction and which in the other. Just so two people may be at the same spot in manners and behaviour, and yet one may be getting better and the other worse, which is just the greatest of all differences that could possible exist between them."

The Catholic idea is that a sincere Protestant who is faithful to the truth of Scripture, will eventually come to embrace the full truth of the Catholic Church as he seeks after God. Many Protestants do come to that point in this life, but the new clarification concerns those who do not become visible members of the Catholic Church before they die. Prior to Vatican II, it was assumed that these poor Protestants were condemned to Hellfire. The clarification is that those Protestants, and others, who have begun the journey to Catholic faith, can be saved[4].

In the early church, many believers were martyred before they could be baptized. There was concern as to whether these souls were lost, since Christ commanded us to "believe and be baptized". The decision of the elders was that these martyrs had a "baptism of blood". Their sincere desire to obey the Lord in baptism counted as baptism in the face of their death. Hence, the "Gospel of Desire". Those who are seeking after God, and obey the light they receive, will be given more light, and on are their way to becoming Catholic - even if death intervenes.

This is indeed different from a typical Protestant formula, but Protestants such as George MacDonald C.S. Lewis had a view closer to the Catholics (the young Calormene in The Last Battle, The Great Divorce). The important point is that the Catholic teaching is the opposite of the Liberal idea that "all roads lead to heaven": there is but one Way and one Church that leads to Heaven. Be sure you are on that Way.

Can Christians Learn from non-Christians?

or

Can any Good Come from Harry Potter?

The debate throughout Church history was not over whether Christians should dabble in the occult (that is clearly forbidden), but whether Christians should read non-christian (i.e. pagan) literature (which might contain occult references since some pagans do practice it). To this day, there are Christian circles where only literature written by Christians is considered acceptable reading. (And Christians like C.S. Lewis and J.R.R.Tolkein don't count because their stories have witches and wizards.) Forgive me if I address any in such circles that might be reading. This will be painfully obvious to some, and perhaps disturbing for others.

In a real (though probably not deliberate) sense, this (Christian stuff only) is a denial of essential doctrine. Before the Fall, Genesis tells us that "God looked on everything He had made, and saw that it was very good." Man was created in the image of God. As Calvin puts it, after the Fall, "the image of God is effaced but not erased." So, to claim that man can permanently overcome the evil inclinations of our hearts by natural means is an error, and as foolish as claiming that we can overcome entropy. (Perpetual motion machines, anyone?) But to say that the unconverted (non-christian) is incapable of any good at all is equally an error, and just as foolish.

The idea is as impractical as it is doctrinally unsound. "Man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart." We can look and listen and make judgements, but only God knows the true state of a persons heart. How are you going to know whether the author of a book is truly converted (started by God on the process of overcoming spiritual entropy/death)? Furthermore, sanctification (the process of reversing spiritual entropy with the supernatural help of God's Spirit) is a long process. How long after a person is converted must you wait before their works are safe to read? Surely, when a new convert makes mistakes, you give them grace (cut them some slack), "for love covers a multitude of sins". The Apostle Paul calls for the same grace to the unconverted. We are not to associate with or even eat with a man who claims to be Christian but is immoral. However, the same does not apply to the unconverted (I Cor 5).

And why stop at reading? Must all products you consume be produced only by Christians? Is an unsaved pagan incapable of making a good sandwich? The Apostle Paul said, "All things are permissible, but not all things are helpful." If the sandwich looks yummy, but the kitchen looks like it would likely flunk a Health inspection, you should probably pass on the sandwich. If you have diabetes, you should pass on the candy. If certain literature is making your walk with God more difficult, you should avoid it. But that doesn't mean that others might not benefit from it.

The subject of my dreams has changed over the years.  Early on, they were much more exciting, colorful, and hopeful.  One of my favorites takes place on a planet covered with warm, shallow seas.  The sea is filled with brilliantly colored fish.  I am an agent on a mission to rescue a political prisoner from some nameless despotic empire.  I have no super powers, but a small number of carefully chosen pocket sized tools.  After climbing down from the shuttle which has brought me down from orbit, I wade though the sea filled with the shifting colors of fish, looking for a secret entrance.  The sun is hot, and the reflection off the water hurts my eyes.  I wish I had brought sun glasses, but am content knowing that I won't need them where I am going.  

Finally, I spot it.  One of the occasional algae covered rocks protruding above the water is actually the camoflauged splash guard of a ventilation shaft.The researchers have done their job well. It is just big enough to squeeze through, and soon I am on top of a grille in the ceiling of the cell where the prisoner is kept.  The prisoner is an elderly woman, about 60 going on 70. Her hair is white and thinning, but straight, neck length and combed. She is thin, but not frail, with a look of quiet determination on herface.  I keep still, the interrogators are giving her the same choice they give her every day:  renounce your crime publicly, and you can return to your job.  Her job?  School teacher.  Her crime?  Telling a student that there was a book called the Bible before all copies were destroyed by their government.

Finally, the men interrogating her leave, and I whisper gently from the grille. She looks up with a startled expression, but does not cry out or give any audible indication of her surprise.  She brings the lone chair in her cell to stand on, and I hand her some small tools through the grille.  Between the two of us, we manage to remove the grille.  I reach my hands down to pull her up, but she shakes her head.

"Come down here, and leave the grille on the table," she whispers.  "Let them think I have escaped to the surface.  The seas will soon be swarming with skimmers." I start to protest, but she continues, "I knew you would come.  I have been praying and asking God to show me what to do, and he has shown me a vision of caverns under the seas."  Her voice is low pitched with age, but serene.  There is something about her manner and voice that convinces me to obey rather than give the orders.

I climb down carefully, but something tips off the guards, and we hear footsteps and shouts in the halls.  "Quickly!" she says, taking my hand and pulling me toward the wall and lifting a hinged cover.  I am amazed that a prison cell would have a garbage chute.  I help her in first, and jump in after her before the footsteps get to the door, pulling the cover closed.  I hope there is something soft at the bottom.

There is.  After sliding down the chute for several seconds, we fall briefly through a vast, dimly lit space, and land with a schmuck in something soft, squishy, and smelly.  It is kitchen garbage.  We sit for a few moments, the wind knocked out of us.  "My cell was not built to be a prison," she says after a while.  "It was originally a utility room for the janitors. No one would think of coming down here," she adds.  "All attempts to explore the caverns have met with death, and superstitions have arisen to amplify their fear to irrational levels."  Armed with this information, I begin to peer into the dim surroundings with apprehension of my own.  The stench is unbearable.

A few stories above, chutes emerging from a rock ceiling are barely visible.  Below the chutes, garbage piles in mounds.  Our mound is joined with another covered in a layer of old matresses.  "Why couldn't we land on that?" I mutter to myself, before considering the possibility of being impaled by a mattress spring.  By carefully "swimming" over the glop, I am able to reach one of the mattresses without getting sucked further in.  I pull myself on top of it, and then gather several more to make a path to my white haired companion waiting in the muck.  She reaches out with hands that are aged, but still strong.  I pull, and the muck releases her with a protesting slurp.  

We crawl over mattresses for a bit.  They are filled with rot and mold, but greatly preferable to the sewage.  We wipe off as much of the muck as we canon the disintegrating cloth as we progress.  Most of the mounds are farther apart than the pair we landed on, and after descending from the mattresses, we walk on a floor of rock covered with some sort of soft wet moss or lichen. Scattered among the mounds are massive but eroded pillars of rock, holding up the rock ceiling, and the base and shallow sea above it.  The moss underfoot glows faintly blue-green.  We are heading toward a soft red glow, which seems to be the main source of the dim illumination.  

I know the name of my charge from my briefing.  It is Marian Long.  She still doesn't know mine.  I am not sure who is in charge, actually, since things are not going according to plan.  We are supposed to be racing to the shuttle above, not spelunking below.  Both sides are probably looking frantically for us on the surface.  Eventually, the bad guys will think to look down here. Although apparently afraid of the caverns, the soldiers are even more afraid of their masters.  We need to get away from the base as soon as possible.

Suddenly, Marian gives a little cry and walks quickly toward a nearby mound.  I hurry after her, looking anxiously around for the cause of her alarm.  However, she is not alarmed.  We are at the base of a mound of books.So this is how they 'destroyed' the Bibles.  Hundreds of thousands of them are piled haphazardly, lying mostly open from their fall from the chute, in varying stages of deterioration.  Marian has been searching, and has picked out a small volume with a leather cover that snaps shut, keeping it largely free from the rot.  "It has been decades," she whispers.  "Keep moving," I whisper back. "Superstition or not, they'll be looking for us down here soon."

Abruptly, the mounds of trash come to an end.  We have reached the edge of the base.  No longer obscured, a strange but beautiful vista opens.  In every direction, galleries of all sizes lead on through the rock.  Through some of the larger galleries, caverns beyond are visible.  In front of us is a wide gallery leading to a cavern of exquisite glowing beauty.  The seas above were colored with brilliant sunlit hues.  The caverns below are colored in glowing phosphorescent hues against a dark background.  Against the velvet black of darkness and burnt umber of dimly illumined rock, mosses, shrubs, and branching growths glow with colors ranging from blue-green to flame yellow to ember red.  The effect is in some ways like one of those flourescent paintings on velvet under a black light.  But instead of tacky kitsch, this is wild, fractal beauty.  

We hear sounds from the general direction of where we entered the mounds. Marian is beginning to look spent.  Apparently, there was not much opportunity for aerobic training in her cell.  I take charge, and lead her at a fast walk towards strange formations that look like they might provide cover.  There are streams and pools of water, keeping the glowing vegetation moist.  As we get closer, we also see volcanic vents.  The light increases and becomes red in color close to the vents, and decreases with distance from the vent becoming yellow, then blue-green.  The vegetation seems to depend on both water, and energy from the vents.

We have reached the shrub like growths, and I crouch down.  Marian gets down on all fours, stiffly and with some discomfort.  Happily, there is a soft moss underneath, and she is able to make slow progress on hands and feet. Crouching low, and running, I scout ahead.  Our shrubs approach the edge of one of the vents, their color changing from green to yellow green.  The temperature rises as I near the vent.  Away from the vent, the air is fresh. Near the edge, the yellow green shrubs abruptly cease, and a thick groundcover glowing fiercely red takes over, spilling over the edge of the fissure. The air at the edge is scarcely breathable, with a sharp sulfuric odor.  Looking up, I see above the fissure, a target on the distant ceiling, a glowing red core surrounded by yellow - like a frozen flame.  Apparently, the red and yellow vegetation absorbs the fumes from the vents.

Taking a deep breath away from the fissure, I crawl to the edge and carefully look over.  Heat rises like an oven, and far below the dirty red glow of very hot rock can be seen.  But I see something else - a recess under the lip of the fissure, filled with the glowing red spongy growth.

Just then, I hear voices.  The search party is getting closer.  I hurry back to Marian, who has followed me more than half the distance while I was examining the fissure.  She is crawling as quickly as she can, and the voices are getting nearer.  It is a gamble in this alien environment, but I know what we will try.  Peeking above the shrubs, I see that the soldiers are not yet coming in our direction.  I gently lift Marian on to my back, and run for the fissure, risking a brief exposure.  "Take a deep breath, I warn her as we leave the shrubs.  I set her down on the lip, lower myself to the ledge of the recess below, and lift her over the edge and into the recess.  Burying my face in the red growth, I dare to takea breath.  It is breathable.  It is hot, like a sauna, but we can breath well enough to stay down here for a while.

The voices get nearer, and soon we hear shouts and footsteps around the fissure.  As I had hoped, they leave without examining the fissure closely, considering it inhospitable to human life.  The voices gradually become more distant. We stay hidden as long as we can stand it.  After about 20 minutes, the heat and fumes are giving me a headache, and I know it must be worse for Marian.  Fearing that I won't be able to climb out if we stay too long, I lift Marian back over the edge, where she lies face down, gasping for breath.  I heave myself up after her and both of us crawl back to the glowing green shrubs.  We are too giddy to stand up.  For a long time we lie there.  The ground is a soft, glowing, damp carpet.  The air is warm, but not too hot near the crater.  Below the tops of the shrubs, we cannot see the rest of the cavern, and feel hidden and safe.  Gradually, we stop coughing, and drift into a state somewhere between asleep and awake, where time seems to stand still.

Suddenly, I hear an alarm clock ringing, and I rise to the surface as the velvet colors of the dream fade and dissolve.  It is time for school,and I feel a brief pang of loss.  Fortunately, this type is dream is often continued on another night.

Tornados: too enthralled to be really scared

When I was about 10, we were shopping, and Mom said we should go home right away because there was a tornado warning. We got into the car and hadn't gone far when the wind picked up and there was a roaring sound, and then I saw it - a huge green funnel moving along as it twisted (we live in Virginia, and tornados here are always green having mostly trees and stuff to suck up). "Mom!", I said, "that is so awesome! Let's go closer! I want to look!" She wouldn't answer me, but just kept driving with her lips pressed really tight.

In 10th grade, a tornado passed through the parking lot of the Christian (and rather strict) private school I attended, and picked up a school bus. It dropped the school bus onto a liquor store several miles away, demolishing the building and most of the stock. No one was hurt, and both were covered by insurance, but the papers had a field day with the ironic headlines. In photos, both the "Fairfax Christian School" on the bus and the word "Liquor" on the sign were still visible amid the wreckage

In 11th grade (now attending government school), a tornado passed through the Kings Park subdivision and picked up half of a split level ranch, the half without a basement, and set it down again 6 ft away. A friend from school was sleeping in the half that was picked up. From his point of view, he says the wind was really loud and shook the house, but he went back to sleep. In the morning, the power was off, but nothing else seemed amiss. Until he opened the bedroom door and almost fell into the six foot gap between the bedroom and the hallway. The picture in the paper the next day was pretty cool too.

Four years later, I was attending the local George Mason University. A younger friend was at Woodson Highschool while a tornado passed through the area. The school was supposed to be relatively safe, but it trekked right over the school, and burst the skylight in the gym. Tracy was there. Glass flew everywhere and the roaring maw was right overhead for a few seconds. Many of the kids and adults panicked and ran, and got cut on the broken glass, but no one was seriously hurt.

We have had one hurricane arive in Fairfax with hurricane force winds still intact. That was scarier because the damage was so widespread. We sat in the house for more than 24 hours while the winds drove the rain horizontally, but our house and the trees protecting it stood firm.  Once I felt that the house was ok, the song of the wind was rather soothing. Power was out everywhere for days. We cooked on the camp stove and ate the freezer stock for 4 days.   We had loaded it up with freezer bricks and ice in containers before the storm so stuff would stay cool if not frozen for several days.  Power was out in some spots for weeks.

Tornados seem so much more capricious, darting this way and that, and often doing something surprising. When driving home from work in the late summer, with thunderstorms brewing and tornado warnings on the radio, I often see little funnels start to come down from the clouds, but then change their minds and pull up again. My heart beats a little quicker, and I feel more alive. Yes, I know they can kill me if I am in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that knowledge brings a little thrill of fear. But the drama and excitement they bring to my life far outweigh the risk in my opinion.