Sunday, August 30, 2009

Thoughts from the Heart

"When a treckle-bed with a sick man ... was put in [the office], he exhibited a gentle annoyance. 'The groans of this sick person,' he said, 'distract my attention. And without that it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in this climate ... When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages- hate them to the death.'"
Joseph Conrad - The Heart of Darkness

So I've just started reading Joseph Conrad's The Heart of Darkness. It was recommended by a friend of mine as a must-read. I can't comment on the whole of the book (I haven't yet read the whole thing), but the above comment really hit me hard.

The scene is set somewhere in Africa. Conrad tells of endless lines of native slaves working mines for their colonial masters. When they are too exhausted to continue work, the slaves sit in the shade of nearby trees and wait for death. It is against this dark backdrop that we are introduced to the colonial cleric.

Walking away from the death grove and toward the station, Conrad is met by a white man impeccably dressed. After spending time among the mines, this mans cleanliness is a shock. He is seen walking from the station with a "high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clear necktie and varnished boots." He was every bit a gentleman in a savage setting.

What shocked me most when reading this passage was the absolute polish of the white clerk. He seemed untouched and unaffected by the squalor around him. Everywhere else, death. Everywhere else, dirt and decay. On this man, there were starched white collars and every marker of health. It seems clear that his clerical duties and aristocratic look were more important than the wasting humanity around him. A man dying at his feet was of little consequence. No, the ledgers are of utmost importance.

I wonder how many Christians have balked at this man's boorishness. How many have thought his attitude downright appalling? How many have seen a reflection of themselves?

I'll admit, I saw a disturbing likeness to myself in the cleric.

Being a bit of a theology nerd and extremely bookish, I tend to keep to myself. There is so much information and so much error ... I need to sort through it all. You're wondering what it all means? Church fathers, history, and dogma ... I need to sort through it all. You need someone to talk to? Sorry ... there are too many books. I must sort through them all.

Sometimes, in the quest to be in the right, we miss the second half. Being a Christian isn't just about the right information: Orthodoxy. It's about having the right action: Orthopraxy. If you're screaming right now about "by grace, through faith; not of works" then just give me a little space. Let me explain.

Right belief is essential. Without the right belief set, we're doomed to eternal Hell. Jesus came to give life. In order to accomplish that, He lived a sinless life, died a criminal's death, and rose in ultimate victory over satan, sin, and death. He lived the life I could not live, died the death I should have died, and rose again so that I could walk in newness of life.

That being said, the grace and faith that has saved us should have a profound impact on our lives. We should not be the same, but should be able to stand with Paul and speak of "the life I now live" (Galatians 2:20) as opposed to the life that I then lived.

One of the "tells" of a regenerated heart is love. Love for Jesus Christ, love for our brothers and sisters in Christ, and love for those in need of Christ. The church has been placed here not as a bomb shelter so that we may huddle ourselves together and talk about how happy we are to not be outside. Christ's bride is not a sniveling, shrinking hag. No. The church is a triumphant church, reaching to the lost and ushering in the Kingdom of God.

The church is not a clerical office. Is there work to be done to keep all things in order? Yes. But, above all, we are a rescue mission. We are a hospital for the lost and dying. We are the orderlies, covered in the blood of the wounded, who usher those damaged beyond repair into the presence of the great Healer. He can put them back together ... if we're willing to soil our cuffs.