T. F. Torrance on the inexplicability of evil

To my mind, the idea that evil is fundamentally inexplicable—that it has no actual rationale, ever—is one of the great and unique things about Christianity. For those new to this idea, can I suggest you have a look at Byron’s posts about “why it is wicked to solve the problem of evil”. But here’s T. F. Torrance putting the same thing nicely:

“If there were no abysmal, that is bottomless, chasm of evil, then the cross of Christ is a hollow sham, and in that event God incarnate need not have given himself in atoning sacrifice for sin. God does not offer us any explanation for evil, but deals decisively and finally with it by entering himself into its abysmal chasm separating us from him and bridging it through the atoning life and death of his incarnate Son.” (The Mediation of Christ, xiv)

Christianity doesn’t provide an “answer” to the problem of evil in the sense of an explanation; it provides the news of God’s counter-attack in Christ! I reckon this is much better.

The Promise of the Wild

I have just read Into the Wild, the true story of a young man who died living a solitary existence in the bush in Alaska. A movie was made of it. One of the most interesting things about the book, however, is quotes at the beginning of chapters, many of which concern the appeal the wilderness has on the modern imagination. Here’s a few examples:

The physical domain of the country had its counterpart in me. The trails I made led outward into the hills and swamps, but they led inward also. And from the study of things underfoot, and from reading and thinking, came a kind of exploration, myself and the land. In time the two became one in my mind. With the gathering force of an essential thing realising itself out of early ground, I faced in myself a passionate and tenacious longing—to put away thought forever, and all the trouble it brings, all but the nearest desire, direct and searching. To take the trail and not look back. Whether on foot, on snowshoes or by sled, into the summer hills and their late freezing shadows—a high blaze, a runner track in the snow would show where I had gone. Let the rest of mankind find me if it could. (John Haines)

But we little know until tried how much of the uncontrollable there is in us, urging us across glaciers and torrents, and up dangerous heights, let the judgment forbid as it may. (John Muir)

I wished to acquire the simplicity, native feelings, and virtues of savage life; to divest myself of the factitious habits, prejudices and imperfections of civilization; … and to find, amidst the solitude and grandeur of the western wilds, more correct views of human nature and of the true interests of man. The season of snows was preferred, that I might experience the pleasure of suffering, and the novelty of danger. (Estwick Evans)

Wilderness appealed to those bored and disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also was an ideal stage for the Romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exultation. (Roderick Nash)

I am a fan of the wilderness, and have a little experience of it. But what startles me here is the frequent association of the wild and remoteness with truth and goodness.

Chile — Street art in Valparaiso

Peru — On the way to Machu Picchu

“By the tender mercy
of our God,
the dawn from on high
will break upon us,
to give light
to those who sit in darkness
and in
the shadow of death,
to guide
our feet
into the way
of peace.”
(Luke 1:78-9)

 

Photo by Ian Sand

A surprising dance

This is very funny. Australian fauna at it’s best (sort of).

Augustine on Time

One last passage from Confessions. Book XI begins a discussion of the first words of the the Bible, “In the Beginning God made the heavens and the earth”. This leads Augustine to a discussion of time. Twenty-five chapters later, Augustine writes these words:

I confess to you, Lord, that I still do not know what time is. Yet I confess too that I do know that I am saying this in time, that I have been talking about time for a long time, and that this long time would not be a long time if it were not for the fact that time has been passing all the while. How can I know this, when I do not know what time is? Is it that I do know what time is, but do not know how to put what Iknow into words? I am in a sorry state, for I do not even know what I do not know! (Confessions, XI:25)

As well as being quite funny, I find Augustine’s interest in this issue fascinating. I have only just begun to think a little about time, and have a sense that I need to do it more (though if Augustine couldn’t work it out, I’ve got bucklies). Does anyone know anything really interesting to read on this?

Augustine on Science

I had read a great many scientific books which were still alive in my memory. When I compared them with the tedious tales of the Manichees, it seemed to me that, of the two, the theories of the scientists were the more likely to be true. For their thoughts could reach far enough to form a judgment about the world around them, though they found no trace of him who is Master of it. You, Lord, who are so high above us, yet look with favour on the humble, look on the proud too, but from far off. You come close only to men who are humble at heart. The proud cannot find you, even though by dint of study they have skill to number the stars and grains of sand, to measure the tracts of constellations and trace the paths of planets. (Confessions, V:3)

It seems to me that this judgment remains timely. Science can discover what the universe is like and has the power to dispel many myths; yet when it tries to reach beyond itself to declare on ultimate questions, it is not surprising that it cannot come good on its promises.

Surfing is magic

There’s not much I prefer doing. Though immediately after this wave I got stuck on some rocks and cut my feet.

“It’s Great When You Get In”

By Eugene O’Neill

They told me the water was lovely,
That I ought to go for a swim,
The air was maybe a trifle cool,
“You won’t mind it when you get in”
So I journeyed cheerfully beach-ward,
And nobody put me wise,
But everyone boosted my courage
With an earful of jovial lies.

The Sound looked cold and clammy,
The water seemed chilly and gray,
But I hastened into my bathing suit
And floundered into the spray.
Believe me, the moment I touched it
I realized then and there,
That the fretful sea was not meant for me
But fixed for a polar bear.

I didn’t swim the distance
I didn’t do the crawl,
(They asked why I failed to reach the raft,
And I told them to hire a hall.)
But I girded my icy garments
Round my quaking limbs so blue,
And I beat it back to the bath house
To warm up for an age or two.

I felt like a frozen mummy
In an icy winding sheet.
It took me over an hour
To calm my chattering teeth.
And I sympathized with Peary,
I wept for Amundsen’s woes,
As I tried to awaken some life in
My still unconscious toes.

So be warned by me example
And shun the flowing sea,
When the chill winds of September
Blow sad and drearily.
Heed not the tempters’ chatter
Pass them the skeptics’ grin
For the greatest bull that a boob can pull
Is “It’s great when you get in.”

This poem is published in Donald Gallup ed., Eugene O’Neill Poems 1912-1944, London: Jonathan Cape, 1980.