John
Calvin famously begins his Institutes of
the Christian Religion in a surprising way, (for one whose reputation is
rooted in dogmatic beliefs), by positing that there can be no knowledge of God
without knowledge of self, and no knowledge of self without knowledge of God.
This surprising beginning to our Reformed theological heritage sounds almost
modern; could Calvin have predicted our culture’s turn toward the
psychological?
What
fascinates me in Calvin’s premise is the necessary interplay between God and
self. Too often we assume that our beliefs are “objective,” “logic driven,” and
“without bias.” In such moments, we fool only ourselves. The reality is that
social and spiritual often merge, ethical and theological blend, our practice
is driven as much by pituitary concerns as principle.
One
of my favorite metaphors for spiritual formation is the comparison of the mirror
and the window. It is easier to gaze out the window at your sin, your faults, your brokenness than to glance in the
mirror at my sin, my faults, my brokenness. Even to glance into the mirror requires me to
recognize that my beliefs are not as objective as I suppose, that my emotions
play as large a role as logic, that my biases are children of my experiences.
Let
me suggest that both a stare into the
mirror and a searching look out the window are necessary components of
cultivating a just society. Unless and until I own my story I cannot embrace our
story or their story. Unless and
until I own that my “privileged” childhood implanted into me unseen biases
never will I be able to acknowledge the struggles endured by others raised
without food security, without parents who read to them every night as children, without the multiple and myriad ways I
have been blessed.
One
of my formative experiences in owning my story was when I taught a children’s
Bible club in inner-city Philadelphia as a college intern. I cannot forget the
moment we resumed the club after a man had been shot at the other end of the
open-air courtyard, after the police had come, after the ambulance had taken a
man’s body to the morgue. Seven-year old Nathan sat on my lap as my co-teacher
resumed telling the story of King David; Nathan was hardly listening. “Mr.
Brad,” he said with tears filling his eyes, “I am only seven years old and
already that is the second man I seen shot.” This was the
moment I began to see that I had more to learn about God, life and the way of
Jesus than I had previously imagined.
I
continue to need to remember that my own perception of the good and just life
is limited, finite, imbalanced because of the paltry amount of personal
experience I have lived. It is because of this that I continue to need to hear
others in their perceptions of the
good and just life, to listen as others tell their stories of seeking dignity, searching to live honorably,
hoping to provide for their families in ways that Jesus would affirm. Unless
and until I look out the window to see them in their humanity, I can never
fully participate in cultivating justice according to the way of Jesus.
What
on earth are we doing for heaven’s sake,
Brad
Munroe
