Onan

Here’s Tim Challies on birth control. As usual, it’s a pretty clear and concise summary of the standard Evangelical view on birth control. I’m with him about 98% of the way. But I had to smirk at his footnote on the sin of Onan:

A word about Onan: The story of Onan is recorded in Genesis 38 and it goes like this: “Er, Judah’s firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the Lord, and the Lord put him to death. Then Judah said to Onan, ‘Go in to your brother’s wife and perform the duty of a brother-in-law to her, and raise up offspring for your brother.’ But Onan knew that the offspring would not be his. So whenever he went in to his brother’s wife he would waste the semen on the ground, so as not to give offspring to his brother.” God did not kill Onan because he used coitus interruptus as a method of birth control, but because he refused to fulfill his duty toward his brother and his brother’s family. He made a mockery of the commands of God, being willing to take pleasure in his brother’s wife but being unwilling to accept the responsibility of raising a child in his brother’s name. While this story may not be entirely irrelevant to our discussion, it is not the place to begin.

In other words, God killed Onan, because he short-changed his brother, and not his brother’s wife. She would be the character in the story who was entering into sexual relations with the expectation of getting children, which was the longing of every decent woman in her era. Onan, on the other hand was “willing to take pleasure” in the activities, but “unwilling to accept the responsibility of raising a child…” It was less about the actual actions, and more about the heart attitudes involved, which heart attitudes mirror exactly those of people who use birth control today.

The more I hear people explain how the sin of Onan wasn’t about birth control, the more I get the impression that birth control is a really bad idea, and the the more I’m impressed with the human ability to argue themselves in circles.

A Day’s Journey

Lord, You lead like a drunken man.

The dust picked up again under the crunch of sweat-soaked feet. Carolina Snibbs was walking. Outside the city gate and up toward the hills; his mouth was dry again. Another city turned away. Another dry day. And comes the wind.

You always tell me step one and step ten. Never mind that step five is West and step seven is North when my path is heading South. Never mind that. I’m following Your rhythms. And You lead like a drunken man.

Preach to the City Where No One Gets Saved; then up the hills of barrenness: “Lord, send Your rain.” And all this because You said I would go to the land beside a lake, and build with a people who know Your name. No small wonder they called Abraham crazed.

Behind Snibbs’ left shoulder stood a great city, and getting greater. Everyone there was happy; everyone was full of ambition and purpose. And Snibbs was walking away.

It’s a good thing I don’t carry a literal cross, just a weight on my back and this burning burden in my heart.

On his right shoulder lay a knapsack: a night’s shelter, a change of clothes, enough money for a week, or a day.

It’s a wonder I still follow, but I’m afraid I trust You. Why did You send me there, Lord? Nobody needed me; nobody wanted me. There was nothing I could do. Like climbing sheer walls with nothing but the strength of my fingernails. And now, here I am, going, when all the world is coming. But for Your glory, Lord. But for Your glory.

Snibbs stopped, set down his bag and stretched. He was ten miles outside the city. A little further and he would rest for the night.

“Good morning, old man.”

Snibbs started, and looked. There on the other side of the path was a boy, about ten, sitting on a fallen tree. Old man? he thought. So I’m an old man today.

“Good day, little boy. How are you today?”

“Pretty good. Why are you coming out of the city, when everyone else is going in?”

“I’m not sure I know. The Lord’s timing is a strange thing. But it’s time for me to go. Walk with me a ways.”

The boy jumped up. I must be old today, thought Snibbs. Such youth he has. Such vigor!

They had walked for a few minutes before the boy asked, “Old man, what is your name?”

“Carolina. Carolina Snibbs,” he answered.

The boy laughed. “What a funny name!”

He smiled. “It means ‘King of Songs.'” And then he let a sad chuckle. “But I couldn’t sing very well in that city. What is your name, little boy?”

“My name’s Treader. It means ‘Bright and Swift.”

“And an appropriate name it is. I’ve never seen anyone so eager and so quick as you.”

“My brother Cleveland’s stronger,” Treader said.

“I’m sure he is. But strength isn’t always everything.”

Treader grinned and ran up the path a hundred yards ahead.

“I think,” said Snibbs, when he had caught up again, “That this…would be a good place…to camp.” He sat down his bag, got on his knees, pulled out his tent makings: the cloth and poles, the ropes, the hammer and nails, and set to work. Treader pulled up the sack and sat on it.

“Did you finish all the stories you started in the city?”

“No, I didn’t,” answered Snibbs. “There was an old woman whose cupboard was bare and I meant to fill it. But it was time to go. And there was a boy who was lonely and afraid. I meant to find him a home, but it was time to go. And another: a family that had everything it needed, but had forgotten how to give it all away. I had to go. The Lord was calling. It was time. Could you hand me that hammer?”

Treader stood up and grabbed the hammer. “Someone will finish all your stories,” he said.

“I’m sure they will. Thank you.”

Treader stood there, one hand holding up the half-built tent as Carolina hammered. When he glanced up from his work, he saw Treader had the look of quietly disturbed concern that only a child could have. “What looks like a broken swagger to us is so often the greatest dance to God,” Carolina said.

In a whisper, almost like a prayer, Treader said, “Don’t be old, Song-King. Be young, and full of light.”

Carolina crinkled a smile. I’d love to.

The boy walked back to the bag slowly, shoulders stooped. Then suddenly, he jumped and turned around. “I will finish your stories for you, Song-King! I can do it!”

Carolina stopped his hammering. Looking up, he said, “Well, Treader, that’s a very nice– Gesture…of you…” The boy was gone.

Carolina stood up. Tent was finished, and he leaned on it.

“Well, Lord, You give your servants many different forms. I won’t even bother to ask if that one was born on this side or the other.” There was no sign of the boy. He must have been very fast.

The sun had barely set. It was almost dark. And out from the tent-folds shone a white and golden gleam of light that had no visible source. Without hesitation, Carolina Snibbs crawled inside. As he lay down, the burning inside him grew, reaching out until it joined forces with the glow inside the tent. He could feel the gray of his hair fading back to brown. Eyes closed, he could feel his vision clearing. Tears flowed down his cheeks and past his ears.

Oh! To see the city made with no human hands, standing by the crystal sea. But for Your glory, Lord. But for Your Glory.

Simony

Gehazi! Sweet fool, Gehazi!
Gehazi! What have you done?
Not for food, or want of money,
but for pride you sold your God.

What might the Lord have done with you,
who washed the feet of prophets,
and with your eyes have looked upon
the armies of the Lord?

How many times were you entrusted
with the messages of God?
What glory might have been your portion
With Elisha’s cloak and rod?

But you never understood.

God’s glory is for glory;
His favor is by grace.
No gift can buy you honor;
No work replaces faith.

Edom despised his birthright,
and all his father’s hoard;
He traded his position
for some beans upon the board.

For what he did, he earned
the plain results of his despising:
because he hated his inheritance,
in his inheritance he was despised.

But you! Gehazi! Sweet fool!

As Moses, when he hit the rock,
taught the Hebrews to despise
the mercy and the graciousness
of Him who split the tide,

So you have taught the nations
that God’s kindness is for trade.
Now he must be proven just
and make his nature plain.

What good is God to Gehazi?
What good is gold to Simon Mage?
Since you trade for Laban’s leprosy,
his leprosy shall surely be your wage.

Eden Geography

I was trying to make a joke online about being stationed “East of Eden,” based on the idea that Eden is somewhere near Iraq. I did a double check to find an article about Eden being in Iraq, and ran across this little article from Answers in Genesis.

Frankly, it offended my sensibilities. The folks at Answers in Genesis may be proud of their biblically minded powers of scientific reasoning, but it seems like the buck stops when it comes to basic literary analysis. I mean, really – Moses tells us that a river came out of Eden (which happens to be east from wherever he’s writing), and splits into four headwaters. Two of the four rivers have recognizable names. A third is said to run through a known region. But Mark Looy assures us that these must be memorial names, like “New England” or “New York,” which are named after the orginal sites, but shouldn’t be confused one for the other.

In other words, Moses is a liar. East is nowhere in particular; Tigris isn’t Tigris; Euphrates isn’t Euphrates, and Ethiopia might as well be the Amazon basin, for all we’re able to clearly identify it. “It was destroyed by the global Flood, and so its actual location under piles of sediment can never be known.” Eden is nowhere in particular, like Atlantis. ” For that matter, the original Garden could have been on the other side of the world!”

So saith the scientist. He has a head for theories and logical conclusions from irrefutable evidence, but no eye for plain-dealing accounts. Moses clearly expects us to treat Eden like a real place, and not an imaginary one, like Mount Olympus. In fact, part of the whole reason for sites like Answers in Genesis is to defend the position that places like Eden, and Adam and Eve, and the flood were real places, real people and real events. But how does Moses actually communicate that Eden was real place, and not a theological Utopia? By linking it to known geography. How do I know that Washington, D.C. is a real place? Because it’s just south of Maryland, unlike Oz, which is on the other side of the Deadly Desert.

If the place names in Genesis 2 aren’t really connected to the places they’re associated with now, then there’s no real assurance from Scripture that Eden was a place with an actual location. That removes from us the need to find it, which may be what Mark Looy wants, but it also removes from us the need to assume a real flood, or to look for answers in Genesis to any factual questions at all.

Anyway, I was riled. So I went looking. Surely somebody’s done a better job than this. Is the Pishon the Ganges, which would Make all of India the land of Havilah, “where there is gold.” Is Gihon the Nile? Keep in mind that part of what Moses is arguing for is that the Garden of Eden formed a square, just like the Holy of Holies. To pull it off, somehow we’ve got to have one river that branches into four (quite the opposite from the normal way of rivers. And these rivers have to have sharp corners, so that they can all come out from one location and manage to come back together at another. Worse, two of the rivers are already identified, and they go parallel to each other. The third one has to cut through a land over 1,000 miles away, on the other side of the Red sea. In other words, it’s going to be easier all around to argue for a mythical Eden, since the real one is too impossible to exist.

Then I found this site. I’m not so sure I buy the eschatology at the end, but geology looks legit, and I can’t argue with the literary analysis. Plus, this picture is awesome:

Eden?

Wit

I’m reading Jane Austen’s biography right now. It’s excellent, if a bit breezy, considering that the major thrust of the 352 pages is that she was a wit and a genius to whom nothing dramatic happened her whole life. To the first two I’ll concede immediately. He includes these two letters that had me howling:

Steventon, Saturday evening, Nov. 8th

MY DEAR CASSANDRA,

I thank you for so speedy a return to my two last, and particularly thank you for your anecdote of Charlotte Graham and her cousin, Harriet Bailey, which has very much amused both my mother and myself. If you can learn anything farther of that interesting affair, I hope you will mention it. I have two messages; let me get rid of them, and then my paper will be my own. Mary fully intended writing to you by Mr Chute’s frank, and only happened entirely to forget it, but will write soon; and my father wishes Edward to send him a memorandum of the price of the hops. The tables are come, and give general contentment. I had not expected that they would so perfectly suit the fancy of us all three, or that we should so well agree in the disposition of them; but nothing except their own surface can have been smoother. The two ends put together form one constant table for everything, and the centre piece stands exceedingly well under the glass, and holds a great deal most commodiously, without looking awkwardly. They are both covered with green baize, and send their best love. The Pembroke has got its destination by the sideboard, and my mother has great delight in keeping her money and papers locked up. The little table which used to stand there has most conveniently taken itself off into the best bedroom; and we are now in want only of the chiffonniere, which is neither finished nor come. So much for that subject; I now come to another, of a very different nature, as other subjects are very apt to be. Earle Harwood has been again giving uneasiness to his family and talk to the neighbourhood; in the present instance, however, he is only unfortunate, and not in fault.

About ten days ago, in cocking a pistol in the guardroom at Marcau, he accidentally shot himself through the thigh. Two young Scotch surgeons in the island were polite enough to propose taking off the thigh at once, but to that he would not consent; and accordingly in his wounded state was put on board a cutter and conveyed to Haslar Hospital, at Gosport, where the bullet was extracted, and where he now is, I hope, in a fair way of doing well. The surgeon of the hospital wrote to the family on the occasion, and John Harwood went down to him immediately, attended by James,[3.1] whose object in going was to be the means of bringing back the earliest intelligence to Mr and Mrs Harwood, whose anxious sufferings, particularly those of the latter, have of course been dreadful. They went down on Tuesday, and James came back the next day, bringing such favourable accounts as greatly to lessen the distress of the family at Deane, though it will probably be a long while before Mrs Harwood can be quite at ease. One most material comfort, however, they have; the assurance of its being really an accidental wound, which is not only positively declared by Earle himself, but is likewise testified by the particular direction of the bullet. Such a wound could not have been received in a duel. At present he is going on very well, but the surgeon will not declare him to be in no danger.[3.2] Mr Heathcote met with a genteel little accident the other day in hunting. He got off to lead his horse over a hedge, or a house, or something, and his horse in his haste trod upon his leg, or rather ankle, I believe, and it is not certain whether the small bone is not broke. Martha has accepted Mary’s invitation for Lord Portsmouth’s ball. He has not yet sent out his own invitations, but that does not signify; Martha comes, and a ball there is to be. I think it will be too early in her mother’s absence for me to return with her.

Sunday Evening — We have had a dreadful storm of wind in the fore part of this day, which has done a great deal of mischief among our trees. I was sitting alone in the diningroom when an odd kind of crash startled me — in a moment afterwards it was repeated. I then went to the window, which I reached just in time to see the last of our two highly valued elms descend into the Sweep!!!!! The other, which had fallen, I suppose, in the first crash, and which was the nearest to the pond, taking a more easterly direction, sunk among our screen of chestnuts and firs, knocking down one spruce-fir, beating off the head of another, and stripping the two corner chestnuts of several branches in its fall. This is not all. One large elm out of the two on the left-hand side as you enter what I call the elm walk, was likewise blown down; the maple bearing the weathercock was broke in two, and what I regret more than all the rest is, that all the three elms which grew in Hall’s meadow, and gave such ornament to it, are gone; two were blown down, and the other so much injured that it cannot stand. I am happy to add, however, that no greater evil than the loss of trees has been the consequence of the storm in this place, or in our immediate neighbourhood. We grieve, therefore, in some comfort.

I am yours ever,
J.A.

The next letter, written four days later than the former, was addressed to Miss Lloyd, an intimate friend, whose sister (my mother) was married toJane’s eldest brother:

Steventon, Wednesday evening, Nov. 12th
MY DEAR MARTHA,

I did not receive your note yesterday till after Charlotte had left Deane, or I would have sent my answer by her, instead of being the means, as I now must be, of lessening the elegance of your new dress for the Hurstbourne ball by the value of 3d. You are very good in wishing to see me at Ibthorp so soon, and I am equally good in wishing to come to you. I believe our merit in that respect is much upon a par, our self-denial mutually strong. Having paid this tribute of praise to the virtue of both, I shall here have done with panegyric, and proceed to plain matter of fact. In about a fortnight’s time I hope to be with you. I have two reasons for not being able to come before. I wish so to arrange my visit as to spend some days with you after your mother’s return. In the 1st place, that I may have the pleasure of seeing her, and in the 2nd, that I may have a better chance of bringing you back with me. Your promise in my favour was not quite absolute, but if your will is not perverse, you and I will do all in our power to overcome your scruples of conscience. I hope we shall meet next week to talk all this over, till we have tired ourselves with the very idea of my visit before my visit begins. Our invitations for the 19th are arrived, and very curiously are they worded.[3.3] Mary mentioned to you yesterday poor Earle’s unfortunate accident, I dare say. He does not seem to be going on very well. The two or three last posts have brought less and less favourable accounts of him. John Harwood has gone to Gosport again today. We have two families of friends now who are in a most anxious state; for though by a note from Catherine this morning there seems now to be a revival of hope at Manydown, its continuance may be too reasonably doubted. Mr Heathcote,[3.4] however, who has broken the small bone of his leg, is so good as to be going on very well. It would be really too much to have three people to care for.

You distress me cruelly by your request about books. I cannot think of any to bring with me, nor have I any idea of our wanting them. I come to you to be talked to, not to read or hear reading; I can do that at home; and indeed I am now laying in a stock of intelligence to pour out on you as my share of the conversation. I am reading Henry’s History of England, which I will repeat to you in any manner you may prefer, either in a loose, desultory, unconnected stream, or dividing my recital, as the historian divides it himself, into seven parts: The Civil and Military; Religion; Constitution; Learning and Learned Men; Arts and Sciences; Commerce, Coins, and Shipping; and Manners. So that for every evening in the week there will be a different subject. The Friday’s lot — Commerce, Coins, and Shipping — you will find the least entertaining; but the next evening’s portion will make amends. With such a provision on my part, if you will do yours by repeating the French Grammar, and Mrs Stent[3.5] will now and then ejaculate some wonder about the cocks and hens, what can we want? Farewell for a short time. We all unite in best love, and I am your very affectionate

J.A.

Against Daily Bible Reading

OK. This sort of thing annoys me. It’s not Dan Phillips’ fault. His just happens to be the most recent salvo that I’ve heard, and I’m really feeling like I’m the odd man out. I don’t think people need a Bible reading plan. I don’t think your spiritual life can be evaluated by the sheer volume of scripture you consume.

Ok. Step back. Caveats: I’m sure nobody said that, did they? Nobody said that people who know stuff are de facto more spiritual.

But why, oh why don’t the people who tell us in these superlative ways about the importance of Scripture actually do what it says? We pass on the doctrine that scripture teaches everything that pertains to life and godliness,* and then fail to see what scripture actually says about itself. It never ceases to amaze me how often, or how thoroughly people are able to devalue the actual text in favor of a doctrine about the text.

I’m afraid I don’t have the time to write a balanced dissertation that carefully navigates all the rocks of misunderstanding that come from forcefully disagreeing with what everybody thinks. But here’s a challenge for you: Take up your Bible and find the reading plan actually outlined in scripture. No? Ok. Find me a model in scripture for regular Bible reading exampled by some of the giants of faith: David, Daniel, Jesus, Paul – Somebody like that. No? Maybe we’d better go back to the Bible and see how people actually used the Bible. What I see are instances of public teaching, public debate, and intense study when confronted with a question. Never once does a disciple come to Jesus and say, “Lord teach us to read our Bibles.” Instead, in the middle of a confrontation, Jesus says, “Have you never read?” Maybe knowing and following the scriptures is something else again from reading a little each morning like a daily vitamin.

Now, just for kicks, let’s take the same approach to see what the Bible says about prayer. Let’s see: “Seven times a day.” “I will awaken the dawn.” “About the time of the evening sacrifice.” “Early in the morning, he went up…” “Lord, teach us to…”

Yeah, that one’s there.

Now, that said, I do have a Bible reading plan, and I submit it for your consideration: For starters, I read a lot. A lotter than that. Sometimes I read with an agenda, and sometimes I don’t follow that agenda very well. I tend to prefer fiction (and I can read more of it without getting tired), so I have to make a bit of extra effort to include some non-fiction in my diet. Occasionally, the non-fiction book that I read is a book of the Bible. When that Bible book comes up, I read it with the same level of intensity that I read everything else. I take notes if something interesting or insightful stands out to me (which is a lot oftener than with, say “The Lexus and the Olive Tree“. Generally speaking, after reading the Bible all day for a week or so, I’m pretty much burnt out on the Bible for a while, the same as the day after a PT test, or the day after Thanksgiving. It may be a while before I can do something like that again.

* As it turns out, 2 Peter 1:3 doesn’t even mention the scriptures, or Bible reading, or anything like that, so why do people use it that way?

Or even four

Despite all my flights of fancy when I was a kid, it’s becoming a distinct possibility that I will never accomplish anything more earth-shattering than a normal, middle class life. What shall I do? I will thank God for his kindness in keeping me from disgrace as well as from fame, and raise my children well. A handful of prudent children is better than a hundred years as president.