One of my most cherished possessions is my fourth edition Greek New Testament, edited by Kurt Aland et. al., with concordance. I received it in Seminary, as a gift from my second year Greek instructor, and over the last fifteen years, it has been one of my most constant companions in the spiritual life. It is dog-eared and worn. The fore edge is filthy from thumbing continually back to the concordance to look up words. It’s on its second cover (the first wore out about two years in, and I had it rebound at the Seminary library). Yet for all that, it is the most precious book I own.
When I was finishing my fourth semester of Greek in seminary, my instructor told our class a story on the last day of class that I never forgot. Looking back, this strange story has probably had more influence over my devotional life than any sermon I’ve ever heard.
“Imagine a fish,” he said, “Who was trying to swim up stream to spawn, when he came to a mighty waterfall. He struggled with all his heart to swim to the top of that waterfall, getting pounded back by the current with every swish of his tail. Finally, he reached the top. He was so relieved to get there that he splashed up out of the water, onto the riverbank to rest. And then, lying there in the open air, he died.”
The end.
It wasn’t exactly Aesop’s Fable material, but while we were all blinking at him and wondering what on earth he was talking about, he said to us: “You all have been struggling to learn your Greek for two years, and here you are, finally through all the hard work. And because you did it, you might be tempted to take a break from the Greek and rest. But just know that if you do, most likely within a month or two, it will all be gone. You'll have forgotten everything and all this hard work will have been for nothing.”
“So try to form a habit,” he said, “of reading a little bit of Greek each day.”
Not wanting to be that exhausted fish gasping for breath on the riverbank of Greek exegesis, I took his story deeply to heart. I went home that day and made it my goal to read the entire Greek New Testament, front to back, in a year. I worked out the math and figured that if I read 3 pages each day, I’d be able to do it with a few days to spare.
It was really tough slugging, at first. I had four semesters of Greek under my belt, so I wasn’t completely lost, but it wasn’t long till I realized how much swimming there was left to do. But I stuck to my 3-pages-a-day routine, and gradually it got easier and easier, and by the end of the year I had made it from Biblos geneseōs Iēsou Xristou (Matthew 1:1) to Hē charis tou kuriou Iēsou meta pantōn (Revelation 22:21). It was such a joy to think I had actually heard the Word of God in its original language like that, right from the beginning to the end, that I started over at the beginning the next morning. Matthew 1:1: Biblos geneseōs Iēsou Xristou.
This has been my habit pretty much ever since, reading three pages of Greek each morning, with a consistent goal of reading the whole New Testament in a year. And though I do miss a day or two here or there, still, in the last 15 years, I’ve made it through the whole thing about a dozen times or more.
A few weeks ago I started this series talking about the simple things in my life that give me joy. If you missed the first post, the idea comes from some research I heard about in the field of Positive Psychology. It suggested that incorporating regular experiences of every-day happiness into our routine (maintaining your “positivity hygiene,” they called it), is a simple way we can care for our mental health and build our emotional resilience.
As I’ve been reflecting on some of the things that help me maintain my “positivity hygiene,” it’s occurred to me that those three pages of Greek each morning have been a rich source of daily delight for me over the years. Some days are very taxing, I’ll admit. Even after fifteen years of reading, I still find the last half of the Book of Acts, all of Second Peter, and most of the Book of Hebrews pretty challenging, but even the challenge is joyful.
Reading the Greek New Testament has become far more than just a personal goal for me. Something beautiful seems to happen when I open that tattered book each morning. A world unfolds before me where the Word of God is mysteriously familiar, but just foreign enough that I have to slow myself down, and ponder deeply what it’s really saying, and wrestle with it word by word. As I do, it comes to life for me in all sorts of unexpected ways.
I can still remember reading through Luke’s account of the Lord’s Supper (Luke 22:14-35) for the first time in the original Greek. I had to look up basically every second word, at the time, and wrestle with the parsing, and untwist the syntax, but as I did, the scene, of our Lord’s giving of himself by hosting his followers at a final meal that would be, forever after, his body and blood, took on dimensions I had never experienced before. It has forever changed, not just how I read the passage, but how I participate in the Lord’s Supper itself.
There’s a place in the Psalms where it talks about how the Word of God gives joy to the heart. Of course, I did not need to keep on swimming in the river of New Testament Greek all these years to discover how true that statement is. I didn’t need to learn Greek at all, and neither do you. This is the beauty of the Bible, that it meets us wherever we’re at, and speaks to all of us no matter where we’re coming from.
Even so, I have come to cherish my daily pages of Greek; and my tattered Greek Bible—when I stop to consider how tattered it’s become—is a beautiful reminder to me of how much sweeter than honey from the comb the Word of God really is.
The Simplest of Delights: My Greek New Testament
Transitions, a book review
That's how I've come to think of it now. At the time, all I knew was that a lot of things that seemed routine and reliable in my life were changing dramatically and I had no clue, yet, what was going to take their place. It was all very scary and disorienting, to be in the "Transition Zone" like this; though again, while I was in it, I didn't really know it was called a "Transition Zone," or how common it is, when you're in one, to find yourself grasping frantically for something (anything) to make things feel normal again.
The only reason I'm able to name all these things now, on the other side of my particular life transition, is because a good friend suggested I read a book by Dr. William Bridges, called Transitions: Making Sense of Life's Changes. In Transitions, Bridges explores "transition" as a psychological phenomenon, explaining what's going on in our brains when our lives are changing dramatically. He offers some very insightful wisdom about how to frame life's transition experiences, and some practical advice for going through them well.
In Bridge's view, "transitioning" is a natural process of "disorientation and reorientation marking the turning points in [our] path of growth" (p. 4). Rather than seeing transitions as crises we have to cope through, Bridges suggests they are key seasons in the "natural process of development and self-renewal" (p. 6). He suggests a three-phase model for understanding transitions in this way: they involve an "ending," where we let go of the old, both inwardly and outwardly, a "new beginning," where we start into something new with better self-knowledge and emotional resources, and a "transition zone," an important "empty or fallow time" in between the two.
If we can find the the grace, however, to go through the "Transition Zone" staying open to the possibilities that are always there during times of change, our personal transitions can become a path to a deeper self understanding and a wiser way of being in the world.
Bridges' three-stage model gave me some good handles to hang onto as I went through my own transition last year. Especially wise was his reminder that it is impossible, really, to go back to the old once a transition has begun, his warning against trying to, and his encouragement to embrace the in-between time, as scary and lost as it feels, as an opportunity for growth and self-discovery.
That book will have to wait until I have more time, and perhaps more wisdom, than I have right now. In the meantime, and until it's written, I'd gladly recommend Bridge's work as a starting place for anyone sitting in their own Holy Saturday moment and trying to make sense of it.
The Simplest of Delights: The Scent of a Russian Olive Tree
There is one tree, however, that I've taken the time to get to know. It's the elaeagnus angustifolia, more commonly known as the Russian olive. If you don't recognize the name, the Russian olive, or wild olive, or silver berry tree, is a native of central Asia that arrived in North America in the 19th Century and has since spread slowly throughout the continent. You might recognize it by it's thin, silvery-green leaves or perhaps its delicate yellow flowers. The silver sheen of the plant is especially striking, but that's not what I love about the elaeagnus angustifolia.
It's the scent. The Russian olive has a highly aromatic flower, with a fragrance redolent of cinnamon and rose and jasmine. That's the closest I can get, anyways. It is actually one of the hardest smells for me to describe, because I've never smelled anything quite like a Russian olive tree. It's this soft, gentle, heady, sweet smell that settles over you and envelops you almost before you realize its there. And then, when you do, it's all you can think about.
I've noticed it tends to get stronger as the sun is setting and the evening is sinking into the warm, twilight drowsiness of a summer nightfall.
The scent travels, too, drifting for yards away from the tree. I'll be out for a summer-evening walk, lost in thought, when suddenly, like the olfactory version of a siren-song, a scent of Russian olive will waft over me. I'll stop to breathe it in, scanning my surroundings for the tree that's emitting it. Often it's not even visible. Maybe it's coming from someone's back yard three houses down. Or when I do eventually find it it will be somewhere, maybe, down at the end of the street. But the scent is so distinctive, and the smell is so good, that I know there's a Russian olive somewhere, inviting passers-by for yards and yards around to stop and savor its silver-sweet fragrance.
I'm not trying to wax poetic.
It's just that last week I shared some thoughts about hedonic well being—the science of feeling good—and I suggested that one of the ways to help the human heart flourish is to build intentional moments of joy into your day. If I were to name one smell that is guaranteed to improve my hedonic well being—even more than fresh baked cookies or newly-mown grass—it's the scent of a Russian olive tree on a soft summer breeze.
I'm writing this in the dead of winter, of course, so it may be months before I'll smell my next elaeagnus angustifolia in bloom. But even taking the time today to remember how it feeds the heart to catch a whiff of one from far off, is helping me today to "generate some positive affect" (to put it in terms of the positive psychology I cited in the last post).
More than just increasing my positive affect though, the memory of the scent of a Russian olive tree is helping me to think about the delight that can, and should, characterize my relationship with God. One of the things that has always stood out to me in the Narnia books, C. S. Lewis's allegorical children's series exploring aspects of life with God, is the way Lewis lingers lovingly over the many sweet fragrances that fill the air whenever the Lion Aslan is around. In the symbolism of the stories, Aslan is Lewis's literary vehicle for exploring the character of God. And whenever he shows up on the scene, indescribably good smells fill the air. With the memory of a Russian olive lingering in my nose this afternoon, it does not at all surprise me that when Lewis wants to describe how delightful it is to know and be known by God, he refers to every rich-smelling, fragrantly-perfumed thing he can imagine.
Lewis apparently was unfamiliar with the elaeagnus angustifolia, because he never once mentions this musky-scented tree in any of his descriptions of Aslan. I can't imagine him overlooking it, if he had known how fragrant it is. Because for my money, if I had to name a scent that gets me thinking all over again about how delightful life with the Lord really is, I don't know if I could do better than to name a Russian olive tree.
After all, what does it tell you about the joyful goodness of our God if, in addition to all the other, infinitely wondrous things he's done for us, he also took the time to think up such a fragrance as that of the Russian Olive tree, for the sheer delight of it.
Second Wind, an album
Each year I try to release a new recording project of original songs. Not that I have delusions of rock and roll grandeur or anything; I do it mostly as an outlet for my creativity, as a way to grow as a musician, hone my skills as a writer, and learn a bit each day about music production. In the nearly two decades since I released my very first album—recorded in a day with some muscians from my old church in Two Hills, for a total budget of $1000.00—I would say the discipline of writing and recording an album each year has checked all those boxes, making me a better muscian, writer, and producer, all while giving me the great joy that comes from doing things creative.
This year's effort harkens back to those early days, in that a handful of the songs on the album are new recordings of some of the old tunes that appeared on that very first album (it was called Sunlight and Water, and I still have a few copies of it sitting in a box at the back of my closet, if anyone still listens to CDs anymore, and wants a copy). The rest of the songs are tunes I hammered out between the cracks of a momentous year of change last year. Between going into transition as a pastor, becoming an empty nester as a parent, starting a new degree to become a counselor, and starting a new ministry in a new church, I found a bit of time, here and there, to scratch out a few new songs.
This project is called Second Wind, a title which alludes to the fact that some of the songs on the album are getting a "second wind" by being re-recorded and re-released from the old days. The title also gestures to the fact that I'm at a stage of my life where I feel like I'm getting my second wind, as a father, a pastor, and a follower of Jesus. As as a final layer to the title, there's a bit of play on the wind/breath/spirit word group in the Scriptures (see John 3:1-16 for more....). The songs on this album all deal with different aspects of discipleship, and as such they are about renewing ourselves spiritually—getting a "second wind"—in our life with God.
Like I say, I'm not holding my breath for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to call any time soon, but if one or two songs on this endeavor spoke to a heart or two out there, I'd feel it was worth the effort. Over the next month or two, I plan to post each song individually, and tell some of the stories that inspired them. For today, however, if you're curious, here's the whole thing, posted for your listening enjoyment.
The Simplest of Delights (Introduction)
The other day I was listening to an episode of a podcast called “The Awesome Project." It’s a series produced by a Canadian Positive Psychologist named Louisa Jewell which explores various topics related to human flourishing. Flourishing is what positive psychologists call it when a person is experiencing “positive mental health and overall life well-being.”[1] When we are living our best and enjoying positive well-being as a result, we are flourishing.
The whole series has been fascinating to me, but this particular episode was exploring the impact of positive emotions—things like love, gratitude, pride, or excitement—on our overall well-being. It cited studies that suggested having daily experiences of positive emotion improves our resilience, helps us recover physically from the effects of stress, and guards us against depression.
The podcast referred to the work of Barbara Frederickson, who found that “the difference between people who flourish and those who don’t, lies in their ability to generate everyday pleasant moments at a ratio of [up to] 5 positive experiences for every 1 negative emotion.” That 5:1 ratio—she called it the Frederickson’s Positivity Ratio—especially gave me pause. The brain, you might say, is like Velcro for our negative experiences and Teflon for our positive, and in order to build the resources we need to come through negative experiences with resiliency, we need intentionally to work into our routines experiences that generate these positive emotions on a consistent basis.
Psychologist Michelle McQuade uses the term “positivity hygiene” to describe all this. Just like you work regular showers and brushing your teeth into your daily schedule, because you know how important these simple acts of self-care and personal grooming are, in the same way you should work regular activities into your routine that generate positive emotional affect. These activities do not need to be intense or elaborate (this is another finding in the research). Petting the family dog could do it; listening to some favorite music could; a 15-minute walk in the woods. The key is knowing what puts you in that happy place, even if its just momentary, and becoming intentional about building those things into your day.
I’ve been mulling over these ideas for a few weeks now: the positivity ratio, and positivity hygiene, and human flourishing. It occurred to me as I listened to the podcast that I’m not really all that clear on what experiences generate positive emotion for me. At least, not in the way the podcast was talking about it, I’m not. I know in broad terms what brings me joy and what steals my joy. I have a good idea of what my idea of a “perfect day” would be. But if I were going to try to be intentional about building such moments into my day, like the way I take a shower every morning, I’m not sure what exactly I’d include on the list.
Have I been walking around, the “positive psychology” equivalent of an unwashed slob?
Like I say, it gave me pause.
It also gave me an idea for a new series here at terra incognito. Over the next few months, I’m planning to take some time to explore the simple pleasures of life, examining some of the every-day experiences, objects, encounters, or activities that serve as unrecognized sources of positive emotion for me.
This is not just for the sake of cleaning up my act, so to speak, when it comes to my personal positivity ratio (though hopefully it will help me do that). It is, more importantly, to help me remember that the Lord’s Creation is, actually, crammed full of things to take delight in, if only we took the time to savor it. To paraphrase C. S. Lewis: judging from the way he wired to be able to take such pleasure in even the simplest of things, you’d have to think the Lord was a hedonist at heart. And perhaps he is. It’s just that we’re so often like fishes, swimming in the sun-warmed water of his grace and goodness and never even realizing we’re wet.
Who knows what we might discover if we took some time to ask the Lord to help us see just exactly how wet we really are?
In Awe-Struck Wonder, a Reflection on the Day of Epiphany
I read an interesting article this morning called “The Science of Awe,” published in 2018 by the Greater Good Science Centre at UC Berkley. It surveyed some of the recent scientific literature on the human experience of “awe,” and described some of the fascinating effects such experiences can have on the human psyche. This article defined “awe” in terms of two specific characteristics: a “perceived vastness” and a “need for accommodation.” Humans experience awe, in other words, when we encounter something that we perceive to be so immense that it violates our normal understanding of the world. In order to accommodate such experiences epistemologically, we are required to “change the mental structures we use to understand the world” (p. 3). Notably, these “experiences of vastness” can be literal (like seeing the Grand Canyon), or figurative (like “being in the presence of someone with immense prestige”).
According to the research, such experiences have a measurable, positive impact on those who are “awe-struck” in this way. Experiencing awe can increase our feelings of social connectedness, expand our perception of time, improve our critical thinking, increase our positive mood, and decrease our materialistic impulses. Awe makes us kinder, humbler, and more generous. (In one study, “people who stood among awe-inspiring eucalyptus trees picked up more pens for an experimenter who had ‘accidentally’ dropped them, than did people who stared up at a not-so-awe-inspiring building” (p. 4).)
You can read the entire paper here if you want.
But here’s the fascinating thing: the research suggests that people are more likely to experience awe who are more comfortable with ambiguity and uncertainty. Awe is also closely connected with a number of positive character traits, including creativity, gratitude, and an appreciation for beauty. One study even found that the wiser you are, the more likely you are to experience awe (wisdom being defined here as an ability to learn from mistakes and an appreciation for one’s own limitations).
I call this fascinating only because in my experience, there are some expressions of Christianity that place a high value on things that actually make “experiences of awe” less likely, things like an insistence on certainty and a discomfort with ambiguity, a fear of mistakes and a suspicion of beauty. (I’m thinking here of the conservative, neo-reformed, semi-fundamentalist expressions of a particular kind of evangelicalism I’ve seen, known, and been part of in the past.) Of course, I’ve also encountered expressions of Christianity that are comfortably at home among unresolved ambiguities, that are almost fecundly creative, that lovingly cherish beauty as a window onto the divine—all the things that seem to increase our propensity for awe.
It left me wondering: could it be that some “ways of being Christian” make us more likely to stand in awe of God than others?
It’s a question worth pondering deeply and prayerfully, given the number of distinctly Christian virtues that, according to the science, regular experiences of awe promote in the human heart: kindness, generosity, joy, humility, social connectedness, and so on.
It’s worth pondering any time of year, but I’m thinking about it especially today, since it’s January 6th, the Feast of Epiphany, as I write this.
If you’re unfamiliar with the Christian calendar, the Feast of Epiphany is the day we commemorate the arrival of the wisemen at the star-marked spot where the baby Jesus lay, kneeling in awe to worship the newborn Messiah.
Besides referring to this sacred celebration in the Christian year, however, the word “epiphany” can refer more generally to any experience where you suddenly come to understand something in a whole new way. On a philosophical level, “epiphanies” are moments of perfect clarity, where you catch an ephemeral glimpse into the essential nature and deepest meaning of a thing that up until that point had been entirely opaque to you. Epiphanies, in this philosophical sense, are experiences of profound insight that often lead us into to “awe-struck” moments, as the immense meaning of something previously unrecognized overwhelms us.
One of my favorite examples of an epiphany in this second sense of the word is that strange scene in that even stranger movie, Joe vs. the Volcano, where Joe glimpses the moon in all its splendor while he’s stranded at sea.
Of course, these two meanings of epiphany—the "arrival of the wisemen" meaning, and the “sudden moment of clarity” meaning—are probably more closely related than we could ever know. After all, when those gift-bearing Magi encountered the little Lord Jesus like that, they were coming into contact with a divinity so immense that it would have utterly overcome them with awe, if they could have glimpsed it in all its glory. And even the tiny glimpse they did receive, for all it being veiled in infant flesh and bone, still it sank them to their knees in epiphanic wonder.
If the science of awe has anything to add to our understanding of that moment, it suggests that when they did bow down in awe-struck worship like that, they were actually opening their hearts to all the good things Lord wants for his followers: wisdom, kindness, joy, community, and clearer eyes with which to see the world. And if we would join them, not only on the day of Epiphany but throughout our life of following him, we may find the same things burgeoning in us, as we stand in awe of the divinely revealed Son of God.