A Journey Through the Book of Job (Part 4): Job 4:1-21

A Journey Through the Book of Job (Part 3): A Good Cry

On Going to the Gym with God (Part 6): The Dark Side of Exercise

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In the 5th Century BC, a Greek sculptor known as Polyclitus wrote a now-lost treatise about sculpture in which he described his innovative approach to the artform. Polyclitus designed his nudes using an intricate theory of ideal proportions, based on a principle of symmetria, which expressed both balance (isonomia) and rhythm (rhythmos) together. His treatise has been lost to the sands of time, but other ancient writers have quoted him as saying, “Perfection (in the human form) comes about little by little, through many numbers (i.e. on the basis of carefully designed mathematical ratios).” Polyclitus’s most enduring contribution to the world of art is the famous “contrapposto” pose which we see in so many Greek statues from the 5th Century onwards, the well-known pose of an athlete balanced between movement and repose, with the hips tilted and the weight poised.

It wasn’t just Polyclitus, of course, who believed back then that the human form could be used to represent an idealized vision of divine beauty. The ancient Greeks in general held this thought dear. They were “fixated with the human body,” and believed that “the perfect body was an athletic body.”[1] The gods of ancient Greece came in human form, after all, and so the temples of ancient Greece—where you went to worship the divine—were filled with life-sized, life-like representations of human bodies, all of them carefully proportioned, beautifully sculpted, and perfectly balanced.

Some historians refer to this the “cult of the body,” the prevailing idea in ancient Greece that a beautifully-formed human body—or at least a representation of it—could be an object of worship. The worship of the body didn’t stop when you left the temple, either. The Greeks were the ones who invented the gymnasium, after all, where you went to keep your own body perfectly proportioned. They also invented the Olympics, where you worshipped the gods through a festival of athletic endeavors designed to push the human body to its limits.

In the Greek view of the body we glimpse something we might think of as “the dark side” of exercise, the idealization, the fixation, even obsession with the body that sometimes accompanies it. Those of us who have spent any consistent amount of time going to the gym will probably be nodding along at this point. It is possible—and this is especially true if our exercise is detached from a healthy self-image and a satisfying world-view that keeps it in perspective—for exercise to become a neurotic form of self-worship.

I had a friend a few years back who had become so obsessed with going to the gym that it began to negatively affect their mental well-being, their relationships, their family, and their health. He had come through that dark season, by the time I met him, and he used the term “big-ism” to describe it. “It’s like reverse anorexia,” is how he explained it to me, “where you are so obsessed with your body-size that you always look ‘too small’ when you look in the mirror and are driven to continually ‘bulk-up.’”

It turns out “bigism” is an actual disorder, known in the literature as “muscle dysmorphia,” and defined as “the delusional or exaggerated belief is that one's own body is … insufficiently muscular" [2]. It may be unfair or inaccurate to connect this modern psychological disorder to the ancient Greek cult of the body, but if there is a connection between the two, it is probably this: a distorted belief that the body itself is a source of ultimate meaning, which leads to an obsessive quest to perfect its shape.

We have been exploring the “theology of exercise” over the last few weeks here at terra incognita. We’ve looked at themes of incarnation, stewardship, embodiment, and the exercise routines of Jesus himself. Any honest theology of exercise, however, will have to face squarely this “dark side” of the topic, the dangers of narcissism, body-worship, neuroticism and even muscle dysmorphia that an unhealthy view of exercise can lead us into.

This isn’t to say that there’s not something theologically rich to be discovered in physical exercise. If anything, I would say it’s the opposite. The reason it’s crucial to take a theological view of exercise is the same reason it’s crucial to take a theological view of any aspect of human life: because when we look at something theologically, we put it in its proper place in relation to God.

I said earlier that exercise can become a neurotic form of self-worship, if it is detached from a healthy self-image and a robust world-view that gives it meaning. That “if” was the crucial word in that sentence. A Christian’s self-image is based, or at least it should be based on the fact that her or she is the fearfully-made child of God, unconditionally affirmed as his beloved, regardless their weight, their BMI, or how much they can bench-press. A Christian world-view is one where God is at the centre, giving joy and delight to his creatures, who in turn do all things for his glory.

This worldview has the power, I think, to transform how we think of physically exercise, and why we do it in the first place. When we are truly able to see ourselves as God’s beloved creatures, living in and though and for his glory alone, we are set free to enjoy all aspects of a good, godly life, including the joy of using our body to move and lift and run and play. A theological perspective on exercise, in other words, has the power to deliver us from any “cult of the body” that might distort or corrupt it for us, and frees us instead to do it for God’s glory, as creatures delighting in the body he gave us, however it may look and whatever its shape.

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How Long, a devotional thought

The other day I was talking to a friend about some struggles she’s been going through lately, and as we were talking, this line from Psalm 13 came to mind for me. It’s more a phrase, than a line, actually; or maybe better yet, a question.

It is, incidentally, the fundamental question that the authors of the Bible asked, whenever they came into contact with the brokenness of this world—the evil, the suffering, the trials, and the tribulations that seems so regularly to beset the people of God.

The question is: How long?

In Psalm 94 it says it like this: “How long, O Lord, will the wicked be allowed to gloat? How long will you hide your face from me?”

In Psalm 35 it says it like this: “How long, O Lord, will you look on [as the wicked gnash their teeth at me]; how long till you rescue my soul from their ravages?”

And In Revelation, the martyred saints, slain for their witness to Jesus, cry out to God from beneath the heavenly alter, saying, “How long, O Lord, holy and true, until You avenge our blood and judge those who dwell on the earth?”

In Psalm 13, the one that came to mind as my friend and I were chatting, it says it four times in a row:

How long, O Lord, will you forget me forever?

How long will you hide your face form me?

How long must I take counsel in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day?

How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?

As an answer to the problem of pain, this question may feel profoundly unsatisfying to modern-day Christians like us, who have grown up in a technocratic culture with a decidedly litigious bent to it. In a world like ours, where problems have causes and effects, legal liabilities, and technological solutions, we don’t intuitively ask “how long?” when we encounter pain or suffering.

Instead, our default questions are “who?” (who is responsible?), “why?” (why did it happen?), and “how?” (how do we fix it?)

The question “how long” is entirely off the radar for us, because it presupposes that the solution to the problem of pain, whatever yours or my particular encounter with pain may be, is not within our control. Short term solutions, of course, are well within our control; and so were they in Bible times. We can salve, balm, soothe, and medicate our pain. We can legislate against it. We can optimize our responses to it. 

But the the deeper problem—that bend in the very warp and woof of creation that we intuitively know to be wrong, but can’t explain or resolve hard as we try—the solution to that very real pain is always frustratingly beyond our grasp.

This is why the Bible’s response to suffering is so disarmingly unexpected, on the one hand, but poignantly wise, on the other. Because the default posture of the biblical authors, when confronted with the suffering that is beyond us, was to cry out to the Lord with ache and urgency: how long, O Lord, till you fix this!

This is an utterly unsantized cry, by the way.  Most of the Psalms that ask “how long” like this are aching songs of lament, because the question “how long” does not minimize or deny the ache; if anything it expresses it in all its rawness. To ask God, how long till this ends, is to confess, in the very same breath, how desperately we long for it to end.

I think the modern world, politically conflicted and economically imbalanced and environmentally devastated and covid-harried as it is, would do well to develop a “biblical reflex” when it comes to our response to evil, and start asked “how long?” more consistently when we brush up against the brokenness of this world.

It doesn’t need to stop there, mind you. There still comes a time when it is altogether appropriate to ask “who is responsible?” and “how can fix what’s been broken?” Those questions must follow the “how long?” question though, rather than preempting it, or preventing it from being asked at all.

I say this because when we ask “how long?” what we’re really doing is confessing our deep down belief that God still is at work in the world, our belief that he has promised in the end to fix the hurt of this world in Jesus Christ, and that we are taking him at his word on the matter. To ask “how long,’ is to remind ourselves that in the end, the only thing that will truly and fully heal this hurting world, is His divine acting on our behalf. Human ingenuity and creativity, however much it can accomplish, cannot accomplish a lasting fix to the hurt of this world, on its own.

But thanks be to God that in the offer of New Creation he extends to us in Jesus Christ, God has promised to do for us what all our scientific know-how, and bureaucratic policies, and psychological methods, and social engineering combined could never do without him, and wipe every tear from every eye, while the leaves of his heavenly tree sprout for the healing of the nations.

Ours is first and foremost to long for that day, heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to cry out “how long?” as we wait for Him to do it.  

A Journey Through the Book of Job (Part 2)

On Going to the Gym with God (Part 5): A Brief History of Muscular Christianity

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In 1844, a London draper named George Williams was concerned by the influx of young men he saw moving to the city of London, looking for work at the height of the Industrial Revolution. There were not many healthy activities for these young men to spend their time on in those days, and many were turning to the taverns and brothels for entertainment. Williams wanted to provide a healthy, wholesome alternative, a place where young men could develop their “body, mind, and spirit” together. As a result—and as a concrete expression of his faith—he founded the Young Men’s Christian Association.

Today the YMCA is so closely associated with that catchy tune by the Village People that few realize it was actually founded on Christian principles, and grew out of Williams’s conviction that having a healthy body is just as important as having a healthy spirit for a thriving Christian life. 

Whether you share that conviction or not, its notable how quickly Williams’s idea caught on. It was part of a growing cultural trend that started in the mid-1850s known today as “Muscular Christianity.”  Muscular Christianity marked a move away from the asceticism that characterized the traditional Christian view of the body, the idea that the flesh was a distraction from the things of God and ought to be denied or suppressed. Proponents of muscular Christianity argued instead that a physically fit body could be an expression of one’s faith in God.

Thomas Hughes, one of the early advocates of muscular Christianity, argued that:

The Muscular Christians have hold of the old chivalrous and Christian belief, that a man's body is given to him to be trained and brought into subjection, and then used for the protection of the weak, the advancement of all righteous causes, and the subduing of the earth which God has given to the children of men. 

There’s a lot in there to make a woke Christian of the 21st Century cringe, I suppose. The idea of “subduing the earth,” though biblical, needs a lot more nuance than Thomas gives it there; and the sentence simply smacks of machoism and sexism though out.  That said, the core tenet—that our bodies are not shameful “prison-houses” for the soul, but are in fact gifts of God which we need in order to serve him—has at least a glimmer of truth to it. Perhaps even a full ray of light.

Whatever the case, the idea grew pretty rapidly through the early decades of the 20th Century. Other clergy men started following Williams’s lead and built gymnasiums and boxing rings in the basements of their churches. Meanwhile the YMCA itself started planting chapters all over the world.

In America, Muscular Christianity would find its way into the preaching of evangelists like D. L. Moody (ca. 1850-90) and others. President Roosevelt (ca. 1909)—who held that “there is only a very circumscribed sphere of usefulness for the timid good man”—was also a strong proponent of the concept. Even today we see the vestiges of the movement in the work of organizations like Athletes in Action (founded 1966) and the Promise Keepers (founded 1990).

I suppose any “theology of exercise,” like the one I’ve been trying to assemble in this blog series, will have to wrestle with the tenets of the “muscular Christianity movement,” at one point or another. Though it's over 150 years old now, its influence still lingers in the church, both for the good and the bad.  It’s there whenever a well-meaning but misinformed preacher decries the so-called “feminization of the church” (which, to be clear, I find to be a deeply offensive term).  It’s there in the worst of “men’s ministries,” that make “being a Christian guy” all about a narrowly-defined set of supposedly “masculine” interests, tastes, roles and abilities (which, again to be clear, I often find offensive). It’s there in the worst of the theology coming out of neo-conservative organizations like “The Counsel of Biblical Manhood and Womanhood” (which I also find offensive, on the whole).

Because here’s the thing: men come in all shapes and sizes, with all kinds of interests, predilections,  aptitudes and body-types. When I was growing up, I often felt like I did not fit in among the other “Christian guys” in church, because I had so little interest in the traditional “guy things” that advocates for muscular Christianity seem to want to use as their litmus test. I was artistic, not athletic, into books not body-building, played music not hockey. 

Any version of Christianity, muscular or otherwise, that makes its definition of “a Christian man” so narrow that only a handful of guys really fit the bill and the rest are left wondering where they belong, is not Christianity at all, in my view.  

That said, in the ten years since I first started going to the Y—an organization, remember, that began as an expression of one man’s Christian faith—I have found that my spirit has grown healthier, on the whole, along with my body. 

I have learned how to push myself spiritually to do things I’m not naturally inclined to do, by pushing myself physically to do exercises I'm not inclined to do. I’ve discovered that the limits of what my physical body is capable of are often far higher than I ever assumed before I started pushing them. This, in turn, has inspired me to explore the spiritual limits of what I might attempt for God in other areas of my life, too.

These things are also part of the legacy of the muscular Christianity movement, I think, and it's one of the reasons why, even though as a young man and growing up, athleticism was the last thing I ever felt any interest in, these days I very much look forward to my trip to the gym, or my hour on the squash court, or my 20 minute exercise routine in the basement of our home (which is all I can manage in these days of pandemic).

Because when I put my body to work like that, I find, among other things, my spirit is being stretched and grown in ways I never could have imagined.

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On Waiting for the Plan, a devotional thought

 The other day I was reading through Psalm 106 and I came across a line that gave me pause. The Psalm recalls Israel’s exodus from Egypt, how the Lord brought the people out of slavery and delivered them through the Red Sea. It explains how, having seen the Lord sweep away their enemies with the water of the sea, the people “believed his promises and sang his praise” (v. 12).

So far so good; but things make a sudden U-turn in verse 13: “They soon forgot what he had done,” it says, “and did not wait for his ‘plan to unfold.’” The story should be familiar to anyone who has a working knowledge of the Book of Exodus (which the Psalm seems to be referencing here). Israel had seen the Lord’s mighty act of deliverance, but because they couldn’t see a way through the desert they began to grumble, forgetting the mighty acts of deliverance he’d already accomplished for them.

It’s a familiar story. What was less familiar to me was the wording of the second half of the verse, “they did not wait for his plan to unfold.” I’ve never quite heard it put that way: in their grumbling for bread and their longing to return to Egypt, the people were “unwilling to let the Lord’s plan unfold in their lives.” Such a curious but powerful way to put it. 

I looked it up to be sure, and it turns out that my translation (the NIV) is on its own in this rendering.  Most translations say something like “they did not wait for his counsel.” “Counsel” is probably a more literal translation there. The Hebrew word in question is ‘aṣaṯ, which usually refers to the counsel an advisor might give a king.  When it’s applied to the Lord specifically, however, it usually has the sense of “purpose,” “intention,” or (roughly) “plan.” After all, God keeps his own counsel. No one acts as his advisor, and when he gives his counsel to us it’s not as an advisor to a king, but as a master to his servants. 

So the NIV is paraphrasing, but only slightly, when it says that Israel’s problem in the desert was that they were unwilling to wait for his plan to unfold. And even though most other translations render the verse more literally, and simply say that Israel refused to “wait on his counsel,” I prefer the NIV’s take on the matter.

Not just because it seems to handle the context for the word ‘aṣaṯ better, but because it rings so true on a spiritual level. How many of us, I wonder, have found ourselves facing a difficult trial like Israel did in her desert wanderings, and like Israel, we too started grumbling against God because we couldn’t believe that God had a plan? We couldn’t see how all the difficulties fit into his plan, or how his plan was unfolding through it; and even if we could see it, abstractly, we we’re willing to wait for it to unfold in front of us.

It’s a sobering thought. Especially for the church today, facing all kinds of challenges and question-marks because of covid restrictions and pandemic lockdowns. Does God have an ‘aṣaṯfor us in this, Psalm 106 verse 13 might ask us to ask? If so, can we see that he does?  And if we can, are we willing to wait for him to unfold it in our lives?

A Journey Through the Book of Job (Part 1)

A few weeks ago I started a new preaching series at our church called "Why Me, Lord? A Journey through the Book of Job." We're only 3 sermons in, and already I'm finding it one of the most challenging, and most edifying series I've done in a long time. In hopes it will challenge and/or edify others, I thought I'd post the messages here on my blog as we go. Here's sermon number one: "Not for Nothing..."

 

Going to the Gym with God (Part 4): Holding our Health in Trust

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A 2011 study of the relationship between physical exercise and brain health published in Neuroscientist magazine found that “decreased brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF) is associated with age-related hippocampal dysfunction, memory impairment, and increased risk for depression, whereas increasing BDNF through aerobic exercise appears to ameliorate hippocampal atrophy, improve memory function, and reduce depression."*

Translation: physical exercise can reduce the negative effects of aging on the brain, helping us to maintain our minds, our memories, and our moods well into old age. Among other things, the researchers found that 

aerobic fitness has also been associated with hippocampal volume in both children and older adults. For example, in one study with 165 older adults without dementia, greater aerobic fitness levels were associated with larger hippocampal volumes even after controlling for potentially confounding factors including age, sex, and years of education. Furthermore, hippocampal volume mediated fitness-related performance on a spatial memory task. These results … suggest that aerobic exercise might be an effective method for enhancing or reversing hippocampal volume in late adulthood.

Loads of other scientific studies that have found a similar connection between physical fitness and healthy brain function. The positive effects of regular physical exercise on our grey matter include: “improvements in certain cognitive functions, beneficial forms of neuroplasticity, … increased neuron growth, increased neurological activity, … improved stress coping, enhanced cognitive control of behavior, improved declarative, spatial, and working memory…”*

The list goes on. It turns out there is a deeply-wired link between our body’s fitness and our brain’s health, and taking care of the first seems naturally to improve the later.

I find this theologically fascinating.

On the one hand, it bears out everything I said in previous posts about the indivisible link between the mind, body, and spirit that we find in the Bible’s description of the human being. On the other hand, though, and more to the point for today, it suggests a crucial theme for building a “theology of exercise.” 

I’m thinking here about the biblical concept of “stewardship.” It’s an idea woven into the creation story right at from the start, and it shows up again and again whenever the Bible wants to speak about the way human beings are related tot he rest of creation.  

We were created to be good stewards of God’s creation.

In Genesis 1:28, it says it like this: 

28 God blessed them and said to them, “Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.”

29 Then God said, “I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. 30 And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds in the sky and all the creatures that move along the ground—everything that has the breath of life in it—I give every green plant for food.” And it was so.

It’s a foundational text for all sorts of things that will come later in Scripture. It explains why the environment presently is groaning in agony (because humans have fallen short in this calling; see Genesis 3). It explains why Christ’s work on the cross brings about New Creation (because it restores human beings back to this calling; see Romans 8). It explains why God rightly pronounces judgement on those who “destroy the earth” at the end of all things (because the earth is not ours to destroy, it is Gods, and we are simply stewards of it; see Revelation 11).

Many biblical scholars have taken pains to show that the idea in Genesis 1 of “subduing” the creation, and “ruling” the animals, and so on, is meant to communicate not a self-interested, tyrannical reign over the earth (as humans often have exercised it), but rather a loving, brotherly care of the creation, on God’s behalf.  I don’t have time to review all the arguments, but suffice it to say that this is certainly how I read Genesis 1.

As we acknowledge our role as God’s stewards, suddenly all that talk about exercise and brain function a second ago comes into sharp focus. In his book The Stewart Leader, Scott Rodin argues that the theme of “stewardship” applies not just in our relationship to the rest of the creation, but to all aspects of human life.  If it’s true that all we have and all we are comes from God, then we are called, actually, to hold everything in life as though we were simply stewards of it.

This is true of our money, of course. This is the classic Christian perspective on money. All our money is really God’s and everything we do with it ought to be done as his stewards. But it doesn’t stop with money. It’s also true of our talents.  Whatever we “have” that we “do well,” is not really our talent in the end; rather it’s God’s “talent,” and it’s given us simply to use for his glory.

It’s true of our relationships. It’s true of our resources.  It’s true of our time.  None of these things are really “ours”; they’re God’s. We are simply holding them in trust and we'll give an account to their true owner, for how we used them and what we did with them.

Maybe you can see where all of this is pointing us, as we try to build a “theology of exercise.” Because we’re not just stewards of our money, possessions, resources, talents, time, and relationships.

We are stewards, too, of our very bodies.  This bit of flesh and bone that I "possess” is not really “mine” after all.  It is God’s. I am simply a steward of it; and as God’s steward, I find I am called to “use my body,” and “care for my body,” and “maintain the health of my body,” as though it were actually the Lord's body.

This isn’t just a theological leap in the dark here, from Genesis 1 to stewarding our health; this is specifically what the Scriptures say. In 1 Corinthians 6:20, Paul is reviewing the reasons why Christians ought to flee any kind of sexual activity outside the bounds of the Creator’s intent for us, and he makes this mysterious claim. It’s because (among other things), “you are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body.”

More on that in a later post. Today just notice that Paul insists that even our bodies are the rightful property of God, and as such we ought to “use” our bodies as though we were holding them in trust.

This brings me, at last to the point of this post. When I take care of my physical health through exercise, I am being a good steward.  Not because God necessarily cares about our physiques per se; again, we all have different body types and different constitutions, and the diversity of the human form is one of God’s great gifts to us.  It’s not that God only has one ideal physical form and it’s up to us to get into “that shape” specifically.

Far from it.

Rather it’s because when I exercise, I benefit not only my physical health, but also my mental health, my emotional health, my spiritual health. This is true even if my exercise of choice is a simple ten-minute stroll at the end of the day (see my previous post for that).  It is still good exercise with all kinds of health benefits. And the plain fact is that I will be able to serve God more fully, more effectively, and for longer than I could do if I weren’t stewarding my physical health in this way.

And as we do, whether it's though a leisurely stroll or a 10k run, a simple stretching routine or a P90X workout regime—whatever your stewardship method of choice—we'll may discover the joy of taking care of a body that belongs to the Lord.

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The Power of Love, a devotional thought on Psalm 62

The other day I was reading Psalm 62 in my devotional time, and a line at the end really stuck with me. The whole Psalm is this effusive ode to the salvation that is found in the Lord—how our souls find rest in him (v.1), how our hope comes from him (v.5), how our honor depends on him (v.7), and how he alone is our refuge (v.8). 

It’s edifying and inspiring throughout, but in the last two lines we come to the heart of the matter, the reason why we rest so secure in God, and the reason why salvation is truly found in him alone: it is because in him alone, absolute power is coupled with perfect love (v.11b-12a). 

 The verse is actually worded in an ear-catching way. “One thing God has spoken,” it says, and “two things I have heard.” Well: which is it (we might be tempted to wonder), one thing or two? It’s a bit of a riddle, I think: God has spoken “one thing” but we’ve heard “two…” 

 Reading on, though, the riddle is quite easily solved. It is only one thing that God has spoken, one single truth he’s revealed about himself, but it’s a truth with two equally balanced halves that together make a whole: Power belongs to God (11.b), and with the Lord is unfailing love.” 

These two aspects of the Lord’s character, it seems, must be held together for us to fully grasp the truth about who he is. He is all-powerful and all-loving at the same time. Miss one or the other of these truths, and we haven’t heard the truth about him.

Suddenly, the reason we depend on him and rest secure in him and all the rest of the things the Psalm said in verses 1-10 come into sharp focus. It’s because he is not only able to accomplish his purposes perfectly (power belongs to him), but his purposes are always loving (with him is unfailing love). And vice versa: not only is he gracious and compassionate, but that love is coupled with the power to realize his compassion towards us. 

This becomes especially profound if we compare the Lord, in this, to the way humans usually hold love and power. Some human beings are powerful, but obviously, when that power is not coupled with faithful love, it becomes monstrous in them. Some humans are loving, but when that love has no power, it devolves into weak sentimentalism. There is something about love that it needs actually to do what it says in order to be loving, and there is something about power that it needs to flow from a place of self-giving for it to be truly powerful. 

 Thanks be to God, then, that in him we find these two things bound together as one; and because of this we can do exactly what Psalm 62 invites us to do: to trust in him at all times and pour our hearts out to him, knowing that as we do we will be enfolded in an embrace of almighty love and ever-loving power.