Believer’s Boot Camp: The Apostles’ Creed (Part One)

If one asks a Christian what power he holds himself accountable to, hopefully he’d receive this reply:

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. 

Notice that “God” is singular. This is in keeping with the Christian’s  Jewish heritage when the Israelites were given a creed of their own to maintain called the Shema, which says, “Hear, O Israel! The LORD is our God, the LORD alone!” (Deuteronomy 6:4). Therefore, the Christian does not pick and choose which gods he wants to serve like getting mashed potatoes and fried okra  from a buffet, but must acknowledge that the LORD alone is his God.

Furthermore, the LORD has created the heavens and the earth (Genesis 1:1). This means that everything the naked eye sees, from the Rocky Mountains to Mt. Everest to the moon, to the stars above, the LORD has made it, and called it earth. Yet the heavens contain the spiritual realm He created simultaneously. This means those creatures and things not seen by the eye, such as angels or the angels who rejected God to become demons.

Thus, God must exist outside of time. Only He is the One who can question the created and say “Where were you when I founded the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding” (Job 37:4). His is that privilege because He didn’t have to create any of it to exist, because He is that very act of life itself, He never “slumbers nor sleeps” (Psalm 121:4). This is a drastic divide from the pagan gods of old who were born of Titans (had a beginning), slept around, dabbled in the frivolity of games and wine,and were caricatures of humanity–the hyperbole of vice.

Time is change. But God is the selfsame, cannot change, and has no beginning or end (Psalm 102:28). He is not merely good, but the one who sees all things wrought by His being and calls them good (Genesis 1:31). He has no need of that which He created, but all creation has need of Him. Therefore it is pleasing unto God when we seek Him, because we are fulfilling that purpose for which He has created us.

Christians do not worship a spaghetti monster or an elderly bearded man sitting among clouds who just happens to have great power. We are not beaten into the submission of worship by cheap parlor tricks posing as miracles. Rather,  we seek to soothe the aching in our hearts that can only be treated by the balm of the Almighty Himself. And He wills us to be healed of the condition and be whole in Him.

Which is why we call God, the “Father”. Yes, it is true that all things come from Him, seen and unseen, but because we desire a relationship with Him, He will have one with us. He knows us fully already as Creator (Jeremiah 1:5), but knows that for us to be fully alive, we must come to know Him. Which is why we human beings are called His children. And His paternal affection guides all His actions with us in time.

The Fall in the Garden may have separated Adam from God, but just like we see in the famous painting in the Sistine Chapel, the Father always stretches out His hand toward that which is made in His image (Genesis 1:27). No matter the interruption, God will always finish what He has started. And if that interruption was sin (death), then be assured that He will destroy it.

And how does He do that? Let’s examine the Christian Creed further.

(To be continued in Part Two.)

Believer’s Boot Camp! And Things to Come…

As reality would have it, there are many who would identify with Christianity but have no idea what they’re laying claim to. Too often we people of faith, in order to avoid squabbles with others, will simply state: “I just believe what I believe. And I’m sticking to it!” It’s as if we’re afraid of the implications of digging into the matter so as to expose the roots of our faith. While the padding of ignorance can extend niceties to our neighbor, the fluff could suffocate our spiritual lives and do dishonesty toward said neighbor in the long run. Yes, we needn’t be holier than thou in our witness, but we needn’t be  superficial without a backbone either. Which is why we should “always be ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope, but do it with gentleness and reverence” (I Peter 3:15-16).

I’m going to start a segment on the blog called Believer’s Boot Camp. The articles will look at various topics concerning the basics of Christianity. I just want to give the reader a sketch of the things covered, so they might look into them further. By no means am I trying to write a catechism–I’ll let the clergy do that. But it’s important to understand the eternal implications of one’s faith. We are, after all, soldiers in the army of the Lord. We have to prepared to fight against the princes of this world. That said, I’ll be soon discussing in my first few drills…er, articles… the Apostles’ Creed, an ancient statement of faith professed by the Church reaching back to the second century. Have a look, folks:

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried; he descended into hell; on the third day he rose again from the dead; he ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from there he will come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.

Now this translation of the Creed is only 113  words long. It’s a small blip of theology, but  packs a rather stout punch. It’s the entirety of what our faith is about in four sentences. Therefore, I will break up my exposition of it into articles, going line by line. I want to write about its origins in history, how the Church used Sacred Scripture to form it, and how we Christians can apply this Apostolic tradition to our lives. It should be an interesting journey, so stay tuned, soldiers!

Why I Smoke a Pipe

Tolkien enjoying a bowl.

When one is as young as I am, sporting a pipe around the great state of Missouri no doubt gets me odd looks from strangers passing by. Which is fine. I understand that as a culture, tobacco consumption in our social consciousness defaults to a knowledge of cigarettes. It would seem as if resurrecting “an old man’s habit”  is something that gives an air of false pretentiousness.

Be that as it may, ladies and gentlemen, I do not smoke a pipe to look cool. Rather, I do so for mostly one reason: to continue a tradition. You see, we pipe smokers as a whole tend to pursue Truth and Beauty by way of being well-read, creating art (however feeble an attempt), and sending up our prayers up to heaven in a fog of sweet incense.

Consider this great cloud of pipe smoking witnesses: G.K Chesterton, J.R.R. Tolkien, Mark Twain,  and C.S. Lewis. These men inspire me to greatness. That is, I want to follow in their footsteps so as to live life to the fullest like they did as God-fearing (with the exception of Twain), scholarly, and literary men. I may not write anything as thought provoking as Orthodoxy or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn , as epic as The Lord of the Rings or Narnia, but I’ll sure try my darndest.

It seems to me that we need more Romance in the world. More fear of the Love that moves the sun and the other stars. More disposition to have a knowledgeable discussion but then laugh at ourselves for supposing so much intellectual clout on our part. We need mirth. We need ritual. We need, brothers and sisters, to put our differences aside and smoke good leaf.

Lewis puffing away.

It’s not hard, really. Pipe tobacco is cheap. A Missouri Meerschaum to start out on even cheaper. Which is why, out of all smoking methods, the pipe is the most economical. Forget wasting an hour’s pay on Camels or Swisher Sweets that will last a day or so, get a few ounces of pipeweed to last a month! Be thrifty with your nicotine.

Connecting with my ancestors in this way is just in my blood. My great-great-grandmother had a cob carved for her by her husband as a wedding present. That pipe, against all odds, lasted a good half a century with much pampering. She smoked Prince Albert till the day she died. What a heritage I have to live up to! (Though I’ve already burned out my first pipe, unfortunately.)

Pipe and Clemens in repose.

Yes, pipe smoking can be elegant. Yes, it can be associated with snooty people in tweed. But it’s a hobby meant for friends to share no matter what walk of life you come from. Just puffing, no inhaling. A lingering smack of campfire on your lips, easing into an hour of reflection of the Divine.

Gandalf savoring Old Toby.

There’s just a certain magic in smoking that cannot be found anywhere else. I’ve met some wonderful people since I’ve started. You’ll encounter Gandalf, his hobbit friends, and delight in many of God’s creatures in this journey. I’ve taught others this careful art. It ought to continue, methinks, until the Second Coming. For when that happens, we’ll just happily put down our silly instruments and be enraptured in the Joy of Him who we’ve been thanking all along.

That’s why I smoke a pipe.

Chesterton, tobacco saint if there was one, smiling widely.

Ashes to Glory: A Short Story

The old woman hobbled up the hill with a cane supporting one arm, and young Tom Johnson the other.

“Come on, Miss Martha Mae,” the boy whined. “It was only a cigarette!”

A jolting rap to his kneecap by the walking stick. “Hush, boy. It was a cigarette one too many. Besides, it was smoked in my yard!”

“Nuh-uh. The sidewalk in front of your yard—”

Another corrective whack to the feeble protest. “It was within my plain sight. And I’ve still a mind to call your mama! I bet she’d really like to know about your habit.”

That remark made Tom stand up straight in alarm. “Now you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“Yes,” Miss Martha assured, “I would. You’re too green to be engaging in those worldly vices. I didn’t start smoking until the respectable age of twenty one years. And I haven’t been able to knock the habit since.”

Their procession stopped as Miss Martha fumbled in her purse for a pack of unfiltered Camels. She searched a few seconds more for something else. Finally: “Say, Tom, you got a light?”

Smiling, Tom produced a flimsy matchbook. “For the cigarettes you confiscated from me? Sure.”

One match cupped by Tom’s palm to resist wind did the job. The march continued in clouds of smoke.

“Where are we going, anyhow?” Tom asked.

A grunt was issued by Miss Martha. She took a long drag and handed Tom her cigarette. “Finish that off, son. This climbing is exercise.”

Tom happily puffed out his question again. “Miss Martha, where are we off to?”

“To pay our respects,” the woman sighed. “I would come alone if it weren’t for my prohibiting age.”

“Huh,” Tom replied, not sure of what to say.

The odd couple trekked the steepness of their journey in a final stretch of silence. They were met by an oak giving shade to a simple white cross underneath. Inscribed on the marker in shaky charcoal was this:

JOHNNY CLARK MOODY

Huddling around the grave, Tom removed his cap in reverence and Miss Martha fell to her knees. There was a thoughtful moment where she closed her eyes in meditation, then she patted a spot beside her for Tom.

As he settled down beside her, Miss Martha began to talk. Not in her usual tone of stern lecture, but with trembling sentiment:

“Johnny was my friend, Tom. More than that, the love of my life. We never married, though. He went into the jungles of ‘Nam when we were young. We got into a lot of trouble together. Innocent mischief, as kids do. In fact, he gave me my first cigarette. Your brand, actually.

“But he was nineteen with something to prove. The day before he was deployed, he escorted me to this spot to kiss me. Told me I was his girl, but he wasn’t returning. Said his eyes had seen the coming of the glory of the Lord, and he planned to see Him real soon.

“I wouldn’t have it. I charged him to be realistic, to be a man as my husband. He said was being realistic—that many boys came home from war in a flag-draped box. He insisted that the draft left little room for negotiation because he’d answer his country’s call. He wasn’t a deserter. We quarreled an awful lot, said things we never meant, and I stormed off leaving Johnny by himself.

“Three weeks later Johnny saw the Lord in the blinding flash of a roadside bomb during patrol. He came back and I insisted he be buried here. And though you’re only fourteen, Tom, I saw you smoking in my yard and it reminded me of something I wanted to do.”

“Miss Martha Mae, what’s that?” Tom ventured softly, his own voice cracking.

She got out the cigarettes and then pointed to the cross. “Dig,” she said. “I want to give him these.”

So Tom burrowed a neat hole at the foot of the cross with his hands. Nodding with approval, Miss Martha set the Camels in the earth pocket. She started to sprinkle dirt on top of it, but paused as if she’d forgot something. “Better put those matches in, son,” she advised.

He put in the matches and buried them with Miss Martha. When finished, she motioned to get up and the boy gave her a hand while she got on her feet.

“You better wash up at my place, Tom,” Miss Martha said, brushing some of the soil off of her. “Then you better go down the block to your mama. I got on to you, but you’ve been a help. I won’t say anything about those cigarettes.”

Tom hugged Miss Martha. “Thanks. Can I do anything else for you?”

“My rose beds need weeding. You can dig. Drop by every week and we’ll talk. I need the company, and”—she lightly knocked Tom with the cane—“I won’t quarrel too much. Deal?”

“Yes ma’am,” Tom agreed. “I will. After all, friends ought not to quarrel, but if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be friends.”

THE END