To cop a phrase from James Jordan, we really need to understand the difference between “weird” and “deep weird.” Please understand I’m using these terms in my own way and I don’t mean to implicate my friend in anything that follows (unless he joins in the fun of his own volition).
In our world, and since the dawn of history (about five minutes after Adam and Eve left the garden), there has been a gravitational pull to the weird, to be different, to want to be set apart. This is the universal human desire for holiness. It is simultaneously the desire to be accepted, to be claimed, to be different, to be special, to have a calling, a purpose, a meaning in life — fundamentally our longing to be back in the Garden again.
But the Fall is a universal desire to be special, to be different, to be weird on our own, in our own way, with the inner light of my appetites leading the way to the refrigerator of whatever the Hell I want right now. You see, we know that we are naturally wrong, naturally incomplete, naturally lacking, and so we hunger for more, we thirst for fulfillment, completion. The problem is that we don’t want the medicine we need. We need the “deep weird.” We need Wisdom. We need death and resurrection. But so often we settle for less.
So people find consolation in whatever the going “weird” is. If it’s ripped pants, pink hair, three more piercings, gaudy make-up, icons, dietary bling, fastidious immodesty, bands no one has ever heard of, stylish glasses, esoteric theology, whatever. If it’s in a catalogue (whether mass produced and mass mailed or found on a little known myspace cave), and it’s a little bit different, then the suckers gather round and the Sylvester McMonkey McBeans set up shop.
But Wisdom is a woman screaming her head off in front of the White House (Prov. 1:20ff). Wisdom has disheveled hair and mascara running down her cheeks with tears, and she’s pleading with the crowds who walk by Central Station, trying to ignore her, embarrassed for her lack of dignity, her lack of suave. She’s obviously a mental patient. Not only is she screaming. Not only is she crying. Not only is she scandalously reaching for the young men walking by, she says judgment is coming. She’s a doomsday prophet. She’s preaching a sermon about hellfire and brimstone and then she breaks into what might be mistaken for a ghoulish cackle. She says when the fools fall, when the simple stumble, she will laugh. She will belly laugh at their torment and their anguish. And when they finally turn to her in the end, she will not hear them. It will be too late.
Wisdom screeches over the farmers market, demanding to be heard, insisting that it is urgent, that this is the difference between life and death. But the respectable types, the cowards, the ones who only like to toe-dabble in the weird, come along tsk-tsking Wisdom, telling her that this is way over the top, she’s making a mountain of a molehill. Can’t the simple enjoy their simple pleasures? Stop making such a big deal about things. Is there really anyone so bad as all that? Just think, you might actually be turning people off to Wisdom. Aren’t you shooting yourself in the foot? Tone it down about it. Let’s have a casual conversation, maybe a powerpoint presentation? And some scones and a cup of tea?
Wisdom is a screamer, a shrieker, and she is not respectable by the world’s standards. She calls men to true humility, to true repentance. Die to your idols. Die to your selfish desires. Die. Come and embrace me, the Mad Mother of Creation. Lose your self-awareness. Lose your philosophical air. Lose your academic kudos. Lose your pagan past. Lose your pathetically mild “weirdness” — your faux holiness. Lose it all, and come into the deep weird, embrace Wisdom. But this is too weird, too strange, and seems utterly repulsive to the natural man.
What? Come and die?
Yes, come and embrace the Screamer, the Fool, beaten to a bloody mess, dying on a Tree.
Joshua says
Glad to see you’ve finally come to see the wisdom of the anchorite and stylite.
James says
ever find it interesting that the mature Christians for Paul are the ones who eat what everyone else is eating? and that it’s the weak who need to separate themselves?
Tom says
So the average American and hence likely the average American Christian eats about 155 lbs of sugar per year. That doesn’t seem to be wise. Am I weak because I choose not to eat 155 lbs of sugar a year? Or are you weak because you’re doing what every body else is doing?
Valerie says
Of the things *most* clear in what Paul says, he does unashamedly apply Biblical Law to the affections, thoughts, and behavior of both groups. The weak aren’t so weak that the Law can’t strengthen them and the strong aren’t so strong that they don’t need it.
Valerie says
Romans 14:1 kind of calls into question the amount of snickering behind the hand that might be permissible toward the weak, as well as how much disputation should be served up against them. It also implies that they themselves have some desire to be received or welcomed into the broader group.
To receive–to take as one’s companion, to take or receive into one’s home, to take into friendship. The burden is on the strong to see that this happens wherever possible. Nowhere does this chapter permit us to hold the weak at arm’s length until they first get over their weakness.
James says
The ‘weak’ comment was meant to suggest that choosing to eat a healthy diet may just be acceptably Christian, even though lots of non-Christians do it. So, a nudge back against the idea that Christian wisdom means not ‘getting into’ healthy eating trends.
Tim Enloe says
What version of Proverbs are you reading?
Matthew N. Petersen says
Dr. Leithart writes, summarizing Franics, “Preachers speak for mother church, and so must adopt a maternal tone.” I think this quote captures much of my difficulty with these articles–and how you portray wisdom. Wisdom is a *mother*, and the preacher has a maternal role (St. Paul is very explicit about this in Galatians).