Time and Eternity

“Before Abraham was, I am” —John 8:56

Years ago, when I was a child, I was invited to participate in a backyard gathering in which a neighbor told stories from the Bible. The first story was about “the beginning” of the heavens and earth.

I don’t remember the lesson, but do I recall a child asking, “What was before ‘the beginning’?” I also recall thinking, “What a dumb question.” (It wasn’t dumb at all, of course—St. Augustine asks the same question. I just wasn’t smart enough to ask it.)

Our teacher answered the question with one word: “Eternity.” “What is eternity?” the child persisted.“ ”A long time,” she said, and then explained: “Suppose a bird flew from Texas to Mount Everest, the tallest mountain in the world, rubbed its beak on the mountain and wore away one grain of sand, and then flew back to Texas. Imagine that the bird made one round trip every year and rubbed away one grain of sand on each occasion. When Mount Everest has been worn down to the ground it will be like one second in eternity.”

“Wow!” I thought, duly impressed.

I suspect this concept of “eternity as a very long time” is one that’s generally accepted these days, but what if eternity is not prolonged time at all, but timelessness?

That’s not a novel idea, you know. Plato and other philosophers toyed with the notion of time and eternity and concluded that the invisible world of forms (the ultimate realm of reality) is outside of time and thus is timeless. Time did not exist before creation, Plato said. It was “begotten,” to use his word, when “the Sun, the Moon, and five other stars” were created (Timaeus 38b).

Augustine elaborated Plato’s idea in Book 11 of his Confessions. Whatever time is, he said, it began with creation, for time is a construct for the material world alone. God created time when he created the cosmos. As he famously put it: “Beyond doubt, the world was made not in Time, but together with Time."

Surprisingly, theoretical physicists now endorse this hypothesis. I don’t pretend to understand Albert Einstein, but I do know that he believed that time does not exist apart from the physical universe. In one of his more popular statements, Einstein put it this way:  “Before relativity, one believed that space and time would continue existing in an empty world. But, according to the theory of relativity, if matter and its motion disappeared there would no longer be any space or time” (Philipp Frank, Einstein, His Life and Times, p. 178). No matter, no motion. No motion, no time.[1]

There may be an essential corollary to this theory, namely that in eternity, i.e., in heaven, no one will experience the passage of time. There will be no past or future; only the present. That’s a difficult concept to wrap our minds around—indeed impossible—for like the concept of infinity we have no analogies in our experience, and no language to explain it. But, bless my soul, it could be true.

“So what?” you say. Well, for one thing, if there is no time in heaven there will be no waiting. So, if I predecease Carolyn (and my family and others that I love) I will not have to wait for her to appear. She will be present when I arrive.

Intriguing, I must say, but I dare not think further in that direction, for as Paul cautions us we must not go “beyond what is written” (1 Corinthians 4:6).

DHR

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[1] This would give us the answer to that vexing, medieval question: How many angels can stand on the head of a pin? Since angels are heavenly (spiritual) beings and there is no matter in that realm, there can be no progression, no movement, no motion. Every object would be “present" at once. Thus, “How many angels can stand on the head of a pin?” An infinite number. As George MacDonald wrote, “If two things, or any parts of them, could occupy the same space, why not 20 or 10,000?" (Lillith).

The Things That Matter

“That you may approve the things that are excellent …” 

—Philippians 1:10

The Stoic philosophers of Paul’s day spoke of the diapheron—“the things that matter.” The diapheron, in classical ethics, were those subtle aspects of character that set one person apart from others—what one did, but also a special way of doing it. Paul probably had this distinction in mind when he wrote of “things that are excellent,” or literally, “things that matter” (ta diapheronta).

The “things that matter” have to do with manner, demeanor, bearing, voice inflection, and facial expressions. It’s what we do but also how we do it. “A man ranks according to how he does a thing,” George MacDonald wrote.

I Think that's what Jesus had in mind when he queried his disciples: “what do you do more than others? (Matthew 5:47). The “others” were the Pharisees who were “good” in the worst sort of way. True goodness brims with gentle wisdom and loving–kindness. It’s not off-putting, but wonderfully attractive in the fullest sense of that word, in that it attracts others to the beauty of our Lord. 

Jesus said, “The good (and here he uses a Greek word that means “beautiful”) person brings goodness (beauty) out of the good (beauty) stored up in him (Matthew 12:35). This is the beauty of holiness, a radiance that comes from within, from the One who dwells there, who is incomparably lovely, and who, in his quiet love will gradually turn our actions into something truly beautiful. 


Our part is to ask and ask and ask again...

DHR

Let the beauty of Jesus be seen in me

All his wonderful passion and purity

Oh, Thou Spirit divine, all my nature refine

Till the beauty of Jesus be seen in me

—Albert W. T. Orsborn

 Waiting & Watching

“Deus habit horas et moras”  ("God has his hour and delay”) —Latin Proverb

Ethiopia and Egypt were in league, seeking an alliance with Assyria, endangering Judah and Jerusalem. Judah’s plight was desperate, yet God said to Isaiah, “I will wait, and I will watch…”

His stillness was not acceptance of this conspiracy; he was bidding his time (Isaiah 18:1-7)..

I think of Jesus—watching his disciples struggle against the waves on Lake Galilee; waiting for three days while Lazarus languished in the grave. Was he unaware? Did he care? Of course he cared! He was watching and waiting for the right time.

The Bible is filled with God’s delays, many of which are inexplicable from our point of view. Yet, every delay flows from the depths of his wisdom and love. If nothing else, delay, if we accept it, can produce the quieter virtues— humility, patience, endurance, and persistence in well doing—those qualities of life that are the last to be learned. But, “in the fullness of time,” to use that good old biblical refrain, God will arise for our salvation. “We ‘wait for the morning,’ which is to say that we wait in hope. We wait while we are being ‘ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven’” (Eugene Petterson, The Jesus Way.)

Are you in distress? Does our Lord seem distant and detached? He is not indifferent to your plight, nor is he unmoved by your pleas. He is watching and waiting while his purposes are achieved in you and in others. Then, at the right moment—in this life or the next—he will appear (Isaiah 18:5-7).[1] “God is never in a hurry, but he is always on time.”[2]

DHR

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[1] The imagery is that of a wise vinedresser who knows the proper time of the year to prune his vines. God thus bides his time until the appropriate moment to prune away those who oppose his purposes.

[2] Someone said this years ago and it stuck in my mind.

Safe!

“We’re safe,” said Ford, after his first ever teleport transfer (and discovering that he and Arthur had been transported onto the bridge of an enemy space ship). “Ah,” said Arthur, “this is obviously some strange usage of the word ‘safe’ that I wasn’t previously aware of.”

—Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

The Spring of Gihon lies on the eastern flank of Mount Zion and, in Hezekiah’s day, was outside the walls of Jerusalem. Foreseeing a siege by the Assyrian army, and knowing that the location of the spring was the city’s weakest point, Hezekiah drove a shaft from the spring through solid rock and directed the water inside the walls to the Pool of Siloam. He then closed off the “old pool” (the Spring of Gihon) and built a second wall to enclose it. Thus Hezekiah made Jerusalem safe (2 Chronicles32:30).

Isaiah observed: “You made a reservoir between the two walls for the water of the old pool. But you did not look to its Maker, nor did you have respect for Him who fashioned it (the old pool) long ago” (Isaiah 22:11). The irony of the project was that God, who fashioned the Spring of Gihon, deliberately placing it outside the walls to made Jerusalem vulnerable to a siege![1]

As it turned out, Hezekiah’s fail–safe water system was wasted effort. God delivered the city in a way that had nothing to do with human endeavor. You can read the story for yourself in 2 Chronicles 32.[2]

It comes to this: God creates weakness that we may become strong. Our physical, mental, and emotional limitations were fashioned long ago that “we might not rely on ourselves but on God” (2 Corinthians 1:9). Our limitations constrain us to cast ourselves wholly on God. In this way, his infinite resources become ours. Unqualified dependence, thus, is the only place of safety.

Paul, who was fond of paradox, put it this way: “When I am weak then I am strong” (1 Corinthians 12:10). We’re most safe when we’re most vulnerable—“obviously some strange usage of the word safe,’” I must say.

DHR

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[1] The Old Pool and the vertical shaft that rose from it were, in fact, the means by which David gained access to the old Jebusite citadel of Jerusalem when it was in the hands of the Canaanites (2 Samuel  5:6-10).

[2] Chris and Ted Stewart, in their book, The Miracle of Freedom: Seven Tipping Points that Saved the World, make this an event that saved Western Civilization from paganism.

Clouds

“Do you know how the clouds are balanced...?” (Job 37:16)

One day, many years ago, my boys and I were lying on our backs in the yard watching the clouds drift by. “Dad,” one child asked, “why do clouds float?”

“Well, son,” I began, intending to give him the benefit of my knowledge, but then I lapsed into silence. I realized he had asked one of those questions for which you have an answer until you’re asked. “I don’t know,” I admitted, “but I’ll find out for you.”

The scientific answer, I discovered, is that condensed moisture, descending by gravity, meets warmer temperatures rising from the land, that dissipate the moisture into vapor, the tendency of which is to ascend because it is lighter than the surrounding air. That’s a natural explanation for the phenomenon.

But natural explanations are penultimate answers; “grace perfects nature,” as medieval theologians used to say: “We see things more clearly when we see their ultimate origin.” Clouds float because God, in kind hearted wisdom has ordered the natural laws in such a way that they reveal the “awesome works of Him who is perfect in knowledge” (Job 37:16b). Clouds, then, become a kind of sacrament—an outward and visible sign of God’s goodness and grace.

So, when you‘re making castles in the sky remember that the one who made all things beautiful makes the clouds float through the air. He does so to call us to wonder and adoration.

“O LORD, how manifold are your works! in wisdom you have made them all: the earth is full of your riches” (Psalms 104:24).

DHR

Afterthought: I’m reminded of a story I read years ago about nineteenth century English writer Harriet Martineau who was something of an atheist. One day, reveling in the beauty of an autumn morning she burst out, “Oh, I’m so grateful!”—to which her believing companion replied, “Grateful to whom, my dear?”

The Simple Life 

Paul achieved life’s stupendous simplification: “For me to live is Christ” (Philippians 1:21). All progress in the spiritual life is movement toward that conclusion, moving from the many to the one; from the complexities and compulsions of this world to the conviction that few things are necessary, really only one.

This means that progress in the Christian life is not progress toward goodness (as I once thought), but  progress toward loving God—moving toward the point at which we say with the Israel’s poet, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever. As for me, the nearness of God is my good” (Psalms 73:25-27).

“Earth has nothing I desire besides you.” That perspective changes the way we look at everything. Suffering and adversity become the means by which we are made hungry and thirsty for God.  Disappointments become the tools that wean us away from our earthly occupation and move us toward a preoccupation with God alone. Even sin, when repented of, becomes a mechanism to push us closer to him. All things, in fact, become useful when viewed as the means to our “chief end,” and our highest good—the nearness of God.

Like Paul, we will always say, “I have not yet obtained all this…” but we must press on to attain it (Philippians 3:12).

And do how do we “press on”? Not through teeth–clenched self–effort. Movement toward God is the result of two things alone: His steady attraction and our humble and self–forgetting response to Him. Like everything else in this life, the initiative begins with God. He seeks us to the end that we may seek him—forever.

DHR

The View from the Back Pew

For over 16 years now Carolyn and I have been observing Sunday morning worship from a benchwarmer’s point of view. From that perspective, I’ve made a few observations and formed a few conclusions that I thought I’d pass along for what they’re worth. As Paul would say, “I give an opinion.” Nothing more.

(1) The era of the forty-five minute sermon may be over

Attention spans have been abridged these days to the point that most folks find it difficult to attend for more than 25–30 minutes, even if the presenter speaks with the tongues of angels. Our culture does not lend its ear to lectures without breaks or opportunities to give feedback. Television is mostly to blame, I suppose, with its thirty-minute segments broken into shorter units by commercials.

Brevity does not mean that sermons necessarily lack content and depth. Depth is a function of insight, orthodoxy, wisdom and clarity, which, in turn, is the product of prayerful meditation on and obedience to the text.

I‘m told that American statesman Edward Everett preceded Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg and delivered an oration that contained 13,609 words and lasted for two hours, but it’s Lincoln’s 268 words that are carved in stone at the end of the National Mall.

There’s a lesson there, or so it seems to me.

(To be continued)

DHR