A Tale of a Tub

I was talking to a friend recently about what I thought I would post next on my blog, and I said that I would try to grapple with a partial definition of what Christian poetry might look like, but that I did not, of course, want to say anything too definitive, lest I should fail to be nuanced. In jest, he pointed out that this contracted my previous post, in which I had promised to be more straightforward, and to stop hiding behind sophistic complexity. Even though he was just joking, he had a very good point; my natural proclivity is to hide behind nuance, and I need people and God to keep reminding me to develop integrity. So, with many thanks to my friend (who usually posts under the name of Cramsey), I will, in this post, undertake an analysis of this proclivity in the hope that it will serve as a reminder of integrity for myself, and an encouragement to those who find themselves faced with similar temptations.

Let us begin with the concept of integrity, which is the virtue that stands opposite to this vice, and which must therefore be the rod by which we measure its aberrations. I think the best definition of integrity is that it involves ensuring that there is a correlation between one external, public life, and one's internal, private life. It means that both parts of one's life are integrated with each other. Time and again, Scripture urges us to such integration. Internal faith complements, and is complemented by, external works. Those led (internally) by the Spirit of God bear His (external) fruit. When someone says something to you privately, you are to shout it from the rooftops. We are to avoid spiritual pride, which is characterised by all the religious fervour of whitewashed tombs. We are to emulate Christ, who told his persecutors that he was doing the same thing privately, in Gethsemane, as he did publically, in the temple courts.

In opposition to integrity stands hypocrisy; along with Shakespeare's Iago, and contra the God who appeared to Moses, the hypocrite says, "I am not what I am." In hypocrisy, one seeks to depict oneself to others as increasingly attractive, even while one is internally corroding. Permanent hypocrisy is the state of hell - the devil considers himself to be an angel of light - he thinks he is something when he is nothing - and those who follow him claim to be wise, even as they become fools. It is no wonder that Paul wished earnestly to be released from this state when he lamented that he did those things that he would not do, and did not do those things that he would do.

Having established this definition, I will now talk about my own particular form of hypocrisy, which involves diverting others from my corrupt, frail, and broken inward state by deploying complex and sophisticated ideas and arguments that serve to distract them. I do not, of course, believe that all such nuance emerges from this source - indeed some complexity is necessary because God, and his universe, are gloriously complex - but, for now, I will confine myself to the sort of complexity that is sophistic rather than necessary, since I am more tempted towards that than toward simplisticism (which is also sinful, in its way).

We encounter this form of hypocrisy often in the Bible. The teacher of the law asks Jesus who his neighbor is, not because he is inwardly concerned about his neighbor, but rather because he want to make himself look good in the eyes of others - thus, his awareness of the "complexities" of Jewish law turns into a foil designed to distract others from his lack of compassion. When Jesus strikes at the very heart of the Samaritan woman's impoverished spiritual condition, she attempts to divert his gaze from it by introducing doctrinal complexities: "Should we worship on the mountain or in the temple?" Pilate, the patron saint of postmoderns, is, perhaps, the best example of such hypocrisy; seeking to evade his legitimate unease concerning Christ's mistreatment, he ask Jesus, "What is truth?" Obviously, he is not actually curious, but is trying to cover up his inwardly guilty conscience by explaining his inactivity as the result of his "sensitive humility in the face of an infinitely complex, plural reality" (does this sound like any postmoderns you know?). Once again, complex philosophical arguments work as a mask for a corrupted heart.

So, as unwilling disciples of Pilate, what can we do to correct our addiction, especially when it is a parasite that deploys our most seemingly noble forays into theology, docrine, and philosophy, just as it converted (as Paul writes) the law into a vehicle of sin? The conclusion that I have come to is that we can find salvation from this state through repentance. "Of course!" you are no doubt thinking, "Can one think of a more cliched truism?" But give me a moment to explain. It is in repentance that we begin to assert publically, before God and men, the extent of our internal corruption - we break down the barrier between what we are, and what we want people to think we are. Like the tax collecter, we stand a long distance away from the temple, and beat our breasts, and, in doing so, we conform our outward state to our inward state. Whether in the presence of a priest or an accountability partner, whether generally or particularly, we tell God and others, "We can't pretend any more. We are fakes, shams. Our arguments are superfluous and hollow, and we only made them to avoid getting caught, to avoid being shamed publically. But now we wish to tell the truth - now, publically, we declare that there is no health in us. We admit that we are shamed, cursed, and unworthy to be called your son." And then something amazing happens; we stop saying that we have no sin, and thereby stop being hypocritical liars. We are freed from an iron maiden of our own making, the twisted, contorted body consisting in our puffed up, sophistic arguments, and we step into light, a light that illuminates both the inward and outward person. God's will is done, and His kingdom comes, publically and privately, externally and internally, on earth as it is in heaven. Until we once again forget, and once again re-turn to Him - 490 times, if necessary - and once again step into the unity and coherence of His presence, knowing fully that we probably will stray from our repentance, but resting in the knowledge that God will call his sheep back to Him, and that we need not worry about the sins of tomorrow; this is the time of repentance - this is the day, the hour, the moment that God has made - let us rejoice, and be glad in it!