After finishing Job, I moved on to reading Esther, a fairly short and fast book essentially detailing the origin of the feast called Purim. I've recently finished the book.
My reactions are probably a little predictable. First, it's not a very pleasant book, victory against the Persians notwithstanding. I assume that the Jews who killed the Persians were provoked, but I'm still somewhat squeamish about the circumstances. (Of course, Haman and his cohort were no saints, either.) Perhaps at least part of this reaction is that the book is also essentially pagan—there's no mention of God in it at all, save a somewhat obscure reference by Mordecai that Esther was perhaps born "for such a time as this."
When I read the Bible, my glasses are usually tinted to pick up types of Christ—since the Scriptures are ultimately a revelation of his person and work, this approach seems reasonable to me. And it often produces some surprising results (viz., the Messianic Psalms). But in this case, it didn't work as well (or I just need to absorb it a bit more slowly).
One thing of interest is that Haman is described as an import himself—an Agagite, presumably one of the offspring of the Amalekite King Agag, either the one mentioned in Numbers or the one mentioned in I Samuel. One wonders if perhaps Haman's family was really the last of the Amalekites, and if his destruction ended the war God promised in Exodus 17.16. This might add a little outside detail to an otherwise straightforward story.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Materialism
As I was doing some reading over the past few days, I realized that one of the problems of materialism is that it cannot explain itself. I've posted before about similar problems with the postmodern thesis that truth is relative.
The long and short of it, though (since I'm on lunch at the moment), is that materialism doesn't have any good mechanism for defining reality. We're told to simply accept that material things are real. Tangibility is all well and good, but the abstract becomes significantly harder to categorize. Are thoughts real? Ideas? If the answer to these questions is no, then how can we decide that what's tangible is real?
If we deny abstract realities, I think we must simultaneously deny our own ability to realistically characterize reality. At least from the Christian perspective there is a terminus here: God contains reality.
As always, we can turn to Wikipedia for a discussion of the philosophy, and it will surely do a better job than I have done in these ten minutes of posting.
The long and short of it, though (since I'm on lunch at the moment), is that materialism doesn't have any good mechanism for defining reality. We're told to simply accept that material things are real. Tangibility is all well and good, but the abstract becomes significantly harder to categorize. Are thoughts real? Ideas? If the answer to these questions is no, then how can we decide that what's tangible is real?
If we deny abstract realities, I think we must simultaneously deny our own ability to realistically characterize reality. At least from the Christian perspective there is a terminus here: God contains reality.
As always, we can turn to Wikipedia for a discussion of the philosophy, and it will surely do a better job than I have done in these ten minutes of posting.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Memories and Hope
Since I am not burdened by the apparent requirement to post, as happens sometimes at the links right, the two weeks or so since last posting don't particularly bother me. It has been a busy time here, and blogging is really only a sometimes hobby of mine.
My parents flew to Columbus this evening for a celebration of a different kind. The church we attended when I was a child, and that I later attended in my college and graduate years recently experienced the passing of the choir director, a woman well-known in the church for her iron rule of law over the singers and her dramatic flair. I don't suppose that the choir would be considered one of the best in the world, but her arrangements were always good, and the song choice was excellent. There is something of home in that church, and not a little part of that was her banter with the pastor and underlined comments in the music. (As an assistant sound guy, I was privy to a few of them when recording the Easter contatas.)
One of my earlier memories is learning "Come, Christians, Join to Sing" as a member of the children's choir, and singing it now stirs those memories back into existence, like an old picture or long-forgotten scent.
The church body has obviously aged, but the place is otherwise immune to the passage of time. The smell is the same as it used to be, even the chairs are the same model (if more recently purchased). Walking into the sanctuary today is to become a young child again for me.
Her passing in many ways sets my heart yearning for the Grand Reunion, of which I have had only glimpses and shadows in my short life. I would have liked to have gone to the funeral, to mix again among my betters in the faith, to have some company walking along the road. That fellowship is rare in my experience—indeed, it's one of the reasons I even write here. There is such a happiness in that limited and brief impression of heaven.
It is late here, and past my bedtime. I meant to write here more of the hope of Christ, but perhaps it shows in my brief comments. "Sing, choirs of angels!"
My parents flew to Columbus this evening for a celebration of a different kind. The church we attended when I was a child, and that I later attended in my college and graduate years recently experienced the passing of the choir director, a woman well-known in the church for her iron rule of law over the singers and her dramatic flair. I don't suppose that the choir would be considered one of the best in the world, but her arrangements were always good, and the song choice was excellent. There is something of home in that church, and not a little part of that was her banter with the pastor and underlined comments in the music. (As an assistant sound guy, I was privy to a few of them when recording the Easter contatas.)
One of my earlier memories is learning "Come, Christians, Join to Sing" as a member of the children's choir, and singing it now stirs those memories back into existence, like an old picture or long-forgotten scent.
The church body has obviously aged, but the place is otherwise immune to the passage of time. The smell is the same as it used to be, even the chairs are the same model (if more recently purchased). Walking into the sanctuary today is to become a young child again for me.
Her passing in many ways sets my heart yearning for the Grand Reunion, of which I have had only glimpses and shadows in my short life. I would have liked to have gone to the funeral, to mix again among my betters in the faith, to have some company walking along the road. That fellowship is rare in my experience—indeed, it's one of the reasons I even write here. There is such a happiness in that limited and brief impression of heaven.
It is late here, and past my bedtime. I meant to write here more of the hope of Christ, but perhaps it shows in my brief comments. "Sing, choirs of angels!"
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