Wednesday, August 6, 2014

The Plague of Sin

Numbers 25: 1-2, 7-8
While Israel remained at Shittim, the people began to play the harlot with the daughers of Moab. For they invited the people to the sacrifices of their gods, and the people ate and bowed down to their gods. 
When Phinehas the son of Eleazar, the son of Aaron the priest, saw it, he arose from the midst of the congregation and took a spear in his hand, and he went after the man of Israel into the tent and pierced btoh of them through, the man of Israel and the woman, through the body. So the plague on the sons of Israel was checked.
In the verses above, the Israelites have again broken God's decrees and commandments. Enticed by the gods, customs, and women of their newly acquired land, they worship, follow, and love.

Interestingly, however, Moses does not simply refer to these actions as sin. He does not blast their moral code or infidelity before the Lord. Rather, he calls Israel's shortcomings a plague. And this new moniker seems to be much deeper than just a new phrase for the tiring, redundant narrative of the unfaithful Israelites. It actually suggests a different perspective by which to view sin. This perspective is humble, and it hints at a deep understanding of sin.

Centuries later, pharisees would monochromatically view the world as sin or not sin, following the law or breaking it. However, disease is not quite so simple; there are an infinite number of ways to catch a plague - different modes of transmission, different pathways to being introduced to the body. The text shows that the Israelites were indeed swayed in multiple ways: the bold red of pride, the pink hues of lust, the dim yellow of foolishness, and the murky brown of gluttony. The perspective that the pharisees failed to gain, one that Moses astutely pierces, is that these seemingly varying colors are not in themselves an end. These temptations and sins in themselves are not the black that the pharisees so keenly avoided. Rather, these sins coalesce to form the deadly black from which no man is safe - separation from God.

One of the basic tenets of humanity, by nature of being a social species, is that everyone follow some sort of social code (laws, norms, etc.). This human experience makes it so easy to condemn those who break these codes, verbal or not. Thus, the Christian experience is littered with judgment, condemnation, shaming, and overall self-righteousness.

But what if we were to view these sins as illness? What if the sinner was not only the perpetrator, but also the victim? Moses (maybe I am reading into it too much here) seems to be suggesting that the Israelites were victims of an illness from which we must always question our immunity, regardless of the great (and they can be great) preventative measures taken, an illness that can just as easily overtake anyone else, an illness that plagued mankind since before man's first progeny and still persists today. He makes it awfully difficult to judge and condemn our peers. After all, nobody points a finger at a lung cancer patient, blaming him for his illness.

Patients do not avoid condemnation simply because blaming the sick is a faux pas. Once it comes to a terminal illness like cancer, those who understand the gravity of the situation - the possibility of death - can not make less of it, and there are few actions more belittling to a circumstance than retroactively investigating blame. Once the full ramifications are understood, people prepare for the future, be it peaceful acceptance or painful preparations for a fiery fight.

Paul would write centuries later that the wages of sin is death, and 24,000 of God's own Israelites pay those wages in the desert. Unfortunately, we modern Christians often forget the consequences of sin. Sin is not trivial, and it does not end at ill. Sin is death.

Fortunately, the same God whom the Israelites betray did not betray us:
"Jesus said to them, 'It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.'"







Sunday, May 18, 2014

Passion and Details

A month or so ago, I caught up with a friend for a 3-month delayed birthday brunch. Naturally, the conversation flowed to the topic of her current boyfriend and his awesome cellist ways. One story she told me that really got me thinking was how her boyfriend would repeatedly practice the same line the same way for several hours. Of course, repetition is a critical piece of artistry, but my friend found it odd because the notes and rhythm were correct, yet her boyfriend was visibly frustrated. She eventually asked him why, especially since he was hitting all the notes at all the right times. He then pointed out to her the more subtle nuances of cello performance (how does the direction of the bow change the sound, what note should that sound change coincide with, etc), and all of the details that go into "mastering" that particular piece. My friend is no musical slouch herself (relative to normal people, she's a piano prodigy; relative to piano prodigies, she claims mediocrity), but these differences were so slight that even she did not notice until he pointed them out.

This cello anecdote got me thinking about the relationship between detail and passion. Until then, I had never made the now-obvious connection: we are most detail-oriented about that which we are most passionate.

One of the stereotypical (yet accurate) depictions of passion is a nerd who loves technology and will grab anyone and unload, at one million words per second, slews of jargon understood only by himself. Another example is a young boy in love; all of his energies are spent on observing, to the best of his abilities, the likes and dislikes, the comings and goings of his crush. In other words, recognizing detail is an inseparable indicator of passion.

This epiphany got me thinking in two streams: God and myself.

The last couple of months, God's simultaneous vastness and meticulousness have put me in awe, and this was another example. If I really believe that the same God who created the heavens and the earth, the God for whom time is meaningless, the God who knows what lies beyond this galaxy, this universe also created me, an insignificant, little (in universal scope) boy, how can I not be amazed? But it doesn't end there. His attention to the details of my life did not end with my creation, but continue into even smaller moments, events, historical/chemical/physical/social/emotional/mental/spiritual experiences both recognized and not.

I am God's passion. He is trying to time, like my unmet cellist friend, the infinite variables of my life to ultimately produce a symphony that will bring glory to him and eternal life to me.

As for myself, my friend only introduced more questions. What details do I hold and for whom?

Monday, September 24, 2012

집으로 가자

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dqBx7u7ctak

구원받은 몸이라 안심하고 있었나
끊임없이 생기는 어둔 죄 감춰둔채
의인은 믿음으로 살리라 하셨는데
친구 넌 그뜻을 진정으로 아는가

Monday, September 17, 2012

A Tree by the Water

Something I've been increasingly realizing these days is the aptness of the metaphor between trees and Christians (or maybe people in general). Like trees, we stand there, completely rooted and unable to move. It is completely up to whoever plotted the land that we inhabit (God) whether we are near or distant from the water. We don't control the weather, nor can we move nearer to the water. Sure, we can try futilely to grow branches at certain angles and in different directions, but we will never determine the water that we receive.

As a tree that's been placed in a superfluously blessed position, I have no words but thanks.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Isaiah 30:19-22

For a people shall dwell in Zion, in Jerusalem; you shall weep no more. He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry. As soon as he hears it, he answers you. And though the Lord give you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself anymore, but your eyes shall see your Teacher. And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it," when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left. Then you will defile your carved idols overlaid with silver and your gold-plated metal images. You will scatter them as unclean things. You will say to them, "Be gone!"

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Information and Opinion

I was a rather tardy entrant into the world of intelligent cellular technology. By the time I got my first smartphone, many of my friends had already disposed of a few of their own. As a matter of fact, I can only think of one friend who still did not have a smartphone when I purchased my almighty iPhone 4(no S), and I'm about 97% sure that she is now a hippie and that the immediate predecessor to her phone (which she still uses) belonged to Zach Morris.

One of the pillars upon which I propped up my opposition to smartphones (besides my penultimate decision-making factor in life, convenience) was phone addiction. Already having a penchant for people and communication, I did not want to risk undue attachment to my cellphone (people). I did not want to become a person whose palm slowly morphed into an amoled touch screen.

Of course, once I actually did have my own iPhone, I soon realized that in order to become the aforementioned cyborg, I needed at least some semblance of popularity (which I freely admit I did/do/will not have). Regardless, I found myself becoming slowly addicted. However, my drug was not, as I had previously feared, people; it was information. More specifically, I was addicted to updates. The simultaneous buzz of minute novelties and the reprieve from the weight and responsibility of my own thoughts tickled my blood stream with endorphins.

Through this addiction, I've come to realize that the media is an all-inclusive crutch for the brain. I don't mean media in the traditional sense: newspapers, television, magazines. Rather, I mean it as any ways through which information is passed from one party to another. Now, when faced with a problem, one just needs to google "how to tie a tie," "what is my ip," to figure out meticulously detailed, well thought out instructions to questions.

This accessibility is certainly helpful when in a bind, but when it is time to form opinions, it provides a lazy way out for people. There are now people who can eloquently sum up the opinions of the great minds of today, but cannot or are afraid to form their own. Informed opinion is dropping its inefficient, antiquated caboose and becoming, simply, informed.

And then there I am, lying lazily in the midst of all this, in bed, oblivious to the happenings of the world outside my social media networks.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

46 Days

"he was a slave to his own moods and he felt that though he was capable of recklessness and audacity, he possessed neither courage, perseverance, nor self-respect"

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

One of my favorite aspects of reading is finding textual reflections of my thoughts or emotions. However, when a couple lines of text manage to encapsulate the essence of my nature in such a way that even I pause to say, "Damn, there I am," it's a bit disheartening. While relieved to be absolved of that particular burden, I'm daunted by my inability to verbalize my own angst and my reliance on the genius of a man with whom I have absolutely no relation, familial or otherwise.

edit: On second thought, I decided that F. Scott and I are kindred spirits.