#my brother in secular divinity YOU reached out your hand

[aroelsecaller]

Zerxus, while getting his face ripped off by the Lord of the Hells:

[thegrapeandthefig]

On religious secrecy

The secret nature of certain Ancient Greek cults has been so respected that scholars struggle to figure out what they entailed. Let’s dig into the concept a little.

In Classical Greece, it wasn't uncommon to keep secret the location of particular graves, which served as city talisman and, to quote Bremmer, "somehow guaranteed the safety of the city". This was the case in Thebes, where the grave of the hipparch (Theban military general) was kept hidden. Traditionally, the retiring hipparch would show his successor the location of the grave at night and perform a sacrifice. It was as discreet as could be: no fire would be used, the participants would be covered and would leave in separate ways once the deed was done. Thebe's example is not unique: In Sophocle's Oedipus in Colonus, Oedipus tells Theseus "but keep [the knowledge of my grave] always yourself, and when you reach the end of your life, tell only him you have chosen; let each man hand it on to his successor" (1530-2) Corinth also kept secret the locations of the graves of their first kings. It is very likely that the tradition has a link to royalty and that there were non-religious reasons to keep those graves concealed. By the time of Pausanias (2nd century AD), the tradition seemed to have died off.

Mystery cults, on the other hand, have known popularity peaks and the stress on secrecy seems to have increased over time. For instance, Strabo, who lived between the first century BC and AD, describes it this way: 

"the secrecy with which the sacred rites are concealed induces reverence for the divine, since it imitates the nature of the divine, which is to avoid being percieved by our human senses."

Strabo seems to be echoing and interpreting what is said in Demeter's Homeric hymn, which reads: 

the awful mysteries not to be transgressed, violated, or divulged, because the tongue is restrained by reverence for the gods.

Clearly, the recurring idea is that the holiness of the matter doesn’t allow it to be spoken about or performed outside of their legitimate context. 

Let’s take Aeschylus’ case as example. Keep in mind his story has probably been embellished over time but he, apparently, had accidently divulged details about the Mysteries in one of his plays. There are different version to how he managed to avoid condemnation: one tells us he was saved by his brother's intervention, others that he claimed to be uninitiated. However, the legend around his unusual death, caused by an eagle dropping a turtle on his head, has sparked the belief amongst some, that Zeus avenged himself.  

There are other cases of people being accused of having disclosed secret information, some of which might have been politically motivated. But the point is there, it was a crime that caused enough indignation to be used as a political weapon.

But what distinguished the Mysteries was less about concealment rather than silence. The appropriate word being arrhetos, “unspeakable”. The Mysteries are not “secret”, they are “unspeakable” of. As such, it didn’t matter how many people were initiated and that people knew the Mysteries existed, or when they happened, what mattered was that whatever substance they had was kept unspoken. 

Bibliography under the cut

Jan Bremmer, Religious secrets and secrecy in Classical Greece in Secrecy and Concealment, Brill, 1995

Jon D. Mikalson, Ancient Greek Religion, Wiley, 2010

Luther H. Martin. Deep History, Secular Theory, De Gruyter, 2014

[opentruthministry]

So a couple of days ago over on Twitter, where I continue to fly just underneath the radar, I broke the Internet. Of course, I made the fatal mistake of thinking, "Folks will think before reacting" (duh), "Folks will look up the terms and see what I'm talking about" (duh), "People will realize there is a background to what I'm saying" (duh again). Instead, articles were written, and once again, I was written off as a waste of flesh...nearly 40 years of ministry gone!  What on earth did I say?

Well, actually, one tweet did not get much traction, but the other did, yet they were related.  Here they are:

Hey folks...

Jesus endured all the trauma needed to accomplish redemption and reconciliation.

Dragging your emotional trauma into the fellowship and making everyone else feel guilty for it is the perfect poison for the Body.

Get over yourself.

It's all about HIM, not YOU.

=======

That was the first one. Pretty basic, back to the Scythian Test, Colossians 3, new identity in Christ, freedom from the past, newness of life in Christ, Christian identity rather than a worldly one, basis of unity for the Body, all that stuff that is currently being rejected even by the evangelical elites. But then came the next one, the one which broke the Internet:

When you start with man as image-bearing creature of God, you can understand why sympathy is good, but empathy is sinful.

Do not surrender your mind to the sinful emotional responses of others.

=======

Now, fact of the matter is, I packed more than sufficient context into those two sentences to have stopped 95% of the absurd blow-back that came my way IF people were not already fully infected with the "empathy is required of everyone and is how you are loving" balderdash of a rapidly dying culture. I mean, check it out: 

1)  I made the context that of creation, with man as the image bearer---the exact opposite of the secular worldview.  Should have been a context-setter.

2) I asserted a direct contrast between the goodness of sympathy and the sinfulness of empathy.

3)  I then made it clear what is sinful about this use of empathy: it involves the surrender of our minds to the sinful emotional responses of others.

Plenty there to explain the point?  With just a little reflection, yes.

But all you need to do is read through even some of the around 200 comments (let alone all the sub-tweets, and even an article by some guy named John Reasnor) and you will see that the majority who read the tweet either lacked the capacity, or willingness, to listen to it and think about it.  Now, it is Twitter, and that is part of the program there, in all honesty.  Who really makes the effort to think before responding with emotion?

So allow me to briefly expand. Man is God's creature. God has created man with a mind, the capacity to think, to reflect, to meditate. Man is told to be disciplined in these things. In fact, the greatest commandment is not "feelings, nothing more than feelings," but is "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul and strength." You do not give that commandment to your cat, or your Siamese fighting fish. Man has the capacity to direct his passions, control his passions, rule over his passions, and the first two commandments (love your neighbor as yourself) prove it.

So I am actually functioning on the radical idea that God lays out for His creature man laws and guidelines and we are to live within them, seeking to love God and think His thoughts after Him, glorifying Him by living in His creation as He has commanded. And yes, I believe man is to master, control, and utilize his emotional life in light of divine truth.  We are not to be mastered by our emotions.

So what is the problem with empathy today?  We are, in fact, told to weep with those who weep, but that assumes those who weep have a reason for weeping that is in line with God's revelation. We are not to weep with the drug dealer who accidentally drops his stash down the storm drain in New York City. We are not to weep with the bank robber who botches the job and ends up in the slammer. We are, plainly, to exercise control even in our sympathy. We are not to sympathize with sin, nor are we to sympathize with rebellion, or evil. 

But the new cultural (and it has flown into the church as well) orthodoxy is: you shall empathize.  You shall enter into the emotions of others AND YOU SHALL NOT MAKE JUDGMENTS ABOUT SAID EMOTIONS.  By so doing YOU SHALL VALIDATE ALL HUMAN EXPERIENCES AS SUPREME.  The greatest sin of all today is to say, "The emotions that person is experiencing are the result of sinful rebellion against God, and hence do not require my validation, support, or celebration."  HOW DARE YOU!  That is the great rule I stepped upon, and must now pay the price.

The Great Empathy Commandment has been very useful in the degradation of Christian morals and ethics, let alone evangelism, pastoral counseling, etc. Sixty years ago it was almost unthinkable that the Christian people would, by a majority, think homosexuality a "gift from God," but that is the case today. Why? Empathy.  "Walk a mile in their shoes. Consider their life. ENTER INTO their emotional experience." Then it went from simple homosexuality to the redefining of marriage.  Now, polyamory, polygamy.  And with 2015, every form of gender-destroying "experience."  You must empathize. You must "enter in" or your are "unloving." Already the push to empathize with those who naturally experience "intergenerational love" (pedophiles) is in the academy and the culture. Marrying your cat or your Siamese fighting fish is just around the corner.  Just empathize with the experience.  Validate it. Then submit.

I did not intend to write a book, but let me point out the obvious. For a Christian, especially within the fellowship, we are to love one another. And it is that commandment to love which precludes sinful empathy.  When I see a brother or sister who is experiencing what they call "trauma," and I first (before diving in with them) inquire as to the source of said trauma, and then discover it is rooted in rebellion, in sin, or in simple ignorance of God's truth, the LAST thing they need from me is the validation of their emotional responses. They need me to stay OUT of their emotions, stay firmly planted on solid ground, and reach out a hand of help.  I can sympathize with their situation, but I cannot ENTER their situation, not if I actually love them.  But that's a definition of love which is about as heretical in today's culture, and, sadly, in today's church, as my heretical tweet above.

[archergwenwrites]

Turn the Page

(A/N: For this post. Also, blame this on three glasses of wine, and then the two the second night of writing as to why it’s so long.)

Kane goes into the woods because he has to. He’s a self-sacrificing bastard - at least that’s what Abby says when he leaves with goods to sell should he find another bastion of civilization through the forest. Supposedly they have a lord, a protector, but no one has seen him - just those who tend to a flawless administration - and wolves run rampant.

He finds safety in a castle’s gardens, and as his cart horse bends its neck to graze, he reaches out to an overgrown rose bush.

My mother would love these, he thinks.

There’s a roar, rage he does not understand, and then Kane is staring at the walls of a dungeon, unsure of what he saw.

He stops questioning the animate objects after the first five visits. They are wary, at first, but he tells stories of life in the village until the teapot - who should be dressed in silks and every inch his lady - shares the horror that took them all from happy and carefree to imprisioned, her and her brother the lord orphaned that same night.

“Our mother loved the roses best,” she explains weakly.

“As does mine,” he replies.

Somehow he is moved into a wing of the castle with actual rooms, still without having met the lord. He starts to make himself useful.

“Excuse you,” says the time piece. “I’m the chamberlain.”

“’cept you don’t have real thumbs, do you?” retorts the candelabra, and they fight while Lady Octavia approves the timetable Kane had drawn up.

He’s arranging an airing out of the East Wing, his wing, when a presence looms behind him.

Kane says nothing, keeps himself to a very careful non-reaction as he pencils in carefully scheduled time blocks with the various animate featherdusters and mops. There are a few lively lamps who have figure out how to fluff pillows and blankets, so Kane has them on every room but his. He can do his own laundry, being the only one capable after all.

The presence finally speaks in a gruff, but almost shy voice. “Finn can’t sweep your room.”

Kane paused, then quietly switches the duster with another. “May I ask why, my lord?”

The voice hesitated, “Trysts between staff is technically allowed but discouraged, particularly when one party is trapped in a room and unable to see for herself that the other party was briefly involved with a mop.”

“Ah. Shouldn’t be a problem to keep him away from Raven, then.”

“Do you have any plans for the West Wing?”

Kane does start when his lord quickly speaks. “I- no, no I don’t. I didn’t even think to make one yet-”

“Good. That wing is mine, and mine alone. No one else steps foot in there.”

“Surely to keep it in order-”

“No one.”

Kane inclines his head. “Of course, my lord.” A careful pause as feet start to shuffle away. “When would you like dinner served?”

He hears the smallest sound of surprise and grins. This time his lord is startled. The young man recovers quickly. “My sister usually brings my dinner to the study off the library at half-past seven. Since you have proper limbs, I imagine you can manage to bring it at seven.”

“Did the magic include never-ending food stores?” he asks the teapot, balancing the tray while holding the library door open for her.

“No, but there was a vegetable garden used to supplement the servants’ dinners, so my brother tends to that now that no one else needs to eat but you two. He hunts for himself, but I’ll be sure to have Lincoln set aside some meat for you at least once a week. We obviously can’t go to the market, and you can’t without bringing inquiries we can’t answer. It’s honestly a miracle the king hasn’t come searching for the errant Lord Blake.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that frustrated confession, so he just adds, “My thanks.”

Kane doesn’t see the young lord anywhere as he sets the tray down. The Lady Octavia motions for him. “Well come on. He’s not going to eat with you. Bellamy’s self-concious about his fine-motor skills now.”

“What are you doing?”

Kane looks up from the vegetable bed and manages not to laugh.

It’s the first time he’s seeing Lord Blake, and he is outfitted in gardening gear. There’s a wide brimmed hat pulled over his horns and something of a mane. Claws poke out of gloves just a hair too big for him, and he has a trowel in one hand, a bucket in the other. An apron is haphazardly tied over his clothes, but at least the rubber boots seem alright. His awkward gait as he steps closer to Kane suggests that his toes aren’t quite what they used to be.

Lord Blake should look terrifying, and had he revealed himself that first night Kane would be afraid. But now, a smile curls around his lips as he opens his slightly dirty hands. “I’m tending to the garden, my lord.”

“I am perfectly capable.”

“Of that I had no doubt. Since I need them, too, I thought I might help. And if you don’t mind me saying so, my lord, some of these plants need to be re-arranged.”

“What do you mean?”

Kane carefully turns back to the vegetable bed next to him. “Beans don’t like to be near practically anything, but carrots can be a good buffer. I’m clearing out this bed to move the berries over since they should move well. Tomatoes and brocolli are also not friends, so I want to open up a third bed, but that can wait since the tomato plants are still small.”

The bucket and trowel roughly drop to the ground. “I have claws and am doing my best. What more do you want from me?”

There is hurt and pain radiating in the statement, and Kane’s fingers curl around the dirt. He wants to scream that he didn’t ask for this, didn’t ask to be hunted and lost, imprisoned and then hired. He didn’t ask for an animate wardobe who watches him while he sleeps because she can’t do anything else, though they’ve agreed to Not Talk about all he’s screamed into his pillow. He didn’t ask to discover that his lord got orphaned and turned into a bear-wolf-lion on the same night.

But he is Marcus Kane, and he’s made enough mistakes before ignoring other’s emotions. He is old - or feels it in this house of youths. His pain will keep.

Carefully, he straightens out the strawberries as if they are all he’s thinking of, that the words rolling off his tongue weren’t carefully aligned as he tries to steer this young man through his storm.

“Well, you are an older brother, and some would say that makes Octavia your responsibility, especially with your parents gone. Despite the fact that she’s a teapot, she is hale and healthy. She’s got a brilliant mind - we’ve debated The Art of War against your more recent military textbooks. Perhaps her education in dancing and needlework have suffered, but she can run a household. She is a perfectly accomplished young lady.

“You are also lord of these lands, steward of the villages. The wolf population is a bit overgrown - you could see to that - yet the your people have not suffered these past ten years. You’ve kept the machine running, somehow.”

Kane shifts, moving to the new garden bed. As he continues, he untangles weeds and pulls them from the dirt, laying their roots and leaves in one sad pile. “I cannot judge you as a man - I barely know you and even then only as my lord. I can assure you that practiced habits become easier, but that does not make life easier. If you were to interact in a community you would find that the more good you do, the more good is expected of you. Your peers will always want for more, and if you do not give it they will find you lacking.”

Here, Kane brushes the dirt from his hands and meets Lord Blake’s eyes. “If you falter, it does not mean you are lacking. Humans make mistakes. And when you do, you have two choices. You can be consumed by it - let it take over your every thought as you drown in guilt. Do not do this.”

If Lord Blake is offended by his steel tone, he does not show it.

“You turn the page. You don’t look back. You do better today than you did yesterday. Only then do you become a better man.”

He lets the silence sit for a moment; he turns back to weeding and waits. Slowly, Lord Blake kneels down, trowl in hand, and begins to wrestle with another garden bed overcome with weeds. Kane waits for the silence to grow companionable, for Lord Blake to be at ease, and then-

“Your gardening needs work though.”

Several of the servants come flying out the doors, certain the two are being attacked only to find them both collapsed in fits of laughter. Worries assagued and sides calmed, Lord Blake looks at his only human servant with a deep smile. “Thank you, ah- um-”

“Kane, my lord. Marcus Kane.”

“Thank you, Kane.”

“I don’t care what your tutor thought! Satan gnawing on Brutus and Cassius as well as Judas is elevating Julius Caesar next to Christ! Even though Judas does have it slightly worse with his head in Satan’s mouth, these are two killers of a mortal man punished as severely as the killer of Christ.”

“Think for a precious second, if you will, chamberlain, but Satan - the biggest Traitor of a Benefactor that ever was - is gnawing on the three most well-known examples of his ilk! There have been other such sinners, of course; they’re immobile in the ice. Yet Caesar’s traitors are also traitors to man and society, disrupting secular government instead of divine. Caesar was not as great as God, no. But have not we been told to offer hospitality to all for what we do the least we do to Christ?”

Kane squeaks.

Outside the library, Octavia smiles.

“Kane, are you married?”

The new copy of Lettres persanes snaps shut as the man in question jumps in his chair. He thinks of a sharp-eyed widow with an even sharper mind before shaking his head. “No, never have been. Why do you ask?”

Lord Blake sets aside De l'esprit des lois and clearly tries not to look nervous. “I was just wondering how you make someone fall in love with you.”

“Seeking to run off with Montesquieu?” 

He wishes that fur would show a blush. “But in all honestly, Lord Blake, you can’t. You can’t make someone give you their love. Sure, you can play the role they want, but they won’t be loving the real you, will they?” Kane sighs. “It’s not easy to accept, I know. Some people never manage it.

“I haven’t read Montesquieu’s new musings. What word are you translating as love? Agape? Eros? Philio?”

“It wasn’t a question on the reading, just one I’ve had for a while. Thank you. I’d also forgotten there was more than just romantic love.”

Kane nods knowingly as Lord Blake reaches for his cup. “Well if the time comes I’d be more than happy to arrange a marriage for you. Come now! A proper lord does not spit out his tea!”

The garden is their refuge. There are no sisters or talking clocks, just the quiet business of nature and soil under their fingers.

Kane is turning over the dirt in another garden bed, prepping it to take the tomato plants, when Lord Blake suddenly leaps forward. “Wait!” Deftly, as his fine-motor skills with claws are much improved, he plucks from the earth a four-leaf clover - along with several of its three-leaf brethren.

He tries to flatten out the crinkled leaves, which is when Kane speaks. “I don’t know if they’re supposed to lie flat. After all, you shouldn’t iron them.”

Lord Blake looks at him in disbelief when Kane adds, “Shouldn’t press your luck.”

He rolls his eyes and groans, “really, Dad?”

They freeze: Lord Blake locking his eyes on the clover, Kane staring at the hoe until he offers, “I’m sorry-” a pause “-was that joke too corny?”

“I give up,” the younger man says, tucking the clover in his apron pocket and standing. He brushes his hands off then throws them in the air. “Puns are the lowest form of humor. I’m out.”

“Don’t you carrot all?”

The garden door slams shut as Kane laughs.

All good things end.

The garden flourishes, Octavia joins their dissection of literature and philosophy, everything but the West Wing is brought back to the pre-curse standards, and Lord Blake offers Kane a look in a magic mirror.

He packs a small bag - “I am coming back, my lord, once she’s well.” - and rides back to the village, haunted by his mother’s sick face and the lost look on Lord Blake’s.

He tries to say nothing about where he’s been - he has a moderate sum of funds to bolster the village and help his mother. He should have known Abby would not be content to let things lie like the others. 

Kane did not expect anyone to be eavesdropping, much less spread rumors of a monster.

He did not expect a mob to form, led by Jaha, immune to reason.

That Abby is the one to lock him in his home should have been a little more surpising.

That Clarke breaks him out, that is a surprise and a most welcome one. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, what his plan is, only that his horse can’t move fast enough, can’t outrun a mob.

He darts through the mess - snatching up teacups before they smash and even catching Finn before he lands in the fireplace - trying to give them an edge when he realizes the absolute worst place they could be.

Kane steps onto the library balcony as Jaha almost topples off it.

“Bellamy.”

There’s blood on his claws, and Kane briefly wonders if its his lord’s or his old friend’s. Or maybe it’s Pike’s, who has his sword drawn, not that it’s doing him any good as he lies motionless on the ground.

“That’s enough,” he says, fearlessly meeting those brown eyes.

“Kane, he’s a beast,” his former friend begins. “Grab the-”

“Stop it. You began this mad war, and I’m finishing it.” Kane looks again at the one erroneously called ‘beast.’ “Turn the page.”

Slowly, the claws unfurl from their grip on Jaha’s shirt and the man can stand on his own. Bellamy takes one step back, then another, then he turns away from the villager and starts for Kane.

He roars suddenly, spinning wildly, and Kane ducks under first his arm then the sword in his back.

Jaha is not so lucky.

The blow sends him stumbling back until he tumbles over the edge of the parapet and falls.

He falls unnoticed, for Kane is easing Bellamy to the ground, onto his side.

“I’m sorry-”

“Quiet, no need.” Kane tears at his flimsy coat, hoping the strips will be long enough to wind around a midsection.

“No, no. I’m sorry. They’re my people- he was your friend. I didn’t want to ki- I didn’t want-” He cuts off with a roar as Kane pulls the blade free. “You must hate me.”

Kane gets one piece to stay, but blood is pooling quicker than he can tear so he just starts pressing, kneeling there desperate, hoping Abby will have another one of her moments of impeccable timing.

“You must hate me.”

His voice is so broken.

“I am sad that they are dead,” Kane begins. “A life snuffed out cannot be returned. I am angry they rushed in without thinking, without listening. No one would have been hurt had they asked me about the rumors instead of taking those to be truth. I feel guilty, for I couldn’t resist the pleas for truth from the one person I trusted and now look where we are. I am so, so worried about you. But I do not feel hatred, do you hear me?”

Bellamy slowly nods.

“Son, I could never hate you.”

Bellamy releases a shuddering, wet breath and goes still.

Kane sinks back onto his heels. “I could never hate you. Argue illogically, let weeds overtake the tomatoes, iron your luck, I don’t care.” His breath shakes as it leaves him. “I don’t care,” he repeats softly, eyes falling closed-

Eyes closed, against pain, don’t see a wind stirring, stars descending to stick to Bellamy’s still form like fireflies to a lantern.

Eyes open at a gasp.

A young man is standing, leaning against a parapet with one arm while the other presses to his back, reddened strips of coat hanging between his fingers. His human fingers are bloody; his dark hair is a curled mop on his head. There is a smattering of freckles across his nose. He looks at Kane with familiar brown eyes and breathes, wincing a bit as he does.

“If it was that easy I should’ve had O say she loved me years ago.”

He tries to take a step forward and falls, but Kane is there to catch him, to pick him up and carrying him through the library and out into the hall. He stands beneath a painting of the late Lord Blake and looks over the chaos of newly humanized servants throughly celebrating while bound villagers watch confused.

“Ahem,” he begins, voice cutting through the chatter. The servants instantly snap to attention, Octavia pressing through once she recongizes what’s wrong. “Is there a Griffin available?”

Kane always liked Clarke, so when she appears, a shock of blonde hair and her mother’s medical bag under one arm, he decides to give her a job whether or not Lord Blake agrees.

From the way Bellamy watches her as she bandages him up, Kane doesn’t think there will be an argument.

“You wanted to see me, Lord Blake?”

The young man looks much better after a week of bedrest with Clarke paid to fuss over him. (He did quickly learn that she would broker no arguments over his care, and expected to be obeyed - the lord in the sickroom.) (Octavia immediately began taking notes.)

“I did.” He hauls himself to a sitting position and pulls some papers closer. “First of all, enough will all this ‘Lord Blake’ business. You’ve cared for me like a father, and saved my life as well as the existences of all those directly under my care in this castle. Bellamy will suffice.

“Second of all, while I cannot elevate you to a position above mine, I can petition the king to recognize you for efforts above the call of duty, and at least grant you a cottage near the gardens for your use, as you please, no strings attached.”

“Bellamy-”

He raises a hand to cut him off. “I will tolerate no argument. You treated and loved me like a son when to the rest of the world I was a monster, a fantastical creature from magical nightmares. Let me honor you as a son should.”

Kane bows, heart swelling. “As you wish.”

“Of course, I hope you will still oversee the management of the household and argue with me about Montesquieu?”

The tone of his voice creeps upwards at the end, and Kane relaxes, smiling. “I thought we might next read some Virgil, build more foundations of thought and art before we tackle another contemporary.”

“But we’ll order anything new Montesquieu writes?”

“Bellamy, I’m not actually your father; you don’t have to ask permission just because I broke your curse with agape love.”

“Agape? Reaching a bit much are you? If it’s familial love wouldn’t it be storge?”

Kane pulls up a chair. “I would’ve gone with philia as the alternative to agape. Someone needs to re-read their Aristotles. Nicomachean Ethics clearly uses the former to refer to-”

                                                                                                            Fin.