The joyful song of coming judgment

In reading and listening to Revelation 14 again, I was reminded of how two visions bookended the entire chapter. The first was of the rousing chorus of the 144,000 – the redeemed, blameless and pure, those saved and pardoned by God, singing a new song that could not be learnt by any other.

At the end of the chapter, however, is the image of violence and bloodshed, and the son of man with a sharp sickle will reap.

“So the angel swung his sickle across the earth and gathered the grape harvest of the earth and threw it into the great winepress of the wrath of God. And the winepress was trodden outside the city, and blood flowed from the winepress, as high as a horse’s bridle, for 1,600 stadia.”

And there we have it, two visions of Christ as reigning king. The first of him as one who is worthy of praise and who redeemed the undeserved with his love and by his blood; and the other, the figure with a sharp sickle that will judge mankind. He will not withhold his anger, he will pour full strength into the cup of his anger.  The impure will drink his wrath and be tormented with fire and sulphur forever and ever.

There is a present war, and Christ has already declared his victory in advance. Yet, his victory is not only in doing the work of mending and saving. We may think of those tending to the sick and wounded as undoing the brutality of war. We think of them as men and women who are doing the important work of restoring our faith in humanity. In one way, against the forces of evil and the depravity of the worst of men, Christ’s humble submission and undignified death is that very act of restoring faith, is that very attempt to make whole, to mend, to heal, and to restore. But that is not the whole story.

Part of that war must include a judgment of wrath and bloodshed. But how can war ever be justified or even celebrated? The bible seems to make light of pain, tears, and scattered limbs. Yet he must. For the sake of his holiness, he must; for the sake of the 144,000 – that they would not have endured in vain, he must. The leadership of Christ in charging into a glorious war where victory is certain is imitated in the image of a surging King Théoden as he rode to the aid of Gondor. Weary from age, his eagerness to deal judgment to the assailing enemies of Gondor gave strength to his comrades cowering in the shadow of the enemy.

“Suddenly the king cried to Snowmane and the horse sprang away. Behind him his banner blew in the wind, white horse upon a field of green, but he outpaced it. After him thundered the knights of his house, but he was ever before them. Éomer rode there, the white horsetail on his helm floating in his speed, and the front of the first éored roared like a breaker foaming to the shore. But Théoden could not be overtaken. Fey he seemed, or the battle-fury of his fathers ran like new fire in his veins, and he was borne up on Snowmane like a god of old, even as Oromé the Great in the battle of the Valar when the world was young. His golden shield was uncovered, and lo! it shone like an image of the Sun, and the grass flamed into green about the white feet of his steed. For morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removed, and the hosts of Mordor wailed, and terror took them, and they fled and died, and the hoofs of wrath rode over them. And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they flew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the city.”

John said: and I heard a voice from heaven like the roar of many waters. Tolkien wrote: the first éored roared like a breaker foaming to the shore. John wrote that those who worship the beast will “drink the wine of God’s wrath”, and here we read of the judgment the “hoofs of wrath” the country of horsemen inflict upon their enemies. Indeed, Théoden and the Rohirrim were described as finding “joy in battle” – not in mere bloodshed alone, but in vindicating the dead and defenceless. In fact, such a swift battle must have proven to be such a relief to those struggling in the darkness. And to that the end, those who endured in that hopeless battle and those who died in their service can “rest in their labor”, for God will now vindicate them and earn a victory that will bless them forever.

This is why there is joy, even in battle. This is why the host of Rohan burst into a song, and that song was both fair and terrible in battle. It is a song of judgment and salvation. Surely, that song was both glorious and terrifying as John heard the 144,000 sing it, and surely it will be too as it will be sung on that day.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

The human condition

Once in a while, as we immerse ourselves within the information vortex, scrolling along the many shared articles we find on our feed, we find articles of people – usually old people – who tell us about a discomfort that feel. This discomfort they have is usually a feeling that humanity is now marked by some loss, that it did not use to be what it was in the past.  Thus, they try to explain how undesirable modern society is, and how important aspects of humanity are now under dire threat. One recent article I read related to parenthood and adulthood.  The writer complained that young moderns are increasingly “hooked on screens” and “intellectually fragile”. Such arguments are put forth based on a gut feel, even if that feel is on the most part, right.

Yet, such assertions are not just indictments of something problematic about the trajectory of the human race in modernity, but are also criticisms of an entire generation after them: you are weak, unlike us. If it’s merely a problem of generations, then we might have to conclude that the human race is indeed regressing, and that the earliest humans were the most robust and worthy of praise. No, the problem is not with a generation, it’s with the human race as a whole. It is thus not for us to give self-congratulatory pats on our backs and despise adolescents for their lack of depth, for theirs is a condition that we have wreaked upon them due to our failure to consider the consequences of our actions. Thus, in order to make any kind of argument or indictment at all, one must consider the most fundamental question – what is the human condition and how has the human condition changed?

In understanding what it means to be a human, we can finally articulate what has been “lost”, and decide whether or not that is undesirable. And when I ask, “what is the human condition?” I’m not merely asking, “what was God’s plan for us?” or, “what is the purpose of man?” I would like to think I’m situating this in our particular and real situations on this earth. That is to say, I  want to ask – what does it mean to be a human on the planet called Earth, where there are trees, animals, berries, beetles, rivers, blood, death, and other human?. In other words, i’m not asking about the essence of human beings as we were created ex nihilo – abstracted from the reality we know. Rather, what are we like on the given earth – not on mars, or floating in space, but here and now?

To put it in another way, the answer to “what is the human condition” is: the behavioural effect of living in the situation that man is in. I think this is a question that needs to be asked of ourselves. And it’s a pertinent question to ask because it helps to slow us down; to temper our ambitions and imaginations about what could be. In imagining a future so vastly different from the present, we may have too often been seduced by the positive prejudice we have for the words like “progress” and “advancement” or some vague sense of improvement or betterment. Yet, in our eager anticipation of a “better” future, we leave questions of our human condition behind, thus threatening the very meaning of our existence as humans on this earth. In saying this, then, I imply that the human condition was not meant to be changed – at least, not so drastically such that we barely recognize it. In saying this, I’m also saying that this was the original condition that God planned for us. Having said this, let me try to articulate the fundamental human conditions, and how modernity is destroying them in one form or another.

To be human is to create artifices in reflection of the eternal. Humans do more than just labor to subsist, to survive. We have always found the ability to go beyond working for food, to break out of the cycle of the life process. Everything that animals do, they do as part of an inevitable cycle. They live, hunt for food, and they die, returning to the ground as part of a ceaseless process of nature. But man does things that has a value beyond immediate use. If this were not true, then we would not have museums of ancient artefacts like statues, carvings, and jewellery. What use were these? If they fetch little value at all today, whether as a matter of fashion or even monetarily, what other use could they have thousands of years ago? Their value lay not in their use, but in their ability to endure. It was not made to be consumed, but to be remembered, a treasure to be beheld. Having been made in the image of God, we all have an idea of the eternal, the enduring; and thus, we create things in hopes of breaking the cycle of meaningless, so that it is not all vanity. This is what it means to create enduring artifices.

Artifices range from anything like chair to a painting. I speak of these as uniquely created works – not mass-produced chairs. It must have taken months to fashion a chair that not only had use-value, but also embodied one’s signature style, an expression of one’s views on beauty and the good. And why we can create, and in fact continue to create artifices is because we can contemplate – we do not simply survive. We think of deeper things, of harder questions; we ponder about the pain of death, even if it’s inevitable. And in that pondering, we sometimes feel enriched, and sometimes we feel like we have learnt something and have grown in one way or another. These are all in fact great things. The ability for mankind to contemplate about the deep meaning of life must surely be because there is a sense of the eternal – we try to make sense of our mortality and our frailty, and we seek for that which will be everlasting. That is why legacies matter, that is why history matters, and why we fashion, and in our own ways, take part in creation. We are co-creators, because we know life is not a meaningless cycle.

If that is true, then we should produce more, should we not? It would seem so, but modernity has so radically twisted this human condition. Rather than create, we copy, rather than fashion, we mass-produce. In our world today, we have ceased to become artists and co-creators of enduring works, rather, we have become crazed producers of goods of mass appeal, in part because it is not longer a bashful thing to seduce our consumers with vulgar images or messages. And on the other side, we have become mindless consumers of cheap trills and vulgar entertainment. Art and theatre cease to be enduring works of contemplation, they are merely transient entertainment that we consume, inducing a passive state, like a coma. And when it ends, we go to sleep; and the next morning, we drag our feet to work, none the brighter, feeling none the richer. Rather, all that we do at work appears to be meaningless, because unlike the mindless high, we actually have to use our mental faculties. But sadly, we have forgotten how to use them.

In place of artifices that endure and spark contemplation and appreciation, we have a glut of mere things and objects that endure until they become obsolete. That is, we stop using them not because they have outlasted their use or have fallen into disrepair; rather, we stop using them because they are outdated. And so we continue to do only what we know, to keep on consuming. Think of a quilt so carefully woven and painstaking sewed with love. It might be an old piece of cloth continually re-patched and thus, renewed. It is an enduring work and essence of a beloved mother that has passed on, and it can bring so much comfort in times of anxiety, and so many pleasant memories in times of loneliness and despair. But the modern has no such place for sentiments. He must scour for sales and new clothing for new seasons, even if the seasons themselves cycle through every year. What was once current fashion becomes old, and there is an imperative to renew and accumulate.

Obviously there are implications for the human condition. The most important being this: we begin to lose sight of our mortality, and come to believe in our own immortality. Because things around us keep enduring, and they endure meaninglessly. What I mean is that we take their presence for granted, so much so we do not replace them, we only displace them. In other words, it is not taking something new in place of something broken, it is taking something perfectly new in favor of something that is out of season or out of fashion. This leads me to the second human condition.

To be human is to be aware of our mortality. It is this condition that necessitates the production of human artifices in the first place. In other words, it is because people know they are just a vapor in the wind that they want their existence to have meaning for others – they want their memory to endure. With our newfound and newly-imagined powers of immortality, we begin to live recklessly, with little concern for hurt or harm to ourselves and others, with little care to spend time meaningfully. With such thoughts, we expect that every morning, we are to have good health, no war or famine, or little existential hardship. What we don’t realize is that morality is an anchor, it anchors us onto a belief or a faith that propels us forward, that infuses our thoughts, actions, and speeches with meaning. Without such an anchor, we are fickle-minded people whose preferences and beliefs change like the wind. And we don’t mean what we say, are unwilling and unable to commit, honor promises, sacrifice or to suffer for the sake of another. We spend hours having friends over just to talk about happy but meaningless things because there will always be another day to go deep. But why not go deep now?

Part of why we have forgotten our mortality is also because we have distanced ourselves from nature. Our imperative to keep producing and to keep building meaningless artifices means we need more resources and space to do so. City-dwellers now only feel comfortable when they see skyscrapers and carpeted floors. They dare not sweat, nor can they really stand the smell of fatigue and hard work. If there’s any interaction with nature at all, we find ourselves state-of-the-art shoes that most effectively help us trek a mile or two – even if walking barefoot would suffice. In other words, we have become soft. We have become so vulnerable to nature that we fear it.

Yet we don’t realise that the natural world is so essential to understanding the human condition. How? Because the natural world is that which reminds us of the life process to begin with – that ebb and flow of birth and death, of sprouting and returning to the soil. Is there any wonder that the Bible has so many vivid images of mountains and seas and grass and flowers? Indeed, failing to relate to nature implies that cannot understand this fundamental fact:

For all flesh is like grass, and all its glory like the flowers of the field; the grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of the Lord stands forever.

1 Peter 1:24-25

There is nothing wrong with fashioning artifices that endure. Yet, we must always do so with appropriate humility, knowing these artifices – even the best of them – can only serve to prolong our most glorious days for a little while. Soon after our flesh and body fail, they will also wither, for they cannot endure in eternity.

Finally, to be human is to relate to other humans as being of the same kind but also different. In every speech and action, we disclose who we are and who we are not. We are constantly differentiating between each other. In understanding the differences between others, we also come to understand who exactly we are. If we lived in a world in which we felt no different from any other, we would cease to have a concept of the “self”. This is why relating to others is so important, for in speaking to others, we realise, “oh, I never thought of it that way,” or to come to realise that some people can like potatoes much more than we can ever bear. Yet, we find that we never have to bear the idiosyncrasies of others in modernity. Mass society has made us all the same – all desiring the same things, all dreaming to possess the same things. Our true thoughts and creativities are not important, what we think doesn’t matter, and how we create isn’t relevant – our personalities, in fact, our very being, becomes superfluous.

Rather, we exhume the very essence of ourselves in favor of a digital shell. We say: if you want to know who I am,  look at my profile; but we don’t realise that no individual human being can be essentialized, for I am a sum total of all the thoughts I think in the morning, the actions I take in secret, the aspirations, the histories, the dark past and the thoughts of death. None of these can easily be relayed at all. A person is not the schools he went to, the friends he takes pictures with, or the pithy statements invoking sympathy or applause. And because we think people are no different from their profiles, we fail to relate to one another as humans, we lack any desire to really know one deeply, because we think all that we need to know is there. The failure to relate to others as fellow beings means that when we hear of tragic news, or of people who live vastly different lives in war-torn cities, lives that hang on the balance, we are quick to find something else to blindfold ourselves or something else to drown out the sounds of pain and crying. We distance ourselves by donating a little, or perhaps by writing an essay or pledging for a cause, but we can’t wait to go home to numb ourselves, and what better way than through the modern-day morphine – entertainment?

Today I had the privilege of attending a sharing session by two North Korean defectors who enduring difficult trials to escape the country. They didn’t share too much about their arduous tale of survival, or the perilous journey across borders, but about how their eyes were opened to this new world – the modern world. Yet, for all the praise of freedom and liberty, I just had a burning question to ask. For, to me, they were like time-travellers that had come from the past into the present. With encouragement from a friend, I approached them to question them on their thoughts of modernity – was there some aspect of that “backward” life in North Korea that they felt was impossible to recreate in modernity? Both almost seemed to have ready responses. And my hunch seemed right. People in ‘modernity’ just don’t relate to one another as they did in their small villages. Poor and lacking in knowledge and freedom as they may have been, they looked out for one another, enjoyed each other’s company, and really celebrated each other’s uniqueness and their very existence.

On the other hand, moderns in America are too obsessed with their phones, too obsessed with indulging in the pleasures of entertainment. What does that tell us about the human condition? Simple. That freedom, prosperity, and knowledge are not essential components of the human condition. Even as slaves, we can still learn to relate to one another, and perhaps even better appreciate the beauty of nature and of our mortality. Might these people so deprived of modernity actually be enjoying their humanity more than we do? Might an obsession over “progress” and “advancement” actually be setting us back, that our natures change and we become less and less human? My answer is a resounding yes, at least, for the most part.

In gradually distancing ourselves from what makes us human, we distance ourselves from the necessary disciplines of the human condition: the discipline of mortality, of humility, of otherness. If freedom today means being free from these disciplines, it is no wonder that we feel so cold and lonely in modern society. And it is no wonder that young ones are so stricken with “wanderlust” – because in travelling to new places, one invariably finds that people are “nicer”, more “friendly”, more “hospitable”. We take our newfound loves back home and judge our society for being cold and dead. But, in reality, for all the external warmth we feel, we know nothing really has changed, and there really is little hope. What can we do but return to our fleeting pleasures? For little do we realise that the fallouts from the loss of humanity are being felt all around the world, and perhaps only in the most cloistered, ‘backward’, ‘unfree’ societies in the world are humans truly thriving and living their worldly existence as what they were naturally made to be.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

Character in the world of appearances

I have recently wondered why there seems to be a preoccupation among moderns to be unique. There is great irony in this that I have yet to comprehend – mass culture engulfs us all in the same way, to think, act, and consume like our peers. Yet, it also encourages us to be different and special. Perhaps we are all bounded within an inescapable and inherently circular frame, and doing one or the other only leads us back to square one. This is an issue that plagues both Christians and non-Christians alike. But trends may come and go, and the kinds of shoes, bags, and clothing go from long to short and back to long again, from bright to dull and back to bright again. I realised that no matter how ‘differently’ someone may fashion himself or herself, I’ve always remained attracted to only one kind of person. And that kind of person is the kind that is completely indifferent to appearances.

You know, if you really want to be different, maybe you should focus on your character. Because, it seems like this is the only thing the modern world isn’t concerned with. One could imagine that it is the godly character in the other that drew Hudson Taylor and Maria Dyer to one another – so much so they overlooked and declined the proposals of many other missionaries. But after they finally got married, they returned to England for a while; and having spent so many years in China, their clothes became outdated – yes, even in the 19th century! Hudson Taylor was dressed in Chinese garb, and Maria looked “attractive but unfashionable with her bonnet worn ‘off the head’, not at all the vogue in England in the 1860s.” Hudson’s sister Louisa was described as thrilled to finally see Maria, but was quite concerned about her unfashionable clothes. But, you know, for some reason, I find myself very attracted to people like that. Maybe because they do not go about their lives to make statements; their waking thoughts are not conditioned by the ways of the world. Such people make me curious about their beliefs, their principles – their character. In fact, it almost is a sure demonstration of their character.

Perhaps if we all lived in a homogenous society, we would better be able to appreciate the work of Christ in us, how He has disciplined, moulded, and forged our character. Perhaps if we all looked alike and dressed in more mundane ways, didn’t have too many choices, we’d be able to communicate with one another on a deeper level, with less envy and less distractions to the eye.   Perhaps we’d be more discerning with our use of time, and the people we hang out with. Presumably we would cease to spend time with people who are merely ‘friendly’, but instead with people who are worth dying for. Tragically, we are today less interested in character, but more interested in appearing to be creative, to have our own signature, ‘identity’, to be ‘known for’, to transcend our limitations – to have our uniqueness transcend the sum total of our qualities. The modern is quite obsessed with trying to distinguish himself as a premier work of art – whether by his transcript or by the photos he takes, the lifestyle he leads, the style he adopts, and the vibe he emits. This is the frustration of living in a consumer society.

Today, we idolise geniuses and bohemians. We make movies about great historical men and women not because of their virtue or character, but because of their powers that led to an astonishing outcome. Maybe they developed a new theorem (even if they led an adulterous lifestyle), or pulled of a great heist (even though they were fundamentally engaging in thievery). All these seem to tell us that it is more important to harness the genius within us, or some power or trait that all individuals must possess – something that could define us and make us different from the rest. Yet, Isn’t our crisis of our identity the defining crisis of the age? We simply don’t know who we are and who we want to be. We never find rest, always searching for something – to go where no one has gone before, to do what no one has done, to lead a life that is solely ours. Our daily discipline is to differentiate ourselves from the other. Our daily meditation is: how can this picture I post show that I am this and not that?

Is there a problem with striving to be unique? To want to go to places no one has been before, to appear bohemian? After all, didn’t God make us all special snowflakes? Yes, God made us all different, with varying talents and gifts, but He never wanted us to be defined by them, I don’t think. I would think God is more concerned with what we do with our gifts in relation to Him than what our gifts are; with how we treat others than how we prefer to treat others as according to our personality types. That is the reason why He disciplines His children, that is why He rewards those who walk in His ways – for though we all are of different kinds, we all still are in desperate need of God. He is thus more interested with who we are in Him, who we will become as a matter of shaping our character as we strive to be like Christ. Yet today, an appreciation of one’s character is in desperate want.

Now that our lives are relatively peaceful, there seems to be little chance to demonstrate character in the common ways we think it to be. For example, to have courage in the face of death. But that’s only because we watch too many movies. There are in fact, a great many ways to unearth and build one’s character. You see, the danger of exposing ourselves to the plethora of sights and sounds of the world is that we become unsure of who we want to become. On the one hand, we want to be that charming man with an endearing smirk; on the other hand, we want to be that undiscovered, awkward genius who quietly impresses his professor. But character takes effort to be perceived – it is not only demonstrated in times of cinematographic action. Character is also manifest in, “will you pray for me?” which implies that I need God more than I can help myself; and in enjoying serenity in the midst of anxiety; for it is not the modern nonsense of “let go and let God”, but, as J.I. Packer said, “trust God and get going.” Character is telling of the future. A man who is deceitful over small things will likely be deceitful over great things too. And this is why we have such an anchor in God, for we can trust His character. He is the same today, tomorrow, and forever. Sadly, today, the closest we ever get to an appreciation of character is: yeah he’s a very nice guy; or she’s a kind-hearted girl.

Why have our gazes turned to that which will perish? Why have we ceased to appreciate and admire the imperishable spirit that transcends form and appearance? We have all been there; in fact, we must all have seen it. A person’s character is not immediately perceivable, character needs to be acted out. It is beyond the realm of speech (although it sometimes is), and it is not something we describe ourselves with. People go to job interviews claiming they are great at this or that. But nobody says I am courageous or am humble, or am righteous. Character is also not usually known to the young, for character must be forged, it must be hammered like a still-burning iron, to be shaped into something permanent and strong. But what is it exactly?

Well, I think Character is not our personality – whether we are feisty or spontaneous or cheerful. Character, as I see it, is how we are when we are called to act. It is not manifest in merely contingent scenarios, such as in offering a dollar to a beggar, it is manifest in regularly giving to those in need. For who knows if the very public nature of giving to a beggar conditions our act of giving, duping us and others into believing that we have such and such a character. But it is not merely a habit, for habits condition our actions in known circumstances – character conditions our actions even in unknown circumstances.

But it is character that will cause us to be deemed as “irrational”. For character must endure and persist even in changing circumstances and thus, the changing utility functions. It is the modern economic stipulation to assume “all things be equal” that dehumanises us all. Yet, it is ironically true, for we do not all demonstrate the same character, so might as well take character away from our calculations. What then do we leave behind to young impressionable minds? We tell them that rationality is a matter of one cherished, commonsensical paradigm that is independent of moral and ethical considerations, and that the self is always the most fundamental consideration. Yet we forget to tell them that it is not really common-sense, it is just a sense that we have exalted, one sense that monopolises all other senses. For the same reason, we have to bear the preposterous challenge of the young: what’s the utility of virtue? How will I benefit in demonstrating character?

In the Lord of the rings, Merry was a halfling possibly even shorter than a young boy of the world of men. Yet he was not treated for his appearance, for even the brave horse lords of Rohan respected him for his participation in the Fellowship’s dangerous quest. Though Merry was lacking in physical stature, he was desperate to ride to battle with King Théoden, who would not allow it.

Now having eaten he made ready to set out again, and he wished his esquire a kindly farewell. But Merry begged for the last time not to be parted from him.

“This is no journey for such steeds as Stybba, as I have told you,’ said Théoden. ‘And in such a battle as we think to make on the field of Gondor what would you do, Master Meriadoc, swordthain though you be, and greater of heart than of stature?”

‘As for that, who can tell?” answered Merry. ‘But why, lord, did you receive me as swordthain, if not to stay by your side? And I would not have it said of me in song only that I was always left behind!”

Merry was a halfling that had not actually seen war. Yet, the last thing he wanted to do was to leave his lord behind, even if it meant riding to his own death. It was not any power that he could offer – for he was not made to be a good warrior and would most likely be a burden – but it was his spirit. This is character in demonstration, even if he meant to be remembered by minstrels, but at least, he wanted to be remembered as brave and loyal. In other words, Merry wanted to be remembered for his character – in spite of his appearance.

I have seen character. I’m sure you have to.

Now back in the military, I developed a close bond with my bunkmate of mine. He was tall – taller than me, a very slim guy who seemed more like he read books every day rather than pumped iron. During our field camp in the jungle, we slept under a tent, completely exhausted from a day’s training. Sleeping inside a tent is perhaps one of the greatest luxuries during a field camp. However, one is almost never dry – either our socks are damp and moist but tightly locked inside our boots, or we are sleeping in dirty fatigues soaked with sweat from the day’s labor. Even so, there is great comfort to finally rest peacefully under the bare protection of a tent, even though any kind of sleep is never restful, and is always easily disturbed – either by a root that runs against our spine or due to the movement of the grass. Still, the silence of the night accompanied only with the croaking of toads and the buzzing of cicadas is suitable enough for some well-deserved rest.

One night it poured heavily. I stirred from my sleep and saw that the large water droplets caused the ground to muddy, and the mud was slowly seeping in. I wasn’t really sure what to do, neither was I keen to do anything. Maybe there really wasn’t anything to do at all. Well, no matter what I could do, I certainly didn’t want to go out in that pouring rain. And so, I looked hopelessly as the water and mud seemed to seep in slowly. But my friend finally decided that something had to be done. He got up and ran out into the heavy rain, took a huge log, and placed the log under our groundsheet to elevate the corner from the mud. It saved my sleep that night. We never spoke about it after that, and I never told him how much I appreciated what he did. What he demonstrated was not only quick thinking, but character of a certain sort, a kind that was willing to sacrifice his own wellbeing to better the situation of himself and others. He demonstrated a side of him that belied his lack of apparent “manliness” in such an institution so enamoured with sonorous voices, thick veiny arms, and a stout chest. These are things you never and can never see on Facebook profiles or instagram photos, do you?

Why does character matter? I think because it is the only part of us that will endure throughout our lifetimes – and even more. There are many things in the modern world that don’t stand the test of time. If they did, we wouldn’t be living in what is known as a “consumer society”. We are conditioned to consume; and for that reason, very little products are really made to endure. If we will fix our eyes on the things that last far longer, we will naturally find ourselves easily detached from the embellishments, ornaments and shifting shadows that whisper and seduce our sights.

Therefore, we must celebrate character, and celebrate the work of God in moulding the characters of people around us. We must go beyond “fun-loving”, “approachable”, “nice”, “friendly”. These are hardly indicative of character. But it is not easy, for in a world of appearances, character is not something displayed, it is manifest in action. As Christians, more than enjoy our gifts and talents, I think we must ask how we are using these gifts for His kingdom. We must also pray over passages that will bring us closer and closer to becoming a useful vessel for God – to be a pure and blameless person, to be one ready to cloth neighbours and entertain strangers. We must be willing to shorn ourselves of things that attract but do not convince, things that differentiate but do not distinguish. Maybe once we begin to appreciate character, we begin to see that marriage to someone with beautiful character is perhaps one of the sweetest things known to man.

Signing off,

Fatpine. 

The bind of trust

I was recently troubled by how I let down a ghost friend. I had done something I thought to be innocent, but had been interpreted as a betrayal of trust. Even though our issues were resolved, I couldn’t help but stare at the screen of our conversation for a better part of an hour, not necessarily because of the severity of the infraction, but that it wasn’t the first time it occured, and that I hadn’t learnt my lesson from previous experiences. It made me think hard about my highfalutin writings about friendship and how they all didn’t even make sense when it came to being a true friend.

Like I said, it wasn’t the first time. The typical transgression would look like this: ghost friend says something that implies a conflict with a good friend. When I speak to good friend, this issue surfaces, and I see it as an opportunity to reconcile both ghost friend and good friend to some version of the truth. At the end of the day, no one really knows the truth, it really is distorted and all parties are unhappy. But why? Wasn’t I just trying to help? Wasn’t I doing my best to reconcile people and to make all parties happy?

And so, I guess I never learnt my lesson. I thought the breach was just about keeping secrets, that I had failed to keep my mouth shut and my lips tight about something I was told not to speak of. The old me then tried to figure things out – some things are also secrets even though my ghost friend doesn’t say: hey, keep this a secret. And so I later sometimes asked – is this a secret? Or, on some occasions, my ghost friend(s) would be sure to add, “don’t let anyone know about this.”

Now I’m not here to debate the morality of the things they tell me – whether it’s gossip or secrets that I shouldn’t know about. There are indeed some things that I shouldn’t know about, but that’s for another day. I’m here to impress upon myself what it means to be a close friend to another, and to sketch out some of the metaphysical things that happen in even the simplest of deep friendships that I never realised.

The most important thing to grasp about a friendship is that, apart from our commitment to God, it will require of us our greatest efforts and commitment. If friendship requires almost all of us (I also include the most intense and exclusive friendship between the husband and the wife), then it must entail a greater commitment than that to our own selves. If that is true, then it follows that friendship is even greater than our personal mores and ideals (again, assuming these ideals are not displeasing to God).

Now, I have always prided myself in being a truthful and authentic person. I personally find much value in the truth and saying truthful things, to bring things out into the light, even if it sometimes meant confronting another. After some conflicts, I later made revisions to this belief to balance truth with timing; that is, to say the right thing at the right time. But now, I’ve come to a different position: trust over truth.

Again, I don’t mean gospel truth. I mean truth of the matter, the truth as we know it. Metaphysically, when a close friend says something to you, it binds you to them, and only them. Sure, they may have said the same things to another, but little of what has been said to you can or should ever be relayed to another, even if one thinks that this is in the “best interests” of whosoever. Friendship of this ilk, then, is like an oath. And such an oath binds us to a performance that must be higher than our love for our ideals itself.

As a result, one must learn to feel honour to learn anything at all of our friend, for even in revealing their worst thoughts of something or someone is a willingness to open their hearts to you. This is different from the empty and baseless talk of gossip. There is a trust that is vested in you that must be more valuable than our personal ideals. If then, we think our ideals too high to give up, we must necessarily lose such a friend. The focus is thus not on the content of their speech, but on the act of speaking or confiding itself – from the smallest to the biggest news, they all are acts of entrusting. And this trust that is vested must be protected to the best of our human abilities.

To circle around in defence and say, “I did it for your own good,” is to be disingenuous, and this elevates the self above the friend. In this elevation, one is placed above another, dissolving the very notion of friendship itself: we can never befriend someone who will not consider us their equal. That is why we rarely befriend teachers or our superiors; and that’s why we can call Jesus our friend. If we truly mean it for their good, any confrontation must come right at the moment of utterance: “I’m sorry but I cannot let this go by.” Once the moment has passed, the speech is sealed and ought not be broken. At least, this is the expectation.

Does that mean that we must always foolishly listen and not act? Well no. Not without consciously knowing and accepting the risks anyway. If there must be something that is done against the wishes of our friend, something that we know that can only help, then we must be prepared to lose that friendship. After all, if we know our friend is sinning against another but will not allow us to intervene, our fear of God must necessitate action, or we too sin. This in itself must be a personal choice too, one that is no different from, “I did it for your own good.” We cannot blame God. Yet, at the same time, we must commit it knowing that we might well lose that friend.

Therefore, when close friends tell you something, they are simply doing that – telling you something. They are not asking for your help, they are not empowering you with options. It does not become information or “truth” or “fact” that you can use at your disposal. Rather, they are depositing something valuable into you. They are entrusting a bit of their heart to you, even if it makes no sense with your world, even if it doesn’t cohere with your ideals. They are disjointed jigsaw puzzles that they put into you – never meant to be pieced together as a whole by you. Our knowledge of what we have heard or known cannot be seen as an inventory of everything mentioned to us – things Andrew says to me appear only when I see Andrew, and they must disappear when I see Robert. Likewise, things Robert says to me only exist when Robert is around. There is no neutral shared information that we piece together in our minds as a whole. In fact, we must resist piecing anything together at all.

It is thus not a matter of hierarchy, of which friend we value over another. It’s a matter of my personal relationship with Andrew and my unrelated personal relationship with Robert. The three of us might well be good friends, but the things that Andrew says to me in the absence of Robert are still only the things he says to me. That is to say that our triadic friendship is unrelated to our dyadic relationship. I cannot be expected to believe that what Andrew told me, Robert will also know; or that what I’m doing is merely “updating” Robert of something Andrew would’ve told Robert anyway. When we are told something, we must then be individually binded to them no matter how difficult it feels or how insincere we will appear when the same issue arises with someone else. Again, it’s not about the content that we are protecting, but the act of confiding itself. I might be speaking the obvious; I’m sure you already knew. But I’m just still learning about human interactions..

Singing off,

Fatpine. 

No vocabulary for pain

There are many intimate moments in our life that we express on a daily basis into the public realm. We disclose them through stories, the things we say, the way we describe them and so on. They are never fully perfect; we never fully articulate them. After all, we are transfiguring, like how an artist expresses thoughts onto a blank canvas. We are trying to use the available vocabulary and the available colours to describe what was an intensely intimate life experience for us. Good artists are able to encourage the commiseration of others, in other words, relating intimate moments must always require emphasising, to highlight something over another, preferably something that is both broad, thus capturing as much of lived experienced, yet something unique, so that it tells something more specific. If I painted a traffic jam, most urban folk would be able to appreciate it immediately, but then again, it may not be telling anything special at all. So that’s always the difficult of artists or poets or writers or artistic people in general.

In the same way, if I lived most of my life on Mars and tried to write a book on it, no one would understand because no one can relate at all; it’s completely “out of the world”, and would require an imagination that is beyond your reality. On my social media account, I follow an astronaut from the time he spent a year orbiting in space and to the time he returned. Through his pictures, I always imagined what an “out of the world” experience it must be there to be floating around in the International space station. He took pictures of our world from outer space, it was surreal, both unique and yet something we all experience, because you could imagine that somewhere in that massive blue sphere, amidst that whirl of white and green and blue, I am there, maybe brushing my teeth, going about my business, burping, snoring, reading, writing, playing – all while the universe around me continued to expand in darkness and sheer silence.

Most interestingly, he had to learn how to walk again when he returned, for he had learnt a motion that was unlike any other on Earth. He had learnt to move without gravity, and now, like an outsider, he had to learn how to move with gravity, and his body seemed to forget all about it as easily as forgetting the formula to Bayes’ theorem. How difficult to describe that in words at all, to forget the feeling of gravity. Quite astounding, and very interesting indeed.

But I’m not going to talk about otherworldly things, I’m only going to talk about the things we can empathise with. For all the things we may experience of this world that we can empathise with, there is one intense experience that cannot be transfigured or expressed: bodily pain. It is the most private and least communicable of all. It is so subjective and “removed from the world of things and men that it cannot assume an appearance at all.” Joy is always effusive and others-centered, but pain is always felt alone. Nobody can truly say, “I understand how you feel,” when pain is expressed by another; but when we are in a joyous mood, some of it seems to shower on others like a rotating sprinkler. That’s why we say that someone’s “laughter is contagious”.

But why is it important at all to contemplate the uniqueness and particularity of pain? I can think of several reasons. For one, we can be better able to empathise with another, and to walk a little while longer with them, especially since it is such a solitary, lonely journey. Secondly, we can ready ourselves to endure unimaginable and inexpressible pain when it finally befalls upon us, and know that we are in good company. Contrary to my assertion that pain cannot be understood by another, to be collectively in pain is still to be in a good place, and the bible does not give us sweet words to help you tide through your particular situation, it tells you to endure, no matter the particularities of your pain.

But let me set out by stating what I’m not doing:

“Then suddenly straight over the rim of their sheltering bank, a man fell, crashing through the slender trees, nearly on top of them. He came to rest in the fern a few feet away, face downward, green arrow-feathers sticking form his neck below a golden collar. His scarlet robes were tattered, his corset of overlapping brazen plates was rent and hewn, his black plaits of hair braided with gold were drenched with blood. His brown hand still clutched the hilt of a broken sword. It was Sam’s first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man’s name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not rather have stayed there in peace – all in a flash of thought which was quickly driven from his mind.”

The Lord of the Rings.

In a flash, Sam contemplated the history of the man’s life; yet this is not what I want to refer to, I refer to the history of dying, or the history of suffering. Obviously, pain and death are two different things, both are lonely paths, and both are very particular. I can lump them together, but to do so would be to do pain a disservice. Because death is an end, for good or for ill, but pain may not be. To many, the silence and finality of death, the image of one finally being at rest may do violent injustice to the torturous pain that was suffered. Therefore, there’s much value in separating the two.

We often wake up to the news that so and so died, or this and that accident happened. Yet we will never be able to understand the agony before death. We may hear of great stories of martyrdom and have large tombstones erected and monuments created in memory of a great deed. But as pretty as they are, we will never be able to empathise with their loneliness in bearing pain. A woman shipwrecked and drowning in the sea doesn’t just die like that; she struggles, kicks, flails her arms and feet around, gasps for water, sinks, downs water; she sees the clear sky for a moment, hears her own scream for a second before another wave covers over the sky and the air and she is submerged again. The waves are unrelenting, almost ruthless and bent on consuming her. Even if it may take no more than 2 minutes before her body breaks, these 2 minutes will be the longest 2 minutes in her life, where every muscle and tendon is strained in trying to kick for survival until at last it has no more energy, and even in the last 5 seconds, her life flashes before her and she thinks of her baby cousin asleep on a warm bed, her mother talking to her neighbour, and her best friend reading a book at a cafe. She feels utterly alone. And if she could just be given a moment to weep, she will cry her heart out. Such is how time passes us by; for in the seconds that slip by us as we wait for the lift, those insignificant seconds where we wash off that little ink stain off our nails, chop onions on a board, bend down to pick up rubbish, someone is struggling in a battle for life, and feeling the most excruciating pain that will lead to a lifeless body. And they will do so all alone, with no story to tell, with no one to hear their pleas, with no bravery or courage, only loneliness and great fear.

We never remember all moments of our life, only the big things, the unexpected things; things that break our routine and expectations: when a car nearly runs over us, when a friend surprises us from behind on our walk to school, when the cashier was unbelievably rude, when we find our eyes swollen in the morning. It’s also these things that make stories, if everyday were truly routine and completely unexpected, then there would be no story to tell. But in pain and the struggle for survival, it’s almost as if all of life is condensed to that period, and every nuance and degree of change is carved deeply into our memories. First our shoulders ache and then they fail, then our calves begin to cramp, then our hips feel too heavy, then our lungs are crushed and we know we will never be the same again. People die all the time, many to unfortunate circumstances. But I wish we could be there to contemplate the death of martyrs; and it comforts me to know that God was there, God saw their pain, and God would reward them. But how lonely it would have been, wouldn’t it?

Martyrdom is not fun at all. To carry the cross and die for another is not noble as we think. Yet sometimes all we can do in the face of death is to ignore the pain of death by glorifying and monumentalising the end product: a lifeless body. We wouldn’t deign to imagine what that death must have cost. Yes – there is a cost to death. And what we see is only an embellished coffin, a wreath of flowers, of uniformed men and heavenly music. We are whisked away from the imagining of unimaginable pain. Even if we were to die with our brothers in the cause, there is an awesome moment where we are all but in the singular – as our eyes shut off to the world and our consciousness fades, we cease to be in the world of man anymore, we can no longer relate to others, we die alone. It’s a worthy thought to shudder over.

What can a Christian do in the face of pain and death? How are we to echo the words of Job: though he slay me, I will hope in him? Is it possible to envision a far green country under a swift sunrise? Is it truly possible to be at peace in spite of choking pain? I truly do not know. Perhaps one day we have to ask the Stephens, the Peters, the Jim Elliots. How is the Christian to face death? I think you will agree that it would be ridiculous for me to offer an answer to this question. I have none at all. Is it possible to discipline the body and the will so much so that we think of heaven and reconciliation with our Father in our most fearful moments – the moments where our existential state is at risk? Is it not these moments that we truly wonder if God is real and whether there is an afterlife? Aren’t these moments the periods where we wonder if it was well-worth it to call ourselves Christians, and whether or not the words Jesus Christ really mean anything? Can God fault us for forgetting His name and his life-giving power? Can we really escape the feeling of loneliness? The world as I know it will now cease for me…

Instead of providing an answer or an aspiration, maybe this will help us better appreciate the time of Christ on the cross. While Jesus may have physically suffered for 6 hours, imagine how different it must be to know that your purpose on life is to die for the world of sinners? Imagine what he will feel to wake up every morning – one day closer to my crucifixion; one month closer; one week closer and finally, tomorrow, I will hang on the cross. In all his humanity, he must have felt some kind of anxiety. Was he anxious about death? Or was he anxious about dying? I wonder.

How long did Jesus hang on the cross? 6 hours. He did not die in an instant, he was dying for 6 hours. If anything, death would be a release, a great relief. Imagine if you really lived every second of the 6 hours, how torturous that would be! For we simply do not live in the seconds, like I said, we are only jolted into existence when unexpected things happen. The rest of the time, seconds fly past without our knowing. But to feel every bead of sweat that would fall, to know every subtle shift of the muscle that would bring about more discomfort, to grimace over the weight of the body hanging ever heavier over the nailed wound is too intense. Jesus wasn’t just made whole, his wounds bore every sin of ours. That’s why I find it beautiful that in Revelation, he stands as though slain. We are not made to forget the suffering he went through.

In the same way, the saints of old weren’t forgotten in the pain they had to experience. There were people of God who overcame, but there were also people of God who were asked to endure. Martyrdom or living for Christ probably means more than a pretty plaque and a well-written biography, it may have a real painful cost too. And the end may be nothing pretty, only blood, flesh and sinew – all our own. Some people overcame in faith, some people were delivered in faith, but many others suffered and died in faith. Hebrews tells us:

They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were killed with the sword. They went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, afflicted, mistreated – of whom the world was not worthy – wandering about in deserts and mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth.

This really stumped me. In suffering for Christ, we prove our unworthiness to this world. Keep enduring, your reward awaits.

Signing off,

Fatpine.