"Christian Poetics and the Nature of Good Literature: A Holistic Approach to the Written Word"

Before discussing Christian poetics and the nature of good literature, the term “Christian poetics” should be defined. In his essay entitled “Christian poetics, past and present,” Donald T. Williams defines the term as “Christians thinking consciously as Christians about the nature and significance of literary art” (53). Although this is a helpful understanding of the term, it is incomplete. To explain, a few underlying presuppositions concerning Christianity need to be addressed. In the context of Williams’s definition, the word “Christian” is used as an adjective or category. It implies that a “Christian” poetic is a way amongst multiple ways to approach literature. The adjective can be substituted with other religions or ideologies: feminist, Islamic, Marxist, humanist, or many others. According to the claims of biblical Christianity, however, Christianity is not a way to live and think, but the Way to live and think. E. Stanley Jones, a twentieth-century missionary to India and close friend of Mahatma Gandhi, states that if Christianity is true, then the “nature of reality” and the “universe [are] made in [their] inner structure to be Christian” (8); if the Christ-like way is the Way, then everything else is not-the-way, and to live against the Way is to live against the very nature of reality.

Despite its sense of exclusivity, this vein of thinking suggests that a “Christian” poetic is not merely a way to approach literature, but the Way to approach literature. Accordingly, it may be said that there is no such thing as “Christian” or “non-Christian” poetics, but rather the Way or not-the-way to do poetics. This is not to say that “non-Christian” poetics are invalid or unsound, but that they are incomplete. Moreover, this claim does not label Christianity or “Christian” poetics as a kind of extremism, but instead suggests a unique freedom within reading and thinking that only a Christian can practice. To the “Christian” reader, the entire canon of ideas and texts is open for analysis, evaluation, and criticism because all of the ideas and creations of man exist within an exclusively Christian universe. The “Christian” reader is the only “free” reader because he realizes that he operates within a Christian reality; he is the only reader with a reference point—the Truth embodied in Christ, the Word. Augustine alludes to this concept in On Christian Teaching when he states, “A person who is a good and a true Christian should realize that truth belongs to his Lord, wherever it is found…” (47).

It is important to note here that Christianity is not concerned only with what we might call “Christian” or “religious” things (i.e., salvation, heaven, forgiveness), but is a holistic approach to life; it encompasses every part of the human experience and sees things in units and complete wholes. According to theologian and philosopher Francis A. Schaeffer, “Christianity is not just involved with ‘salvation’ but with the total man in the total world” (45).  Therefore, in accordance with Christianity’s demand for a holistic approach to life, we can conclude that “Christian” poetics, too, is a holistic approach to literature. It is not just a “Christian” perspective of literature and art, but a holistic perspective. H.R. Rookmaaker refers to this holistic perspective when he notes that “faith is not just a matter of ‘religion,’ of the soul, with its salvation in heaven, but a salvation of the whole person, a way of life and thought affecting all aspects of human life” (34, emphasis mine). Just as the truth of Christianity is woven throughout the totality of the human experience, the elements that make up the nature of good literature also weave through one another. Each element intersects and overlaps the other in order to produce a unified whole. To delight in good literature is to delight in its wholeness, its form and content, its unity, eloquence, the beauty of both its language and universal truths, all of which work together to teach and inspire the reader.  

Good literature reflects a similar wholeness as seen in the Trinity—the harmony between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. In The Mind of the Maker, Dorothy L. Sayers applies the doctrine of the Trinity to the creative process. She defines the three parts or persons of the writer’s trinity as “Idea,” “Energy,” (38), and “Power” (40).  Similarly, in On Beauty and Being Just, Elaine Scarry offers a “three-fold division of beauty into integrity, proportion, and claritas” (64). She later suggests that beauty draws attention to “three sites”: “the beautiful object,” “the creative act that is prompted by one’s being in the presence of what is beautiful,” and “the perceiver’s cognitive act of beholding” (95). Likewise, in People of the Book, David Lyle Jeffrey alludes to Bonaventure’s Trinitarian framework of sense perception: “cognscendi medium, cognoscendi exercitium, cognoscendi oblectamentrum” (the medium of perception, the exercise of perception, and the delight of perception)” (155). Sayers, Scarry, and Jeffrey each recognize a Trinitarian pattern within the creative process and the art of the written word. Similar to the Holy Trinity, the elements of good literature are “one, each equally in itself the whole work” and “essentially inseparable”  (Sayers 41). But the inseparableness within the nature of good literature is not necessarily what makes it good. A thing is often considered good because it functions as it is designed to. Good literature, therefore, is not only defined by what it is but by what it does. If it is good, it works. It does what it is supposed to do. Similar to this Trinitarian perspective toward the creative process, the nature of good literature, too, is a threefold structure of appropriate form, worthwhile content, and truthfulness of the writer and his words, all of which work together in order to fulfill a threefold purpose of delighting, teaching, and transporting the reader beyond himself.            

The first person of the Trinitarian nature of good literature is appropriate form. By form we do not mean what is being said but how it is being said. If literature is be the art of the written word, then it matters how the words themselves are produced. Form consists of a number of things: rhetoric, style, elevated language, consistency, eloquence, organization, clarity, unity, diversity, cohesion, decorum or appropriateness, syntax, diction, and structure. In A Defence of Poetry, Sir Philip Sydney describes form as “well-sounding phrases,” “unity of place,” “unity of time” (65), “decorum” (67), “diction,” and “eloquence” (70).  It is important to note that form does not only pertain to the work as a whole—the way plots and characters are structured together—but also at the sentence level—the syntax, diction, and composition of the words themselves. Schaeffer claims that “[i]n all forms of writing, both poetry and prose, it makes a tremendous difference whether there is a continuity or a discontinuity with the normal definitions of words in normal syntax” (37).  In Poetics, Aristotle claims that good writing demonstrates a proper use and balance of sentence variety produced with “standard words” and “modifications of diction” (42); simply put, the right words are in the right place. English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge bases his definition of literature on the very structure of the sentence: “Prose: words in their best order; poetry: the best words in the best order” (qtd. in Ryken 403). The syntax and diction, the variety of structure, and the use of decorum and eloquence at the sentence level all work together in order to create the beauty of good writing. As Rookmaaker explains, this “[b]eauty is expressed in…the relationship of words and composition, unity and diversity” (242).  Schaeffer calls this penmanship—this ability to properly and effectively use the elements of rhetoric—as “technical excellence” (38). Good literature, however, demonstrates not only penmanship at the sentence level, but also unity and coherency within the whole structure of the text.

By form we also mean more than words and sentences; form also applies to the structure and unity of the work as a whole, including the consistency in characters and the coherency of plot and theme. Aristotle describes this wholeness as the “beginning, middle, and end” (13) in their “proper order” (14). This orderliness applies to all genres or styles of writing: prose, poetry, essay, tragedy, etc. In addition to coherency, good literature possesses what Aristotle calls “magnitude,”—its beauty of proportion (14). Scarry also notes that good form demonstrates “symmetry” (96), “proportion” (98), and “unity” (99) throughout the entire work. Accordingly, good writing is structured, orderly, and unified from the sentence level to the work as a whole. All of these elements of form function together in order to fulfill the purposes of delighting, teaching, and inspiring. In On the Sublime, Longinus tells us that “the effect of elevated language is not to persuade the hearers, but to amaze them; and at all times, and in every way, what transports us with wonder is more telling than what merely persuades or gratifies us” (114). Augustine stresses that writers must use eloquence “in such a way as to instruct, delight, and move their listeners” (117). He later emphasizes that “it makes a difference what style he [the writer or speaker] uses for this purpose. A hearer [or reader] must be delighted so that he can be gripped and made to listen, and moved so that he can be impelled to action” (118). In Why Read?, Mark Edmundson explains that “form is best understood as the primary way that writers infuse their words with feeling” (108). Edmundson recognizes that good literature is powerful because its unified form communicates and produces emotion, sublimity, delight, and an aesthetic experience for the reader. As Augustine confirms, it is through good form that literature can delight, teach, and ultimately move his reader to action (117).

However, in keeping with a holistic approach to poetics and the nature of good literature, we must recognize that literature is incomplete if it is nothing more than well-structured lines. Although the form and eloquence of good literature may delight, teach, and inspire, it is not enough for literature to have beautiful words alone; for the poet who writes beautifully about nothing important still writes about nothing at all. Importantly, as Augustine explains, the eloquence and form—the beautiful way something is said—can be “applied to true matters or false” (61), and rhetoric may be “used to give conviction to both truth and falsehood…” (101). Therefore, eloquence and rhetoric alone do not necessarily qualify good literature as good and truthful; something untrue cannot also be good. Rather, “the function of eloquence,” Augustine explains, is not to make literature itself good, but to clearly communicate a message—“to make clear what was hidden” (117). Although literature begins with words, it goes beyond them. Augustine continues to say that “it is the nature of good minds to love truth in the form of words, not the words themselves” (117, emphasis mine). Augustine’s notion of loving truth leads us to the second person of the trinity: worthwhile content.

Although the reader finds delight in words, the words themselves are a means to an end. As Wilber Scott notes, “the importance of literature is not merely in its way of saying, but also in what it says” (23, emphasis mine). In Art and Scholasticism, Jacques Maritain also suggests that imitation produced through form is not the ultimate source of literary value or delight: “Delight…does not at all depend on the perfection of imitation as reproduction of the real, or on the exactness of the representation. Imitation as reproduction or representation of the real…is but a means, not an end” (59). In this passage, Maritain suggests that the accuracy and appropriateness of form is not the sole purpose of art. As Irving Babbitt notes in “Genius and Taste,” literature is more than the artistic use of language or the writer’s skill in rhetoric: “it is not enough . . . that the critic should ask what the creator aimed to do and whether he has fulfilled his aim; he must also ask whether the aim is intrinsically worth while” (31, emphasis mine). Good literature, therefore, has worthwhile content, an important subject matter, substance of ideas, and universal truths.  Schaeffer describes this content as “intellectual” (38). Rookmaaker calls it “a beautiful idea…expressed and realized in a beautiful way” (233). Its content speaks of significant matters that transcend time and cultures. A good book ultimately points to something beyond itself, to a world outside of its own, and to truths and ideas not constrained by time or place. These truths and ideas may be called “universal truths.”

Aristotle claims that “poetry is more philosophical and more serious than history” because it “tends to express universals” (16). Because universal truths both transcend time and reflect reality and human nature, the content of a good book is timeless, too. The content transcends both the context of its pages and the culture from which it emerges and speaks something about the whole world. In Mystery and Manners, Flannery O’Connor states that “the serious fiction writer always writes about the whole world, no matter how limited his particular scene” (77). She goes on to say that universal truths concerning human nature, emotions, and experiences are more than religious ideals or doctrines, but are ideas that speak to a universal audience: “Pain is pain, joy is joy, love is love, and these human emotions are stronger than any mere religious belief; they are what they are and the novelist shows them as they are” (156).  Likewise, David Lyle Jeffrey explains that “[t]he evidence of wisdom in the good Christian poet, in short, is that he seeks a universal truth” (172). Universal truths, however, go beyond ideas about reality and human nature; they offer something morally useful and valuable to human life.

That literature is a means to teach virtue is an idea that dates back to the early developments of Hellenistic literary theory. According to literary historian Rene Wellek, ancient Greek rhetoricians were “concerned with the effect of literature on its audience…the majority of critics accepted moral utility as the primary aim of literature. Pleasure and delight were, however, generally considered necessary means toward this end” (21). As Horace tells us in Ars Poetica, “Poets aim either to help or to amuse the reader, or to say what is pleasant and at the same time what is suitable” or literally, what is of use in life (166). He also claims that a play that “lacks substance” is vulgar (107). It is the substance of good literature—its worthwhile content and universal truths—that delights, teaches, and moves its reader to action. This does not mean that a good book always provides good answers, but that it asks good questions. Its content inspires the reader to explore and question his own ideas and actions; it leads him to open his eyes to the larger world around him.

The content of good literature does not only express universal truths, but is truthful in and of itself. Schaeffer describes this truthfulness as “that which reflects the world view of the artist” (39). This does not mean that his worldview is necessarily true, but that it is honest. Neither does truthfulness mean that the content is biblically true; the value of literature is not dependent upon whether or not it aligns with Christ’s teachings. Instead, truthfulness simply means that the content is true to life and the “artist is true to himself and to his world view” (Schaeffer 39). As Rookmaaker explains, truthful content accurately “gives an interpretation of reality, of the thing seen, the relationships, the human reality experienced emotionally, rationally, and in many other human ways…[it] always shows what man—the artist and the group to which he belongs, the time in which he lives—sees and experiences as relevant, as important, as worthwhile” (236).  Horace also claims that a good writer imitates nature and reality as they really are; his work is “close to truth” (166). In his essay “What is Literature?”, Jean-Paul Sartre writes, “For this is quite the final goal of art: to recover this world by giving it to be seen as it is” (63). Similarly, Aristotle begins Poetics by defining the nature of art as “imitations” of nature and reality (3). For example, comedy, he says, is “an imitation of inferior people”; epic poetry is “an imitation in verse of admirable people” (9); tragedy is “an imitation of an action that is admirable, complete and possesses magnitude…” (10). Good literature, he concludes, is ultimately the truthful imitation of “actions and of life” (11). As Rookmaaker states, “truth in art does not mean that every detail has to be true in a physical, historical, theological, scientific or any other non-artistic way” (237). Instead, artistic truth is “true to reality, to human character and potential” (237). Good literature truthfully and artistically shows to a universal audience the world as it is. A good book is true in the sense that its characters and ideas are realistic and consistent within its own framework. In its truthfulness, content transcends the work of art itself, reaches an audience with its profound ideas, and ultimately teaches us something about the world and human nature.

We have seen that good literature delights, teaches, and inspires through two persons of the trinity: appropriate form and worthwhile content. These persons are united by a third person of the trinity. To borrow Sayers’s terms, “father-ridden,” “son-ridden,” and “ghost-ridden” (151), a good work of literature is neither form-ridden nor form-centered, content-ridden nor content-centered; it is instead a complete balance held together by the truthfulness of the artist. The truthfulness of good literature, the third person of the trinity, does not pertain to the truthfulness of content as discussed before, but is the truthfulness of the creator. Art of any form begins with the artist himself, and to evaluate art is to evaluate its maker, too. In order to practice a holistic poetic, the discerning reader seeks honesty in a writer, not perfection. The wholeness of good literature also applies to the writer himself and whether or not he is true to himself. The character and truthfulness of a writer is what Sidney calls “the poet’s nobleness” and “the knowledge of a man’s self” (29). In The Gift of Art, Gene Edwards Veith states that the “greatest [artists] are those who are most fully human. They show in their art that they share and understand the ordinary struggles and demands of life” (117). Literature is ultimately a work of honesty and love—a love for the words and reader—and as Rookmaaker explains, the love and character of the artist will naturally overflow into his work: “But good art is always the result of hard work. No great art has ever been achieved without the artist not only having talent and imagination but also the character, the energy to keep on working and thinking and toiling in order to achieve his aim. It is the artist’s character which is really all-important” (236). Horace, too, emphasizes the importance of an artist being true to himself and his work; he insists that the poet write on matters that “match [his] talents” (159). In order for a book to reach beyond the pages, its author must be concerned with something beyond the task of writing words. In “Christianity and Literature,” C.S. Lewis claims that “all the greatest poems have been made by men who valued something else much more than poetry” (179). Maritain, too, asserts that “[i]t is absolutely necessary…that the artist…work for something other than his work, for something better loved” (73). This love and truthfulness is the third person that unifies the Trinitarian nature of good literature.

So far we have been discussing primarily on what good literature is—appropriate form, worthwhile content, and the truthfulness of the artist. But as stated earlier, a holistic poetic also defines good literature by what literature does. In his essay, “Religion and Literature,” T.S. Eliot writes, “The author of a work of imagination is trying to affect us wholly, as human beings, whether he knows it or not; and we are affected by it, as human beings, whether we intend to be or not (48). In this passage, Eliot alludes to perhaps the most fundamental sign of good literature: its effect. It has been addressed briefly that in addition to delighting and teaching through form, content, and truthfulness, good literature also moves a reader to action. But what does this mean? Based on the claim that “there is a correlation between the style and the content” (Schaeffer 41) in good literature, we can conclude that the reader delights in worthwhile content expressed in its appropriate form. He also finds instruction and insight; content is communicated best through appropriate form. The two are inseparable. The third person, truthfulness, completes the trinity. The truth of the work, the honesty of the writer, and his ability to express beautiful ideas through skillful imitations will move the reader beyond himself. The beauty, symmetry, and truthfulness in good literature will transport him. Sidney explains this correlation between the first two purposes and the third. He states that good literature is “to imitate, and imitate both to delight and teach; and delight, to move men to take that goodness in hand, which without delight they would fly as from a stranger; and teach, to make them know that goodness whereunto they are moved…” (27, emphasis mine). Matthew Arnold also recognizes that this triune harmony is to “keep man from a self-satisfaction which is retarding and vulgarizing, to lead him towards perfection, by making his mind dwell upon what is excellent in itself, and the absolute beauty and fitness of things” (816). Literature stands apart from other forms of art. This is not to say that literature is necessarily superior to images or sounds, or that paintings and music cannot inspire, but that the written word does something more than images or sounds can do. Longinus makes this distinction clear when he states that “in statues we look for the likeness of a man, whereas in literature…we look for something transcending the human” (156, emphasis mine).

The written word transcends human forms and colors and sounds, and points to something more. It is a holistic experience where one finds delight, instruction, and inspiration. Aristotle tells us that literature is more than the imitation of a “complete action, but also of events that evoke fear and pity” (17). Aristotle’s catharsis falls into the same category as Longinus’s “sublimity” (47) and Scarry’s “radical decentering” (111). Good literature ultimately diverts a reader’s attention away from himself, puts him beyond his own concerns, and opens his entire senses to the greater concerns of the world around him so that he may improve himself and pursue justice for the betterment of others; it is both “life-saving and life-restoring” (Scarry 89). What makes good literature good is the beauty and power within it, something that moves the soul and demands attention. In An Experiment in Criticism, Lewis describes his encounter with good literature: “But in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself when I do” (140).

                Good literature is holistic in both its nature and purpose. Through its form, content, and truthfulness, it delights, teaches, and transports the reader. This Trinitarian approach to literature is in tune with the very nature of reality and the Christian universe. Just as his Christianity is holistic, the “Christian” reader is to read holistically. Although he stands outside of the world—“not of the world”—he must stand with a knowledge of it, for “[w]e must also know the spirit of our time in order to know where it is wrong and should be challenged and fought” (Rookmaaker 245). In the reading of books comes the exposure to ideas concerning good and evil, and the “Christian” reader is to distinguish the truth from falsehood—the good from the evil—in order to keep his mind and his fellow Christians from confusing the one from the other.

"The Destination" 

“But seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” Matthew 6:33

Until a man seeks the Kingdom of God above all else his successes are failures. Eternity with God is all that should concern humanity. The Kingdom is the epitome. The Kingdom of God is all that matters when a man dies. Yet even in death a man can miss it. Yes, there is Hell, separation from God, but the misery of Hell is nothing in comparison to the bliss of being in the presence of the Holy Lord. The Kingdom of Heaven is everything when measured beside the Kingdom of Hell. When a person finds something other than the Kingdom, he will find himself still seeking. This world will leave him confused and thirsty. But Christ does not simply say “Seek.” He says “Seek first.” Christ says this for a reason. When the Kingdom is sought first the Kingdom is found first. And when the Kingdom is found, all searching is over. The seeker is in need of nothing more. Finding the Kingdom causes everything else to appear insignificant, unnecessary, whimsical. When all is done for the sake and cause of Christ and His Kingdom there is no need to desire, value, or seek anything outside of that pursuit. If we are to seek anything before the Kingdom we are finding everything except that which we were made for.

“. . . and all of these things shall be added unto you.” When we find the Kingdom we find fulfillment and happiness. But Christ does not say “Seek first” so that we will find happiness or joy. He does not say “Seek first the Kingdom because . . .” He says “Seek first the Kingdom and . . .” This command is not a pragmatic one. It is inevitable to find happiness for it is the nature of the Kingdom to bring happiness. But the Kingdom alone is what we should seek, not the joy that comes with it. We should seek the Kingdom because it is the Kingdom. We do not worship God because He is good to us. We worship God because He is God. If this were not so we would be disappointed in Heaven, for in desiring and searching for God and Heaven a man will realize that Heaven does not exist for his own sake. The purpose of Heaven is not to escape bad things. The Kingdom is not an alternative. It is not one of the many destinations. Heaven exist as the Destination. Hell is the alternative, not Heaven.The Kingdom does not exist to bring us joy but to bring Christ glory. We are not asked to seek the Kingdom to feel better or find peace. We do not seek it for our pleasure but for God’s pleasure.

Every pursuit, action, thought, work, and effort should point to Christ and His Kingdom. We are to “Seek first” even if peace and joy were never involved. Christ says, “Repent of your sins and turn to God, for the Kingdom of Heaven is near.” To repent and turn is to leave ourselves behind. When a person sincerely understands that the Kingdom of Heaven is the greatest thing of all, he will have no trouble leaving himself behind and selling everything he owns to obtain that Kingdom. The Kingdom is all. If a man misses Heaven he has missed all. If a man has found the Kingdom he has found all. The joy, happiness, and fulfillment are the side effects of finding the Kingdom of God. But these gift sare not the reason we seek or believe. The reason is this: Christ and His Kingdom are all that is worth seeking. 

            "The Trouble with Belief" 

Rarely is there an absence of noise—a time in which there are no vibrations to resonate which clear all paths to higher thinking, moving a mind toward a state of deeper reflection and rich contemplation. When there is no sound or projection to lessen the limits of the mind and measurement of thought, silence is extended to our human ears to enhance and increase the process levels of ideas and deeper intuition. Gentility and human strengths are no match for these momentary gifts, here and gone, given without command or prediction. They surface and vapor by the parts of seconds which come erupting at the mere inclination of an inhale and exhale. Atop a city building one finds this peace under the brilliant illumination of boundless neighboring stars. With the mind one can grasp so tightly the atmosphere, a mystery so heavenly strung and feathered throughout the miles, beaming darkness as powerful as the night amongst fields of lights down to the corner of our world, wrapped around by human hands and nature’s vines, and then back again to the expanse of the universe never seen or known but believed.

It is these moments, the absence of noise, that belief, true belief, a doubtless and confident knowledge of the truth is surfaced and the most tactful process of attaining and comprehending reality of where one is and what this great globe on which we walk is realized. This revelation, a spiritual epiphany, a divine realization, hardly compares to the furious swift minutes of a day in a city street. The rush of a machine, the clanking of engines, the release of steam, the throbbing pump of blood through a vein, all expose less concentration onto the elements of life that matter the most; the answers that demand questions rather than the questions that demand answers. The spiritual man will not last long in this kind of world. He is merely blinded from the supernatural world around him. Any amount of attention to a world of constant noise and movement will mute the whisper of God; His tone will distort and evaporate like the mist of morning dew against the blazing glow and heat of the sun. The calling of God will drift away and boil to another world as if it had never come to this corner of our universe. The stillness of space, the universe, the soil on which we carry ourselves is where such a faith can creep into a heart and the softest whisper of the Being, the Author of our life, can be heard and can assure the heart and stir the soul, presenting a solid form of evidence that the supernatural is at work.

When the eyes of a man’s heart stay gazed toward the soil, the material and the temporary, instead of the eternal and infinite, the supernatural naturally becomes nonexistent. A man’s days are then ruled by the everyday obstacles and insignificant troubles. The big picture is erased. A man must place his head in the clouds where he sees the landscape of life, not just the mountains but the absence of mountains; the valleys. His mind must be closer to Heaven, heavily drenched in the thinking patterns of eternity. Must earthly man stay earthly? Must his soul be buried and blind to all the miracles around him? Miracles are the moments woven between every inhale and exhale. Have we forgotten the magic found in a baby’scry? The beauty in the holding of hands? The fantasy of a family? The romance that sparks between the peanut butter and jelly on two slices of bread? The human mind has not reached the clouds, but has consequentially become too logical. Humanity has become too swift to stop and smell the roses. Stop. Be still. Know that He is God. 

           "The Giver of Light"

“. . . the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the Gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. . . For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” II Corinthians 4:4, 6 

           The Gospel of Jesus Christ does not need the fancy talk of mortals in order to pierce the hearts of sinners. In fact, it is the mindless chatter of humans that distorts, complicates, and hinders the way in which the light reaches the dark.  The Good News of Christ is not dependant on Christians for it to find the lost or free the captive. This does not pardon believers to share with the world the Truth and the faith in the Truth, but simply emphasizes the reality that Christ will do His work despite our work and in spite of our foolishness. The Master will speak His words without the help of His servant. Our preaching does not save, only the mighty work of God.  This does not excuse the Christian from proclaiming the Gospel, but makes him the second man of whom truly does the work.

The message of Redemption cannot be understood solely through earthly, human wisdom. God and His words are far bigger and far elevated over our heads to be grasped with our mere human minds. Our job is to preach the Gospel. It is Christ and His Gospel’s work to change lives. It is God who comes to us and makes Himself known. Until He shines His light on us, we are in darkness. He may use humans and human words to reveal himself, but it is He that does the work.

Our Heavenly Father transforms the sinner’s mind and makes it like the mind of His son. The sinner can then listen and understand the language of the Holy Spirit who sends the Gospel straight to the heart. The Holy Spirit is the interpreter of the Gospel to the deaf soul, and the Holy Spirit cannot be contained. No man can stand in the way of the work of the Holy Spirit. But the message of the cross is foolishness in the eyes of the world until the Holy Spirit intercedes.

The long-winded Christ-follower is regularly tempted to see the Gospel as something to be made intricate and complex, altering its content into something only the spiritually intellect, who are often pompous and bloated by their manufactured religion, can fully comprehend. But the Gospel must not be sized up nor watered down; it is not to be categorized or limited to a particular audience.The Gospel is to be left alone as it is. It is far too powerful to be limited in such ways.

While man cannot limit the work of the Father or Holy Spirit, he can limit the clarity of the Gospel when earthly wisdom clouds the message. Paul did not preach with a persuasive tone to manipulate or make Christ attractive. He did not use lofty speech when presenting the Gospel. He let the message, the content, the story, the Truth, speak for itself. Conversion is not the work of a teacher when he teaches the Scriptures. God breathes into the natural man and he becomes a spiritual man. It is only then that the man can comprehend the Gospel.

Until the Father opens a man’s eyes, Christ, the Cross, and the Grave will be foolish. All will be folly. Christ wants us to listen and trust His voice, not the voice of men. We trust ourselves and one another far too often. It is not in our hands whether the person believes or not. We are not held accountable for the sinner’s decision. We are not here to persuade them to believe the Truth by using fancy talk and attractive visuals. We are commanded to simply present theTruth. Christ is the light that shines to show the Truth.

If the ear has heard and the Spirit has moved, the blind man’s eyes will open. It is that simple. But simplicity is not the method. There is no method. The power of the Gospel and the Holy Spirit are enough. Scripture can speak for itself. The redeeming, saving, wonderful story of the suffering, death, burial, and resurrection of Christ is the only road that leads the Holy Spirit to the human’s soul.                                                                                                                    

"The Color of the Gospel"  

“Say to those who have an anxious heart, ‘Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.’ Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped.” Isaiah 35:4-5

“And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God.” II Corinthians 4:3-5

Trying to explain the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the skeptic is like trying to describe a rainbow to a blind man—“an arch or mist, laden with stripes of color.” Color and light have no meaning to the man who sees darkness. To him light is an ambiguous idea in some ambiguous dimension. To see light and color is not in his nature, his genetic makeup. He cannot touch or imagine light unless it supernaturally finds its way into his sight.

The skeptic has already made the decision in his heart to reject the Truth. The Gospel is like a poison that his body cannot handle. His heart is not yet conditioned for it. The evil one, the fallen angel himself, has blinded man's eyes with the cares of this world. The fearful and anxious heart is a stone wall that separates the Savior Jesus Christ; the very image of God.

According to the unbeliever, the concept of Salvation, the depravity of man, the deity of Christ, and the atonement of the blood are muddled tales of superstition. But the reality of the Gospel, the work Christ did through the Cross and resurrection, is not only so deep in power and majesty that it cannot be understood by human wisdom, but is also skewed from the doubter’s eyes because of the obstacle made by the de-transcendent, the natural rather the supernatural. The lost soul is too busy fearing the things of this world rather than fearing God. 

The spiritually blinded man cannot see Christ because he relentlessly views all things but Christ. Vanity, the obsessive pursuit of money, power, and pleasure, do not distort the face of Christ, but completely block Him from sight. The anxious soul is drawn to these temporary idols because of a desire to escape the uncertainty and unknown.  People are blind to the eternal things because they are forever looking at the temporary. The eternal transcendent things are not invisible in theory. They pass us by everyday. But they are not seen because they are not searched for or looked upon. They are not looked upon because eyes are consumed by the ways of the world.

The new life of a changed soul, the new creation, is the essential evidence of Christ’s power and the reality of His work. God the Father violently consumes the sinner, “leaves the ninety-nine” and aggressively seeks and saves the one lost sheep. The bystander, the propitious soul who witnesses the transformation, is enlightened to the work of Christ. When God saves, “the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped” (Isaiah 35.8). Christ’s work voids the work of Satan.

 The doubting soul comes to the realization of sin and the salvation of Christ when the soul gets a glimpse of God’s wrath. The wrath strikes fear and conviction deep in the tissues of the heart and the veil is lifted from the Gospel. Christ does not hide himself from our eyes. We do not see Him because we pay too much attention to the world. The fearful and anxious heart is drained of any passion to pursue Christ. The glorious appearance of the Gospel, the majesty of its Word, its hope and peace, shone brilliantly upon the eyes of the lost, opens the battered eyes of the dark and calloused heart, a luminous glow that cannot be ignored or unnoticed. A revelation, an epiphany of the reality in which this life and universe hold together.