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One of the most famous scientists in the last century was astronomer Carl Sagan. While Sagan was a brilliant scientist in his own right, a large part of his popularity comes from his profound ability to disseminate scientific thinking and scientific concepts to the non-scientific masses. His willingness to step down out of his ivory tower and tend to the well-being of the general population has made him a staple resource in many lives outside of the scientific community. Sagan's condescension to the lay people may have a variety of explanations, but I personally think that one of the biggest reasons Sagan cared for the masses was because he was more than a scientist. He was an artist. A poet, to be more precise. Sagan could see beauty in the universe and in the story of humanity. His fascination and love for science and for beauty allowed him to communicate convincingly large scientific concepts to the general population.
Perhaps Sagan's most famous observation was that we humans are essentially stardust. Sagan said, “The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” How beautiful is this observation? To imagine that this bright, powerful object we rely on every day of our lives, the sun, is actually the very type of being from which every molecule in our body has been sourced - it's absolutely mind-blowing and beautiful. We are all made of star-stuff. Every human you have ever met was once a piece of a burning, shining star.
Perhaps Sagan's most famous observation was that we humans are essentially stardust. Sagan said, “The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” How beautiful is this observation? To imagine that this bright, powerful object we rely on every day of our lives, the sun, is actually the very type of being from which every molecule in our body has been sourced - it's absolutely mind-blowing and beautiful. We are all made of star-stuff. Every human you have ever met was once a piece of a burning, shining star.
Sagan's origin story may resonate within us as a story of great beauty, but origins are only ever one part of the story. Knowing where you've been or where you've come from can be wonderful, fascinating, and beautiful, but only in so far as it informs our journey at present, as we humans, unlike the stars, move. We are not static beings either in space or in time, but are rather time travelers creating and moving into new futures.
It is here that Sagan and other naturalists run aground in their ability to poetically depict the beauty of the cosmos. For it is one thing to envision myself as having once been a shining star, while wholly another to envision that this beautiful "life of the mind" (as Arendt depicted so magnificently) will once again return to being a thoughtless ball of burning gas, beautiful, no doubt, but without anyone to observe or enjoy said beauty. Perhaps even worse, though certainly no better, my molecules are likely to eventually become motionless particles, inert in all ways, as the universe suffers its eventual fate of heat death. To have been a shining star is beautiful and inspiring, but to become a shining star again - or thoughtless particles of immobility - is despairing. As you can see, then, a glowing origin story is nothing without the promise of a bright future.
If any conversation is to be meaningful, then, we must understand the concept of purpose. This is something I have written at length about elsewhere, so I won't go into an extensive discussion of it here. But it is something we need to touch on at least a bit in order for us to advance the conversation I have in mind for this article.
To have purpose, there must be three things: a purposer, an instrument, and a goal. Take an ax, for example. An ax has someone who made it and uses it for a particular goal, to chop down a tree, let's say. There have likely been thousands upon thousands of rocks over the eons which have been shaped like an ax head, but it wasn't until a sentient being came along and purposed that ax shaped object for a particular goal that the instrument took on having any purpose. For any object to be an instrument it has to have a mind who purposes it unto a particular goal. Purposers transform objects into instruments.
Over the millennia, axes have been tweaked and honed to perfection by sentient purposers. You can find various axes which are all created for various, specified purposes. But an ax which has been created for the specific purpose of chopping down a tree may, over time, become dull to the extreme point that the blade has become more flat than pointed. Perhaps the blade rusts, the ax head falls off, or the handle snaps. An ax can become less and less ax-like over time. At some point we may decide that the ax isn't even an ax at all anymore, determined in large part by its ability or inability to function as it was originally purposed to function by some purposer. Sagan's origin story has nothing to say to us here at this point because there is no creator and no purposer on naturalism. There is no purposing of instruments unto goals, but rather cause and effect. You and I, while being composed of "star-stuff," have no purpose towards which we move or can hope in Sagan's system.
On Christianity, however, there is a creator and purposer who has endowed us with a goal towards which humanity functions. We have purpose, then, assuming that we continue to resemble the "ax" enough to have some semblance of hope of pursuing the purpose for which we were created.
That is, perhaps the big question though, isn't it? For the Christian story talks not only of a purposer who endowed humanity with purpose, but a humanity which has marred the image in which it was created. We have sinned. All of us. Does Christianity, then, offer us any more hope of a purposeful future than Sagan's naturalism?
In order to address this quandary, we have to first look at the concept of sin - the marring of our purpose and our being. How we view sin will significantly impact how we understand our purpose and restoration. Many people seem to view sin as a SOME-THING. Sin is this stain or burden that we take on or add to our being, like a cancerous tumor. And like a tumor which threatens our lives, sin must be excised from our beings. Rooted out.
I don't much like this view of sin, and rather ascribe to a view that many of the early church theologians held. I view sin as a deterioration or an absence of being. If we stick with our analogy of the ax, perhaps we could say that sin would be like rust which eats away at the material being of the ax and thus diminishes its original functionality, or even its very existence if the rust would eat the whole of the ax head away.
In Carl Sagan's world, we might say sin is akin to a black hole. It sucks all matter - all being - around it, into a singularity, creating this apparent black hole in space which prevents even the light within its reach from escaping. It creates this void of apparent nothingness. It is being collapsing in on itself. The analogy isn't perfect, as a black hole contains a lot of mass, which isn't really "nothing," but it is mass that is unobservable and unable to be manipulated by that which is outside of it. It is a mass unable to be seen, wielded, or purposed, and rather, devours anything which comes in contact with it.
These two different views of sin, then, influence the solution we propose to our problem of purpose. If sin is something we take on or add to our being, then sin is something which must be extracted from our being. Certain forms of asceticism are a natural response to this sort of view. We want to prevent adding any more sin to our beings or we want to starve the sin out of us. But if sin is rather an absence of being, then the best solution available (or at least a viable one) would be the infusion of something - sin's antithesis - into our being. This would be akin to a bone marrow transplant rather than the excising of a tumor.
Sin is a black hole. Like a black hole devours all mass with which it comes in contact, so does sin devour all being with which it comes in contact. Yet we know that the unstoppable inward force of black holes can be defeated. It may take billions and billions of years, but if a black hole consumes enough mass into itself - if all of the universe would contract into a singularity - it could explode outward in its instability and form the universe anew, just as it did the very first time.
Just as the universe's answer to entropy and all-consuming singularities may be to enact a big crunch and begin anew, so it is with the solution to sin - a solution we Christians term, the "atonement." The crucifixion of Jesus, the Son of God, the Creator of the universe, was the blackest hole of sin there had ever been. Humans were confronted with true, ultimate, and infinite being, and doing what black holes of sin do, they devoured this being. Yet we know that when a black hole consumes all the mass in the universe, it can explode outward into a new creation. So it was with the consumption of the Son of God. But rather than remaining consumed, Jesus brought the singularity of sin to critical mass on the cross. By loving those who hated him and by submitting to the will of his Father against his own desire to avoid cross, Jesus destroyed the pull of sin's massive force and made a new creation possible.
I am not here denying that the atonement doesn't have some/many other facets to it, but certainly the example of Jesus's life of true being is one facet. Many in my circles get hung up on the idea of example as inert (which may be why so many of our lives are not very exemplary). Example is a seemingly inert demonstration which doesn't do or enact anything. Yet when Jesus healed, what were his words but examples? He said "take up your bed and walk," and the man actually took up his bed and walked. The audible phrase "rise and walk" has no correspondence with actually rising and walking. The audible is an inert, analogical demonstration of the physical physical reality Jesus proclaimed. There was no interaction of a physical healer physically dealing with the physical man's physical condition. Yet despite Jesus's words being a mere analogical display, the man got up and walked. The example of words has no power, until it does. Until it's uttered by the one from whom all being flows. And uttered not as a command for nonbeing to depart (for how can the nonexistent do anything?), but rather, as a proclamation of true being and true reality.
Likewise, the cross as an example is not just some visual and inert exemplar. Rather, it is a declaration of what the world - of what humanity truly is in the created intent of God's good world. While there is helpful imagery in seeing sin as being blotted out or washed away, I think it is also appropriate to view the cross as an event which filled the void that sin had created. For if sin were to be washed away, then all of me would be washed away with it, for sin pervades every part of my being. But if sin is an emptiness... The void... The expanse between me and God... Then the solution is to be filled. This is exactly what Jesus did with his example on the cross, and it is what he continues to do now with the power of his Spirit in us, which ministers to us and testifies to the being of Christ which can now fill us.
The cross is less a command for sin to depart and more a proclamation of true being and true reality to come forth. I love the imagery depicted in Ezekiel 47 of rivers flowing forth and bringing life with them. Just as being flowed out of Jesus when a hemorrhaging woman touched his garment, so did power flow forth from the cross when being was emptied so it could flow into all of creation. Through this emptying and filling, we have the promise that as the new creation expands outward to form the new Kingdom, that we will be more and more filled with being until we are ultimately connected to God for all eternity.
Carl Sagan may have been right in that the material from which we are composed likely did come from the very being of a star. But on Sagan's worldview, we are all also mortals, whose beings will eventually become less than we now are. C.S. Lewis, on the other hand, tells us that, "There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal." Lewis could agree with Sagan, that the material which composes our persons once composed a star. But that would be nothing to Lewis in comparison to the fact that the composition of the star was the breath of God, and that God's breath - his Spirit - composes us now, and promises us an eternal future of being not less than, but more than we now are. We are all immortal beings. Our destination is eternity - an eternity connected to and filled by the ultimate being, the creator and giver of life and purpose.
It is here that Sagan and other naturalists run aground in their ability to poetically depict the beauty of the cosmos. For it is one thing to envision myself as having once been a shining star, while wholly another to envision that this beautiful "life of the mind" (as Arendt depicted so magnificently) will once again return to being a thoughtless ball of burning gas, beautiful, no doubt, but without anyone to observe or enjoy said beauty. Perhaps even worse, though certainly no better, my molecules are likely to eventually become motionless particles, inert in all ways, as the universe suffers its eventual fate of heat death. To have been a shining star is beautiful and inspiring, but to become a shining star again - or thoughtless particles of immobility - is despairing. As you can see, then, a glowing origin story is nothing without the promise of a bright future.
If any conversation is to be meaningful, then, we must understand the concept of purpose. This is something I have written at length about elsewhere, so I won't go into an extensive discussion of it here. But it is something we need to touch on at least a bit in order for us to advance the conversation I have in mind for this article.
To have purpose, there must be three things: a purposer, an instrument, and a goal. Take an ax, for example. An ax has someone who made it and uses it for a particular goal, to chop down a tree, let's say. There have likely been thousands upon thousands of rocks over the eons which have been shaped like an ax head, but it wasn't until a sentient being came along and purposed that ax shaped object for a particular goal that the instrument took on having any purpose. For any object to be an instrument it has to have a mind who purposes it unto a particular goal. Purposers transform objects into instruments.
Over the millennia, axes have been tweaked and honed to perfection by sentient purposers. You can find various axes which are all created for various, specified purposes. But an ax which has been created for the specific purpose of chopping down a tree may, over time, become dull to the extreme point that the blade has become more flat than pointed. Perhaps the blade rusts, the ax head falls off, or the handle snaps. An ax can become less and less ax-like over time. At some point we may decide that the ax isn't even an ax at all anymore, determined in large part by its ability or inability to function as it was originally purposed to function by some purposer. Sagan's origin story has nothing to say to us here at this point because there is no creator and no purposer on naturalism. There is no purposing of instruments unto goals, but rather cause and effect. You and I, while being composed of "star-stuff," have no purpose towards which we move or can hope in Sagan's system.
On Christianity, however, there is a creator and purposer who has endowed us with a goal towards which humanity functions. We have purpose, then, assuming that we continue to resemble the "ax" enough to have some semblance of hope of pursuing the purpose for which we were created.
That is, perhaps the big question though, isn't it? For the Christian story talks not only of a purposer who endowed humanity with purpose, but a humanity which has marred the image in which it was created. We have sinned. All of us. Does Christianity, then, offer us any more hope of a purposeful future than Sagan's naturalism?
In order to address this quandary, we have to first look at the concept of sin - the marring of our purpose and our being. How we view sin will significantly impact how we understand our purpose and restoration. Many people seem to view sin as a SOME-THING. Sin is this stain or burden that we take on or add to our being, like a cancerous tumor. And like a tumor which threatens our lives, sin must be excised from our beings. Rooted out.
I don't much like this view of sin, and rather ascribe to a view that many of the early church theologians held. I view sin as a deterioration or an absence of being. If we stick with our analogy of the ax, perhaps we could say that sin would be like rust which eats away at the material being of the ax and thus diminishes its original functionality, or even its very existence if the rust would eat the whole of the ax head away.
In Carl Sagan's world, we might say sin is akin to a black hole. It sucks all matter - all being - around it, into a singularity, creating this apparent black hole in space which prevents even the light within its reach from escaping. It creates this void of apparent nothingness. It is being collapsing in on itself. The analogy isn't perfect, as a black hole contains a lot of mass, which isn't really "nothing," but it is mass that is unobservable and unable to be manipulated by that which is outside of it. It is a mass unable to be seen, wielded, or purposed, and rather, devours anything which comes in contact with it.
These two different views of sin, then, influence the solution we propose to our problem of purpose. If sin is something we take on or add to our being, then sin is something which must be extracted from our being. Certain forms of asceticism are a natural response to this sort of view. We want to prevent adding any more sin to our beings or we want to starve the sin out of us. But if sin is rather an absence of being, then the best solution available (or at least a viable one) would be the infusion of something - sin's antithesis - into our being. This would be akin to a bone marrow transplant rather than the excising of a tumor.
Sin is a black hole. Like a black hole devours all mass with which it comes in contact, so does sin devour all being with which it comes in contact. Yet we know that the unstoppable inward force of black holes can be defeated. It may take billions and billions of years, but if a black hole consumes enough mass into itself - if all of the universe would contract into a singularity - it could explode outward in its instability and form the universe anew, just as it did the very first time.
Just as the universe's answer to entropy and all-consuming singularities may be to enact a big crunch and begin anew, so it is with the solution to sin - a solution we Christians term, the "atonement." The crucifixion of Jesus, the Son of God, the Creator of the universe, was the blackest hole of sin there had ever been. Humans were confronted with true, ultimate, and infinite being, and doing what black holes of sin do, they devoured this being. Yet we know that when a black hole consumes all the mass in the universe, it can explode outward into a new creation. So it was with the consumption of the Son of God. But rather than remaining consumed, Jesus brought the singularity of sin to critical mass on the cross. By loving those who hated him and by submitting to the will of his Father against his own desire to avoid cross, Jesus destroyed the pull of sin's massive force and made a new creation possible.
I am not here denying that the atonement doesn't have some/many other facets to it, but certainly the example of Jesus's life of true being is one facet. Many in my circles get hung up on the idea of example as inert (which may be why so many of our lives are not very exemplary). Example is a seemingly inert demonstration which doesn't do or enact anything. Yet when Jesus healed, what were his words but examples? He said "take up your bed and walk," and the man actually took up his bed and walked. The audible phrase "rise and walk" has no correspondence with actually rising and walking. The audible is an inert, analogical demonstration of the physical physical reality Jesus proclaimed. There was no interaction of a physical healer physically dealing with the physical man's physical condition. Yet despite Jesus's words being a mere analogical display, the man got up and walked. The example of words has no power, until it does. Until it's uttered by the one from whom all being flows. And uttered not as a command for nonbeing to depart (for how can the nonexistent do anything?), but rather, as a proclamation of true being and true reality.
Likewise, the cross as an example is not just some visual and inert exemplar. Rather, it is a declaration of what the world - of what humanity truly is in the created intent of God's good world. While there is helpful imagery in seeing sin as being blotted out or washed away, I think it is also appropriate to view the cross as an event which filled the void that sin had created. For if sin were to be washed away, then all of me would be washed away with it, for sin pervades every part of my being. But if sin is an emptiness... The void... The expanse between me and God... Then the solution is to be filled. This is exactly what Jesus did with his example on the cross, and it is what he continues to do now with the power of his Spirit in us, which ministers to us and testifies to the being of Christ which can now fill us.
The cross is less a command for sin to depart and more a proclamation of true being and true reality to come forth. I love the imagery depicted in Ezekiel 47 of rivers flowing forth and bringing life with them. Just as being flowed out of Jesus when a hemorrhaging woman touched his garment, so did power flow forth from the cross when being was emptied so it could flow into all of creation. Through this emptying and filling, we have the promise that as the new creation expands outward to form the new Kingdom, that we will be more and more filled with being until we are ultimately connected to God for all eternity.
Carl Sagan may have been right in that the material from which we are composed likely did come from the very being of a star. But on Sagan's worldview, we are all also mortals, whose beings will eventually become less than we now are. C.S. Lewis, on the other hand, tells us that, "There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal." Lewis could agree with Sagan, that the material which composes our persons once composed a star. But that would be nothing to Lewis in comparison to the fact that the composition of the star was the breath of God, and that God's breath - his Spirit - composes us now, and promises us an eternal future of being not less than, but more than we now are. We are all immortal beings. Our destination is eternity - an eternity connected to and filled by the ultimate being, the creator and giver of life and purpose.
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