Paul Hughes

paul.jpg … now we are six. Paul is married to Michele; they have four children. He earned the master’s in Christian apologetics at Biola and two others, in fine arts and English, from Chapman University — thereby becoming a living caution to the danger of over-education. He’s taught in many areas, from critical thinking to creative writing, which suggests how he ‘does’ apologetics, as the youth say these days. He’s a writer in Orange County. His fascinations include love, vision, story, and baseball, and consequently he has projects in many stages of incompletion on those very ideas. Paul’s trying to be quieter these days, and you shouldn’t unduly charm co-workers, so please try not to read his blog posts aloud.
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We Never Liked Him in the First Place

Written by Paul Hughes on . Posted in Blogs - Paul Hughes

Note: The Super Bowl may be over, but the NFL Draft is coming on fast — it'll be here just past the blip of the start of baseball's Spring Training.  At said draft, we shall stalk the Denver Broncos, and analyze their picks. This will reveal their 2012 plans: will they back Tebow, or draft in another direction.

This post is excerpted from the Kindle eBook, Tebow: Throwing Stones, available here.

When Tim Tebow was still in college — and, oddly, he seemed even then unnaturally able to grow and maintain the scruffy dark beard, much better than we recall ours to have been, lo’ these 25+ years ago — we didn’t like him very much.

First, he was in Florida. We won’t say that only two things come from Florida (that’s Texas), but only four or five do, and all of them bite: big alligators, bigger mosquitos, Cheshire feline grin real estate developers, Cuban women … and the SEC football fans. And, as Trojan fans we’d be rooting for Florida only when they play UCLA.

Second, he kept, you know … winning. We hate that, and we’re sure you do, too. People hate it when we don’t win, but people hate it more when some other dude does.

  • Even when we’re not in the game …
  • And will never come within 12 million miles of the game let alone winning ..
  • And moreover the years have not been kind to us …
  • And there is no way in hell we’ll ever be in anything like it
  • (Barring Faustian haggles, and excluding Thanksgiving pick-up games, let’s say) …

Even then.

We hate it.

Finally, Tebow — and this killed us more than any of it — was unfailingly, unalterably, and oso dang annoyingly nice about all that … winning. A balletic locomotive off the rails on field, this kid was kind and gracious to his opponents as soon as the whistle blew, or the gun went off. And it wasn’t because he was winning, even though, as we may have mentioned, he was.

OK, he was more than a bit cocky. We know. We have had a teenaged son; hell — we have been one. He was in our faces even when we had refused to watch, refused even to watch and pretend we weren’t.

But even then, not overly so … ya know? I mean, grant that all men — all men — think they can flat out take you and what army, and then factor in the “especially a’tween ages 12 and 22” part … and really he wasn’t that bad.

He has been in many minds the poster child for whatever ails our souls — if we hate Christians he focuses our ire.  If we’re not fond of ever being reminded of where we fall short of even man’s glory let alone God’s — Timmy takes the brunt of our snottiness.

Memo: he doesn’t actually know, and he doesn’t actually care, except that he cares deeply — more on that later — and he’s probably praying for you, perhaps even right now. And that is going to piss you off even more, if you’re already so inclined.

But here’s the worst of it: he wouldn’t play the game.

Not that he couldn’t play the game (also an accusation leveled) but he wouldn’t play the game: the one where if you’re good you have to get arrested or trash talk the other guy/team/etc. (not the same thing as cockiness, by the way).

Nope he refused. He was nice.

So to sum up:

  • He was not from around here.
  • He was way better than us.
  • He was jovial about it.

As the saying goes … get a rope.

Is there anything more maddening to mediocre men than a guy from out of town beating us, buying the beer, and praying before the pizza … smiling all the while?

Yeah, we don’t think so either.

[Hey … who you callin’ mediocre?]

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Cold and ...

Written by Paul Hughes on . Posted in Blogs - Paul Hughes

In “The Grey” everything howls.

The snow howls. The wind howls. The men howl.

The airplane as it hurtles to the earth at 400 miles an hour howls.

And of course the wolves; the wolves howl most.

And watching, you will howl too.

*

This is a movie about pain, and whether there is anything for man to do but fight it, or give up. And is there a God, and does he fight for us, or give up. And if we’re still fighting at (what looks like) the end — or at least still breathing — is that enough?

And what do we do now.

*

At this point, I would watch Liam Neeson clip his nails, and pay for the privilege. That man can act. I take great liberties in assuming he is working so hard and so often these last several years to keep his mind off the death of his wife Natasha Richardson, three years ago, in March.

But what the hell do I know about it?

*

You know how so many movies start with a nebbish, only he’s “pushed too far” and becomes Rambo?

This is not that movie.

These guys actually start out badass. They look like — and you believe — they could beat the snot out of the wolves … just ‘cuz. Only it doesn’t go that way, not for the supposedly badass roughnecks, and not for the wolves, and not for you.

See, this is not that movie either.

On the plane there are guys who look vaguely like Kevin Bacon, Robert Downey, Jr., and Colin Farrel — only they aren’t. OK, Colin Farrel is actually Dermot Mulroney, but almost nobody else is anyone you’d recognize. I finally figured out who Henrick was in this life, but that’s about it.

And you get attached to these supposedly so tough nobodies. You begin to see them as people. They start out at as guys I thought I recognized, and become men I actually know a little bit.

And then they die.

A bunch all at once in the crash, and more as the wolves get really good at it; they die because of a difference of six inches, and because of sixteen feet, and because of six hundred.

Nearly all of it is believable.

*

I wept briefly and visibly twice during this movie, and there are no women in it, except in flashback or stories the men tell around the fire one night. These are hard men, some are criminals — Neeson calls them, and they call each other, far worse.

This movie is filled with beasts, and it is hard to tell them all apart. But there is much more as well, and you have to stay until the end to find out what, and even then you have to think about it, a lot.

Or I suppose you don’t.

You could give up.

*

In “Groundhog Day,” Bill Murray’s Phil says grimly, “You want the weather? I’ll give you a weather report. It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be gray, and it’s gonna last you the rest of your life.”

This, once again, and finally, is not that movie. The rest of your life” may be sooner than you think, and we don’t get 10,000 chances to get it right.

Sometimes it’s barely even one.

*

The last thing I can tell you is, stay until the end. Where that is, you have to say.

You might be wrong.

Some of the hard men are, and some in the audience when I saw it were as well.

*

The snow wind men wolves still howl. You must choose whether to fight or quit.

You might be wrong again.

Some men, lying about their fear, are. Others keep fighting. Both sometimes die.

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Today I Asked God to Take Away My Sins

Written by Paul Hughes on . Posted in Blogs - Paul Hughes

Not the guilt of my sins, or the punishment for my sin — the sins themselves.

I’ve done this already and before and years and years and years ago, up to and including the other day. I am no theologian (except insofar as we all are in all we say and do, because in the things we say and do, we are telling what we believe about God) so I don’t know the words for this, but it seems that at conversion we’re mostly concerned with the punishment and later we add the guilt.

It seems this must be so.

For one thing, when I ask God to forgive my sins, that’s what I mean. I mean that I don’t want the damnation (or the trouble and annoyance, for that matter) that follows such a life.

Second, and much more powerfully, since God responds — in the affirmative — to the plea of the sinner pleading for grace and since after our conversion we do continue to sin, the request cannot be to remove the sin itself.

God said yes, but the sin is still there.

He is saying yes to something else.

And we are asking for it.

I’m not criticizing anything here, as it happens: I’m noticing. The sin itself and its effects are two different things. We can see that readily if we think of the external effects: on the world, say, or a person other than ourselves.  Pressed for a moment we can see it in the internal effects — that is, we realize the effects in us are gone immediately (justification) and begin to dissipate over years (sanctification)

But I have noticed a change recently.

It began in the last year or so, I’d say — which is not to say I’ve never noted, requested, or even experienced it before. But definitely before last year it’s been miniscule, unremarkable. I mean that literally; I’ve hardly noticed it.

But in the last year, I’ve wanted more.

I’ve wanted the sins themselves to be gone … whooshed! away … now.  I’m tired of them.  They are really starting to hurt.  Mostly me is what I notice — yep, selfishness is one of them — but I do notice others as well, and more than I used to.

Oscar Wilde said that by the age 40 we all have the faces we deserve. If you look around, I think you’ll find that to be true. Maybe modern medicine allows us to delay it somewhat, but you get, I’m sure, the idea.

Well, I’m past 40 and my sins are showing.

I’ve begun again in Matthew, and therein I find this: that we call him Jesus, because He will save His people from their sins. Two verses later we see how this happens: God is with us.

In other words, God displaces our sins.

You may note immediately: just as I’m no theologian, I’m not so strict on hermeneutics, either. I stand by the idea. It fits with a lot of other material, some of which I’ll mention, and then close. I wish to say here that God saves us from our sins not on the Cross … not exactly. Of course it will be part of it all.

[And if you are way ahead of me here, and your mind is swirling with all you have devoured on the “penal substitution” debate, and thinking, “Well, duh!  Our justification is different from our sanctification,” and if you are rather nonplussed about this … that may be a a problem for you.]

Because it is very, very, very important — and if you knew how much I disliked the word “very” you would know how big a deal it is if I say it three times — it is … vital … that we grasp this. It is Jesus Christ himself who takes away the sins themselves.

God replaces our sin with … Him.

The oddballs know this. The “spat upon, ratted on” as Paul Simon put it, know this. For later in Matthew we read how the violent seize the Kingdom of Heaven by force. It’s in the chapter of Jesus telling how we know the Gospel is operative: it’s because the “least, last, lost” … aren’t that anymore, while the candy-assed rich in soft robes and big houses are left out in the cold of hell.

God’s presence is the thing.

It’s the thing that changes, heals, transforms, forever.

That’s why the Incarnation. He was present, big-time.

That’s why we celebrate His presence, every Sunday.

God’s presence is the thing.

This is a big deal. The wiser among us know that rebirth is repeated in the life of the Christian at least, oh, three or four times, I should say. It’s been three or four for me, and I’m not wise. So this number may be much higher.

I don’t mean falling away, or discussions about same. I mean the recurring — it feels cyclical, as such things do — experience as we mature in faith that we still need Jesus again, more … repeat.

Today I asked God to take away my sins.

And I’m going to do it again soon.

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Burning and Bleeding

Written by Paul Hughes on . Posted in Blogs - Paul Hughes

Mercy burns, wrote Flannery O'Connor, by which she meant ... well, I'd like you to think on it for a minute or so, before I say.

For we have this idea about mercy, several actually, and we must be disabused of them as quickly as supernaturally possible. The idea many have is that it's soft and sweet, and no doubt sugar and spice as well.

It's not.

Once teaching Sunday School I went on and on and on and on about "being like Christ" until one gentle brother commented — to the class, to prevent outright shaming me, I think — that we do naturally include the idea of suffering in that "being like Christ" concept. He allowed as how it wd surely be part of any cost-counting on our part, that we wouldn't just think of all the nice, pretty ways and how much fun it would be, and golly! let's put on the show right here!

Well ... certainly. That's what I meant. Uh-huh. Naturally.

Actually it's supernatural, but the point of course was that I was blathering and hadn't even begun to consider what it might mean to actually pursue this. I hadn't thought for a moment how coming right up next to the Lord would be like, what it would do, how it would feel.

Well. It burns.

And it bleeds.

For we have the fictional testimony of C.S. Lewis' The Great Divorce where in one encounter a hell-bound shade sputters contemptuously, "I'm not asking for anyone's bleeding charity" ... to which that heavenly sent to fetch him replies rapturously, "Then do! Do ask for The Bleeding Charity!"

So mercy bleeds too. The order is sometimes uncertain, and I think it can work either way, but I'm going to say it bleeds before it will burn — at least, before it will burn as much as it will burn when the fire of God really gets going.

Now, you have to know your sinfulness before salvation can mean an un-damned thing to you — so there's a case for it burning first. But let's go with the blood does come first. Or perhaps it is the blood that is scalding us?

C.S. Lewis again, this time in The Pilgrim's Regress: a character tells the pilgrim protagonist he must go down a particular road — there is no other — and it leads right past a dragon. Everyone must go past the dragon. Or as a friend of mine puts it: No one gets by.

Every knee shall bow. Sooner or later, now or then. Every knee.

And one last thing about mercy — it's very, very fast.

That may sound funny, since it so often seems so slow to us, and to others. But the truth is, if it's slow, we might not even have asked for it. Many times I've wondered at my parched life only to realize I hadn't even asked.

In The Violent Bear it Away, O'Connor's main character becomes a prophet to warn people of the speed of God's mercy. Once called upon, you see, the Lord comes quickly. Don't call on Him 'less you really want Him to come.

The truth is, many people don't want God's mercy. Either it burns and they fear it, or it bleeds ... and they fear that, too. Both hurt and will hurt unto time is ended ... which of course it doesn't. It may be that both also salve.

Both hurt and will hurt because both, in the end do the same thing. Mercy destroys all in us that is not God. Depending on where you are with Him, you'll experience it as burning, or bleeding — or both.

Both may also salve, because we receive — be it unto you according to your faith — what is best.

Burning mercy hurts the believer, as the dross is burned away. Bleeding mercy salves him: respite from a loving God.

Bleeding mercy hurts the pagan, who will not surrender his desires. Burning mercy salves him, as the flames are now the only barrier between him and the Lord he rejected.

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Who's Afraid of Denominationalism?

Written by Paul Hughes on . Posted in Blogs - Paul Hughes

The enduring vitality of divisions in the Church

When a marginally more than middle-aged Christian male — two score down, one and 10 to go — visited a (for him) new church he left feeling much more afflicted and far less comfortable than when he came. It was intense. Mainly the sermon but also the idea that here and finally was a church where he could know God — where he could worship him and be changed into the likeness of Christ. Most others he’d been to had emphasized one over the other.

He arranged to talk with an elder that week. He wanted to learn more.

The elder chose a chain coffee shop. Not a Starbucks, and not an indie with a name like “Mug Shot” and piping Lenny Kravitz at the couches and comfy chairs.

A coffee shop: not just old-school, but one-room-schoolhouse, quintessentially your father’s Oldsmobile American coffee shopcoffee, and they don’t know from macchiato; and “extra whip” comes on the cup of cocoa for your kid, on the way up to Scout camp; or on the slice of pumpkin pie, if you flirt with the grandmother who is your waitress — waitress, not server — and was also Nixon’s when he used to stop in; who calls everyone “hon” because nobody knows your name here, unless it’s “hon,” and when you need a pen she offers the pencil pinning up her bun, which she keeps there, for just that purpose. All the chairs are brown. where the “2X2” — two eggs, two bacon, two sausage, two pancakes — could go for $2.99 because everyone orders

That kind of coffee shop.

One of the last things the elder does is bust out two pages of what the church believes. It’s the statement of faith new members pledge to, in public, during the service, when they join.

“Want you to know what we’re about,” he says.

It’s interesting enough to consider this taking place four days after you’ve met. But these five points are also some heady stuff, topped off by #5, which conflates in two sentences The Church with this church, and shows, if you didn’t get it already, that this church means bidness, and signing on to this is not just a come-as-you-seek gathering, or something emerging or arriving or becoming.

It’s been here already and it’ll be here after. The sun never sets on it.

It doesn’t meet in a house, OK?

Talk about blowback.

This is denominationalism baby, and it is alive … it’s Alive! Like movie sequels and inhumane burgers and the two-party system, we love to talk smack and attack, but we line up and buy every time. Push to shove we can’t wait to get in.

Nowhere is this more evident than Southern California. In the land of surf culture and steam punks, and Jesus Freaks and (letting it all) hang outs; where trends come to be born and the old ways supposedly go to die, Christian denominations are flourishing.

C.S. Lewis called divisions in the Church a “sin and a scandal” and Dallas Willard has warned against mistaking the vessel for the treasure — that is, being more concerned with the “-ist” and “-ian” proper nouns on the signage out front, than the improper but salutary death of the One we’ve come to worship.

Long before the emerging-cy of current efforts to remake church in one way or another, it would have been de rigueur to assert blithely that “seeker-sensitive” and the “non-denominational Bible teaching” church were the standard, and the standard bearers of the late-20th century.

Toss in the house church movement and the undeniable numerical decline of protestant denominations, U.S. versions, and it would seem, denominations’ days are numbered.

But.

Most Christians worldwide identify themselves as members of denominations, and many of those beyond its walls have trouble with terms like “emerging” or “free church” — zoning out of or being turned off by the infighting it produces.

If they’re going to return, they often gravitate to something they recognize — such as denominations from their youth

Denominations also help Christians locate ourselves, and the institutions around us. They’re shorthand, just as we use a single word instead of constantly giving the entire definition of something we mean.

Like written prayers, we know basically what we’re getting, and we don’t have to wonder and worry, as Lewis said about extemporaneous prayers, whether we agree with what’s being said.

In short, the death of the denomination has been greatly exaggerated.

Granted these can all be to the bad, as well as good, or they simply leave important questions unanswered.

Should we identify ourselves as a denomination, for instance? Does shorthand desiccate? Do we care the most, when at church, about agreeing with what’s being said?

What seems undeniable is people pay far more attention to groups of Christian, than the individual, unless the individual is shouting at them during a funeral, carrying signs saying vile things attributed to God.

When the Roman Catholic Church has a scandal, it’s worldwide news for years.

When a local pastor falls it’s hardly a blip — unless he’s big enough to write on.

We care more for the greater effect. Maybe this is as it should be. If any teacher can come under greater condemnation, someone touching thousands or millions may be in more trouble than the one.

Meanwhile churches growing in prominence here are denominationally affiliated, sometimes even — no, really! — in their name.

  • The Redeemer Presbyterian churches, it won’t surprise anyone to learn, are … Presbyterian. They are affiliated with the PCA, and they take the connection seriously. We don’t think of that reading Deep Church.
  • Sandals Church recently bought land and buildings in far Riverside. In the boonies right now, it’s planning for the next decades. But while giving off a Rock Harbor vibe, Sandals links to the SBC and is conservative.  Conservative and trying to relate … from within a denomination.

One semester a student in a critical thinking class I was teaching wrote a paper in favor of denominations. At about that time, earning a grad degree, I took a historical theology class taught by that student’s father. A good portion of the course recounted the development of dozens of denominations — and their not insignificant contributions to the faith delivered once for all.

To take another example, it has occasionally been fashionable for business publications to trumpet the little guy, to say resolutely that small business creates the most jobs in this country, that’s it drives the economy, and so on.

But that might not be true — or it might a lie, a damned lie, and a statistic, as Twain would say — but in any case, as the last several years have shown, the entities that really matter are the ones “too big to fail.”

And speaking of fashion, it does seem like evangelicals are sometimes like the Rosie O’Donnell character in “Sleepless in Seattle” who states with conviction what everyone knows, that unmarried women over 35 are more likely to be killed by a terrorist than to find a made

“That’s not true,” says the Meg Ryan character. “I don’t believe that.”

“But it feels true,” O’Donnell insists.

Likewise, the irrelevance of denominations feels true to us.

Ahem.

Of course it remains true we’re saved by grace through faith, not the fundamentalist Methobapterianism we practice, perhaps more or less inherited from our parents or even passed down through centuries. At the same time we may have overstated the irrelevance of all that, as well.

And for that matter, the various evangelicalisms function as denominations.

Yet differences from one “free church” to the next are often large, with one emphasizing this and another emphasizing that. As a young Christian I went to Calvary Church Santa Ana, and the people I told about it were forever confusing the place with Calvary Chapel Costa Mesa.

Members of each did not consider themselves alike at all.

One last thing to consider: people worshiping in denominations feel as strongly about that practice as a non-denominational, Bible-learning, free church, evangelical does about his — and the former group is probably connected to a deeper well of time, family, ethnicity, etc. in her commitment than he is in his.

They love their ties as much as the Christians who exult in not having any.

Told the Pope objected to him murdering millions, Stalin infamously asked, “And how many divisions has the Pope?”

The answer, of course, is God’s army is legion, and one day the blood of the martyrs will cry out.

But as for divisions, at the moment we have many thousands, chugging along nicely.


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Words of Wisdom

You don't always have to chop with a sword of truth. You can point with it too. - Anne Lamott