Seasons within Seasons: Everything is Beautiful

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, —that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know".

John Keats was in good company when he penned these immortal lines in his Ode on a Grecian Urn. The wisest man to have ever lived save God Himself, King Solomon of the Old Testament, came to a remarkably similar conclusion. After spending two solemn chapters expatiating on the futility of life - the way in which progress seems to undo itself, in which in nothing is truly new and in which everything comes full circle -  Solomon reaches an epiphany: "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under Heaven...He has made everything beautiful in its time." (Ecclesiastes 3:1,11).

Like Solomon, I have spent much of my life struggling against its inexorable seasonality. When I was successful, productive, happy, comfortable, energetic, peaceful, healthy, confident, hopeful, and otherwise a-ok, I felt as if my life had meaning. But when the winter came, as it always did, I would wonder, like Solomon, why I was even alive.

In no small part thanks to Solomon's teachings, I've come to realise that our conventional dualisms - life and death, dark and light, even good and evil - need to be accompanied by the all-embracing holism of beauty if we are to attribute meaning to the otherwise meaningless aspects of our lives. According to Solomon, meaning can be found even in the midst of grief, hate, war, and death if we are willing to embrace the beauty of the seasons.


Seasons and Spirals

At its core, this beauty derives from the intrinsic circularity of the seasons, whereby the dark is always followed by the light. In fact, in light of the overarching story of the Bible - from Eden, to sin, to the New Jerusalem, from being with God, to separating from God, to becoming one with God - the trajectory is more accurately conceived as a spiral, so that the light which shines tomorrow is always brighter than the light which shines today. To quote the ever-hopeful Samwise Gamgee as he confronted the depths of hopelessness:

“I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why."

Jesus alluded to this idea in His own teachings. Consider, for example, the beatitude: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). What's striking about this statement is that those who mourn, and are then comforted, are somehow more "blessed" (alternatively translated as "happy") than those who did not mourn at all - those, perhaps, who were merely 'comfortable'. Indeed, Jesus's own life is the ultimate illustration of the spiral principle, since His death and resurrection brought about eternal life.

Such a perspective raises questions, however. Why, if we have been saved, do we still sin? Why, if death has been defeated, do we still die? This is where we need to augment our analysis to recognise that, not only do seasons form spirals, but there are seasons within seasons. That is, in order to appreciate the beauty of every season, we must view our present season within the broader sweep of seasonality.


Seasons within Seasons

Broadly speaking, the story of Christianity can be divided into four seasons: the first summer, in which everything is good; the fall, in which evil arises; the winter, in which evil prevails; the spring, in which goodness starts to return; and the second summer, in which everything is even better than it was at first. As I see it, Jesus' death marked the winter solstice - the pivotal point at which the spread of darkness was complete, but also the point from which darkness began to recede.

By this logic, we are living in the early spring, when the first fruits of new life are just beginning to emerge. It should be no surprise, then, that good and evil are intermingled in our day-to-day experiences (see Romans 7-8). By contrast, the Bible deliberately emphasises that the 'second summer' - the age of the New Jerusalem - will mark the end of duality, since darkness will be banished forever (Revelation 21:22-22:5). Thus, in the broadest possible sense, we are living in the season of seasonality, which will one day come to an end. There is indeed a season for everything, including the seasons.

I think we know this intuitively, which is why find the seasons to be natural on one level but unnatural on another. Solomon himself discerned this paradox: "He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end" (Ecclesiastes 3:11). John Keats seemed to arrive at the same revelation when he mused on the equivalence of truth and beauty and their sufficiency for mortal man, who nevertheless perceives that eternity is in his midst, and who is thus tormented by its riddle:

"O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral! 

When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."


Everything is Beautiful

Western Christianity, influenced as it is by Western culture, is inclined to 'skip to the good bit'. We often struggle to celebrate Good Friday, for example, qualifying our sentences with 'but' clauses that really belong on Easter Sunday. I think this is a problem, because it doesn't tally with our lived reality, seasonal as it is. Even before His death, Christ embraced this seasonality: practicing what He preached, He mourned for His friend Lazarus, even though He was about to resurrect him (John 11). Some who witnessed the event questioned why Jesus did not simply heal the man; others, struck by overwhelming beauty, marveled at His love.

As Samwise recognised, evil is a corruption, a deviation from what was originally intended; after all, there was no death in the Garden of Eden. Yet God, in His ultimate sovereignty, has worked even evil together for good by weaving it into a beautiful story of redemption (Romans 8:28). Where sin abounds, grace abounds all the more (Romans 5:20); though death persists, it has been "swallowed up" in an unstoppable spiral (1 Corinthians 15:55). In this way, He has made everything beautiful.

Eternal Life as Circular Time

I really enjoyed this article on how different cultures and religions conceptualise time. I would, however, dispute the author's claim that Christianity is based on a linear conception of time. A more accurate characterisation would be that Christ ‘closes the loop’ by transforming the finality of death into the beginning of life. Surely this is what the Christian doctrine of ‘eternal life’ signifies. Indeed, the author cites Jesus’ claim, reported in the book of Revelation, to be “the beginning and the end”; but, curiously, she does so to support her assessment of Christianity as linear.

Christianity also contains elements of the ‘place-based’ conception of time which the author attributes to indigenous religions. There is of course the Holy Land, with its prophetic significance, but numerous locations in the Bible are accorded a certain timeless quality in which events spanning the epochs somehow merge into a single pattern of experience.

I’m not saying that Christians all or always embrace a circular, spiral, or place-based view of time – and when they do, it is not always for the best. But we should remember that, contrary to the author’s implication, Christianity is not really a ‘Western’ religion at all. It began in the Middle East, of course, and – at the risk of introducing some cartographical confusion, but also in the hope of demonstrating the ironic crudeness of dividing the world into East and West – there now are about 50% more Christians in the ‘Global South’ than the ‘Global North’.

Anyway, worth a read.

The Theology of Smell

I love the sense of smell. Somehow, it seems to be more intimately connected to memory than the other senses. Apparently there's even research showing that the smell of cut grass reduces stress, likely because it elicits childhood nostalgia. Yet, paradoxically, it seems harder to vividly remember a smell at will than, say, a sound or a sight. There is something ephemeral yet eternal about the sense of smell.

When you think about it, this makes perfect sense (no pun intended). Smell was arguably our first ever sensation, for our very life was born (and reborn) when God breathed His Spirit into our nostrils. Even now, we can't live without inhaling, without inspiring - without smelling.  And it is no wonder, I think, that virtually all of my favourite smells pertain to the earth or 'earthiness' in general (see below). Since we were formed from the earth, it is plausible that the earth was the first thing we ever smelled.  If smell was our first ever sensation, and the earth was our first ever smell, then the smell of the earth was our first ever experience, our first ever memory.

Smell is therefore more than a sense, more than a sensation; somehow it embodies our union with life, the universe, and everything. Indeed, smells can even evoke memories that we never knew we had. For example, one of the reasons I moved next to the sea is because I love the smell - it reminds me of the time when the earth was without form and void, when the inscrutable chaos that holds everything together was all there was. I didn't grow up by the sea; but my Father did, so it's in my genes, in my Genesis.

Over time, I've compiled a list of my favourite smells. These are not necessarily the smells that I consider to be the most interesting; for example, I find the smell of petroleum utterly fascinating, but in a purely analytical, rather than sentimental, way. Conversely, there are a myriad of smells which I find lovely, but not sufficiently profound; I would place vanilla, lavender, and several other 'scented-candle' fragrances in this category, for instance.

Finally, I'd note that I could have equally compiled a list of my least-favourite smells, i.e. smells that I most hate. But, other than a few possible surprises, such as fried bacon and Axe body-spray, such a list would be disappointingly unremarkable, not to mention needlessly unpleasant.

So, here they are - my favourite smells, ranked in order of favouriteness. (I will of course add to the list as I encounter new and forgotten smells.) For each smell, I've also added a list of Biblical word associations (to which I also reverse the right to add).

1) The earth before it rains; the earth while it rains; the earth after it rains. Associations: out of the dust; the early and the latter; Highways to Zion.

2) The cool, damp smell at the end of a hot summer day; the cool, damp smell of the forest. Associations: it was good; the shadow of the Almighty; we are indeed His offspring.

3) Coffee; cardamom; cocoa. Associations: blessed are those; the earth is the Lord's; see how He loved him.

4) Chopped wood; burning wood; burnt wood. Associations: dwelt among us; I will be with you; God will provide.

5) Freshly cut grass; freshly baked anything. Associations: all things new; I shall not want; the healing of the nations.

6) The sea. Associations: in the beginning; deep calls to deep; You are there.

The Bible equates breath with spirit - the very ruach of God, the very pneuma by which all things live and move and have their being. Insofar as smell is related to breath, it is therefore essentially spiritual. But then, at the end of the day, I suppose everything is.

Sunday-School Christianity: Taking off our Training Wheels

I can still remember the first time I rode a bike without training wheels. At first, it was frightening - I had to trust that, as long as I kept pedalling, the bike would stay upright. I had seen others do it, but it still seemed like such an impossible feat. But once I got going, I never looked back. Riding a bike suddenly become not only fun, but also useful - I could actually get places!

I think that our Christian faith sometimes works like that. Take the Old Testament Law, for example. In Galatians 3:24-25, Paul tells us that "the Law was our guardian until Christ came, in order that we might be justified by faith. But now that faith has come, we are no longer under a guardian...". The Law, in other words, acted as set of training wheels. Its purpose was to 'train' us in proper conduct ('guardian' is alternately translated 'teacher' or 'tutor') and to make us respect the actual laws that govern the universe (gravity/God). When God Himself came to show us how to live, it became redundant. 

In fact, as Paul elaborates in several letters, it became a hindrance (e.g. Romans 7). Clinging to the Law when we already have Christ would be like insisting on using training wheels even after you've learned how to ride without them - you would be unnecessarily constrained. Paul therefore exhorts his readers to cast off the shackles of the Law and live in the freedom of Christ. As for Gentile believers, who bypassed the Law and went straight into free-style, the apostles gave them a condensed version of Law just to make sure they didn't hurt themselves (Acts 15).

Taking the analogy further, training wheels only really work on flat, smooth ground. When you start to navigate uneven terrain, they may actually destabilise you, because they prevent you from adjusting the angle of your bike to align with the real force of gravity (i.e. God). When Jesus healed on the Sabbath, for example, He was actually staying more 'upright' than the Pharisees who accused him of breaking the Law (e.g. Matthew 12; Mark 3; Luke 6, 13-14; John 9). Rather than obsessing with the letter of the Law, He lived by its spirit - which he helpfully spells out for us in Matthew 7:12/22:40 -  and thus obeyed its real lesson.

Unfortunately, the kind of inhibiting, destabilising legalism exhibited by the Pharisees persists in modern Christianity. For example, I've written elsewhere about a simplistic, Sunday-School formula of salvation, whereby Christians go to Heaven when they die, leaving the Earth behind to live forever. While this may be a handy way of capturing some important truths, and is therefore useful for teaching children or new believers, the truth is actually that Heaven comes to Earth. If we refuse to discard the training-wheel doctrine, we therefore deprive ourselves of living in new dimensions of faith, in which the Kingdom of Heaven can be here and now (Matthew 6:9-13; Luke 17:21). What is more, we may be inclined to treat the Earth with neglect or even contempt, thus acting, like the Pharisees, in a way that is completely antithetical to the Gospel.

To be clear, I am emphatically not suggesting that we disregard the Bible or question its core doctrines, which are as indispensable as the bicycle's frame. However, we should always be digging deeper, moving from "milk" to "meat" (Hebrews 5:11-6:3; 1 Corinthians 3:2). Paradoxically, it takes faith to reconsider one's faith - but if we don't, we'll be stuck with a set of rusty, squeaky old training wheels.

The Purpose of Mystery: Letting the Bible Read Us

Theologically conservative Christians often give the impression that the Bible is completely uncontroversial, that the entirety of its truth can be unambiguously comprehended. At the extreme, the Christian faith is reduced to a list of unequivocal, categorical doctrines - accept them and you're in, doubt them and you're out. It may seem strange, then, that I've learned more from such folk about the mystery of the Bible than I have from anyone else.

The resolution of this paradox, I think, lies in the conservative approach to scripture. Whereas liberal believers are disposed to conflate mystery with relative truth, using it as a license to stray into erroneous territory, the conservative approach demands Biblical precision. By the same token however, if you really take the Bible seriously, you are confronted inescapably with mystery. The result is a difficult, beautiful, and authentic tension whereby we accept the Word as both inerrant and enigmatic.

To be sure, theological conservatives are inclined to sidestep this tension with apologetic acrobatics. While there is certainly a place for this kind of philosophy - as rational beings, we do have an urge to resolve conundrums, and as believers, we are called to defend to our faith against worldly argumentation (e.g. 1 Peter 3:15) - I would suggest it suffers from two inherent weaknesses.

Firstly, there are some mysteries that are explicitly identified as such in the Bible, and therefore cannot be 'explained away'. Considering the conservative fixation with systematic eschatology, perhaps the most pertinent example is found in Acts 1:7, where Jesus tells the apostles: "It is not for you to know times or seasons that the Father has fixed by His own authority." In Matthew 24:36 (emphasis added), he goes further, relating to His disciples: "But concerning that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only." A significant amount of scripture is dedicated to the "day and hour" and "times and seasons" in question - namely, Jesus' own return - and yet we are told in no uncertain terms that it is essentially inscrutable!

Secondly, even when there is a way to escape a mystery, it might not behoove us to do so. The presence of mystery raises the question of why it is there in the first place; if we truly believe that all scripture is "God-breathed and useful" (2 Timothy 3:16), we must believe that inconvenient, incongruous, and seemingly incomprehensible scriptures are there for a reason other than to be 'explained away'. As I have suggested elsewhere, such passages can reveal higher truths, expose false dichotomies, and speak to the paradoxical nature of our day-to-day experience - precisely thanks to their mysteriousness.

The parables of Jesus are an especially relevant example. One would expect a parable to be used in order to make a truth easier to understand, yet Jesus tells us that their purpose is to conceal the truth, to ensure that only those who truly seek the truth will find it (e.g. Matthew 13:11-13). To truly seek the truth requires faith - faith to subject our beliefs, including our theology, to the scrutiny of scripture. This in turn requires humility, since we must never be so haughty to claim that we 'already know' what the Bible says. Only then can we 'let the Bible read us', as my theologically conservative pastor used to say.

Psychologists, philosophers, literary critics, and sociologists would tell you that this is impossible: not only do we have unconscious biases, they would aver, but meaning is itself subjective, a matter of a perspective and interpretation. Impossible for man, certainly; but certainly not for God (Luke 18:27; Colossians 1:17; cf. 1 Peter 1:20-21), whose Spirit we have received. With the Spirit, we can know the unknowable; but that requires us to set aside our earthly mode of understanding and accept that spiritual wisdom is "hidden in a mystery" (1 Corinthians 2:10-16). I, for one, am grateful that it is.