On Predicting the Future

Bad Future Predictors

by Ben Howard 

Contrary to what your semi-annoying friend from high school posted on Facebook, Back to the Future Day has not yet occurred. In Back to the Future 2, Doc and Marty travel to October 21st, 2015, thirty years into their future. 2015. 1985. 1955. This is a time travel movie for the OCD crowd.

A little more than two years removed from that date, I think it’s safe to say that Back to the Future 2, though a fine movie, did a pretty poor job of predicting the future. There are no self-tying shoelaces (not that it kept Nike from gobbling up a patent on the idea), no hover boards, no mini-microwaveable pizzas that come out full-sized, and sadly the Cubs will not win the World Series (I’m pretty certain of this).

Also, there are no flying cars. Nowhere. Yet, there are always flying cars in the future.

When movies or TV shows set their stories in the future they inevitably over-predict the future.  Either the world will be populated by self-tying shoes and flying cars, or else the entire world will fall off the cliff into a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Our visions of the future are so extreme, so hyperbolic, because we can’t really stand the idea of the future looking very much like the present.  Or maybe it’s that we are engaging in the equivalent of children telling bedtime stories to one another, telling fantastic tales to entertain, or getting ourselves freaked out about what is almost certainly hiding in our closet. Since we can’t see over the horizon into tomorrow, we must write our stories and write them large. Since we can never live in anything but the present reality, any and all depictions of the future will be emotionally jarring. We will always feel the anxiety of a time-traveler when we tell these kinds of stories.

Church of the Future?

But that’s an inauthentic way to view the future. It’s not how the future will feel to us when it exists. When the future becomes the present we won’t think of it as “the future” it will just be what exists, now. It won’t necessarily be better or worse, it’ll just be different.

I read a lot of posts on the future of evangelicalism and the future of the church and this tendency to over-predict the future is present in almost every one. Inevitably someone will say that the church is dying, or that evangelicalism is dying, or that we’re on the verge of a new resurgence in the church, or that we’re on the precipice of something new in the Christian world.

However, when you begin to peel back the layers of these predictions, whether they foretell doom and disaster or growth and renewal, they are ultimately not about the future at all. They are about the concerns of the present. Warnings about the death of the church are another way of calling the church to be better; predictions of expansion and renaissance are hopeful projections that the church can keep doing something good, that they can hold it together.

The future will always be a continuation of the present colliding with the unpredictable and the unexpected.  It rarely follows a linear trajectory, and it’s rarely so boring as to be predictable. It’s impossible to live or prepare for a future world that doesn’t exist, and even if it was possible, it wouldn’t be helpful.

We can only live in the present. We can only deal with the issues we have at the moment, not the issues we might have down the line. We’ll inevitably change and adapt. We’ll think differently about some things and some of the obvious truths of the present will become antiquated.

I think we like talking about the future because it lets us put our dreams, and conversely, our nightmares on display. It grants us a way to talk about how we view our day to day existence without having to interact too fully with the present. It allows us to view a world where all the problems we have today are replaced by the solutions of tomorrow. It allows us to experience the rewards at the end of the long struggle known as history without experiencing the pain, trauma, and cynicism along the way.

But that future, the one that solves the problems of the present, will never exist, and that’s okay.

There is always hope...

There will always be injustice, even if we find justice for the oppressed of our time. There will always be war, even if we find peace between today’s warring parties. There will always be pain, even if we tend the wounds and dry the tears of those who hurt right now.

This isn’t cynicism; it’s real life.

 
And when the new struggles come, when the future we’ve always dreamed of comes tantalizingly close, only to be pulled away in an avalanche of the present, the church and the world, both broken as always, will pull themselves up by their non-self-tying boot straps and continue to fight the good fight motivated by something beyond themselves: hope.

Peace,
Ben

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Laments for Lent

#228 by David Sweeney

by JaneAnn Kenney

“…it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.” –Lamentations 3:26

I grew up in churches that had little use for the Christian calendar. My understanding of Lent has been largely trial-and-error, without the guidance of church practice. For years, I would give something up from Ash Wednesday to Easter (pizza, alcohol, certain dorky computer games…), and I felt the pain of an extended fast. This year, however, I’ve added a discipline to my life rather than taking away a luxury, and I’m finding the experience profoundly enlightening.

My fascination with Lamentations began long ago, as a sophomore in college, writing for my Old Testament class. Jeremiah’s brief hope in chapter three shone like a beacon across the dark sea of my life, caught at age 19 in the despair of the stark reality of mortality and how easily life is taken away, how quickly those who survive are forever changed, so deeply as to be unrecognizable even to themselves.

Jeremiah’s despair in the other four chapters mirrored my own despondency, giving words to the abandonment I felt deep within my soul. I wish I had understood then that the despair which returned to him after his moment of hope would come to me as well. I wish I’d known that the brevity of that hopeful interlude didn’t mean I was broken or faithless, as though it should have lasted forever, but rather that I was granted a respite in order to gain strength for what was to come.

Enough abstractions! You deserve some concrete insight. Three days before leaving my brand new house in Kentucky for my brand new college in Texas, I saw a man die in my front yard—unnatural causes. It’s far too much for a blog post, all of my feelings and the repercussions, but the feeling that engulfed me as I came to know he was really and truly dead in front of me… it was like an eclipse that goes on too long, leaving the world cold, even in the sunshine of a mid-afternoon in August. Chaos swirled around me as though displaced by demons’ feet.

I didn’t shake that feeling before my freshman orientation, or even during my (seemingly) endless freshman year. I felt alone among my peers; who could understand how the death of a stranger had destroyed the world as I knew it and, therefore, myself as I knew me? Sophomore year was that shaft of sunlight, when I thought I was good, when I felt hopeful and like myself again, and then. Well, and then life went on, and despair returned, and I could no longer say that Pete’s death was the sole cause of my darkness.

With these things in mind, I decided to focus on Lamentations for my Lenten observance. What can I learn on the other side of that pain? Leading up to Good Friday, can I learn to wait quietly?

#33 by David Sweeney

And so, I am reading one chapter of Lamentations a day, Monday through Friday. By the time Lent is over, I will have read the book through about six times. Each week, I read a new translation which allows both for new insights and dwelling on persistent themes which recur, without respect to translation. So far, I’ve covered the NIV, NRSV, ESV, and part of the Message.

What I’ve seen:

“Her uncleanness was in her skirts; she took no thought of her future; therefore her fall is terrible; she has no comforter. ‘O Lord, behold my affliction, for the enemy has triumphed!’” (1:9, ESV)

I know you didn’t sign up for my biography, so I’m not going to give you any more now. Suffice to say, if this verse resonates with you, it sure as hell resonates with me. I took no thought of my future, the fall was terrible, and I’ve been years learning to stand again. I just pray to God I’ve learned as much as I think I have from that second darkness.

(and I thought, is any suffering like my suffering?)

“And you passersby, look at me! Have you ever seen anything like this? Ever seen pain like my pain, seen what he did to me, what God did to me in his rage?” (1:12, the Message)

She sounds angry—“Can you believe this was God?” How often do I sound like this—can you believe what God is doing to me now? It’s dangerous without a prophet around to assign cause and effect to our suffering or to anyone else’s, so don’t hear me saying that the bad that happens to me or anyone else is punishment. Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t. The real question is, am I comfortable being angry at God? Does he deserve it? Surely I’m not alone in saying, “Well, maybe…”  And not being alone is enough.

(my people have become heartless)

 “See, O Lord, how distressed I am; my stomach churns, my heart is wrung within me, because I have been very rebellious” (1:20, NRSV)

“My stomach drops and my guts churn.” You know that song? I resisted writing what came to mind when I read this verse, but Amy Winehouse and lament go well in a sentence together, I think. What wasted talent, what a hard life, and how quickly ended. Next time you read Lamentations, picture Amy as the woman Jerusalem, crying out to God, stunningly ignorant about why she suffers. Both deserve our tears.

#454 by David Sweeney

(she weeps bitterly in the night)

 “Look at us, God. Think it over. Have you ever treated anyone like this?” (2:20, the Message)

In context, this isn’t terribly hopeful. Being out of context doesn’t help either, really—“You don’t even treat our enemies so badly!” And yet, perhaps the woman, Jerusalem (Amy), finds solace in a community of suffering. This is no longer her battle alone. She will not be exiled alone. And what of us? Are we in exile? How would we know if we’re in exile? Shall we assume we’re in exile until we hear otherwise, being aliens in the land?

(He will regard them no more)

 “For the Lord will not cast off forever, but, though he cause grief, he will have compassion according to the abundance of his steadfast love; for he does not afflict from his heart or grieve the children of men” (3:31-33, ESV)

His heart’s not in it. Against this angry God we think we learned from the Old Testament, against a God defined by vengeance, I love to see his heart’s not in it.

(there may yet be hope)

“Those who once feasted on delicacies perish in the streets; those who were brought up in purple embrace ash heaps; [people like me who were well-educated found it meant nothing]” (4:5, ESV)

Sometimes when reading the laments, parallels to today present themselves. I’ve seen more of them the longer I’ve been reading these words, over and over. It seems an appropriate, middle-class American emendation to the text.

(there may yet be hope)

Redactions for today (from lament 5, NRSV):

With a yoke on our necks we work long hours;

                we are so tired, but there’s no time to rest.

Our forebears sinned; they are no more,

                but we continue in their sins, learning nothing.

The joy of our hearts has ceased;

                our dancing has been turned to mourning.

Are we now in exile and forgotten

                in a land deceptively accepting of you?

Will you not restore us after so long?

                Please do.

- Lamentations 3:29

JaneAnn tries to rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn, and her favorite people are those who try to do the same. Follow her on Twitter @JAKof3Ts.

Special thanks to David Sweeney for putting his work online so I could happen upon it at the right time. Check out his stuff at http://www.davidsweeneyart.com/works/b/david-sweeney. 

You can also follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.

This I Pray

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” - Martin Luther King Jr.

“Mankind must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love.” - Martin Luther King Jr.

by Ben Howard

If you've been following the news at all for the last few months you'll be familiar with the Jerry Sandusky scandal at Penn State. There is no defense for the actions committed by Sandusky or for the coverup allegedly perpetrated by Penn State officials including head coach Joe Paterno. It is nothing less than a tragedy and it should be recognized as such.

It's only natural in circumstances like these to feel a profound sense of injustice. Even if the perpetrators are punished to the fullest extent of the law it will seem a hollow victory. The crimes in question are too horrific, the violation of trust too deep and too painful. The emotion of the crime and subsequent coverup overwhelms the limits of punitive justice and it isn't fair, it won't be.

In this search for an elusive justice and a sense of catharsis it becomes easier and easier to embrace hate and assign blame. In the Penn State scandal in particular there is no shortage of possible villains, yet in this hunt for retribution we, as a society, run the risk of dehumanizing those we condemn.

We hope to find peace in destruction. We hope to find release in revenge and retaliation. Maybe if one more person is held responsible, maybe if one more lawsuit is filed, maybe if one person serves time behind bars, it will somehow fill the void. I fear, however, that all they bring us is the emptiness that comes from trying to fill the hole of our injustice with the pain and sorrow of others.

I don't know what to say to the victims. I can't begin to understand the pain, isolation, confusion and frustration that comes with something as horrific as this. I can't say it'll all be better. It's senseless and brutal and wrong and I do not know what will make it better. I can only pray that with love and time redemption is possible in all things.

I pray the same thing for those responsible. I can't begin to understand the reasons for such actions, but to quote one of my favorite songs, “Not to undermine the consequence, but you are not what you do.” The divine spark still exists and God is a God of redemption and hope in the midst of the depths.

I pray for reconciliation and redemption, for love and the ability to heal, for peace and for hope.

Peace,

Ben

You can contact me on Twitter @BenHoward87, email me or just leave a comment.