How a Grumpy Old Man Paved the Way for Me to Love My Disabled Son

 

I watched Pete heave his aged frame from his walker, gripping the handle with one hand, using the other to keep his pants from tumbling to the floor while he reinserted his belt into its loops. I knew that Pete did not want help. He still possessed enough pride to put his own pants on. An airport security agent walked down the aisle, navigating belongings strewn across the floor. He came to Pete’s shoes, gave them a kick, and exclaimed, “I don’t know why people leave things laying all over my floor.” For a brief second, my heart was torn between the desire to demand an apology, and the realization that verbally chastising a security official was not going to get us on our airplane. I stayed in my seat, but that incident marks the moment in my life when I became an advocate for persons with disabilities.

Despite one or two bright spots, I have been very uncomfortable around people with disabilities for most of my life. I responded to my discomfort by attempting to eliminate it. I never deliberately mistreated someone with a disability. I just pretended they didn’t exist.

Several years ago, I took a study trip to Israel as part of a graduate degree program. In our group of about forty people was a man named Pete, a pastor. Pete was far from what you’d expect a pastor to be. He had retired into the pastorate after a career in the Navy, and his demeanor was more suited to calling down hell-fire on those swabbing the decks than it was to declaring faith, hope, and love from the pulpit.

Pete suffered from a number of health issues, and used a walker to get around. It had a flip-down seat that would convert it into a sort of wheelchair. Together, a handful of us pushed and pulled Pete across the Holy Land. It wasn’t always easy. Even at their peak, ancient cities were not designed with accessibility in mind. Their ruins sometimes proved a challenge for the most mobile of us. Pete somehow managed to take it all in stride, while still clearly articulating his displeasure with the state of his mobility. When the terrain proved too difficult, he would find some scenic vantage point and sit quietly while the rest of us continued exploring. But, if there was any possibility that he could make it up that three-thousand-year-old cobblestone ramp, he was going to give it a try, a try laced with all the grunts, grumbles, and complaints he could muster.

There is a city called Hazor. A few thousand years ago it was an impenetrable fortress overlooking a broad valley. An enemy challenged the king’s ego, and he marched his army out of the thick walls to fight below. Today, you can see the intact stone walls still ringing the city, and the blackened remains of the palace that was burned to the ground while left unguarded. When I met Pete, I was drawn from my carefully prepared defenses against those with disabilities, and while I played in the valley, my prejudices were destroyed.

One morning, a few members of our group began complaining about Pete’s grumpy disposition. I lost my temper. On paper, this was an adventure Pete could not do, but he did it. The fact that he was unpleasant while doing portions of it made him human to me. Yes, he was grumpy. This was exceedingly difficult for him. He had good reason to be unpleasant, but he still did it. At some point I realized that his disability caused more discomfort for him than it did for me. I acknowledge that is hardly the “Aha!” moment it seemed to me at the time. Pete altered my perspective on those with disabilities. These were not anomalies of nature, difficult to understand, and best avoided. These were normal people accomplishing hard things, doing their best to overcome the obstacles they faced. Not only could I understand that, I could honor that. We should all demonstrate such courage and determination. Today, I look back on those weeks spent pushing Pete around Israel, listening to his colorful commentary, and consider myself privileged.

If you want evidence that there’s a God who is active in the world, try this on. Four months after I met Pete, my son Isaac was born. Isaac has a disability. He uses a walker to get around. It has a flip-down seat that converts it into a sort of wheelchair. He is not always happy with the challenges that he must overcome, but he tackles them nonetheless. We had to make changes, in attitude and lifestyle, as Isaac unapologetically elbowed his way into our hearts, but discomfort with who he is has never been one of those struggles. Pete already burnt that palace to the ground.

 Further reflections on our my journey parenting a child with special needs can be found in Just Breathe.

Sometimes to Love What You’ve Got, You’ve Got to Mourn What You Don’t

 

I had dreams of having sons, big dreams of hikes and bike rides and swimming holes: journeys and adventures that grew larger and more daring with the boys. There were things I wanted them to do and places I wanted them to see, places on top of mountains. Some of those dreams have come true. My sons spend hours in the backyard rummaging under bushes, returning to the house muddied, jubilantly displaying whatever critters they’ve found. We’ve hiked to beautiful vistas, camped in forests and on islands, caught turtles and frogs, even rescued a one-legged duckling. Still, mixed in among all of those great memories is one perennial reality: these adventures are not what I had dreamed.

We’ve got four sons: Jacob, Caleb, Isaac, and Adam. With the arrival of each baby, the dream was put on hold. Babies don’t hike or ride bikes. They grow in other ways, and their developing capabilities become adventures in themselves. There is a blossoming excitement watching a child wake up to the world and experience those magical moments of learning to walk, run, swim, and ride a bicycle.

 When Isaac was born everything seemed fine. He did all of the things a baby should do. He cried, slept, rolled over, sat; but then he stopped. He didn’t crawl, didn’t cruise, didn’t walk. He’d sit on the living room floor as his brothers ran around him, and cry.

My wife took him to the pediatrician for his nine-month check-up and returned with the alarming news that Isaac was nearly blind. Somewhere between six and nine months he had developed cataracts in his eyes. While the diagnosis was frightening, the solution was simple: remove the cataracts and Isaac would be able to see. He would need to wear glasses, might need some vision and physical therapy, but he’d bounce right back to “typical.” We sat with a physician who told us by the time Isaac turned five no one would ever know there had been a problem. That didn’t happen.

Therapy ran from weeks to months with little progress. It took six months for Isaac to transition from sitting to laying, a year for him to crawl. Appointments grew from follow-ups with the ophthalmologist to consultations with neurologists, geneticists, and developmental specialists. Eye check-ups grew into MRIs and biopsies. Eventually, we sat in a room with a doctor who told us it was time to formally accept what we all knew: Isaac had cerebral palsy. Somewhere, in the midst of those chaotic days, a dream died.

I need to be clear. I don’t regret Isaac. I don’t regret the journey we are on, not one teardrop, not one hour sitting in a waiting room, not one second with my stomach perched at the back of my throat, fearing the doctor’s next words. Isaac is a gift. I don’t regret him; I celebrate him. But he was far from what I expected.

The dream died quietly, unnoticed. While we raced from appointment to appointment, it sat neglected in some dusty corner of my mind and slowly faded away. One day, I found a few minutes to breathe, went looking for some excitement, some inspiration, and found that my dream was dead.

Isaac is vastly more valuable than any imaginary potential I held in my mind, but to fully embrace what life with him meant, I had to mourn the dream that would not be. That doesn’t mean I resent Isaac. He was just new and unexpected, and to embrace the new, I had to say goodbye to the old. I had to accept that something in my life had changed, something had been lost, and I had to mourn that loss. I wasn’t going to through-hike the Appalachian Trail or ride the Continental Divide with my sons (I never said the dream was realistic). Even a hike to one of my favorite local overlooks seemed daunting. I had to bid those things goodbye, feel the slow ache in my heart at the loss of a thing loved; and then turn my back on that dead thing, look toward a new life, and love it for what it was.

Family life with Isaac is still an adventure. We go on hikes and bike rides, but they are shorter and harder than the dream had promised. Instead of supplies for an extended adventure, I carry my son on my back. My waistline is slimmer, and my thighs thicker from riding up hills with an extra forty pounds on my bike. As with so many other unexpected changes in life, the loss of the old thing has cleared the way for something new, never desired or imagined, yet far more significant that what came before.

Further reflections on our my journey parenting a child with special needs can be found in Just Breathe.

A Very Brief Primer on the Questions of Omniscience, Omnipotence, and Immutability

I recently had a conversation with a friend about what it means that God “never changes.” He was raised in the church, but never really talked through these issues. He knew that God is all-knowing (omniscient), all-powerful (omnipotent), and never-changing (immutable); but really, what does that mean? For him, and you, here is a very quick primer on three ways Christians have answered that question.

These are broad overviews of four ways of thinking. They are generalizations, each of which represents a dozen related viewpoints with their own nuances and variations. Before someone jumps in with a “well, actually. . .” If you have that level of study, this piece of writing isn’t for you.

Also, there are many more answers to this question than the three I present here, but I believe these three answers fall well within traditional Christian orthodoxy. There are folks within each view who think all the others are going to Hell, but I let my umbrella provide a little more dry ground than that. And, yes, each view has a dozen or more Bible verses to support it. These are all “biblical.”

Calvinism

Regarding omniscience, Calvinism argues that God knows everything, because he determined everything that would happen in advance. Every moment of every day, every decision, has been decided ahead of time. God knew what you would have for breakfast today before you were born. God knows everything because he has planned everything to work together toward his end goal.

How does this impact omnipotence (all-powerfulness)? God possess all power, he created, directs, and controls everything. He has all power.

How does this impact immutability (unchanging)? God never changes in any way. His character remains the same, always. God never questions himself, never changes his plans, never changes his mind.

How does this impact human free will? Calvinism asserts that humans have free will to make their own decisions, but – I’ll be honest – I’ve never heard a really compelling explanation of how.

 

Arminianism

This view also affirms that God is all-knowing, but rather than dictating every moment and every decision, God’s knowledge extends to every possible outcome of any decision. While he may not know what we will do, he knows what will happen regardless of what we do. Also, while we have the freedom to choose any path, God’s encompassing knowledge often allows him to predict our actions, while still allowing us the freedom to choose.  For example, I know that my son will never ask for pancakes for breakfast, because he hates pancakes; yet, he has the freedom to request pancakes whenever he wants.

To summarize: God’s knowledge extends to every possible outcome of every possible decision, spanning all of time. His power allows him to work with our freedom to direct history towards his final, decided outcome. All paths eventually lead to him, so we are free to take any path we want. God’s character does not change, nor do his plans. He does demonstrate some flexibility in the way his plans are achieved.

Open Theism

Open theism also affirms that God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and unchanging. God possesses knowledge of all that exists and has ever existed. However, the future has not happened yet. It doesn’t exist. It is impossible to know what doesn’t exist. Therefore, at any moment in time, any decision a human faces, there is the possibility that God will be surprised. As in the Arminian view, God knows everything about us. He is often able to predict what we will do in a given moment, but we still have the freedom to choose. More than that, he doesn’t know where this decision will lead us.

Being all-powerful, God is able to respond to our decisions on the fly. He can adjust and adapt his plans to work towards his goals; but we have the power to resist and frustrate those goals. God doesn’t get what he wants all the time. While I don’t fall into the open theist camp, I think this is a compelling answer to the problem of evil and pain. God has a plan for where he wants the world to go, but gives us the freedom to make our own plans. We are invited to work with God to make this world a better place; but allowed to be selfish jerks, and he works with that as well.

This is a dynamic view of God, his character never changes, but his plans are constantly changing. This is a God who has the knowledge and power to adapt to the situation.

 

Throwing Down My Marker

Because some folks in the world can’t read an author without knowing where they stand, I’m in the Arminian camp, with some sympathy for Open Theism. However, I don’t believe this is a salvation critical issue. While I might have strong disagreements with those in other camps, or even within my own camp, these are all members of God’s family.

Conclusion

The picture attached to this post is AI generated. It's a picture of the sun setting over Bryce Canyon. Bryce Canyon faces east. It's impossible. That's what this post is, a discussion of impossibility. It is fun, maybe even important, to discuss the attributes of God, but in doing so we need to remember we are discussing things we can't understand. A seasoning of grace is vital.

A Reflection for the End of One Year and the Beginning of Another

 

This September, I had the chance to spend a few weeks teaching at a bible School in western Rwanda. As a youth, I had lived in Nigeria, but this was the first opportunity I had to return to Africa in thirty years. I was excited, but also a little nervous. Things operate differently in Africa, and as a young man I struggled to adapt to some of that. While the excitement far outweighed the anxiety, I undertook the trip unsure of how I would handle some situations.

We stayed and worked in the suburbs of the large Gisenyi-Goma, taking public transportation back and forth between our lodging and the school. Typically, we rode in minibuses, and on our first day, I was directed onto the bench seat of a particularly well-used example. At some point, the owners had removed the original factory seats, and installed replacements, which worked quite well, except for the fact that they were several inches taller than ideal. I couldn’t sit upright without my head smashing into the roof, so I sat with by backpack on my lap, and my head bent down on top of it. I didn’t count, but I suppose they squeezed five or six of us across the seat, a tight fit. I was wedged between the sliding door on one side and a young woman and her baby on the other. Once the jostling in our seat stopped, the woman began breastfeeding, which I was fine with, but space was tight and I suddenly became very aware of where my hands were. I tried to lean away from the woman – who was completely unruffled by the situation – to give her a little extra space, but to do so I had to lean against the sliding door, which the driver had to slam three times to get to stay closed. I didn’t entirely trust it.

The bus stop was on the left-hand side of the road, and the driver had stopped the minibus half on the shoulder, half in the oncoming lane of traffic. Fully loaded, he decided it was time to depart, but traffic was heavy, and there was no gap in his lane, nor in the opposing lane he’s have to cross to get to his lane; so, he just started driving. We traveled, half on the roadway, half on the shoulder, facing oncoming traffic, turning two lanes into three, for several minutes until traffic cleared and we would merge into our appropriate place. I sat, half afraid I’d fall out a rickety sliding door, half afraid to lean into my neighbor and test Rwanda’s tolerance for inadvertent groping, head bent down with neck craning to watch head-on traffic come barreling towards us. I realized there are quite a few people in my life who would have some serious problems with this situation; but . . . it was fine. Somewhere inside me, a little voice said, “Ah, there it is. We know this. This is how it’s supposed to be.”

I felt a deep sense of peace. An understanding that this was exactly where I was supposed to be, exactly what I was supposed to be doing, and it was all going to be okay; not a guarantee that the sliding door wasn’t going to fly open and send me tumbling down the roadway. That remained a very real possibility, but I felt certain if that possibility became reality, it would still be okay.  I was in God’s will, and if this was where and how it ended for me, that was fine.

We had a wonderful time in Rwanda, embraced by a gentle and hospitable people, blessed to bless the work of the church. Many things didn’t make sense to me. Many things didn’t seem like they should work out, but they did.

I came home, refreshed and encouraged, but not for long. I felt as if my feet hit the ground at the airport, I began sprinting, and didn’t stop for weeks. There was drama in some of the organizations I help to run, friends in need hadn’t come to need less in my absence, the relentless march of the news cycle, stressful enough on its own, began to have very tangible impacts on people around me. I felt stressed and exhausted, and began to wonder how it would all get done. Then, I heard that voice again. It just said, “Nate, you’re still on the bus. I’ve got this. You are where you are supposed to be. You are doing what you are supposed to be doing. I’m not saying the wheels won’t fall of this thing, but if they do, it will be okay. If you fall, it will be okay. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

That thought has stayed with me over the months. I’m still on the bus. This thing is crazy. I can’t fix it. I’m not supposed to. God’s got it under control. I don’t need to grip the steering wheel so tightly. I’m not the one driving.

A Week Home From Rwanda: Making Sense of It All

I asked AI to make an image of the center two paragraphs of this text. Other than the baby carrots, I think it did okay.
 

It’s a three or four hour drive from Kigali down to Gisenyi, and in that distance, you’d be hard pressed to paste together a mile of level road. You’re constantly climbing, descending, turning, turning; and around each bend, you’re treated to a panorama of scenery more beautiful than the last: mountains and valleys of greenery stretching to the horizon, and beyond. A thousand photographs couldn’t do it justice; but if they could, for what purpose? In a moment you’d climb or plummet around the next corner, only to find another vista requiring a thousand photographs to capture. You resign yourself to the futility of it all, to the fact that you will go home and tell your loved ones you saw the most beautiful place in the world, you’ll watch them smile a nod, and have no ability to show them – really show them – what this place is. So, you surrender, sit back in your seat, and take in one view after another, a parade of nature’s beauty enduring for hours, until you are emotionally exhausted by it, so awestruck there is no awe left in you. Then you begin to wonder, “If I can’t show them what it is, maybe I can tell them. . .”

Just outside of Kabari village, the road turns right and heads up into the mountains, but if you stand by the roadside, the hill drops away from your feet out across a valley. The village spreads out before you, pops of red, blue, and silver rooftops nestled among the thick green trees, crosscut by straight black lines of volcanic rock, piled into walls enclosing fields of dark, rich soil, piled high onto mounds and topped with bright green crop sprouts. The contrasts are amazing as they roll down and away, repeated again and again until they fade away in the thickness of the humid air; and just at that place, where the colors fade, the valley stops at the feet of the volcanos. Off to the left, set off against the blue sky, is the peak of Nyiragongo, ominous and black, distant yet impending, white steam floating off the peak and away into the wind. And it is beauty enough, more than you deserve; but off to the right, the scene is repeated again with the peak of Mikeno, just as ominous, just as impending, clouds rolling off her into the wind. The volcanos create a picture frame for the whole scene. You could stand there for a day, alone, awestruck. . .

But in Rwanda, you are never alone, especially by the roadside. There is a constant flow of trucks, motorcycles, bicycles, and pedestrians: all manner of pedestrians, children, adults, fashionable youth, elderly women, beggars, all bustling about their way, all oblivious to the beauty of the place, as if it is there for them to admire any time they want. A young mother crosses your path, a large bowl of carrots balanced on her head, a baby wrapped tightly to her back with a brightly patterned cloth. Her face is tense and serious as she makes eye contact with you, then quickly looks away. You smile, and offer her a greeting. She pauses, and looks back at you. Beginning at the corners of her eyes, the seriousness cracks, as the corners wrinkle into a smile, pulling her cheeks along for the ride. Her mouth opens in a wide grin, and that sets it all off perfectly. Her deep brown eyes, her bright white teeth, her smiling face, her carrots, her child, the hills, the houses, the fields, the mountains, the volcanos, the clouds, the sky, all contrasted together into the shocking reality of this place.

Rwanda has two nicknames, “The Land of a Thousand Hills,” and “The Land of a Thousand Smiles.” After a few days here, you begin to feel that you’ve seen all of both. The hills are relentless, never ending. The smiles are equally eternal, but slower to appear. These are a quiet people, reserved. There is history here, a scar that reaches to the heart. There are some things these people do not talk about, and a few more they’d rather not. The smiles come, but first they must know they are welcome. It’s an astounding place. The pain has inspired a reserve, a suspicion, but only on the surface. Those scars that were cut so deep released something unexpected. The heart was not filled with hatred, but optimism. This is a country which knows its problems, but also knows – with equal certainty – that there are solutions. There’s a creative spirit evidenced everywhere, volcanos turned into tourist parks, volcanic rock pulverized into road pavement, bicycles packed with produce, weighted down to the point they’re pushed up hills. It’s exhausting, in every possible, inspiring way exhaustion can be. They shouldn't be this way. It makes no sense. Yet, here it is.

All that adds up to say, I’ll probably be back.

Deconstruction as Discipleship: Rethinking the Debate with Help From John Boyd

"Christ in the Storm on the Lake of Galilee" - Rembrandt

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In a previous article, I introduced readers to John Boyd’s brief “Destruction and Creation,” offering a short description and theological analysis. In this article, I aim to probe deeper into Boyd’s system of how we create and maintain our ideas and beliefs of the world around us, and how that might provide a new way for Christians to engage the idea of deconstruction.

While he is best known for his approach to winning tactical situations (OODA and Energy-Maneuverability Theory), John Boyd’s primary area of interest focused on how we make sense of an uncertain world. In order to make decisions, plan, and navigate through life, humans and human collaborations (families, organizations, nations, etc.) require “mental concepts of observed reality.”^[1] These mental concepts take “particulars,” facts, ideas, experiences, and align them according to common threads and similarities under an organizing theme.^[2] This organizing structure of our life experiences serves as a guide for operating in the world around us.

The problem we encounter with these conceptual structures is their inherent instability. An essential element of conceptual structures is their alignment with reality, that what we believe about the world matches what we experience in the world, especially as new information from continuing life experiences is added to the body of particulars. We are constantly testing our conceptual structures for internal consistency and validity, and adjusting to new realities.^[3] At times throughout our lives, the preponderance of particulars will insist the organizing structure is no longer valid. We will need to change the way we think about the world. According to Boyd, this happens in two ways.

First, as we create conceptual frameworks, we may reach a point where we believe the structure has achieved internal consistency. We have arrived at the truth of life. When this occurs, ideas outside of the conceptual framework lose their appeal. Our conceptual system becomes closed; but we continue to test for validity and consistency within our closed system.^[4] In common terms, this is “naval gazing,” the type of tedious hair-splitting exemplified by some of our most rigid and insular institutions. The act of testing for internal consistency assumes inconsistency in a system which has declared itself consistent; yet, that system has deprived itself of the external perspective necessary to shed light on the inconsistencies. A closed system does not possess the tools to evaluate itself, and attempts to do so bring increasing instability.^[5] Boyd borrows a term from physics - entropy - to describe this situation of increasing disorder paired with a decreasing capacity for work and action, creating growing confusion and disorder, leading to eventual fragmentation.^[6] “Unless some kind of relief is available, we can expect confusion to increase until disorder approaches chaos - death.”^[7]

When dealing with individual humans, I argue there is no such thing as a truly closed system. None of us can arrive at a place where we claim to have life completely figured out and simply refuse to accept new experiences. Life goes on regardless of our opinions of it. What we can do is refuse to allow new particulars to inform our conceptual framework. We can insist every new fact, idea, and experience we encounter in life comply with our established conceptual framework. We have decided what every future life situation will mean based on our previous life experiences. In reality, this does not work. Attempts to force new information into inflexible conceptual frameworks effectively creates a closed system, into which we force particulars which do not fit the theme. The result is the growing entropy toward chaos Boyd describes. Eventually, our conceptual framework can no longer contain the internal crisis, and our philosophy of life shatters, leaving us to pick up the pieces.^[8]

A second way conceptual frameworks change is by welcoming input from outside systems. We embrace new facts, ideas, and experiences, and incorporate them into our validity and consistency tests of our conceptual frameworks. Boyd views this as the cure for the death spiral of a closed system.^[9] As we encounter more of life, we adapt our beliefs about life based on the growing body of information available to us. However, this does not ensure the perpetual survival of a given conceptual frame. A given concept may not possess the flexibility to encompass all of life’s experiences. We then choose to abandon the old system and construct something new. Boyd argues the first step in that process is shattering the old conceptual framework, leaving the particulars of life floating in a state of chaos.^[10]

Whether we have fought or embraced our way to the place of chaos, the necessary act following destruction is creation. We sort through the particulars of life, finding common threads and themes, constructing an organizing conceptual framework to guide us in the world.^[11] While this new framework offers better correlation to reality than its predecessor, it is no more stable. It offers the same options of a closed or open system, and the same eventual end of destruction, followed by a new creation. Destruction and creation is a constant cycle of life.^[12]

In the last decade, the practice of “deconstruction,” where individuals deliberately question beliefs and practices of their Christian faith in an attempt to increase consistency of the whole, has become a hot topic in the church. The results of these deconstruction efforts are diverse, with practitioners sometimes arriving outside of the faith, in a different Christian tradition, or with renewed (but altered) convictions within the tradition where they began. Likewise, the practice of deconstruction has been both celebrated and vilified by different camps within the Christian community. I believe that deconstruction is akin to John Boyd’s destruction and creation, and Boyd’s offering to this conversation is the insight that this process is not new, unique, liberating, or alarming, but rather an expression of the way humans make sense - have always made sense - of the world around them. As such, it is an invitation for the church to practice discipleship.

When the Christian faith is proposed as a closed system, in which only previously accepted particulars are admitted, and all others must either distort or be dismissed, deconstruction is the inevitable result. When that result comes, and the particulars fragment into chaos, the new system cannot be the one which previously fragmented.^[13] When a Christian tradition holds its views dogmatically, rejecting and demonizing any idea or experience not previously approved, it not only guarantees a growing entropy within itself, but when that entropy shatters the system, the over-arching conceptual framework will prove false. Phrased more practically, when a member of the church has experiences from outside the approved system, expresses doubts, or asks questions about the system, and is met with blanket disapproval and rejection, the system is almost ensuring collapse and rejection in the life of that individual. When a rigid, insular system is posed as the only way to be Christian, the collapse of that system leads to the rejection of Christianity. 

When the Christian faith is proposed as an open system, facts, ideas, and experiences are welcome to be explored. When a person in the church has experiences from outside of the system, it becomes an opportunity for conversation and growing in Christ. The role of the church can be to expose the individual to further ideas and experiences, and to help them evaluate how new experiences exist with their conceptual framework. The end journey for that individual will never be the place where they started. Their understanding of Christ will inevitably be different than when they began. This is a challenge for the church, as we are called to guide our fellow believers into mature faith; but we must also accept that salvation in Christ may have borders that extend beyond the boundaries of our particular theological traditions. The journey may not end in faith, but in an open system, the church has offered a framework which is not destined to self-destruction, and can offer guidance regarding how new particulars might contribute to a richer faith.

Finally, Boyd’s thoughts offer the reality that no spiritual journey is at its end. Despite the way some proponents and opponents of deconstruction might assert their conclusions with confidence, all human conceptual frameworks are bound for fragmentation. No conclusion is certain. There is always change. This means there is always room to offer continual partnership in discipleship.

 

 

---

^[1]John R. Boyd, “Destruction and Creation”1976), 2.

^[2]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 3.

^[3]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 3.

^[4]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 4.

^[5]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 4–5.

^[6]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 6–7.

^[7]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 7.

^[8]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 3.

^[9]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 7.

^[10]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 3.

^[11]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 3.

^[12]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 7.

^[13]Boyd, “Destruction and Creation,” 3.

Is the Universe Orderly or Chaotic? More Theological Musings on the Philosophy of John Boyd

 

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This series of articles has been offering theological conversation around the philosophy of John Boyd. Boyd was an officer in the United States Air Force, famously known for his theories on winning tactical engagements (OODA, Energy-Maneuverability). Boyd built these theories on the foundation of a much deeper study of epistemology: how we experience and make sense of the world around us. A key foundational premise in Boyd’s thinking is the idea that the Universe is, “uncertain, ever-changing, unpredictable;” the Universe is chaos.^[1] Any reliable order we find is an anomaly within a larger chaotic system. Any order we find swims in a sea of disorder.^[2]

In order to engage Boyd’s thinking on a theological level, we must address this basic question: is the Universe inherently orderly or chaotic? When I began attempting to make sense of this question, I did what all thinkers do, I asked my family and friends. I’m inclined to believe my family and friends are uniquely insightful, but don’t we all? Regardless, their answers fell into three broad themes.^[3]

 

The Universe is Orderly

Within traditional theological interpretation, order seems to be the only acceptable answer. The initial creation narrative shows God creating a series of clear categories, distinctions, and systems, even giving humanity dominion within these systems (Gen. 1:1-31). Today, we refer to these orderly systems as natural “laws,” really just observations on how nature never fails to do what it has always done. The rising and setting of the sun, the coming and going of the seasons, the inevitability of water flowing from the mountains to the sea, only to be absorbed into the air to fall on the mountains once again. The writer of Ecclesiastes appears to lament that nature is predictable to the point of boredom (1:3-9). Today, science has shown us this order pervades to the atomic level, where the spinning of one atom is matched by a partner atom, regardless of the distance between them.

An objection to this view might be human free will, the capacity of any person at any time to choose a disruptive, chaotic series of actions. To that, order advocates note that free will is not truly chaotic. It is not random or unexpected. Humans offer logical reasons for their actions, and those reasons are often attempts to attain some type of order. Even decisions designed to be disruptive tend to use that disruption to upset the status quo and establish a new order.

Scripture is rich with imagery of God repeatedly defeating chaos to bring order in life creating and sustaining ways. Whether it is the ordering of the formless void at creation, the splitting of the sea to preserve Israel, the taming of Job’s Leviathan, or the silencing of the sea with a word; God consistently tames the forces of chaos to bring order (Gen: 1:1-31; Is. 51:10; Job 41; Mt. 4:35-41). Yet, this raises an objection. Disorder remains in the world. The biblical motifs of desert and sea acknowledge the reality of times and places where the apparently orderly systems of creation do no thrive. If those elements of chaos had been completely eliminated in the creative act, we would not know of them; but here they are.

 

The Universe is Chaotic

Advocates for a chaotic universe point to the primordial “stuff” of creation. Genesis 1:2 famously declares “the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of deep (KJV).” Upon this formless nothing, God created the order which we now experience; yet, don’t experience. The narrative arc of the first few chapters of Genesis relate an initial created order which did not last. Through the Fall, a chaotic element was introduced to the world, rendering creation unstable; the chaotic realms of desert and sea maintain their domain.

Science names this chaos as entropy, the consistent loss of energy across time. The universe is winding down, and as less energy is available, order decays into disorder. Even the laws of nature which we regularly observe are subject to decay. In lived experience, we encounter this through weeds in a garden, or the messy room of a teenager. Order requires the expenditure of energy; and when energy is not available, disorder rules. Without intervention, creation seems to want to return to its initial formless and void state.

Key in this trend towards chaos is human free will. We may place logical reasons, or a desire to establish a new order, behind our decisions, but the fact remains that even our carefully reasoned order may serve selfish desires, detrimental to nature and humanity. The ability to choose a path which degrades the quality and even possibility of life is a chaotic element.

Genesis tells the story of God moving chaos to order, but also the story of humanity’s freedom to resist that order; and the Universe’s tendency to return to disorder. In this system, any order we find is the expenditure of a creating or sustaining energy into a Universe which desires to fall apart. Any remnant of creation which remains is an act of grace.

 

We Can’t Know

Some of the friends and family I polled declined to answer, arguing it is impossible to know. The breadth and efficacy of human observation and judgment is notoriously limited. Perhaps what we see as chaos has an order on a magnitude we cannot see. Maybe what we see as a routine ordering of events sows seeds of chaos on a grand scale. We simply can’t know.

 Scripture attests to this in several ways. The story of Joseph is that of a young man sold into chaos, despised by his brothers who faked his death and sent him to Egypt as a slave, and later imprisoned on the false accusations of his employer’s wife. Yet, decades later, as one of the most powerful men in Egypt, and reconciled with his family, Joseph reflected, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good (Gen. 50:20 NIV).”

On a broader scale, several biblical books seem to live in tension. The Pentateuch describes God’s ordered creation, and the laws by which man must live to be blessed as God’s people. Yet, Job offers the story of a man who is faithful, and despite - or perhaps even because of - that faithfulness, experiences calamitous tragedy. When he lodges a grievance with God, the only response he receives is, “Are you God?” Likewise, Proverbs presents the orderly praise of wisdom, and pithy couplets advising the surest way to live a good life. Yet, Ecclesiastes laments the uncertainty of finding satisfaction in this life, the futility of human striving. Even the Bible itself, while attesting to an orderly God, leaves open the question of whether we can rest in a reliable, orderly world.

 

Conclusion

While we can debate whether the universe is ordered or disordered, whether we are on an island of disorder floating in a sea of order; or an island of order floating in a sea of chaos, scripture does attest that order is our final destination. While the monsters of chaos have some dominion in the world, scripture repeatedly represents their defeat at the hands of God. The book of Revelation offers the promise of a coming time when the forces of chaos are cast into a lake of fire, and a new Earth is established free from their influence (chs. 20-21). For the time being, we are left in a situation where the reality is uncertain. Are we floating in a sea of order or chaos?

 

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^[1]John R. Boyd, “Conceptual Spiral”1976), 33.

^[2]John R. Boyd, “John Boyd’s ‘Conceptual Spiral’ Presentation”1976), 41:00 Boyd’s exact quote is, “Linear phenomena swims in a non-linear sea.”

^[3]Special thanks to Dr. Geoffrey Bruschi, Yvonne and Daniel Cabrol, Ashleigh and Ryan Cagno, Doris and Galen Hackman, Jeremy Krider, Gloria and Steve Mann, Michael Milunic, Andrew Ruggiero, and Jon Zabick for their insights on this topic.