God – Page 3 – Scribbling Theology

“Almost everyone can agree that one of the big differences between us and our ancestors of five hundred years ago is that they lived in an ‘enchanted’ world, and we do not.”
Charles Taylor

If I had to distil my entire life into one thing, it would be the search for ‘magic.’ From an early age, I was fascinated by other and bigger things. I remember running around in the yard trying to dig up fossils, reading books about ancient Egypt, and going to the science centre for my birthday (all I wanted were Pokemon Cards). I loved reading books like Eragon, Harry Potter, and The Chronicles of Narnia. My favourite video games as a kid were anything with a sword or gun, but in particular, it was The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (OoT), released on November 21 1998, that I loved the most. I played the heck out of that thing. For those who don’t know, OoT is the first attempt at an open-world 3d game and is considered by many to be the greatest video game of all time, scoring almost a perfect score on every gaming website. In the game, you could trek into deep forests, climb high mountains, swim rivers and lakes, visit populated villages, and save princesses. But the most essential element in the game was that the world felt more alive, authentic, and meaningful than the one I lived in.

Now, you can chalk all this up to a young boy indulging in escapism, having a wild imagination, not yet matured. I get that. If that’s the case, I’ve never grown up. Maturity, for me, has been less about searching for the magic in the world and more about realising it was here all along. Western Culture (the Church has a massive role in this) has veritably done away with the world in the wardrobe, the sacred groves in the forests, the transcendent high places that strike awe in the beholder, and traded it in for formulas, fast food spirituality and living—a bland, tasteless existence. Can you hardly blame me then for chasing hedonism in place of ‘magic?’ The moment I was able to, I chased women, started clubbing, and partying in a desperate bid to experience the world afresh. However, much like the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, it was all meaningless. I needed more. I wanted more. I craved something more until, one day, I tasted a bit of that lost ‘magic.’

I would love to tell you that once I met Jesus, everything changed, life got better, and the drudgery of life washed away in a sea of awe and wonder. It didn’t. The decision to follow Jesus has been met with suffering and hardship: death, divorce, broken hearts, depression, and a lot of uncertainty and doubt. Christianity hasn’t made things clearer for me. What it has done, however, is rebuilt me through trials in a way life never would have in and of its own.

When I met Jesus, it was off the back of a failed relationship that had gone through an abortion. I was still interested in something other than life, but ultimately, the decision to try out Jesus was just another day and another choice. There was no voice from heaven, no beam of light, no stirring deep within my soul. I just decided that Jesus probably had some good things to say and was worth listening to. Since then, over the years, slowly but surely, Jesus has peeled back the layers of my disenchanted heart and shown me that what I was looking for was under my nose the entire time. Salvation for me has been a slow transformative process, not a single instant event. The Cross is less about (but not void of) any atonement theory and more about a pathway into the world unified unto God, the created world, and My Self. As I nerded out over theology, the bible, and spirituality, I realised every church and gathering could be a sacred grove. Every door opened could have a Narnia behind it. Every road travelled could be turned into a pilgrimage. I’ve been a Christian for over ten years, and I can say that God hasn’t finished turning this mess into a slightly less mess.

I look forward to where He’ll have me in another ten. For now I will leave you with this quote:

The Christian story of incarnation in the body of a boy- a boy whose ancestors were both famous and infamous – is one that can spur us towards living with the courage that is indigenous to us. To be human is to be in the image of something good, and image comes from imagination. To be human is to be in the imagination of God, and the imagination is the source of integrity as well as cracks. To be born is to be born into a story of possibility, a story of failure, a story of imagination and the failure of imagination. To be born is to be born with the possibility of courage. Hello to courage.
Pádraig Ó Tuama

The Church of Eden

10/03/202414/08/2025 Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

Some people, in order to discover God, read books. But there is a great book: the very appearance of created things. Look above you! Look below you! Note it. Read it. God, whom you want to discover, never wrote that book with ink. Instead, He set before your eyes the things that He had made. Can you ask for a louder voice than that?

Saint Augustine. The City of God, Book XVI

In my experience, Christianity and nature don’t go together. I think a lot of us Protestants are scared of making an idol out of cheese. Stepping out and getting any spiritual substance from nature feels like pagan worship. Nevertheless, for thousands of years, the Church and even the Old Testament Jews have had a rich tradition of finding God not only in the pages of sacred texts or within the walls of a temple or a church but in nature itself. For me, church on a Sunday can get boring. Nature doesn’t. At church, we have baptisms in a font. In nature, God baptises the world with ever-winding rivers, boundless oceans, and tranquil lakes. At church, we have choirs and bands that stir a crowd. In nature, God stirs the heart with the clap of the trees, the melody of the wind, and the euphony of the animals. At church, we preach from the Scriptures to teach, correct, and rebuke. In nature, God strikes the reader with awe as we pore over the stars. In church, we meet with God in sometimes clinical rituals, polished halls, and typically with masks on. In nature, we meet with God in untamed sacraments, wild establishments, and unmasked hearts.

I’m not a hippy. I don’t hug trees, and I’m not about to join PETA. I’m not even a good environmentalist. I love long showers, I’m often lazy with recycling, and I love a good steak. (and wings). There are days, weeks even where I’d rather spend my time playing video games, binging the Big Bang Theory, and scrolling through Facebook. I love rainy days, coffee, and sleeping in. As much as I know nature is a good place for me to be, it takes more effort than I’m proud to admit to get amongst. Nevertheless, when I’m forced to climb that mountain and see that view, or when I’m walking along the esplanade and I see the ocean stretched out before me, I’m always struck, even just a little, by how God takes up and dwells in more than the four walls of a church.

Elsewhere, I argue that our churches should be a slice of paradise. A taste of the newly created earth. A miniature Eden and a sacred space. I can’t remember the last time, if ever, where I felt awe-inspired, moved, and truly like I was treading hollowed ground in a church. Particularly within the Protestant tradition, we have demystified, disenchanted, and robbed our sacred spaces of their “magic.” We’ve traded awe and wonder for fog machines and light. We’ve sold profound unity and community and bought programs. We’ve replaced stories and myths with conversations about the weather and movies. We’ve exchanged God’s presence for “doing church.”

In the beginning, God created the world; it was wild and waste; there was darkness and chaos, but God’s Spirit hovered over the deep. Over six days, God moulded the world. He placed the stars, the sun, and the moon in the sky and gave them purpose. God divided the seas above from the waters below, filled them, and gave them purpose. He raised trees, shrubs, bushes, mountains, oceans, rivers, and streams from the earth and gave them purpose. God filled the world with birds, fish, and land animals and gave them purpose. He created humanity and gave them purpose. Finally, on the seventh day, God dwelled with what He had made, and there was purpose and goodness. This is how things are supposed to be in our local churches. Our local churches should feel like we’ve tasted a bit of heaven. Goodness, purpose, God’s presence, unity, flourishing, and life should all be markers of a healthy church. Yet I talk to people who experience emptiness, frustration, shallow relationships, trivial teachings, and superficial prayers every week. It seems that our churches are less Eden and more Tower of Babel.

2024

17/02/202414/08/2025 Camaron G. W. SmithLeave a comment

Some may or may not know I took a year off writing (despite this, I’ve had the most views since I started writing). In 2023, I posted one blog (I felt compelled then). It is 2024, and I’m slowly emerging out of blogging hibernation. From my first blog in 2015 to my next, as is faithful with most things in life, my theology and thoughts on Christian spirituality have evolved. I look back on my first blog and chuckle. I’m sure I’ll look back on 2024 in another ten years and cringe. Since I started blogging, I’ve started and graduated from bible college. I’ve married and remarried. I’ve gone through different jobs, moved around, and gone through various churches (finally, I’ve found a nice one to rest in). I’ve had my doubts and struggles. I’ve wanted to walk away from the faith. I’ve wanted to give up and try other things. Yet here I am, still tripping after Jesus (good blog title).

So what does this year hold for Scribbling Theology? More meaningless ramblings of a guy who has literally no idea what he’s talking about (I guarantee that). We’ll discuss God’s creation, beauty and some of the not-so-traditional ways of engaging with God. On the flip side, we’ll discuss the importance of finding a healthy community of believers where you can flourish. We’ll talk about liturgy and the importance of ancient rituals and beliefs. We’ll talk about how stories, both new and old, can transform us and lead us deeper into ourselves (collectively and individually) and into the presence of God. I’ll review a book or two (to start you off read, “How to Know a Person by David Brooks”), a podcast or three and maybe spin a poem. I don’t know where I’ll start or finish. But as always, Scribbling Theology has been an outlet, a creative and even spiritual practice that has helped me to release and vent my own thoughts.

Jesus Wept: A Short Theological Reflection on Grief

31/05/202216/08/2025 Camaron G. W. Smith1 Comment

The darker the night, the brighter the star. The deeper the grief, the closer is God!
Apollon Maykov

Jesus wept. John 11:35 is the shortest verse in the Bible and perhaps the most human. I love this verse because, as I’ve argued elsewhere, if you want to know what it means to be a human, look no further than Jesus. Here, we have permission to weep and lament over the brokenness around us. For Jesus, this was the death of Lazarus and the pain and anguish it caused those closest to him. Jesus didn’t stoically trust in God’s plan (despite knowing He would resurrect Lazarus shortly after). Still, neither did He lose all hope under the crushing weight of grief. Jesus responded as the perfect human should; He lamented with genuine tears without losing sight of the future hope. Like the Psalmist, Jesus cries out in distress as He trusts in God’s deliverance (Psalm 55:16-18).

John 11:35 doesn’t just permit humans to grieve; it also shows us who God is. He is the kind of God who steps into our darkest moments. Yahweh weeps when we weep and feels just as burdened with the brokenness as we are (even more so). Despite some people’s tendency to pit the New Testament God against the Old Testament God, we shouldn’t be surprised to find the grieving God revealed in Christ in the Hebrew Scriptures.

Perhaps the first time God explicitly grieves is during the flood account, where “the LORD regretted that he had made humanity on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart” (Genesis 6:6). Interestingly when I read this story earlier in my Christian journey, I always thought God was mad with everyone for being evil (which they were). So, he sends a flood to destroy the earth in a fit of rage. However, the passage suggests that the flood is in response to human sinfulness and God’s grief. Anger and grief aren’t mutually exclusive emotions. We can be highly irrational when we’re emotional, even when being emotional is the most rational response.

Nevertheless, it is essential to note here that the passage highlights God’s grief as the emotional response, not anger. One can only speculate why. Some of my most grief-filled times have been because people I deeply loved not just broke my heart but went down a path I knew wasn’t good for them, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Here I can imagine God breaking down over the choices of the world as they were dominated by sin and, in turn, perpetuated sin into the world. Now, there are a lot of ideas and interpretations of the flood account (Genesis 6-9). However, there is one place I can land on here, and that’s this story is a commentary on all of our lives. All of us have participated in the brokenness and evil that has dominated this world since Genesis 3. God grieves for each, and every one of us as the renewal of the world edges closer and closer.

God’s grief in the flood account may come as a shock to some. The destruction of the world and everyone in it doesn’t seem like an appropriate response to grief. This is difficult to reconcile with God’s character elsewhere in the Bible. I have no easy answers. I know that the Bible portrays God as one who is intimately involved with His creation (Genesis 1-3), that He is merciful, kind, and slow to anger (Exodus 34:6-7), and that He loves the world so much that He sent Jesus to rescue it (John 3:16). Yet, God deals justly with the problem of sin, and I believe that Genesis 6-9 is a window into what will happen when Jesus returns and ushers in the New Heavens and Earth. As I’ve argued here, the flood isn’t just about removing sin and the destruction of the world; it is about renewal and God rescuing humanity.

Another notable passage where grief is mentioned in the Bible is in Isaiah 53:3, where “the arm of the LORD” is said to be “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.” In the New Testament, this mystery person is revealed to be Jesus the Messiah (Matthew 8:14-17; John 12:37-41; Luke 22:35-38; 1 Peter 2:19-25; Acts 8:26-35; Romans 10:11-21). Even a cursory reading of the Gospels will demonstrate how Jesus was acquainted with grief. Perhaps we see this clearly in the garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus says, “my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.” The author of Hebrews fleshes this out when he says, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin” (Hebrews 4:15). Finally, we see in Revelation that the suffering servant is the one who wipes every tear from our eyes in the new creation (Revelation 21:4).

There is much to grieve about in one’s life—the death of a loved one, the state of the world, divorce. I have heard that life is just a series of traumatic events we learn to manage and grieve. You could have everything and still be “a man of sorrows.” As I survey the Bible, I see how God justly deals with sin but is genuinely grieved over the state of the world. In particular, I see Jesus in the Gospels, where God is most human, and humanity is most in touch with God – I am comforted to know that the grief I experience, the depression, and the sorrow, is not overlooked. It is shared in by a God who could easily transcend the sufferings of this life. Those who mourn are blessed, for God is near them (Psalm 34; Matthew 5:4).

Other related blogs:

Existential Christianity

When Doing Normal Christianity Just Doesn’t Work

BoJack Horseman: Nihilism and How the Gospel Heals Our Deepest Despair Part I