The Tsiological Orangutan: The Rest of the Story

Josh and I talk sometimes. We talk about tea and papers and chocolate and philosophy and pears and love. Mostly about love, really, though chocolate comes in a close second. Each of us has experienced love, and then at times not experienced love, so it's a subject of great interest to us. We talk about people being together and apart, and how the former is generally a great improvement over the latter.

This isn't really anything new; we're not that smart. One of the first things God said after He created Adam was, "It is not good for man to be alone." And so He made Eve. People weren't meant to be alone, and all of us feel that need, that purpose, in everyday events. We find it at the gas station, joking with our neighbor about the high price of fuel. We feel it at the bookstore, when we arrive to find another person browsing our favorite shelf. Unfortunately, we also feel it when we are rejected, whether in romance or otherwise. It can be as though a carpet has been pulled from beneath your feet, only to reveal that nothing awaits beneath that carpet save a deep chasm. The purpose and longing for togetherness remains, but hope has abandoned us for a time.

And so we tell ourselves, "I don't need anyone to make me complete. I am a self-sufficient human being!" The reality, however, is that no person is self-sufficient. Companionship is not merely a desire or a hobby. It is a need, and a strong one at that. It is no more a weakness to confess this aspect of ourselves than it is a weakness to breathe in and out. The truly weak man is the one who gives in to the lie which says we do not need each other, for he is the man who is without help when trouble comes.

This is not to say that people aren't wonderful in and of themselves, quite apart from their friendships and romances. I am sure hermits throughout history have had some very fine qualities -- for instance, they are usually excellent farmers and hunters. But a hermit is not whole. Suppose he is a great philosopher, sitting silently in his forest cabin waxing eloquent about the nature of truth and beauty; with whom will he share this philosophy? Whom will it benefit? Limited as his lifetime is, and without fellow philosophers to share the burden, how will he ever fathom the greater depths of his musings? He is a fine man, but broken and incomplete.

Far too often, the modern Church forgets these truths. You simply cannot imagine how often my teachers, pastors and leaders have emphasized the individual nature of faith in Christ. "Your parents can't save you," they say. "Faith is something you have to do for yourself, you can't rely on the faith of others to save you." And, as far as such statements go, they are mostly correct. I believe a personal, individual relationship with Christ is required by God, and that individuals without such a relationship may properly be termed "lost" on many levels.

But the faith of others has saved me, and does save me on a regular basis. This salvation is not always from hellfire and brimstone, though that has certainly been the case in the past. At other times, however, the salvation is simply rescue from depression, or from temptation, or from frustration. The example set by fellow believers both young and old steers me to cling to the good and flee from evil in many kinds of situations. Faith is not simply an individual matter, it is a joint venture undertaken by the entire community.

We are exhorted many times in the New Testament epistles to assemble together, to encourage one another. Christ Himself, before He was taken to be crucified, prayed specifically that the Church would be unified -- He said that our unity was the way the world would know that God had sent Him. How can we face such a clear message of our need for faith community, and then continue to teach and believe that faith is a purely individual journey? When reading the words of Christ, or tales of the early Church, it seems the height of absurdity to suggest that we do not have a very real need for the encouragement, example, fellowship and intercession of our brothers and sisters in Christ, along with a responsibility to provide the same for them.

This is not to say that individual faith is useless, or that it is not a very fine thing. But you see, it simply isn't complete without the ties which bind us to fellow believers. We are not self-sufficient; the hand cannot say to the eye, "I don't need you." It is not good for faith to be alone. Like the tea without chocolate or the philosopher without colleagues, the Christian faith without deep roots in a like-minded community is a tragic beauty: wonderful in so many ways, and yet also a heartbreaking collection of wasted potential.

Reshaped: An Introduction

What does Reshaped mean?

The Bible talks a lot about the change which takes place in a person's life and being once they receive the love of Christ. This is not a simple change or a minor improvement, like painting a racing stripe down the side of your car. Instead, as C.S. Lewis says:

It is not like teaching a horse to jump better and better, but like turning a horse into a winged creature. Of course, once it has got its wings, it will soar over fences which could never have been jumped and thus beat the natural horse at its own game.
There has been more than a simple redemption here. The old creation has passed away and everything is new. (2 Corinthians 5:17) This is a central part of my beliefs: that man can be reborn, reshaped, and live his life in a fundamentally different way from common wisdom and popular opinion.

The word reshaped also refers to the way in which I have chosen to share those beliefs. Some people paint, some stand on street corners and shout, some construct complex logical arguments. I write. I try to take the components of my faith and life and see them in a new way, to see them reshaped. The result is a mountain full of strange and wonderful creatures with more significance than it might seem.

Why fairy tales?

There's really no single answer to this. I could say that it's because I enjoy fairy tales, and that would be true.

I also think, however, that it's important for faith to be accessible and relevant to people of all ages. Young children aren't ready for complicated argumentation and detailed exegesis of the Scriptures. But it's never too early to begin introducing the Truth to them; it's simply a matter of playing to your audience. Children's stories allow us to encapsulate rich concepts of faith in a way that is both memorable and entertaining. After writing the story, I can also use it as a springboard to discuss "the rest of the story", the ideas and beliefs behind the tale.

In addition, fairy tales have one element in particular which attracts me: they accept and perpetuate the human sense of wonder. Somewhere as we grow up, we lose the ability to simply be in awe of the amazing, replacing it with a cold cynicism. That's unfortunate, because that ability was designed by God to help us relate to and worship Him. When we sacrifice it in favor of a purely objective existence, we sacrifice to a very large degree the capacity to worship. Fairy tales help us maintain that capacity by reminding us how it feels to simply sit back and enjoy an unexplained mystery.

Who are you?

I'm a college student at the University of Mississippi, triple-majoring in Linguistics, Psychology and Mandarin Chinese. As of this writing, I'm entering the second half of my sophomore year at the university's Sally McDonnell Barksdale Honors College. Eventually, I plan to attend seminary and enter the ministry -- I have a particular passion for youth ministry, but I'm not limiting my options right now. I'm gradually changing, and it's likely that by the time I graduate, I'll have been significantly reshaped.

The Tsiological Orangutan: The Story

One morning, the little boy woke up and told his mother, "I think I will climb the mountain today. Don't worry, I will be careful, and I will be back tonight." He packed some pears to eat and some water to drink, and set out into the forest that stretched upward toward the mountain's peak.

In the forest, the boy discovered many things -- trees that grew upside down with their roots in the air, squirrels making small cities in the treetops with stores and houses and churches, and too many other beautiful things to talk about right now. He walked all morning, always stopping to look at the wonders the mountain had to offer. Just before lunch time, he found a trail of fenceposts with no fence, leading through the trees. On each of the fenceposts, there was a sign:

THE TSIOLOGICAL ORANGUTAN BELONGS TO THIS LAND
ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE WELCOMED, BUT PLEASE NOT VERY EARLY

The boy did not know what "tsiological" meant, and he had only a vague idea of what an orangutan looked like -- he thought it was something like a monkey, maybe. In any case, the sign said that trespassers would be welcome, and the boy understood what "welcome" meant. "I think I will trespass, then," he said to himself. "After all, I must find out what 'tsiological' means."

There looked to be a little path leading away from the signs to a small house in the middle of a clearing very near by. The boy followed the path slowly, looking around for anything that resembled a monkey. When he arrived at the house, however, he was surprised to find the door open and a sign next to it, which said:

PLEASE ENTER
KNOCK IF YOU WOULD LIKE -- T.O.

"T.O.," said the boy to himself. "Oh! 'Tsiological orangutan', of course!" Looking at the sign again, the boy entered the house boldly.

Inside, he found something that was only a little like a monkey, with long orange fur and a teacup in one hand. The orangutan grinned widely at him and gestured to a comfortable chair. "Please sit," he said cheerfully. "It is lunch time! I was just about to get out the chocolate."

Chocolate for lunch, thought the boy as the orangutan went into the other room. I think I like this orangutan.

"I have pears," the boy said. "I brought them for lunch. Would you like some?"

From somewhere in the house, the boy heard the sound of clinking teacups. The orangutan called back, "Why yes, pears will complete the meal nicely! You drink tea, I should say? It's all I ever drink here. I am a tsiological orangutan, after all, and quite an expert one at that -- you can call me T.O." He re-entered the room carrying a simple wooden tray, on which rested a large box of chocolate and a tea set, steam gently rising from the spout of the teapot.

"Yes, about that," asked the boy, "what does it mean?"

"Orangutan? It means me!" answered a rather confused orangutan.

The boy laughed. "No, the other thing."

"Tsiological? It means tea!" answered a rather amused orangutan. "A tsiologist is a person who studies tea. Rather fascinating subject, tea. It's mostly leaves and water, you know, but there's so much variety to it. Let me show you." To demonstrate, he poured from the teapot into one of the teacups he had brought.

As the tea steamed, the boy watched it. At first, the liquid was mostly clear, with a slight greenish tint. As the boy watched, however, it began to change, first to a deep red tone, and then to a perfect sky blue. The boy realized his mouth was hanging open with amazement. He looked at T.O.

"The leaves of the Dridri tree make some rather spectacular teas," said T.O. with a smile. "Sometimes they simply change to a dark brown, or even a pitch black. Every now and then, though, you will find a batch like this with color to it. Why, I once had a cup of Dridri tea which became a swirl with all the colors of the rainbow. It was quite a good day for me."

The boy looked back at the tea, which was still sky blue. He could almost imagine that he saw fluffy white clouds floating in it. "I think," he said, "that tea is such a wonderful drink. I could drink it all the time, even when I am not eating."

T.O., however, looked aghast at this declaration. "Oh, no," he said. "Tea must have its complement, you know. It's rather the first thing you learn when you are a tsiologist like I am. Take Dridri tea, for example. I find that it goes best with a bit of chocolate." As he said this, he handed the boy a small chunk of chocolate from the box. "Of course, most tea goes well with chocolate, but that's beside the point."

The boy took a sip of his tea. It tasted absolutely wonderful. Then, he took a bite of the chocolate T.O. had given him. As wonderful as the tea had tasted by itself, it was positively perfect when mixed with the taste of the chocolate. The boy smiled, swallowing. "You were right. It is not good to drink tea alone -- every tea must have its complement."

"Quite so," said T.O. "I told you I was an expert tsiologist. Now, I believe you said you had some pears?"

They passed lunch time enjoying the tea and its complements. And when the boy left, he knew quite a bit more about tea, chocolate, orangutans, and (though he didn't realize it) people than he ever had before.

The Little Boy and the Talking Rose: The Rest of the Story

This is my sister, Anne, seen here sporting a mistletoe headband and a smear of chocolate on her chin, along with her hopelessly adorable smile. In addition to being my youngest sister, she is also the talking rose. But perhaps I should back up a little.

The term "wanderlust" was practically invented for me. Born and raised in a small town, I've always longed to go see the world -- China, Ireland, Egypt, exciting places far away. A southern town with a population of 5,000 simply held no interest for me. I have family here, of course, but the pull of the unknown was always stronger than the comfort of the familiar.

Until Anne.

A few years ago, I was in the process of selecting a college to attend. My test scores were exceptional; I could have easily gone anywhere, and I planned to do so. Though there was a university within an hour's drive of my house, I wanted to go, and to go far away. Harvard was an option, as were various other good schools, each of them no less than two states away from Mississippi, where I live. I really didn't have an overall plan, to be honest. My "to-do" list resembled the following:

1. Get away from here
2. Make a new "to-do" list

Until Anne.

Anne was a bit of a surprise to all of us, to be honest. It had been more than 10 years since our family had seen a new child. My siblings and I had settled into our defined roles within the family -- Ellen the drama queen, Emily the homebody, Daniel the tech geek. And then there was me, the impending globetrotter.

Until Anne.

With Anne's arrival, the family priorities shifted. She might not have impacted me so deeply if she had arrived a few years earlier, or a few years later. Situated precisely as she was, however, Anne shook my world. As I said, the pull of the unknown has always been strong for me. Here, in Anne, was a meeting of the familiar with the unknown. Who was she? What would she be like? What was God's plan for her? These are questions that tugged at me at the time and, truthfully speaking, I'm still mostly unable to answer.

What I did know was that if I left for exciting places far away, I'd barely ever scratch the surface of those answers. And so Anne, the surprising, beautiful talking rose was the original driving force behind my decision to attend school within 40 miles of my house.

A lot of people will say that I made a foolish decision, sacrificing opportunities at leading universities in order to stay in Mississippi. To those people, I merely say that I would trade all the education in the world for the wonderfulness (as Bill Cosby would say) of knowing Anne.

In a lot of ways, I feel the same about my faith. I used to be a very intellectual person; maybe I still am -- I'll let you decide. Faith, the simple act of trust, was the ultimate foolishness in my eyes. I had to question everything, investigate everywhere, discover exciting ideas far away. It was never enough simply to know something. I had to know how and why I knew it, which in turn had to be explained and analyzed via the same process, until I found myself doubting my own existence -- a situation which, despite its philosophical interest, isn't really all that healthy over long periods of time. I held others to the same standard. When my youth minister (and soon to be good friend) explained his faith in God to me, I all but scoffed, asking him what solid, objective and verifiable evidential basis he had for his beliefs.

I think I was kind of a jerk; maybe I still am -- I'll let you decide.

I don't know when the change started. That's like asking when the rising tide first touched your sandcastle. You may be able to answer the question in general terms, but you can't define the moment down to a precise millisecond. At some point, my eyes were opened to the things around me -- the love of my parents, the community of my hometown, the beauty of a strong faith. Like the small boy, I was hooked by this new and exciting thing very near.

In his book Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller says that faith isn't completely something you choose. It's also something that just kind of happens to you. That's how it was with me. The beauty of God, of Christ, and of just plain agape love as a way of life has captured me. I don't have to know exactly how it happened. I have no need for evidence in favor of it, no need of someone with a Ph.D. to tell me what to do. It's simply enough to walk with God day-by-day, taking His answers as they come.

That's not to say I don't have questions. Of course I still ask questions -- everyone does. But I try to remember that I'm not by any means an expert on the meaning of life, skeptically searching for holes in the fabric of reality. Instead, I'm more like a small child, excitedly peppering his Father with questions. Sometimes, I ask Him one of those hard questions, like "why is the sky blue?" or "where do babies come from?" or "why do people hurt each other?" He smiles (or frowns) and gives to me only as much as I'm capable of understanding, leaving the greater part of life's mysteries unexplained. And I'm OK with that. Once upon a time, such answers weren't enough for me.

Until faith.

The Little Boy and the Talking Rose: The Story

Once upon a time, there was a very big mountain. Mind you, when I say the mountain was big, I mean that it was simply enormous. No one knew quite how big it was. Once every few years, someone would try to climb to the very top. Every time this happened, the people who lived at the bottom of the mountain would wait patiently for them to return. Every time this happened, they would return very tired and say, "I climbed as far as I could. I climbed until I couldn't see the bottom. I even climbed until I couldn't see the clouds, far below me. But I did not reach the top. I couldn't even see it."

Once upon a time, there was a very small boy who lived on the very big mountain. He did not like the mountain very much at all. When his friends asked him why, he would say, "It is too old. It doesn't move, or change. I want to go see other places, exciting places, far away from the mountain." His friends did not understand, because they loved the mountain.

One morning, the small boy decided that he had had enough. He woke up, ate breakfast, and put all of his clothes into a bag. "Goodbye, mother," he said. "I am going to leave the mountain and find exciting places far away." This made his mother very sad. You should never make your mother very sad, but that is what the small boy did.

He took his clothes, and walked to his best friend's house. His best friend, Millie, was reading a book, because she enjoyed hearing about people doing exciting things. That is why Millie and the boy were such good friends. "Goodbye, Millie," said the small boy. "I am going to leave the mountain and find exciting places far away." This made Millie very sad. You should never make your best friend very sad, but that is what the small boy did.

And so the boy began to leave. He had only just entered the forest, however, when he heard a small voice. He looked behind him, expecting that Millie had followed him. But no one was there. He looked around, thinking that someone else must be in the forest. But no one was there. Finally, he looked down and saw a beautiful red rose, smiling up at him. The rose was so beautiful that the boy sat down to get a better look at it.

"Hello," he said. "Who are you?"

"I am a rose!" said the rose. "Who are you?"

The boy thought this was a bit of an odd question. "I am a boy!" he said. But then he thought, and said, "I am an adventurer, going to see exciting places far away!"

The rose seemed to like that idea. "Oh, I would love to see exciting places. But I am a rose, and can only stay here, where I was born. I am afraid I will never see exciting places far away."

This made the boy very sad. The rose was so beautiful, and he liked it very much. Then, he had an idea. "I will carry you with me," he said, "and we will go see exciting places far away together!"

The rose frowned. "I need water, and good healthy dirt. If we are going on adventures, I cannot stay in the dirt. I am afraid I cannot go on adventures with you."

But the little boy could not bear to leave the rose. And so he went back home, and took one of his mother's flowerpots. He went back to the rose, and said, "I will put you in this flowerpot, and take you home. And every day I will water you. I will not go to far away places. I will stay right here with you." This made both the rose and the boy very happy.

That night, the boy's mother asked him, "Weren't you going to go see exciting places far away?"

The boy said, "Yes. But the rose is so beautiful, I could not leave it. I don't expect I shall ever see exciting places far away."

The next day, a traveller came to the town at the bottom of the mountain, a panda bear wearing glasses. The small boy had never seen a panda bear before, so he was very curious. He asked the panda bear, "Where have you come from?"

"Why, just the other side of the mountain!" said the panda bear. "I walked around the mountain, because of course I could not climb to the top. No one has ever climbed to the top of the mountain before. And on the mountain, I have seen such strange and exciting things!"

The boy thought about this for a minute, then asked the panda bear, "Do you think a small boy like me could explore the mountain too?"

"Oh, certainly," said the panda bear. "Everyone should explore the mountain. It is such a wonderful place!"

The boy thought about this. That night, as he climbed into his bed, he told the rose, "I think tomorrow, I will go see exciting places. But don't worry, I will be back every night to water you, and to tell you about my adventures."

The rose didn't understand. She asked, "If you are going to exciting places far away, how will you come back every night?"

The boy smiled. He said, "I am not going to exciting places far away. I am going to exciting places very near."

And then, he fell fast asleep.