Tag Archives: mark twain

Do Not Skim. Read.

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I do not own a single eBook. At least, I don’t think I do. I like books I can hold in my hands. I realize this makes me somewhat of a weirdo in the 21st-century world. Still, it is what it is. I’d rather turn a page than scroll. I’d rather dogear some of those pages, gripping a pencil and underlining beloved portions, than add virtual bookmarks or whatever people do in eBooks to preserve and revisit certain words.

I sometimes wonder if the world will one day be absent of physical books. I hope not. I don’t say this because I’m concerned about what people will use to balance a wobbly table or what they’ll reach for to swat an annoying fly. I’ve written before that I think a world without physical books will foster less reading—actual substantive reading and content digestion. I also say this because I think there’s something to the proverbial phrase “out of sight, out of mind.” In other words, just because a digital device offers unrestricted access to literature’s vast kingdom doesn’t mean its user is naturally inclined toward using it that way. I think this premise is relatively provable. No matter one’s age, in a room filled with books, it’s harder to resist the urge to snatch a volume and peruse it. In a room void of books, the device in one’s hand offers countless other preference-stroking arenas—video games, social media, audio and video streaming; you name it.

I know that many education experts prattle on about the lack of real differences in literacy rates among children exposed to either on-screen or in-print reading. This exceptionally convenient research deduction was reached and endlessly proffered during COVID. While I’m no expert, I’d argue that literacy research focused more so on the ability to read than reading comprehension. Mark Twain once said something about how a man who can read but doesn’t will have no advantage over a man who can’t read. I’d add that a man who can read but cannot understand what he’s reading is advantageless, too. The whole purpose of reading is comprehension.

I suppose I’m sharing this in part because I wonder how so many in our world can accept, or perhaps worse, stand idly by as some genuinely idiotic things sprout and blossom into full bloom. We just hosted an event here at Our Savior last Wednesday in which Irene Miller, a holocaust survivor, described the events of her life. Much of what she said seemed familiar, especially the parts about fascism finding room to grow as only particular bits of information were allowed to the population while all others were suppressed. I suppose I’ll come back to that point in a moment. In the meantime, let me stay with my initial heading. Some studies show how in-print reading outpaces on-screen in two essential ways: attention span formation and content processing. This makes complete sense to me.

A person’s attention span is the framework for comprehension. Content processing is the comprehension process. When I think about typical on-screen reading, it seems to involve a lot of skimming and scrolling, selective reading, and keyword spotting. I can’t prove it, but I’m guessing this ever-increasing type of information intake is playing no insignificant part in our devolving world. Shorter attention spans are barriers to in-depth reading, ultimately teeing readers up to take from a text what they want or have time for it to say rather than what it actually says. It’s selective. It’s also incredibly self-centered. It isn’t discovering. It’s looking for what it already thinks it wants. It’s the kind of reading that’s incapable of grasping an issue’s truths and untruths. It’s the kind of learning that produces what we’re seeing on our college campuses right now—students and faculty who, when asked about Hamas’ actions on October 7, 2023, defend the terrorist group using some of the most irrational talking points and little more. These protestors appear incapable of a depth that understands no matter what a person’s reason for fighting, massacring unarmed concert-goers, and putting Israeli babies into ovens and cooking them is wrong. The protesters, many likely raised in hardworking families and known by friends and neighbors from their home communities, are now found wearing keffiyehs and blocking roadways, all the while having no idea what a keffiyeh represents. Pink-haired, with their bodies pierced in about every conceivable location, they lock arms and shout, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free,” but are entirely unaware of what the Islamic extremist chant means relative to Israel’s (let alone any non-Muslim’s) existence or that the Quran instructs that any form of bodily piercings other than the ears is satanic and worthy of severe punishment. In other words, for Hamas and the Palestinians, freedom does not mean what you think it means.

Because we’ve already seen how the universities wrestling with these protests aren’t all that interested in doing much about them, one way to stop the nonsense—or at least inhibit it—would be for the parents and grandparents doling out tuition dollars to these adolescents to turn off the financial spigot and bring them home. They’re obviously not quite ready to engage with the world yet. They’re certainly not prepared for higher education. What they need is a spanking, a lengthy grounding from video games and cellphone usage, a remedial reading course followed by a civics class or two, and an early bedtime. If that doesn’t work, a philosophy internship in Iran probably would. Be sure to send along their rainbow-colored hijab and “Allah loves equality” t-shirts. You might also want to pack a parachute. It’s standard practice to throw folks with differing opinions off of rooftops.

That said, who can argue that we don’t have the same problematic reading problems in Christianity in general, and it’s producing some seriously misinformed people? Folks skim an internet article with a few scripture verses here and there and are suddenly biblical experts capable of divinely authorized world-altering diatribes. Who needs the seminaries? We have Wikipedia and Google. And while this shallow form of study may result in some Christians stepping up and pushing back against culture, the pushback is often far weaker than the emboldened warriors may have imagined. This is because the pushback is half-baked, being more so agenda-driven than accurate, ultimately leaving immense loopholes in the logic. I’ll give you an elementary example I’ve shared with others in the past.

I’m pro-gun. I have two, a Glock 19 and a Sig Sauer P226. To argue my right to own and carry them, I would never lean on the Cain and Abel account from Genesis 4. Why not? Because, even as so many conservatives like to share memes saying things like, “Guns are not the problem” right after noting that when “Cain killed Abel with a rock, God didn’t get rid of all the rocks,” the fact is that Genesis 4:8 simply reads: “Now Cain said to his brother Abel, ‘Let’s go out to the field.’ While they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.” There’s no mention of how Cain killed Abel. Uninspired apocryphal writings mention things like jawbones and plowheads. But the Bible doesn’t say Cain used anything to kill Abel. Verse twelve talks about Abel’s blood crying out from the ground, giving the sense there might have been quite a bit spilled. My guess is that it was Abel’s own knife used to sacrifice animals. Still, it’s a guess—purely speculative. For all anyone knows, Cain choked Abel to death, and when he fell to the ground, he hit his head and bled out. Either way, it’s the content found in the deeper strata that can make an argument sturdy or wobbly. All a non-skimming opponent needs is to go to and read Genesis 4. See, no rock, thus no direct relevance to handheld weapons.

With this in mind, the type of reading habits I’ve described are the exact same ones employed by doofuses trying to smother pure Christian doctrine who, when they discover texts like Matthew 7:1, say something like, “See, Jesus said, ‘Do not judge,’” completely missing the text’s insistence that Christians must judge, but only as they understand their own sinfulness and the ever-present need for forgiveness. In other words, a person who believes he’s perfect has lost all credibility for judging anything rightly. I suppose, worst of all, these reading habits eventually produce pro-choice Christians. They produce pro-LGBTQ believers. They result in Christian churches and schools brimming with pro-DEI and pro-CRT advocates. They inspire folks who claim faithfulness to Christ while simultaneously embracing so many ridiculously heretical Christian authors, speakers, so-called prophets, and countless internet-assembled sayings that sound good but simply aren’t.

So, how do we combat this?

That’s a good question. How about this, for starters?

First of all, read. And I mean, really read. Don’t skim. On-screen or in-print, dig deeply. Take in the information, even if you don’t like what it’s saying. My guess is that by doing so, more loopholes in your knowledge investigation will be closed than left open.

Second, while you should choose your sources carefully, you shouldn’t limit your intake to the side of the argument you prefer most. Read both. Truth has a way of outing lies, especially when the two are set side by side. In my experience, when suddenly confronted by truth, liars deflect. They redirect. They gaslight, making you think what is true might not be true. They tweak a narrative’s corners, ultimately creating alternate renditions. When queried, they cannot answer the actual questions you are asking, especially when the questions do not fit the newly constructed narrative. However, here’s the thing. If truth weren’t in the room, they might be all-convincing to the onlooker or reader. But with truth standing right beside them, their wriggling and writhing becomes apparent, and for an honest investigator, the foolishness is almost always outed.

In the final measurement, even in the barest sense, truth stands tall, and as it does, it proves itself capable of maintaining the field.

Habits

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While sorting through some computer files on Friday, I ended up in the folder that contains all the messages like this one that I’ve ever sent since I started writing them back in 2015. As it would go, today’s message will be the 400th one sent. That’s quite a few, I’d say. Being conservative with the total word count for each, I’m guessing I’ve written at least 480,000 words along the way. Well, what can I say? I’ve spoken clearly over the years regarding my writing illness. For me, it’s an itch, one that, if I don’t scratch it, would likely drive me mad.

Or perhaps it’s better described as a routine. Apart from all the other things I regularly plink out on this keyboard, I’ve tapped through this Sunday morning message so many times for so many years that it’s become a habit. It’s something I just wake up and start doing. I’ve been asked over the years if I worry about finding myself in the moment with nothing to share. I suppose, on occasion, I’ve experienced writer’s block. Still, the short answer to the question is no. When I can’t think of anything to say, I take a quick look around me—whether that means reading an article, reexamining the past week’s events, or just looking out the window. In the end, I always find something worth considering. Once an idea is revealed, I just start typing. Again, it’s second nature—an exercise in the force of habit.

Habits are strange things. Some take a deliberate effort to form. Others seem to happen on their own. Of course, both kinds have the potential to become good or bad. Understanding the gravity of habit, Mark Twain said that to reform one, a person must first realize they are “not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed downstairs a step at a time.” In other words, if you want to change—if you’re going to overcome and do better—it’ll take steady and deliberate mindfulness.

I used the words “second nature” a few sentences ago. I think there is a reason habits are often referred to in this way. A second nature implies a first nature. A first nature is a primal one. It’s what we’d be if the second nature weren’t laboring to outpace it. Admittedly, I have plenty of first-nature impulses that I suppress with second-nature behaviors. Some of these habits aren’t so good, and I’m working to coax them down the stairs. Other habits I’ve formed serve to help not only me but others, too. One I’ve probably shared with you before is the habit of searching my immediate environment in situations of conflict for cruciform things. By cruciform, I mean cross-shaped. Most of the time, I find something. But sometimes I don’t. Either way, the habit itself is a trained recollection of the Gospel. It’s a reminder that the person on the warpath before me is someone for whom the Lord died. In heated moments, remembering that Christ met me as His enemy and, by His gracious sacrifice on the cross, did what was necessary to make me His friend, the way I handle conflicts changes. It doesn’t mean I’m always successful at diffusing them. Still, I rarely leave such situations regretting what I’ve done or said, mainly because I deliberately tried to steer both of us toward Christ. Without this second nature overpowering my first-nature inclination to win at all costs—an inclination my wife and children know very well from our time together playing games—things would unfold much differently, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

Nevertheless, for this effort to become second nature, it took discipline. I actually had to practice it. Now it just happens.

When it comes to habits, I suppose Christians have the upper hand compared to the world around them. This is true because we know so much more about the first nature—the Sin nature (Romans 3:23). We know that we are innately corrupt and that apart from faith, even the good we might think we do is soiled (Isaiah 64:6). That being said, we also know the Gospel has changed us. The Gospel reveals God’s merciful first nature located in the person and work of Jesus Christ (Romans 5:8). It brings us the life-altering message of what He has done to save us from our first nature of enmity. This same message—endowed with the Holy Spirit’s power for faith and its fruits—establishes a second nature, a new nature (Colossians 3:9-10). This new nature is ever mindful of the first nature’s dangerous capability and, as a result, works intentionally to outpace it. In other words, it practices spiritual discipline.

Fully aware of Sin’s dreadful grip, Saint Paul wrote straightforwardly:

“For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:22-25b).

Paul can write this way because he knows the power of what Christ has done for him on the cross. Naturally, he attributes his ability to wrestle with the Sinful nature to that same power at work in Him. It’s the same for all Christians. We know that because Jesus has defeated death (1 Corinthians 15:26), the first nature of Sin and its poison-filled tendrils have no rightful claim or permanent grip on us. As a result, we see the Law of God in an entirely new light. Like Saint Paul, we delight in it as preeminently useful in the struggle against the first nature. We actually delight in its strictness, counting it all joy when God commands us to observe the routine boundaries of the Ten Commandments. They’re incredibly preserving, so we acknowledge them as useful in the spiritual battle.

We can learn still more from Saint Paul in 1 Cor. 9:24-27:

“Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.”

Employing the verb ὑπωπιάζω (translated as “discipline”), Paul sets before the reader a visceral word that quite literally means to “strike beneath the eye.” It implies struggle. Paul tells the reader he’s doing something essential—sometimes severe—to keep something else “under control” (v.27). He’s taking his new nature in Christ very seriously. He’s actively employing it physically to enslave his first nature to something better.

By the way, maybe you noticed how Paul acknowledged in verse 27 spiritual discipline’s corporate effects. I did. I hope other pastors recognize it, too. Paul wrote plainly that his habits affect others, and if he doesn’t feed the good ones while fighting the bad ones, his work as an apostle could very quickly become of little use not only to himself but to the body of believers to whom God sent him.

Being summertime—a time when worship attendance tends to trend lower—I find Paul’s encouragement toward spiritual discipline to be reminiscent of the habits haunting texts like Hebrews 10:24-25, which reminds all Christians to “consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.” Three habits, in particular, appear in this sentence. Those in the habit of attending worship are urged to make a habit of reaching out to those who’ve fallen into the habit of skipping church—which is to say, be in the habit of helping others out of their spiritually bad habits.

I suppose to wrap this up, I’ll simply say I appreciate the piety of habit. Routines born from God’s Word that help to keep one’s heart, soul, and mind set on Christ are good things. It’s one reason I appreciate making New Year’s resolutions. Good habits need a beginning. While I’m at it, I’ll say it’s also why I prefer the historic liturgy to other, more contemporary forms of worship. There’s something to be said for engaging in worship styles that some might categorize as habitual. They involve people saying and doing the same things over and over again. In this case, the habits are centuries-long. And why? Well, they’ve stood the test of time for a reason. For one, the thing about a habit is that it can steer without much help. In one sense, the biblically substantive rites and ceremonies—the communal habits of God’s people—have helped to steer Christian communities through some dark theological days. Looking at all the flighty nonsense today that passes as Christian worship, I appreciate the habit of historic liturgy that much more. It makes it possible for God’s people to go to a church and hear a really screwed-up sermon but still walk away, never missing out on solid biblical teaching. The historic liturgy is designed to keep God’s people immersed in the promises of Christ, no matter the failings of the one leading it. When we mess with this, we mess with an excellent habit.

As one called to lead in such habits—someone who is more than capable of falling short—I’m glad for the second nature of the liturgy. Suppose the government one day decides to snatch away all of our worship volumes (as they’re doing in China), I’m guessing the very first time you gather with fellow Christians in worship to discover you don’t actually need a service book because the liturgy has become habitual, you’ll agree, too.