Books, Humility, & God’s Holiness

One of the greatest inventions of the last century has been the book. Before books, men read scrolls, and women didn’t read anything. Although this may sound ideal to some of you, it actually wasn’t. People were uneducated and couldn’t spel, which is one of the few abilities that separate us from animals (“Curses!” suspired the poor platypus, angrily).

But then along came this guy named Gutenberg—an ingenious fellow with enough time on his hands to both invent the printing press and star in the summer blockbuster “It Takes Two” with superstars Mary Kate & Ashley Olson.

Steve (which is apparently short for Johannes) single-handedly made knowledge available to everyone—much like Amazon will do for the print-illiterate generation with its Kindle (formerly known as the iPod or nano-iPad).

This was a big deal for lots of reasons, but the implication that I’m writing about (ironically so) is the small collection of books I’ve been reading recently. As a part of a new venture to actually learn things in school instead of just passing tests, in the last couple years I’ve begun reading (for definition, see “intensive skimming”) texts assigned in class. One such exposition was a treatise on humility called, appropriately enough, Humility. This subject has been of increased interest to me as of late, so I dove in heartily and actually (in quintessential nerd fashion) finished it before the beginning of the semester. (Note: Such a venture should be embarked upon cautiously, as references in class to previously-completed readings will certainly draw the scorn of friends, classmates, and most professors.)

The book, which was exceptional in its practicality, suggested as an application that those truly seeking humility begin a study of God, especially His holiness, as a means to become more humble. The logic goes like this: If you come to know God and His holiness, you will consequently understand your sin in greater clarity and thus become more humble. Pursuing humility is thus something akin to the pursuit of happiness: we find it best when it comes as a by-product of greater things. If you want to be happy, dedicate yourself to joy independent of circumstances, and seek to love others. If you want to be humble, learn who God is and who you are in light of His majesty.

Brennan Manning offers a similar thought in Ragamuffin Gospel:

“There is an essential connection between experiencing God, loving God, and trusting God. You will trust God only as much as you know Him. And you will love Him to the extent you have touched Him, rather that He has touched you.”

We have to experience God if we are to become more like Him, and we need to understand His holiness if we will be humble.

All the preceding developments led me to where I am right now: reading The Holiness of God by R.C. Sproul. Robert Charles, like his buddy Gutengberg, was apparently a multi-tasker as well (if you don’t believe me, you haven’t experienced his tasty Coke alternative) but was also a great book writer. This is my first interaction with Sproul (pronounced SPROLL, like a portmanteau of Spree and Rolo, which, if combined, could be the world’s greatest candy ever), and I’ve found him to be thoughtful while still communicating clearly and simply. (Think Os Guinness or Henri Nouwen.) His unfolding of the Biblical theme of God’s holiness is refreshing as well as convicting, and I recommend it. It drives me back to prayer and Scripture, which is what any good (Christian) book does. But none of this personal growth would be possible were it not for the advent of books.

I know I’ve rambled a bit, so in case you lost me, here’s the point of the whole post: Although they’ve slimmed down a lot and their popularity has seemed to deteriorate much in recent years because of the development of newer, more attractive alternatives, no one can dispute the timeless value of the Olson twins, especially with regard to their family-friendly comedy “It Takes Two.” Watch it with a friend. But just in case you get bored during the movie, bring a book.