Swedish chemist Alfred Bernhard Nobel was once largely known as a maker and inventor of explosives. In 1866 Nobel invented dynamite, which earned him both fame and the majority of his wealth. At one point in his life he held more than 350 patents, operated labs in 20 countries, and had more than 90 factories manufacturing explosives and ammunition. Yet today he is most often remembered as the name behind the Nobel Prize, the most highly regarded of international awards for efforts in peace, chemistry, physics, literature, and economics.

In 1888 a bizarre incident occurred, which seemed to have afforded Alfred Nobel an unlikely opportunity for reflection. Many believe it was this event that ultimately led to his establishment of the Nobel Prize and subsequent change in his reputation. Alfred’s brother Ludvig died while staying in Cannes, France, but the French newspapers mistakenly confused the two brothers, reporting the death of the inventor of explosives. One paper’s headline read brusquely: “Le marchand de la mort est mort”—the merchant of death is dead.

I can’t imagine reading the headlines of my life written at the hands of my harshest critic, but I do remember laboring over an assignment in middle school in which I was required to write my own obituary. Some of the class was given the task of writing it as if they died well into their eighties; others had to write as if they died that year. The assignment was meant to incite reflection, and in most of us it did—particularly those of us who were designated early deaths. As in the case with Alfred Nobel, my premature obituary suggested headlines I did not want to live with; that I was the one writing them made this all the more sobering.

In a very real sense, I am still (as is each of us) the writer of my own obituary. But I am no longer thinking about the words and headlines in the way I was thinking about them in middle school. As I struggled to find the words, it seemed I had so little material with which to work—no graduations, no family, no accomplishments worth mentioning, no humanitarian contributions, no overarching purpose for my life. I was imagining all the things I had not done and feeling quite insignificant about the things I had. At that point in time, it seemed clear that a few more years were necessary in order to make a meaningful headline.

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For most of us, the study of doctrine is best left to academics and theologians.  Terms used in doctrinal formulations like supralapsarian, infralapsarian, incompatiblism, predestination, or compatibalism either leave us tongue-tied, confused, or totally disinterested. If we wonder at all, we wonder what doctrine has to do with our day-to-day lives, especially as we struggle with terms we don’t understand and principles we find hard to practice.  If we’re honest, reading and studying theology is something most of us would like to avoid, just as we’d like to avoid a root canal.

Historically, of course, the formation of Christian doctrine served to tell the story of the gospel.  Doctrines are composed of the central tenets of belief, so an understanding of doctrine shapes what Christians think about our faith.  But how many Christians have really taken the time to think through the implication(s) or application(s) of doctrine to the living out of our lives?  In other words, is a belief something we only think in our heads?  Or is a belief something we demonstrate in our lives?  More important, if what we think in our heads has no bearing over the ways in which we live in this world, do we truly believe?

I was forced to think about these questions, as I studied the doctrine of the Incarnation. By its very nature, the doctrine of the Incarnation is application-oriented since it deals with the belief that in Jesus Christ the whole fullness of God dwelt bodily.  The more I thought about the Incarnation,the more I realized that doctrine needs to be similarly incarnational.  Doctrine must be “enfleshed” in our very beings, just as our skin encases our bones and organs.

Another way of thinking about incarnational doctrine is to think about eating.  Food sustains our very being and fuels us for living. In the same way, as we digest ideas, they should emerge as a part of ourvery being, just as food nourishes and sustains us by being incorporated into our cells, tissue, and organs.  Infact, being intentional about the implications of the Incarnation can help our understanding of the true nature of doctrine—as lived belief.

Of course the preeminent example of incarnation is in the person and ministry of Jesus Christ. But incarnational doctrine begins all the way back in the Old Testament.  God comes to be with his people in their wilderness wanderings as a pillar of fire and a cloud.  God “dwells” among the people in the Ark of the Covenant, and then in the Tabernacle.  Later, the Temple became the incarnational focal point of God’s presence with God’s people.

Other vivid and concrete images of incarnation occur in the lives of the Hebrew prophets.  In the book of Ezekiel, the prophet is told “Son of man, eat what you find; eat this scroll and go, speak to the house of Israel” (cf. Ezekiel 2:9-3:3). This scroll is not just any scroll.  It is the book of the Law,the Scriptures, the teachings and the doctrines of belief that guided the nation in its worship of God.  Ronald Rolheiser suggests a profound incarnational application for this image: “The idea is that they should digest the word and turn it into their own flesh so that people will be able to see the word of God in a living body rather than on a dead parchment….We have to digest something and turn it, physically, into the flesh of our own bodies so it becomes part of what we look like.  If we would do this with the word of God, others would not have to [only] read the Bible to see what God is like,they would need only to look at our faces and our lives to see God.”(1)

Could it be that we could so imbibe and ingest doctrine a the beautiful teachings that come from God’s word into our lives, that they would radiate from our faces?  That the way we lived, spoke, acted—even our very countenance—would give witness to the truth of God’s word?  This is incarnation application.  We incarnate God’s word, God’s truth and love, as our lives bear witness to Him.  Doctrine is lived out, and our beliefs are enfleshed in our deeds and our actions, and even in our words.  As St. Francis of Assisi said, “Preach the word of God wherever you go, even use words, if necessary.”(2)

Margaret Manning Shull is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Bellingham, Washington.

(1) Ronald Rolheiser, The Holy Longing: The Search for Christian Spirituality (New York: DoubledayBooks, 1999), 102.

(2) Ibid., 82.

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On a routine trip through well-worn streets, I found myself pulled out of the fragmented consciousness of a mind captive to the day’s worries with the jarring lyrics of a song. Up until that point, the song itself was much like the familiar patterns of scenery, an external factor impervious to the siege of my own fears; I was seeing but not seeing, hearing but not really hearing. But then I suddenly took in the artist’s abrupt words: “Hoping to God on high is like clinging to straws while drowning.”(1)

The simile cleared everything else from my mind and set me thinking about the descriptive words of a friend just hours earlier. Encouraging me in the midst of a difficult place, she simply reminded me that I was not alone. She was intending to assure me of her friendship and support, but I also knew she was assuring me of the presence of God. “The LORD is near to all who call on him,” declares the psalmist; and I needed to hear it.

There are many who take comfort in the thought that God is among us, comforting our fears, quieting our cries of distress, standing near those who call, moving in lives and history that we might discover the God who is there. Knowing that Christ is near in struggle and darkness is one of the only reasons I don’t completely surrender to my fears and stop moving forward. Knowing that there is a kingdom of grace, beauty, and mystery is the hope I remember when I fear death, my console when I fear uncertainty, the picture that somehow makes sense of a strand of DNA and quiets my fear of being uncared for and alone.  I can relate to the resolution of the psalmist in a world of many and distant gods: “But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign LORD my refuge.”

But what good is it if there is a throne but it is empty, a kingdom without a king, or worse, a god who is close but like straw? Who is it who is near us?  If god is an impersonal force, or a tyrant, or a distant, semi-interested being, the kingdom is no refuge. If the hope we cling to is like straw that cannot save us from drowning, we have good reason to live in fear, “huddled,” as the musician later describes, “afraid if we dance we might die.”

The lyrics that brought my distraction to a grinding halt forced me to think graphically about the hope to which the Christian really clings, the promise that is so often on the mouth of God in Scripture:  Do not be afraid, for I am with you.(2) If God on high is merely straw and fairytale, then emptiness is inevitable, fear is certain, and hope is futile, for we are ultimately alone. We all cling futilely to fantasy and drown in delusion. Could there really be one both graceful and near enough to answer the cry of a lonely heart, the fears of an entire nation, the uncertainties of the world around?

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