Fisherman or Fishermen? Considering the Church’s Corporate Mission

By / Aug 17

When Jesus said in Matthew 4:19, “I will make you fishers of men,” do you picture an individual sitting on the edge of a pier with a rod and reel? Or do you imagine a group of fishermen leaning over the side of a boat, each one holding their part of a large net?

More importantly, which kind of fishing came to the disciples’ minds?

You or Y’all?

Western Christians often imagine the individual on the pier. Why? First, translators often flatten the distinction between second-person singular and second-person plural pronouns—between “you” and “you all.” Matthew 4:19 uses the second-person plural pronoun. So Jesus’ words could be translated, “I will make you all fishers of men.” The change is slight, but significant.

But translation isn’t the only explanation. We also have to consider the cultural intuitions of those raised in the West. Might some of us occasionally read our own individualistic presuppositions into the Bible? It’s certainly possible.

Scores of mission texts in the New Testament employ those same plural pronouns. For example, Acts 1:8 could rightly be, “You all are witnesses.” Jesus’ earlier declaration should be, “You all are the light of the world “(Matt. 5:14).. First–century believers hearing those texts—and many others—would’ve assumed mission to be a corporate undertaking. Therefore, rather than choosing to evangelize alone, they engaged in the church’s mission together.

Of course, these implications concerning the mission of the church proceed from the nature of the church. What the church is inevitably what the church does. The God who saves individuals by faith alone does not save them to be alone. Nor does he save them that they might fulfill his mission alone, as some evangelistic silo.

I recognize that all might sound highly theoretical, but let me attempt to demonstrate the practicality of this corporate mission. It’s possible that without theological categories for it, you’re already doing evangelism with others.

Children’s Ministry

I remember the first time one of my own children reached the age to attend Vacation Bible School. Admittedly, because a boy I named now wore one of the nametags, my missiological antennas were heightened.

Here’s what I remember. During those few days of VBS, a number of fellow church members enthusiastically greeted the kids as they entered the building. Other volunteers worked security. A few gracious saints watched babies so husbands and wives spend time with the kids. One of those wives skillfully taught the children songs about how Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. Meanwhile, other church members prepared chicken strips and handed out Capri–Suns. Thankfully, a young couple thought of creative ways those kids could burn off some sugar outside playing games. And each night, my fellow elder Chris—one of my son’s favorite adults—taught all the children about a King who’d come.

This group of men and women gladly used their time, their energy, and their gifts to get the gospel before this group of children, one of whom came home with me each night eager to return the next. While my wife and I certainly retain the primary responsibility to teach that young man the gospel, some of my dearest brothers and sisters in Christ joined us that week.

At times, we’re so concerned about those not in our gatherings that we neglect those whom God walks through the door every week. In our setting, about 30% of our weekly attenders have yet to publicly profess faith in Christ. Most of those 30% also happen to be young enough to attend a Vacation Bible School or our weekly children’s classes. And every Sunday, as one volunteer greets at the front door, someone else changes diapers so yet another person can teach 4th graders the glories of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Conclusion

Whether we realize it or not, corporate evangelism happens throughout our churches week after week. From children’s ministry to youth group, this discipline shows up in nearly everything we do.

For example, consider that neighbor or co-worker you’ve been evangelizing. Perhaps ask your small group or a few friends at church to join you in praying for him or her. Then, the next time you go to a park, attend a ballgame, or decide to grill out, invite them to come along. Your brothers and sisters in Christ have already linked arms in praying. Now that name has a face. Corporate evangelism is that easy! And while you’re at the park or in the backyard, pray that those relationships within the body of Christ might be an attractive display of how God’s grace has transformed your—excuse me—you all’s life.

The mission of the church is in fact the mission of the church. Rather than merely being one person casting from a pier, it’s a host of men and women holding their part of the net.

Editor’s Note: This article first appeared at the 9Marks blog and is used with permission.



What Percent of God is Good?

By / Aug 16

Last week I heard a wonderful and inspiring story of a young man who, during a routine physical, was sent immediately to the hospital to investigate a knot on his collar bone. After extensive testing, it was determined that there was a 99% chance that the growth was bone cancer. When the boy’s devastated parents broke the news to their son, his response was calm and full of child-like faith. He simply returned, “but I still have one percent.” Church and family members prayed. A vigil was held. The boy’s baseball team came to his house and prayed over him. Soon after the outpouring of prayer, the final test results came back, showing no signs of cancer. The family joyfully announced that their precious son got his one percent, concluding with the proclamation that “God is good!” The young man’s father told a reporter, “It was an amazing experience to see how God can work.” Indeed, the goodness of God was expressed through a miracle for this family, and for the young man who maintained all along that this would be the outcome. And the outcome was solid evidence of the goodness of God.

I heard that story two days after my thirty-two-year-old nephew lost his long battle with addiction. Friends and family members had prayed for years. My women’s Bible study prayed all last summer. We prayed for deliverance, for God to overcome the unimaginable draw of the drugs in my nephew’s body. We prayed that he would be able to return to his job and his three young children and that perhaps his marriage could be restored. Statistics showed that he had a 99.9995% chance of not dying from addiction. But the statistics beat him. He was among the .00005% of people in this country who succumb to it. The logical inverse of the story of the young man who got his one percent would conclude that my nephew got his .00005%, and therefore God is not good.

Is God Good All the Time?

Is this true? Is God only good when the outcome doesn’t rip you apart? Can we come to the conclusion that a good God would allow bad things to happen? My nephew leaves behind three little kids. His family is devastated, confused, and grasping at hindsight to find meaning in a tragedy that seems so senseless. The young man who beat cancer is happy, his parents are ecstatic, and hindsight has shown them that God has brought them through darkness into the glad light of joy and relief. If the boy would have succumbed to the 99%, could God’s goodness have been proclaimed?

It seems impossible to reconcile the seemingly conflicting promises in the Bible. How do we process the tension between, for example, Psalm 34:19, “Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all,” and the story of Job? We are promised miracles and tragedies. Sickness and health. Strife and peace. On our own, it is impossible to understand these dichotomies, let alone trust in God’s goodness.

But trust comes from seeking out who God is. Because when we seek we find. And when we find, we see that the tragedies in our lives are not part of God’s original good plan for his Creation. They come from the human rejection of it. When we seek we find his sovereignty, his mercy, his grace, and yes, his infinite goodness in making a way for the fallen world to get right with him.

It is true, the journey to him can be long and fraught, and maybe there will not be one single miracle on that road. But what God offers through Jesus Christ is hope at the end of the road. Not a wishful thinking kind of hope, but a sure hope. A solid promise of eternal happiness, peace, justice, and an eternity free from pain and strife. And best of all, complete, intimate, unhindered relationship with the triune God, in fellowship with him and every single person who ever wrestled with God and came to the conclusion that he is good, and that he is the only way to overcome the rottenness of this world.

The truth is, God is good. Every moment. In every outcome. For every human who ever lived, and throughout all eternity. But the weight of the statement, often thrown about in well-meaning triteness, is crushing. We don’t see a young man dying of addiction as good. Nor should we.

A Hard-Won Conclusion

A Christian who has come to the conclusion that God is good has not done so easily. We come to it through sweat, tears, and wrestling. My nephew is gone. As my good friend described it, “the finality is oppressive.” Through a clenched jaw, my brother, who had just sent a prayer request to his church the day before his son died, is clinging to the examples of Job and others in the Bible who clung to God in despair. Like Jacob, he will walk with a limp for the rest of his life after wrestling with the God he is struggling to trust. But through the struggle, with a broken heart, my brother is proclaiming the absolute goodness of the God he has come to know and love. He told me “I believed in Christ before this happened. I must live what I say I believe now.”

If the Creator of the universe is not good, everything falls into hopelessness and despair. Apart from Jesus Christ, there is nowhere else to turn (John 6:68). The ever-present and pervasive pain that characterizes life on earth notwithstanding, no answer apart from the Bible offers a more plausible explanation for all that we see, good or bad. Tragedies like my nephew’s death, along with victories like the cancer-free young man’s miracle, are both promised by God. Neither outcome amplifies or diminishes his goodness. The same goodness that preserved the young man’s life took my nephew’s. This is a hard teaching. Because losing a child is the hardest of roads. But when the hard road meets the hard teaching, the Gospel is able to prevail. And when the Gospel prevails, there is comfort for those who grieve.

Evil killed my nephew. But what the enemy meant for evil, God will use for good (Genesis 50:20). The statement is no banal platitude. It is a hard-fought truth that is proclaimed after much suffering. God is one hundred percent good. Infinitely, supremely, profoundly, and eternally, in every fiber of his Supreme Being.

As I grieve my nephew, and in my sorrow and through helpless concern for my brother and his family, I will, after wrestling long, proclaim with him and the psalmist, “The Lord is good to all, and his mercy is over all that he has made” (Psalm 145:9). I can conclude nothing else.



Your People Must Know Jesus

By / Aug 12

Astonishing! Wh-wh-what do we make of this? The puzzled Jewish leaders put their heads together in Acts 4.

A crippled man had been healed in the previous chapter and it had caused quite the stir. There was wonder, amazement, and questions, and Peter was not one to leave things unsaid. First, he deflected the crowd’s praise: “Why do you stare at us, as though by our own power or piety we have made him walk?” (Acts 3:12). Second, he set the record straight: “The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, the God of our fathers, glorified his servant Jesus …” (Acts 3:13). Third, he told them who Jesus is: the Holy and Righteous One, the Author of life, risen from the dead, foretold by the holy prophets, sent to you for your blessing.

It wasn’t long before the “priests and the captain of the temple and the Sadducees came upon them, greatly annoyed because they were teaching the people and proclaiming in Jesus the resurrection from the dead” (Acts 4:2). They locked up Peter and John until the next day when “their rulers and elders and scribes” gathered together for the interrogation, trying their level-best to get down to the bottom of this healing: “By what power or by what name did you do this?” (Acts 4:7)

It was Jesus, of course. “Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom you crucified, whom God raised from the dead—by him this man is standing before you well” (Acts 4:10). And Peter, again, took the opportunity to explain:

This Jesus is the stone that was rejected by you, the builders, which has become the cornerstone. And there is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved. (Acts 4:11–12)

Then came the shock and marvel, and the presumed stutter of what it all meant. The boldness of Peter and John at first baffled these Jewish leaders. How can these men untrained in our rabbinical classrooms speak so freely and forcefully an interpretation of the Isaianic cornerstone theme found in Psalm 118:22? Peter and John should not have been able to read the Hebrew Scriptures that way, not to mention testify to the deity of Jesus of Nazareth from the Scriptures, which is precisely what they were doing. The exclusivity of salvation was another Isaianic theme, about Yahweh, and Peter and John applied it to Jesus. Astonishment was the apt response, that is, until the Jewish leaders connected the dots: “And they recognized that they had been with Jesus” (Acts 4:13).

Peter and John “had been with Jesus,” meaning that Jesus had taught them how to read Isaiah and the Psalms, and practically “everything in the Law of Moses and the Prophets and the Psalms” (see Luke 24:44–45). Jesus had taught his apostles how to understand his identity revealed in the pages of Scriptures. This is fundamental to the apostolic witness, worthy of the church’s devotion and defense (see Acts 2:42; Jude 3).

And this is where we must start as pastors considering the question: How do I teach my people about eternal generation?

Petrine Instinct for Athanasian Embrace

More basic here is the question of teaching your people Christology, and whether such teaching is extracurricular or central to their discipleship. Should we start a mid-week course about Jesus’s identity for Christians who want the meat? Or might we take our cues from the New Testament where there is no such thing as a Christian apart from a robust embrace of who Jesus is?

If the latter is the case, and I believe it is, then we are free and encouraged to start courses on any theological topic we choose, so long as we don’t regulate Christology as an accelerated study for the mature among us. We must remember how all this got started, after all, that what makes Christians remarkable is the remarkableness of Christ, and every Christian should know what that is. Every Christian, young and old, new and seasoned, should know the identity of Jesus, including most basically that Jesus is God and man, and that as the Second Person of the Holy Trinity Jesus’s person is neither blended with the Father’s nor is his essence divided. The person of the Father is distinct, and the person of the Son is another, but their divinity is one, their glory equal, their majesty eternal. Our peoples’ embrace of the Athanasian Creed, among others, must follow a Petrine instinct—what I’m calling a working-class passion to speak rightly of Jesus. Let us start here, brother-pastors.

We want our people to know Jesus, and that knowing Jesus is necessary for their salvation. “One cannot be saved without believing it firmly and faithfully.” Quoting the Nicene Creed isn’t required for saving faith, but recognizing the Jesus described in that creed is. Show him to them.

Editor’s Note: This post originally appeared at the blog for Credo Magazine and is used with permission.



Running the Paths of the Lord

By / Aug 11

Like many people, I haven’t set foot in a gym for seven months. I had gotten into the habit of going to the gym rather than running outside largely because pushing a double stroller on a run is miserable. But where Covid has taken away, it has also given. Leaving the blaring TVs and machines at the gym behind, running outdoors has reawakened a love for the Lord that going to the gym had dulled.

At some point in college, I stumbled across Psalm 119:32; “I run in the path of your commands, for you have set my heart free.” Running the bluffs in Iowa, this verse became a mantra that would come to mind when my breath got short and legs wore out.

I run the path of your commands for you have set me free. With a literal path unfolding before my feet, running became a place of worship and prayer, a time to be quiet in the woods, soaking in the beauty of trees and streams and limestone bluffs. Running felt like freedom for me, and the Lord was meeting me on those trails, reminding me of his presence and promises, and becoming a faithful friend as I poured out my heart to him. Two years into raising twins, I was beginning to forget the joy of running and the opportunity for intimacy with Christ that time on a trail produced.

But as I have gotten back into running, these words have challenged me in a new way. A literal translation is, “Whenever you widened my heart, the way of your commandments I ran.” What does a widened or free heart look like? What does it mean to run in the path of God’s commandments? Though running makes me feel free, obeying commandments can often feel like the opposite of freedom. Our culture tells us that to be a free individual, perfectly authentic to your true self, we must cast off any rules that might inhibit us. But on the other hand, most Christians will find themselves at some point thinking that their freedom comes from how good they are or how well they keep the rules. But this verse rings in my ears asking me to consider more deeply the widened heart that God gives and the freedom that God gives his people as they run the path of his commandments.

A Widened Heart 

The concept of a widened or expanded heart occurs in a few other places that help us to understand what it means. Isaiah says that Israel’s hearts will be widened when they see God’s glory revealed and every nation proclaims Yahweh as Lord (Is 60:5). When Solomon became King of Israel he asked God for wisdom and God gave Solomon “wisdom and very great insight and a breadth of understanding (the same language as a widened-heart)” so that he could rule Israel in a godly way (1 Kgs 4:29). Paul says that his heart is wide open because of the power of the Holy Spirit at work in him, and he desires that the Lord would widen the hearts of the Corinthian church as well (2 Cor 6:1-13). God opens our hearts so that we can love him more and do his will.

One of my favorite things about running is being outdoors and seeing the splendor of God’s creation: vast skies, mountain vistas, dense woods. Running provides the quickest entry point for me to stand in awe of God’s glory. But running and spending time in prayer while I run also propels me back into my day with a deeper resolve to follow the Lord. I find myself back at home, stretching and thanking the Lord for his goodness and also that he has once again reoriented my heart to desire him and know him. This is what it means to have a widened heart; a heart that God has broadened to love him more and compelled to act in his ways (run in his commandments). But God does not widen our hearts just once, he widens it again and again. This is why the literal translation is whenever you widened my heart, the way of your commandments I ran. Our God desires to widen our love for him whenever we need it, sending us out to be people who bear the image of Christ to our neighbors.

Running with purpose

Whenever you widened my heart, the way of your commandments I ran. Running in God’s commandments is the response to a widened heart. In 1 Corinthians, Paul exhorts the church to run with purpose.

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…But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.

 – 1 Cor 9:24-27

Just as a serious athlete trains with the goal of winning their race, Paul argues that Christians must purposely pursue the ways of God. Jesus says that if we love him we will keep his commandments (Jn 14:15). With hearts widened to love God, we should run in the way that God says is good. Our running should be disciplined and self-controlled as we take his commands to heart, earnestly desiring to make his ways our ways.

But command-keeping can become a religion in itself. God gives us commandments so that we might know what a holy God is like, and so that we might begin to look like him as we obey his commands. But all too often, we can interpret commands and obedience as the ways that we earn God’s love. Though Paul charges us to run, to not sit back in our faith, but to pursue the things of God with discipline and zeal, our running is always in response to the widened heart that our God has given us. And more than that, we run in response to our running Father.

A Running Father

But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him. 

– Luke 15:20

In the story of the prodigal son, after the son has abandoned his father, spent his inheritance, and insulted him in the worst possible way, the son returns home hoping he might become a servant in his father’s house. But rather than shaming his son because of his disobedience, instead of being disappointed by his failures, the father ran. The father of a disobedient, small-hearted son, ran towards his child extending him the grace and forgiveness he did not deserve. In this action, this running father widened his son’s heart; he showed him love and grace. This is the heart of our heavenly father. A gracious God who runs towards us so that we might run the path of his commands, hearts free, knowing that we are loved.



The Force, the Spirit, and Romans 8

By / Aug 10

I’ve got a confession: I often view the Holy Spirit as nothing but a useful tool.

This thought dawned on me as my wife and I sat down to watch through the Star Wars Saga (wife’s first time, my second).

The Force

Anyone who knows anything about Star Wars has likely encountered talk of the “Force.” Throughout the Saga, the Force is given several names: It, Life Current, Sight, Life Wind, and Luminous Mist[1]. According to Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Force is “an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together.” As with most energy fields, the Force is something which can be controlled – even manipulated. In the final analysis, the Force is simply a metaphysical tool to be used for good or ill.

What does Star Wars have to do with the Holy Spirit?

Well, as I watched Star Wars I realized that I often try to “master” the Holy Spirit like a Jedi tries to “master” the Force. In other words, I treat the Holy Spirit as nothing more than a magical instrument given to me for my own self-fulfillment and self-realization. This is why, in prayer, I can find myself asking God to do things that, in the end, would only serve my own purposes – not His.

Maybe you’ve experienced a similar feeling. Maybe you’ve been tempted to see the Holy Spirit as your Holy Vending Machine. And maybe that’s left you feeling like God never answers your prayers (at least, in the way you think he needs to). Well, if you’re like me, you’re ready to stop treating God’s Spirit like the Force and start treating him like the third Person of the Trinity.

This is where Romans 8 comes in. Claimed by many as “my favorite chapter in the Bible,” I’ve found it strange that many seem to miss Paul’s emphasis on life in the Spirit. And that’s okay. It’s why we read the Bible over and over again. God’s always got something new to show us, which is why I want to spend the rest of our time pondering what Paul has to teach us about God and his Spirit’s saving work in our lives. But first…

The Force of Sin

In the early chapters of Genesis, two damning powers entered the world: sin and death. Genesis 4:7 personifies sin as an animal “crouching at the door.” Likewise, Paul, in Romans 6:16, says that fallen humanity has become an “obedient slave” to sin and is thereby subjected to death. John the Revelator sees this sin-leading-to-death as ending, ultimately, in a “lake that burns with fire and sulfur” (Rev 21:8). Thus, from Genesis to Revelation, sin is seen as a powerful, death-dealing force, and it one which has infected us all (Rom 5:12). This leads us to the first few sentences of Romans 8, wherein all of the bad news of our sin comes to a crashing halt.

Life in the Spirit

1. The Spirit Sets Us Free

Rather shockingly, Paul proclaims that “those who are in Christ Jesus” have been set free, not only from God’s just condemnation of sin, but from the jurisdiction of sin and death itself (Rom 8:1-2)! How did this happen? Paul explains:

For God has done what the Law, weakened by the flesh, could not do. By sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, he condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the Law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit. (8:3)

All of this comes to us as a gift (Eph 2:8). And that gift culminates in the sinner’s freedom.[2] How could it not? For “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom” (2 Cor 3:17).

Christian, God the Father has sent the Son and poured out the Spirit for the sake, yes, of his glory, but also your freedom.

Be free.

2. The Spirit Indwells Us

According to Paul, God’s Spirit is nothing like the Force of Star Wars. He – the Spirit – is not an impersonal power vulnerable to human manipulation; nor is he some kind of energy field which humans tap into from time to time. No, the Spirit of the Living God is omnipotent and omnipresent. He is both incredibly personal and totally free (cf. John 3:8). And, as Paul says,

If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you (Rom 8:11).

As the Spirit dwelt temporarily in the tabernacle and temple of the Old Testament, and as the Spirit dwells eternally in Christ (Col 2:11), so now the Spirit has come to dwell in you forever. This means, among other things, that you are no longer your own (1 Cor 6:19). It also means that your purpose in life is not found in some kind of pre-existent ‘True Self’ which has been buried through years of suppression and shame – how exhausting! Rather, your ultimate sense of purpose is rooted in Christ and what he has already made of you.

Christian, not only are you free from sin and death; you are free from the burden of having to make something of yourself.

Be free and be who you are.

3. The Spirit Leads Us

Unlike the Force in Star Wars, which one “masters” over time through meditation and other self-calming practices, the Spirit of Christ sovereignly confronts us. It is not we who make use of him; it is he who makes use of us. For, apart from God’s Spirit, we are utterly lost in a plethora of destructive patterns which lead, ultimately, to death. According to Paul, we are not the masters of our own destiny; rather, we are clay in the hands of God the Potter (Rom 9:21).

The glorious reality of the Spirit’s indwelling presence (as seen above from Romans 8) means that the sons and daughters of God are not left to themselves. No, they are led by the Spirit of God himself (Rom 8:14). This means, among other things, that we must relinquish all the control (we think) we have over our lives. We are not our own anymore. Even more, believers can now approach the throne of grace with a sense of freedom, knowing that God will surely lead us into the paths of life (Ps 16:11).

Be free, be who you are, and march in step with God’s Spirit.

You are safe in his hands.

[1]See https://www.starwars.com/databank/the-force (accessed on June 8).

[2]Christian, you have been set free from the power of sin and its consequence, death, through the reconciling work of God – the Father’s love expressed through the sending of his Son and the pouring out of his Spirit (Acts 2:33; cf. 2 Cor 5:18-19).



Dignity and Despair: A Reaction to Steinbeck’s East of Eden

By / Aug 9

“No story has power, nor will it last, unless we feel in ourselves that it is true and true of us.”

John Steinbeck wrote those words in the novel he identified as his grandest work, East of Eden. Evidence for Steinbeck’s personal belief in such a claim is unmistakable in his writing.  East of Eden is so reflective of the human experience that even the shocking and unbelievable events therein feel historical.  Steinbeck’s vivid description of Salinas Valley and her residents is noticeably familiar, and he conveys this familiarity in such a way that readers seem to join in reminiscence. The unfiltered—even brutal—recounting of tragedy, triumph, and the quiet anxiety or numbness that lies between provides a robust depiction of life as we know it. Thus, not only does the story feel historical, it feels like our story. Readers are not exposed to something foreign, but something in which they intimately participate. The story may not be real, but it is true.

It seems Steinbeck wrote in this way because of his views on the biblical account of Cain and Abel—the subject of the introductory quotation. For Steinbeck, every human participates in this ancient narrative. We all have Cain’s blood in our veins, and his murder is our ancestry. At more than one point, characters in the novel question what chance man ever had with such a violent past. Steinbeck derived his optimistic response from the biblical text itself.  In Genesis 4:7b, God speaks to Cain before his infamous crime: “sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou mayest rule over him (Steinbeck’s interpretation).” The choice given to Cain is the choice we all have. It distinguishes man from beast. It gives us dignity. Steinbeck believed moral agency is not only what makes us human, but what makes humans extraordinary. Though the world may attack a man time and time again, he will never be completely destroyed because he always has “the great choice.”

I have a deep appreciation for Steinbeck’s views. As a reader, I shared the invigoration of his fictional characters as they formulated these conclusions. Furthermore, I find the choice to do right or wrong incredibly meaningful.[1] I was glad to encounter a worldview that esteems mankind without denying them any fault. However, in my estimation, our response to the Genesis 4 story ought to be two-sided. Steinbeck illustrated the dignity of God-given choice. An equally valid reaction to this significant responsibility is despair.

Steinbeck’s globalization of Cain’s predicament rings fearfully true. Sin still lies at the door. God still calls us to overcome it. Actually, the dreadful choice between good and evil is even older than Cain, but not by much. The mere anxiety of having options is not what makes moral choice dreadful. Rather, it is accountability for the terrible consequence. Adam and Eve’s decision to disobey God was the most consequential human decision of all time. What a tremendous weight to carry! An incredible source of dignity, no doubt. But what of the result? A single glance at the world will reveal the vast misuse of moral freedom. A second glance, this time toward one’s own heart, will confirm suspicions that not only is Cain’s choice universal—so is his failure.[2] Moral choice leads to despair because we know that when we fail, the blame rests on our own shoulders.[3]

God’s gift of moral choice is prestige placed in unworthy hands. There is no one else to blame for the death and sin we bring upon ourselves through the misuse of moral freedom. We have sewn, so too should we reap. But God is not simply Creator; He is Father. God is not an employer who irresponsibly delegates power and terminates those who falter as a result. Rather, He is more like the mother who, after her child touched the forbidden stovetop, lovingly tends to the wounds.[4]

Even after witnessing humanity’s fall into destruction and despair through misuse of His dignifying gift of choice, God continued to give.  He gave His only begotten Son so that whoever believes will have eternal life.[5]  God gives forgiveness and grace to spiteful rebels.  He could take away the gift of choice and rid His creation of both dignity and despair. But instead, He demonstrated love in its highest form: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.[6] His children keep the divine gift of dignity without the eternal consequence of its misuse. How wonderful it is to serve a God who is faithful and just to give and forgive.[7] This is not a Father who we run from upon falling. Rather, this is One upon whom we fall, knowing that He cares for us and will lovingly tend to our wounds.

Steinbeck was right to feel the weight of Cain’s God-given choice. There is tremendous dignity in having such a decision. But, we must not overlook what humans consistently choose. Because of our sinfulness, despair clutches the heel of dignity—always following close behind. Praise be to our God and Father—the fount of Goodness—who gives ceaselessly by calling us out of our darkness and despair into His marvelous light.[8]

[1] For an insightful look at the way choice is integral to meaningful living, see Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning.

[2] Romans 3:10

[3] This is precisely the sort of despair portrayed in Romans 7.

[4] For the theologically conscientious and concerned: metaphors only extend so far.  In this one, I am not making a theological claim about holiness or sin (for which it may fall short), rather I am simply illustrating that God came to humanity’s rescue instead of destroying or abandoning us after the Fall.

[5] John 3:10

[6] Romans 5:8

[7] 1 John 1:9

[8] 1 Peter 2:9



God’s Incomprehensibility and Eternal Joy

By / Aug 5

During my childhood, it was commonplace to lose sleep over an irrational fear of heaven.

Yes, heaven. As a child, I feared heaven more than I feared Hell. Of course, this was an irrational fear, but I had not yet been taught the Bible or discipled in areas of theology. Perhaps you wonder what would cause a child to fear Heaven over Hell?

There was an episode of The Twilight Zone that depicted a bank robber and his descent to Hell. However, he didn’t initially realize that he was in Hell. When he gets there, he realizes gleefully that every venture he undertook succeeded. Every bet in the casino pays off, and his every desire is fulfilled. Eventually, he tells his guide that he wants to go to “the other place,” meaning Hell. However, with a sinister laugh the guide tells the robber that he is in Hell.

That was my childhood conception of heaven. You see, while there were things that I enjoyed doing, and places I enjoyed visiting, my little heart was astute enough to know that all things that brought joy eventually lost their luster. The gleam of a new possession soon wore off, and every trip to Disneyland devolved to a hot, sticky mess. Try as I might to bottle joy, it always escaped, often times sooner than expected. The horror of the same old thing was abated for a while, but I could only evade it for a few hours, even with the best roller coasters.

I thought that heaven was going to be an eternal dinner party where the guests stayed too long. After all, where else would they go? I, too, suppose I prefer eternal boredom over eternal torture.

When I was around 12, in the midst of wrestling with my fear of heaven, I had a well-meaning Sunday school teacher ask other students and me to draw their idea of heaven for an assignment. Being a native Californian and a lover of golf, I drew the 18th hole at Pebble Beach. I remember watching Tiger Woods dominate the field at Pebble Beach, and the picturesque 18th hole situated at the edge of the Pacific married by love for golf with my love for the beach. However, an eternity playing the 18th at Pebble would not satisfy if, like The Twilight Zone suggested, it would grow to be a mundane exercise over millions of years.

As I grew in knowledge of my faith, I learned that the saints pine for heaven not out of desiring earthly joy, but due to a longing of the presence of God. Even the beauty of creation is calling to something beyond. Creation does not declare its own glory, but it testifies to the glory of God. However, even this revelation was no comfort. After all, I am capable of growing tired of people as I spend more time with them. How would this be any different? Would the first 10,000 years of enjoying God grow into an apathetic torpor? May it never be!

Lamentations 3:22-23

22 The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;

his mercies never come to an end;

23 they are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.

I can still hear my grandmother singing this verse in her soft falsetto while she did chores around the house. One day, the repetition of, “new every morning…new every morning” finally penetrated my consciousness and confronted my fear of heaven. New every morning? Even when thousands of years have “passed” in the eternal state?

What does God’s incomprehensibility have anything do with my irrational fear of heaven? Recently, I came across this arresting statement by Augustine, “We are speaking of God. Is it any wonder if you do not comprehend? For if you comprehend, it is not God you comprehend.” Like my grandmother’s singing of Lamentations so many years ago, the truth of God’s incomprehensibility burrowed and lodged itself into my thoughts as a remedy for my fear. God is incomprehensible and dwells in unapproachable light. Nobody has seen him, but his light still beckons us.

God’s incomprehensibility is ignored, relegated to sections of various systematic theologies but rarely a cornerstone of our theological contemplation. Incomprehensibility means that we will dwell with Him endlessly and never grow weary of His perfections. The grandest peak or enthralling ocean view will seem like a pauper next to a prince in comparison to the smallest sin-free glimpse of God. What’s more, due to His incomprehensibility, that beatific vision is merely the smallest morsel of endless delight. It is almost too much to consider. All of the books that men have written about the nature of God do not even begin to capture the immensity of His beauty. Indeed, the greatest theologian and the child in the faith will stand on level ground with never-ending pleasure further up and further in.

May it never be that our consideration of dwelling in God’s presence fill us with dread. God is the same, yesterday, today and forever, which means that Christians will dwell in a world of incomprehensible pleasure. Indeed, His mercies will be new every morning.

 



Peter, Put Away Your Sword

By / Aug 4

I can’t say I blame Peter. His Master was under attack, the one he left everything to follow. His best friend was being betrayed and falsely accused right before him. If you’re going to carry a sword, you must be prepared to use it. And what better time than then? It was his duty to protect Jesus, an honor even.

So Peter decided to fight. And it was over as quickly as it started.

The sword unsheathed. The flash of metal in the torchlight. The servant clutching his ear, or what was left of it, in pain. Then the stern rebuke.

“Put your sword back into its place. For all who take the sword will perish by the sword. Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels? But how then should the Scriptures be fulfilled, that it must be so?” (Matthew 26:52-54).

As Peter chose the sword, Jesus chose the cross.

That night in the garden and the days that followed were a rollercoaster ride of failure and redemption for Peter. His transformation became evident in the stories that followed in the Acts of the Apostles.

But with the completed scriptures today, we can  see the radical difference in post-Pentecost Peter in his New Testament letters. Rather than spilling ink on all the incredible events he witnessed like walking on water, the Transfiguration, the empty tomb, he chose to write as a humble leader to humble exiles.

He clearly grew a lot. The lessons he learned fill the space between his words. And this is especially evident when he instructs the early believers on how to deal with hostile authorities. Like that night in the garden, powerful people in the first century sought to destroy Christ and his disciples. The Roman Empire led by Nero was beginning to grow tired of these Christians. The antagonism from the culture around them was pressing in.

No doubt, some of these early Christians were ready to reach for their swords. Like Pre-Pentecost Peter, they may have begun to justify their own self-defense.

With that in mind, Peter shares what he had learned from Jesus thirty years earlier: “Be subject for the Lord’s sake to every human institution, whether it be to the emperor as supreme, or to governors as sent by him to punish those who do evil and to praise those who do good. For this is the will of God, that by doing good you should put to silence the ignorance of foolish people” (1 Peter 2:13-15).

Peter’s instruction provides a window to his changed heart. He had retired his sword and taken up his cross. And his words call us to do the same.

Like Peter and these early believers, we face hostility from without. The governing authorities that rule over us may even oppose our faith. We are tempted to strike back, to lash out, to cut them. We justify the need for retaliation. “If Christians don’t stand up and fight back, who will?”

So we take up arms in a perceived culture war, and we fight for our rights, freedoms, values, etc. And the voice of our Savior echoes in our minds: “For all who take the sword will perish by the sword.” Or, all who take up social media anger will perish by social media anger. Or, all who take up political power will perish by political power. In other words, the very weapons we wield become the means of our own self-destruction. If God wanted us to fight for him, don’t you think he could at once send more than twelve legions of angels?

Rather than a sword, what we need is a cross. Subjection and submission may seem foolish, almost as silly as offering your other cheek when you’ve been slapped. But therein lies the power of God.

“For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God” (1 Corinthians 1:18).

When we choose the cross over the sword, we have a power much greater than our fiercest strike. Rather than screaming louder than the world, we can actually “put to silence the ignorance of foolish people” (1 Peter 2:15). And through our Christlike submission, those who oppose us “may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day of visitation” (1 Peter 2:12).

But is this the kind of “winning” we truly desire?

If the other disciples had been prepared for battle that night, maybe they could have staved off the arrest of Jesus. Maybe they could have even escaped and fled the country. But as Jesus made clear, then the scriptures would have not been fulfilled. The life of Jesus could have been spared, but the souls of men would have been lost.

The way of the cross is not the easy way or the natural way. But it’s the Jesus way. So put your sword back in its place and pick up your cross. Either way we perish, but one leads to true victory.



The Impossible Weight Of Earning

By / Aug 2

If you have tasted bile as it burns acidic in the soft tissue at the back of your throat, you don’t need me to describe it. I wonder how many of those young boys were tasting it for the first time as the boats neared the beach close enough to hear the whine of projectiles overhead. I wonder how many bit their tongue in terror, the taste of blood diluting the bitter bile. I wonder how many wished in haunted dreams that that bitter taste was the only bitterness they had to endure that fateful day.

76 years have passed since the turning of the tide of war swept onto those bloody beaches in Normandy. Every year since, the waves on that sand have not been able to fully erase the stain of horror that unfolded on the distant shores of France. Surrounded by thousands, lonely boys still died alone, thinking of home and loved ones. Victory extracted a heavy price. The eventual celebration still carried with it an almost unbearable weight.

Like many others this year, I turned again to a movie to help embed the tragedy of this great victory. Arguably the greatest of its genre, ‘Saving Private Ryan’ is one of the few war films that puts forward a story that truly engages with the viewer by portraying the nobility of characters, yet without glorifying war. It is not for the feint of heart. Yet even as I still feel my pulse quicken and my breathing irregular, it pales into insignificance compared to the terror those young boys faced down for the sake of my freedom. They should be remembered. It is right to honour them, even while lamenting the tragedy of war.

The film is confronting, but not gratuitously, violent. Yet it isn’t the visual intensity that often brings me to tears, instead, it is the gentle moments of humanity wrapped in the abrasive machination of warfare that cuts deep into my emotions. Scene after scene unfolds with the masterful touch of the director, building a story that eventually climaxes on a lonely bridge and spills over amid all the confusion of battle into a conversation that always leaves me in tears.

I don’t cry because of the tragedy of war, nor do my tears flow for the tragic death of a much loved and revered character. My tears fall in that moment because it is there that I see the hollow hope of this world. ‘Saving Private Ryan’ is a film that in almost every way echoes grander themes of redemption and sacrifice, of sin and a saviour. As a minister of the gospel, my heart is drawn to the premise of the few who would traverse hell itself in search for the one who must be brought home at all cost. The canvas is set, the paint is laid down layer upon layer, and when at the end my heart is souring in expectation for the final triumphant stroke, it does not come. Instead, the image is marred by the empty anthem of this world, “Earn this.”

Days later, I still feel the aching throb of a narrative which is greater than the film. The closing scenes still haunt me. A grey-haired man standing before a memorial stone with tears streaming down his face, desperately seeking the affirmation of his family that he has somehow earned the gift of life he’d been given, a gift bought with the blood of those who’d sacrificed their life for his. “Have I been a good man? Have I been a good husband? A good father? Have I earned this?”

We are rightfully inspired by stories like these, yet they carry an awful weight. Devoid of the gospel, stories like these impart the impossible weight of earning. Ryan was given a gift, yet the very gift he was given became the weight of despair that would shackle him for the rest of his life. How good would be good enough? Were all my efforts enough? Has my life been sufficient to balance the sacrifice made on my behalf?

The tragedy of this story is that it is played out in countless pastoral conversations across our country. I sit and hear the same desperation echoing from hollow hope even of those who call themselves Christians—“Have I earned it?” Men and women who hold back from the remembrance table because they don’t feel worthy. Men who silently fade away from fear that their past failures have forever tainted their position before Christ. Women who settle for far less, their vision so consumed by shame that they have no room for the embrace of Christ.

And I want to scream. I want to scream to those men and women who wonder in desperation. I want to scream to them the very same words I want to scream to Ryan in the closing scenes of this great movie. I want to embrace them in firm arms, I want to press my hands against the side of their dropping heads and lift their eyes to mine. There, gazing past all the fear and despair, I want to shout, “He is worthy! Jesus is worthy! That’s the whole point of the gospel. His worth in the face of my failure, his sacrifice for my freedom, his death for my life, his sorrow for my joy, his stripes for my healing—all of it points to the fact that I will never earn this, everything is about Jesus. It’s all about grace!” That’s what I want to yell.

Instead, I quietly pray for a miracle of the Spirit, and I open my Bible with them and read.

And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience-among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind. But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ-by grace you have been saved-and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them. – Ephesians 2:1-10



Fighting in Our Own Frontiers

By / Jul 26

Beth Moore once tweeted the following:

“Oh man, there’s bouta be a fight. I love this.”—Beth Moore.

Someone jokingly responded and asked if she was watching the NBA Finals or taking a shot at the Southern Baptist Convention. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Moore was talking about the NBA game on television at that point, but the joke hit home.

There is fighting afoot in the family.

And it seems everybody is watching the show.

Fighting is Fine, Sometimes

Now, I’m not one who thinks every scuffle is out of place. Sometimes, we need to fight. Or, at least we need to wrestle with things, engage in healthy debate, and call each other to account. The idea of “contending” is not foreign to NT Christianity (see Jude 3). This is true at the level of local churches, the larger world of evangelicalism, and conventions like that of Southern Baptists. The debates in reference to social justice, ethnic harmony, the abuse of women, and even to who is best suited to lead the convention forward, are not necessarily unhealthy discussions and debates. The way in which we conduct the conversations and where these conversations take place (blogs, Twitter, Facebook) is perhaps something we need a committee to look into.

What saddens me at the moment, however, and what I think is grievous in the present era, is how family squabbles go viral and too often invite the gaze of those on the outside. It is possible that people are gazing at Christians at unprecedented levels. And they are looking in our direction precisely because of our problems. This seems particularly true when one thinks of the Southern Baptist Convention. This, in my opinion, is one of the saddest realities of the day. Today, Southern Baptists are busy debating the merits and extent of complementarianism. We are fighting about how the gospel and social justice go hand-in-hand, if they do at all. And that’s a shortlist of what faces us today. The problem, however, is not necessarily the presence of the debates but the platforms we are using each and every day (like Twitter and Facebook) to hash these things out. These platforms usually offer little room for nuance, are devoid of the relational closeness that these debates probably demand, and, to my present concern, invite the world to watch for free. 

Talking with a Brother in Private instead of Public

A while back, a brother in my local church wanted to meet and chat. I initially told him I’d be happy to meet him for coffee. The day of our meeting rolled around and he asked if we could meet at his house instead. His reasoning? He knew we had some potentially divisive things to discuss. He wanted to meet in private because he did not want two Christians putting their potential division on display. I thought this was a wise and mature perspective and happily met him in his dining room. The conversation was emotional at times, and we disagreed about a few things, but we could speak with conviction, even passion, face to face and before the face of our God. The gaze of the unbelieving world was not a concern because they had no view.

Similarly, Gregory of Nazianzus, the great Cappadocian theologian, exhorted his opponents to conduct their debates “within [their] own frontiers.” Why? Because Gregory knew our enemies (and sometimes even our so-called friends) “keep all too close a watch on us, and they would wish that the spark of our dissensions might become a conflagration; they kindle it, they fan it, by means of its own drought they raise it to the skies, and without our knowing what they are up to, they make it higher than those flames at Babylon which blazed all around.”

Gregory’s point is that the world keeps a close watch on how we engage with each other. And if our fighting is laid bare for all to see, if every disagreement in the SBC is published to the general public, then we give our enemies the chance to fan the flames and burn us down. Thus, we should be careful about inviting the watching world to gaze at every family fight.

Let the World Watch If and When It Matters

Now, for the sake of nuance, we should acknowledge it is not always a bad thing when the world watches some of our family squabbles. This is particularly true when we fight over central concerns. If people in the family begin to drift on the issue of the good news of Jesus and his substitutionary atoning work, we will fight to the death. If churches in our denomination waver on the sinfulness of homosexuality, then we rise to wrestle for the truth. If those in our ranks abuse women or distort the divine design of complementarianism, then let us invite the world to listen to our exchange of words. And when the giants among us falter publicly, then the public should see us holding our leaders accountable. When it comes to those matters (and others), we are not afraid of the gaze of the world as we fight for the truth in the present evil age.

However, I would wish that some of our fighting, some of our debating, some of our back and forth would take place away from the gaze of those outside our ranks. I think we should stay away from social media when we are dealing with less than ultimate things and keep our family fights “within our own frontiers.” When it comes to the Southern Baptist family, for instance, I do not believe we should take the Calvinism vs. non-Calvinism debate into the New York Times or Washington Post. Nor do I believe at the moment we should take our wrestling with the limits of complementarity into the public sphere at every turn. Beyond those two issues, we could create a nice long list of things that are not worth hashing out before the eyes of the world.

What issues or debates or fights (whatever you want to call them) go public and what issues stay private, well that’s a matter of prudence. I have not worked out the application grid for such things. What I do know, however, is that we should think more carefully about how we conduct our family affairs, including our fights. And we need to think about these issues for the good of our churches, the future of our convention, the joy of all (the watching) peoples, and the glory of our King.