Gospel-Centered Resources from Midwestern Seminary
On this episode of the FTC Podcast, Jared Wilson sits down with MBTS colleague Dr. Matthew Barrett to talk about the importance of Trinitarian theology for pastoral ministry, the orthodoxy of simplicity, what’s up with the EFS debate, and more.
There’s nothing that makes you think about the futility of life quite like washing dishes.
No matter what you do, there’s always something that needs to be washed, dried, or put away. More than once, I have collected all the dishes from around my house, scrubbed until my fingers are pruny, and then I turn around… and realize that the cup of coffee I just finished is now ready to be washed.
And that’s just the dishes — don’t get me started on the vacuuming or the kitchen counters or putting away the clothes I only wore for an hour and draped on a chair three weeks ago.
It never ends.
One of the most cherished aspects of Scripture in this season of life is the reality that Scripture does speak to every single aspect of life. Not just the catastrophic or momentous moments — but the mundane and futile moments, too. God doesn’t ignore these, or breeze over them, or pretend that they are worthless or meaningless. The book of Ecclesiastes helps us acknowledge that there are futile endeavors on this side of heaven — our work seems to never end. “Vanity of vanities!” the Teacher cries — What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun. In other words, there will always be dishes to wash, laundry to fold, mountains to climb — you get the picture.
But this is not all that the book of Ecclesiastes teaches us. It doesn’t just remind us of the futility of life, or the meaninglessness of work. If this were the case, it would feel easy to lose heart: “why should I work, if I will be working forever? Why should I wash dishes if they will never end? Why should I work hard to endure the hard things in my life, when there will always be difficulties ahead?”
The Teacher also tells us that what we work at is not the point — it is how we work that matters. How we persevere, endure, and focus our minds — this is the point. The Teacher doesn’t just expose futility to discourage us, but to take our attention off the work of our hands and bring our minds to consider the state of our hearts.
How our hearts regard our work matters. Paul’s letter to the Colossians exhorts them that whatever they do should be done for the Lord, and not for men. Our corporate jobs, as unto the Lord. Our washing of dishes, as unto the Lord. Our feeding of mouths and sweeping of floors and filing of paperwork, all unto the Lord.
When we work for the Lord, we learn to find delight in our tasks. Not because our tasks themselves are inherently fun or interesting — but because they are dedications of our
commitment to the Lord, to work for His pleasure. This offering to him will not return void. The teacher tells us that there is nothing better for us, than to find enjoyment in what we do.
There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God, for apart from him who can eat or who can have enjoyment? For to the one who pleases him God has given wisdom and knowledge and joy.
My meditations on the book of Ecclesiastes have been some of the most long lasting — these thoughts stick with me each day as I complete chores and buy groceries again. God knows that these things are futile and repetitive, and yet, they are still meaningful to Him — and opportunities for me to walk along the paths of God’s grace and experience his wisdom, knowledge, and joy. All of these can be mine, just by washing dishes.
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).
FTC.co asks Ben Mandrell, president of Lifeway Christian Resources, “When taking over a new ministry or business venture, what are common mistakes Christian leaders should try to avoid?”
I talk to many, many pastors every year, and over the last year and a half I’ve heard a repetitive lament from them about the sheer disruption to their congregations caused by the weird convergence of political, cultural, and pandemic divisions. There’s been a great migration, in the American Church at least, of saints from one congregation to another. People leave a church because it’s too political; others leave the same church because it’s not political enough. People leave the same church for opposite perspectives on pandemic response. In our evangelical age, pastors are frequently expected to keep the customers satisfied, but they’re discovering that what the customers sharing the same local covenant want is increasingly divergent.
People gather together for all kinds of reasons, of course. Outside the church, it is customary to identify with groups that share our background, socio-economic status, political viewpoints, hobbies, and other interests and affinities and identities. It makes a natural sense that like attracts like.
But the church must inhabit a very thisworldly culture with a very otherwordly nature. When outsiders look in, they should struggle a bit to explain what makes us gather together. If they can say, “Well, it makes sense that those people would share the same church — they look alike, think alike, etc.,” we do not give confront them with the stupefying power of the gospel. The grace of God unites like no other force. Not even our natural friendships work this way.
Friendship begins, as C.S. Lewis wrote, when one says to another, “You too?” But in the church we say to one another, “You and I are not alike at all. We have no reason to be together. Except Christ. That makes us family. So even though we have nothing else in common, I’m with you. I’m for you.”
The church, then, becomes an apologetic for the gospel. Because there can be no natural explanation for why sinners of different ethnicities, ages, family backgrounds, marital status, financial resources, political views, and affinities would not just gather together, but covenant together. God must be real. The gospel must be true. Or else this family wouldn’t exist.
Here is how Paul puts it:
But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For he himself is our peace, who has made us both one and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility by abolishing the law of commandments expressed in ordinances, that he might create in himself one new man in place of the two, so making peace, and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility. And he came and preached peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access in one Spirit to the Father. So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God . . . — Ephesians 2:13-19
The gospel of Jesus doesn’t just make strangers into friends. It makes enemies into brothers and sisters. The church is a family created by grace. Just as Jesus called fishermen, tax collectors, and zealots into his flock. And when Christ is our God, everything else falls into proper orbit around him. He is exalted above our preferences and affinities. And thus our motley band of worshipers makes Jesus look very big.
May we never settle for less. Gathering with people who are just like us makes natural sense. But committing to the good and glory of people not like us — in the name of Jesus — makes heavenly sense. Churches like this give us a foretaste of the new world to come. May your church and mine only be explainable by the gospel.
Reagan Rose writes about Christian productivity and the deep importance of keeping your commitments.
“Remember the best way to teach our kids the gospel is to show them what walking with Jesus looks like.”
Ask The Forbidden Question In Bible Study
There is a question many scoff at if asked in the study of God’s word. J.A. Medders gives clarity to why this question may actually be helpful for us all.
Why Liturgy Makes Better Preaching
This thorough article works through the oppositions and affirmations of valuing liturgy in the church and encourages preachers to consider how it might bless their church.
Teach Children To Value Singleness
“Parents should help their children realize they likely will have adult years as a single person and to value those years, rather than framing them as something to escape from.”
“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
The church was growing. The threat of persecution could not stop it (Acts 4). The threat of corruption could not stop it (Acts 5). But the enemy still had another trick up his sleeve: internal division.
The Greek-speaking Jews complained against the Hebrews that their widows were being neglected in the daily distribution of food. The apostles called the church together and directly addressed the matter:
“It is not right that we should give up preaching the word of God to serve tables. Therefore, brothers, pick out from among you seven men of good repute, full of the Spirit and of wisdom, whom we will appoint to this duty.” – Acts 6:2b-3
What would the apostles do as this plan was carried out?
“But we will devote ourselves to prayer and to the ministry of the word.” – Acts 6:4
This statement succinctly summarizes the job description for pastoral ministry: prayer and the ministry of the word.
The apostles were devoted to prayer. It was their duty to pray. Prayer was not what they did as they led the church. It was essential to their leadership. They had no dichotomy that separated work and prayer. Prayer was their work! This is what the church needs today.
First, spiritual leaders must be devoted to private prayer. Communion with God in prayer should characterize our lives. It has been well said that what a minister is in his prayer closet before God alone is what he is – nothing more, nothing less. This is why the devil would have leaders do a hundred different wonderful things if he can stop of from praying. Spiritual leaders can only minister effectively when we pray consistently.
Furthermore, spiritual leaders must be devoted to public prayer. The proclamation of the word is the most public thing that pastors do. But Acts 6:5 places prayer right alongside of the ministry of the word. It indicates that spiritual leaders are to be just as committed to leading the church to pray as we are in leading the church in the ministry of the word. The act of leading your congregation in prayer is a teaching opportunity we dare not approach negligently. We should do our best to prepare ourselves to lead the saints in corporate prayer.
Acts 6:1-7 is often considered the institution of deacons in the church. But the word “deacon” is not used in this text. Its related term “ministry” is used. But it does not apply to the office of deacons. And it is not used to describe the seven men selected to wait tables. It is used to describe the work of the apostles’ devotion to “the ministry of the word” (verse 4). Every Christian is a minister of Christ. But pastoral leaders have a unique calling. We serve Christ as ministers of the word. We are servants of the word.
Some people think pastors-teachers do very little work. They think we play golf all week and get up when it’s time to preach and let it rip. But those who do that are not true men of God. Indeed, some men make their pulpit work look so easy that you would think that it did not cost any effort. But they have to work hard to make it look easy. The faithful ministry of the word requires preparation as well as proclamation. Really, the proclamation is the easy part. It’s the fun part. The burden is in the preparation.
Bible exposition does not grow on trees. God does not speak to preachers and supernaturally give them the exegesis of the text. Clear, faithful, and consistent preaching and teaching is usually 90 percent perspiration and 10 percent inspiration. You do all you can do and then God does what you cannot do. Paul instructs, “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth” (2 Timothy 2:15).
Editor’s Note: This originally published at HBCharlesJr.com
Gavin Ortlund wants to make you a better boxer—or at least help you pick better fights.
He opens his book with an observation about fighting: “It is easy to lose your balance when you’re standing on one foot. The strongest posture is one of balance between both feet: one of poise. That’s why boxers put so much care into their footwork.”[1]
Perhaps no other phrase embodies the task of Ortlund’s Finding the Right Hills to Die On than that of “theological poise,” and because of this, I think this little book needs to be bumped up to the top of your reading list. If it hasn’t come for your church yet, it’s likely on the way: doctrinal division lurks around the corner, and you’d be well-served to equip yourself with theological poise. Ortlund helps us do so.
A Tale of Two Impulses: Sectarianism and Minimalism
Finding the Right Hills to Die On begins with a section discussing the dangers of what Ortlund calls “sectarianism” and “minimalism.” Don’t get caught up in the vocabulary. What is suggested here is simple: doctrine is something we should divide over when appropriate; however, the church’s foundational call is to unity and peace with one another, secured by the blood of Christ. We should avoid both unnecessary division and unnecessary indifference.
Though a wide survey of healthy churches may find strong disagreements, “our love of theology should never exceed our love of real people, and therefore we must learn to love people amid our theological disagreements.”[2] Even in instances where healthy disagreement occurs, we must remember that our primary interlocutors are not flesh and blood but the cosmic powers over this present darkness, as Paul writes in Ephesians 6.
Again, it’s about poise. Avoiding sectarianism and minimalism is not about avoiding disagreements altogether—it’s about understanding when and how we ought to disagree.
But if only some hills are worth dying on, how can we know we’ve chosen the right ones?
Theological Triage: How to Know When to Pick Fights
To help you train, Ortlund uses the increasingly common framework of “theological triage” to prioritize doctrinal concerns. (In the same way a field doctor must use triage to determine the urgency of injuries sustained in war, Ortlund says we can use theological triage to determine the urgency and importance of a given doctrinal issue.)
His version of this framework includes three tiers of doctrinal concerns, appropriately titled primary, secondary, and tertiary. Concisely, he defines them like so:
This tiered system aids us in navigating how and when we ought to divide, and it does so with relative neatness: primary doctrines are always worth dividing over, secondary doctrines are typically worth dividing over on a local church level, and tertiary doctrines are never worth dividing over.
While I admit a newcomer to this kind of theological framework might struggle to understand where they ought to place a particular doctrinal topic, I think the helpfulness of these categories mitigates any confusion that may happen within each rank. In fact, considerable wiggle room can be given within each level of this taxonomy (especially the secondary and tertiary levels).
For example, Ortlund helpfully points out that some second-tier doctrines are more urgent or consequential than others; not all secondary issues are “equally secondary.” Likewise, second-tier doctrines are often marked by a gospel-vitality that can be undermined if we seek to treat them with indifference: the sovereignty of God in salvation, how sacraments are administered, and other theological topics tend can richly inform our worldviews and communicate much about our conception of the gospel.
A bulk of the book is dedicated to “performing” theological triage—particularly in the chapters dedicated to second-and-third-rank issues. Drawing on his journey through various theological positions, Ortlund models what it means to define the faith from a posture of humility.
Who should read this?
One of the most impressive traits of the book is its accessibility. There are a host of other great books on doctrinal division that have come out lately—Putman’s When Doctrine Divides the People of God comes to mind. Still, Finding the Right Hills to Die On is practical in a way some of those other works have not demonstrated themselves to be.
This is a book that I want to get in the hands of every church member because it is the backbone of what we need in 2021: church unity. In an era marked by division, derision, political strife, and theological uppercuts, Finding the Right Hills to Die On reminds us that it’s okay to step out of the boxing ring sometimes.
And, I think Ortlund would agree: oftentimes, it’s best if we do so.
[1] Gavin Ortlund, Finding the Right Hills to Die On: A Case for Theological Triage (Wheaton: Crossway, 2020), 27.
[2] Ibid., 36.
[3] Ibid., 95.
