Before too long, Ben Peays asked if I’d like to move my blog to this new thing called The Gospel Coalition. I was happy to move over to TGC. I think Justin Taylor and I were the first two bloggers to move our independent sites over to this new web enterprise.

I’m glad I did. TGC has provided me with a platform I never anticipated. They have also provided me with technical support, editing suggestions, and many good friends. It’s been great to work with Collin Hansen as editorial director and with two TGC presidents, Don Carson and Julius Kim. My blog—DeYoung, Restless, and Reformed (I know, kind of lame, but it seemed clever at the time)—has been at TGC for over a dozen years. I’ll always be grateful for this long partnership.

Starting today, I am moving my blog to my own personal website. No one asked me to make this move. For the better part of a year, I’ve been working (read: other smart people I trust have been working) on creating a personal website that can house all of my online content. This new site includes sermons, conferences messages, articles, and blog posts—all under one digital roof. The design is clean and sharp. The search function is effective and easy to use. With the launch of this new site it makes sense that I would house my personal blog in the same place.

My years of TGC content will still be available at TGC (and at my new site). I’m still on TGC’s council (though I’ve been off the board since last April). I’m sure I’ll still write for TGC from time to time—just like other people do, when invited and through the normal editorial channels. I’ll still write in other venues (e.g., World, 9Marks, Desiring God, Ligonier) as called upon. With so many other commitments I don’t blog nearly as much as I used to. That infrequency will probably continue. But when I do blog, it will now be through my own site. That address is KevinDeYoung.org. The new website—like the Death Star once was—should be fully operational. If you’d like to continue receiving email updates when I publish content, you can subscribe at KevinDeYoung.org/subscribe.

I’m thankful for the many good, godly, smart people—good friends, some of them—who have helped support my TGC blogging endeavor all these years. For them and for all the readers over the years, I give thanks to God.

Kevin is joined by the distinguished historian, Dr. Wilfred McClay as the two of them talk about the task of the historian in being a “recording angel” of the past. After discussing McClay’s perceptive article “The Surprising Persistence of Guilt” (2017), they turn to McClay’s recent book on American History, A Land of Hope (Encounter, 2019). McClay talks about his conversion to Christianity early in his academic career and how that has shaped his work as a historian in mingling celebration and criticism. Finally, McClay asks for prayer as he serves on America’s official 250th anniversary committee making preparations for 2026.

Timestamps:

Introduction and Sponsor [0:00-2:33]

Personal Histories [2:34-9:09]

The Strange Persistence of Guilt [9:10-15:14]

Land of Hope [15:15-21:27]

Generosity toward the Past [21:28-31:33]

Celebration and Criticism [31:34-43:00]

250^th Birthday of the USA [43:01-51:28]

Timestamps:

So far, I trust that every Christian is in agreement with these affirmations.

But beyond these foundational truths, the current discussion about abuse—as it is being played out online, in articles, in books, and in churches—gets quickly twisted and tied up in knots. To some degree, this is simply what happens when emotionally charged issues get talked about online (especially on Twitter). Social media has not been known to foster a spirit of charity or cultivate an intellectual atmosphere interested in careful distinctions and patient deliberation. The other difficulty is that depending on a whole host of factors—one’s personality, position, experience, or context—we tend to see the present dangers leading in different directions. For some, the most pressing concern is obviously that abuse is perpetrated, minimized, and covered up in the church. For others, there is another concern, that abuse is becoming a totalizing category and that even the accusation of abuse takes down everyone and everything in its path.

I admit I am concerned that correcting the church’s failures when it comes to abuse has given way in some places to an unhealthy overcorrection. Of course, in one sense, you cannot correct an error too much. And yet, you can correct one error in a way that produces new errors. That’s what I see at times in the current discussion about abuse.

I realize there are important points that need to be made on both sides. I have several points below warning against the overcorrection, but I don’t want to minimize the need there has been (and continues to be in many places) for the initial correction. So let me do my best to sincerely voice the correction and warn against the overcorrection.

What Needs to Be Said

Here are five things we need to say about abuse.

One, abuse is in the church. As much as we strive to be different from the world, there is still worldliness in the church. Children have been abused by adults. Wives have been abused by husbands (and sometimes the other way around). Congregants have been abused by leaders. Subordinate staff members have been abused by senior staff members. We in the church have not always done a good job protecting the vulnerable or holding the powerful to account. Predators, narcissists, and sinners of various stripes have too easily found the church a place to hide, and sometimes a place to flourish, in their deeds of darkness.

Two, the church has not always handled abuse well. Even when church leaders have not been guilty themselves of abusive behavior, and have not sought to cover up abusive patterns, they have sometimes failed to handle abuse situations with biblical fidelity, pastoral sensitivity, and Christian grace. These failures may include: failing to put proper safety measures in place, failing to act in a timely manner, failing to warn others and share information with pertinent parties or assemblies, failing to include women (when appropriate) in matters of domestic abuse, applying Matthew 18 in a wooden fashion, treating abuse situations as straightforward matters of personal reconciliation, being slow to listen, and being ignorant of proper reporting procedures.

Three, there are many devastating ways we can sin against one another. We should all know by now that “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” is a lie. We can be deeply hurt by words as well as actions, by emotional pain as well as physical harm, by subtly manipulative leaders as well as by obviously tyrannical ones.

Four, victims need our help. Victims often deal with misplaced shame and need to be reassured of their innocence and of God’s grace. The cries of victims have sometimes gone unheard; they need people in positions of influence to listen to them and to speak for and with them. Often they need people in power to step in and protect them from harm.

Five, the first instinct of Christian leaders should be to help genuine victims. There can be a sinful tendency in those who are in positions of authority to view abuse victims as threats to be neutralized rather than sufferers to be helped and comforted. Of course, institutional boards and presidents and pastors cannot cease to be wise, responsible leaders. But being a good steward of the organization is no excuse for treating situations of abuse as strictly legal matters or as public relations disasters to be mitigated. We must think about victims before we think about our own institutional liabilities.

What We Need to Be Careful About

All of the points above are important. They cannot be assumed. They should not be minimized. I lead with these five points because they need to be said.

At the same time, there are other things that need to be said, lest in our zeal to care for victims we end up making new victims. Let me, then, make five additional points.

One, there is almost no room to say anything besides the first five points without some people accusing you of not really caring about the first five points. At times, the topic of abuse gets put into a category by itself where—unlike other pastoral or theological topics—any efforts at nuance or dispassionate analysis are completely off limits. As a result, people are often pushed to opposite sides: You either get it and are 100% on the right side, or you are an oppressor and part of the problem.

Along with this all-or-nothing mindset comes an unrealistic expectation that every discussion of abuse must proceed as if one was in an intimate counseling setting. That is, no matter the platform (book, blog, tweet) and no matter the genre (scholarly article, theological inquiry, cultural analysis, exegetical exploration), the writer or speaker must communicate with a commitment, seemingly above all else, that the most aggrieved person or eager critic could not possibly misunderstand or misappropriate what is being said. Too often there is an unrealistic expectation that every internet article or podcast comment or pulpit sermon must speak as you would in a one-on-one counseling situation. We do not produce balanced thinking by making the internet a counseling office, nor will victims be helped in the long run by giving them the expectation that the care they need can be found from strangers online.

Two, sometimes there is an unwillingness to distinguish between the abuser and anyone else in “the system.” It’s true, the system—and those in it—can fail victims and cover tracks for the abuser. And yet, we should be cautious about charging “the culture” with producing iniquity—a charge that is usually impossible to prove or disprove. We must not impute guilt to anyone and everyone who is somehow connected to “the system.”

Likewise, we must be careful to distinguish between high handed sin, unintentional sin, honest mistakes, and simply being connected to a sinful person or a tragic situation. It is far too easy—whether from a sincere zeal to ameliorate injustice or from a desire to seem virtuous—to malign others without evidence or due process. A commitment to helping victims should not necessitate second-degree (let alone third- or fourth-degree) separation from anyone deemed “controversial” or from those who have been accused of abuse without due process.  “Guilty until proven innocent” is not a Christian way to pursue justice, nor is it loving our neighbors as we would want to be loved.

Three, abuse has become an ever-expanding term. Because “abuse” is such an explosive term, bringing shame to the accused and bringing power to the offended, we must not throw around the word haphazardly. Not too long ago, if you said “abuse” everyone would have assumed you meant physical harm or the sexual exploitation of a minor. As I said earlier, it is important to realize that there are ways we can be powerfully sinned against that don’t involve anyone laying a finger on our bodies. The problem is not in recognizing the many ways we can sin and be sinned against. The problem is in forestalling further questions and conversations by simply mentioning the word “abuse.” The danger of verbal inflation is real. The language of violence and trauma are now used for everyday interactions. When hurt feelings, gruff personalities, ill-conceived jokes, run-of-the-mill staff disagreements, and the ordinary misunderstandings of life get labeled as “abuse,” we not only run the risk of slandering the accused, we also make it more difficult for the genuinely abused to get the help and attention they need.

Four, when it comes to allegations of abuse, it is sometimes communicated (implicitly or explicitly) that the only acceptable stance is immediate and unquestioned advocacy. Again, let me try to make clear what I am not saying. I am not saying that advocacy is wrong. There are certainly many times where the most helpful, most courageous, and most Christian thing to do is to make sure the victim knows, “I am on your side, and I will fight for you.” What I am saying is that we should not expect that immediate and unquestioned advocacy is the only appropriate response—indeed, it may sometimes be the wrong response—when serious allegations are made. No matter how much we want to listen to and sympathize with people in their pain, there must be a place for fact-finding, for hearing from both sides, and for objective analysis—whether from journalists, boards, pastors, investigators, or whomever.

We are all capable of misinterpreting the facts—even the facts that form our story. None of us passively experience life. We actively interpret what happens to us, and sometimes we interpret our experiences incorrectly. Abusers can be blind to their abusive behavior, and those who consider themselves victims can misread what actually transpired. We must allow for the possibility that sheep can mislabel as “abuse” what is, in fact, necessary pastoral correction and oversight. After all, “for the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it” (Heb. 12:11).

Five, the abuse discussion can forget that all of us are both sufferers and sinners. There are real oppressors and real victims. People don’t all suffer the same amount. People don’t all sin in the same ways or to the same degree. And yet, we must remember that hurting people often hurt people. They may not mean to. They may be trying to deal with genuine pain as best as they can. We must be patient with those who have been egregiously sinned against. But the sinned against are still sinners. Suffering does not make us sovereign. Our pain does not make us infallible. Sometimes our sense of trauma is misplaced. Sometimes we are less fragile than we think.

And finally, and somewhat controversially I know, we must acknowledge that even when we were sinned against, we are still responsible for the sins we commit. The existence of a power disparity, for example, does not automatically eliminate personal agency. Clearly in some situations—when dealing with minors, for example, or when one is physically overpowered—there is complete exoneration of guilt. But in other situations, the one with lesser power can still bear moral responsibility, even if the one with greater power is guilty of a much more heinous transgression (see Westminster Larger Catechism 151). If Joseph had slept with Potipher’s powerful, conniving, and threatening wife, she would have had the greater sin, but Joseph’s actions would still have been a great wickedness and sin against God (Gen. 39:9).

Conclusion

We have heard a lot in the last couple years about the danger of authority, and understandably so. We have seen some utterly terrible abuses of power in the Christian world. Power dynamics are real. Narcissism is insidious.  Siding with the gifted abuser and ignoring the oppressed victim happens. Authority is sadly, tragically, too often used for diabolical ends.

But the response to a fire in the kitchen must not be to burn the whole house down. All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to Jesus, so we must not be suspicious of all authority. The abuse of authority is a profound distortion of God’s own character, for He is the one who sovereignly rules over all things. In my experience over twenty years of ministry, I believe most pastors deserve the benefit of the doubt. Most are doing their imperfect best to lead and serve and teach in increasingly difficult days. To help people see God for who he is, we must correct abuse where it exists, without overstating the problem, without calling all authority into question, and without damaging the reputations of those who don’t deserve to be pilloried.

Timestamps:

You Just Keep Turning the Pages [0:00 – 4:22]

Airing of Christmas Grievances [4:22 – 11:51]

Favorite Christmas Activities [11:51 – 24:33]

Keep Christmas Messy [24:33 – 31:25]

Time Management & Productivity Tips [31:25 – 43:22]

How to Read 82 Books in a Year [43:22 – 57:31]

I’m working on new books. [57:31 – 1:02:36]

Books and Everything:

Psalms in 30 Days, by Trevin Wax

“Joyous Surrender: A Rhapsody in Red (and Green),” by Joseph Bottum

(Sleighbell sounds from zapsplat.com.)

This list is not meant to assess the thousands of good books published in 2021. There are plenty of worthy titles that I am not able to read (and lots I never hear of). This is simply a list of the books (Christian and non-Christian, but all non-fiction) that I thought were the best in the past year. “Best” doesn’t mean I agreed with everything in them; it means I found these books—all published in 2021 (or the very end of 2020)—a strong combination of thoughtful, useful, interesting, helpful, insightful, and challenging.

Instead of trying to rank the books 1-10 (always a somewhat arbitrary task), I’ll simply list them in alphabetical order by the author’s last name.

Special Note: in addition to the Top 10 list, I’ve included a number of other books I’ve enjoyed in the past year. Don’t miss all the bonus books mentioned at the end of the post! Now on to this year’s list.

Erika Bachiochi, The Rights of Women: Reclaiming a Lost Vision (University of Notre Dame)

I admit, I’ve never thought of Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-97) as a possible source of conservative wisdom, but Bachiochi brilliantly employs Wollstonecraft’s 18th century feminist vision as a counterpoint to the moral bankruptcy that characterizes too much of contemporary feminism. At the heart of Bachiochi’s prescription is the contention that the best feminism is pro-woman, pro-family, and pro-children. She also insists, along with Wollstonecraft, that male infidelity is, in many ways, the problem to be remedied, and certainly not a lifestyle for the “liberated” woman to imitate.

Katy Faust and Stacy Manning, Them Before Us: Why We Need a Global Children’s Rights Movement (Post Hill)

Speaking of family and children, Faust and Manning argue forcefully that if we really want to put children first (“them before us”), we must be honest about how the sexual revolution, new reproductive technologies, and new familial arrangements are undeniably harmful to the most vulnerable among us. This book is a good one-stop guide to much of the latest sociological and biological research on marriage, family, and human flourishing.

Bruce Gordon and Carl Trueman, eds., The Oxford Handbook of Calvin and Calvinism (Oxford)

Gordon and Trueman are to be commended for commissioning an outstanding collection of chapters, written by outstanding scholars and covering a wide array of topics. With chapters on standard and excellent topics like Knox and Calvin, Calvinism in Germany, and Calvin among the Puritans, as well as “newer” topics covering the influence of Calvinism in places like China, Brazil, and Ghana, everyone interested in Calvinism should be interested in this book. The last chapter on “The New Calvinism” is a fair and evenhanded summary of the Young, Restless, and Reformed movement. This hefty volume is a terrific resource for pastors, scholars, and students.

Crawford Gribben, Survival and Resistance in Evangelical America: Christian Reconstruction in the Pacific Northwest (Oxford)

I’ve recommended this book many times in the last several months. If you want to see what fair-minded, contemporary historical research looks like (as opposed to advocacy historiography), this is a great example. With an even-handed approach, Gribben explores the growth of the Christian Reconstruction movement in places like Moscow, Idaho. What is Doug Wilson up to? This book tries to answer that question, without telling you whether the project is good or bad or something in between.

David Haines, Natural Theology: A Biblical and Historical Introduction and Defense (Davenant Press)

No doubt, we are seeing in our day a renewed appreciation among Protestants for natural theology. This is a good thing, and Haines shows us why. With an emphasis on the Greeks and the Romans and the first centuries of the church, Haines makes the convincing case that natural theology has been around a long time, is taught in the Bible, and has been the default position in the Western Church (Catholic and Protestant) until the last century.

Allen C. Guelzo, Robert E. Lee: A Life (Knopf)

Guelzo is one of the finest living historians. His research is impeccable, his prose memorable, and his insights provocative. All Guelzo’s learning and lucidity are on display in this magisterial biography. Oh, and he gives a great podcast interview.

John W. Kleinig, Wonderfully Made: A Protestant Theology of the Body (Lexham Press)

Being Reformed, I didn’t agree with every jot and tittle of Kleinig’s theology. But overall, it was a refreshing, positive, unflinching exploration of what Christians ought to believe, and should be teaching, in these crazy times. We need as many good Christian books about the body as we can get. This was a very good one.

Stephen Nichols, R.C. Sproul: A Life (Crossway)

This book was a pleasure to read. I think I devoured it in two sittings. Nichols has a flair for biographical writing, and Sproul makes a great subject for biographical history. I knew much of the broad outline of R.C.’s life, but I learned a lot I didn’t know. Anyone who has benefited from a Sproul book or lecture or sermon will enjoy this book.

Gary L. Steward, Justifying Revolution: The American Clergy’s Argument for Public Resistance 1750-1776 (Oxford)

Not everyone is into revised doctoral dissertations, but this one was particularly interesting. Did pastors support the American Revolution because they had become Republicans more than Christians and had drunk too deeply of Enlightenment wells? Or were they drawing upon an older Reformed tradition in resisting British tyranny? Steward makes a good case for the latter.

Scott Yenor, The Recovery of Family Life: Exposing the Limits of Modern Ideologies (Baylor)

Do we need another book aimed at undermining the sexual revolution? Given the way the revolution continues to roll on and roll over everything in its way, the answer, Yenor argues, is yes. This is a bracing analysis of how incoherent our modern assumptions have become and how the family suffers as a result.

*****

And now for more books! This isn’t everything I’ve read in the past year, but here are a few dozen other books I read in 2021. You may want to check out some of these titles (even if I don’t agree with everything in every book).

Five of my favorite (non-2021) books:

David Calhoun, Princeton Seminary, Volumes 1 and 2 (Banner of Truth, 1994, 1996)
Wilfred McClay, Land of Hope: An Invitation to the Great American Story (Encounter, 2019)
Te-Li Lau, Defending Shame: Its Formative Power in Paul’s Letters (Baker Academic, 2020)
Andrew Roberts, Churchill: Walking with Destiny (Viking, 2018)
James S. Stewart, Heralds of God: A Practical Book on Preaching (Regent, 2001)

Books from 2021 that I just started and look forward to reading more:

H.W. Brands, Our First Civil War: Patriots and Loyalists in the American Revolution (Doubleday)
Jay Cost, James Madison: America’s First Politician (Basic Books)
Benjamin M. Friedman, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism (Knopf)
Jonathan Gibson, Be Thou My Vision: A Liturgy for Daily Worship (Crossway)
Arthur Herman, The Viking Heart: How Scandinavians Conquered the World (Mariner Books)

Books on productivity and time management:

Jake Knapp and John Zeratsky, Make Time: How to Focus on What Matters Every Day (Currency, 2018)
Cal Newport, A World Without Email: Reimagining Work in an Age of Communication Overload (Penguin, 2021)
Greg McKeown, Effortless: Make it Easier to Do What Matters (Currency, 2021)
Oliver Burkman, Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals (Farrar, Strauss, Giroux, 2021)
Jordan Raynor, Redeeming Your Time: 7 Biblical Principles for Being Purposeful, Present and Wildly Productive (Waterbrook, 2021)

Books on politics and economics and social issues:

Russell Kirk, Concise Guide to Conservatism (Regnery, 2019)
Russell Kirk, The Conservative Mind: From Burke to Eliot, 7th rev. ed. (Gateway, 2019)
William Julius Wilson, More than Just Race: Being Black and Poor in the Inner City (Norton)
Glenn S. Sunshine, Slaying Leviathan (Canon Press, 2021)
Thaddeus Williams, Confronting Injustice without Compromising Truth (Zondervan, 2020)
James R. Otteson, Seven Deadly Economic Sins (Cambridge, 2021)
Wilfred Reilly, Taboo: Ten Facts You Can’t Talk About (Regnery, 2020).
Leonard Sax, Why Gender Matters, 2nd Ed (Harmony, 2017);

Books on history and historical figures:

Danny E. Olinger, Geerhardus Vos: Reformed Biblical Theologian, Confessional Presbyterian (Reformed Forum, 2018)
Iain Murray, “The Life of John Murray” in Collected Writings of John Murray, Volume 3 (Banner of Truth, 1982)
Edward H. Bonekemper III, The Myth of the Lost Cause (Regnery History, 2015)
Lucas E. Morel, Lincoln and the American Founding (SIU Press, 2020)
Allen C. Guelzo, Redeeming the Great Emancipator (Harvard, 2016)
Jason Riley, Maverick: A Biography of Thomas Sowell (Basic Books, 2021)
Steven Ozment, Ancestors: The Loving Family in Old Europe (Harvard, 2001)
Steven Ozment, When Fathers Ruled: Family Life in Reformation Europe (Harvard, 1983)
H.W. Brands, The Zealot and the Emancipator: John Brown, Abraham Lincoln, and the Struggle for American Freedom (Doubleday, 2020)
Ritchie Robertson, The Enlightenment: The Pursuit of Happiness 1680-1790 (Harper, 2021).

Books on theology:

Donald Macleod, Christ Crucified: Understanding the Atonement (IVP Academic, 2014)
Donald Macleod, The Person of Christ (IVP, 1998)
Donald Macleod, Therefore the Truth I Speak: Scottish Theology 1500-1700 (Mentor, 2020)
Michael J. Kruger, Surviving Religion 101: Letters to a Christian Student on Keeping the Faith in College (Crossway, 2021)
James Buchanan, The Doctrine of Justification (Banner of Truth, 2016)
Stephen J. Grabill, Rediscovering the Natural Law in Reformed Theological Ethics (Eerdmans, 2006)
Michael Allen and Scott Swain, eds., The Oxford Handbook of Reformed Theology (OUP, 2020)
David Fergusson and Mark W. Elliott, The History of Scottish Theology, 3 Volumes (OUP, 2019)
Doug Moo, The Theology of Paul and His Letters (Zondervan Academic, 2021)
G.K. Chesteron, The Everlasting Man (Ignatius, 1925)

Timestamps:

What Thanksgiving Means in Michigan [0:00 – 2:12]

Dr. Douglas J. Moo [2:12 – 7:32]

Text and Tradition in Theology [7:32 – 15:17]

What is the biggest recent change in Pauline theology? [15:17 – 19:29]

Same Text; Different Takes [19:29 – 29:26]

Traditional Conclusions [29:26 – 34:05]

Women and the Home [34:05 – 37:45]

Sexual Mores Conflict [37:45 – 41:08]

A Glaring Omission [41:08 – 44:25]

On N.T. Wright [44:25 – 49:07]

New Realm [49:07 – 51:57]

Substitutionary Atonement [51:57 – 55:24]

The Gagging of God, by D.A. Carson [55:24 – 1:01:45]

Books and Everything:

A Theology of Paul and His Letters: The Gift of the New Realm in Christ, by Dr. Douglas Moo

Other books by Dr. Moo

Timestamps:

Books First! [0:00 – 2:25]

Collin is surprised. [2:25 – 7:36]

Kevin is restrained. [7:36 – 19:18]

Justin is almost finished. [19:18 – 28:54]

Elites in the Spotlight [28:54 – 37:54]

Hating on Elites [37:54 – 43:03]

Evangelical Elites [43:03 – 46:40]

Public Religious Research Institute Survey [46:40 – 49:08]

Elitists Out of Step [49:08 – 53:35]

Kevin Responds [53:35 – 58:34]

Elites Not Reading the Room [58:34 – 1:02:11]

The Inner Ring [1:02:11 – 1:03:15]

Encouragement [1:03:15 – 1:07:18]

Books and Everything:

Collin:

Brand Luther: How an Unheralded Monk Turned His Small Town into a Center of Publishing, Made Himself the Most Famous Man in Europe–and Started the Protestant Reformation, by Andrew Pettegree

Pilgrims and Priests: Christian Mission in a Post-Christian Society, by Stefan Paas

Kevin:

Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, by Oliver Burkeman

Them Before Us: Why We Need a Global Children’s Rights Movement, by Katy Faust and Stacy Manning

Wonderfully Made: A Protestant Theology of the Body, by John W. Kleinig

The Viking Heart: How Scandinavians Conquered the World, by Arthur Herman

1984, by George Orwell

Justin:

Proverbs: A Shorter Commentary, by Bruce K. Waltke and Ivan D. V. De Silva

The Zealot and the Emancipator: John Brown, Abraham Lincoln, and the Struggle for American Freedom, by H.W. Brands

Lincoln in Private: What His Most Personal Reflections Tell Us About Our Greatest President, by Ronald C. White

Lonesome Dove: A Novel, by Larry McMurtry

Articles on Elites:

“The Galli Report 10.08.21,” by Mark Galli

“The Failure of Evangelical Elites,” by Carl R. Trueman

“Evangelical Elites, Fighting Each Other,” by David French

“The Inner Ring,” by C.S. Lewis

Timestamps:

Dr. Allen Guelzo, First-time Listener [1:02 – 2:47]

Guelzo’s Other Historical Works [2:47 – 12:53]

The Making of a Great Course [12:53 – 14:13]

Writing a Biography of Robert E. Lee [14:13 – 19:21]

What Movies Get Right and Wrong about Lee [19:21 – 24:47]

“…the biography of someone who commits treason?” [24:47 – 29:24]

A Christian Way of Doing History [29:24 – 36:18]

Neither Saint Nor Devil [36:18 – 44:41]

Robert, Son of the Great Light Horse Harry Lee [44:41 – 48:37]

Before and After the War [48:37 – 51:53]

What if the South had won? [51:33 – 58:30]

Lee and Slavery [58:30 – 1:04:20]

Should statues be removed? [1:04:20 – 1:09:22]

Books and Everything:

Robert E. Lee: A Life, by Allen Guelzo

The Great Courses

Tenth Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia: 175 Years of Thinking and Acting Biblically, by Philip Graham Ryken

Edwards on the Will: A Century of American Theological Debate, by Allen Guelzo

Abraham Lincoln: Redeemer President, by Allen Guelzo

Gettysburg: The Last Invasion, by Allen Guelzo

Redeeming the Great Emancipator, by Allen Guelzo, et al

Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War and Reconstruction, by Allen Guelzo

Faith of the Fatherless, by Paul Vitz

“Of Monuments & Men,” by Allen C. Guelzo and John M. Rudy

Timestamps:

Eradicate Porn [0:00 – 2:30]

Nebraska vs. Michigan State [2:30 – 6:06]

Abortion [6:06 – 32:12]

Is the greatest threat to the Church internal or external? [32:12 – 50:26]

Problems with Depicting Jesus in The Chosen [50:26 – 1:03:01]

Non-Top-Ten Book Recommendations [1:03:01 – 1:11:55]

Books and Everything:

Resources on Abortion:

The Case for Life, by Scott Klusendorf

SLED argument against abortion

Pro-Lifers Shine on Twitter

Defending Life: A Moral and Legal Case Against Abortion Choice, by Francis Beckwith

Abuse of Discretion: The Inside Story of Roe v. Wade, by Clarke Forsythe

Eternal Perspectives Ministries, with Randy Alcorn

Robert P. George and Patrick Lee

Marvin Olasky, book on abortion forthcoming from Crossway

Non-Top-Ten Book Recommendations:

– From Justin:

Commentary on the New Testament, by Robert Gundry

Wrestling with an Angel: A Story of Love, Disability and the Lessons of Grace, by Greg Lucas

Know the Truth: A Handbook of Christian Belief, by Bruce Milne

– From Kevin:

True Devotion: In Search of Authentic Spirituality, by Allan Chapple

Wisdom in Leadership, by Craig Hamilton

The Book of the Dun Cow, by Walter Wangerin, J r.

The Everlasting Man, by G.K. Chesterton

These emphases are right and proper. Oftentimes the first thing we must do with sufferers is simply come alongside them, acknowledge their pain, express our condolences, and assure them of our love and prayers. Many of us can testify firsthand that when we look back at seasons of intense grief, we don’t remember the exact words people shared, but we do remember the people who showed up and sat with us in our tears. I love what Romans 12:15 teaches about Christian compassion and pastoral care. The verse is a needed reminder for any of us who may be tempted to treat suffering with indifference or to approach hurting saints as broken people in need of a quick fix.

“Weep with those who weep” is an important, biblical command. But it should not be taken as a one-size-fits-all formula that demands a rigid application in every situation where people are sad or distraught. Surely, the second half of Romans 12:15 does not mean that the only response to grieving people is to grieve with them. Diving into facts, pursuing objectivity, listening to all sides—these are not invalidated by Romans 12:15. “Weep with those who weep” does not dictate that the reasons for our weeping can never be mistaken. In short, the verse must mean something like “weep with those who have good, biblical reason to be weeping.”

If that sounds like an unnecessary neutering of a beloved verse, consider three observations.

One, almost everyone interprets the first half of Romans 12:15 along the lines just stated above. That is, no one thinks God wants us to rejoice with those who rejoice over the Taliban coming to power. No matter how genuine the rejoicing may be, Christians should not join with those who celebrate abortion or parade their sexual immorality or delight in racial prejudice. Instinctively, we know that the first half of Romans 12:15 means something like, “rejoice with those who have good, biblical reason to be rejoicing.”

Two, a rigid application of Romans 12:15 is untenable in real life. The point of the verse is not to train our emotions to match every emotion we encounter, but rather to be a thoughtful, considerate person who doesn’t sing a dirge at a wedding or bring a kazoo to a funeral. I remember after the 2016 presidential election hearing some disappointed Christians say that other Christians were obliged to weep with them as they grieved the outcome of the election. Romans 12:15, it was said, commanded others to share in their sorrow. But of course, on that application, Christians were also obligated to celebrate with those who cheered the results of the election. The verse cuts in both directions. A reasonable application of Romans 12:15 does not insist on being as sad as the saddest person in our lives, but in being considerate to others who feel differently about disputable matters or are going through different experiences than we are.

Three, strictly speaking, Jesus did not always weep with those who wept. He certainly didn’t feel obligated under every circumstance to match the mood of those around him. When the crowds were rejoicing on Palm Sunday, Jesus wept (Luke 19:41), and when the women were mourning for Jesus on his way to the cross, he told them not to weep for him (23:28). Jesus was always kind, but almost never sentimental. To those brokenhearted over their sin or looking to him for deliverance from their suffering, his tenderness knew no end. But to those grieving the puncturing of their pretensions or indignant because of the truth he proclaimed, Jesus could be unsparing in speaking what they did not want to hear.

What, then, does it mean to weep with those who weep?

For starters, we should remember that others may not feel the same way at any given moment, or in response to the same events, as we do. If one mother’s son just got accepted to his dream school, while another mother’s son has been turned down every place he’s applied, the Apostle Paul would have the sad mother be happy for her friend and vice versa. Love is not rude, which means obnoxiously mismatching the mood of those around you is inconsiderate at best, and a sin at worst.

But more than that, Romans 12:15 is fundamentally about maintaining the warmth and unity of Christian fellowship. That’s why verse 15 is followed by commands like “live at harmony with one another” (v. 16), “do not be haughty” (v. 16), “do what is honorable,” (v. 17), and “so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all” (v. 18). Raining on parades and dancing at gravesides does not help keep the peace.

Be thoughtful. Be compassionate. Be quick to lend a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on. Christians look to comfort the sad.

But our sympathy is not untethered to all other considerations. Weeping in itself is not sacrosanct. The one who laughs the loudest is not always laughing for good reason. Likewise, the one who shares most conspicuously his pain is not always lamenting for good cause. Our suffering is not sovereign.

Romans 12:15 is a precious verse meant to provide pastoral wisdom in the church and inject personal sensitivity into our relationships. We honor the verse by obeying what it means to command, not by insisting on what is impractically one-sided, out of step with the context, and inconsistent with the example of Jesus.

I was in my final year at Gordon-Conwell. It was a beautiful morning–sunny, deep blue, not a cloud in the sky. I had an early morning class on that Tuesday. Maybe it was Minor Prophets, something with Hebrew.

The class ended at 9:00am. I made the short walk across campus to my dorm room and picked up the phone. I had to check with my church. Something about a bulletin announcement or the preaching schedule. The church was in between pastors at the time, and I was helping out with the scheduling and some of the preaching. As it turned out, I was glad not to be preaching the next Sunday.

My friend on the phone asked me what I thought about the plane that had just crashed into the Twin Towers. I had no idea what he was talking about. This was 2001. I didn’t own a cell phone. I had no TV in my dorm room. Most of the time I went to the computer lab to check my email. We hung up the phone and I decided to figure out what had happened–probably one of these prop plane accidents. Didn’t John Denver die like that a few years ago?

I walked upstairs to the TV lounge, expecting the room to be quiet. It was a little after 9:00 in the morning. No one would be there. I was half right: the room was completely quiet, but everyone was there. I remember seeing the towers fall. Unreal. Unbelievable.

I remember walking up and down the Holy Hill on campus, praying, thinking, somewhat fearful, knowing that since every flight in the country had been grounded, if I saw a plane in the sky it was very bad news. I remember everyone trying to call home and not getting through. I remember driving the two miles over to Gordon College to pick up my fiance (now my wife) so we could be together. I remember the special prayer service and how we huddled in groups–students, families, professors. Walter Kaiser, David Wells, Doug Stuart–I think they all were there. I remember gathering in the one dorm room with a working TV to watch President Bush, and later Billy Graham.  I remember having to pray in chapel later that week and not knowing what to say, except that I should say something from Psalm 46.

I remember how personal the loss was for so many in Boston. I’d flown out of Logan too.

I remember all the American flags–everywhere, on mailboxes, on street corners, in store windows, even in Massachusetts. I remember hearing “I’m Proud to be an American” on the radio and crying instead of laughing. I remember how everything I was looking forward to–graduating, getting married, finding a church–seemed distant and on-hold, like maybe normal would not return, maybe nothing would be the same.

Life would be normal again. As least for most of us. Maybe too normal. Thousands walked into the church again. They didn’t stay. I told myself I would pray for my country every day for the rest of my life. Sadly, I haven’t.

It’s hard to believe that today’s seniors in high school weren’t alive for 9/11. Those just out of college won’t remember anything of the day. Even young people in their 20s or early 30s may only remember the day as something that made for a difficult assembly in school. They may know nothing about Todd Beamer’s “Let’s roll” or President Bush’s “I can hear you” or his opening pitch at Yankee Stadium. That’s bound to happen. I’m sure I don’t know as much about Pearl Harbor as I should. But let’s not allow the memory of twenty years ago to become too distant.

Where were you?

Teach our history. Share your story. Thank God for mercies. Pray, repent, and don’t forget.

But something was different this time around. And judging from conversations with many others, I’m not the only one who noticed.

You couldn’t watch two weeks of the Olympics—or at times, even two minutes—without being catechized in the inviolable truths of the sexual revolution. Earlier in the summer, I watched parts of the Euro, and you would have thought the whole event was a commercial for rainbow flags. And yet, the packaging of the Olympics was even more deliberate. Every day we were taught to celebrate men weightlifting as women or to smile as a male diver talked about his husband. Every commercial break was sure to feature a same-sex couple, a man putting on makeup, or a generic ode to expressive individualism. And of course, Megan Rapinoe and Sue Bird were nearly ubiquitous. If America used to be about motherhood and apple pie, it’s now about birthing persons and lesbian soccer stars hawking Subway sandwiches.

Some will object at this point that the last paragraph is filled with a toxic mix of homophobia, heteronormativity, cisgender privilege and a host of other terms that were virtually unknown until five minutes ago. But those labels are not arguments against biblical sexual morality so much as they represent powerful assumptions that no decent person could possibly believe that homosexuality is sinful behavior, that marriage is between a man and a woman, and that switching genders is a sign of confusion more than courage. What NBC presented as heroic and wonderful was considered wrong and troublesome by almost everyone in the Christian West for 2,000 years. Is it possible that instead of deconstructing the beliefs that have marked Christianity for two millennia, we might want to deconstruct the academic jargon our culture has only come to affirm within my lifetime? Remember, it was only in 2008—hardly the dark days of the Middle Ages—that Barack Obama said he did not support marriage for same-sex couples.

I know there are many issues confronting the church today. In some contexts, there may be a lack of love toward outsiders, or a fascination with conspiracy theories, or a temptation toward idolatrous forms of Christian nationalism. You may think that the drumbeat of the advancing sexual revolution is still far off in the distance, a problem in someone else’s village but not in yours.

The wider world is not tempting young people with the blessings of chastity and church attendance.

But no one lives in an isolated village anymore, and the wider world is not tempting young people with the blessings of chastity and church attendance. People older than me may have enough Christian maturity and cultural memory to roll their eyes at the sexual revolution’s round-the-clock bombardment. But if you are a Millennial or Gen Z (or whatever comes next) your first instinct is likely to be more upset with Christians offering criticism of Megan and Sue kissing than with the fact that their kissing is demonstrably not Christian.

It is worth remembering David Well’s famous definition: worldliness is whatever makes righteousness look strange and sin look normal. Here’s the reality facing every Christian in the West: the money, power, and prestige of the mainstream media, big time sports, big business, big tech, and almost all the institutions of education and entertainment are invested in making sin look normal. Make no mistake: no matter how good your church, no matter how strong your family, no matter how gospel-centered your Christian school or homeschool, if your children and grandchildren are even remotely engaged with contemporary culture (and they are), they are being taught by a thousand memes and messages every week to pay homage to the rainbow flag.

The Christian family, Christian church, and Christian school must not assume that the next generations will accept the conclusions that seem so obvious to older generations. We must talk about the things our kids are already talking about among themselves. We must disciple. We must be countercultural. We must prepare them to love and teach them what biblical love really means. We must pass on the right beliefs and the right reasons for those beliefs.

We must prepare our children—and be prepared ourselves—that following Christ comes with a cost (Luke 9:23). The Jesus who affirmed marriage as between a man and a woman (Matt. 19:4-6), the Jesus who warned of the porneia within (Mark 7:20-23), the Jesus who warned against living to be liked by others (John 12:43), this Jesus demands our total allegiance (Matt. 28:20).

The world is already busy promoting its catechism. The only question is whether we will get busy promoting ours.

Timestamps:

Welcome Back [0:00 – 1:04]

20 Free Copies of Rediscover Church for Your Church [1:04 – 4:12]

Praying for the Church in Afghanistan [4:12 – 12:55]

Field of Dreams Game [12:55 – 21:55]

Olympics [21:55 – 32:01]

The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill [32:01 – 52:05]

Summer Book Report [52:05 – 1:07:09]

Books and Everything:

But the kingdom of God is not just one thing in the Bible. We will obscure the storyline of Scripture more than illuminate it if we fail to make distinctions in our kingdom language. Likewise, we can miss the big story of what God means to do in our world if we misunderstand how the different aspects of the kingdom fit together.

In classic Reformed theology, Christ’s kingdom is distinguished in three ways.

First, there is the regnum potentiae, the kingdom of power. This is the dominion of Jesus Christ over the universe, the providential and judicial administration of all things which Christ exercises by virtue of being the eternal Son of God.

Second, we can speak of the regnum gratiae, the kingdom of grace. This refers to Christ’s reign over his saved people, the spiritual kingship which Christ exercises by virtue of being our Mediator and the head of the church.

Finally, there is the regnum gloriae, the kingdom of glory. This is Christ’s dominion in the age to come. The kingdom of glory is the kingdom of grace made perfect and complete.

Of course, in one sense Christ’s kingdom is one and only one. We should not think of these distinctions crassly as three different nations. But the distinctions are important. As God, Christ rules over the kingdom of power, to which all creatures belong. As Mediator, he rules over the kingdom of grace on earth, to which the elect belong. And as Conqueror, he rules over the kingdom of glory in heaven, to which angels and the redeemed belong. To be sure, there is not one square inch in all the universe about which Christ does not cry out, “This is mine!” And yet, Christ does not reign over every square inch in the same way.

Telling the Right Story

One reason for emphasizing these distinctions is to make sure that we are telling the right story when it comes to the kingdom. In explaining the petition “thy kingdom come,” the Westminster Larger Catechism tells us to “pray that the kingdom of sin and Satan may be destroyed, the gospel propagated throughout the world . . .the church furnished with all gospel officers and ordinances . . .that the ordinances of Christ may be purely dispensed, and made effectual to the converting of those that are yet in their sins, and the confirming, comforting, and building up those that are already converted: that Christ would rule in our hearts here, and hasten the time of his second coming, and our reigning with him forever” (Q/A 191). The Catechism gives us a magnificent prayer for the growth, strength, and health of the church.

But that’s not the end of the answer. Here’s the last line of WLC 191: “and that [Christ] would be pleased so to exercise the kingdom of his power in all the world, as may best conduce to these ends.” Notice the gospel-centered logic of the Larger Catechism. Christ rules over all things for the good of the church. The kingdom of power is subservient to the kingdom of grace (giving way to the kingdom of glory), not the other way around.

The story is of Christ so ruling over the nations of the world that the church might be built up.

This means the kingdom story we are telling is not the story of Christ saving his people so that they might change the world, transform the culture, or reclaim a nation. Instead, the story is of Christ so ruling over the nations of the world that the church might be built up. To be sure, we will be salt and light in a dark and decaying world, but the prayer the Westminster divines would have us pray is for God to so rule over the world for the sake of the church. As J. G. Vos observes in his commentary on the Larger Catechism, “the kingdom of power is not an end in itself, but a means to the furtherance of the kingdom of grace and the hastening of the kingdom of glory.” We pray, then, for the success of the kingdom of power, but to the end that the kingdom of grace may flourish and the kingdom of glory may be brought near.

A version of this article originally appeared in byFaith Online.

Gracious heavenly Father, on this day where we celebrate the 245th anniversary of the independence of the United States of America, we come before you to pray for this country.

We give thanks for the many blessings and evidences of divine favor that belong to us in America. We live in what may be the most powerful and most prosperous nation ever on the face of the earth. For hundreds of years, for millions of people from all over the world, this has been a land of hope–the hope of religious freedom, the hope of self-government, the hope of liberty. In the Declaration of Independence, our Founding Fathers spoke of certain unalienable rights–rights not granted by the government, but given to us by you, our Creator, which our government is obliged to protect.

The United States of America began with the conviction that a nation should be founded upon truth. Not opinions or preferences or feelings, but upon truths. Self-evident truths that remain true no matter the time, the place, or the culture. And central among these truths is the Christian belief that all men are created equal. Made in your image, no one possesses more intrinsic worth for being born rich or poor, male or female, black or white, aristocrat or artisan, financier or farmer. We give thanks for the God-given rights and hard-fought freedoms we enjoy in this country.

And we repent as a people for all the times–past and present–where we have squandered your blessings, where we have not lived up to our national ideals, where we have treated persons equal in your eyes as unequal in ours. Forgive our country for the sins of chattel slavery, Jim Crow, and racism. Forgive us for the legalized killing of the unborn. Forgive us for rampant, brazen sexual immorality. Forgive us for poor memories and hard hearts. Forgive us for our ingratitude, for hardly any people at any time anywhere in the world has had access to as much biblical truth as we have.

We ask for your grace to be shed abroad in our land. We do not deserve your favor. You have made no promise that the United States of America will long endure. And yet, if it be for the good of your heavenly kingdom, would you see fit to deal kindly with this our earthly country.

Give wisdom and humility to the governing authorities. Grant to them the fear of the Lord, which is the beginning of wisdom. Protect those who protect us at home and abroad. Renew in us a desire to love one another and so fulfill the law of Christ. Make us a virtuous people, a courageous people, a reasonable and resolute people.

Frustrate the plans of all those who promote what is false and celebrate what is wicked. Defend the rights of the weak and the cause of those facing injustice.

Give us an appropriate patriotism–giving thanks for the blessings you have poured out on America–without ever trading the riches of the gospel for the thin gruel of mere civil religion.

Strengthen the church of Jesus Christ. Send your Spirit to descend with power upon every Bible-preaching pulpit. Bring true revival to our land–healing our divisions, leading us to repentance, teaching us the truth, and bringing us together to the cross.

For as many more years as you give us as a nation, may we be a land where the truth of Christ is known, the good news of Christ is sent out, and the body of Christ is made strong. We ask, then, in the deepest biblical sense possible, O God, that you would truly bless America.

We pray all this in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the only King and Head of his church, Amen.

Timestamps:

Revised and Expanded Piper [0:00 – 1:22]

What we disagree about is history. [1:22 – 6:52]

Is there such a thing as an American? [6:52 – 10:58]

Book 1: Covenant, Crucible, Creed [10:58 – 23:49]

Book 2: Celebration and Criticism [23:49 – 30:57]

6 Quick Thoughts [30:57 – 46:47]

Books and Everything:

After Nationalism: Being American in an Age of Division, by Samuel Goldman

Land of Hope: An Invitation to the Great American Story, by Wilfred McClay

More than anything, Stewart drives home the point with relentless force that preaching is an immense privilege and preaching is supernaturally powerful.

On the privilege of preaching:

To spend your days doing that—not just describing Christianity or arguing for a creed, not apologizing for the faith or debating fine shades of religious meaning, but actually offering and giving men Christ—could any life-work be more thrilling or momentous? (57)

On the need for power in our preaching:

The very terms describing the preacher’s function—herald, ambassador—manifestly connote authority. Far too often the pulpit has been deferential apologetic when it ought to have been prophetic and trumpet-toned. It has wasted time balancing probabilities and discussing opinions and erecting interrogation-marks, when it ought to have been ringing out the note of unabashed, triumphant affirmation—“The mouth of the Lord hath spoken it!” (211)

I wonder if we believe all that? Of course, most people reading this blog will confess with fervent acclamation that they believe in preaching. But do we really?

Let me ask of those sitting in the pew, do you come to the word expectant each week, prepared in heart and mind to hear a great word from our great God? Are you convinced that what you need to hear from the pulpit is of far greater importance than what you need to see on your favorite television show, what you need to read from your favorite website, what you need to hear from your favorite podcast? Are you letting punditry shape you more than preaching? Are you willing to give your pastor the time he needs to for prayer and study—not just time away from other people’s concerns but, when necessary, to the seeming neglect of your concerns? Do you pray for your own soul that it might be fresh kindling for the word? And do you pray for your pastor that he might bring fire from heaven Sunday by Sunday?

As much as the congregation needs to be reminded of the power and privilege of preaching, I’m convinced that preachers need to be reminded of these things even more.

As much as the congregation needs to be reminded of the power and privilege of preaching, I’m convinced that preachers need to be reminded of these things even more. It seems to me that ours is not an age of great preaching. The gifted pulpiteers on cable television are usually vacuous and superficial, if not heterodox, while solid expositional teaching can be filled with exegetical truth but lacking in homiletical polish and heraldic power. Perhaps the preaching in the average church is better than it used to be. But if it is, it is hard to see when bad news and controversy in the church get all the headlines.

Over fifty years ago Lloyd-Jones declared, “without hesitation” he said, “that the most urgent need in the Christian Church today is true preaching; and as it is the greatest and most urgent need in the Church, it is obviously the greatest need of the world also.” Is that true? If it is, then every solo pastor, every senior pastor, every man called upon to announce the good news of Christ and him crucified should take note.

If you are the main person responsible for preaching in your congregation, preaching must be your thing. You can’t let counseling or visitation crowd it out. You can’t let administration crowd it. You can’t let the pull of people pleasing crowd it out. And you can’t let the allure and expectation of nonstop cultural commentary crowd it. Of course, pastors do more than preach, and depending on their gifting, context, and the elders and staff members around them, they may be able to have a public ministry besides preaching. But that ministry must never be in place of preaching or to the detriment of preaching.

Brother pastors, we are preachers first, not podcasters. We must be preachers before we are political pundits, bloggers, tweeters, book reviewers, controversialist, or social commentators. Preaching is not all we can do but let us be careful: in our age of instant digital access and immediate digital output, a great many pastors are being pulled away from the center out to the periphery. To be a professional scholar, or a weekly columnist, or a hospital chaplain, or a daily news commentator, or a conservative activist, or a community organizer, or a social reformer, or an expert in police reform is to be called to an admirable vocation. But the calling of the preacher is to preach.

Here’s the harsh and freeing reality: you can’t do it all. I can’t do it all. Anyone paying attention can see that I do some of the things listed above. But some, not all. Some of the time, not most of the time. And never, I hope, in a way that cuts in front of the necessary task of preaching. When the apostles devoted themselves to the word of God and prayer, they were not just establishing priorities ahead of waiting on tables. They were committing themselves to preaching and praying instead of other good things they could be doing.

The Apostle Paul believed in preaching. He could not have stated his command to young Timothy any stronger. If Paul had been writing on a computer, he would have used italics, and underlined it, and made it boldface 24-point font. He underscored the central and abiding importance of preaching with a fourfold oath formula—I charge you (1) in the presence of God, (2) and of Christ Jesus, who is to judge the living and the dead, (3) and by his appearing (4) and his kingdom: preach the word (2 Tim. 4:1-2). The word for “preach” is keruxon; it means to herald. Preaching includes teaching, but it is more than that. It is a word of proclamation, a “Hear ye! Hear ye!” announcement on behalf of the King. Preaching is no mere recitation of facts, no bare exegetical commentary. Preaching is, in the words of John Murray, personal, passionate pleading. It requires the whole man—everything he has in body, mind, and strength.

If there is a crisis of confidence in preaching, it is a crisis in the pulpit as much as in the pew. “Who is going to believe,” asks Stewart, “that the tidings brought by the preacher matter literally more than anything else on earth if they are presented with no sort of verve or fire or attack, and if the man himself is apathetic and uninspired, afflicted with spiritual coma, and unsaying by his attitude what he says in words?” (41). Brothers, we must put our best effort into preaching. We must strive year by year to get better at preaching. Dare I say, we must open ourselves to a few godly counselors for evaluation of our preaching. And above all, we must reestablish in our own hearts the centrality of preaching and our confidence in it. What Stewart said about his century is just as true about ours: “When all is said and done, the supreme need of the Church is the same in the twentieth century as in the first: it is men on fire for Christ” (220).

Timestamps:

Do you want to hear about Abraham Lincoln? [0:00 – 1:13]

The Perfect Sponsor Book for LBE [1:13 – 1:53]

Marvin Olasky [1:53 – 5:05]

WORLD Magazine [5:05 – 8:10]

Lament for a Father [8:10 – 13:34]

From Success to Failure [13:34 – 18:52]

The Turning Point [18:52 – 24:08]

The Mercy of Reticence [24:08 – 30:20]

Mother’s Story [30:20 – 35:49]

Iron-Clad Chain, Daisy Chain [35:49 – 41:52]

Don’t Wait Until You’re Seventy [41:52 – 47:55]

The Single Biggest Social Problem in America [47:55 – 50:41]

Book Recommendations [50:41 – 53:25]

Advice for Those with Bad or Good Fathers [53:25 – 56:30]

Books and Everything:

Messages from My Father: A Memoir, by Calvin Trillin

Or are we just talking past each other?

There will always be people who disagree with each other. That’s not necessarily a problem. And there will always be people who make bad arguments. That’s inevitable. But if we are interested in debating ideas (not just destroying people) and interested in persuading (not just performing), we will try our imperfect best to speak and write in a way that aims to be clear, measured, and open to reason.

Of course, this is easier said than done. Venting one’s spleen is easy; cultivating a disciplined life of the mind is hard.

So how do we get off the rails? How does the noble pursuit of truth turn into a hot mess of hurt feelings and recriminations? How should we not debate ideas in the public square?

Here are eight bad ideas when it comes to communicating our ideas in public:

1. Take everything personally.

I’ve learned over the years that anyone anywhere could be reading what I write or listening to what I preach. That means I try to be sensitive to the fact that people with different objections and different experiences may be on the other end of my communication. I do not want to needlessly alienate or offend. And yet, no writer or speaker can possibly anticipate every bad experience someone may associate with what is said. We’ve all suffered loss, and we’ve all been hurt—some more than others. Basic human decency says, “Let’s try not to make things worse.” At the same time, basic commonsense says, “Let’s not expect everyone else to know everything I’ve been through, and let’s not read my own sensitivities back into someone else’s motives or ideas.” In other words, try not to hurt people, and try not to be the sort of person who is easily hurt.

2. Turn everything up to 11.

If you want to rally a loyal core of followers and alienate most everyone else, crank up the rhetorical dial on everything you say and write. Get angry quickly, scold constantly, and be eager to die on every hill. We may think that we are helping the cause by making every controversy sound like the Battle of Britain and every opponent resemble the evil eye of Sauron, but in the end such rhetoric is usually self-defeating. Most people don’t want to live in a state of unrelenting intensity, and most issues are not as important as stopping Hitler’s conquest of Europe. If you want to be an effective communicator (over the long haul), move up and down the emotional register. Save 11 for when you really need it.

3. Assume your experience is the way things really are.

Most of us do it to some extent: we look at the world figuring the world as we’ve experienced it is normal. If we’ve been treated fairly most of the time, we assume the world is pretty fair. If we’ve worked hard and got ahead, we think others should be able to do the same. If we’ve seen good authority or have been in positions of authority, we tend to trust authority. On the other hand, if we’ve been betrayed by those in authority, we tend to assume the worst about persons in authority. If we’ve been lied to and abused, we tend to see abusers and enablers around every corner. If we’ve been hurt by conservative Christians, we may be especially wary of conservative Christianity. And on and on. Of course, our experiences—good, bad, and ugly—can be powerful motivators, pushing us to guard against theological error or speak out against dangerous people and patterns. But we must not assume that our experience has been everyone’s experience. We must be careful not to present assumptions as facts. We must not let a wonderful “normal” make us blind to corruption and evil, nor should we allow our painful “normal” to so color our vision that we take down people who do not deserve our wrath.

4. Refuse to deal in nuance.

Complex problems rarely have simple explanations, and even more infrequently do they have simple solutions. If the solutions were easy—especially for problems that everyone would like to see changed—they probably would have been implemented by now. People are usually multilayered, a mixture of good and bad and everything in between. History is usually complicated, filled with villains who get some things right and heroes who get some things wrong. And explaining why things are the way they are is not always straightforward. Monocausal explanations for social ills and societal trends are rarely right. The better explanation for the way things are the way they are is usually a combination of personal choices, cultural forces, intellectual assumptions, technological innovations, and a staggering array of different experiences, opportunities, gifts, abilities, advantages, and disadvantages.

5. Make everything about everything.

Our communication will never be profitable if we expect every article or every post or every book to say everything that needs to be said. We must be able to focus on a specific topic, debate, or idea without insisting that our opponents provide a caveat for every possible exception, a paragraph for every possible hurt, and an answer to every related problem. Of course, we don’t want to be ignorant about the various connecting ideas (see “nuance” above) or indifferent to the various questions people might raise, but we have to be able to deal rationally with the issue at hand. It’s okay to talk about one thing at a time.

6. Discount individuals and their ideas based on their group identity.

Although individualism can be of the dangerous expressive type, there is also a good kind of individualism. As Christians, we believe that each person is made in God’s image, that each person is responsible for his or her actions, and that each person will stand as an individual before God. To be sure, we are more than individuals. Being a man or a woman, an American or a Pakistani, a Black upper-class father or a White lower-class single mother shapes who we are and how we see things. But we should not dismiss other people’s arguments because the one making those arguments is male or female, Black or White, rich or poor. Bad arguments are bad even when our tribe makes them, and good arguments are good even when they come from the group we’ve been told we cannot trust. Argue with ideas not with stereotypes.

7. Pay no attention to the type of communication you are having.

As digital communication has gotten easier, the lines of demarcation between different kinds of communication has gotten fuzzier. This confusion can be found across different digital platforms (i.e., using Twitter for intricate and emotionally charged debates), but it also stretches across entirely different modes of communication. I’ve had people say to me before, “I read that article. Is that how you would counsel someone struggling with X?” But of course, a book or a blog post is written to a general audience not to a specific person. When talking in person in a private setting, you can ask questions, read facial gestures, ask for follow up, express sympathy, say a prayer, listen to someone’s story, and acknowledge pain. Public communication should not be rude and uncaring, but it will always be to some degree impersonal. When we load all means of discourse with therapeutic expectations—held hostage by the emotional needs of those listening or speaking—we treat books and articles and reviews and sermons as private encounters, just on a larger scale, instead of different kinds of communication altogether.

8. Forget that your opponents are real people.

I’m sure I’ve told this story before. Soon after I started blogging I wrote a snarky article about another Christian leader. A few days later I was speaking at a conference, and to my surprise I was sharing the platform with someone who worked with this leader. The man confronted me about what I had written. As much as I didn’t enjoy that interaction, it was the Lord’s grace to me. It reminded me of what I should have known but so many of us forget, that the people I disagree with are still real people. I’m sure I haven’t done it perfectly, but since that interaction over a decade ago I’ve always tried to think as I write or speak, “Is this what I would say and how I would say it if this person or these people were in the room? Would I be embarrassed to run into this person at a conference next week?” That doesn’t mean we cannot challenge each other in books and in blog posts. It doesn’t mean we cannot say hard or even pointed things to and about each other. But that lesson many years ago cemented in my brain that even famous people—athletes, movie stars, politicians, well-known Christians—are flesh and blood human beings. They may be better or worse than I think, but they have feelings too and are deserving of basic decency and respect.

In the newest episode of Life and Books and Everything, Collin, Justin, and I look at several specific phenomena that would cause despair. And then what we can do now to move from that despair and into hope. Plus, there are some great book recommendations!

Timestamps:

Have you heard of Michael Reeves? [0:00 – 3:56]

Life & Football & Everything [3:56 – 7:22]

How’s COVID-19 going? [7:22 – 25:41]

Reasons for Current Earthly Despair [25:41 – 44:54]

• Declining Fertility Rate
• Declining Church Membership Rate
• Cultural Institutions Aligned Against Christianity
• The Speed of the Collapse
• Race Relations Getting Worse

Now what do we do? [44:54 – 1:01:56]

Books & Everything [1:01:56 – 1:15:29]

Books and Everything:

Uprooted: Recovering the Legacy of the Places We’ve Left Behind, by Grace
Olmstead

A Holy Baptism of Fire and Blood: The Bible and the American Civil War,
by James Byrd

Churchill: Walking with Destiny, by Andrew Roberts

Surviving Religion 101, by Michael Kruger

The Life of John Murray, by Iain H. Murray

Survival and Resistance in Evangelical America: Christian Reconstruction in the Pacific Northwest, by Crawford Gribben

The Soul of Abraham Lincoln, by William Eleazar Barton

Gilead, by Marilyn Robinson

The Only Plane in the Sky: An Oral History of September 11, 2001, by
Garrett M. Graff

Reparations: A Christian Call for Repentance and Renewal (Brazos Press) is a new book by Duke Kwon, a PCA pastor in Washington, DC, and Greg Thompson, a former PCA pastor (previously serving a church in Charlottesville, Virginia) who now leads a number of initiatives related to race and racism in America. Reparations is a bold work, calling for nothing less than for the language of White supremacy and reparations to be “fixed in the church’s imagination and fundamental to its vocation” (28). In simple terms, the problem is White supremacy, and the answer is reparations—restitution for what has been taken and restoration unto wholeness. Reparations is the cry of the ages and the call of the church (207).

With only 200 pages of text and over 30 pages of endnotes, Kwon and Thompson have written a book that is both accessible and academic. The writing is clear and excellently organized. Kwon and Thompson have a knack for breaking down complex ideas into helpful categories. For example, they argue that racism can be understood in four ways: as personal, with the need for repentance; as relational, with the need for reconciliation; as institutional, with the need for reform; or cultural, with the need for repair (32-44). There are more lists and rubrics like this throughout the book, many of them insightful and useful.

Kwon and Thompson are also to be commended for avoiding the history-as-screed template. The tone is strong at times, but never incensed. If readers have only viewed American history with rose-colored glasses, they will be helped to see the uncomfortable truth that racism in America has been far too pervasive and that the White church—with some noble exceptions mentioned in the book—has far too often been part of the problem instead of the solution. The authors have plenty of criticism for White Americans and for the White church in America, but they want to persuade not merely scold. To that end, they have put forward the most compact and most learned Christian defense of reparations to date. Well written and thoughtfully presented, this is an important book that deserves to be taken seriously.

Critical Engagement

It is also a book with which I have profound disagreements.

Reparations is a far-reaching indictment of American history and life in America as it exists today. Kwon and Thompson are right to show us the failures in our national history and in our churches; what’s more debatable is whether racism and White supremacy are embedded in every institution and encoded in every aspect of our society. One can be honest about our nation’s sins and shortcomings while still insisting that America wasn’t founded on White supremacy. Likewise, one can question whether “White supremacy”—with the images of Klansmen and Neo-Nazis it conjures up—is the best term to describe the whole warp and woof of American history, especially when heroes like Frederick Douglass and Martin Luther King Jr. often appealed to the Founders and their ideals. As a point of historical fact, it also bears mentioning that Kwon and Thompson wrongly assert that 12 million human beings were “caught in the slave trade between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries in America” (87), when the total number of slaves brought to America was just over 300,000, with the vast majority going to Brazil and to the Caribbean. They appear to have interpreted Orlando Patterson’s estimate of enslaved Africans brought to the New World as a statement about America only. None of this is to downplay the horror and the injustice of the Transatlantic slave trade (slavery isn’t less horrible for having gone to other countries besides America), but misstating a historical number by a factor of 40 is worth noting.

But I don’t want to provide a historical analysis of Reparations. Neither do I want to focus on the sociological and economic claims of the book (though underlying the book’s criticisms are the unstated convictions that racial disparities are obvious signs of culturally embedded racism and that Western capitalism is a White supremacist system of “extraction” that harms the poor). Neither am I going to attempt to sketch my assessment of race in America or to offer a ten-step plan for moving forward (this is, after all, a book review). Instead, I want to provide a theological assessment of the book’s theological claims. For at the heart of Reparations is a moral argument—indeed, a Christian argument—about justice. “Reparations,” according to Kwon and Thompson, “is best understood as the deliberate repair of White supremacy’s cultural theft through restitution (returning what one wrongfully took) and restoration (restoring the wrong to wholeness)” (17). Consequently, “Reparations are not primarily given in light of a hoped-for-future; they are given in light of an actual past” (25). In other words, reparations are about what we owe and what is due. Kwon and Thompson call “the Christian church in America to embrace reparations as central to faithful Christian mission in this culture” (210). This is the key theological and ethical claim—one that I find ultimately ambiguous, unworkable, and unpersuasive.

Restitution

When people hear “reparations” they usually think of compensation for past injustices, some sort of redress for crimes committed. Reparations is the act of making amends, of giving satisfaction for wrongs or injuries. Kwon and Thompson begin and end the book with the story of the former slave Jourdon Anderson and the famous letter he wrote to his former master asking for his wages for 32 years of service. In effect, Anderson’s letter says, quite powerfully, “You’ve defrauded me all these years. Now you want me to come back and live with you and believe that you will treat me kindly? Give me back all that you stole, and then I’ll take your gesture of good will seriously.”

Kwon and Thompson frame the book with this story to help us see that reparations is about returning what has been stolen. They write early in the book, “When you take something that does not belong to you, love requires you to return it” (17). This theme shows up most clearly in their chapter on restitution. Their anchor text is the story of Zacchaeus from Luke 19. When Zacchaeus had his heart changed, he didn’t just pray a prayer or say he was sorry for cheating people. He showed his repentance by making restitution. Kwon and Thompson rightly summarize the basic lesson of Zacchaeus: “If you steal something, you have to give it back” (143). With an impressive array of citations from well-respected theologians through the ages, Kwon and Thompson remind us that true repentance is not found in words alone. “Generations of readers of Scripture across church history,” they argue, “have repeatedly affirmed restitution as an enduring Christian responsibility and a foundational expression of God’s unchanging moral law” (142).

All of that is wise, good, biblical, true, and necessary. The problems come when Kwon and Thompson apply this straightforward principle of restitution—in their words: “when you take something that does not belong to you, love requires you to return it”—and apply it to an evil as far off as slavery or a sin as nebulous as White supremacy. For example, after referencing a 1715 pamphlet condemning slavery and calling for Blacks to be “restored out of the Property of him that hath wronged them” (134), Kwon and Thompson conclude that “Restitution for the thefts of White supremacy is an old idea” (136, italics in original). But that’s not exactly true. What is an old idea is for masters to release their slaves and to make reparations for the wrongs they had committed against them. Throughout the history of this country people have written—rightly and forcefully—of the Christian duty to repay what one had stolen, to make restitution for wrongs done to the slaves, and to return what had been forcibly taken from another. There is no talk, however, about something as amorphous as restitution for “White supremacy.”

Later in the same chapter, Kwon and Thompson cite a petition from enslaved Christians demanding compensation for their “Long Bondag [sic] and hard Slavery.” Kwon and Thompson summarize: “In other words, they sought restitution for White supremacist theft” (155). It may seem like splitting hairs, but the language matters. Restitution makes perfect sense, and is imminently biblical, when the person who cheated pays back the person whom they cheated. Zacchaeus did not make restitution with the world or with every poor person in Judea. Instead, he sought to “restore fourfold” (according to Exodus 22:1) anyone he defrauded (Luke 19:8). Slavery may have been ungirded by (and helped perpetuate) assumptions of White superiority but to say that restitution for the theft of White supremacy is an old idea, is to smuggle back into the past the notion that restitution might be based on skin color or based on wrong attitudes or based on something as amorphous as participating in certain systems and structures.

The concept of White supremacy does a lot of heavy lifting throughout the book. For Kwon and Thompson, White supremacy is the evil that has been essential to America’s past and remains inescapable in the present. One can question, however, whether the category obscures more than it illuminates. To be sure, very few White Americans prior to the Civil Rights movement held views about Black Americans that we would consider acceptable today. We should not gloss over this sad history. In so far as White supremacy entails believing and acting as if your racial or ethnic identity makes you superior to others, it should be repudiated wherever it is found. And yet, when “White supremacy” covers everything from the horrors of slavery and lynching to the more common blindspots of self-centeredness and indifference, the result is that little effort is made to understand people in their own time and on their own terms. Moreover, the category of White supremacy, as a totalizing heuristic device, often lacks basic Christian charity in so far as it measures peoples, churches, and nations by their worst failures (as we see them) and pathologizes everyone and everything associated with the sin of partiality as being complicit with the most egregious catalog of sins in our nation’s history.

The language Kwon and Thompson use with reference to Zacchaeus is also telling: “Acknowledging that he, as a tax collector, stood at the center of an extractive system designed to plunder the most vulnerable members of a society, Zacchaeus offers half of his possessions to the poor” (139). True, Zacchaeus generously gave away half of his possessions to the poor in addition to making restitution for those he sinned against. But did he really acknowledge complicity in an “extractive system designed to plunder the most vulnerable members of society”? If he felt complicit in the whole system of tax collecting, why do we have no record of him leaving the profession? Why did Jesus show kindness to tax collectors (even calling one to be his disciple) without ever commanding them to leave their “extractive system” behind? When the tax collectors came to John the Baptist to be baptized and asked, “What shall we do?” John did not reprimand them for being part of a system designed to plunder the poor. He told them much more simply, “Collect no more than you are authorized to do” (Luke 3:13). Similarly, neither John the Baptist nor Jesus ever castigated Roman soldiers for being complicit in an imperial system designed to maintain Rome’s control over subjugated peoples. Instead, John told them to stop cheating, stop threatening, stop lying, and be content with their wages (Luke 3:14). With tax collectors and soldiers throughout the Gospels, there is no talk of restitution for imperial supremacy or extractive systems, nor any summons to dismantle the structures they inhabited, just the straightforward command to live a godly life, be generous to others, and repay what you have stolen.

The other problem with Kwon and Thompson’s argument is that the principle of restitution is much more difficult to apply with the passage of time. Each chapter of Reparations begins with a story from history, always a story that focuses on an injustice from the past or on someone trying to remedy injustice. These opening stories are, in order, from 1865, 1968, 1852, 1826, 1969, 1684, 1803, 1968, and 1865. While it is important to know the history of these injustices, it is less clear whether these injustices from the past necessitate restitution in the present.

One of the sources Kwon and Thompson cite several times is John Tillotson’s Two Sermons on the Nature and Necessity of Restitution (1707). Kwon and Thompson emphasize how strongly Tillotson insists on restitution as a sign of true repentance when property, wealth, or reputation are stolen. Tillotson’s messages on Zacchaeus are a fine pair of sermons. I don’t think I disagree with anything in them. But there is a section from Tillotson’s two sermons that Kwon and Thompson do not mention, and it undermines one of the central arguments of their book. Here is Tillotson in his second sermon on Luke 19:8-9:

In other words, in the midst of two sermons strongly advocating for reparations (the word is used often), Tillotson acknowledges that, unfortunately, in a fallen world you can’t go back in time and right every wrong. Sometimes there are “infinite difficulties” which prohibit us from determining who was wrong, who did the wrong, and how restitution could possibly be made in the present without inflicting new wrongs. Sometimes the “necessities of the world” make restitution for crimes committed in the past impossible.

This does not mean restitution can never be paid years after a sin was committed. The obligation to make restitution may transfer to descendants, not because they bear personal guilt for previous sins, but because they are still in possession of the stolen goods (149). To this point, Kwon and Thompson give a useful example. Suppose your mother gives you a car. You enjoy it for years, until one day a stranger knocks on the door and says, “That car is mine!” You look in the glove box and sure enough, his name is on the title. You’ve been driving a stolen car. You can honestly say, “I didn’t know it was stolen.” You are not to be blamed for the theft. But the car clearly belongs to him, and you should give it back (149). Fair enough, but what if the man’s name was not on the title? What if it was the man’s great-great-grandson looking for the car? Or what if you purchased the car off the lot and the title was always in your name, but someone who had had a different car stolen in the past laid claim to your car? More generally, what if the sin to be redressed was not perpetrated by your particular ancestors against this man’s particular ancestors, but the sins from the past were committed by people who look like you against people who look like him? What is the obligation to restitution then? Surely, this situation is much different than having a man, right in front of you, whose name is on the title of your stolen car.

Kwon and Thompson make a convincing case that slaveholders should pay reparations to slaves, even that the next generation of a slaveholder family should make restitution to the next generation of the family they enslaved, if such a connection can be established. But the case for reparations becomes less cogent when it is applied across centuries, across a continent, and across families irrespective of any other consideration except for skin color. According to Aquinas—whom Kwon and Thompson also cite several times (from the same section in the Summa Theologica)—restitution must always be made to the actual victim of theft because restitution “re-establishes the equality of commutative justice” and the “equalizing of things is impossible” unless restitution be made “to the person from whom a thing has been taken” (ST II-II, Q. 62, Art. 5). The principle of restitution found in the story of Zacchaeus and in the Christian tradition is essential to Christian repentance and obedience, but the principle loses its biblical force (not to mention its simplicity) when it is no longer directed to the one who was defrauded, cheated, or stolen from.

Restoration

Following their chapter on restitution, Kwon and Thompson argue that reparations also involve restoration. They acknowledge that “reparations is ordinarily conceived in exclusively restitutionary terms,” but they maintain that reparations is more than restitution. “We believe that the Bible commands us to return our neighbors’ stolen things when we are guilty of their theft, and we believe that the Bible also commands us to restore their stolen things even when we are not” (161). This distinction between restitution and restoration, both of which are essential to the book’s definition of reparations, leads to several unresolved ambiguities in the book. On the one hand, no Christian will argue with Kwon and Thompson’s insistence that we should do the work of love (163), that we should take risks and endure self-sacrifice for the sake of others (167), and that the parable of the Good Samaritan calls us to be good neighbors (178). At times, Kwon and Thompson seem to acknowledge that we may not be culpable for theft and may not have to make restitution (17). That is, the message can almost sound like, “Even if the brokenness around you is not your fault, Christian love compels us to try to make things better.” That would be an uncontroversial and salutary exhortation. As we have opportunity, we should do good to everyone, especially to those who are of the household of faith (Gal. 6:10).

But that’s not all the book is saying.

Central to the argument of Reparations is a judgment that we—meaning Whites like Thompson and, surprisingly, Asians like Kwon—are implicated in the theft of White supremacy (23–24). Reparations is what we who are guilty owe to those who have been wronged (185). Reparations are not just for slavery but for ongoing White supremacy (20). So the message of the book is not simply: love others and try to make things better. “At the heart of our case for reparations,” Kwon and Thompson write, “lies the claim that White supremacy is best understood as a massive, multigenerational project of cultural theft” (74). We are not, therefore, absolved of guilt just because we were not personally the slave traders, the slave owners, or the Jim Crow era oppressors. Kwon and Thompson agree with James Forman’s challenge from 1969 that White churches “owed reparations for their centuries of complicity in the racist plunder of African Americans” (97). This call for reparations, they write, “still awaits a robust response from the American church” (100).

What a satisfactory response looks like is never fully spelled out. True, Kwon and Thompson outline that restoration means cultural resistance, comprehensive repair, mutual neighboring, and collective witness (175). But in addition to all this (or as a part of all this), there also needs to be a monetary payment. “Reparations is more than the transfer of material goods, but it is certainly not less than that” (106). At different times, this monetary payment is said to come from the United States government, from other governments, from individuals, or from churches (22, 101). In a key passage, Kwon and Thompson write, “Perhaps the most important aspect of the work of repairing White supremacy’s unjust plunder of Black wealth is in the act of transferring wealth—taking wealth that currently resides in White households, churches, and institutions and transferring that wealth into vehicles designed exclusively to create wealth in Black communities” (204). Clearly, reparations entails White Americans and White institutions giving money to support Black Americans and Black institutions.

And yet, how this transfer payment actually works is never explained. Kwon and Thompson acknowledge that practical questions like “Who will be paid? For what? How much? By whom? How?” are legitimate and necessary (170, italics in original). But then the questions are quickly pushed aside as veiled attempts to pass by on the other side of the road, as “self-justifying pedantry that, with fine-sounding arguments and questions, expends great energy in limiting Christian concern for reparations” (171). Unlike Zacchaeus who knew how he had sinned, whom he had sinned against, and how to make it right—and unlike the Good Samaritan who could discharge his moral responsibility by caring for a man in an obvious situation of immediate and dire need—we are left with ambiguities. If we owe a debt of reparation, to whom should we make the payment and how will we know when the debt has been paid? Other than being implicated broadly in the “theft of White supremacy,” Whites are not told of what particular sin they should repent, nor to whom they should offer repentance, nor how they will receive word that they have fulfilled their reparative responsibilities.

A Fair Measure?

As far as I know my own heart, my desire is not to drown out the convicting work of the Holy Spirit with endless casuistry. I want to learn. I want to listen. I don’t believe 350 years of injustice are erased in 50 years of improvement. I don’t believe the White church has been especially patient to listen to their African American brothers and sisters, nor particularly open to seeing sins in our national or ecclesiastical histories. Ignorance and self-justification are real dangers.

But so is the possibility of unjustified and unrelenting condemnation. Kwon and Thompson depict a world where the campgrounds, cabins, and cottages we visit on vacation were all taken from former slaves, and where our colleges, universities, and seminaries were all built by tortured hands and paid for by slave money (47). And those who question this view are the ones who refuse to see reality (48). “What if,” they ask, “out of no evident fault of our own, our pursuit of happiness entails the sorrow of others” (48). But is it really the case that the rank-and-file church member holding down a job (or two), paying taxes, tithing to the church, volunteering in the community, and trying to raise decent children is really the reason that others are suffering?

More to the point, is it a workable ethic, for anyone, to insist that any connection to human sinfulness, past or present, renders us culpable for that sin? Even if we could rid ourselves of every place and every institution tainted by slavery or by the oppression of African Americans, could we be sure that what remained was never built by people who exploited others and never financed by people who made their money through sinful enterprise? Do not all our favorite streaming services make money, at least in part, by the commodification of sex? Aren’t many of our movie studios, and some of our favorite sports leagues, complicit in aiding and abetting a Chinese government that persecutes Uyghur Muslims? Are we sure about the purity of our mutual funds, or of the clothes and shoes that are manufactured overseas, or of the labor practices of the online retailers we use every day? And what of the products we enjoy (or the ones we don’t even know we are benefitting from) that may have ties to companies complicit in Germany’s past crimes or Japan’s past aggressions or some other country’s sins?

These questions are not meant to suggest for a moment that the sins of slavery and Jim Crow and redlining are no big deal because, after all, there are lots of other sins in the world. The church would do well to study a document like the Westminster Larger Catechism and honestly consider whether we have obeyed God’s law as we should, especially as they relate to loving our neighbors. But this call to self-examination will go better if we talk about all sins, including the ones our world is happy to affirm. Too often in these discussions White supremacy is said to corrupt everyone and everything in a way that no other sins—even sins that are much more pervasive today—ever seem to do. The measure we use with racism is not the measure we use when, say, evaluating the schools, stores, shows, companies, athletes, musicians, entertainers, and institutions that are guilty now of explicitly promoting and celebrating sexual immorality and perversion.

But there is an even bigger problem, I fear, in the book’s moral logic, and that is the conspicuous absence of grace, of forgiveness, or even of quid pro quo satisfaction. It is entirely appropriate to remind Christians that real repentance for theft means returning what you stole. It is well worth remembering that overcoming the legacy of centuries of injustice can take a long time and that the work of love is never done. But the title of the book is not “Loving” or “Helping” or “Serving.” The book is about reparations, and “by its very nature, the conversation around reparations includes two parties: those who owe reparations and those to whom reparations are owed” (185). So the question must naturally be asked: when and how can that debt be discharged? Did the 700,000 lives lost and quadrupling of the national debt during the Civil War count as any sort of reparation? Was Lincoln justified, in any sense, when he claimed that every drop of blood drawn with the lash had been paid for with blood drawn by the sword? Have various state-sponsored redistribution schemes, especially in the last 50 years, paid off anything of the reparations owed? What about institutional scholarships and personal gifts? What about investing financially in Black-owned enterprises or working for the kinds of laws and policies that have proven to alleviate poverty and provide new economic opportunities? What about mission trips, church plants, donations, and financial support from White congregations? Have those lessened the amount we are in arrears? To be sure, the listening does not stop, the learning does not stop, and the loving does not stop. But if we are talking about reparations—about those who owe paying back those who are owed—then there must be some way for the payback to be completed.

The work of reparations outlined in the book is so expansive and so nonspecific as to be impossible to ever fulfill. Reparations, we are told is “ultimately redeeming for everyone, both those who give and those who receive.” It is an opportunity for all of us to finally be healed (181). But how does that work? When will the debt be relinquished? How will we know that the reparations are complete and the healing can begin? According to Kwon and Thompson, “the call of reparations is not merely for a check to be written or for a debt to be repaid but for a world to be repaired” (178). By this logic, reparations will be our work until the end of the age.

Either Kwon and Thompson equivocate on what they mean by reparations, or, if their definition on page 185 (quoted above) is true, Whites (and Asians?) can never in this life truly be forgiven of the debts they owe. How does that bring healing to everyone? How does this square with the gospel? How does this make sense of Christ’s celebratory meal with Zacchaeus? When do we get to hear Jesus say to the repentant sinner, “Today salvation has come to this house, since he also is a son of Abraham”? If reparations are to be “fixed in the church’s imagination and fundamental to its vocation as the language of repentance and reconciliation,” it would be good to hear more about how we can all find forgiveness for our sins and freedom from condemnation in Christ.

Eschatology

It has become commonplace among conservatives to claim that antiracism or social justice or wokeness is becoming a kind of surrogate religion. I certainly don’t believe Kwon and Thompson are meaning to replace Christianity with a religion of antiracism or the like. Indeed, they are to be commended for digging deeply into the Christian tradition, especially in their chapters on restitution and restoration. Kwon and Thompson write out of an obvious love for the church and a desire to see her walk in faithfulness and integrity.

At the same time, the moral vision in the book draws from the Christian tradition more than it is defined by the Christian story. That is to say, while Kwon and Thompson pay careful attention to Christian theologians and Christian Scriptures, the shape and telos of the book’s argument is not clearly shaped by the gospel. To be fair, Kwon and Thompson talk about how restoration mirrors God’s generosity (178-80). I’m not suggesting they don’t believe the gospel or that their book does not spring forth from a desire to love others as God has loved us. What I mean is that the call to reparations is largely about following God’s example. There is not a clear picture of how those complicit in the theft of White supremacy—either because of wrongdoing in their personal lives or simply by virtue of their corporate identity as Whites—can find full freedom and forgiveness for their sins.

The book certainly talks about sin and redemption, but redemption is found through reparations and the sin that poisons everything is White supremacy. White supremacy, the authors write, is “incalculable in its harm.” It is “not just a social system but a spiritual sickness, a way of being human that poisons everything it touches: minds, hearts, bodies, cities, worlds” (187). White supremacy is an account of the world, and once you have eyes to see, you will see it everywhere: in speeches, in statues, in our practices, and in the habits of our hearts (190). White supremacy is “a social order driven by the pathology of its own omnipotence whose destinarian ambitions to control the world amounted to little more than the metastasization of vice” (192). With language like this, it is not hard to see how White supremacy functions like a new kind of original sin.

And with this new kind of original sin comes a new kind of salvation. The concluding chapter ends with a beatific vision, except it is not a vision of Blacks and Whites around the throne of grace. It is not a vision of our blood-bought unity in Christ and our Spirit-led obedience to Christ. It is not a vision of the power of the gospel to bring sinners to repentance and to lead the sinned against to forgiveness. The eschatological vision in Reparations is about Memphis’s Clayborn Temple. At first a White church, then a Black church after White flight, the church was at the center of Memphis’s civil rights struggle and was for years home to a Black congregation. Now, as Kwon and Thompson tell us, the famous Clayborn Temple is quiet, empty, braced with scaffolding, and boarded up.

But leaders like Anasa Troutman, “a brilliant and charismatic African American woman in her mid-forties” (184), see what the Temple will one day become. And what is that vision? Perhaps a worshiping, evangelizing church committed to racial healing and racial justice? Maybe a revitalized Black church committed to the gospel and its neighbors? Or maybe a multiethnic church learning to love like Christ and share his love with others? This is the vision of Clayborn Temple that closes the last chapter of the book:

A stirring conclusion to be sure. Sermonic, eschatological, and essentially religious. But it is not a beatific vision that depends on Christian categories or the Christian story. To be sure, it can draw from the Christian tradition in so far as the Christian tradition has a lot to say about restitution and restoration. And yet, the moral arc and the teleological aim do not require a Christian accounting of the world. Suppose American history is as bad as Kwon and Thompson aver. Suppose our corporate guilt is everything they say it is. Suppose everything they want to see under the banner of reparations would be good for our country and good for our communities. The religious vision is still one that I find more in line with a community organizer’s dream for America than a distinctively Christian one. It is a vision where sin is White supremacy and salvation comes from a lifetime of moral exertion. It is a vision where the church’s mission is to change the world and heaven is a world of art studios and co-ops. It is a vision where urban renewal feels central and the grace of the risen Christ feels peripheral. It is a vision filled with many noble aspirations, but one ultimately that depicts a future where the White guilt never dies and the reparations never end.

We discuss how the only we can move forward in the church is by going back to the Gospel. Journalism and education have become intrinsically destabilizing forces for Christianity, anxiety is at an all-time high, and they wrote the book to respond to that very problem. Collin also hosts another podcast called Gospelbound. I hope you will find encouragement and direction in this episode.

Timestamps:

The Prescriptivists Lost [0:00 – 1:00]

The First Ever Female Guest on LBE [1:00 – 1:57]

The Sarah Zylstra Orbit [1:57 – 6:20]

Where Good Writers Come From [6:20 – 11:27]

In what sense is the Gospel “binding?” [11:27 – 14:18]

Where is all this anxiety coming from? [14:18 – 20:01]

The Media, Education, & Anxiety [20:01 – 27:35]

Why do we prefer to be anxious? [27:35 – 35:15]

Stories that Encourage [35:15 – 45:40]

The Danger of Nostalgia [45:40 – 53:56]

A Better Way [53:56 – 59:50]

While my life is certainly not reducible to being a man, everything about my life is shaped by the fact that I am male, not female.  My wife’s whole life is shaped by being a woman and not a man. Each of my nine children (yes, we wanted to start our own baseball team) are unde­niably and monumentally shaped by being boys or girls. And yet how often do we stop to think that it didn’t have to be this way?

God didn’t have to make two different kinds of human beings. He didn’t have to make us so that men and women, on average, come in different shapes and sizes and grow hair in different places and often think and feel in different ways. God could have propagated the human race in some other way besides the differentiated pair of male and female. He could have made Adam sufficient without an Eve. Or he could have made Eve without an Adam. But God decided to make not one man or one woman, or a group of men or a group of women; he made a man and a woman. The one feature of human existence that shapes life as much or more than any other—our biological sex—was God’s choice.

In an ultimate sense, of course, the world had to be made the way it was, in accordance with the immutable will of God and as a necessary expression of his character. I’m not suggesting God made Adam and Eve by a roll of the dice. Actually, I’m reminding us of the opposite. This whole wonderful, beautiful, complicated business of a two-sexed humanity was God’s idea. “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them” (Gen. 1:27). The whole human race is, always has been, and will be for the rest of time, comprised of two differentiated and complementary sexes. This perpetual bifurcated ordering of humanity is not by accident or by caprice but by God’s good design.

And why?

What is at stake in God making us male and female? Nothing less than the gospel, that’s all. The mystery of marriage is profound, Paul says, and it refers to Christ and the church (Eph. 5:32). “Mystery” in the New Testament sense refers to something hidden and then revealed. The Bible is saying that God created men and women—two different sexes—so that he might paint a living picture of the differentiated and complementary union of Christ and the church. Ephesians 5 may be about marriage, but we can’t make sense of the underlying logic unless we note God’s intentions in creating marriage as a gospel-shaped union between a differentiated and complementary pair. Any move to abolish all distinctions between men and women is a move (whether intentionally or not) to tear down the building blocks of redemption itself.

Men and women are not interchangeable. The man and the woman—in marriage especially, but in the rest of life as well—complement each other, meaning they are supposed to function according to a divine fitted-ness. This is in keeping with the order­ing of the entire cosmos. Think about the complementary nature of creation itself. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth” (Gen. 1:1). And that’s not the only pairing in creation. We find other sorts of couples, like the sun and the moon, morn­ing and evening, day and night, the sea and the dry land, and plants and animals, before reaching the climactic couple, a man and a woman. In every pairing, each part belongs with the other, but neither is interchangeable. It makes perfect sense that the com­ing together of heaven and earth in Revelation 21–22 is preceded by the marriage supper of the Lamb in Revelation 19. That God created us male and female has cosmic and enduring significance. From start to finish, the biblical storyline—and design of creation itself—depends upon the distinction between male and female as different from one another yet fitted each for the other.

Sexual difference is the way of God’s wisdom and grace. It was there in the garden, there in the life of ancient Israel, there in the Gospels, there in the early church, will be there at the wedding supper of the Lamb, and was there in the mind of God before any of this began. To be sure, manhood and womanhood is not the message of the gospel. But it is never far from the storyline of redemptive history. The givenness of being male or female is also a gift—a gift to embrace, a natural order of fittedness and func­tion that embodies the way the world is supposed to work and the way we ought to follow Christ in the world. Let us, then, as male and female image bearers, delight in this design and seek to promote—with our lives and with our lips—all that is good and true and beautiful in God making us men and women.

This article is adapted from the opening chapter and closing section of my new book, Men and Women in the Church: A Short, Biblical, Practical Introduction published by Crossway.

There is much at stake in God making humanity male and female. Created for one another yet distinct from each other, a man and a woman are not interchangeable. But when this design is misunderstood, ignored, or abused, there are dire consequences.

Men and women―in marriage especially, but in the rest of life as well―complement one another. And this biblical truth has enduring, cosmic significance. From start to finish, the biblical storyline―and the design of creation itself―depends upon the distinction between male and female. Men and Women in the Church is about the divinely designed complementarity of men and women as it applies to life in general and especially ministry in the church.

Timestamps:

Background of the Book in Question [0:00 – 6:01]

We’re more confused than ever. [6:01 – 18:11]

Critiquing the Thin Complementarians [18:11 – 36:21]

Critiquing the Thick Complementarians [36:21 – 48:44]

Stop Cherry-picking Examples [48:44 – 58:20]

The Publishing Conundrum [58:20 – 1:04:24]

Of course, in saying Christianity is about salvation, we do not mean that Christianity is about nothing but sin and salvation. The Bible is a big book full of many ideas, many promises, and many commands. And yet, if we are to do justice to the death and resurrection of Jesus—and to the apostolic preaching about that death and resurrection—we must affirm that Christianity is chiefly, firstly, ultimately, and amazingly a message about God’s gracious initiative to save sinful human beings.

The Story We Are Telling

What is the driving theme throughout the Bible? What is the point of Holy Week? What is the story we have to tell to the nations? How we assess the central plotline of redemptive history will define the Christianity we live and the Christ we proclaim. Is the Christian faith mainly the story of a cosmos to be renewed? A God to be obeyed? A mystery to be explored? A journey to be experienced? Or is the good news of the Bible most consistently, most frequently, and most significantly the story of sinners to be saved?

In a day where emphasizing the salvation of sinners is sometimes denigrated as too narrow and too unconcerned with the real needs of the world, we must not lose sight of the soteriological shape of the biblical storyline. Christ’s work to save helpless, hell-bound sinners is at the heart of the gospel and is the irreducible minimum of the apostolic message of the cross.

There is a reason that all four Gospels culminate with the death and resurrection of Jesus. No other biography spends a third of its time detailing the subject’s last week. But the Gospels are no ordinary biographies. They tell the story of victory in defeat, of triumph through tragedy. Make no mistake: the point of Jesus’s life was to die, the point of his death was to rise again, and the point of his resurrection was to justify believing sinners (Rom. 4:25). Upon seeing Jesus, John the Baptist announced, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29). From even before his birth, the mission of the Christ was to save sinners. “You shall call his name Jesus,” the angel told Joseph, “for he will save his people from their sins” (Matt. 1:21). No wonder Jesus understood his own mission as coming “to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10). “The Son of Man did not come to be served,” he told his disciples, “but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark. 10:45).

Christ and Him Crucified

To be sure, the work of Christ on the cross was multifaceted. In the death of Jesus, we have the conquering of evil, the defeat of Satan, and the example of perfect love. We can talk about more than sin and salvation when we talk about the cross, but we must not talk about less. For there is no good thing accomplished by the cross that was accomplished apart from the satisfaction of divine justice, the expiation of sin, and the propitiation of wrath.

If “evangelical” means anything worthwhile at all, it means that we are people who live and breathe and love and share the evangel. It means that our preaching never strays from Christ and him crucified (1 Cor. 1:23). It means that the most important thing about the most important message in the world is that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures (1 Cor. 15:3).

The problem in the world is (and always has been) sin. The need of the hour is (and always has been) salvation. We believe in ethics. We believe in discipleship. We believe that salvation is unto holiness and for good works (Titus 2:14). And we also believe with all our might that God sent his only begotten Son into the world that whoever believes in him may not perish but have eternal life (John 3:16).

We do not teach correctly about Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Christ if we do not say something about the point of Christ’s passion week as an atoning sacrifice for sin. His death was a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God for our sins (Eph. 5:2; cf. Lev. 1:9, 13, 14). Christ gave himself for our sins (Gal. 1:4). He became sin for us (2 Cor. 5:21). He bore our sins in his body on the tree (1 Peter 2:24). He was pierced for our transgressions and crushed for our iniquities (Isa. 53:5-6). The work of the high priest was to offer gifts and offer sacrifices for sin (Heb. 5:1; 8:3), and Christ is the best and true and final high priest because through the eternal Spirit he offered himself without blemish to God (9:14).

The death of Christ is enough to win for us cleansing and appeasement, forgiveness and redemption. Sin is lawlessness (1 John 3:4), but because of Christ’s death, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness (1:19). Christ’s sacrifice on the cross made purification for sin (Heb. 1:3), put away sin (9:26), and was a propitiation for sin (1 John 2:2). The One who loves us, the one who makes us a kingdom and makes us priests, is, we must always remember, the one who has freed us from our sins by his blood (Rev. 1:5-6).

God’s Salvation Story

We will not be Bible people—or Jesus people, or gospel people—if we are not salvation-for-sinners people. Though some may call it a soterian gospel or an individualistic gospel, the unavoidable reality of Scripture is that at the heart of the message of the cross is the simple, wonderful, glorious good news that Christ saves sinners like you and me. And if this message, and all that took place to accomplish what it announces, represents the climax of redemptive history—indeed, if all of history is about redemption—then we are right to conclude that this soteriological emphasis must shape the sound of our preaching, the priority of our ministry, and the mission of the church.

“The saying is trustworthy and deserving of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the foremost” (1 Tim. 1:15). That is the preaching that God blesses. That is that ministry that God uses. That is the mission that God has given us in the world. The mercy of God is the theme of our song because the salvation of sinners is the story of Scripture. Let us sing it, say it, and savor it—this week and for eternity.

Books and Everything

Reparations: A Christian Call for Repentance and Repair, by Duke L. Kwon &
Gregory Thompson

More than Just Race: Being Black and Poor in the Inner City, by William
Julius Wilson

Race and Covenant: Recovering the Religious Roots for American Reconciliation,
by Gerald R McDermott

American Awakening: Identity Politics and Other Afflictions of Our Time, by
Joshua Mitchell

Slaying Leviathan: Limited Government and Resistance in the Christian Tradition,
by Glenn S. Sunshine

A World Without Email: Reimagining Work in an Age of Communication Overload,
by Cal Newport

My memory may be too rosy, but in my estimation—having been “in the room” for most of this history—the early 2000s, up until 2014, saw a remarkable coming together of a variety of Reformed and Reformedish networks, ministries, and church leaders. Of course, the “Reformed resurgence” or “New Calvinism” or “YRR” was always divided along some obvious lines. There were the usual disagreements about the sacraments and spiritual gifts and polity and approaches to worship. But the “team” was held together by a number of important theological convictions: historic Christian orthodoxy, inerrancy, penal substitution, Calvinist soteriology, the Reformation solas, complementarianism, and the centrality of expositional preaching. Across the almost decade of (apparent) unity, there was also a shared sense of what the movement was NOT: we were not liberals, not Arminians, not Emergent, not seeker sensitive, not prosperity gospel, not egalitarians, not revisionist on sexual ethics, not Catholics, not watered-down evangelicals, and not compromisers on unpopular doctrinal truths.

For about a decade, it seemed, amazingly, that more pastors, more churches, and more networks were coming to share these convictions. Importantly, many brothers and sisters embraced being Black and Reformed. Christian hip hop was widely celebrated as rich theological wine being poured into new wineskins. “Big God Theology” was not only on the rise and on the move; it was bringing people together who had previously been apart.

And yet, on the other side of Ferguson (2014), Trump (2016), MLK50 (2018), coronavirus (2020–2021), George Floyd (2020), and more Trump (2020–2021), the remarkable coming together seems to be all but torn apart. Obviously, the biggest issue is race and everything that touches race (e.g., police shootings, Critical Race Theory, Trump), but it’s not just race that divides us. It is more broadly our different instincts and sensibilities, our divergent fears and suspicions, our various intellectual and cultural inclinations. Yes, there are important theological disagreements too, and these demand the best attention of our heads and hearts. But in many instances, people who can affirm the same doctrinal commitments on paper are miles apart in their posture and practice.

Toward One Way of Understanding Our Differences

Why?

That’s what I’ve been thinking about over the last year or more. I don’t have the last word on how to assess the problem, let alone all the next steps toward addressing the problem. But attempting to understand what’s going on is an important start.

It seems to me there are at least four different “teams” at present. Many of the old networks and alliances are falling apart and being re-formed along new lines. These new lines are not doctrinal in the classic sense. Rather, they often capture a cultural mood, a political instinct, or a personal sensibility. You could label each team by what it sees as the central need of the hour, by what it assesses as the most urgent work of the church in this cultural moment. Let’s give each group an adjective corresponding to this assessment.

1. Contrite: “Look at the church’s complicity in past and present evils. We have been blind to injustice, prejudice, racism, sexism, and abuse. What the world needs is to see a church owning its sins and working, in brokenness, to make up for them and overcome them.”
2. Compassionate: “Look at the many people hurting and grieving in our midst and in the world. Now is the time to listen and learn. Now is the time to weep with those who weep. What the world needs is a church that demonstrates the love of Christ.”
3. Careful: “Look at the moral confusion and intellectual carelessness that marks our time. Let’s pay attention to our language and our definitions. What the world needs is a church that will draw upon the best of its theological tradition and lead the way in understanding the challenges of our day.”
4. Courageous: “Look at the church’s compromise with (if not outright capitulation to) the spirit of the age. Now is the time for a trumpet blast, not for backing down. What the world needs is a church that will admonish the wayward, warn against danger, and stand as a bulwark for truth, no matter how unpopular.”

Notice that each “team” is labeled with a positive word. Although I’m closer to 3 than to any other category, I’ve tried my best to label each group in a way that expresses the good that they are after. Most of us will read the list above and think, “I like all four words. At the right time, in the right place, in the right way, the church should be contrite, compassionate, careful, and courageous.” The purpose of this schema is not to pigeonhole people or groups, nor is it to suggest that if we could just mix in 25% from each category then all our problems would be solved. I realize that the danger with schemas like this is that people may further divide by placing others into rigid categories or that people may stumble into moral equivalency as if there are no right approaches or right answers.

Having made those important caveats, I believe that conceptual groupings can help us see more clearly that our disagreements are not just about one thing, but about the basic posture and way in which we see a whole lot of things. Although any categorization tool will be generalized, simplified, and imperfect, they can still be useful, especially if we realize that some categories can have a left wing (moving toward the next lowest number) and a right wing (leaning toward the next highest number).

With that in mind, think about how the four teams assess a series of contemporary issues in two broad categories.

Table 1 (Race)

Table 2 (Politics and Gender)

So What’s the Point?

To reiterate, the point of this schema is not rigidity or relativism. I’m not suggesting that every Reformedish Christian can be neatly placed in one row all the way across, neither am I suggesting that we are all blind men with the elephant, each person no closer to the whole truth than anyone else.

One reason for the schema is to take a step toward understanding our current context. The loudest voices tend to be 1s and 4s, which makes sense because they tend to see many of these issues in the starkest terms and often collide with each other in ways that makes a lot of online noise. The 1s and 4s can also be the most separatist, with some voices (among the 1s) encouraging an exodus from white evangelical spaces and some voices (among the 4s) encouraging the woke to be excommunicated. The 2s and 3s are more likely to appeal to unity, or at least ask for a better understanding of all sides, which can make them sound too squishy for either end of the spectrum. The effort by the 2s and 3s to find middle ground is made difficult by the fact that many 2s want their friends among the 3s to call out the dangerous 4s, while the 3s would like their friends among the 2s to be less sympathetic to the 1s.

Just as important as understanding our context is understanding ourselves. We’d like to think we come to all our positions by a rigorous process of prayer, biblical reflection, and rational deliberation. But if we are honest, we all have certain instincts too. By virtue of our upbringing, our experiences, our hurts, our personalities, our gifts, and our fears, we gravitate toward certain explanations and often think in familiar patterns when it comes to the most complicated and controversial issues. Why is it that by knowing what someone thinks about, say, mask wearing that you probably have a pretty good idea what they think about Christian Nationalism and systemic racism? To be sure, friend groupings play a part, as does the totalizing effect of politics in our day. And yet, our own unique—and often predictable—sensibilities often play a bigger role than we think.

We won’t be able to put all the pieces of Humpty Dumpty back together again—and maybe some pieces shouldn’t have been glued together in the first place. But if we can understand what’s going on—in our networks, in our churches, and in our hearts—we will be better equipped to disciple our own people and reach out, where we can, to those who may disagree. Most importantly, perhaps we will be able to find a renewed focus, not on our cultural sensibilities and political instincts, but on the glory of Christ, the incarnate Son of God, who came from the Father full of grace and truth.

But no sooner do we hear of God’s promised blessing to Abram than we find the promise threatened by famine in Egypt and (even worse) by Abram’s foolishness before Pharaoh. Fearing that his life will be in danger because of the beauty of his wife, Abram instructs Sarai to lie to the Egyptian king and say that she is his sister. This leads Pharaoh to shower Abram with riches and to take Sarai into his harem as his wife. Whether Pharaoh committed adultery with Sarai or not is unclear (I think not). What is clear is that when Abram is sent away by the king he leaves Egypt a much wealthier man than we he arrived.

The point of the story is not to moralize, good or bad, on Pharaoh or Abram or Sarai. It’s not wrong to draw lessons from Old Testament history (1 Cor. 10:6), but Genesis 12:10-20 is not mainly about the patriarchs. It is first of all about the invincibility of God’s promise.

Pharaoh’s house was cursed when it looked like Pharaoh would dishonor Sarai (cf. Gen. 12:3). And meanwhile, Abram was blessed—blessed beyond his wildest expectation and certainly blessed well beyond all deserving. This is the story we see over and over again in Genesis: God’s protection and God’s provision for the sake of God’s promise.

What did Abram do to deserve to leave Egypt a richer man than when he arrived? Nothing. Actually, less than nothing! And yet, Abram left with great wealth, because God is true to his promise. The promises of God are so sure, not even God’s people can ultimately mess them up.

Looking Back

There’s a connection between the story about Abram and Sarai in Egypt in chapter 12 and the story about Adam and Eve in the Garden in chapter 3.

Both stories center around a temptation caused by food. In the garden, it’s the fruit that looks good to eat and the temptation that arises from that, and in here it’s the temptation arising from the lack of food.

In both instances, we see the disastrous results of a husband’s poor leadership involving his wife.

We also see that both stories deal with deception. The serpent deceives the couple, and here the couple deceives Pharaoh. The result of both deceptions is this language, “they saw and they took.” The woman saw the fruit, she took and she ate. Pharaoh saw the woman and took her to be his wife.

In both stories, once the deception is found out, the ruler asks questions. God comes to Adam: “What have you done?” Pharaoh comes to Abram: “Why have you done this? Why didn’t you tell me?” In both cases the man’s excuse is to point to his wife: “Well, the wife that you gave me, she gave me the fruit.” “Well, the wife that I have, she’s simply too beautiful. I had to lie.”

And what’s the result in both stories? The couple is sent out. Adam and Eve are kicked out of Eden. Abram and Sarai are sent away from Egypt.

You could even look at the next passage to follow in each instance. After leaving the Garden there is family conflict between Cain and Abel. After leaving Egypt, there is family conflict between Abram and Lot. We are meant to see this episode in chapter 12 as another kind of fall from grace. The two stories track with each other in uncanny ways.

Except for this all-important detail. In Genesis Adam and Eve are kicked out of Eden, and they leave with cursing. In Genesis 12, Abram and Sarai are kicked out of Egypt, and they leave with blessing. They deserve cursing, just like Adam and Eve did in the garden, but here the promise of God is so operative that when they deserve the same cursing, instead they get what they don’t deserve, they get more blessing.

Looking Ahead

And there’s a connection with this story, not only going back to the garden, but looking forward to the Exodus. Remember, Moses is writing this story is writing it for the people when they are wandering in the wilderness, on the cusp of entering the Promised Land. Think about the parallels they would have seen between their story this story.

Abram migrates to Egypt because of a famine. Jacob’s family, at the end of Genesis, will go down to Egypt because of a famine.

When Abram and Sarai approach the land, they plan a speech for Pharaoh so that it might go well with them. When Israel’s family journeys to Egypt at the end of the book, they plan a speech for Pharaoh so that it might go well with them.

Sarai becomes a sort of slave to Pharaoh. The Israelites will become, for many centuries, slaves to another Pharaoh.

God then afflicts that Pharaoh with plagues, just as he afflicts the Pharaoh in Genesis 12 with plagues. In both cases, the plagues result in Pharaoh sending God’s people out of Egypt.

And what happens when they leave Egypt? Both times they leave with great wealth from the Egyptians. And in both cases, the next stop is to journey in the Negev and then later arrive back in the land.

This story in Genesis 12 was meant to be a comfort to God’s people wandering in the wilderness because of their sin. Parents would have been able to say to their children, “Remember what God did for Abram? He almost blew it. But God took care of him. God rescued him. God blessed him and brought him back to Canaan, all for the sake of his promise. Surely he will do the same for us.”

Looking at Ourselves

Obviously, the lesson from Abram and Sarai in Egypt is not that we should lie our way to wealth and prosperity. Abram’s conniving is a rebuke to all of us who think God’s plan needs help from the world’s ways.

But mostly, the story is a word of hope. It’s a firm reminder that nothing and no one can fully and finally derail the promises of God. You may look at your sin and stupidity and think that you’ve forfeited all of God’s blessing for you. But you haven’t. We may corporately look at the failures of God’s people—worldly compromise, theological error, fallen leaders, hypocrisy, duplicity, sin, and scandal—and wonder how the church will ever accomplish the purposes God has for her. But don’t forget: Jesus himself promises to build his church. This is not an excuse for us to be lazy, let alone to be disobedient, but it is reason for hope.

I don’t know what God is up to in your church, your city, your denomination, or your country, but we can be absolutely certain of this: Christ will be true to his word. The gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable (Rom. 11:29). Nothing can fully and finally derail or destroy the promises of God. Not the world, not the flesh, not the devil. Not even us. Jesus Christ will have his way. He will keep his promises. He will bless his people. He will build his church, and the gates of hell will not prevail against it.

Book and More Books:

Journey to the Cross: A 40-Day Lenten Devotional, by Paul David Tripp

R.C. Sproul: A Life, by Stephen J. Nichols

The Holiness of God, by R.C. Sproul

It’s one of those Christian slogans that is undeniably true, and, at the same time, less helpful than it may seem.

To be sure, our lives as Christians ought to be marked by faith not fear. Over and over, the Bible tells us not to be afraid (Josh. 10:25; Isa. 44:8). We should fear not, for the Lord will help us (Isa. 41:13). God gave us a spirit not of fear but of self-control (2 Tim. 1:7). Jesus himself repeatedly exhorts his people not to be afraid (Matt. 8:26; 14:27; 28:10; Mark 5:36; Luke 12:32; John 14:27). Perfect love casts out fear (1 John 4:18).

The reason the Christian can face life unafraid is not because we are intrinsically brave, let alone because nothing bad will ever happen to us. The reason we do not fear what man (or disease or weather or accidents) can do to us is because we fear God instead. Scripture is full of commands like “the Lord your God you shall fear” (Deut. 6:13), “Serve the Lord with fear” (Ps. 2:11), “Fear God and keep his commandments” (Eccl. 12:13), or simply “Fear God” (1 Peter 2:17). We know that the fear of the Lord is clean (Ps. 19:9) and the beginning of wisdom (Prov. 1:7).

This is a crucial message in our day. The daily news doesn’t get our attention by broadcasting good news; it gets eyeballs with bad news. Politicians get our support by stoking fear in what the other side will do if they win. Social media influencers hold our attention not by painting a balanced picture of possibilities and tradeoffs, but by depicting a dystopian nightmare that’s one wrong move, one disappointing election, one disturbing trend away from reality. The truth is we can be fearful people—irrationally jumping to the worst possible conclusions, perversely relying on doomsday predictions to give us our emotional fix, unthinkingly forming our opinions (or even our doctrines) based on the loudest and latest jeremiads. So yes, “faith over fear” is a needed word for our day.

And yet, the slogan is in desperate need of some balance of its own.

For starters, not all fear is the same. As Justin Taylor helpfully points out, we must distinguish among different concepts like worry, concern, fear, moral panic, and fear mongering. When we teach our children not to play in the road, we are inculcating a salutary kind of fear, different from teaching them to sleep with a knife under their pillow each night for fear of robbers. Too often in popular discourse, one side looks to score rhetorical points by labeling every kind of concern—whether exaggerated and unreasonable or sober and well-grounded—as sinful fear. But that’s not how the Bible works.

When the book of Proverbs admonishes us to work hard so as to avoid poverty (Prov. 6:6-11) or to walk in God’s ways so as to avoid personal calamity (Prov. 5:21-23), we are being motivated by something like fear.

When Paul escaped through an opening in the wall in Damascus (Acts 9:23-25), should he have had greater faith?

Were the people guilty of panic in Nehemiah’s day when they prayed to God and set a guard as protection against their enemies day and night (Neh. 4:9)?

Was Jesus wrong to warn people of hell in harrowing detail and to motivate people to obedience based, in part, on the dread of judgment (Matt. 5:27-30; 10:28; 18:7-9; 24:48-51; 25:30, 41-46)?

We must not think that being concerned about the future is inimical to confidence in God. Surely, it was not a sign of Jesus’s lack of faith that while in the Garden of Gethsemane he was very sorrowful and deeply troubled (Matt. 26:37-38).

It’s also worth pointing out that “faith over fear” usually cuts in both directions. If it was wrong to vote for Trump out of fear for what the Democrats would do if they won, then it must have been wrong to vote for Biden out of fear for what Trump would do if he were given a second term. You can’t chastise half of the country for fearing socialism if you spur on your side to vote because all those other people are fascists. We say “faith over fear” but often the issue is not really faith but a different assessment of the threat at hand. We can tell conservative Christians not to be so afraid of a Biden presidency, but then many of those same conservative Christians would tell their critics not to be so afraid of Covid. In both cases, I doubt that the courage to face the future is rooted in tremendous confidence in the Lord (at least not entirely) as much as it is in an evaluation that the thing other people are fearing is not nearly as dangerous as they think. We say “faith” but what we sometimes mean is “there is very little here to fear.”

This leads to one final thought. The exhortation to “faith over fear” is bound to land better on others when it rings forth as a word of hope instead of a word of shame. Granted, Jesus had no problem rebuking his disciples for their lack of faith (Matt. 8:26). But that’s far from the only way the Bible seeks to engender faith in God’s people. What’s missing from the “faith over fear” mantra is a robust exploration of why we can have peace instead of panic. With the Spirit to strengthen us, the Son to sympathize with our weakness, and the Father to care for us in all things, we have no cause for despair. Of all people, we who believe in the all-encompassing providence of God have reason to face the future unafraid. Let’s be careful, then, that when we say “faith over fear” we are making God’s promises feel big more than we are making our fellow Christians feel small.

Books and More Books:

Dynamics of Spiritual Life, by Richard F. Lovelace

Evangelism Through the Local Church, by Michael Green

Evangelism in the Early Church, by Michael Green

Between Faith and Criticism, by Mark Noll

Reformed Resurgence: The New Calvinist Movement and the Battle Over American Evangelicalism, by Brad Vermurlen

The French Revolution, however, was another matter. Burke thought it folly for the French to think they could start over as a people or that human nature could be made anew. Burke thought people were guided by passions and sentiments more than by reason. He feared that if you strip away everything you know, something worse and more tyrannical will take its place. For Burke, we are born into the world with a civilizational inheritance to maintain, whether we like it not, much like parents are obliged to care for their children, and children are obliged to obey their parents. Burke insisted that Britain should be grateful for the habits, institutions, and principles that gave them unrivaled freedom and prosperity, and that this cultural heritage ought to be conserved rather than violently overthrown (for more on Burke, see Yuval Levin’s excellent book The Great Debate).

This is not the place to sketch out the history of conservatism, but suffice it to say it has been, like every other earthly ism, a diverse and imperfect tradition, including (in broad strokes): politicians like Benjamin Disraeli, Winston Churchill, and Margaret Thatcher in England and Calvin Coolidge, Barry Goldwater, and Ronald Reagan in America; authors like Whitaker Chambers, Henry Jaffa, George Santayana, Richard Weaver, and Roger Scruton; economic theorists like Frederick Hayek and Milton Friedman. In its American form, conservatism has counted groups as varied as classical liberals, early Federalists, and southern agrarians among its intellectual heroes. In its more recent form, conservatism became mainstream with the rise of William F. Buckley, Jr. and the launch of National Review in 1955.

What’s the Point?

I’m not writing about conservatism because I think the Christian religion requires a conservative political philosophy, let alone because I think the two are identical. And yet, there are good reasons for Christians to know more about conservatism than they do. 

(1) For starters, most white Christians in America think of themselves as conservatives, but I imagine few have read much, if anything, from the centuries-old conservative tradition. 

(2) It has often been assumed that Trump and conservatism are the same thing, or that Republican policies and conservatism are the same thing, or that conservatism is the same as a disdain for the elite nexus of Hollywood, the media, and the academy.

(3) Conservatism, without any definition, is often invoked as an explanation for someone’s political views. This happens from the right (“but I’m a conservative”) and from the left (“you are too beholden to your conservatism”). In both claims, the moniker “conservative” is little more than an ideological label that quickly identifies someone’s views as obviously trustworthy or obviously hijacked.

(4) While I’ve argued before that Christian pastors and ministry leaders would be wise to provide less in the way of political punditry, this does not mean Christian theology and political philosophy have nothing to do with each other. If we can talk on the level of moral philosophy and anthropological assumptions and political first principles (away from the constant clamor of the 24-hour news cycle and polarization of national elections) we may be able to have a more meaningful conversation. If nothing else, the conversation will be deeper and richer and (likely) wiser for reading and evaluating the most important thinkers in the conservative tradition of the last two centuries rather than just listening to the loudest voices who claim to speak for conservatism today.

Concise Guide to Conservatism

With that last point in mind, I thought it would be worthwhile to look at one answer to the question posed in the title of this post. If someone wants a short, straightforward, and seminal exploration of conservatism he can do no better than to read Russell Kirk’s Concise Guide to Conservatism (Regnery Gateway, 2019). Originally published in 1957 as The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Conservatism (a jab at George Bernard Shaw’s Intelligent Women’s Guide to Socialism and Capitalism), the Concise Guide is much more accessible than Kirk’s larger work (a revised dissertation of all things!) The Conservative Mind (1953). 

Kirk was born in 1918 in Plymouth, Michigan (now a suburb of Detroit) and went on to earn degrees from Michigan State, Duke, and the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. After teaching for several years at his alma mater, Kirk left Michigan State in 1959 and returned to his ancestral home in Mecosta, a rural community an hour north of Grand Rapids. In 1963, Kirk converted to Catholicism and married Annette Courtemanche. Together they had four children and often welcomed guests, literary figures, refugees, and vagrants to “Piety Hill” (their country home). Through his teaching, his writing, and his involvement in the leading conservative journals of the day, Kirk gained the reputation as a key theorist, moralist, historian, novelist, and philosopher of post-war conservatism. Russell Kirk, lauded by his friends as “the benevolent sage of Mecosta,” died in 1994.

In the Concise Guide, Kirk lays out ten characteristics of conservative thought.

1. 1. “Men and nations are governed by moral laws; and those laws have their origin in a wisdom that is more than human—in divine justice” (2). Kirk made clear that “Christianity prescribes no especial form of politics” (9). At the same time, he believed that conservatism was built on a religious foundation and that religion in the modern world was largely defended by conservative people (9). “The conservative believes that the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom” (10)
   2. “Variety and diversity are the characteristics of a high civilization. Uniformity and absolute equality are the death of all real vigor and freedom in existence” (2-3). In rejecting absolute equality, Kirk did not mean equal treatment under the law, but an equal outcome enforced by the state.
      
   3. “Justice means that every man and every woman have the right to what is their own—to the things best suited to their own nature, to the rewards of their ability and integrity, to their property, and their personality” (3). Society, said Kirk, is a partnership in which all have equal rights but not all have equal things.
      
   4. “Property and freedom are inseparably connected: economic leveling is not economic progress” (3). Kirk argues that the three fundamental rights in the Anglo-American tradition have been life, liberty, and property (what Thomas Jefferson described more expansively as “the pursuit of happiness”). If there were no private property, we would not all be rich together; we would all be poor together (56-57). Private property is not only a good in itself; it is also a means to culture and freedom. The role of the state is to protect man’s property, not to allocate it. For his part, the virtuous citizen understands that property comes with duties, and by our property and possessions we ought to serve God and serve our fellow men (60).
      
   5. “Power is full of danger; therefore, the good state is one in which power is checked and balanced, restricted by sound constitutions and customs” (3-4). Kirk is not anti-authority, nor even anti-government. He considers government “a necessary good” provided it is just, balanced, and restricted. Men with power cannot be trusted, so ambition must be made to counteract ambition.
      
   6. “The past is a great storehouse of wisdom; as Burke said, ‘The individual is foolish, but the species is wise’” (4). The conservative knows he was not born yesterday. He is eager to listen to the “democracy of the dead.” The conservative does not idealize the past, but he believes that we will be wiser if we listen to the wise men and women of the past.
      
   7. “Modern society urgently needs true community: and true community is a world away from collectivism” (4). Conservatives are public-spirited. They believe in doing one’s duty to town and country, to his business and to his church, to his school and to his union, to his civic association and to his charitable fund (44). In genuine community, decisions are made locally wherever possible, and philanthropy and neighborliness are voluntary virtues.
      
   8. “In the affairs of nations, the American conservative feels that his country ought to set an example to the world, but ought not to try to remake the world in its image” (5). Kirk is less interested in a specific foreign policy than in a general inclination that urges America to be virtuous, without necessarily being interventionist.
      
   9. “Men and women are not perfectible, conservatives know; and neither are political institutions. We cannot make heaven on earth, though we may make a hell” (5). Human nature is not malleable. We must deal with people as they are, not as we wish them to be. This means, as Kirk says elsewhere, “politics is the art of the possible, not the art of the ideal.”
   10. “Change and reform, conservatives are convinced, are not identical: moral and political innovation can be destructive as well as beneficial” (5-6). The conservative does not believe in change for the sake of change. He is not eager for revolution. He does not believe in the abstract cult of progress. When in doubt, permanence should be favored over progress. Choose what is old and tried, even if it is imperfect, before what is new untried. Conservatives prefer the devil they know to the devil they don’t know.

Summary

Kirk was writing in the 1950s so the great enemy, as he saw it, was collectivism and totalitarianism. Like many conservatives, he did not see the injustices in his country as well as the injustices in other countries. In general, the conservative movement since World War II has been proven right on the issues of communism and socialism but has often been proven slow (or wrong) on the issue of race. Of Kirk’s ten points, I’d say 1 is undeniably Christian and 4, 5, 6, and 9 can be drawn from Christian principles, but they are certainly not the last word on moral philosophy or a Christian approach to society and politics. As I said earlier, I do not offer this summary of conservatism because I think it should become a confessional standard for Christians. Perish the thought! We have an inerrant Bible, not to mention our own dogmatic tradition. But I do believe Kirk’s definition of conservatism (or something like it) is worth our careful consideration, not least of all from those Christians who call themselves conservatives.

Books and More Books:

The Case for Life: Equipping Christians to Engage the Culture, by Scott Klusendorf

Defending Life, by Francis J. Beckwith

Beyond Racial Gridlock: Embracing Mutual Responsibility, by George Yancey

Letter from a Birmingham Jail, by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Abe: Abraham Lincoln in His Times, by David S. Reynolds

The Attributes of God: An Introduction, by Gerald Bray

Forty Questions About the End Times, by Eckhard Schnabel

The Bible and the Future, by Anthony A. Hoekema

Not Tragically Colored: Freedom, Personhood, and the Renewal of Black America, by Ismael Hernandez

America in the King Years, by Taylor Branch

Abuse of Discretion: The Inside Story of Roe v. Wade, by Clarke D. Forsythe

Concise Guide to Conservatism, by Russell Kirk

The Myth of the Lost Cause: Why the South Fought the Civil War and Why the North Won, by Edward H. Bonekemper, III

Geerhardus Vos: Reformed Biblical Theologian, Confessional Presbyterian, by Danny E. Olinger

Make Time: How to Focus on What Matters Every Day, by Jake Knapp and John Zeratsky

Heralds of the King: Christ-Centered Sermons in the Tradition of Edmund P. Clowney, edited by Dennis E. Johnson

For Christ and the University: The Story of InterVarsity Christian Fellowship of the USA – 1940-1990, by Keith Hunt, Gladys Hunt

C. Stacey Woods and the Evangelical Rediscovery of the University, by A. Donald MacLeod

Moral, Believing Animals: Human Personhood and Culture, by Christian Smith

Confronting Injustice without Compromising Truth: 12 Questions Christians Should Ask About Social Justice, by Thaddeus J. Williams

Minds Wide Shut: How the New Fundamentalisms Divide Us, by Gary Saul Morson and Morton Schapiro

R. C. Sproul: A Life, by Stephen J. Nichols

Okay, that may be an overstatement. But I think most Christians would agree that, from personal conversations and from social media scrolling, it certainly feels like the divisions are as bad as ever, and only getting worse. The church has been divided over doctrine before—sometimes for bad reasons, often for good reasons. That is to be expected. What seems new in our day is how Bible-believing Christians who share almost all the same doctrine on paper are massively and increasingly divided over non-doctrinal matters, torn apart by issues the Bible does not directly address.

Think of the three most contentious issues in the church over the past year: racial tensions, Covid restrictions, and the presidential election. On each of these matters, Christians have disagreed not just on interpretation or strategy or where the slopes are most slippery. We have fundamentally disagreed on the facts themselves, and because we disagree on the facts we disagree even more profoundly on the appropriate response.

Is America deeply and pervasively racist? Are people of color routinely and disproportionately in danger of being killed by police officers? Is virtually every aspect of our society hostile to the presence of black and brown bodies? If you answer yes to all these questions—that is, if you believe the facts warrant all these conclusions—then how can you not be engaged in (peaceful) protest? For the church to ignore injustice on this level is to be guilty of indifference at best and moral turpitude at worst. But if our society and our policing is not fundamentally racist, then much of the social justice movement is motivated by false premises.

What about Covid? If the facts tell us that this is a once-in-a-century pandemic, that we are facing 300,000 excess deaths, and that masks are a simple and effective way to limit the spread of the virus, then extreme care and caution are important ways we can love our neighbors as ourselves. If, on the other hand, coronavirus is hardly more dangerous than the seasonal flu, then the worldwide restrictions look rather onerous, if not outright nefarious.

And what about the election? Setting aside the question of whom to vote for, we are now divided over who people actually did vote for. If the election was stolen, perversely overriding the will of most Americans in an act of unconscionable thievery, then we should be marching (peacefully) until we are blue in the face. But if the facts do not support that conclusion, then we help no one by pretending that the loser of the election actually won.

In each set of issues, you can see why the stakes are so high and why the emotions run even higher. If things are as dire as some purport (on race, with Covid, and with a disputed election), then to do nothing displays a cowardly and colossal failure of nerve. But if, in each situation, things are much less dangerous and less insidious than the doomsdayers say, then taking a full-body chill pill would be the better part of valor.

So what are Christians to do?

First, let us be humble, understanding that few of us are experts on these issues. A little epistemic humility—in our hearts and toward others—can go a long way.

Second, let us be measured. This doesn’t mean our default has to be the status quo, but it does mean we should keep our passions in proportion. We should be religiously dogmatic about our religious dogma and not much else.

Third, let us reason together. It is the profound irony of our age: never has there been more information at our fingertips, and never has it been harder to know what information to trust. In most things, whether we realize it or not, we have no choice but to rely upon the expertise of others. We simply don’t have the time or ability to properly investigate every disputed claim. That means it is more important than ever before that we are discerning about the voices we listen to.

And how can we be discerning? 

Read widely—not just from different voices online but from different voices across the centuries. Reading Calvin or Augustine won’t tell you what to think about Covid, but they will help you think better.

Listen to those who know you best and love you most. Of course, parents and pastors and friends can be wrong too, but there is something unhealthy about putting ourselves under the influence of distant personalities while neglecting those who will have to give an account for their care over us.

Where possible, look at the fruit of someone’s life. To be sure, bad people can make good arguments. But in general, if you are honest with other people, honest with yourself, and honest with God, you tend to be honest with facts and ideas. The opposite is also true.

Run through a series of diagnostic questions in your mind. Questions like:

• Does the argument I’m reading deal in trade-offs or only in the categories of all-good/all-evil?
• Are the terms and definitions clearly defined?
• Can the person fairly state the argument he is arguing against? 
• Is he willing to acknowledge any fair points on the other side? 
• Does the person I’m listening to seem unhinged and unstable?
• Is the argument full of emotive reasoning and ad hominem attack?
• Does the force of the argument rely on hard words and high passions or on rational arguments and sound evidence?
• Does this person have a track record of being fair, accurate, and well-researched?
• Does this person have any credentials or experience that would make him worth listening to?
• Does the argument make sweeping claims based on personal anecdotes?
• Does the argument require me to believe what is non-falsifiable?
• Does the argument require a level of highly elaborate clandestine scheming such that only the most disciplined, organized, and intelligent people in the world could pull it off?
• Does the argument confuse correlation with causation?
• Is the person a jerk on Twitter, constantly self-congratulatory on Twitter, seeking victim status on Twitter, or otherwise living online in a way that seems imbalanced?

Are these questions a magic elixir that will solve all our disagreements? Of course not. But perhaps they can nudge us in the right direction. I’m sure I’m getting things wrong. In fact, I hope on these non-biblical matters in particular that I’m always open to being corrected and learning something new.

For my part, while I believe there are many ways that the relationship between African Americans and police officers can improve, I don’t think the evidence suggests that racist cops are disproportionately killing unarmed black people. I don’t think Covid is deadly for the vast majority of people but it is very dangerous for some. And while I am sure there were irregularities in November’s election, I don’t think there is evidence of voter fraud so widespread that it could have changed the presidential outcome.

I hesitate to share these convictions because that’s not what I want this post to be about, but neither do I want to pretend that any of us can so rise above the fray that we don’t have to reach any of our own conclusions. My larger and more important point, however, is to urge us as Christians to lead the way in thinking carefully, and in carefully engaging those who think differently–especially on these disputed factual matters that can’t be answered (as I would prefer) by reading our Bibles alone or by quoting from Turretin.

John Piper and I talk about the books that made him who he is. We explore the topics of purpose, retirement, leadership, ministry, and writing, and we dive into his forthcoming magnum opus on Providence.

Books and More Books:

New Morning Mercies: A Daily Gospel Devotional, by Paul David Tripp (get 30% off)

Thinking God’s Thoughts: The Hermeneutics of Humility, by Daniel P. Fuller

The Unity of the Bible: Unfolding God’s Plan for Humanity, by Daniel P.
Fuller

Freedom of the Will, by Jonathan Edwards

The End for Which God Created the World, by Jonathan Edwards

The Religious Affections, by Jonathan Edwards

Validity in Interpretation, by E.D. Hirsch

Letters to Malcolm, Chiefly on Prayer, by C.S. Lewis

A Mind Awake: An Anthology of C.S. Lewis

The Death of Death in the Death of Christ, by John Owen, introduction by J.I.
Packer

Communion with the Triune God, by John Owen

The Glory of Christ, by John Owen

How to Read a Book, by Mortimer Adler

Brothers, We Are Not Professionals, by John Piper

The Religious Life of Theological Students, by Benjamin B. Warfield

The Christian Ministry, by Charles Bridges

The True Excellency of a Minister of the Gospel, by Jonathan Edwards

Lectures to My Students, by Charles Spurgeon, especially “The Minister’s
Fainting Fits” and “The Blind Eye and the Deaf Ear”

Preaching and Preachers by D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones

Walking with the Giants, by Warren Wiersbe

Listening to the Giants, by Warren Wiersbe

Giant Steps, by Warren Wiersbe

Tony Reinke on modern technology

Reformed Dogmatics by Hermann Bavinck

Systematic Theology, by Wayne Grudem

21 Servants of Sovereign Joy: Faithful, Flawed, and Fruitful, by John
Piper

Augustine of Hippo: A Biography, by Peter Brown

William Tyndale: A Biography, by David Danielle

Jonathan Edwards: A Life, George Marsden

Jonathan Edwards: A New Biography, by Iain Murray

To the Golden Shore: The Life of Adoniram Judson, by Courtney Anderson

Portrait of Calvin, by T.H.L. Parker

Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther, Roland Bainton

A Sacrifice of Praise: An Anthology of Christian Poetry in English from Caedmon
to the Mid-Twentieth Century

The poetry of George Herbert

What Jesus Demands from the World, by John Piper

Desiring God, by John Piper

Spectacular Sins: And Their Global Purpose in the Glory of Christ, by John Piper

Providence, by John Piper (Pre-Order at Westminster Books)

And if things are bad in the country at large, it’s hard to see how they are better in the church. While I’m sure many Christians are still laboring behind the scenes to love their neighbors and to give people of a different skin color (or people with a different approach to skin color) the benefit of the doubt, the public face of Christianity—the way we talk to each other and talk about each other—is not impressive. Our witness to the world does not scream Isaiah 1:18 (“Come now, let us reason together”) or John 13:35 (“By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another”). On the whole, when it comes to talking about this country’s most painful and most vexing problem, we are often getting Spurgeon’s dictum exactly backward: we are making soft arguments and using very hard words.

I can imagine what the rejoinders might be to that last paragraph. From the left, some will say, “Of course you want us all to settle down. That’s your privilege talking.” And from the right, some will say, “Just what I expected. More tone police when the church is being overrun by heresy.” If you think perpetual outrage and recrimination is the way forward, I suppose you are entitled to your opinion. But that doesn’t mean everyone else is obliged to share your opinion. For my part, I refuse to believe that talking about racial matters in a way that is reasonable, thoughtful, careful, and charitable makes one beholden to Whiteness or makes one a compromised squish.

The simple, honest truth is that Bible-believing orthodox Christians are not setting a Spirit-infused example in how to talk about racial matters. That’s the bad news. The good news is no one else is setting a great example either, which means it’s not too late for grace-filled, truth-loving followers of Jesus to show to the world a still more excellent way (1 Cor. 12:31).

What might it look like for Christians to talk about race in a more constructive and more helpful manner? Here are three suggestions.

1. Focus on ideas, not labels.

I’ll be blunt: I am no fan of Critical Race Theory. Judging by this introductory volume, I disagree with CRT’s aggressive color-consciousness (17), its jaundiced view of American history (48), its rejection of legal neutrality (3), its emphasis on economic redistribution and equality of results (29, 115), its interpretative principle that divides the world into rigid categories of oppressors and the oppressed (58, 78, 81), and its insistence that racism is pervasive and at the center of everything (8, 91). If that’s CRT, I see little to be gained by using it as a hermeneutical lens, let alone as an all-encompassing worldview.

And yet, I will be the first to confess I am no expert in CRT. While I think every point in the paragraph above comes directly from the book in question—and, consequently, from two leading proponents of CRT—I’m more interested in debating those ideas than I am in debating Critical Race Theory per se. To be sure, there are some experts among us who have deeply studied the major CRT texts. I’m happy for these Christian thinkers to discuss CRT at length. But for the vast majority of us (myself included), CRT is something we’ve heard a lot about and have studied very little. Consequently, one person hears “Critical Race Theory” and thinks: Marxist, leftist, postmodern, anti-Christian ideology. Another person hears “Critical Race Theory” and thinks: helpful tool for demonstrating that racism is more central to our history and has more explanatory power for our present situation than we thought.

My concern is that CRT has become an issue of symbolism before substance, a flag to be waved (for or against) in order to prove that we are sufficiently orthodox or sufficiently sensitive. The result is that Christians end up one step removed from discussing the issues we really need to be discussing. Too often, we think we are fighting about the gospel or fighting about whether we should love and listen to minority brothers and sisters, but really we are fighting about how to define Critical Race Theory. As a pastor, that’s way down on the list of fights I want to have.

When I served on the PCA’s sexuality study committee, we made the decision early on not to mention Revoice, even though everyone could see that was a major reason the committee was formed. But we knew that if we made the report about Revoice, there would be endless arguments about what Revoice is, and who is a part of it, and what so-and-so really meant. We thought it much better to focus on the theology we wanted to promote, the ideas we wanted to warn against, and the pastoral approach we wanted to encourage. In the same way, I think our discussion about race would be greatly helped by saying a lot less about Critical Race Theory and a lot more about the specific ideas that we find promising or problematic.

2. Approach the conversation with intellectual integrity and personal maturity.

What does this mean? Several things in my mind.

Don’t take everything personally. Don’t turn up every disagreement to 11. Recognize when people change their minds or nuance their views. Don’t define someone by their worst statement, and don’t then define every institution they’ve ever been a part of or any friend they’ve ever had by that statement.

Whenever possible, isolate the issue you mean to talk about. Don’t make the issue about gospel fidelity, if the argument is actually about interpreting American history. And don’t make the issue about whether you agree with the prophet Amos, if the argument is about how to interpret policing data.

Let’s show ourselves as Christians to be more logically rigorous and definitionally precise than the world. Don’t confuse correlation with causation. Don’t look for the worst examples on the other side to prove the rightness or righteousness of your side. Don’t assume that the person not entirely with you on every point is, therefore, an enemy not to be trusted on any point. Don’t think that courage means you can’t be careful with your words, or that compassion means you can’t ask uncomfortable questions.

3. Be willing to work with a few common sense both/and propositions.

If there is one kind of argument I generally loathe, it’s the lazy third way approach to solving all of life’s problems. I’m not against finding middle ground (see below). I’m not against seeing how Christianity sometimes transcends our labels and differences. What I am against is intellectual laziness masquerading as above-the-fray, third wayism: “I’m not liberal; I’m not conservative; I’m just Christian!”

Having said that, it seems to me there are a few basic both/and propositions that could turn down the temperature of our rhetoric, while also pushing the racial conversation toward greater clarity and usefulness.

For example, might we be able to acknowledge that systemic injustice can exist while also asking for evidence that, in whatever particular situation we are studying, it does exist? That seems like a reasonable starting place for further conversation. “I acknowledge that structural racism could play a part, but let’s take a closer look at the evidence for that claim.”

Similarly, might we be able to acknowledge personal choices and cultural factors almost always play a role in shaping who we are, the mistakes we make, and the opportunities we find? I’m sure we will still disagree about the relative importance of each factor but recognizing that we are all complex people—not merely the product of environment and circumstance, nor simply the accumulation of our individual decisions—is surely a better way to talk about racial matters than assuming that every disparity is the result of discrimination or that personal responsibility alone can right every social wrong.

Likewise, isn’t it possible that American history is both worse than most white people think, when it comes to race, and still a story with much to celebrate and be thankful for?

Isn’t it reasonable to think that minorities have different experiences than members of the majority and that members of the majority may be blind to those experiences, while nevertheless rejecting the kind of standpoint epistemology that circumscribes the right to speak, and even defines the measure of truth itself, by the standard of one’s lived experience?

These both/and propositions won’t remove all our different emphases and suspicions, but they might help us inch toward one another in finding common ground. That is, if we want to find common ground. The incentives in church discourse are unfortunately the same as in political discourse. There is more to be gained (humanly speaking) by dealing with racial issues in Manichaean categories of absolute light and darkness. Nuance and precision don’t get you much, except the expectation of being shot at from all sides.

There is no way to make an honest conversation about race an easy conversation. There is too much in our history for that. There is also too much in the human heart that is self-justifying, other-accusing, and innocence-seeking to make race and racism a simple intellectual discussion. But with the power of the Spirit and the hope of the gospel, we need not despair. God can yet give us the humility, the rationality, and the charity we need.

In the latest issue you will find a reflection on Eugene Peterson’s pastoral theology, a sermon on Numbers 6:22-27, an argument for restricting the ordained office of deacon to qualified men, several other articles, and a number of book reviews.

Included among the latter is my review of James Eglinton’s new biography of Herman Bavinck. With permission, I’ve pasted that review below.

*****

James Eglinton, Bavinck: A Critical Biography (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2020). Cloth. $44.99. xxii, 450pp.

Over the past decade, there has been a growing tide of English language Bavinck dissertations and Bavinck-inspired theologizing, but there has not been a corresponding scholarly account of Bavinck’s life—until now. Making impressive use of Dutch language newspapers of the period, as well as Bavinck’s own journals (dagboeken), James Eglinton, the Meldrum Senior Lecturer in Reformed Theology at the University of Edinburgh, has managed to write an academic biography that is at learned and nuanced as well as fresh and insightful.

Central to Eglinton’s thesis is his argument against the old historiography that saw “two Bavincks”—the conservative Calvinist and the apparent modernist—forming opposite poles in one man. Building on his earlier work, Trinity and Organism (T&T Clark, 2012), Eglinton insists that far from being a schizophrenic theologian holding contrary opinions, Bavinck was a creative thinker who sought to articulate the historic Christian faith in a newly modern world. “My biography has a particular aim,” Eglinton writes, “to tell the story of a man whose theologically laced personal narrative explored the possibility of an orthodox life in a changing world” (xx).

Eglinton’s biography has been widely praised since its release in September, and with good reason. The book is meaty—with well over a hundred pages of end notes and bibliography—but the narrative itself wastes no words and is only 300 pages. Eglinton’s approach is critical (in the academic sense), but never unsympathetic to Bavinck as a man and as a Christian. There are enough personal vignettes to keep the casual reader interested (e.g., Bavinck’s unrequited romantic affections over many years for Amelia den Dekker), but the text never plods along as a mere chronicle of daily life.

I especially appreciated the Appendix, “My Journey to America,” where Bavinck applauded the youth and energy of late nineteenth-century America but also critiqued its superficial religious life. Among his other observations, Bavinck noted that “there are few handsome men, but more and more beautiful women” (308), that Orange City surpassed Pella and Holland as an enclave of religious piety (303), and that the pillows were bad (307). In a surprising final remark, Bavinck predicted that there was little future for Calvinism in America, but allowed that Calvinism was not the only truth and that American Christianity should chart its own path (314).

Several features of the book’s design are noteworthy. I was helped by the “Chronology” page at the front of the book and by the section highlighting “Key Figures, Churches, Educational Institutions, and Newspapers” in the back. The 39 plates of photographs in the middle of the book were tremendous, and the original artwork by theologian Oliver Crisp makes for an attractive cover. It’s hard to find much to complain about in the book, but I would have benefited from a Bavinck family tree, and some readers may come to the book expecting more intellectual history (though, personally, I was glad Eglinton stuck to biography more than the theological exploration).

Of all the important lessons in this outstanding biography, the most important may be the most obvious: Herman Bavinck was a real person. Writing to his friend Snouck Hurgonje who asked whether Bavinck had been able to keep up with his scholarly pursuits, the 26 year-old new pastor remarked, “If you think for a moment that I must preach twice on Sunday, teach the catechism four times through the week, must also devote much time to visiting homes and the sick, and then sometimes have to lead a Frisian funeral, you won’t have to ask further whether any time or opportunity remains for my own study” (121).

Bavinck was not only swamped with ministerial duties at the outset of his short pastorate in Franecker (1881-82), he was also single, lonely, and spiritually depleted. “The most difficult part of my work,” Bavinck wrote in the same letter to Hurgonje, “is always to lift myself up to, and to stay at, the ideal level in my faith and confession.” Bavinck worried that a shallow, insincere heart might take shape beneath the guise of spiritual depth. He felt pressure to always be the minister, and without a wife he struggled to find “anyone here with whom I can (or might dare to) enjoy” the “familiarity” of friendship (121). Here is a man honest about ministry and honest about himself.

Since the English translation of his four-volume Reformed Dogmatics appeared in 2008, Bavinck has become a treasured companion and authoritative guide for Calvinist theologians, students, and pastors throughout the English-speaking world. And yet, for many, I imagine Bavinck the person has been virtually invisible, swallowed up by the heft of Bavinck’s brain sitting on our shelves. Almost every Reformed pastor knows something about Luther’s courage at Worms or Calvin’s reforms at Geneva or Whitefield’s role in the Great Awakening. But without any commensurate knowledge in Dutch history of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Bavinck can be too quickly reduced to disembodied ideas on a page. This would be a shame, for the story of Bavinck’s life is interesting and instructive in its own right. Herman Bavinck lived a remarkable life as a dogmatician, an ethicist, an educational reformer, a politician, a journalist, a Bible translator, a champion for women’s education, and eventually the father, father-in-law, and grandfather of heroes and martyrs in the anti-Nazi resistance movement (291). This is the story Eglinton tells, and he tells it very well.

Of course, the doctrine of the virgin birth (or more precisely, the virginal conception) has been ridiculed by many outside the church, and, in modern times, by not a few voices inside the church. Two arguments are usually mentioned.

First, the prophecy about a virgin birth in Isaiah 7:14, it is argued, actually speaks of a young woman and not a virgin. (To be fair, some scholars make this argument about Isaiah’s prophecy and still believe in the virgin birth). Many have pointed out that the Hebrew word in Isaiah is almah and not the technical term for virgin, bethula. It is true that almah has a wider semantic range than bethula, but there are no clear references in the Old Testament where almah does not mean virgin. The word almah occurs nine times in the Old Testament, and wherever the context makes its meaning clear, the word refers to a virgin. More importantly, the Septuagint translates almah with the Greek word parthenos (the same word used in Matthew 1:23 where Isaiah 7:14 is quoted), and everyone agrees that parthenos means “virgin.” The Jewish translators of the Septuagint would not have used a clear Greek word for virgin if they understood Isaiah 7:14 to refer to nothing more than a young woman.

Second, many have objected to the virgin birth because they see it as a typical bit of pagan mythologizing. “Mithraism had a virgin birth. Christianity had a virgin birth. They are all just fables. Even Star Wars has a virgin birth.” This popular argument sounds plausible at first glance, but there are a number of problems with it.

(1) The assumption that there was a prototypical God-Man who had certain titles, did certain miracles, was born of a virgin, saved his people, and then got resurrected is not well-founded. In fact, no such prototypical “hero” existed before the rise of Christianity.

(2) It would have been unthinkable for a Jewish sect (which is what Christianity was initially) to try to win new converts by adding pagan elements to their gospel story. I suppose a good Jew might make up a story to fit the Old Testament, but to mix in bits of paganism would have been anathema to most Jews.

(3) The supposed virgin birth parallels are not convincing. Consider some of the usual suspects.

Alexander the Great: his most reliable ancient biographer (several centuries after his death) makes no mention of a virgin birth. Besides, the story that began to circulate (after the rise of Christianity) is about an unusual conception, but not a virgin birth. Alexander’s parents were already married when he was born.

Dionysus: like so many of the pagan “parallels,” he was born when a god (in this case Zeus) disguised himself as a human and impregnated a human princess. This is not a virgin birth and not like the Holy Spirit’s role we read about in the Gospels.

Mithra: he’s a popular parallel. But he was born of a rock, not a virgin. Moreover, the cult of Mithra in the Roman Empire dates to after the time of Christ, so any dependence is Mithraism on Christianity and not the other way around.

Buddha: his mother dreamed that Buddha entered her in the form of a white elephant. But this story doesn’t appear until five centuries after his death, and she was already married.

In short, the so-called parallels always occur well after the life in question, well into the Christian era, and are not really stories of virginal conceptions.

What’s the Big Deal?

Even if professing Christians accept the virgin birth, many would have a hard time articulating why the doctrine really matters. Several years ago, Rob Bell (in)famously argued that it wouldn’t be a big deal if we discovered “Jesus had an earthly father named Larry.” What if the virgin birth was thrown in to appeal to the followers of Mithra and Dionysian religious cults? What if the word for virgin referred to a child whose mother became pregnant the first time she had intercourse? Bell suggested that none of this would be catastrophic to the Christian faith because Jesus would still be the best possible way to live.

So what is the big deal about the virgin birth? Why does it matter?

For starters, the virgin birth is essential to Christianity because it has been essential to Christianity. That may sound like weak reasoning, but only if we care nothing about the history and catholicity of the church. Granted, the church can get things wrong, sometimes even for a long time. But if Christians, of all stripes in all places, have professed belief in the virgin birth for two millennia, maybe we should be slow to discount it as inconsequential. In his impressive study of the virgin birth, J. Gresham Machen concluded that “there can be no doubt that at the close of the second century the virgin birth of Christ was regarded as an absolutely essential part of the Christian belief by the Christian church in all parts of the known world.” It takes a lot of hubris to think that an essential article of faith for almost 2,000 years of the Christian church can be set aside without doing damage to the faith.

Second, the gospel writers clearly believed that Mary was a virgin when Jesus was conceived. We don’t know precisely how the Christ-child came to be in Mary’s womb, except that the conception was “from the Holy Spirit” (Matt. 1:20). But we do know that Mary understood the miraculous nature of this conception, having asked the angel, “How will this be, since I am a virgin?” (Luke 1:34). The Gospels do not present the virgin birth as some prehistoric myth or pagan copy-cat, but as “an orderly account” of actual history from eyewitnesses (Luke 1:1-4). If the virgin birth is false, the historical reliability of the gospels is seriously undermined.

Third, the virgin birth demonstrates that Jesus is truly human and truly divine. This is the point the Heidelberg Catechism makes when it asks in Question 35, “How does the holy conception and birth of Christ benefit you?” The answer: “He is our mediator, and with his innocence and perfect holiness he removes from God’s sight my sin—mine since I was conceived.” If Jesus had not been born of a human, we could not believe in his full humanity. At the same time, if his birth were like any other human birth—through the union of a human father and mother—we would question his full divinity. The virgin birth is necessary to secure both a real human nature and a completely divine nature.

Finally, the virgin birth is essential because it means Jesus did not inherit the curse of depravity that clings to Adam’s race. Jesus was made like us in every way except for sin (Heb. 4:15; 7:26-27). Every human father begets a son or daughter with his sin nature. This is the way of the world after the fall. Sinners beget sinners (Ps. 51:5). Always. If Joseph was the real father of Jesus, or Mary had been sleeping around with Larry, Jesus is not spotless, not innocent, and not perfectly holy. And as result, we have no mediator and no salvation.

The virgin birth is part of what Christians have believed in all times and in all places, and it is a key element in what it means for the incarnation to be “for us and for salvation.” We ignore the doctrine at our peril; we celebrate it to our benefit and to God’s glory.

The Romans celebrated their seven-day winter festival, Saturnalia, starting on December 17. It was a thoroughly pagan affair full of debauchery and the worship of the god Saturn. To mark the end of the winter solstice, the Roman emperor established December 25 as a feast to Sol Invictus (the Unconquered Sun). Wanting to make Christianity more palatable to the Romans and more popular with the people, the church co-opted these pagan festivals and put the celebration of the birth of their Savior on December 25. For whatever the Christmas holiday has become today, it started as a copycat of well-established pagan holidays. If you like Christmas, you have Saturnalia and Sol Invictus to thank.

That’s the story, and everyone from liberal Christians to conservative Christians to non-Christians seem to agree that it’s true.

Except that it isn’t.

For starters, we should distinguish between roots that suggest a rip-off and roots that suggest a rebuke. The presence of some connection between a Christian celebration and a pagan celebration could imply a synchronistic copy-cat (“Hey, let’s Christianize this popular pagan holiday so as to make our celebration more palatable”), or it could mean a deliberate rejection (“Hey, this pagan holiday is horrible, so let’s put something distinctively Christian in its place”). After the conversion of Constantine in the fourth century, Christians did sometimes adapt and Christianize pagan festivals. Whether they did so wisely and effectively is open to historical debate, but the motivation was to transform the paganism of the Roman world rather than raze it to the ground. Even if Christmas was plopped down on December 25 because of Saturnalia and Sol Invictus, that by itself does not entail that the Christian celebration of Christ’s birth really began as a pagan festival.

But in the case of Christmas, there is good evidence that December 25 was not chosen because of any pagan winter holidays. This is the argument Andrew McGowan, of Yale Divinity School, makes in his article “How December 25 Became Christmas” (first published in Bible Review in 2002). Let me try to distill McGowan’s fine historical work by addressing three questions.

When did Christians first start celebrating the birth of Jesus on December 25?

Unlike Easter, which developed as a Christian holiday much earlier, there is no mention of birth celebrations from the earliest church fathers. Christian writers like Irenaeus (130-200) and Tertullian (160-225) say nothing about a festival in honor of Christ’s birth, and Origen (165-264) even mocks Roman celebrations of birth anniversaries as pagan practices. This is a pretty good indication that Christmas was not yet on the ecclesiastical calendar (or at least not widespread), and that if it were, it would not have been tied to a similar Roman holiday.

This does not mean, however, that no one was interested in the date of Christ’s birth. By the late second century, there was considerable interest in dating the birth of Jesus, with Clement of Alexandria (150-215) noting several different proposals, none of which was December 25. The first mention of December 25 as Jesus’s birthday comes from a mid-fourth-century almanac called the Philocalian Calendar. A few decades later, around AD 400, Augustine would indicate that the Donatists kept Christmas festivals on December 25 but refused to celebrate Epiphany on January 6 because they thought the latter date was a recent invention. Since the Donatists, who arose during the persecution under Diocletian in 312, were stubbornly opposed to any compromise with their Roman oppressors, we can be quite certain they did not consider the celebration of Christmas, or the date of December 25, to be pagan in origin. McGowan concludes that there must have been an older North African tradition that the Donatists were steeped in and, therefore, the earliest celebrations of Christmas (we know about) can be dated to the second half of the third century. This is well before Constantine and during a time period when Christians were trying to steadfastly avoid any connections to pagan religion.

When was it first suggested that Christmas grew out of pagan origins?

None of the church fathers in the first centuries of the church makes any reference to a supposed connection between Christmas and Saturnalia or Sol Invictus. You might think, Well of course they didn’t. That would have been embarrassing. But if the whole point of basing your Christian birth holiday on an existing pagan birth holiday is to make your religion more popular or more understandable, surely someone would say something. Besides, as McGowan points out, it’s not like future Christian leaders shied away from making these connections. Gregory the Great, writing in 601, urged Christian missionaries to turn pagan temples into churches and to repurpose pagan festivals into feast days for Christian martyrs.

There is no suggestion that the birth of Jesus was set at the time of pagan holidays until the 12th century, when Dionysius bar-Salibi stated that Christmas was moved from January 6 to December 25 to correspond with Sol Invictus. Centuries later, post-Enlightenment scholars of comparative religions began popularizing the idea that the early Christians retrofitted winter solstice festivals for their own purposes. For the first millennium of the church’s history, no one made that connection.

Why do we celebrate Christmas on December 25?

The first answer to the question is that some Christians don’t. In the Eastern branch of the church, Christmas is celebrated on January 6, probably for the same reasons—according to a different calculation—that Christmas came to be celebrated on December 25 in the West. Although we can’t be positive, there is good reason to think that December 25 became the date for Christmas because of its connection to the (presumed) date of Jesus’s death and to the date of Jesus’s conception.

There are three dates at play in this calculation. Let’s start with the date of Jesus’s death.

Around AD 200, Tertullian of Carthage noted that Jesus died on the 14th day of Nisan, which was equivalent to March 25 in the Roman solar calendar. In the East, they made their calculation using the 14th day of the first spring month in their local Greek calendar. In the Roman calendar, this was April 6. So depending on who you asked, Jesus died on either March 25 or April 6.

In both the West and the East, there developed the same tradition that Jesus died on the same date he was conceived. An anonymous Christian treatise from fourth-century North Africa stated that March 25 was “the day of the passion of the Lord and of his conception. For on that day he was conceived on the same he suffered.” Augustine in On the Trinity mentioned that same calculation. Similarly, in the East, the fourth-century bishop Epiphanius of Salamis maintained that on April 6 Christ took away the sins of the world and on the same date was “shut up in the spotless womb of the holy virgin.” The fact that this curious tradition existed in two different parts of the world suggests it may have been rooted in more than mere speculation. If nothing else, as McGowan observes, these early Christians were borrowing from an ancient Jewish tradition that said that the most important events of creation and redemption occurred at the same time of the year.

From the date of Christ’s death, to the (same) date of his conception, we can easily see where the date of Christmas could have come from. If Jesus was conceived on March 25, then the best date to celebrate his birth must be nine months later on December 25 (or, in the East, January 6). While we can’t know for certain that this is where December 25 came from—and we certainly can’t be dogmatic about the historicity of the date—there is much better ancient evidence to suggest that our date for Christmas is tied to Christ’s death and conception than tied to the pagan celebrations of Saturnalia and Sol Invictus.

This list is not meant to assess the thousands of good books published in 2020. There are plenty of worthy titles that I am not able to read (and lots I never hear of). This is simply a list of the books (Christian and non-Christian, but all non-fiction) that I thought were the best in the past year. “Best” doesn’t mean I agreed with everything in them; it means I found these books—all published in 2020 (or the very end of 2019)—a strong combination of thoughtful, useful, interesting, helpful, insightful, and challenging. For more discussion on some of these books, check out my podcast Life and Books and Everything with Collin Hansen and Justin Taylor.

Instead of trying to rank the books 1-10 (always a somewhat arbitrary task), I’ll simply list them in alphabetical order by the author’s last name.

Andrew J. Bacevich, ed., American Conservatism: Reclaiming an Intellectual Tradition (Library of America)

For many people “conservative” is whatever Fox News says or the Republican Party does. For others “conservative” is the easy reason another person’s views can be quickly dismissed. Across the spectrum—whether you are for it or against it—Americans would do well (and American Christians in particular) to understand that conservatism is its own political tradition. As is always the case in a book like this, some chapters are better than others (the first chapter from Russell Kirk is very good), some chapters don’t agree with each other (e.g., the hawkish and the non-interventionists strands of conservative thought), and some probably don’t belong in this volume (like the one from Teddy Roosevelt, who was not a conservative). But taken as a whole, this collection of essays, drawn from the past hundred years, is a good place to start in understanding the conservative intellectual tradition.

Ronald Bailey and Marian L. Tupy, Ten Global Trends Every Smart Person Should Know: And Many Others You Will Find Interesting (Cato Institute)

A fascinating look at the state of the world and why things are much, much better than you think. Want to know about trends in work, in population, in violence, in farming, in technology, in health, and in natural resources? This book has the graphs you need. The big knock on the book, however, is that it is not nearly big enough. The trim size and font should have been twice as big to make a proper coffee table read.

James Eglinton, Bavinck: A Critical Biography (Baker Academic)

A lecturer in Reformed theology at the University of Edinburgh, Eglinton proves with this book that he is an excellent historian as well as a superb systematician. Eglinton demonstrates a mastery of Dutch sources and Bavinck’s Dutch context. The result is an astute and readable biography of a man who not only excelled as a theologian but also made his name as an ethicist, an educational reformer, a politician, a journalist, a Bible translator, a campaigner for women’s education, and the progenitor of heroes and martyrs in the anti-Nazi resistance movement.

Zena Hitz, Lost in Thought: The Hidden Pleasures of an Intellectual Life (Princeton University Press)

With admirable self-awareness and an obvious love for literature and learning, Hitz has written a book that celebrates the intellectual life without coming across as snobbish or elitist. Quite the opposite, Hitz argues that the joy of being “lost in thought” is a pleasure available not for the few but for the many.

Philip Jenkins, Fertility and Faith: The Demographic Revolution and the Transformation of World Religions (Baylor University Press)

The most important things happening in the world are not always the things that make for breaking news. Case in point: the falling fertility rates across the globe. “For the foreseeable future—for several decades at least—most of the non-African world does face the prospect of a contracting and steeply aging population” (185). Surely, this is big news, and Jenkins writes about the phenomenon with scholarly precision and clarity.

Helen Pluckrose and James Lindsay, Cynical Theories: How Activist Scholarship Made Everything about Race, Gender, and Identity—and Why This Harms Everybody (Pitchstone Publishing)

This is not a Christian book, which means there are elements of the analysis that cannot be accepted (e.g., the approval of homosexuality). On the other hand, it also means that the critique of postmodernism and its many attendant theories comes from insiders (academics, classic liberals) rather than from outsiders. If you want to know where Queer Theory, Gender Studies, Critical Race Theory, and intersectionality come from—and why they are massively problematic—this a book to answer many of your questions.

Mark Regnerus, The Future of Christian Marriage (Oxford University Press)

“This is a book about how modern Christians around the world look for a mate within a religious faith that esteems marriage but a world that increasingly yawns at it” (2). Regnerus argues that marriage is a public matter affecting all of society and that for Christianity the importance of faith and family usually rise and fall together. His suggestions for revitalizing Christian marriage provide good advice for parents, pastors, and Christian leaders.

Amity Schlaes, Great Society: A New History (Harper)

Part politics, part economics, and part cultural history—Shlaes covers the key ideas and personalities behind the programs meant to alleviate poverty in America. The book ends in 1976 with the destruction of the Pruitt-Igoe housing project in St. Louis, a metaphor for Shlaes’s largely negative assessment of what the Great Society accomplished.

Scott Swain, The Trinity: An Introduction (Crossway)

There may be doctrines as important as the doctrine of Trinity for the existence and wellbeing of the Christian faith, but surely there are none more important. In less than 140 pages, Swain introduces (or reminds) us of the grammar of Trinitarian theology: relations of origin, personal properties, divine simplicity, person, essence, paternity, filiation, and spiration. This book is a great read for the Christian who knows that God is three-in-one and is eager to learn how systematic theology defends and explains this precious truth.

Carl R. Trueman, The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self: Cultural Amnesia, Expressive Individualism, and the Road to Sexual Revolution (Crossway)

First, the self was psychologized, then psychology was sexualized, and finally, sex was politicized. This is the history Trueman tells with great verve and sophistication. Tracing the rise of the modern self from Rousseau to the romantic poets, to Marx and Darwin, to Freud and Nietzsche, to the triumph of the erotic and the therapeutic in our own day, Trueman has produced a dense (400 pages), but well-written and remarkably insightful, book that helps us understand why “I am a woman trapped in a man’s body” came to be seen as coherent and meaningful.

Honorable Mentions:

Conrad Mbewe, God’s Design for the Church: A Guide for African Pastors and Ministry Leaders (Crossway).

Matthew Thiessen, Jesus and the Forces of Death: The Gospels’ Portrayal of Biblical Impurity within First Century Judaism (Baker Academic).

Paul Tripp, Lead: 12 Gospel Principles for Leadership in the Church (Crossway).

Paul W. Wood, 1620: A Critical Response to the 1619 Project (Encounter Books).

It is a recurring theme from the lips of Jesus that the Father dwells in the Son, that “I am in the Father and the Father is in me” (John 14:10-11). All that Jesus asks in the high priestly prayer is rooted in the reality that the Son is in the Father, and the Father is in the Son. The apostle Paul, likewise, testifies that in the incarnate Son “all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” (Col. 1:19).

We usually understand these verses to be about Christ’s deity. And rightly so. But they also speak to the mutual indwelling of the persons of the Trinity. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are distinct persons—distinguished, respectively, by paternity, filiation, and spiration. And yet, we must not think of the three persons as three faces in a yearbook. The Father indwells the Son; the Son indwells the Spirit; the Spirit indwells the Father (and you could reverse the order in each pair).

The Greek term used to describe the eternal mutual indwelling of the persons of the Trinity is perichoresis (in Latin, circumincession). The word circulatio is also sometimes used as a way of metaphorically describing the unceasing circulation of the divine essence, such that each person is in the other two, while the others are in each one. At the risk of putting things in physical terms, perichoresis means that “all three persons occupy the same divine ‘space.'”[1] In other words, we cannot see God without seeing all three persons at the same time.

The mutual indwelling of perichoresis means two things. First, the three persons of the Trinity are all fully in one another. And second, each person of the Trinity is in full possession of the divine essence. To be sure, the Father is not the Son, the Son is not the Spirit, and the Spirit is not the Father. Perichoresis does not deny any of this. What perichoresis maintains is that you cannot have one person of the Trinity without having the other two, and you cannot have any person of the Trinity without having the fullness of God. The inter-communion of the persons is reciprocal, and their operations are inseparable. As Augustine put it: “Each are in each, and all in each, and each in all, and all are one.”[2]

Like many aspects of Trinitarian theology, this one can be hard to grasp; we have to rely on careful verbal definitions rather than concrete analogies. We must not think of perichoresis—as some have suggested from the etymology of the word—as a kind of Trinitarian dance. Such an analogy, and its social Trinitarian implications, undermines the truth that perichoresis means to protect. Here’s the problem: How can three persons simultaneously share the same undivided essence? The answer is not that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit waltz in step with each other, but that they coinhere in such a way that the persons are always and forever with and in one another, yet without merging, blending, or confusion. Only by affirming the mutual indwelling of each in each other, can we worship our triune God as truly three and truly one.

[1] Gerald Bray, Doctrine of God, 158.

[2] Augustine, On the Trinity, 6.10.

Before I go any further, it bears repeating: politics matters. As a pastor, I am eager for Christians to be informed and engaged in politics. In fact, after theology and church history, I probably read more on politics, political history, and political philosophy than anything else. I am not against reading, writing, thinking, and speaking on politics.

And yet, I can’t help but question the wisdom of so many Christians—in particular, Christian leaders whose ministries are ostensibly not about politics—voicing specific opinions, sometimes passionately and sometimes frequently, about every political person, place, and thing. I understand that some Christians do punditry, advocacy, and opinion journalism for a living. I’m not surprised when they comment on political matters or weigh in on the events of the day. That’s what they do, and some of them do it really well, helping Christians think Christianly about what they are hearing and reading in the news.

So, again, I’m not against Christians offering cultural and political analysis. I’m not against discipling Christians to see all of life through the lens of Scripture.

What I am against is the instinct shared by too many Christians, including pastors and leaders, that assumes, “If everyone is talking about it, I should probably say something too.”

I worry that people will not first think of gospel convictions or theological commitments when they hear of our churches and ministries, but they will first think of whether we were for or against a certain candidate.

I am nervous that our lines of Christian fellowship will be drawn not according to Reformational principles of ecclesiology, worship, and theology, but according to current expressions of cultural antipathy and identity politics.

I am concerned that weighing in with strong public comments—from both the left and the right—about everything from voter fraud to judicial philosophy to energy policy to why we should all celebrate (when my candidate wins!) and come together in unity (when your candidate loses!)—does nothing to persuade our foes, but much to alienate our friends.

More than anything else, I fear we are letting the world’s priorities dictate what the church is most passionate about.

This isn’t a blanket denunciation of ever saying anything about political issues or political candidates. I have before and probably will again. But perhaps there are questions we should ask next time before joining the online cacophony.

Am I making it harder for all sorts of people to hear what I have to say about more important matters? Think about it: most of us are annoyed when athletes and movie stars feel the need to enlighten us with their political opinions. At best, we roll our eyes and still watch their movies or their games anyway. At worst, we turn them off for good. People will do the same to us. It’s good to think twice before we cash in our goodwill chips, doubling down for or against a particular candidate.

Is my online persona making it harder for my in-person friends to want to be around me? You may feel like, “I only post a few things each day on social media. There is so much more to my life.” True, but what you post on social media is the only part of your life that most of the world knows and sees. People don’t see your fully formed, full-orbed personality and personal life. They see the fifteen things you posted last week, ten of which had to do with politics, seven of which drove half of your friends absolutely bonkers. At the very least, we should consider if adding this stress to family and friends is really worth it.

Am I speaking on matters upon which I do not have special knowledge and for which no one needs my opinion? If my knowledge about something is limited to the three minutes I’ve been angry, or even the 30 minutes I’ve been surfing online, I probably don’t need to download those thoughts to the world.

Am I animated more by what I am reading in Scripture or by what I am seeing on the news and in social media? I’m convinced one of the biggest ways the world is currently shaping the church is by simply setting the agenda for the church’s concerns. We may think we are transforming the world by offering around-the-clock political commentary, but if all we talk about is what media outlets are already talking about, who is influencing whom?

You may argue in reply, I hear you, but the issues are too important. Christians can’t sit on the sidelines as the world argues about the important issues of our day. Fair enough. But consider: is posting your quick thoughts on the daily news cycle really the best way to make a long-term difference? Why not slow down and read some books and comment on those? Or write something online that goes back to first principles? Or write a book if you have opportunity? Or invest in liberal arts education that draws from the best of our Western tradition? Or simply and gloriously disciple young believers to know their Bibles, bear the fruit of the Spirit, and be committed to their local church?

American culture is incredibly diverse. We don’t all watch the same movies or television shows. We don’t all go to church. We don’t all read the same thing or listen to the same music. The one thing that we can all get into is politics, and that’s not healthy. Politics has become the national pastime that brings us all together, only so it can drive us all apart. The task of the church, in this polarized environment, is to slow down, set our minds on things above, and stick to our own script. To be sure, we should not always be silent. But neither should we be the noisiest people in the room, especially when the room tries to tell us what we should be talking about.

Brothers and sisters, it’s OK to have an unarticulated thought. It’s OK to go about our lives in quiet worship and obedience. It’s OK to do your homework, read your Bible, raise your kids, and make your private thoughts prayers instead of posts. Alison Krauss was right: sometimes you say it best when you say nothing at all.

God will still be on the throne, and he will be working all things according to the counsel of his will (Eph. 1:11). God will be our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble (Ps. 46:1). God’s dominion will be an everlasting dominion, and his kingdom will endure from generation to generation (Dan. 4:34).

Our God is not small, and his providential care cannot be stymied. The king’s heart will be a stream of water in the hand of the Lord, and he will turn it wherever he chooses (Prov. 21:1). Not a bird will fall to the ground, or a hair from your head, apart your Father in heaven (Matt. 10:29-30). Our God does whatever he pleases (Ps. 115:1).

There is no guarantee, for good or ill, regarding the future of the United States of America, but there is an unbreakable promise that Christ will build the church, and the gates of hell will not prevail against it (Matt. 16:18).

Come tomorrow, all of the promises of God will still be Yes and Amen in Christ (2 Cor. 1:20). Nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Rom. 8:39). The Lord will still know those who are his (2 Tim. 2:19), and if you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ you will be saved (Acts 16:31).

We do not have to wonder about God’s priorities. Each new day, he will exalt about all things his name and his word (Ps. 138:2). God promises to oppose the proud and give grace to the humble (James 4:6). The poor in spirit, the mournful, the meek, the hungry, the merciful, the pure, the peacemakers, the persecuted—they will be blessed (Matt. 5:3-10). And the wicked will reap what they sow; God cannot be mocked (Gal. 6:7).

No matter who controls the Senate or the presidency, the Great Commission will still be accomplished through the ordinary means of word and sacrament (Matt. 28:19-20; Luke 24:48; Acts 1:8). As for man, his days will be like grass (Ps. 103:15). The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will remain forever (Isa. 40:8). Whichever party occupies the White House or the governor’s mansion, the most solemn charge laid upon every pastor will be the same: to preach the word in season and out of season (2 Tim. 4:1-2).

Republicans and Democrats will come and go, but Christ’s reign is secure. On his robe and on his thigh he has a name written, King of kings and Lord of lords (Rev. 19:16). There is only one name given among men whereby we must be saved (Acts 4:12). And one day—maybe soon—the kingdom of this world will become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ, and he shall reign for ever and ever (Rev. 11:15).

Politics matters. Policies matter. Presidents matter. They really do. But let us never forget that some things matter much, much, eternally much more.

Here again is Paul’s famous teaching on God and government:

What do we see in this passage about the nature and purpose of government? Let me make four observations.

1. The government’s authority is a derived authority. We see this right from the beginning: “there is no authority except from God” (v. 1). Any lawful governing authority has that authority on account of God—the only absolute, supreme authority.

There are three great societies on the earth—the home, the church, and the state—each of which have its authority from God. Within the home, children obey their parents, and the husband is the head of his wife. Within the church, the elders exercise loving authority over the sheep. Within the state, there are civil magistrates to exercise governing authority over people. These magistrates may be called kings or queens or governors or presidents or the police, but regardless of the political arrangement the idea is the same. Government’s authority comes from God.

2. The government’s authority is a divine authority. This point not only follows from the first; it is made explicit in the text. The authorities that exist “have been instituted by God” (v. 1). Further, “whoever resists the authorities, resists what God has appointed” (v. 2). The language is even more striking in verse 4 where Paul calls the magistrate “God’s servant.” The Greek word is diákonos, from which we get our word deacon. Likewise, verse 6 calls these same authorities “ministers of God.” The Greek word is leitourgos, from which we get our word liturgist. The civil magistrate is not an officer in the church (not de facto anyway), but his office in the world is a type of ministry. As John Stott puts is, quite provocatively, “Those who serve the state as legislators, civil servants, magistrates, police officers, social workers, even tax collectors, are just as much ministers of God as those who serve the church as pastors, teachers, evangelists, or administrators.” Of course, we don’t want to confuse “ministers of God” with pastors in the church, but strictly speaking Stott’s statement is manifestly biblical. The governing authorities serve society by ministering on God’s behalf.

Before leaving this second point, let me make two related points.

One, it’s always good to hold Romans 13 in tension with Revelation 13. If Romans 13 describes the ways things are supposed to be, then Revelation 13 describes the sad reality of the ways things often are. In Revelation 13 we are introduced to the beast—the idolatrous, blaspheming, persecuting corruption of governmental power. The authorities meant to do the work of God sometimes do the work of the Devil.

Two, I think it is fair to assume that Romans 13 is talking about lawful authority. By “lawful” I don’t mean “authority we always appreciate” or “authority that is always exercised with absolute integrity.” Surely we must obey the governing authorities even when we struggle to respect those in positions over us. And yet, Paul is not suggesting that any old person can call himself king and demand your obedience, or that any 10 people can form a militia and exercise their own vigilante justice under the claim of God-given authority. Some authority is appropriate, and some is not. Paul was willing to submit to the high priest in a way he would not submit to the false apostles in the church.

This is an important point if we are to make sense of the American experiment. The Declaration of Independence says this: “Governments are instituted among men deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.” If you were raised in America, you probably love that sentence. But have you ever stopped to think if it is true? After all, Romans 13 tells us that the government’s authority comes from God, not from the people. Is the Declaration of Independence unbiblical?

That depends on how you read it. If you put the emphasis on powers, then Jefferson’s sentence is at odds with Romans 13. Government derives its power from God, not from the consent of the governed. But you could also put the emphasis on just powers. On this reading, the Declaration is not denying that government may derive its authority from God; it is arguing that what establishes government as a lawful authority is the consent of the governed. This reading echoes the position of John Locke, who argued in his notes on Romans 13 that the supreme civil power “is in every commonwealth derived from God,” but “how men come to a rightful title to this power or who has that title, Paul is wholly silent and says nothing of it.” In other words, government’s authority is a divine authority, but determining who or what has a right to that divine authority in a given context is a matter that must draw from prudential wisdom and other philosophical considerations. Locke would say the government’s power comes from God, but the lawfulness of government comes from the consent of the people. I don’t think the Bible requires Locke’s understanding of social contract theory, but I think his interpretation of Romans 13 rightly separates the question of derived authority from the question of lawful power.

3. The primary responsibility of government is to restrain and punish evil. Look at the language in Romans 13. Verse two speaks of incurring judgment. Verse three asserts that the governing authorities are a terror to bad conduct. Later, we are told that evildoers should fear the one who is in authority (v. 3) and fear the one who bears the sword (v. 4). Those who exercise judgment on behalf of the governing authorities are the original avengers (v. 4). They are God’s servants, carrying out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer (v. 4).

Remember, the argument of Romans 13 is, in part, an answer to the exhortation of Romans 12. In Romans 12:19 we are told “never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God.” Even if we are persecuted, even if we are wronged, even if we are oppressed, we must not take vengeance into our own hands. We look to God to execute justice through the ministers and servants to whom he has given the power of the sword. We do not put to death the murderer, but the government can (Gen. 9:6).

In short, the first and most primary responsibility of government is to uphold the law and to punish the lawbreaker. To put it positively, government’s God-given task is to protect the life and the possessions of its citizens.

4. The secondary responsibility of government is to approve what is good. We see this in verse 3: “Rulers are not a terror to good conduct but to bad. Would you have no fear of the one who is in authority? Then do what is good and you will receive his approval.” This means that government ought to enact policies that encourage and normalize good behavior. The wise magistrate, with good laws and the fair execution of justice, will nurture the cultivation of personal responsibility, the pursuit of healthy family life, and the establishment of economic conditions that reward hard work and productivity.

Put these two responsibilities together (points 3 and 4), and you could say government is at its best when the people can be confident of two things:

(1) No matter who I am, what I look like, where I am from, how much I possess, or how many connections I have, if I am violent toward my neighbor or toward his property, I will be punished.

And (2) no matter who I am, what I look like, where I am from, how much I possess, or how many connections I have, if I follow the rules and do what is good, the government will stay out of my business and provide the conditions for me to get ahead in life.

That’s what government should be about: protecting life and promoting good behavior. As Paul says elsewhere, let us pray “for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way” (1 Tim. 2:2).

Immediately, I thought of several replies. (1) She was answering questions, not giving a lecture. (2) She probably didn’t want to be bogged down rifling through material when she needed to maintain eye contact and pay attention to the speaker. (3) She was being asked about material she had already taught, studied, or written about. (4) She’s super-duper smart.

But let’s set aside the unique spectacle that is a Senate confirmation hearing and think more directly about preaching.

There are three typical ways a preacher might preach: with a manuscript, with no notes, with some notes. Each approach has advantages and disadvantages.

Manuscript

Most of the well-known pastors I know preach from a full manuscript. I’ve often had the experience of speaking at a conference, and the organizer will say, “By the way, we are going to turn these messages into a book, so after you speak send me your manuscript.” More than once, I’ve been the only one who says, “Uh, I don’t use a manuscript, and it’s going to take a lot of work for me to turn my personal notes into something that can be published.”

The advantages to preaching from a full manuscript are many. You are able to plan for the well-placed rhetorical punch. You can enter the pulpit feeling more confident and less stressed about losing your way. After the message is spoken, you can share the sermon more easily in print—whether in a book, on your blog, on your church’s website. Most importantly, writing out a manuscript promotes greater clarity, concision, and theological fidelity. I always have our pastoral interns preach from a full manuscript. Even if they lose something in delivery, I want to make sure the content is as strong as possible.

Of course, there are dangers to manuscript preaching as well. The biggest drawback is the potential lack of energy and eye contact. There is a skill (and art) to writing your sermon for the ear and then reading from a manuscript in a way that doesn’t feel stilted. David Platt and John Piper stick closely to their full manuscript, but no one would accuse either of lacking passion or authenticity.

For my part, I wrote out sermon manuscripts for a couple of years early in my ministry. I love having those sermons written out now because it’s much more useful to return to a manuscript than to an outline or scattered bullet points. But I’ve never felt as comfortable preaching from a full manuscript. I feel less engaged with the congregation and less dynamic. Maybe it doesn’t seem any different to the audience, but I don’t enjoy preaching as much when I’m reading from a page. I’m just not sure I have a knack for it.

Thankfully, manuscript preaching is not the only way to preach.

No Notes

I was taught by Haddon Robinson at Gordon-Conwell to preach without notes, and for the first few years in ministry I stuck mainly to this approach. If you’ve never preached without notes, it’s worth trying out for a few months. It may be scary at first, but give it 10 sermons and see what you think (and see what others think). Haddon was a master at preaching without notes. He had a prodigious memory and was a gifted storyteller. He was also incredibly disciplined at gathering memorable illustrations, something I’ve never been good at.

I should clarify that preaching without notes is not the same as impromptu preaching. We are not talking about preaching on the fly. We are talking about diligent study throughout the week, maybe even writing out your sermon in full, and then going into the pulpit with just your Bible and your brain. Maybe you memorized the sermon word for word (as many preachers used to), or, more likely, you have the main points tucked away and the rest is ready to come out from a week’s worth of thinking and praying. In any event, we are talking about working hard through the week so that you can walk the high wire without a net on Sunday.

The advantages and disadvantages of preaching without notes are what you might think. On the plus side, it keeps you relentlessly engaged with the congregation. Unless you and the audience are looking at your Bibles, you are looking at each other. There is freedom in preaching with nothing but a Bible in your hand.

Preaching without notes also forces you to simplify your message. It’s no coincidence that the proponent of Big Idea preaching was a big proponent of preaching without notes. Complicated sermons with quotations and footnotes and the intricacies of Hebrew grammar don’t lend themselves to preaching without notes. But if you have one big idea, with three supporting ideas, plus five illustrations along the way, you can pull it off, and often with good effect.

On the other hand, preaching without notes can lead to some bad habits. If you aren’t writing out a manuscript ahead of time, it can leave you pulling things together on the fly as you preach. I remember one well-known preacher telling me, a few years ago, that he was tired of hearing these pastors who seemed to be finishing their sermon prep in the pulpit. “Don’t test out your sermon on me,” he said. “Work out your transitions and know how you are going to land the plane before you get into the pulpit.” Cutting corners in preparation is a danger.

Making your sermon too basic and too general is another pitfall, as is homiletical meandering. No one wants to listen to 15 minutes of content stretched into a 40-minute message. Haddon Robinson made it look easy. He delivered all his class lectures without notes, and I never remember a wasted word. But most of us will end up wasting a LOT of words unless we really labor to preach effectively without notes.

For me, the time spent in memorization was the biggest drawback to preaching without notes. I’m pretty good at memorizing things, but after a couple of years of preaching without notes, I couldn’t justify the time spent on stuffing outlines into my short-term memory. Maybe I needed to stick with it longer, but once I started preaching every week, and then twice on Sunday, I couldn’t make the time to cram all the information in my head. I was spending hours on Saturday evening and Sunday morning just trying to make sure I remembered my three points and didn’t forget the important stuff I needed to say. After a while I thought, “Why not just bring a few notes into the pulpit and stop all this cramming?”

Some Notes

So I started out preaching without notes. Then I tried preaching from a manuscript. And now, for most of my ministry, I’ve preached from an outline. At first, it was quite a full outline—six pages or more. Then I went down to five pages. Now I try to make sure I don’t go past four. Sometimes it’s a little more than three pages. I usually write out my opening prayer, write out particularly important sentences or paragraphs, write out quotations, and write out my major points. The rest of the outline may consist of sentences, phrases, Scripture passages I want to turn to, or simple prompts reminding me to tell “the Krispy Kreme doughnut story.”

Preaching from an outline works for me. I don’t have to memorize everything, but I don’t have to be tied to a manuscript either. I can plan for a few rhetorical flourishes, while still maintaining eye contact. I have the road map in front of me without sacrificing the freedom to speak more or less extemporaneously. I think I sound more conversational and more passionate when I’m not reading a manuscript. At the very least, I feel more comfortable.

Don’t get me wrong, there are still downsides to my approach. I often fear that I go too long, that my transitions were wobbly, and that my content was not as crisp as it should have been. Sometimes I get into the pulpit and realize the points that seemed clear in my mind, and looked good on paper, sound awfully muddy coming out of my mouth. I also find that it’s harder to preach from an outlined sermon months or years later.

If I could find the time, I think my ideal would be to write out a full manuscript (for clarity and for posterity) and then whittle that down to a half-page of notes that I could tuck in my Bible. In general, I know that my preaching errs on the side of too much information, so simplifying almost always helps my messages.

Honest Limitations

Here’s the bottom line: Be honest about your own limitations, but don’t give up on an approach until you’ve tried it. See what works best for you and your context. Don’t let someone else’s style or method determine how you can best communicate God’s Word.

And if you are in a rut, why not try one of the other approaches for a month or two and see how it feels? There are certain “rules” to preaching. It’s not anything goes. But there is flexibility too. In whatever approach they use, preachers should work hard to grow in the skill of preaching. Ultimately, we need the Spirit to blow, but the gifts and labors of the preacher are usually the kindling he uses to light a spark.

This is the third confrontation Jesus has with the Sanhedrin in and around the temple. And this is the second time they’ve laid the bait for Jesus. At the end of chapter 11, the chief priests and scribes and elders confront Jesus about his authority. After avoiding that ruse, Jesus tells a parable against them, which makes them hate Jesus all the more. So here they come, yet again, with another plan to get Jesus in trouble. When in doubt, ask him about politics.

“Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar?”

The question they is not sincere. Rather, like Admiral Ackbar says in Return of the Jedi, “It’s a trap!” If Jesus says, “Pay your taxes,” then he’ll be unpopular with the people. They resented the once-a-year poll tax. They hated the Romans. They thought it was idolatry to pay the tax and submit themselves to Rome and do anything that would help further the Roman cause. The tax was despised by the people. But on the other hand, if he says, “Don’t pay your taxes,” he’ll be in trouble with Rome. They’ll squash him as a revolutionary. It’s a “heads I win, tales you lose” kind of question. Answer one way, and the Pharisees are there to get the crowds fired up and turn against you. And the support of the crowd is the only thing preventing the Sanhedrin from arresting Jesus. But answer the other way, and the Herodians are there to go tell the Roman officials, who will seek your arrest.

But Jesus is the master at springing traps. He’s the Messianic mouse that manages to swipe the cheese and live to see another day. So he asks to see the denarius.

A denarius was equivalent to a day’s wage for a working man in Judea. It’s like a hundred dollar bill. He asks to see the coin. We know what this coin looked like. People have found them. The denarius was a silver coin with the head of Tiberius Caesar on it. He was the Roman Emperor from AD 14–37, which fits with the chronology of the Gospels. The coin had a picture of the emperor on one side with these words (in abbreviated form): Tiberius Caesar Divi Augusti Filius Augustus (Tiberius Caesar Augustus, Son of Divine Augustus). The flip side had the inscription Pontifex Maximus (High Priest). You can understand why the Jews hated this tax. Not only did it go to Rome, but the coin itself contained blasphemy. It hailed Caesar as divine.

Look at what Jesus does. He asks to see the coin and then asks whose likeness, whose image, is on it. Obviously, everyone can see whose face is on the thing, so they answer, “Caesar’s.” Which prompts Jesus to utter one of his most famous sentences: “Render [or give] to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

This pithy response says a lot more than you might think. This one sentence gives the beginning of a Christian view of politics and religion. It’s a foundational statement for the Christian way of looking at issues of church and state, issues of God and government. There are at least six implications for our view of church and state in this one sentence—six statements about God and government that flow from this response.

1. Be good citizens, even if you think the government is bad.

In a few days, after this incident, Romans will kill Jesus. In AD 70, they will wipe out the temple. In the years ahead, they will kill the apostles and thousands of other Christians. Before Jesus, Rome had squashed a number of Jewish rebellions. Rome was the ruler, and Judea was a vassal state. The Romans weren’t Nazis. They did a lot of good things and made tremendous accomplishments. They didn’t persecute the Jews nonstop, but they did when they had to. They swindled when they could. It’s safe to say, no matter how much you may dislike American politics (or politicians!) or how much you may think the government is stupid or unjust, Rome was worse. And yet Jesus said to pay your taxes. Caesar’s face is on the coin. He had a right to levy tribute. So pay up the denarius.

2. Allegiance to God and allegiance to your country are not inherently incompatible.

Sometimes Christians talk like you should have no loyalty for your country, as if love for your country is always a bad thing. But Jesus shows it’s possible to honor God and honor Caesar.

This is especially clear if you know some Jewish history. The tax in question in Mark 12 is the poll tax or census tax. It was first instituted in AD 6, not too long before Jesus’s ministry. When it was established, a man by the name of Judas of Galilee led a revolt. What was his motivation? Later, Josephus wrote about Judas of Galilee, “He called his fellow countrymen cowards for being willing to pay tribute to the Romans and for putting up with mortal masters in place of God.” See, Judas and the Zealots believed allegiance to God and allegiance to any earthly government were fundamentally incompatible. As far as they were concerned, if God was your king, you couldn’t have any earthly king. Theocracy was the only way to go.

But Jesus disagreed. By telling the people, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” he was saying there are duties to government that do not infringe on your ultimate duty to God. It’s possible to honor lesser authorities in good conscience because they have been instituted by a greater authority.

If you read all that the New Testament says about governing authorities in places like Romans 13 and 1 Peter 2, you see that the normal situation is one of compatible loyalties. The church is not the state and the state is not God, but this does not mean the church must always be against the state. Calvin said about this passage, “It lays down a clear distinction between spiritual and civil government, in order to inform us that outward subjection does not prevent us from having within us a conscience free in the sight of God. . . . In short, Christ declares that it is no violation of the authority of God, or any injury done to his service, if, in respect of outward government, the Jews obey the Romans.” In general, then, it’s possible to be a good Christian and a good American (or good Canadian or good Kenyan or whatever). Patriotism is not bad. Singing your national anthem and getting choked up is not bad. Allegiance to God and allegiance to your country are not inherently incompatible.

3. It is acceptable that there be some measure of separation between church and state.

Church and state occupy overlapping spheres, and government is always ultimately accountable to God. But if we can render some things to Caesar and render other things to God, it must be the case that they are not one and the same, that it is possible to have some separation between the realm of organized religion and the realm of government (see, for example, Andrew Melville’s “two kings and two kingdoms”).

I keep saying “some” because there are all sorts of difficult issues that aren’t going to be solved by Mark 12:17. On the one hand, we shouldn’t pretend that civil legislation is somehow divorced from all moral or religious categories. It can’t be done. If you forbid murder, you are legislating morality. So I’m not saying Christians shouldn’t bring many of their convictions to bear on public policy. But on the other hand, it seems that from this passage, Jesus did not have a vision for the state that meant it had to be ruled by all the laws of God. Jesus was not a theonomist.

In his book Christ and Culture Revisited, D. A. Carson argues that the state and religion (as an organized institution) occupy “distinct, even if overlapping spheres.” This does not mean Christ is not Lord of all, but it means he rules over the different spheres in different ways. After all, Jesus says in John 18:36, “My kingdom is not of this world.” It won’t be until the end of the age that we will be able to say, “The kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of our Christ” (Rev. 11:15). We are more like Israelites in exile in Babylon, maintaining a kingdom within a kingdom, than we are like the Israelites in the promised land where God’s rule and the nation’s rules were identical. That’s the foundational reason theonomy is wrong. We are not Israel in the promised land; we are Israelites as strangers and aliens in the world.

This is one of the big differences between Islam and Christianity, and why it remains to be seen if pure Islam can work in Western nations. I recall an anecdote from D. A. Carson about a Muslim man who said, “I find nothing in the Qur’an that tells us how to live as the minority, and I find nothing in the Bible that tells you how to rule as the majority.” Now that may be a bit of an overstatement, but it’s getting at something profound. Islam developed with the state and religion intertwined, while Christianity was, at the beginning, a persecuted minority religion that accepted the distinction between a spiritual kingdom and a civil kingdom. The rights protected in the First Amendment are not just a nod to tolerance; they are consistent with Christian convictions.

4. God’s people are not tied to any one nation.

When Jesus says, “Go ahead and give to Caesar what belongs to him,” he is effectively saying, “You can support nations that do not formally worship the one true God.” Or to put it a different way: true religion is not bound with only one country. This means the church will be transcultural and transnational.

I like how Mark Dever puts it in his sermon-turned-book on the same text: “Jesus’ approval of paying taxes to Rome was revolutionary. By this, Jesus shows us that the legitimacy of a government is not determined by whether it supports the worship of the one true God, or even allows for it. By Jesus not requiring those who follow Him only to support states which are formally allied to the true God as Old Testament Israel had done, Jesus unhitches His followers from any particular nation” (God and Politics, 27).

Some of you are from a different country. And some of you may have heard or may think that Christianity is just a Western religion or maybe an American religion. But it’s not. It never has been. It started in the Middle East and was always meant to be international. Today there are more Anglicans in church in Nigeria than in England, more Presbyterians in South Korea than in the United States. The promise to Abraham way back in Genesis is that, through his family, God would bless the whole world. The scene around the throne in Revelation is of people from every tribe and language and culture. Christianity is not tied to just one certain nation. Following Christ is not an ethnic thing. You can be from any country and worship Jesus.

5. The state is not God.

So far we’ve been looking at the first half of Jesus statement: “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” but now we need to look at the second statement: “Render to God the things that are God’s”. You may think, Well, Jesus certainly is pro-government. He may have given a cute answer by looking at the coin, but all he’s done is side with the Romans. But look more carefully.

By saying, “Give to Caesar what belongs to him, and give to God what belongs to him,” Jesus is making clear that he believes the two are not identical. Remember the inscription on the denarius, “Tiberius Caesar Augustus, Son of Divine Augustus?” Jesus doesn’t buy that at all. If people were listening carefully to his answer, they would have heard him say, “Look, give Caesar his taxes. But Caesar is not God, and God is not Caesar. Tiberius is not divine. Augustus was not divine. They are not what they want you to believe.”

Human government is always run by humans. And as such, there will always be a gravitational pull toward idolatry. Governments, unless there are checks and balances, tend to accrue more and more power. And, if we are not careful, we start to believe that Caesar really may be God, the state really may have all the answers, government may be able to give us everything we need. But Jesus not only tells us to respect the government, he also tells us quite clearly that the state is not ultimate. The government has authority but not comprehensive authority. It doesn’t matter what country you are from, America, China, or Guatemala, your government is not God.

6. We owe our ultimate allegiance to God.

The state’s power is limited. Our allegiance to country or government is never absolute. But our allegiance to God is comprehensive. Do you see the word “likeness” in verse 16? It’s the Greek word eikon from which we get icon. The word can mean image or likeness. It’s the same word used in the Greek Old Testament in Genesis 1:26. Let us make man in our eikon—in our image, after our likeness. What are the things that belong to Caesar? Taxes, respect, honor—that’s what belongs to governing authorities. But what belongs to God? You. Your whole self. Your life. Your existence. Your everything.

Imagine standing before God, and he says, “Come up here. Let me take a look. Whose image, whose likeness do I see?” You are made in the image and likeness of God. You are like a coin—you may be dirty, rusted, nasty looking—but a penny is still worth a penny. And you are still worth something to God, because his likeness has been stamped on you. You belong to him. So the only way to render to God the things that are God’s is to give to God your whole life.

Let’s see, you got into ministry because you love people, love the church, and love the Word of God. Your weeks are full—even in a pandemic—with leading meetings, preparing agendas, responding to emails, praying, counseling, reading a book with your staff, meeting a student for coffee, putting out relational and institutional fires, and, oh yeah, trying to find time to write a sermon.

And now, with everything going on in our country, you have to think through COVID protocols, navigate racial tensions, and help steer your congregation through another divisive election.

You’re tired.

Not tired of Jesus or tired of the gospel or tired of being with people in their moments of pain and joy. You are not tired of being a pastor. You are tired of not being a pastor.

You didn’t sign up for the ministry to become an expert in epidemiology or Supreme Court nominations.

You aren’t quite sure if masks are saving lives or the first step of government oppression.

You don’t know how to fix policing in America or if it needs fixing in the first place.

You’re not looking to sign up for Black Lives Matter or for Trump’s re-election campaign.

You don’t have an opinion on everything, or at least not an opinion you think needs to be shared with everyone.

But somehow, you’re wondering if you’re a squish for plodding along with social distancing and masks, or if you are insufficiently attuned to social justice because you aren’t sure the nation is a racist nightmare.

You’d like to think that reading old books, reading commentaries, and reading your Greek and Hebrew are still the most important things you can read each week. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like being up on the news is more important than being up on the mountain with God.

You’d like to think, even in the midst of COVID, that the old paths are still the right paths, that the ordinary means of grace are still the right means of grace. But that’s not what you’re hearing. Experts are saying we can’t go back to the way ministry was before. Once the pandemic passes, we have to start over and rethink everything.

What is a pastor to do?

If a few pastors have the time and the calling to speak into the pressing cultural issues of our day with courageous grace and winsome truth, go for it. We will rise up and call you blessed. But most pastors are not short on things they need to do. Don’t neglect what the Bible says about good shepherds: they feed, they guide, they protect, they preserve.

It’s tempting to think, Nothing prepared me for this. Perhaps. But don’t lose sight of what you were prepared to do. Don’t think that preaching the whole counsel of God is not prophetic. Don’t think that caring for the least of these in your congregation is not doing justice. Don’t think that being faithful in all the mundane messiness of your church and family is not real Christian discipleship. Keep your hand to the plow. Keep praying. Keep preaching. Keep loving people.

Everything is changing, they say. True, it always does. And at the same time, nothing has changed. God is still God. Sin is still the problem. The cross is still the answer. Jesus is still mighty to save.

Head down, chin up, one foot in front of the other. The world is broken, but what’s new about that? The Word still needs to be proclaimed, the darkness still needs the light, and the sheep still need a shepherd.

Don’t give up pastor. You have permission to be the pastor you always wanted to be.

I’m thrilled to be working on a book for Crossway that will include 365 entries like the ones above. At this point, we are calling the book Daily Doctrine, but that may change. It’s going to take me a few years to complete 180,000 words, so don’t look for the book anytime soon. But when it is finished (Lord willing), I’m hoping the book can be used as a daily devotional, a reference work, or read straight through as a mini systematic theology.

My goal is to plug away with one new chapter each week, and then knock out 50 or 60 over the summers. From time to time, I’ll put a fresh entry up on my blog. Today’s topic is “Religion.”

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The etymology of the word “religion” is unclear. Over the years, many have agreed with Cicero (106-43 BC) who derived religio from relegere, a Latin word meaning to gather together or to reread. On this account, religion is the diligent study of the things pertaining to God. Others have preferred the explanation given by the church father Lactantius (c. 250-325), which Augustine (354-430) adopted, that religio comes from religare, meaning to fasten or to bind. With this etymology, religion is the binding or reattachment of man to God.

In contemporary parlance, “religion” is often construed in entirely derogatory terms. Even by Christians, religion is supposed to be the opposite of a relationship with God. Or religion is about trying to earn God’s favor. Or religion is about a stultifying system of rituals, dogmas, and structures. The problem with this disparaging understanding of “religion” is threefold.

(1) This is a relatively new way for Christians to speak. John Calvin wrote the Institutes of the Christian Religion. Jonathan Edwards wrote on Religious Affections. Pastors and theologians, especially in the age of awakenings, often wrote about “religion” or “true religion” or “real religion.” Our forefathers were well-aware of religious hypocrisy and false religious systems, but they did not equate “religion” with works-righteousness.

(2) The word “religion” occurs five times in the ESV and is, by itself, a neutral word, translating either deisidaimonia (reverence for the gods) or threskeia (religious worship). Religion can refer to Judaism (Act 26:5) or the Jewish-Christian faith (Acts 25:19). Religion can be bad when it is self-made (Col. 2:23) or fails to tame the tongue (James 1:26). But religion can also be good when it cares for widows and orphans and practices moral purity (James 1:27). There is no biblical ground for making the practice of religion a uniformly negative phenomenon.

(3) In castigating “religion,” we may be unloading more baggage than we realize. People tend to equate commands, doctrines, structures, and rituals with religion. That’s why people want to be “spiritual but not religious.” And yet, Christianity is a religion that believes in commands, doctrines, structures, and rituals. As a Jew, so did Jesus. Jesus did not hate religion. On the contrary, Jesus went to services at the synagogue and operated within the Jewish system of ritual purity (Mark 1:21, 40-45). He founded the church (Matt. 16:18) and established church discipline (Matt. 18:15-20). He instituted a ritual meal and called for its perpetual observance (Matt. 26:26-28). He told his disciples to baptize people and teach them to obey everything he commanded (Matt. 28:19-20). He insisted that people believe in him and believe certain things about him (John 3:16-18; 8:24).

In short, we give people the wrong impression about Jesus and affirm unbiblical instincts about true spirituality when we quickly dismiss “religion” as antithetical to the gospel and at odds with God-honoring piety.

My overarching point is this: we need to be clearer as Christians about where our disagreements lie.

That is to say, we often talk as if we are disagreeing about significant elements of the Christian faith—whether that has to do with God’s sovereignty or worship or justice or racism or abortion—when actually we are disagreeing about a host of issues surrounding those issues. By drilling down to our actual disagreements, we may not find a new consensus or a mythical third way, but perhaps we will be able to talk to each other with more charity and humility.

Let’s look at three of the most contentious issues dividing churches (or about to divide churches) at the moment.

Presidential Election

Christians disagree about all sorts of things related to the election. I don’t want to talk about Trump vs. Biden. Instead, I want us to think about voting itself. How should Christians in America think about their vote for president? I see at least four approaches.

1. Vote for the best candidate of all the candidates. Pretty simple. Look on the ballot (or write someone in) and vote for the person you think best represents Christian values and will effectively carry out the responsibilities of the presidency.

2. Vote for the best (or least bad) candidate of the two major parties. It is almost assuredly the case that the Republican or Democratic nominee will be president, so, this argument insists, we ought to vote for whichever of the two candidates is better. And what do we mean by better? That is open for debate as well. For most people “better” means some combination of policies, platform, appointments, personal integrity, and the political party you would be putting in power. You may or may not be excited about the person at the top of the ticket, but you figure you are voting for a network of policies and influencers, not just one person.

3. Vote for the best candidate—of all the candidates, or of the two leading parties—so long as the candidate meets a certain threshold for character and ideology. This is like 1 and 2, but instead of saying, “I will always vote for the lesser of two evils,” it says, “I won’t cast a vote for someone I think is actually evil.” You think to yourself, I could never cast a vote for someone who advocates the killing of all puppies. He may be better than the person who supports the killing of puppies and grown dogs, but I simply can’t vote for someone who doesn’t pass a basic test of moral decency.

4. Vote in a way that you believe best advances the long-term interests of your policy goals and convictions. You may reason that Candidate A is less bad than Candidate B in the short run, but you are going to vote for Candidate C because you want to signal that you hope your party will select better candidates in the future. Or you may reason that even though you agree with Candidate B on more issues, that candidate’s style or character makes those positions less palatable and actually hurts the goals and policies you care about most. Instead of viewing the election as a matter of immediate national life or death, you think it best to play the long game and vote accordingly.

I’m not telling you how to look at your vote. Maybe one of these approaches makes more sense in our given context than another. But then we should be clear that we are arguing about a philosophy of voting—something not nailed down in Scripture—rather than about issues of first-order importance. I don’t think all of the approaches above are equally compelling, but I do think they are all reasonable ways to approach the act of voting.

Police Shootings

Let’s take another controversial issue. Many churches are divided over how to think about police shootings. Too often, we throw around accusations of racism or cultural Marxism or not caring about the Bible or not caring about people of color, when we are actually disagreeing about the facts of a given situation. It’s easy to jump to conclusions, and then jump to counter-conclusions, when slowing down to ask certain questions can isolate what we are really talking about and (likely) disagreeing about.

When it comes to the specific issue of a specific police shooting—not all race issues in general—we would do well to ask four questions.

1. What happened?
2. How often does it happen?
3. To whom does it happen?
4. Why did it/does it happen?

Of course, it’s possible that we ask questions in a way that only serves to obfuscate the issues. We’ve all heard people say, “I’m only asking questions,” when they are really just trying to gum up the discussion. But highlighting the four questions above—even if we don’t agree on the answers—can at least highlight that our disagreements may not be about a lack of concern for justice or an affinity for Critical Race Theory.

Instead, our disagreements may focus on: whether the shooting was justified or not, whether police shootings happen a lot or little, whether they happen disproportionately to some people over others, and whether the shooting was because of race, poor training, poor judgment, or some other factor. In other words, we may think we are arguing about social justice, when actually we are arguing about shooting data and police unions. Or, we may not, in fact, be arguing about remotely the same thing at all but have reached an impasse because one person is looking for empathy and a recognition of historical wrongs while another person is parsing out the nuances of proper compliance and policing procedure.

Covid-19

One more issue, and this may be the most difficult. It’s no secret that Christians don’t agree on when and whether to open church, on when or whether to wear masks, and on when or whether to disobey the government. Again, the arguments are often pitched as fundamentally about the Bible, theology, and personal devotion to Christ. And they may be. But more often in my experience, the hottest part of the argument is about other issues not spelled out clearly in Scripture.

1. Is the virus a very serious health concern, or has the threat been greatly exaggerated?
2. Is the government exercising its authority in consistent ways, or does it seem to be singling out churches for worse treatment than other establishments?
3. Is the government trying to achieve its public health goals in the least burdensome way, or are its rules arbitrary and unreasonably heavy-handed?
4. Is the government generally to be trusted as looking out for the best interests of its citizens, or is the government ramping up oppressive measures that it will be slow to relinquish?

These are all important questions. I’m not suggesting we don’t try to answer them. But in answering them, let’s be clear that we are making decisions about epidemiology, mathematical modeling, and government bureaucracies. One church may say, “Don’t you love Christ? Why won’t you meet for worship?” Another church may say, “Don’t you love your neighbor? How dare you open for worship?” Of course, every church ought to be absolutely committed to public worship and loving our neighbors. The reason two churches like this are criticizing the other has much more to do with their epidemiological views than their theological views. Being clear about the disagreement is a step in the right direction.

Four Final Thoughts

Where does this leave us? Quickly, four thoughts.

1. Let’s be clear what we are arguing about (and what we are not arguing about). Drill down to the issue really causing separation.

2. Let’s be less dogmatic about our approach to voting, and our reading of police data, and our take on the severity of the virus than we are about fundamental articles of the Christian faith. By all means, we can try to persuade about all those other matters, but let’s realize we are outside the realm of inerrant, or often even uniquely Christian, conclusions.

3. Let’s humbly acknowledge our position when disagreeing with others in the church. Instead of raising every disagreement to the highest rhetorical level, we might say, “I’m not questioning your commitment to Christ, but I don’t think the virus is the threat you think it is. Here’s why.”

4. Let’s understand that most pastors are trying to find a way to hold their congregation together in divisive times. It may be that your pastor is cowardly trying to make everyone happy. That won’t work. But it may be that he is trying to wisely shepherd a diverse flock in a way that helps the sheep to focus on Christ and him crucified. If the disagreement has become public in your church, then the pastor is usually wise to deal with it publicly. That takes courage. But don’t expect that he is going to take a definitive side when he is not an expert in the contentious matter, and reasonable Christians can come to different conclusions. The loving pastor should show that he understands both sides and is sympathetic to the good things people want on both sides. He should not pretend he has found the third way that everyone will agree on or that piety alone will transcend all our disagreements.

Make no mistake, these are difficult times and leaders will have to make difficult decisions. But the fallout from these decisions can be made less difficult if we know what we are disagreeing about, can state clearly why we think the way we do, and are willing to allow that others may reasonably think differently.

• Introduction (Part 1)
• Image of God (Part 2)
• Sin and Guilt (Part 3)
• Life Together in the Church (Part 4)
• Addendum: With Liberty and Justice for All

As I said in the first article:

The issues are just as relevant as they were a month or two ago and will likely continue to be relevant for the foreseeable future. Hopefully, by having the series in one printable document, Christians and churches may be better able to read through the series and share it with others (whether everyone agrees with all of it or not).

You can download the PDF here.

I write about it somewhat tongue-in-cheek now because two months is an eon when it comes to online controversy. These things flare up quickly and then usually disappear. My friends will joke, “Remember that piece you wrote that everyone hated?”

But I don’t mean to make light of every critique the article received. There were several thoughtful comments and questions, a few of which I hope to address in a moment. I rarely write a follow-up article to something I’ve posted. It tends to keep the controversy going, without changing anyone’s mind. And yet, in this instance, after giving the ordeal 10 weeks to settle down, it seems like a brief response might be helpful.

Culture War

A number of readers objected to the language of “culture war” in the article. I admit that this objection caught me by surprise, but I gather that the phrase is less common in other parts of the world. In America, the term is ubiquitous and has been around for a long time (cf. James Davison Hunter’s 1992 volume, Culture Wars, the Struggle to Define America: Making Sense of the Battles over Family, Art, Education, Law, and Politics). I chuckled when one person on Twitter said I was “literally ISIS,” as if I were calling for an army of bullet-clad kids in battle fatigues or was insisting on another Children’s Crusade.

As I hope was clear from the first two paragraphs, my blog post was prompted by the Gorsuch-penned Bostock ruling and its redefinition of sex. Too many conservatives (and liberals are guilty of this as well) have operated on the conviction that every election is the most important of our lifetimes, and that every election portends tremendous cultural victories if our side wins and society-crushing defeat if our side loses. My aim was not to discount the importance of elections and Supreme Court rulings. Rather, my goal was to underscore the relative greater importance of having children and raising them to the glory of God.

Singleness and Infertility

When the post came out in June, amid the numerous critiques, I also heard from people—some I knew, many I didn’t know—who thanked me for the article and said, in so many words, “I hope you don’t apologize just because everyone is mad at you.” I don’t disagree with anything I said in the article and am still glad I posted it. Having said that, if I could go back two minutes before hitting “publish,” I would add one more sentence about singleness and infertility. I’ve talked about these themes in personal ministry and from the pulpit on many occasions. I tried to be sensitive to these realities by saying: “I understand that many couples will be unable to have all the children they want to have. We have to allow for God to work in mysterious ways that we would not have planned. And yet, in so far as we are able, let us welcome new life and give our children that best opportunity for new birth.” In hindsight, a sentence about God-glorifying singleness and the pain of infertility would have made my point clearer and made my general exhortation to have more children less likely to be misunderstood.

Some were particularly bothered by the line, “The future belongs to the fecund,” taking it to be a crass dismissal of anyone who doesn’t pump out a boatload of babies. I’d like to think most people did not read it that way. I was trying to make the incontrovertible point that the future state of this country—and indeed, of the world—is profoundly shaped by who is having babies and how many they have. This is why Philip Jenkins has argued that “the future of world Christianity is African” (not a bad thing!), and that the global crash in fertility rates “is one of the most significant trends facing the world in the coming century.”

Birth Control and Babies

Which brings me to my last point, and here I want to double down on the exhortation I made two months ago. Last year, the total fertility rate in America fell to 1.7 (the number of children a woman will have in her lifetime), a historic low and well below the replacement rate of 2.1. The significance of our plummeting level of fertility cannot be overstated—both as a prediction about the future and also as a reflection of the present. Here’s Philip Jenkins in an earlier article:

I fear that when it comes to our ideas of sex, family, and children, Western Christians in the last century have been much more shaped by the culture than we have shaped the culture. The church has been a thermometer more than a thermostat. After a 30-year delay, the United States has moved decisively toward the secularizing trajectory that has been the norm in Europe for decades, and the decline in fertility is both cause and also effect of that trajectory. As Jenkins says in his new book, “we are in the early stages of an authentic religious and cultural revolution” (98).

Certainly, the widespread availability of birth control is part of the explanation. I admit my wife and I have never been entirely comfortable with birth control (and we have the 15-passenger van to prove it!). But as a pastor I have also told couples on occasion that birth control made sense in their situation. I’m thinking of cases of extreme poverty or real concerns about the woman’s health, her age, or serious problems with previous pregnancies. I am not a fertility maximalist. Nevertheless, the way the Bible encourages fruitful multiplication (Gen. 1:28) and celebrates olive shoots around the table (Ps. 128:3) leads me to agree with John Frame that the use of birth control requires a high degree of proof.

The problem in most churches is not with couples having babies thoughtlessly, but with the unthinking adoption of societal norms and values. Even if birth control is permissible in some situations, any honest observer would have to conclude that birth control among Bible-believing Christians is an assumption much more than an exception. Most premarital couples are on the Pill before they even start their prescribed counseling. Most Christians give little thought to the birth control methods they use, figuring that everything except the morning-after pill must be ok. Christians give even less thought to the rightness or wrongness of birth control in general, even though for most of church history, Christian theologians stood against taking life after conception and against preventing life before conception.

Conclusion

In closing, let me reiterate that I wish I had done more in my initial post to highlight those who are glorifying God in singleness, showing the love of Christ in adoption, or simply trusting God with hard providences in their lives. Those weren’t the people I was meaning to tweak.

I do mean, however, for Christians to consider whether our approach to career, to family, and to a covenantal understanding of the faith is the result of prayerful, biblical, and theological reflection or the result of the invisible pressures and assumptions of the world we inhabit. It is likely that in the future the only couples having lots of children—which at this point is three or more—will be religious couples. I hope that evangelical Christians will be well represented among them.

After an initial run of ten episodes, we are back with a revamped second season. We’ve added a producer, sponsors, future guests, and a new look. If you are interested in hearing the three of us talk about Life and Books and Everything, visit this link or check us out on Apple Podcasts or Spotify.

In Episode 1 of Season 2 we discuss our summer reading lists, how to balance the pursuit of safety and trust in God’s sovereignty, Grace Community Church’s decision to gather indoors for services in California, and whether the Big Ten should have canceled football? We are very pleased to have the first episode sponsored by Crossway. In particular, we want to highlight the book by Dane Ortlund, Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers. It’s been getting rave reviews. Check it out.

Timestamps:

Introduction + Book Giveaway Announcement with Crossway [0:00 – 4:50]

Summer Reading [4:50 – 29:47]

Collin’s summer reading:

The Future of Christian Marriage by Mark Regnerus

Spying on the South: An Odyssey Across the American Divide by Tony Horwitz

The Minutemen and Their World by Robert A. Gross

Lead: 12 Gospel Principles for Leadership in the Church by Paul David Tripp

Justin’s summer reading:

Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War by Tony Horwitz

Redeeming the Great Emancipator by Allen C. Guelzo

Reconstruction: A Very Short Introduction by Allen C. Guelzo

Midnight Rising: John Brown and the Raid That Sparked the Civil War by Tony Horwitz

The Panic Virus: The True Story Behind the Vaccine-Autism Controversy by Seth Mnookin

Kevin’s summer reading:

Pale Rider: The Spanish Flu of 1918 and How It Changed the World by Laura Spinney

The Content of Our Character: A New Vision of Race In America by Shelby Steele

Manliness by Harvey C. Mansfield

Great Society: A New History by Amity Shlaes

How can we understand the balance between the pursuit of safety and absolute confidence in God’s sovereignty? [29:47 – 45:38]

Grace Community Church and their choice to gather indoors for services in California and the challenges facing churches in the pandemic [45:38 – 59:50]

Should the Big Ten have canceled? [59:50 – 1:11:40]

In addition to the blog posts on race (boy, did those take more time than I bargained for), I had two main projects over my summer study leave.

I finished my part for The Biggest Story Storybook Bible. I’m teaming up with the talented Don Clark again to expand on The Biggest Story. This new book will have 104 stories (400 to 500 words each), with 52 from each Testament. I turned in a draft of the writing. Don is about halfway through the illustrating. Crossway plans to publish the book in fall 2021.

I also submitted my manuscript for Men and Women in the Church: A Short, Biblical, Practical Introduction. Think: Complementarianism 101 without an axe to grind. I’m also working with Crossway on this book, due out in spring 2021.

More immediately, I planned out my preaching schedule for the rest of the year: Genesis in the morning (we’ll get through the first 11 chapters, I think) and 2 Peter in the evening. After being out quite a bit over the summer, Lord willing, I’ll be preaching almost every Sunday (usually AM and PM) through December.

I never get through as many books as I hope during the summer, but I did manage to finish several (I think Collin Hansen read 16 books!).

The Fire Is Upon Us by Nicholas Buccola analyzes the famous Cambridge debate between James Baldwin and William F. Buckley Jr., using Baldwin and Buckley as a window into the race debate in America. Buccola is a self-proclaimed former conservative who matured (as he puts it) beyond his earlier views, so his interpretation decidedly favors Baldwin over Buckley. I’ve read most of Shelby Steele’s books over the years, but I hadn’t read The Content of Our Character. I think it may be his best. Steele is unflinchingly honest and unusually insightful about race in America.

Moving from race to gender: Bavinck’s book on The Christian Family is excellent. Just keep in mind, Bavinck’s cultural views on women (though not his theological views) grew more accommodating to changes in society. Calvin’s three sermons on Men, Women, and Order in the Church is a quick, worthwhile read. From a different angle, you might try Harvey Mansfield’s book on Manliness—a secular and learned defense of the possible virtues of manliness (he points out vices as well).

Joel Beeke and Greg Salazaar have edited a nice introduction to the life and thought of William Perkins: Architect of Puritanism. Few of us know as much about Perkins as we should.

The biggest book I started and completed over the summer was Amity Shlaes’s Great Society: A New History. Part politics, part economics, and part cultural history—Shlaes covers the key ideas and personalities behind the programs meant to alleviate poverty in America. The book ends in 1976 with the destruction of the Pruitt-Igoe housing project in St. Louis, a metaphor for Shlaes’s largely negative assessment of what the Great Society accomplished.

More beach reading: Albertus and Christina: The Van Raalte Family, Home and Roots, edited by Elton Bruins, et. al. Actually, a fascinating book about the legacy of the man (and his wife) who founded Hope College and Holland, Michigan.

Finally, each year I try to read through a big and/or old theology book. This January, I started with Shedd’s Dogmatic Theology, which I finished over the weekend. I think I’ll tackle Ursinus’s Commentary on the Heidelberg Catechism next.

Yes, I did fun things too (like reading and writing aren’t fun!). We went to Michigan for a week to see family and friends. I took my boys to cross country practice early in the morning and got in lots of running miles as a result. We spent time in the pool as a family (even mom once in a while!) and watched some of the best cinematic masterpieces of all time: What About Bob?, The Sandlot, and both Paul Blart movies. The Mrs. and I watched Mr. Jones, an amazing story, based on true events, about the Welsh journalist who exposed the hypocrisy of Walter Duranty (whose New York Times Pulitzer Prize has never been revoked) and helped the world see what was really happening with Stalin’s man-made famine in Ukraine (note: I was told ahead of time to skip the 25:00-30:00 minute mark in the movie; there is a lewd party scene that is not essential to following the plot).

I hope your summer was fun and fruitful. Back to (regular) work for me.

When I talk to my seminary students and pastoral interns about preaching, I often warn them against the sermon whose organizing principle is basically, “Here are a bunch of things I’ve been thinking about related to this passage.” Well, after reading this post, my students and interns will have every right to say, “Physician, heal thyself!” because I want to finish this series by offering a smattering of loosely connected suggestions related to race and racism.

If there is an organizing theme, it is, as the title indicates, about life together in the church: how we can maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace (Eph. 4:3) and grow into maturity together in Christ (vv. 13–16).

My 15 suggestions apply to race most specifically, but I hope that most of the reflections can serve as helpful reminders for our polarized, politicized, and digitized world more generally.

1. Don’t lose sight of the mission of the church.

I won’t repeat the arguments Greg Gilbert and I made in What Is the Mission of the Church?, but even if one does not agree with everything in our book, surely most evangelical Christians want to affirm the central importance of the Great Commission (Matt. 28:18–20). When Jesus launched his public ministry, he called people to repent and believe in the gospel (Mark 1:15). When Jesus sent out the disciples in mission, he called them to be witnesses to the resurrection and heralds of repentance and forgiveness in his name (Luke 24:47; Acts 1:8). And when we see Peter and John and Paul carrying out the mission of the church in Acts, we invariably see them teaching the word and preaching about Christ.

We are finite people with finite time and finite resources; let us stay committed to the ordinary means of grace—the word of God, the sacraments, and prayer—those things that if the church does not do them, no one and nothing else will.

2. Don’t lose sight of what it means to be a fully formed disciple of Christ.

Nothing in the paragraph above should be taken to mean Christians never talk about justice or current events or issues that might be labeled political. We ought to take every thought captive to Christ (2 Cor. 10:5), we are called to live as salt and light in the world (Matt. 5:13–16), and in fulfilling the Great Commission, we teach the nations to obey everything Christ has commanded (Matt. 28:20).

As I’ve said before, social justice—by which I mean treating people equitably, working for systems and structures that are fair, and looking out for the weak and the vulnerable—is not a “gospel issue” if that means adding to sola fide, making anything else as central in our preaching as Christ crucified, or insisting that everyone be as fired up about my preferred issues as I am.

But if “gospel issue” means “a necessary concern of those who have been saved by the gospel” or “one aspect of what it means to keep in step with the gospel” or “realities without which you may not be truly believing the gospel,” then social justice is certainly a gospel issue (Lev. 19, 25; Isa. 1, 58; Amos 5; Micah 6:8). It is part and parcel of being a disciple of Jesus.

3. Love one another and aspire to live a quiet life.

First Thessalonians 4:8–12 is a forgotten passage in our day. But in a world that sometimes encourages violent upheaval, we need to hear Paul’s exhortation that the Thessalonians “aspire to live quietly” and “to mind [their] own affairs” (4:11). Clearly, Paul does not mean “be an island unto yourself” when he says, “mind your own affairs.” He commends the Thessalonians for their brotherly love and urges them to serve one another more and more (4:9–10). He doesn’t want us unconcerned for the needs of the body. At the same time, you get the distinct impression that working hard, providing for your family, and caring for the body of Christ is a life well-lived.

Sometimes quiet faithfulness is the most revolutionary thing we can do.

Sometimes quiet faithfulness is the most revolutionary thing we can do.

4. Be careful we don’t make good things for us requirements for everyone.

Your passion may be for adoption, or eradicating racism, or ending abortion, or for clean water, or for criminal justice reform, or for a thousand other good things. Not everyone will be into the same thing. We must allow for others to have a different sense of calling on their lives. Even a quick scroll on our social media feed can be overwhelming. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything we are told we must do. I refuse to believe that obedience to Christ requires a 35-hour day.

I have to attend to my primary vocation—which is to first be a happy and holy follower of Christ, then to be a husband and father, and then to be a faithful pastor (and there are actually quite a few hats I have to wear after that).

We should feel guilty for disobeying the commands of Scripture; we should not feel guilty for not living the life someone else wants us to live.

5. Let us model compassion toward others along with a dispassionate analysis of the facts.

It is rare that you find both of these things in the same person, but the Spirit can work miracles. We should be people who feel deeply and think carefully. We must not bully people with arguments (even right ones), and we must not allow emotions (even sincere ones) to substitute for logic and evidence.

6. Let us rigorously attend to the definition of words.

We are people of the Word inscripturated, worshipers of the Word incarnate, and believers in the importance of faith-invigorating and faith-defending words in creeds and confessions. Of all people, Christians should care about definitions.

Systemic racism, social justice, cultural Marxism, diversity, privilege—these terms and phrases beg for definitions. We should also realize that labels often function as signposts to solution. The words we use suggest the remedies that should follow.

7. Remember the online world is not the primary world we should inhabit.

When younger people say, “You need to do something” (whatever that something may be), they are often thinking about doing something online (making a statement, joining a hashtag, posting a symbolic gesture), and that’s one way to do something. But praying is also doing something. Educating yourself is also doing something. Raising kids in the fear and admonition of the Lord is also doing something. Giving money in secret is also doing something. Correcting and encouraging others in private is also doing something. Teaching and preaching and praying in public is also doing something. Being salt and light in the work place is also doing something.

We should not think that the digital world is the only one that counts or that it is most important.

We should not think that the digital world is the only one that counts or that it is most important.

8. Don’t use labels and buzzword to shut down honest conversation and intellectual inquiry.

This happens on the left and the right. In some contexts, if you talk about racism or the lingering effects of injustice, you will immediately be labeled a “cultural Marxist” or a “Social Justice Warrior” or someone who is adding to the gospel. In other contexts, if you talk about personal responsibility or pathologies that may contribute to lingering disparities, you will immediately be labeled a racist or accused of white privilege or “not getting it.”

We can debate whether cultural Marxism is a thing and whether white privilege is a thing, but the operative word here is debate. Labels have their place at the conclusion of arguments. They are less helpful in the place of arguments altogether.

9. Consider that there is more than one legitimate way to assess the current state of racism in America.

I’m convinced the elephant in the room in so many discussions about race is that we don’t agree on how bad racism is in America. To a large extent, we have to admit that we aren’t all going to see eye to eye on this one. But perhaps we can inch toward some common ground if we realize that there are various ways to frame the issue.

Are we comparing racism in 2020 to racism in 1960 or comparing ourselves with other countries? Are we looking at the gains blacks have made since 1965 in absolute terms or the persistent disparities when measured against whites? Should we measure blacks in this country today against whites today, or against where black people were in the past, or against black people everywhere in the world? Will progress be marked by increases in personal wealth or in income or education? Should we look for increases in raw numbers or a narrowing of the gap between blacks and whites? Does the story we are telling start in the 1960s or the 1600s? Do our statistics look at blacks as a percentage of the population or blacks as a percentage when controlled for other factors? Is anti-racism a matter of an equal process, an equal opportunity, or an equal outcome?

You get the point.

Asking these questions does not solve the problem, but maybe it helps us see that there are different facts which can be used to tell different stories.

10. Distinguish between biblical principles and prudential judgments.

What makes the questions above so difficult is that they depend on prudential judgments. The Bible tells us that racism is wrong, but it doesn’t tell us the reason for continuing disparities or what the policy solution might be. Christians should not be tolerant of sin, injustice, and immorality (Rev. 2:18–29). At the same time, Christians should not assume that every disagreement is a matter of sin, injustice, and immorality. We need the category of each being “fully convinced in his own mind” (Rom. 14:5).

I fear that in the months and years ahead we will see Christians and churches and gospel movements reshuffling their associations based upon a unity not in shared Christological and soteriological truths but in the sameness of our political and cultural instincts.

I fear that in the months and years ahead we will see Christians and churches and gospel movements reshuffling their associations based upon a unity not in shared Christological and soteriological truths but in the sameness of our political and cultural instincts.

11. Consider that you may not know as much as you think you do.

The fancy term is epistemic humility, which means admitting that most of us are not experts on American history or law enforcement or economic policy or political legislation (or viruses!) or all the others things that we are agitated about at present.

This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get informed or that we can’t have convictions. But something is wrong if we hold these weeks-old or months-old convictions with the same enthusiasm and resoluteness with which we hold our Christian dogma.

Let’s be more sure about the Apostles’ Creed than we are about what is going on in Portland.

12. Clarify whether your main concern is explaining how we got racial disparities or thinking about how to move forward.

This is an oversimplification to be sure. But I’ve noticed in reading liberal black writers and conservative black writers, that the former tend to focus on where racial disparities came from, while the latter tend to focus on what they think will help black communities improve here and now.

Liberals say, “Look, we can’t understand what’s going on in lower test scores and higher unemployment and higher rates of crime without understanding the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.”

Conservatives say, “But those things are in the past. Black communities will not improve until they see themselves as having agency and responsibility in their own story.”

Both discussions have their place, and neither can be fully separated from the other. But clarifying what we are talking about is a step toward better understanding one another.

13. Beware of monocausal explanations for why people are the way they are.

Think about your life. How did you become the person you are? How did you get to the place you’re in? How would you explain your successes or failures? I look at my life and see good choices I made and a lot of hard work. I also see mistakes that didn’t cost me as much as they could have. And I see a whole lot of things—for good or bad, but mostly for good—that I didn’t choose: my godly parents, my good schools, my safe neighborhood, my middle-class home, my upbringing in church, my sex, my height, my Celiac, my bad eyes, my less-than-hoped-for athleticism, my easier-than-for-most-people good grades, the fact that no one ever offered me drugs, that no one ever introduced me to porn, that, for the most part, I’ve been treated fairly by others, and on and on.

My life cannot be reduced to my choices, my environment, or my race. But neither are these elements irrelevant. We are all complicated individuals who are who we are (and where we are) by a complicated string of events, people, decisions, and opportunities (or lack thereof)—some of them stretching back into the past in ways that profoundly shape the present.

I am responsible for my sins, the Lord is responsible for my blessings, and who I am is a mix of a thousand other factors. We ought to be skeptical of any explanation for a human life, or for a group of human beings, which suggests either (1) we all basically get what we deserve or (2) we are all the inevitable product of systems and structures outside our control.

14. Probe your head and check your heart before speaking out or staying silent.

The world wants quick, immediate, now—and sometimes fast is the necessary speed of the hour. But as a general rule, slower is better. Probe your head: Have I thought this through? Do I know what I’m talking about? Do I really believe what I’m about to say or sign? And check your heart: Am I speaking (or staying silent) out of love for myself or love for others? Would I say what I’m about to say if the opposite side loved it and my side hated it? Am I seeking to build up the body of Christ? Am I speaking the truth in love?

The world wants quick, immediate, now—and sometimes fast is the necessary speed of the hour. But as a general rule, slower is better.

15. Don’t lose hope.

It’s one of the reasons for our intense polarization: both sides feel like they’re losing. One side feels like the racists are in charge, while the other side feels like the Marxists are in charge. Despair is the order of the day. Christians, however, are people of hope. We are not going to move past race or racism in our lifetimes, but that doesn’t mean you and I and the church of Jesus Christ can’t move in the right direction. At some point along the way, you may get offended. You may inadvertently do the offending (or on purpose!). You may discover more sin than you knew was in you, or more freedom than you knew you could have in Christ. But let’s not give up believing all things, hoping all things, and enduring all things.

Whatever you think and fear in the present moment, believe that God hears and sees and knows (Ex. 2:24–25). Believe that he can bring beauty from ashes. Believe that Christ is still on the throne. And as we revel in that confidence, let us move toward others to learn from them, listen to them, and love them as we would want to be loved.

This article has been difficult to write. Of all the themes in this short series, this is the one that has literally kept me up at night. Every time I thought I knew what to say, ten more ideas bombarded my brain. Every time I thought I knew how to say what I wanted to say, a dozen caveats crowded out my earlier thinking. Part of what makes this particular post so challenging is that the themes here are so personal and so pervasive. At the heart of every discussion about racism is the reality of sin and guilt. Even among secular people, though they may not use the words “sin” and “guilt,” the moral energy behind anti-racism protests and the insistence on corporate diversity programs assumes that racism is ethically repugnant and that those who are guilty of racism deserve correction and censure, if not swift retribution.

Within the church this topic is an urgent matter, not only because overt racism still exists among professing Christians, but because there is confusion about (1) what constitutes racism, (2) whether most (or all) white people are guilty of racism, and (3) how confident we can be that individuals can ever be free from racism. While almost every Christian in this country would affirm that racism is a sin, that conviction alone has not clarified other important aspects of our faith and practice.

With that in mind, here are five statements (plus one concluding thought) to help us think personally, corporately, and existentially about sin and guilt.

1. Racism is a sin.

The Bible never speaks of racism per se. That doesn’t mean we are wrong to talk about racism (our Bibles don’t contain the words “Trinity” or “missions” either). But it does mean we would do well to start with explicit biblical sins and see how they relate to the modern category of racism rather than moving in the opposite direction.

There are more than 20 vice lists in the New Testament (Matt. 15:19; Mark 7:21–22; Rom. 1:29–31; 13:13; 1 Cor. 5:10–11; 6:9–10; 2 Cor. 6:9–10; 12:20–21; Gal. 5:19–21; Eph. 4:31; 5:3–5; Col. 3:5, 8; 1 Tim. 1:9–10; 2 Tim. 3:2–5; Titus 3:3; James 3:15; 1 Pet. 2:1; 4:3, 15; Rev. 9:21; 21:8; 22:15), which, when taken together, mention dozens of different sins. Here, for example, is Galatians 5:19–21, one of the most well-known and most comprehensive lists:

Obviously, racism is not in this list of sins nor in any of the other vice lists. But, just as obviously, we can see how racism could map on to these works of the flesh. Look at the social sins in the middle of the list. Could we not say that racism is enmity (based on race), strife (based on race), fits of anger (based on race), rivalries (based on race), dissensions (based on race), and divisions (based on race)? Hating others is wrong, and race—groups of people sharing physical characteristic like skin color—can be a reason people hate. Pride and selfish ambition are wrong, and race can be a reason for pride and selfish ambition. Partiality and showing favoritism based on external appearances are wrong (James 2:1), and race has been the reason for the sin of partiality in this country. In other words, while racism is not implied in these various sins, it can be seen as a subspecies of them. Racism is a sin not just because of what it does to others, but because it is an offense to God and a transgression of the law of God (1 John 3:4; cf. WSC 14).

Racism has become a notoriously difficult word to define. And yet, the biblical categories of enmity, pride, and partiality still work with a common-sense definition. If you Google “racism,” the first definition comes from Dictionary.com and reads: “prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism directed at a person or people on the basis of their membership of a particular racial or ethnic group, typically one that is a minority or marginalized.” I believe this is how most people use the word. Racism is another way of not loving your neighbor as yourself—a particularly heinous way because it denies that the other person is even a fully human neighbor in the first place.

2. Racism is the result of original sin, but not original sin.

As a historical event, original sin can refer to Adam’s first transgression in the Garden. Theologically, however, original sin refers to the guilt and corruption every human being has inherited from Adam. From original sin springs forth actual sins—not “actual” in the sense of real or “actual” as opposed to “internal,” but “actual” because they proceed from an act of the soul. Every sin, both original and actual, brings guilt upon the sinner (WCF 6.6). Racism, then, is a manifestation of our original corruption “whereby we are utterly indisposed, disabled, and made opposite to all good, and wholly inclined to all evil” (WCF 6.4).

Racism (or slavery) is often said to be our country’s “original sin,” meaning that racism has infected American society from its inception, producing centuries of pain and suffering, the legacy of which we have not yet moved past. While we can affirm “original sin” in this context as a historical euphemism, we must be careful lest we construe racism as if it were literally original sin. In Christian doctrine, original sin is imputed to us by virtue of our union with Adam, our federal head. It is unclear by what mechanism the sins of white ancestors are automatically imputed to white people today, especially when “white” can now include Hispanics, Jews, the Irish, Southern Europeans, Eastern Europeans, recent immigrants, and others groups who do not stand in direct lineage with earlier white racists and were often discriminated against by those same whites.

Think of the way racism functions like original sin in some secular ideologies: every white person inherits the original guilt and corruption of racism, everything white people do is tainted by racism, and every white person must be awakened to the reality of racism in his life. This is anti-racism as religion. Furthermore, the life of anti-racism requires constant repentance and discipleship and demands a zeal to convert those whose eyes have not been opened and to condemn those who “don’t get it.”

To be clear, the problem is not in calling people to repent of racism and considering how it may infiltrate various aspects of their lives. We should do that! The problem is in parroting the Christian story as many secular voices do—often unwittingly borrowing Christianity’s religious purpose and fervor, while preaching a new doctrine of original sin that applies only to some, and in a way that fails to present the free offer of the gospel to any.

3. Racism is an insidious sin, but not the unforgivable sin.

Think again about the passage from Galatians 5. On the one hand, there is a war within each Christian between the desires of the flesh and the desires of the Spirit. There are things we want to do in the flesh that the Spirit will keep us from doing (v. 17). On the other hand, Paul expects the Christian to be free from the works of the flesh as a habitual way of life. If we do such things—more precisely if we make a practice of doing such things—we will not inherit the kingdom of God (v. 21).

So as a desire of the flesh, any enmity based on race or pride based on race is something Christians should war against and confess regularly. But as a work of the flesh, racism will not define us, any more than any other sin should define a Christian. Paul understood that Christians might fight fleshly desires for sexual sin (v. 17), but he didn’t expect them to say in false humility, “Yeah, we are orgy Christians and will be the rest of our lives.”

Once we remember that racism is a sin in the Christian story, and not, by itself, the Christian story, elements of racism can be demystified. Like any other sin, racism, as part of the indwelling corruption of our nature, may remain in those who are regenerated (WCF 6.5). And like any other sin, racism can be forgiven, mortified, and sanctified in Christ.

For the Christian, sin is still pervasive but less powerful. We shouldn’t be surprised, therefore, if we find racism still rooted in our hearts, nor should we deem it impossible that racism can be rooted out of our hearts. Christians who quickly dismiss any consideration that they may have racist tendencies may need to be reminded about the continuing allure and deceitfulness of sin. On the other hand, Christians who quickly dismiss any consideration that they, or others, can ever be not racist, may need to be reminded of the forgiving and transforming power of the gospel. As born-again Christians, we can be obedient to God and do that which is truly good, even if not perfectly good (WCF 16.2, 6).

4. Racism is a serious sin, but not the only way to sin.

The church must make clear to its members—often fixated on justifying oneself before sympathizing with others—that racism is a serious sin. The church must also make clear to the world—often fixated on a handful of preferred transgressions—that there are many ways to sin, and all of them deserve the just wrath of God. If racism is one way to breach the sixth commandment, there are dozens of ways we can break that commandment, and nine other commandments besides. To reduce Christianity to anti-racism is no better than reducing Christianity to being anti-fornication or anti-abortion. Truth be told, most of us focus on the sins that those in our social circle already know to be sins. Being “prophetic” usually means denouncing the sins we don’t see in ourselves but do see in others. It’s an easy way to look good, feel good, and convince ourselves we are good.

Being ‘prophetic’ usually means denouncing the sins we don’t see in ourselves but do see in others.

But this point about “not the only way to sin” cuts in both directions. Sin is more varied than we think, and the law of love is more encompassing than we imagine. We might find more common ground on the topic of racism if we expanded our moral categories just a bit. The world knows only a few sins, and racism is one of them. So it’s not surprising that a hundred different errors—some of them sins of commission, some of them sins of omission, and some of them not sins at all—get pushed into this one category called racism. As a result, the world wants to say there is nothing worse than racism, and at the same time, the majority of people should confess to being racists. It’s a recipe for confusion, self-righteousness, and constant disagreement.

Thankfully, the church can be more nuanced. What if, instead of perpetuating the binary logic that makes every moral discussion a question of racist or not-racist, we talked about all the ways we are called to love one another and all the ways we can fail in that calling? This doesn’t mean we don’t use the word racist or we don’t treat the sin seriously. It means we concentrate less on that one label and focus more on the dozens of related ways we ought to live as Christians.

Take the Heidelberg Catechism for example. It tells me “I am not to belittle, insult, hate, or kill my neighbor—not by my thoughts, my words, my look or gesture, and certainly not by actual deeds.” It also says, “I am not to be party to this in others” and that “I am to put away all desire for revenge” (HC 105). Furthermore, it is not enough that I refrain from hating or killing my neighbor. No, positively, “God tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves, to be patient, peace-loving, gentle, merciful, and friendly to them, to protect them from harm as much as we can, and to do good even to our enemies” (HC 107). In all things I should do “whatever I can for my neighbor’s good” and “treat others as I would like them to treat me” (HC 111).

The Heidelberg Catechism summarizes how all of us should treat everyone, and it is more involved than being racist or not racist. When our moral reasoning boils down to this binary logic, we are often too hard and too soft at the same time—too hard in labeling those with the scarlet letter “R” for something far less than racism and too soft in not calling each other to all the obligations that the law demands of God’s people. The Westminster Larger Catechism, for example, lists more than 30 duties required in the sixth commandment—obligations like charitable thoughts, courteous behavior, readiness to be reconciled, forgiving of injuries, comforting the distressed, and protecting the innocent—and more than 20 sins forbidden in the sixth commandment. We do not have to settle for our culture’s stunted list of forbidden words and thoughts, when we have the church’s much richer moral vocabulary and moral imagination at our disposal.

5. Racism has been a great sin of white people in this country, but that doesn’t make all white people today guilty of those historical sins.

While enmity, pride, and partiality are sins that everyone commits, we have to acknowledge that the racist expression of these sins has been most notoriously and most destructively a sin of white people in this country. What’s more, we have reason to believe these sins have been especially egregious in God’s eyes. Contrary to popular evangelical notions of moral equivalency, some sins are worse than others. The Westminster Larger Catechism explains that sins are made more heinous (1) from the persons offending, (2) from the persons offended, (3) from the nature and quality of the offense, and (4) from circumstances of time and place (WLC 151). On all accounts, racism in American history has been a particularly heinous sin: it has often come from persons of “greater experience or grace” and from those “whose example is likely to be followed by others.” It has often been against fellow saints, against “the common good of all,” and has often entailed sinning “on the Lord’s Day.”

We could go on, using the catechism’s forceful language. The long history of slavery and Jim Crow were sins “against the express letter of the law,” “not only conceived in the hearts, but break[ing] forth in words and actions.” Sins were committed against the “light of nature” and “conviction of conscience.” They were done “deliberately, willfully, presumptuously, impudently, boastingly, maliciously, frequently, obstinately” and “with delight.” Racism looms large in our national consciousness because there has been no sin in our history that was perpetuated by as many people over as many years with as much destructive force.

So what does that mean for white people today who denounce all the sins listed above? Does a shared skin color make one culpable for the offenses of those who have gone before?

As I’ve said before, I believe the Bible has a category for corporate responsibility, but there are important limits to the use of this category.

The book of Acts is an illuminating case study in this respect. On the one hand, God may hold people responsible for sins they may not have directly carried out. In Acts 2, Peter charges the “[m]en of Judea and all who dwell in Jerusalem” (v. 14) with crucifying Jesus (v. 23, 36). To be sure, they did this by the hands of lawless men (v. 23). But as Jews present in Jerusalem during Passion Week, they bore some responsibility for Jesus’s death. Likewise, Peter charged the men of Israel gathered at Solomon’s Portico with delivering Jesus over and denying him in the presence of Pilate (Acts 3:11–16). While we don’t know if every single person in the Acts 3 crowd had chosen Barabbas over Christ, Peter certainly felt comfortable in laying the crucifixion at their feet. Most, if not all of them, had played an active role in the events leading up to Jesus’s death. This was a sin in need of repentance (v. 19, 26). We see the same in Acts 4:10 and 5:30 where Peter and John charged the council (i.e., the Sanhedrin) with killing Jesus. In short, the Jews in Jerusalem during Jesus’s last days bore responsibility for his murder.

Once the action leaves Jerusalem, however, the charges start to sound different. In speaking to Cornelius (a Gentile), his relatives, and close friends, Peter relays that they (the Jews in Jerusalem) put Jesus to death (10:39). Even more specifically, Paul tells the crowd in Pisidian Antioch that “those who live in Jerusalem and their rulers” condemned Jesus (Acts 13:27). This speech is especially important because Paul is talking to Jews. He does not blame the Jews in Pisidian Antioch with the crimes of the Jews in Jerusalem.

This is a consistent pattern. Paul doesn’t charge the Jews in Thessalonica or Berea with killing Jesus (Acts 17), nor the Jews in Corinth (Acts 18) or in Ephesus (Acts 19). In fact, when Paul returns to Jerusalem years after the crucifixion, he does not accuse the Jews there of killing Jesus; he does not even charge the council with that crime (Acts 23). He doesn’t blame Felix (Acts 24) or Festus (Acts 25) or Agrippa (Acts 26) for Jesus’s death, even though they are all men in authority connected in some way with the governing apparatus that killed Christ. The apostles considered the Jews in Jerusalem at the time of the crucifixion uniquely responsible for Jesus’s death, but this culpability did not extend to every high-ranking official, to every Jew, or to everyone who would live in Jerusalem thereafter. The rest of the Jews and Gentiles in the book of Acts still had to repent of their wickedness, but they were not charged with killing the Messiah.

Does this mean there is never any place for corporate culpability across time and space? No. In Matthew 23:35, Jesus charges the scribes and Pharisees with murdering Zechariah the son of Barachiah. Although there is disagreement about who this Zechariah is, most scholars agree he is a figure from the past who was not killed in their lifetimes. The fact that the scribes and Pharisees were treating Jesus with contempt put them in the same category as their ancestors who had also treated God’s prophets with contempt (cf. Acts 7:51–53). It could rightly be said that they murdered Zechariah between the sanctuary and the altar because they shared in the same spirit of hate as the murderers in Zechariah’s day.

Similarly, there are several examples of corporate confession in the Old Testament. As God’s covenant people, the Israelites were commanded to confess their sins and turn from their wicked ways so as to come out from under the divinely sanctioned covenant curses (2 Chron. 6:12–42; 7:13–18). This is why we see the likes of Ezra (Ezra 9–10), Nehemiah (Neh. 1:4–11), and Daniel (Dan. 9:3–19) leading in corporate confession. The Jews were not lumped together because of race, ethnicity, geography, education level, or socio-economic status. The Israelites had freely entered into a covenant relationship with each other and with their God. In all three examples above, the leader entered into corporate confession because (1) he was praying for the covenant people, (2) the people were as a whole marked by unfaithfulness, and (3) the leader himself bore some responsibility for the actions of the people, either by having been blind to the sin (Ezra 9:3) or by participating directly in the sin (Neh. 9:6; Dan. 9:20).

Christians do not deny that the sins of one person can be reckoned to another. How else do we explain the imputation of Adam’s sin to us or the imputation of our sin to Christ? We can be considered guilty for sins we did not commit in ourselves. But on what grounds? Francis Turretin explains, “No imputation of another’s sin can be granted, except on the supposition of some peculiar connection of the one with the other” (Elenctic Theology, IX.ix.11). He goes on to argue this union may be threefold: (1) natural, as between a father and his children, (2) moral and political, as between a king and his subjects, and (3) voluntary, as between the guilty person and a substitute who consents to be punished for the sake of another. These distinctions make sense of the imputation of Adam’s sin to us (natural and moral), the imputation of our sin to Christ (moral and voluntary), and the other examples of corporate responsibility and punishment in the Bible—which usually focus on nations (a moral and political union) or on families (a natural union).

To sum up: the Bible has a category for corporate responsibility. Culpability for sins committed can extend to a large group if virtually everyone in the group was active in the sin or if we bear the same spiritual resemblance to the perpetrators of the past. Furthermore, the sins of others can be imputed to us if there is a natural, moral/political, or voluntary union.

And yet, the category of corporate responsibility can easily be stretched too far. The Jews of the diaspora were not guilty of killing Jesus just because they were Jews. Neither were later Jews in Jerusalem charged with that crime just because they lived in the place where the crucifixion took place. And we must differentiate between other-designated identity blocs and freely chosen covenantal communities. Moral complicity is not strictly individualistic, but it has its limits. All white people today are not automatically guilty of the racist sins of other white people.

Concluding Thought

As I bring this already too-long article to an end, I’m reminded of something I read in Shelby Steele’s remarkable book The Content of Our Character: “I think the racial struggle in America has always been primarily a struggle for innocence” (5). According to Steele, one of America’s most honest and trenchant voices on these matters, both races understand that to lose innocence is to lose power, and given the way the racial debate has been fostered in this country, one’s innocence depends on the other’s guilt. Consequently, racial difference has become the currency of power. To maintain their innocence, “blacks sting whites with guilt, remind them of their racial past, accuse them of new and more subtle forms of racism.” And in return whites try to retrieve their innocence by discrediting blacks and denying their difficulties, “for in this denial is the denial of their own guilt” (145).

For whites, it can feel like redemption is always out of reach. If you don’t have animus in your heart, you have implicit bias that you can’t see. If you haven’t personally done anything against black people, other whites have, and you bear their shame. If you speak out, you should have listened. If you stay quiet, your silence is violence. If you do nothing tangible to counter injustice, that’s sinful indifference. Try to take the lead in fixing things, you may want to check your privilege. Your institution shouldn’t be all white, but it shouldn’t engage in tokenism. You should celebrate diversity, but without cultural appropriation. And any disagreement with the fundamental contours of this one-way conversation is just another manifestation of white fragility.

In other words: guilty, guilty, guilty.

And for blacks, it must feel like even the barest recognition of the ongoing effects of racism is a bridge too far for most whites. Because whites are often preoccupied with their search for innocence, they fail to muster even meager sympathy or understanding for black pain. If you want to talk about policing in America, we will bring up black homicide rates in Chicago. If you want to talk about criminal justice reform, we will mention the black abortion rate. And if that doesn’t adequately move the guilt from our shoulders to yours, we can always talk about our black friends, insist that we are color blind, or weaponize pull quotes from Thomas Sowell.

In other words: guilty, guilty, guilty.

There will be no moving forward in these matters if every step forward for one side means a step backward for the other. We have a common ancestor in Adam, and, if believers, we have a common Savior in Christ. Our way forward must be a common morality that appeals not to racial difference, but to the best in what we can be by the Spirit working through the word. Our identity, our strength, our power must come from our character, and ultimately from Christ.

If our racial tensions are everywhere about sin and guilt, then it stands to reason that one of the most essential things we can do as Christians is to rest in Christ and encourage others to do the same.

If I am truly free and forgiven in Christ, I can be honest with my indwelling sin.

If I’m genuinely secure in my adoption as God’s precious child, I can choose to love others—undeterred by their misunderstandings of me—rather than using them for my own sense of superiority, righteousness, or absolution.

If I know how much God has forgiven me, I can eagerly give to others what they don’t rightly deserve from me.

To be clear, there is no comparing the aggregate sins of white people against black people versus the sins of black people against white people. This is not a Pollyannaish plea for all of us to just forgive and forget. But it is a plea for the gospel to occupy the center of any Christian conversation about race. Not just the gospel for others—yes, that of course. But the gospel for ourselves too—the gospel that searches, the gospel that saves, the gospel that sanctifies. How might your participation (and mine) in our racial tensions be different if we didn’t instinctively prepare, in every racial encounter, for some combination of recrimination for guilt and reestablishment of righteousness? What if we encountered others not as a means to securing our identity—be that as victim, as innocent, or as absolved—but as an opportunity to meet a whole person with our whole person? What if the good news of Christ’s death and resurrection—while not the only thing we need to talk about—is the one thing that can make all the rest of our conversations meaningful, honest, and hopeful?

If sin and guilt got us into this mess, perhaps justification by faith alone through grace can get us out.

The image of God seems like an obvious and already agreed-upon foundation for talking about race, but it has more to teach us and more ways to correct us than we might at first realize.

The doctrine itself is multifaceted. Considering its significance as a theological concept—highlighted three times in the opening chapters of Genesis (1:26-28; 5:1-2; 9:6-7)—the image of God has not always been easy to define.

Older theologians tended to emphasize the structural aspects of the image of God. They viewed man’s capacity for intelligence, rationality, morality, beauty, and worship as that which distinguishes us from the animals. Even in unborn babies and persons with severe impairments, there is still a unique human capacity for these qualities, however limited by physical or psychological constraints.

More recent theologians have focused on the functional aspects of the image of God. That is, they identify God’s image less with our essence than with our ethics. According to passages like Romans 8:29 (“predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son”) and 1 Corinthians 15:49 (“as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven”), the image of God is not just what we have, it is our eschatological goal—what we are called to do and be (1 John 3:2-3).

Both aspects teach us something important about the image of God, but the Bible allows us to say much more about the functional (what we do) than the structural (what we have). Note, then, three further dimensions of how we live out the image of God.

First, human beings are representatives of God. Just as an ancient king would place statues of himself throughout his realm, marking his ownership and rule, so our presence as image bearers in the world marks out the earth as belonging to God. Further, as representatives, we are called to be rulers and stewards. We are set apart from the animals in that we are given “dominion over the works of [his] hands” (Psalm 8:6; Gen. 1:28).

Second, human beings are made to be in relationship with God. Unique among his creatures, Adam was created for covenant (Hos. 6:7). As Michael Horton observes, the image of God is not something in us as much as it is something between us and God (p. 381). To be an image bearer is to be the sort of creature who can know, serve, and self-consciously worship the Creator.

Third, human beings are made to reflect the righteousness of God. The New Testament defines the image of God as true knowledge, righteousness, and holiness (Eph. 4:24; WCF 4.2). Although sin has marred the divine image in man, we can still be renewed by God in Christlikeness so as to increasingly reflect his image (Col. 3:9-10).

This last point needs to be underscored. We will not understand what it means to be made in the image of God unless we know Christ, who is the image of the invisible God (Col. 1:15-20). The gospel is the message about the “glory of Christ, who is the image of God” (2 Cor. 4:4-6), and by his Spirit we can be transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another (3:17-18). In other words, the image of God is now, first, and foremost about Christ.

Image of God and Race

That’s only the briefest overview of a massive topic. But with enough of the big ideas in place, we can think about the implications of the imago dei for race and racism. Here are applications worth considering:

First, and most obviously, the image of God speaks to the inherent worth and dignity of every human being. We should not breeze by this foundational point. For starters, while the world talks often about individual worth and dignity, it is unclear upon what basis secular voices can make such an assertion. Is there any ontological and universal reason that every human being should be treated with respect? Does the worth of each person exist prior to and independent of our personal or legal determination? The Christian doctrine of the image of God can answer these questions. Secular assumptions do not rest on the same secure footing.

Furthermore, the sad reality is that at times Christians have denied or overlooked the image of God in those they deemed to be inferior. Sometimes this was accomplished by simply positing that the “other” was less than human. It could also be accomplished by locating the image of God structurally in, for example, the intellectual attributes, so that if you think the “other” is by nature intellectually inferior, then they also share in less of the image of God. In many occasions, however, the imago dei in the “other” has been affirmed on a basic dogmatic level without really penetrating the heart.

We saw in the theological survey above that the image of God can be considered something we grow into, but on another level it is something inherently true of every human being—black and white, young and old, in the womb and out of the womb. Think of Genesis 9:6, where capital punishment is introduced on the basis of man’s irreducible status as an image bearer. James 3:9 is another key text—“with [the tongue] we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse people who are made in the likeness of God.” Here the image admits no degrees. Instead, we are given a universal command that depends on the universality of God’s image and likeness in man.

As I reflect on several racial flashpoints over the past few years, I fear I have been too quick to think to myself, Yes, of course, image of God. Every Christian already knows that and believes that. But white Christians in this country have not always believed that, or at least they have not always acted like they really believe it. Slavery in this country originated in greed more than in racism. As the institution endured, it drew racism out of the human heart. You could argue, tragically, that it was precisely because this country was so Christian that racism became so virulent. Most Americans knew what the Bible required in loving their neighbors as themselves and in respecting the image of God in other human beings. But instead of letting their theology correct their practice, they developed perverse ways to conclude that blacks were, in fact, not their neighbors, not fellow image bearers, and not fully human. For many white Christians, the way to make their Christianity and chattel slavery cohere was to convince themselves that the slave was not the same kind of human being they saw in themselves. Even today, we would all do well to examine our hearts and see if there is any part of us, when encountering someone of a different race or ethnicity, that wonders if we are not actually made of something more refined, more noble, and more divine.

Second, if the image of God reminds us who we are, it also directs us to what we ought to be. As image bearers we were made to know God and be conformed to the image of his Son. This gives us value, but it also gives us a vocation. As John Kilner puts it, the image of God is both our dignity and our destiny.

If we focus only on our worth as image bearers, Christian doctrine can end up sounding the same as any worldly self-esteem mantra. Of course, the Christian has more consistent metaphysical reasons for concluding the same thing, but by itself “Black lives matter” or “All lives matter” captures only one aspect of the imago dei. The image of God is not only what we possess, it is what has been marred and what must be renewed. The image of God gives us dignity, and it gives us direction. It tells us that we matter and what we were made for.

What a wonderful thing it would be to see a recovery of the image of God in our culture, both as an antidote to racism against our fellow human beings and as an antidote to rebellion against God. We do not help people understand the image rightly unless we point them to righteousness, holiness, and a true knowledge of God. The image of God speaks to the worth of all peoples, and it calls every people from every tribe, language, and tongue to worship the One into whose image we must be transformed.

Third, we would do well to start with what we have in common rather than with what separates us. For all the talk of the same image of God in every person, we quickly fall into the habit of talking and acting as if there are different species of human beings separated by a vast epistemological and ontological gulf. I am not talking about a mythical colorblindness, as if we can collectively transcend all categories of race and all permutations of racism. While race may not exist as an essential biological category, it is an observable fact of human existence that skin color is not all the same. I am not eschewing every use of the word “race.” What I am suggesting is that Christians push back against any ideology that suggests that race is the first, and perhaps the ultimate, determination of what it means to be human.

Take a group of blacks, whites, Asians, Hispanics, and every other expression of racial or ethnic diversity. What can we say about everyone in the room? They are all made in the image of God, they all inherited original guilt and original corruption from Adam, and they all need the imputed righteousness of Christ. We need to be reminded that before there is the unique experience of being black or white in this country, there is a shared human nature. Make no mistake, for much of our nation’s history white people wielded an oppressive power over black people. That makes for different experiences, different pain, and different fears. And yet, those differences are not intrinsic to black and white. In other places and other times, the differences have played out between white and white, or black and black, or Arab and Jew, or Chinese and Japanese, or free Romans and enslaved Romans.

There is not a white nature, black nature, Asian nature, or Hispanic nature. There is a human nature. Any notions to the contrary only reinforce the sort of racialized ideas we are trying to overcome. When we start with black or white instead of the image of God, we shut each other out of our shared humanity, conducting ourselves as if we can hardly speak to one another, learn from one another, or love one another across the racial divide. When you meet someone of a different race, you should look at that man or woman as someone more like you than different—someone who, deep down, has the same sorts of fears, sins, needs, and aspirations. We ought to think, This is my neighbor with an immortal soul. And though he may have experiences, for better or worse, that I have not had, I am face to face with someone who has been made in the same image as I.

Fourth, as image bearers, we are free moral agents, responsible before God for our choices. By “free” I don’t mean to deny that the unregenerate will is bound to sin. I’m talking about the freedom we have as human beings to operate as our will desires. As I’ve said before, if the intellect has the power of choice (freedom from physical necessity) and the will can be exercised without external compulsion (freedom from the necessity of coaction) then our sins can be called voluntary and we can be held responsible for them.

This means that while we want to try to understand why people make sinful choices (see below), we ultimately do not want to excuse those choices. This is true whether that environment is the Antebellum South, an Ivy League university, rural Appalachia, or an urban ghetto. No matter the cultural norms or social expectations, the lawless rioter is not excused in his sin, nor is the Jim Crow-era racist justified in his sin. We are always shaped by our history and our environment, but we are never mere products of them. To suggest otherwise is to deny who we are as moral beings made in the image of God.

Fifth, we should seek to understand our fellow image bearers as whole people, not as truncated versions of the worst parts of their life and character. This commitment is a necessary complement to the previous point. Think of the response when a black man with a criminal record has been killed by the police. Some voices are quick to recall (and repeat) the man’s rap sheet. The dead man is reduced to a list of mistakes he made or to the number of citations and arrests he received. To be sure, we need to understand the immediate context in which the shooting occurred, especially if violent criminal activity was taking place at that moment. But such activity has been absent with many of the high-profile shootings of the past few years. The recitation of the victim’s record, then, has the effect of communicating, if not “he had it coming,” then at least “see, he wasn’t a very good guy anyway.” The man is presented—implicitly, and often explicitly—as nothing more than a thug.

As Christians we know that our neighbors deserve to be treated with respect not just because they are image bearers, but because we are called to treat them as we want to be treated. This principle applies to the dead as much as to the living. The people of the past are, in many ways, the most foreign people we will ever “meet.” We may inhabit more of the shared assumptions and experiences with someone who lives on the other side of the world today than with someone who lived in our own country 200 years ago. What’s more, when dealing with the dead, we are dealing with people who cannot respond to our charges, cannot change anything they’ve done or said, and cannot demonstrate to us any further growth or change. That puts the object of our study in a precarious position and demands of the historian honesty and charity.

Does this mean we have to refrain from doing history “warts and all”? Of course not. But we should avoid doing history that is “warts and nothing else.” The complexities of the past are quickly reduced to simplistic talking points for the present. Even when persons from the past deserve severe censure, it is too easy for us to condemn them in toto with the same reductionist tendencies we disdain when it is used in judging us or judging the people we want to defend.

I am not calling for moral relativism, but for moral reasoning. There is a difference between the flawed man who accomplished great things and stood for a heroic cause and the flawed man who accomplished dubious things and stood for a sinful cause. Past, present, or future, no one wants to be defined solely by his or her failings. Dealing with our fellow image bearers as whole people—with honesty, sympathy, and charity—won’t eliminate racial tensions, but we might be able to bridge some of the divide that separates us.

Sixth, we should be slow to attribute to individual image bearers the unfavorable characteristics associated with a broader group identity—especially when that broader group identity was not freely chosen or the broader group denounces those unfavorable characteristics. This last point requires the most nuance, but it may also be the most important. Go back to the passage where James instructs the believer to tame the tongue because we should not “curse people who are made in the likeness of God” (James 3:9). The warning against cursing is not identical with “attributing unfavorable characteristics.” I understand James is making a more serious charge, but the underlying logic is instructive. According to James, the person you are about to curse stands before you irreducibly as someone made in the likeness of God. Whatever else you might think about him or want to say about him, no matter what sins he has committed, you must first reckon with him as an individual who is in the image of the Creator before he is anything else.

There will be little hope for healing in our land until we refuse to tear people down and shut people up based on the worst examples of their broader group identity. And lest you (or I) think this is someone else’s problem, consider:

• When 9/11 happened, did you think, That’s what Muslims are like, or did it worry you that Muslims would be unfairly singled out because of the actions of a few Islamic extremists?
• When someone points out that COVID-19 originated in China and that Chinese officials lied about what was going on, do you want to make sure that Asians in general are not mistreated?
• When Christians are derided in the mainstream press, do you figure it was the result of a bad journalist or symptomatic of a profession that disdains religious conservatives?
• If an actual noose had been placed in Bubba Wallace’s garage—and the perpetrator was white—would you see this as an illustration of systemic white supremacy or the action of a single racist?
• When a white police officer shoots an unarmed black man, are you likely to conclude that the officer was a bad apple or that this is just one more example of police bias against blacks?

I could go on and draw up scenarios involving almost any racial, religious, or ethnic group (and quite a few professions too). The fact is, we all hear news of certain bad guys and quickly think, Yup, that’s what those people are like, while we hear news of other bad guys and want to say, “Hold on a minute. Most of those people are not like that.” We could do with a dose of healthy individualism—not the lone-ranger kind, but the kind that allows a fellow image bearer to stand before us as an individual before he is defined by or deemed representative of some broader group. I know individualism can be problematic (aren’t most isms?)—and maybe “individual agency”—is a better expression, but let us not forget that it was Christianity that taught the West to prize the individual. After all, God did not first create a community; he made a single man, and we will stand before him as an individual man or woman (Heb. 9:27). Rightly construed, there is biblical warrant for treating people as individuals.

I know this is easier said than done. As an absolute practice, it’s impossible. We can’t help but generalize based on some external factors and draw broader conclusions from anecdotal evidence. The clothes I wear, the way I talk, the job I have, the place I’m from, the color of my skin—they all give meaningful information about me. The goal is not to pretend we don’t make generalizations and extrapolations. The goal is to do our best not to assume the worst and to let people belonging to broader groups—and that’s everyone—surprise us with their individuality. Even if we cannot avoid powerful first impressions, we can hold these assessments provisionally, with an open hand and with an open heart.

Furthermore, to say we should be slow to attribute unfavorable characteristics to individuals based on group affiliation is not to say we must be slow to confront bad ideas, bad policies, and bad history that may exist in those groups. We can ask questions about the nature of policing, or the nature of Islam, or the nature of evangelical Christianity without imputing the worst examples to every police officer, Muslim, or Christian.

Concluding Thought

Several weeks ago, a Juneteenth street party in north Charlotte erupted in violence. Hundreds of shots were fired, with more than a dozen people either dead or wounded. Charlotte City Councilman Malcom Graham, who serves the district where the shooting happened, expressed sadness over the renewed violence in an area that has been making efforts to improve itself. “This does not define us, but is certainly something very tragic,” Graham said. “What happened last night in the city and on that corner, which has a history of being self-sufficient, a lot of good work going on by neighborhood leaders and organizations. Last night certainly won’t define who we are, but certainly it is giving cause for concern about how we conduct ourselves.”

I agree with Councilman Graham. The actions of a few should not define the character of the many. And what goes for north Charlotte, goes for the whole country. At the heart of our current racial tension is a feeling shared by almost everyone: Why are you judging me based on the worst examples of my skin color, my ethnicity, or my profession?

There are 330 million people in this country. If all our thoughts, words, and deeds were known, you could make the case for a horrifically dystopian America. If we look hard enough, we will find justification for our worst fears. We will always have examples of our tribe being picked on by the other tribe. We will always have examples of our side behaving nobly and the other side behaving dastardly. It assures all of us that our preferred narrative is utterly unfalsifiable.

Some of God’s image-bearers commit acts of atrocious wickedness. They should be deterred, denounced, and punished. Some institutions and laws in God’s world are unjust. They should be changed and their affects ameliorated. At the same time, surely loving our neighbors entails giving the benefit of the doubt to others wherever possible—not assuming the worst about the individual and not assuming the worst individual is indicative of the whole group. If we are going to burn the country down—figuratively and literally—every time we see their bad guys doing bad things, we give power to the worst people to set our agenda instead of to the best. We ought to reject any narrative that tells us that “those other people”—black, white, Hispanic, Asian, cops, protesters, Muslims, Christians, Jews, atheists, rich, poor, Republicans, Democrats, conservatives, liberals—are as bad as the worst people of their kind. We should not curse people made in the likeness of God. More than that, we should have a good reason before we castigate them too.

But once these important convictions are quickly affirmed, then what? Can theological reflection—relying on the Bible and the best of the Christian tradition—help us sort through any of the questions that divide us? Do pastors—trained in Greek and Hebrew and steeped in centuries-old creeds and confessions—have anything meaningful to say? Should people who have spent years—in formal education and in daily study—learning 2,000 years of Christian doctrine (and only a few weeks reading articles about police brutality) try to contribute to the discussion?

Recently, I served on our denomination’s study committee dealing with issues of same-sex attraction and identity. These are highly charged, personal issues just like race. But at least in talking about sexuality, one can find immediate help from our confessional documents and from the best of the church’s theological tradition. Christians have done a lot of thinking over the centuries about marriage, sex, desire, temptation, original sin, actual sin, indwelling sin, and progressive sanctification. Even if the reason for the sexuality debate is new, many of the church’s categories and careful nuances—developed over centuries of reflection, argument, and codification—overlap with the most important theological questions Christians are facing.

It feels different with the most vexing racial issues. And on the one hand, it is different. The Bible can tell us about injustice, but it will not tell us what is going on (just or unjust) in American policing. The Bible tells us clearly that racism is a sin, but it will not tell us the reasons for continuing racial disparities. This doesn’t mean Christians shouldn’t write on these issues. We should care about them deeply, read about them widely, and put forward our best arguments with open hearts and with open minds.

• Are black men being killed at alarming rates by police officers, many of whom have been shaped by a policing culture of brutality and dehumanization? Or is there no evidence of anti-black disparities across shootings, and the basic premise that cops disproportionately kill black Americans is false? Or might the truth be somewhere in between, that the police use non-lethal force against blacks in greater numbers, but there are no racial differences in officer-involved shootings? Perhaps that is the way to make the statistics and the stories make sense.
• And how should we understand persistent racial disparities in everything from income and education to health care and home ownership? Does the responsibility for disparate outcomes rest with systems of oppression? Or are disparities largely due to excessive governmental regulation and cultural factors shaped by misguided social policy? Maybe systemic racism isn’t an all-or-nothing proposition or even the best way to describe racialized systems.

These are massively important questions. And even if a basic consensus can be reached that we must do better in the areas above, we then have to determine how policing can be best improved (better training? end qualified immunity? break up police unions? get rid of the bad apples? rebuild from the ground up?) and how disparities can be best reduced (reform the criminal justice system? invest in education? teach personal responsibility?). All that to say, these are difficult, complicated issues, and we should not mistake our preferred YouTube explainer video—from the left or from the right—as the final word on the subject or the way that all good Christians should think.

Need for Theological Reflection

So where is this argument going? My point is not to discourage Christians from caring about these things, becoming experts in these things, and working for change where change is needed. I am not calling for less engagement in the political and civic issues of our day. I am calling for more theological work to be done on a number of related issues. The issues swirling around us are not just about disputing policing data, about which the Bible says nothing. The issues are also about sin and guilt and holiness and justice, topics about which the Bible speaks an authoritative word.

Over the coming weeks I hope to explore several theological issues related to our ongoing racial tensions. I fear that we are going about our business in the wrong order. We start with racial issues we don’t agree on and then try to sort out our theology accordingly, when we should start with our theology and then see how racial issues map onto the doctrines we hold in common. Good theology won’t clear up every issue, but we might be surprised to see some thorny issues look less complicated and more hopeful.

Lord willing—and with the caveat up front that this list could change as we go along—I’d like to write about three topics over the next month:

• The image of God
• Sin and guilt
• Life together in the church

In short, I want to explore how Christian anthropology, hamartiology, and ecclesiology might encourage, confirm, clarify, and correct our thinking.

Concluding Thought

One last personal note as I wrap up this introduction.

I realize there is almost nothing harder to talk about in America than race. The pain is deep, the anger is often justified, and the fear on all sides—of being misunderstood, of being hurtful, of being hurt, of being canceled—is not irrational. For the past several weeks, my head and heart have been in constant turmoil. Like most pastors (or most people for that matter), I have wrestled with what to say and how to say it. Given the complexities and personal intricacies of these issues, I’m hesitant to say anything at all.

There is no way to speak about these issues that can possibly hit all the right notes. Even among those who agree on the same big ideas, there is still the question of what to emphasize and which audience we are trying to reach.

• Are we trying to rebuke neo-Confederate sympathizers?
• Are we trying to guard against a godless, entirely mainstream, leftist agenda seen all around us in sports, media, and entertainment?
• Are we trying to correct Christians who see everything through the lens of electoral politics?
• Are we trying to convince black brothers and sisters that we care and that we are listening?
• Are we trying to help honest Christians worried about mobs and riots?
• Are we trying to encourage godly police officers who feel discouraged and abandoned?
• Are we trying to critique woke pastors dividing their churches?
• Are we trying to critique timid pastors who don’t dare say anything?
• Are we trying to express lament for obvious racial injustices past and present?
• Are we trying to help confused white Christians who wonder if they are guilty of sins they didn’t commit or if they can disagree with any part of the social justice agenda without being racists?

These are all important questions, and one would be right to address any of them. But short of an entire book, it would be hard to meaningfully address all of them. My aim is to work theologically through a few issues, trusting that many of the audiences can be appropriately addressed along the way. No approach will be without its critics. Like everyone else, my read of the current situation depends on an imperfect sense of what I see in my circles, among my friends, and on my social media feed. Inevitably, I will emphasize some points more than others, highlighting those points I think are either underappreciated or misunderstood. I’m sure I won’t say everything that needs to be said.

And yet, sometimes it’s worth saying something even if you can’t say everything. As Christians we should always be eager to reason carefully and winsomely from God’s Word. While I don’t believe every controversial issue surrounding race in this country is theological in nature, I do believe that every culture-wide conflict is bound to have a number of theological issues at its core. The issues in the early church may have looked like practical disagreements about meals and food and ceremonies, but the apostle Paul saw in them the most important issues of the gospel. Paul always brought his best theology to bear on the most intractable problems facing his people. We ought to do the same.

What should we think of America?

In an important sense, that’s not a question I can answer as a pastor. The Bible won’t settle any debates about the meaning of the Constitution or the failure of Reconstruction or the legacy of the New Deal. It’s important to say that up front, lest we make a particular interpretation of American history—either one that sparkles sunshine or one that sees little more than a long list of atrocities—a de facto standard for friendship and fellowship. No American history test is required for entrance into the church universal, and hopefully none is required for our local churches either.

And yet, the issue of race in America—so much in the news these days—is inescapably historical. Anytime we talk about these matters we have in our head some outline of who we are as a country, some sense of where we have been and how far we have (or have not) come. So even though there is no single Christian response, most of us have an answer in our heads already, so we ought to talk about how that answer shapes our thinking and how some answers are better than others. We can be humble about our interpretations without being historical relativists.

So what is my view of America?

Well, it’s complicated. The more you look deeply into any person, any time period, or any nation, the more you realize that the “good guys” and the “bad guys” are usually more of a mixture than we’d like to admit. History on the cheap goes digging through the past with the goal of bringing some weapon of judgment back to the present. A better approach, in the Quentin Skinner school of intellectual history, is to try to “see things their way.” As Christians we are called to love our neighbors as ourselves. That means our dead neighbors too, even the ones we think we wouldn’t have liked very much.

If earlier generations were guilty of telling the American story as nothing but a mighty tale of noble triumph moving from strength to strength, I fear we are in danger of trading one reductionist interpretation for another. To be sure, we need to look injustice squarely in the eye. The slave ships, the beatings, the lynchings, the fire hoses, the Trail of Tears, the internment camps, the dehumanizing treatment that Native Americans and blacks and other minorities (sometimes white) have been made to endure in this country cannot be ignored. This is our history as Americans. We need to own it and grieve over it.

There is also more that must be said. The history of God and race in America is, as Mark Noll puts it, a “tangled history” filled with “moral complexity” (181). On the one hand, the Christian faith has been a prominent feature in American history and has often been a beneficent force at home and abroad. “Christian altruism, Christian philanthropy, Christian consolation, and Christian responsibility are not the only forces for good in American history, but they loom very large and have had very positive effects” (177). And yet, Noll admits that “the American political system and the American practice of Christianity, which have provided so much good for so many people for so many years, have never been able to overcome race” (178). If we are honest about ourselves and honest about our faith, we must conclude that Christianity in America has done much at times to promote racism, while offering hints of redemption as well (181).

Slavery at the American Founding

History is rarely simple, and it is rarely static either. The American experiment is not the story of steady moral uplift and courage nor the story of constant declension and depravity. We must not be ignorant of the contours of our own history, lest we forget, for example, that by the time the Constitution was ratified—effectively the beginning of the United States as truly united states—slavery had been abolished in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and in all the future states north of the Ohio River in the Northwest Ordinance.

As for the Constitution itself, while it was undoubtedly a compromise document that mollified the concerns of Southern slave-holding states, it also held the line—thanks to James Madison—that there would be “no property in man.” At the time of the drafting of the Constitution, Northerners who opposed slavery assumed (wrongly) that slavery would fade away. They did not know that slavery in the South would be revolutionized and re-energized by the invention of the cotton gin in 1793.

To be sure, none of the Founding Fathers got the race question right in the way we wish they would have. They were men of their age, in ways that made them better and worse than our leading thinkers and statesmen today. Nevertheless, it is important to see how the Founding generation was viewed in their own age. The Constitutional provision allowing for the abolition of the slave trade in twenty years was greeted by many free blacks as a great triumph. Two generations later, Alexander Stephens, vice-president of the Confederacy, lamented the fact that the American Founders had believed in the equality of the races, a mistake (as Stephens saw it) that the Southern states would not repeat:

Granted, Stephens was no unbiased interpreter of history. He is surely giving the Founders too much credit, if not in terms of their loftiest ideals, then certainly in terms of their actual practice. But still, his reading of America should not be quickly dismissed. Stephens believed the Confederacy stood for something profoundly different than the vision laid out in the Declaration of Independence. For Stephens, the idea of the Confederacy was fundamentally about the subordination of blacks to whites and the enduring good of slavery, whereas the fundamental idea of the United States was that all men were created equal and that the disagreeable institution of slavery would eventually disappear.

In Frederick Douglass’ powerful Fourth of July address from 1852, he castigated his fellow citizens, and especially the churches, for their failure to mount up with zeal for abolition. “The existence of slavery in this country,” he said, “brands your republicanism as a sham, your humanity as a base pretence, and your Christianity as a lie.” Douglass did not spare his country the verbal chastisement it deserved. And yet, these moral evils were not an indictment of America’s ideals but of its “national inconsistencies.” Although five years earlier in London, Douglass denounced the duplicity of the Founders and the Constitution’s failure to deal honestly with slavery, in his 1852 address he lauded “the fathers of this republic” and “the signers of the Declaration of Independence” as “brave men” and “great men too.” “They were statesmen,” he opined, “patriots and heroes, and for the good they did, and the principles they contended for, I will unite with you to honor their memory.” Douglass’ complaint was not with the Fourth of July and what it stood for, but with the brutal reality that it was not his Indepedence Day and that the “great principles of political freedom and of natural justice” had not been extended to all.

In hindsight, the compromises made at the founding of our country were tragic, but in the 1780s they made sense to most free Americans as necessary provisions for political Union and national unity. Take the mainline Presbyterian church, for example. A resolution from the Synod of New York and Philadelphia (May 16, 1787) approved of “the general principles in favor of universal liberty that prevail in America; and the interest which many of the states have taken in promoting the abolition of slavery.” Although the Synod did not try to dis-fellowship slaveholding churchmen and did not advocate for immediate abolition, it did encourage educating slaves, giving them a share of property, and teaching them to be self-sufficient so that they might be useful freemen someday. Moreover, the Synod went on to “recommend it to all the people under their care to use the most prudent measures, consistent with the interest and the state of civil society, in the parts where they live, to procure, eventually, the final abolition of slavery in America” (emphasis in original).

A More Perfect Union

Obviously, the racial views of many Presbyterians, especially in the South, would get worse instead of better in the nineteenth century. The point is not to exonerate Presbyterians, but to dispute the telling of American history that reads the worst aspects of Southern slavery into our national story from start to finish. In his famous campaign speech on race, then-Senator Barak Obama rejected “the profoundly distorted view of this country” that “sees white racism as endemic, and that elevates what is wrong with America above all that we know is right with America.” The speech, with a nod to the Constitution, was fittingly entitled “A More Perfect Union.” While America at its worst has been brutally far from perfect, that doesn’t mean that in our imperfect Union there is nothing worth celebrating, even when it comes to race.

If we are not careful, we can reinforce racial stereotypes by telling American history as the story of what white people have done to black people in the past and what white people can do to help them in the present. As Shelby Steele argues, blacks have often been rendered a “contingent people” without personal agency in the story of America, a people first oppressed by whites and now dependent upon the goodwill of whites for their success. “Thus it relegated us to the sidelines of our own aspirations” (179). Feelings of white guilt should not obscure the fact that “as a group, black Americans have made the greatest gains, over some of the highest hurdles, and in a shorter span of time than any other racial group in history. . . As such, it speaks to the intestinal fortitude of a people. Just as important, it speaks to the greatness of a nation in which such gains were possible.”

Land of Liberty

The founding documents of this country were based, in part, on a Judeo-Christian understanding of the fallenness of man. That’s why Hamilton believed in checks and balances, and why Madison insisted that ambition must be made to counteract ambition. They did not trust men with too much power. Unfortunately, as is the case with all nations, we have our examples of those in power acting unjustly toward those without power. But that doesn’t make the promise of the Declaration that “all men are created equal” a lie. It makes our national sins more painful.

We do not have to believe we are as bad as we’ve ever been to acknowledge that we aren’t what we can be. There has been racial progress in this country that few whites or blacks would have imagined sixty years ago. Yes, there is still racism and injustice. Yes, there are self-deceptions in every human heart. But there are also declarations in our history that can still inspire. The ideals of liberty and justice for all are not less noble or less indicative of the American story because we have so often failed to live up to them.

The genius of Lincoln and MLK is that they appealed to the best of America instead of the worst. They understood that a relentless focus on America’s original sin without a surpassing hope in America’s original ideals would not move any of us closer to the better angels of our nature or to the dream of being judged by the content of our character instead of the color of our skin. Shame can arouse the conscience, but for the long-haul people need better motivation than disgust and despair. A people cannot long endure without some sense of shared identity and purpose, some sense of mutual striving together, some sense of an idea that defines them. In other words, being an American must mean something, and I still think “We hold these truths” and “We the people” can be that something.

To add insult to injury for many conservatives, the majority opinion was written by Neil Gorsuch, Trump’s celebrated SCOTUS appointee (and note: many Republican Senators are backing the surprise ruling as well). The prospect of a Gorsuch-type justice was the reason many Christians voted for Trump. Many of those voters went to bed on Monday feeling disappointed and disillusioned. I am not making an argument whether it was right or wrong for Christians to vote for Trump in 2016 or whether they should or shouldn’t vote for him in 2020. My point is simply to remind evangelicals that politics and politicians will almost always disappoint. It’s always been a mistake to think we are one president or one Supreme Court justice away from a resounding victory in the culture war. Maybe there are more important ways to promote Christian virtue and preserve Christian orthodoxy in our world.

Some people take Rod Dreher’s Benedict Option to mean a wholesale retreat from the public square. That’s not the way of faithfulness. We must continue to make the case for Christian convictions and continue to be involved in politics, in higher education, in the media, and wherever else we can be a “faithful presence.” But retreat is not really the point of the Benedict Option. Dreher’s point has always been that we must recommit ourselves to strengthening alternative institutions, investing in counter-cultural church communities, and catechizing our own children.

Let me underscore the last item.

I am grateful for serious Christians involved in the political arena. What happens in D.C. matters. Elections have consequences. But families have more. To marshal our energies as if political victories were more important than strengthening the family is a decidedly un-conservative position. I’m not calling for abandoning politics, but I am asking the question, “What does it profit a man if he gets textualists on the Supreme Court but loses his own children?”

Here’s a culture war strategy conservative Christians should get behind: have more children and disciple them like crazy. Strongly consider having more children than you think you can handle. You don’t have to be a fertility maximalist to recognize that children are always lauded as a blessing in the Bible. Maybe on another occasion I’ll write about the triumph of birth control in the 20th century and how it happened with little theological reflection from the church, but for now let me at least nudge you in the direction of John Frame: “It seems to me that birth control is permissible in many situations, but it bears a high burden of proof. It can be a responsible choice, but is probably overused” (786).

As I’ve said before, in the not-too-distant future, the only couples replacing themselves in America will be religious couples. Although there are many good reasons to have a baby, at the end of the day, as Jonathan Last maintains, “there’s only one good reason to go through the trouble a second time: Because you believe, in some sense, that God wants you to” (170). The basic reason countries stop having children is because they’ve come to see offspring as a liability rather than a source of hope. As Christians, we know better.

Do you want to rebel against the status quo? Do you want people to ask you for a reason for the hope that is in you (1 Peter 3:15)? Tote your brood of children through Target. There is almost nothing more counter-cultural than having more children. And once we have those children, there is almost nothing more important than catechizing them in the faith, developing their moral framework, and preparing them to be deeply compassionate lovers of God and lovers of people and relentlessly biblical lovers of truth.

I understand that being a good parent does not guarantee believing children. I understand that many couples will be unable to have all the children they want to have. We have to allow for God to work in mysterious ways that we would not have planned. And yet, in so far as we are able, let us welcome new life and give our children that best opportunity for new birth. Presidents and Supreme Court justices will come and go. A child’s soul will last forever.

The future belongs to the fecund. It’s time for happy warriors who seek to “renew the city” and “win the culture war” by investing in their local church, focusing on the family, and bringing the kingdom to bear on the world, one baby at a time.

In order to understand the mark of the beast in Revelation 13:18, we need to see what is happening in the rest of the chapter. In the first half of chapter 13, we’re introduced to a beast from the sea. This beast is broadly representative of the political sphere. In the second half of chapter 13, we are introduced to a beast from the earth. This beast is broadly representative of the religious sphere. If the first beast is the perversion of the state, the second beast is the perversion of true worship.

With that as a basic outline, let’s go verse by verse through the second half of the chapter.

Then I saw another beast rising out of the earth. It had two horns like a lamb and it spoke like a dragon (v. 11).

This imagery comes from Daniel 8 where Daniel sees a vision of a ram with two horns. That’s where the picture comes from, but what it points to is a counterfeit Christ. This beast looks like Christ, the lamb, but speaks the lies of the dragon, that is, the Devil.

Remember, the first beast is the perversion of the state, and the second beast is the perversion of Christianity. We shouldn’t expect false religion to appear immediately and obviously false. We should expect other religions to talk about love and morality. We should expect there to be many similarities, some real and some perceived, between true Christianity and false Christianity. We should expect false Christian cults and perversions to speak highly of Jesus. We should expect them to talk about the cross. We should expect similar religious language and themes, which is why we must be wise. The beast may look a lamb, but if you are discerning, you will hear that the voice is the voice of a dragon.

It exercises all the authority of the first beast in its presence, and makes the earth and its inhabitants worship the first beast, whose mortal wound was healed (v. 12).

The second beast is an accomplice to the first. He acts on his behalf and leads people to worship him. In the first century there was a large imperial cult. There were priests and sacred rituals and officials insisting on the deity of the emperor. They encouraged, and sometimes made mandatory, the worship of the state. Religion is at its worst when it does nothing but lends credence to and encourages support of the corrupt and blasphemous state.

We all feel the need to experience something bigger than ourselves. We all want to touch transcendence. We were created to worship God. There is something hard-wired in all humans that compels us to search after the divine or find something spiritual. That’s the good news. God made us for God.

The bad news is the human heart is an idol factory. We find God in all the wrong places. The Devil is perfectly happy to have everyone searching for God. He is entirely content to have all of us on a spiritual journey looking for transcendence. There’s a reason hardly anyone is an atheist. The Devil doesn’t care if people believe in God. He just doesn’t want people to believe in and be satisfied in Jesus Christ. So if we can find a religious-like feeling in political activism or spirituality in the entertainment industry or experience transcendence in art or make a god out of the family, then the Devil has won. The second beast lives wherever the Devil entices people to worship something man-made, to make an idolatrous image out of anything other than Jesus Christ, who alone is the image of the invisible God.

It performs great signs, even making fire come down from heaven to earth in front of people, and by the signs that it is allowed to work in the presence of the beast it deceives those who dwell on earth, telling them to make an image for the beast that was wounded by the sword and yet lived (vv. 13-14).

The second beast is a false prophet. Three times, Revelation makes reference to the beast and the false prophet (16:13; 19:20; 20:10). The second beast is the Minister of Propaganda, deceiving people to follow after the first beast. In verse 11, we saw the second beast as a false Christ. Now we see him as a false Elijah. Elijah, you recall, called down fire from heaven to burn up the sacrifices in full view of the prophets of Baal. The beast can do impressive feats just like Elijah. Don’t think false religion will appear worthless. Idolatry will boast of great accomplishments, even miracles. The priests of Egypt had their secret arts too. Don’t be impressed with mere signs unless they point to the Son that you might be impressed with him.

And it was allowed to give breath to the image of the beast, so that the image of the beast might even speak and might cause those who would not worship the image of the beast to be slain (v. 15).

“He was given power to give breath to the image of the first beast.” In other words, the second beast persuades the world that the image of the first beast is truly God. In the first century, this meant that the religious establishment convinced people that they should worship statues and images of Caesar. In our day, the beast may not directly instruct us to worship the state or the president, but he still functions as the mouthpiece for the Devil. He entices us to make money the desire of our hearts. He convinces us that sex will be most fulfilling when it is most free of commitment and ethical norms. He lies to us about the lasting value of fame and power and professional success and academic prestige. The beast gives breath to these things so that they seem god-like in our eyes. We must have them. We will not be happy or fulfilled or valuable without them.

Also it causes all, both small and great, both rich and poor, both free and slave, to be marked on the right hand or the forehead, so that no one can buy or sell unless he has the mark, that is, the name of the beast or the number of its name (vv. 16-17).

No one knows exactly where this imagery comes from or if it even has allusion to anything in the first century. It cold be an allusion to slave’s branding, or soldier’s tattoo, or some practice of compulsory idol worship developing in the first century. Any or all of these may serve as background imagery for these verses, but the mark in reality is not a visible mark. It is an invisible spiritual mark. The righteous and believing have the Father’s name written on their foreheads, and the wicked and unbelieving have the name of the beast. In both case we are talking about a spiritual mark, an invisible stamp of approval. This verse has nothing to do with bar codes or UPC labels or credit card numbers or Social Security numbers. The point of these verses is much simpler: if you don’t compromise with the worldly system, you will suffer. In the first century, this meant that your refusal to worship Caesar (to be spiritually identified with the beast) could mean persecution or discrimination or alienation. The world has a way of operating and when we choose a different way, we must be prepared for setbacks, strange looks, and often shame and suffering.

This calls for wisdom: let the one who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man, and his number is 666 (v. 18).

This is probably the most debated verse in Revelation. It certainly is the verse that has produced the most fruitless debate. All sorts of numerical schemes have been concocted in various languages to try to decode 666. Here’s a list of referents I’ve seen for 666: Caligula, Domitian, Caesar God, Lateinos (the Roman Empire), “beast,” Antemus, Phoebus, Gensericus, Balaam, Mohammed, Martin Luther, Oliver Cromwell, Kaiser (Wilhelm), Hitler, the Nicolaitans, Euanthas, Teitan (Titans), the initials of the Roman emperors from Julius Caesar to Vespasian (minus Otho and Vitellius), the triangular number of 36 which is the triangular number of 8 which is significant because 8 is associated with Gnosticism or because the Antichrist in Revelation 17 is called the eighth king, the Latin Kingdom, the Italian Church, various Popes, all the Popes, the phrase “Vicar of the Son of God” and phrases like it, Ronald Reagan, and William Jefferson Clinton. I’m sure there are more.

All of these solutions are calculated by a process known as gematria. In the ancient world every letter corresponded to a number, just like A might equal 1, and B equal 2, C equal 3, and so on. The numbering scheme was often more complicated, but that’s the idea. Every letter could also be a number, so names could be translated into numbers. Kevin, for example, in our simplified scheme would be 11+5+22+9+14, which equals 61. That’s gematria. And people did use it in the ancient world, more than we think. There’s a text that identifies Jesus’s gematria name as 888, which is supposed to be significant because 8 is the number of re-creation. So through all sorts of complicated gematria calculations in different languages, people have come up with all the names in the list above.

Some of the names in the list are absurd. Most of the interpretations are not widely followed. The only name that has really gotten a strong following is Nero. If you take the Greek Neron Kaisar and transliterate it into Hebrew you get 50+200+6+50 and then 100+60+200, all of which together equals 666.

A possible corroboration for this view can be found in the Latin version of his name. Neron Kaiser transliterated in Latin gives you 616, which is the number of the beast in some alternative manuscripts (also the area code for Grand Rapids, Michigan). Nero fits with the story line of Revelation better than the other alternatives. Nero killed himself in AD 68, but it was rumored that he would come back to life or was still living, just like the beast received a fatal wound that was healed. So, according to many scholars, 666 is most logically a reference to Nero. And by putting Nero in the form of a riddle like this, it protected the Christians from charges of sedition and further persecution.

So the number of the beast could refer to Nero. That’s the most plausible person to be connected with 666. But there are also problems with the calculation.

First, it is far from certain that most of John’s audience would have known Hebrew. Some were probably Jewish Christians who understood Hebrew, but most certainly, many were not. So relying on your readers to not only know gematria but also transliterate a name into another language they may not have known seems like a poor way to communicate, unless John wasn’t interested in his audience knowing the answer to the puzzle.

Second, to come up with 666, you have to spell Neron Kaisar incorrectly in Hebrew. You have to leave out a yodh, which some claim was an acceptable spelling, but it was certainly not the normal usage.

Third, none of the early church fathers calculated Neron Kaisar from 666. There is a fifth-century document that calculates Nero, but it uses the word antichristus to get 616.

Fourth, verse 18 does not call us to solve a riddle. When it says, “let him calculate the number,” the solution is given in the next line. The number is 666. We are not told to solve the question of 666. We are told that 666 is the answer to the question. More on that in a moment.

Fifth, finding hidden, precise meanings in numbers is not the way numbers work in Revelation. The imagery in Revelation is broader and less exact. The church is symbolized with pictures (the 24 elders, the two witnesses, the woman) and a number (144,000). The church age is symbolized by pictures (the measured temple, the trampled witnesses, the woman protected in the wilderness) and numbers (42 months, 1260 days, 3 ½ years). Likewise, false religion is symbolized by a picture (the beast) and a number (666). In each case, the pictures and numbers mean something, but they refer to general truths, not to specific people or referents.

Sixth, if dozens of names can be calculated from 666, how effective is this means of communication? As one author puts it, it doesn’t tell us much that a certain key fits the lock, if it’s a lock that works with almost any key. I once came across these three tongue-in-cheek “rules” for calculating the number of the beast: if the proper name doesn’t work, add a title; if Greek doesn’t work try Hebrew or Latin; if that doesn’t work try a different spelling. That’s more or less the approach most people take, and it yields a hundred different answers.

So if 666 isn’t code for Nero or anyone else, what does it mean?

Here’s my humble opinion (he said humbly!): 666 is not meant to be a riddle hiding the name of the beast; 666 is simply the name and number of the beast. The number 666 is man’s number (cf. 21:17). You could understand this to mean “666 is a number of a man” or “666 is the number of man.” I think it’s the latter.

What have we seen with this second beast? He is a counterfeit. He leads people into false religion. So how do you express numerically counterfeit religion? 7 is the number of perfection and holy completion in the book of Revelation (7 churches, 7 lampstands, 7 eyes, 7 seals, 7 trumpets, and so on). The number 6, then, would be the number of imperfection and unholy incompletion. If 7 is the number for God, then 6 is the number of that most resembles, but is not, God—namely, man.

In other words, 666 is man’s counterfeit to the holy Trinity of 777. The Africa Bible Commentary puts it well:

All of which is to say, whatever you think of the way the medical establishment and the media and our politicians have handled this global pandemic, the mark of the beast is not going to be found in an implanted microchip. If, however, doctors or politicians or members of the media or anyone else, for that matter, elevates himself to a position of Godlike authority and knowledge, then that is what Revelation warns Christians against. Whatever or whomever appears as true Christianity in order to draw us away to some human counterfeit, that is the work of the beast, and his number is 666.

*****

Given the state of everything going on in our world and in our country, we didn’t want to end the podcast abruptly. So let me just try to offer maybe a smattering of thought.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s making this so difficult. And the “this” in that statement refers to racial issues in this country, making sense of what’s happened in the last week, in the last five years, in the last generation. But in particular, thinking about this last week, as we are now on night seven of just mind-boggling destruction in some of our cities. How did we get here? What is going on? I don’t know the answer to that, but here’s just some thoughts.

What Makes This So Hard?

What is making this worse? Maybe that’s the way to say it. What is making this hard situation even harder?

1. There’s a tremendous amount of my-sideism going on. It happens on all sides. It happens with coronavirus, the economy, politics, and now with literal life and death. And though virtually everyone can agree that the death of George Floyd was a murder, and it was an injustice, after that, everything becomes a talking point for one side or the other.

I saw a thoughtful tweet the other day from Phillip Holmes. I appreciated what he said. He pointed out—I’m summarizing now—that something perverse starts to happen in our hearts. You root for the other team to do something evil. He said it’s easy to find in your heart that you want the officer to have turned out to be the worst possible white supremacist. You find in your heart that you want that to be true. Or you find in your heart that you hope George Floyd was on drugs or that he had a police record. You find that in your heart. The human heart wants to find those things because then it can feel like our side doesn’t have egg on its face.

This has been happening for a long time. It’s just been made worse in the last number of years. You want to show that the real people doing all the bad stuff are the anti-fascists or it’s the white supremacists. Those things do matter, but all we’re trying to do is prove that your side is the side that makes everything wrong. And that’s not going to help. That’s one thing. Just the constant my-sideism. We feel like we’re wearing these jerseys, whatever they even represent anymore. We’re just trying to find a way that our side, whatever that is, our side are the ones being victimized, our side are the ones being put out. Your side is the one that’s wrong.

2. The second obvious reason why this is so hard is personal history. This is true any time you talk about race. And I’m not going to pretend to have that history or understand that history, except that I want to listen, and I want to understand, and I want to act appropriately based on what I hear and understand. I know that there comes a point when African American friends and neighbors say okay, we want you to listen and we want you to sympathize and we want you to be with us. So there’s a personal history to it that you can’t do away with, that you don’t want to do away with. You don’t want to look the other way with injustice.

And with that, there’s a tremendous amount of guilt. There’s guilt that white people feel, and we have to be honest with that. Does that mean that every white person who is really adamant about the cause of justice is doing it to assuage white guilt? Well, no. Of course, we’re not impugning people’s motives, but it does mean there’s a personal side to it, whether you’re black or whether you are white. There are intense emotions and experiences, and in some sense we’re trying to prove who we are or who we aren’t. And so it’s never, never just a dispassionate intellectual discussion about facts. We’re always interpreting those facts, so it’s intensely personal.

3. Third, we’ve been in this lockdown. We’ll see in two weeks, I guess, whether the lockdown was really necessary or not, whether all these crowds turn out to be super-spreaders, or whether we were locked down inside and didn’t really need to be. But certainly the lockdown is something of a factor. You have all this stress and you have all this economic upheaval. You’re not supposed to go anywhere or do anything. And now the weather is nice and it’s summer and your pent up. Many of us have been wound up, missing people, on edge already.

4. Four, we are in the fog of war. Now I don’t use “war” literally, and hopefully this doesn’t escalate any further. But I just use that as an expression. Justin has said a number of times that in the fog of war you get all sorts of misinformation. And it may be intentional misinformation, but oftentimes it’s that things are happening quickly which makes it hard to know what is what. It’s all outsiders in Minneapolis, no it’s people from Minnesota—what really is the truth? And so we’re bound to want to believe what our narrative already says is taking place, and there’s so much information that we just don’t know.

5. A fifth thing: this is a really scary time. I was talking to an African American friend. He said, “I’m scared. I’m scared to go out. I’m scared what this means.” Hearing from friends in Minneapolis, they’re scared—not irrationally, but very understandably. People are scared in so many of our cities. And it’s scary to think what’s going to happen. When, and we pray very soon, that these are quelled and they calm down, will the cities evacuate, will the people go out, will crime run rampant?

You see just what a gift civilization is, and that it’s not something that comes naturally. It’s something that has to be worked for and defended and preserved. And it only takes a small handful of people, and perhaps leaders who are not up to the challenge, to see all of this unravel quickly. I don’t mean the whole nation, but I mean a lot of really hard things. So these are scary times. People are angry. And we understand why they are. And they are frightened. And everything is on video. And you have instant communication with everyone. This is a recipe for a difficult time.

Let me offer two more thoughts, a bit more theoretical. I’m thinking more broadly about why race in this country is so difficult, and in particular difficult even between people of good will, between people in your church of a different color. I’m thinking about people who agree on so many other things. And you sing the same songs and you really love Jesus together. And you read the same Bible, and you really are together for the gospel. So why is it so divisive?

6. Well, we’re not sure what our history is in this country. I think everyone acknowledges that our history, like any nation, is filled with high spots and low spots. That’s not a controversial thing to say. There are great accomplishments, and there are great injustices. But beyond those sort of platitudes, is the history of America, and I’m going to put this as neutrally as I can, is the history of America basically 400 years of systemic oppression with white people having all of the benefits and black people being systematically oppressed and treated in inhuman ways such that the founding statements of this country were window dressing for a larger, more nefarious project? Is that our story? There are certainly good things, and we’re thankful for our country, but to tell the story of our country is essentially to tell the story first and foremost of bigotry and everyone who might be complicit in that. That’s one way to tell our national story.

There’s another way to talk about America as a land of hope and opportunity, with many blind spots, grievous ones, that have oftentimes not lived up to our own ideals and the things written down in our founding documents. Nevertheless, you want to say, “I’m proud to be an American.” And on the whole you believe the country has been an exceptional country and one that has been used for good in the world.

Now I know that lots of people will say that they want to say that both of those things are true. Yes, we all understand there’s good and bad in the country. That not controversial. But the basic story that we are telling, I don’t think we agree on. It’s not the point of this podcast to say which is which here, but it’s definitely a factor in what makes these issues so controversial.

7. And then related to that, there is a final point about the current state of racism. And again, I’m talking about Christians, about like-minded people of goodwill and of good faith in the church. We don’t agree on the current state of racism in America.

To put it crudely, suppose that the experience of slavery in this country is measured on a scale from 0 to 100—100 is absolutely horrible racial injustice, bigotry, and evil; and 0 is heaven. We’re not going to have 0 on earth. Say chattel slavery in America was the experience of 90-100. And say, Jim Crow was the experience of 80-90. Now you’re going to get almost everyone to say that some things are better than they used to be. And you’re going to get almost everyone to say, yes, racism still exists in places. Those are big ideas that people can agree on. But if we were to put a number on it, and I know we can’t, but what do we think the state of racism is in America? What is the current state of privileges accrued to whites, the disadvantages and oppression personally or systemically against blacks? If it was 90-100 under slavery and then 80-90 with Jim Crow, is the number now 75, or is it 25?

If we have the number 75 in our head, then that is a framework for interpreting all sorts of other events that happen—events that are not stand-alone events but are part of a broader narrative from slavery to the failure of reconstruction to Jim Crow to redlining to mass incarceration to police brutality. And it fits in this narrative story. I’m not using any of those terms pejoratively.

But likewise, if somebody thinks, well, racism still exists but it’s going down overall. Maybe we’re at a 30 or a 25 or a 20. Then they will see these incidents as stand-alone incidents, and they’ll see bad cops as the exception with mostly good cops, and they’ll see some bad experiences and tragedies and injustices, but that won’t be the story at large. That’s not mainly what’s happening in America.

Now you’re saying, “Kevin, you’re just laying out these options and you’re not telling us what you think.” And I’ll just be honest, I do not know. I don’t what the number is or how to put a number on it. I know I can’t make my experience and what I’ve seen to be the total sum of the American experience. I know what I hear from others, I know what I read, and to be honest, I want to learn and listen and try to make sense of it. Because I think that at the heart of a lot of disagreement is a different conception of what the state of the country is, in the church at least, where the country is at present. We can agree on the death of George Floyd; it was wrong and an injustice. But the broader story of what’s going on is one that we’re not sure about and we don’t agree on.

And because the whole issue comes up in these moments of great emotion and tragedy, it never really feels like now is a good time to talk about history and look at economics and look at studies. All that then seems out of place. But I think we need to have the sort of trust and love and fellowship with one another, that even if we don’t agree on whether the number is 75 or the number is 25, that we do at least look together and try to assess as best we can the facts before us. For all those reasons I think this is intractably difficult.

What We Can Do

Okay, I’m going to wrap up this long-winding monologue. Let me end with something, perhaps a little more positive. I know sometimes we need to stare at the negative before we can look at the positive, but I want to leave you with three quick thoughts and maybe some encouragement.

1. We ought to conside—-and I know there are people overseas listening to this, but I’m thinking about Americans—we ought to consider that we don’t know what is real America. I don’t want to gloss over major flaws and faults. Over this past week, as you look through social media, you would find stories of black protestors protecting a white police officer because they’re protesting in good faith. They’re protesting for change and to be heard, not for violence. You hear stories of a white sheriff who gets down and marches with the protestors and says, “I love you, I’m listening to you, I want to change.”

What happened in Minneapolis is wrong. So, is that America? Is that the state of race relations? Again, not saying that the bad stories aren’t true, but let’s not go to the other side and say that none of the good stories is true either or that they won’t tell us anything about what it’s like in America. It’s so easy to take the worst of the stories and the worst injustices and the worst incidences and the worst sorts of people and figure, well, that’s what it’s like. We’re not going to hear about the thousands of people from all over Minneapolis who got up the next morning, from churches and probably from synagogues and from all walks of life, and started cleaning up the streets. We’re not going to know their names. So what is the real America? We don’t have to settle that it’s just the worst pictures and the worst stories that we see.

2. The second thing is: let’s not miss what we really do agree on. I went through a bunch of things that we may not agree on. We may not tell the history of America the same way. We may not assess the current state of racism in America in the same way. But don’t miss that it is something—and it is a change from 50, 60 years ago—virtually everyone wants an end to police brutality, wants to end to racism. We want people to be valued, to be treated the same way. We don’t want people to be fearful for their lives. We don’t want there to be unnecessarily harsh interactions with police officers. We don’t want stores to be looted and destroyed. We don’t want police officers to be spat upon. Now you can find people in extremes in either direction who say, “I do want those things and it’s part of the revolution.” But look, that’s not where most everyone is.

So let’s not miss what we do really agree on. If coming out of this can be a real heartfelt effort to say, we don’t want this to happen again—and there are 330 million human beings in this country, so bad things will happen again—but if we can agree on the ideal we want, then let’s find ideas out there and ways to make it better. I think there’s a great amount of will to see these things. There’s all sorts of things we don’t agree on, and we’re so easily polarized and politicized. But there are a great number of the most important things that, if we could get the my-sideism out of it, we do really want to see happen.

3. And then as Christians we can pray. And I know that this is going to sound like, “Well, Kevin, you’re being a Pietist here.” But I saw Karen Ellis tweet this today and she said, “Don’t let people tell you that prayer isn’t doing something.” There may be things to do after you pray, but we know as Christians that to pray is to work. Prayer is wrestling against not just the flesh and blood but against the powers and principalities. Prayer is not just thoughts. It’s not mindfulness. It’s talking to the God of the universe who cares about us and cares about his creation and care about those made in his image and, yes, cares about the United States of America.

And so we pray, and we pray in Jesus name, believing that God will listen. And we pray for humility. Before we think of all the sins that someone else has to repent of and all the ways that they’re benighted in their thinking, what if we would start and would pray for a week—I’ve found that this is one prayer that the Lord always answers in my life—Lord, show me my sin. What have I missed? Expose the dark places of my heart. Would you give me humility towards others? And then, what can I do, knowing that we have different vocations, have different spots in life? Knowing someone who’s doing legislation on Capitol Hill has a different calling than someone who’s busy at home as a mom—but what might I be able to do?

4. This is the last thing I promise: love. I know that sounds like I’m doing a Beatles song, “All You Need Is Love.” But, look, don’t let the world steal that word from the church. I know sometimes, perhaps fairly, Christians can get criticized for only thinking in a personal dimension. So I’m not suggesting that we just go out and hold hands with neighbors (from six feet away!) and all the problems just go away. I get it, there’s culture, there’s legislation, there’s all sorts of things. But look, if we as Christians get to a point where we’re embarrassed to say, “Love is what we need to do,” then we’ve missed what it means to be a Christian.

Love God and love your neighbor. And we know as Christians, we know the definition of love. And it’s not unconditional affirmation. It’s not just warm squishy feelings. Love means you’re patient and you’re kind. You do not envy others. You don’t want to take away blessings that they have. You don’t boast like the blessings you have are because you deserved them. You’re not arrogant. You’re not rude toward other people. You don’t insist on your own way. You want to listen. You want to learn. You want to understand. You come with a posture of humility. You’re not irritable. You’re not resentful. You don’t rejoice at wrongdoing. You’re not looking for the other side to screw up because then it makes your side look better. And you don’t want to rejoice with wrongdoing because that’s a point for our side. But you rejoice with the truth, wherever the truth comes from and whoever says it. You want the truth.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three. But the greatest of these is love. And we know love because the Lord Jesus loved us first and gave his life as a propitiation, a wrath atoning sacrifice, when we deserved the Father’s just anger against us, when we deserved to be treated as criminals, when we had nothing to our account that we should be given a second chance or a millionth chance. Because of his great love with which he loved us, while we were yet sinners, Christ loved us and he gave up his life for us. And so we who have been loved surely ought to love one another.

This was my pastoral prayer from yesterday. After hearing from several people in my church who asked for a copy of the prayer, I decided to post the video and a transcript of the prayer here on my blog.

O great God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God who created all things, the God above all gods, the God who was, and is, and is to come, the God who never changes, the God who never slumbers nor sleeps, the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us.

We are in the midst of a global pandemic. More than 100,000 lives lost in this country alone. We hear of new cases, new hospitalizations, new deaths each day.

Lord have mercy.

In the last three months 40 million Americans have entered the ranks of the unemployed. Many who still have a job are scared. Others are anxious, depressed.

Lord have mercy.

As states re-open some cities and neighborhoods, even some families and churches, are sniping at each other over masks or no masks, re-open quickly or re-open slowly, COVID is worse than you think or this has been a massive over-reaction.

Lord have mercy.

As Christians, we have grieved to be separated from the people we love and care for. We have been forced to give up meeting together for a time. So much about ministry seems harder, more uncertain, less fulfilling. We don’t fully know when normal will return, or what normal will look like, or what to do in the meantime.

Lord have mercy.

On Monday, a white police officer in Minneapolis put his knee on the neck of George Floyd for eight minutes, murdering a black man made in the image of God, while three other officers did nothing to stop the injustice.

Lord have mercy.

The anger and fear and pain felt in the black community isn’t prompted by this one incident alone. It comes out of the legacy of slavery, and Jim Crow, and too many times where power and force were used against them in ways that are evil and unjust.

Lord have mercy.

Every time we witness another tragedy like this we know it makes the difficult and honorable job of law enforcement almost impossible. Many police officers–risking their lives to serve and protect–will suffer unfairly because of actions done a thousand miles away, actions they condemn, actions outside their control.

Lord have mercy.

And now we see dozens and dozens of our great cities are torn apart by senseless destruction and violence. Businesses have been burnt down. Grocery stories destroyed. Neighborhoods ruined. Lives threatened or lost.

Lord have mercy.

You have our attention. O God, give us ears to hear. What do you want to say to us in your Word? What should we do? What needs to change? How can we help?

Let us do as our own catechism instructs us and obey the sixth commandment by preserving the life of ourselves and others, but resisting all thoughts and purposes, subduing all passions, and avoiding all occasions, temptations, and practices which tend to the unjust taking away the life of any. Let our lives be marked by charitable thoughts, love, compassion, meekness, gentleness, kindness, peaceable, mild, and courteous speeches and behavior. Let us forbear with others and demonstrate a readiness to be reconciled, and a patient enduring and forgiving of injuries. Let us comfort the distressed and protect and defend the innocent (WLC 135).

We pray for justice for the murder of George Floyd. We pray for those living in utter chaos and darkness in Minneapolis and St. Paul, or facing the loss of property or loss of life in Atlanta, Portland, Los Angeles, Seattle, Louisville, for facing rising tensions in Oakland, San Jose, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Chicago, Washington, D.C., New York City, and here in Charlotte. We pray for repentance for those who sinned against George Floyd, those who have responded in sin, and those of us—perhaps all of us—who have harbored sin in our hearts toward those who seem to be on the other side, part of the other team, those who vote for the other party.

We pray for whatever necessary reforms might give hope and healing and and dignity and the feeling of safety fo our black brothers and sisters, especially here in our church. We pray for bravery and safety, and fortitude for our law enforcement officers, especially here in our church. We pray for the mayor of Charlotte, Vi Lyles, and CMPD Police Chief Putney. Give them wisdom, strength, integrity, grace as they lead through these difficult days.

We pray for our political, religious, and civic leaders. May they be humble, honest, measured, principled, open to good ideas wherever they come form, self-sacrificing, disciplined, courageous, and compassionate. Where we have such leaders may we listen to them and follow them. Where our leaders do not exhibit these qualities, help them to change and repent. We seek the peace of our city and all the cities of this great country.

We weep. We lament. We mourn. But not as those who have no hope.

May gospel beauty rise from these smoldering, literal ashes. May truth triumph over lies and grace conquer lawlessness. May your people be one as you, O Father, and your Son are one. May the church—the body of Christ, the bride of Christ—rise up as an example of love and with a message of salvation for a weary and war-torn world. Give us grace to serve you, O God, and, if necessary, grace to suffer for what is right. Give us the peace and health and safety we do not deserve. Give us the reformation and revival we need.

Lord have mercy.

You can tell a lot about a book by its introduction. Read the first few sentences of a fairy tale, a memoir, or a logic textbook, and you will instinctively know that there are certain “rules” for interpreting these works correctly. A good introduction helps us approach the rest of the book in the right way. That’s what the introduction to Revelation does. It orients us to the type of literature we are about to encounter.

In particular, the first three verses of Revelation tell us three important things about the type of book we are reading. Revelation is an apocalypse, a prophecy, and a letter.

Apocalypse

The word “revelation” is simply the English translation of the Greek word apokalupsis found at the beginning of verse 1. The book of Revelation is about the uncovering or the unveiling of what must soon take place. To be sure, in some ways, this is a mysterious and difficult book. But we must remember, Revelation is not meant to shroud the truth but to reveal it. God means for us to understand this book.

“Apocalyptic” can sound like an intimidating word, but all we need to understand that as an apocalypse, Revelation is a book of showing. That’s what makes it so intriguing and so tricky. The book doesn’t give us precise legal codes; it gives us verbal pictures. “The revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave him [Jesus] to show to his servants the things that must soon take place” (Rev. 1:1). It’s important to note that John doesn’t draw us a picture of what he saw or act it out in a play. He expects his visions to be read and heard. We are still dealing with text. But don’t look past the obvious: Revelation is a book of showing. The verb “to see” appears 52 times in Revelation. We are meant to “see” what we read on the pages.

We should look at the visions of Revelation as we would look at portraits in an art gallery. Revelation is not given as sequential clips from a movie, but as self-contained portraits that often show the same thing in a different way. The word most scholars use is “recapitulation.” It means that Revelation is not a chronological road map from chapters 4 to 22, but a series of visions that overlap and repeat. The seven seals are a portrait, and the seven trumpets are another portrait, but they do not necessarily follow one after the other.

Let me see if I can explain this recapitulation better by giving you some examples. Look at Revelation 11:15-18. It’s clearly a picture of final judgment for all people, the righteous and the wicked, the small and the great. Compare these verses with Revelation 20:11-15, which is clearly another picture of final judgment. It will be difficult to make sense of these sections if we think one follows chronologically after the other. We aren’t watching a movie unfold in real time; we are looking at different portraits of the same reality.

You could also look at Revelation 16:17 where the seventh angel pours out his bowl and says, “It is done!” Then in 21:6, he who sits on the throne says, “It is done!” If chapter 21 occurs temporally after chapter 16, we are left with a lot of confusion. God declares “It is done” in two different places. But if Revelation is full of recapitulation, this is not a problem.

Here is one more pair of verses: Revelation 6:12-17 and 16:18-20. In both sections we encounter the day of God’s wrath with a cataclysmic earthquake, islands fleeing, and mountains removed from their place. How can the earth crumble to pieces two times? It doesn’t. But in Revelation, we often have two different portraits of the same event.

We can’t read Revelation like every other book. Revelation is a book of symbols in motion. The graphic images and pictures (given with words) point to a deeper reality. The seven stars are angels, and the seven lampstands are seven churches (1:20). The seven heads are seven hills (17:9). The prostitute is a great city (17:18). Fine linen stands for the righteous acts of the saints (19:8). The ancient serpent is the Devil (20:2). Unless we are prepared to look at Revelation symbolically—in pictures—we will miss the point.

Because Revelation is a showing book, full of symbols, numbers play a crucial role. John doesn’t use numbers as secret codes to crack but as signs of completeness, totality, and perfection (or the lack thereof). Three numbers are particularly important: seven, four, and twelve.

Seven is the number of completeness, especially in a spiritual sense. Thus, John writes to seven churches (real churches) as a representation of all churches. Likewise, we see seven spirits, seven judgments (in the seals, trumpets, and bowls), and seven lamps. The phrase “Lord God Almighty” occurs seven times (1:8; 4:8; 11:17; 15:3; 16:7; 19:6; 21:22), as does the phrase “the one who sits on the throne” (4:9; 5:1, 7, 13; 6:16; 7:15; 21:5) and the word “Christ” (1:1, 2, 5; 11:15; 12:10; 20:4, 6).  Prophecy is mentioned seven times (1:3; 11:6; 19:10; 22:7, 10, 18, 19). Peoples, tribes, languages, and nations are mentioned seven times (5:9; 7:9; 10:11; 11:9; 13:7; 14:6; 17:15). The Spirit/Holy Spirit is mentioned seven times in relation to the seven churches and another seven times in the rest of the book (1:10; 4:2; 14:3; 17:3; 19:10; 21:10; 22:17). Jesus is used 14 times (7 x 2), and Christ is called the Lamb twenty-eight times (7 x 4).

The number four points to universality or worldwide scope. That’s why we read of four living creatures, four horsemen, the four corners of the earth, the four winds, and the four-fold phrase “people, tribe, language, and nation.” Similarly, the phrase “the one who lives forever” appears four times (4:9, 10; 10:6; 15:7) as does “seven spirits” (1:4; 3:1; 4:5; 5:6) and references to lightning, sounds, and thunder from the throne (4:5; 8:5; 11:19; 16:18).

The number 12 and its multiples indicate the fullness of God’s people. Hence, we have 12 tribes and 12 apostles. We read of 24 (12 x 2) thrones and 24 elders. We see God’s people symbolically depicted as 144,000 (12 x 12 x 1000). And in the depiction of the New Jerusalem where God’s people dwell for all eternity, the number 12 occurs 12 times.

You get the picture (pun intended). Revelation, as an apocalypse, is a book of symbols and a book of showing.

Prophecy

Revelation is also a prophecy (1:3; 22:7), and as such, it’s rooted in Old Testament imagery. We will misread Revelation if we try to find referents from our day instead of first of all seeing allusions from the Old Testament. Think of all the Old Testament imagery that Revelation borrows: the tree of life, the ancient serpent, the plagues, the Song of Moses, Jezebel, Babylon, the temple, Jerusalem, the 12 tribes of Israel, priests, incense, Balaam, the water of life, the winepress of God’s wrath, and on and on and on. Even though Revelation is about the future, it, more than any other book in the New Testament, only makes sense when seen through the eyes of the past. A list of Old Testament allusions and parallels in Revelation would fill several pages, with around 500 references.

Moreover, Revelation is not just steeped in Old Testament imagery, it is the fulfillment of Old Testament prophecy. Think, for example, of the connection between Revelation and the book of Daniel. In Daniel 2 Daniel interprets a dream for King Nebuchadnezzar. In his dream Nebuchadnezzar sees a large statue made of gold, silver, iron, and clay. The statue is broken to pieces by a rock that then becomes a huge mountain that fills the whole earth. The four metals are four kingdoms, and the rock is a final kingdom set up by God that will destroy all the other kingdoms and never be destroyed. In Daniel 2:28 Daniel says, “God has shown King Nebuchadnezzar what will happen in days to come.” And in verse 29 he says, “The revealer of mysteries showed you what is going to happen.” This language is similar, and identical in parts, to the language used in Revelation 1:1, except this time John speaks of a revelation that God gave to show what must soon take place. The phrase “what must soon take place” is used four times in Revelation, and the connection with Daniel is deliberate. What Daniel interpreted as going to happen in latter days is now close and even at hand. The appointed time when God would set up his divine everlasting kingdom—that rock that destroyed the statue of gold, silver, iron, and clay—has arrived.

Let me highlight one more connection, this time between the end of Daniel and the end of Revelation. In Daniel 12:4 Daniel is told, “But you, Daniel, close up and seal the words of the scroll until the time of the end.” In Revelation 22:10 John is told, “Do not seal up the words of the prophecy of this book, because the time is near.” You can hear the similar language. But, whereas Daniel was told to seal it up until the end, John was told to keep it open, because the time is near. What Daniel saw was coming to culmination in John’s day. What had been far off was now near at hand.

This means we are in the end times/last days and have been for years (cf. Acts 2:17; 1 Tim. 4:1). This doesn’t mean the end of the world is tomorrow. The “end times” or the “last days” is the designation for the time following the triumph of Jesus Christ on the cross. A new day has dawned in salvation history. That’s the point of the connections between Daniel and Revelation. The divine kingdom that would destroy all other kingdoms has already come—it is at hand. But it is not yet fully established. The prophecy of Daniel and the whole Old Testament, really, has come to its zenith in Revelation. The triumph of the Son of Man, the coming of the divine kingdom, and the salvation of the righteous, and the judgment of the wicked have already occurred, and they are not yet completed. In other words, the time that John saw as soon to appear has not been fully realized, but it has been inaugurated.

If all this sounds confusing, it’s because most of us don’t understand how multi-layered biblical prophecy is. Most prophecy in the Bible works by speaking to the immediate context and spinning out into the future. Most prophecy has an already and not-yet fulfillment.

For example, Isaiah 40:3-5 says, “A voice of one calling: In the desert prepare the way for the LORD; make straight in the wilderness a highway for our God. Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain. And the glory of the LORD will be revealed, and all mankind together will see it.” What is Isaiah talking about? Well, he’s talking about the return from exile in Babylon, but he’s also thinking of a deliverance more complete. Therefore, when the Gospels see in John the Baptist the fulfillment of Isaiah 40, they aren’t making things up. They are seeing the fulfillment of God’s ultimate salvation. The New Testament writers understood—as the Old Testament prophets did—that prophecy usually has a near-term and long-term fulfillment.

It’s as if a prophet came to America after 9-11 and said, “Hear, O my people, in America. Your days of fear will soon be over. I will topple Hussein. Bin Laden will I find out. Baghdad will be a haunt of jackals and Al-Qaeda a wasteland. No more will terror strike your land. Mothers will no longer weep. Children will not be fatherless. I will deliver you from all your sorrows. Death shall be destroyed, and your punishment ended. I will be among you always. I am the Lord your God, and there is no other.” Obviously, that’s not a real prophecy. But since it deals with familiar people and places, we can more easily hear near-term and long-term fulfillment. My made-up prophecy speaks hope into the immediate context, but the language is also so exalted and otherworldly as to point us to a later, fuller fulfillment. That’s how prophecy worked in the Old Testament and how it is fulfilled in Revelation.

Letter

Revelation is an apocalypse, a prophecy, and a letter. It is a letter written by John and sent to seven real churches. Some of the churches were under attack: spiritually, physically, and materially. And some of the churches were knee-deep in compromise and worldliness. The message that this letter conveyed was, above almost all else, an exhortation to overcome. “Don’t give up. Don’t give in. Jesus has won the victory. Live like him. Die like him. But do not succumb to the devil and the world.”

Revelation was probably a circular letter meant to be read at one church and then sent on to the next. Revelation would be read in a worship service, probably in one sitting. Much of the congregation would have been illiterate. They couldn’t have studied the letter even if they had a copy, so the church would listen as the reader read.

You might think, But how could they possibly understand a book like this? They didn’t have commentaries, or concordances, or Bible software, or inductive training methods, or even a Bible to follow along in! But they did have several advantages we don’t have.

First, they didn’t have TVs, movies, and the internet, so they were probably just plain better at learning with their ears.

Second, they probably knew the Old Testament better than we do.

Third, they didn’t need a translation.

Fourth, they lived in the world and culture in which the letter was written. That’s a huge advantage. No matter how brilliant and diligent our study, we will never be able to know the world of first-century Asia Minor as well as the people who lived in it. I’m sure there were all sorts of idioms, symbolisms, and referents that we struggle to uncover that they would have known instantly. We have to read big fat books to figure these things out, but things would have been much clearer had you been sitting in the First Church of Smyrna.

This isn’t to make us despair of understanding Revelation. With a good knowledge of the Old Testament and some historical knowledge, we can understand this book. After all, God gave it to us to show his servants what must soon take place. The point I am trying to reinforce is that we must not forget Revelation was a real letter to real people. It was written for a first-century audience. Now, it still has significance for us, but it was first of all written to seven churches in Asia Minor who lived in the first century, understood Greek, and were threatened by persecution and tempted to compromise. While it’s quite possible for Revelation to signify more than first-century Christians could fully understand, it must never mean less. As a letter, our interpretations of Revelation must be constrained by John’s authorial intent and the original audience’s ability to make sense of what was written.

It may be helpful, then, to understand what kind of book Revelation is and how to make sense of imagery like the mark of the beast. We’ll get to the mark of the beast in the third and final installment of this short series. But before we get there I want to take a couple posts to look at what Revelation is all about and how we should interpret this not-as-strange-as-it-seems book.

Big Picture

Probably no book of the Bible has been harder for Christians to understand and, as a result, produced more bizarre theology than the book of Revelation. Although it is called “revelation,” it has been anything but a revelation for many Christians. It is a closed book for many of us, not correcting, not teaching, not rebuking, not training in righteousness like all Scripture should.

I remember teaching through part of Revelation for a Sunday school class several years ago and telling my mom about it over the phone. She said something like, “Kevin, you’re not going act like you have everything figured out are you? John Calvin didn’t even write a commentary on Revelation. You don’t know more than John Calvin, do you?” It is true that Calvin did not write a commentary on Revelation (one of the few books he didn’t write on), and it’s true that I don’t have everything figured out. But most of Revelation can be understood and applied if we will take the time to study it.

In fact, the entire book of Revelation can be summed up in one word: nike. Nike is the Greek word for victory. It occurs one time in the New Testament—1 John 5:4 states, “This is the victory that has overcome the world, even our faith.” Another form of the word (nikos) appears four other times, three times in 1 Corinthians 15 (e.g., “Death has been swallowed up in victory;” “He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ”). The verb form, nikao (meaning to conquer, to overcome, to triumph), occurs more frequently—28 times. Seventeen of those occurrences, more than in the rest of the New Testament combined, are in Revelation.

Revelation is the story of the Devil trying to conquer the church, but the church overcomes the Devil and the world because she belongs to the Lord who has won for us the victory (Rev. 5:5; 17:14). The book of Revelation gives instruction for the believer on how to conquer instead of being conquered, how to triumph instead of being trampled, and how to be an overcomer instead of a succumber. That’s why each of the seven letters to the seven churches concludes with “to the one who conquers . . .” If we cave and give in to persecution and give into worldliness and give into the Devil’s temptations, we will lose. But if we overcome through trial and suffering and seeming irrelevance, we will win (Rev. 21:6-7). That’s where history is heading, and that’s the big idea of Revelation.

(Possible) Map for the (Seeming) Madness

There is no one inspired way to understand the structure of Revelation. When studying this book in-depth several years ago, I found 11 different outlines, which suggests there probably isn’t one obvious structure we’re supposed to see.

One simple approach is to see Revelation as divided into two main sections. Chapters 1-11 introduce the story of God’s triumph, and chapters 12-22 explain the story in greater detail, this time unveiling in more depth the role of evil through the beast, the false prophet, and the whore of Babylon.

Another way of approaching the book is to divide it into four main sections, each marked off by the phrase “what must soon take place” or “what must take place after this.”

The language in these four passages comes from Daniel 2 and indicates that Old Testament prophecy is already and not yet completed in Revelation.

There’s another way to outline the book into four main sections. This approach marks out the times John says he was caught up in the Spirit.

By this reckoning, Revelation consists of four main visions that John saw while he was in the Spirit on four different occasions.

Yet one more way of approaching the book—and the approaches are not mutually exclusive—is to look for sets of sevens. Everyone recognizes that seven is a crucial number in Revelation, and that there are at least four sets of sevens: seven letters, seven seals, seven trumpets, and seven bowls. This much everyone agrees on. But from here things get less clear. Since there are plainly at least four sets of sevens, many scholars have wondered if we are meant to see seven sets of sevens. I am convinced there are seven sets of sevens, but I certainly wouldn’t be dogmatic about it. My outline, which is similar to outlines I’ve seen from others, looks like this:

Prologue: 1:1-8
I. Seven letters: 1:9-3:22
II. Seven seals: 4:1-8:5
III. Seven trumpets: 8:6-11:19
IV. Seven visions: 12:1-15:4
V. Seven bowls: 15:5-16:21
VI. Seven judgments: 17:1-19:10
VII. Seven last things: 19:11-21:8
VIII. The beautiful bride: 21:9-22:21

You’ll notice there is an eighth section that is not a set of seven. An eighth section makes sense because eight is often the number of new creation in the Bible (Jesus rose on the eighth day/first day of a new week, eight people started the new humanity after the flood, sons were to be circumcised on the eighth day), and this eighth section is about the new heavens and new earth. But there is nothing inspired about the outline above. It’s just one way of making the book more manageable and putting together some possible patterns with some obvious ones.

Our Interpretive Lens

The last thing I want to do in this post is look at the various ways Christians have understood Revelation. There are four main schools of thought.

The first school of interpretation is called preterism. The preterist approach teaches that a large portion of the book of Revelation was fulfilled in the first century, specifically in the destruction of the temple in AD 70. Further, most of the prophecies in Revelation were fulfilled by the fall of the Roman Empire in the fifth century.

The strength of the preterist school is that it puts Revelation in its original context. Revelation was written to first-century Christians with first-century metaphors and imagery and referents. If we jump to the 21st century and ask, “What does this mean for me?,” we will almost surely get the wrong answer. We have to first ask, “What did this mean to them, to John’s original audience?”

Preterism is not without weaknesses. First, some preterists try to find a single, specific fulfillment to the prophecies of Revelation when it seems more likely that John’s visions often portray generalized spiritual battles and struggles that occur throughout the ages. Second, full-blown preterists argue that all of the end-time events, like the second coming and the last judgment, actually were fulfilled by AD 70. This does not seem in keeping with the cataclysmic language used at the end of each sequence.

The second school of interpretation is called historicism. The historicist reads Revelation as a straightforward, sequential roadmap of history. Revelation is seen as predicting any number of key historical figures and events from Napoleon to Hitler to the European Union to the United Nations.

The strength of historicism is that it makes Revelation relevant for all Christians. It focuses our attention not on the fall of the temple or on the Roman Empire but on the way of the church in the world.

But besides this strong point, historicism is the worst way to try to understand Revelation. It is full of weaknesses. Let me quickly mention just four.

First, historicism is often anachronistic and takes Revelation out of its original context. I am thinking of those who argued that the country out of the north (from Daniel, not Revelation) must be Russia, or that the locust swarm from Revelation 9 is foretelling a helicopter battalion. These sorts of interpretations completely ignore the imagery of ancient prophecy and the context of the first century.

Second, historicism, with its end-of-the-world predictions and identifications of the beast, has often been demonstrably wrong. During the cold war, people saw Russia in Revelation. A decade ago they saw Iraq. Now they see the coronavirus. In a few years, they will be on to something else. Historicists tend to see Revelation being fulfilled in whatever crisis is pertinent for the day. And then on another day, another group of historicists see that view was wrong and find something completely different.

Third, historicism limits the prophecies of Revelation to one exclusive location or personality instead of allowing that the imagery of Revelation may be well suited to an inclusive number of different figures and times. That is, I think historicists are right to see Revelation unfolding in history, but they are wrong to think that Revelation is uniquely unfolding in one historical moment.

Fourth, historicism is irreducibly subjective. There is simply no objective standard of interpretation. Who’s to say that Hitler was more the beast than Stalin? Or that 666 is a reference to Bill Clinton (as one website I found argues)? Or, as another article maintains, that Ronald Wilson Reagan (six letters in each of his names!) was the beast? It’s all hopelessly subjective. The text ends up saying anything we want it to.

The third school of interpretation is futurism. The futurist reads Revelation (chs. 4-22) as a prophecy solely concerned with the distant future. The events depicted refer to the time involving, or immediately preceding, the end of history. Dispensationalists are futurists (though not all futurists are dispensationalists).

The strength of futurism is that it emphasizes how Revelation speaks to the future, not just about the past. Futurism is right to see that some things in Revelation deal with the final consummation of human history. Futurists are also right to see that the future is moving somewhere, toward the triumph of the Lamb.

But futurism also has weaknesses.

First, if Revelation 4-22 is entirely and only about the distant future, then most of Revelation was barely relevant to its original readers. Sure, it would have helped them see the end of the world, but it really spoke little into their immediate context (when John says Revelation revealed “what must soon take place”).

Second, futurism often assumes a strict sequential chronology. And yet, we cannot assume that what is shown to us in chapter 12 comes in time after what we see in chapter 6. To the contrary, one of the keys to interpreting Revelation is to understand that its visions are recapitulated. So, Revelation gives us a sweep through history in the seven seals, and then does the sweep again in the seven bowls. Revelation comprises overlapping prophecies that go back and forth between the present and the future and are not strictly chronological.

Don’t think of the visions of Revelation as frames from a movie reel running through the light one after the other. Think of the visions as portraits in a gallery. You look at one portrait and get a glimpse of reality, and then you look at the next portrait, and then you walk over to the next room and look at the portraits over there. They are pictures telling the same story and pointing to the same reality, but they aren’t sequential clips from a movie.

The fourth school of interpretation is idealism. The idealist reads Revelation as a symbolic conflict between the forces of good and evil. Revelation, idealists argue, does not point to particular historical figures but depicts the timeless struggle between God and Satan. It interprets Revelation as a series of repeated symbolic pictures, focusing on the church’s triumphant struggle from the first century until the last judgment and the eternal state.

The strength of idealism is that is understands the symbolic nature of Revelation. It realizes that Revelation’s imagery is rooted first in Old Testament language and second in the known world of the first century. The other strength is that it sees behind the first-century context deeper spiritual realities that would outlive and transcend ancient Rome and remain relevant for believers throughout the ages.

The weakness of idealism is that it can at times under-emphasize the fact that all of history is moving somewhere. That is, idealism sometimes sounds vague, as if there were no end point in history as we know it, as if Revelation was just about the struggle between good and evil and not also about the ultimate triumph of Jesus Christ.

Interpret the Book

So what approach do I think helps us best understand Revelation? I think each approach offers something needed. This doesn’t mean that I think every approach is good or that one is not better than another (I’m basically an idealist with a partial preterist bent). But each school of interpretation does offer something important.

With the preterist, we must read Revelation in its immediate context.

With the idealist, we must look at Revelation as a symbolic portrayal of God’s work, most of which can be applied to any historical time.

With the futurist, we must read Revelation with end of history in mind, recognizing that the book depicts, in parts, the second coming, the final judgment, and the eternal state.

And with the historicist, we must understand that the prophecies of Revelation, though they are not limited to one particular occurrence, are fulfilled in time and space.

The best way to defend one’s interpretive grid is to actually interpret the book. But since this is a three-part blog series and not a 50-part sermon series, we will have to settle for just one more post on the subject. In the first three verses, John makes clear that this book is an apocalypse, a prophecy, and a letter. Once we know what each of the terms entail, we will be better equipped to understand the book as a whole and specific imagery like the mark of the beast.

Having triumphed over death and the devil in his resurrection, Christ ascended into heaven locally, visibly, and bodily—locally in that he spatially left earth below for heaven above, visibly in that the disciples saw with their own eyes (as a public event) that he departed from them, and bodily in that the physical flesh of the Son of God is no longer with us on earth.

We can think of Christ’s state of exaltation (as opposed to his state of humiliation) as consisting of four events, each part tracking with a phrase in the Apostles’ Creed: resurrection (he rose again from the dead), ascension (he ascended into heaven), session (and is seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty), and physical return (from there he will come to judge the living and the dead).

The ascension is more prominent in Scripture than we might realize. Luke describes the ascension in the most detail, first in his Gospel (Luke 24:50-53) and then in Acts (Acts 1:9-11). Peter’s Pentecost sermon on Pentecost is, in part, about the ascension and enthronement of Christ (Acts 2:32-36).

Likewise, John’s Gospel is full of references to the ascension of the Son of Man (John 3:13, 6:62) and the importance of Jesus returning to the Father (John 14:2-3; 16:5). The ascension is not simply how Jesus gets to heaven, it is a further fulfillment and vindication of the triumph of the resurrection (John 16:5; 20:17).

It’s no wonder that the ascension is highlighted throughout the New Testament, as a necessary precursor (1) to the giving of Messianic gifts (Eph. 4:8-10), (2) to the intercession of our High Priest (Heb. 4:14-16), and (3) to the subjection of all things under Christ’s feet (1 Peter 3:22).

What, then, does the oft-overlooked ascension mean for us?

First, the ascension means that we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous (1 John 2:1; Rom. 8:34).

Second, the ascension means God’s people are, in a manner of speaking, already in heaven. We set our minds on things that are above, because our lives are hidden with Christ who dwells above (Col. 3:2-3).

Third, the ascension means we can receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. Once ascended to heaven, Jesus sent another Helper (John 14:16; 16:7) to give us power from on high and to be with us forever.

Fourth, the ascension means human flesh sits enthroned in heaven. God has granted all power and authority to a man (Matt. 28:19; Eph. 1:21-22). Jesus Christ is exercising the dominion that human beings were made to have from the beginning (Gen. 1:28). The ruin of the first Adam is being undone by the reign of the second.

Because of Christ’s ascension we know that the resurrection is real, the incarnation continues, Christ’s humanity lives on in heaven, the Spirit of Jesus can live in our hearts, and a flesh-and-blood, divine human being rules the universe.

For now, the podcast can be found through Christ Covenant’s online channels. You can access Episode 4 through the church website or through Apple Podcasts.

Episode 4 begins with the airing of grievances as we discuss little things that bother us (and speculate about the little things about us that bother other people). We then discuss the perils and pitfalls of social media and how the medium shapes our message. When we come to books, we talk about the books we intentionally re-read and offer book recommendations for preaching and for pastoral ministry. All in all, a good time was had by, well, the three of us.

Previous episodes:

• Episode 1 topics covered include introduction of co-hosts, perspective on the ever-changing coronavirus, the death of expertise, planning in a pandemic, what we hope COVID-19 will change, current reads, forthcoming Crossway titles.
• Episode 2 topics covered include Michael Jordan and The Last Dance, interpreting God’s providence in global events, authors widely quoted but we rarely or never read, favorite novels, and why we love Pizza Ranch.
• Episode 3 topics covered include Mother’s Day, Star Wars, infertility, regional differences, how churches can re-open, and how we find time to read and retain.
• Episode 5 covered an airing of gratitude, conspiracy theories, parallels between COVID-19 and 2004, expertise and authority, our favorite biographies, and which biographies we’d like to write.

First, this post is not about Aimee Byrd’s new book, Recovering from Biblical Manhood and Womanhood. The post is occasioned by its release and the conversation surrounding it, but I’m not trying to engage directly with the book or the responses to it.

Second, if complementarianism can be thick or thin, broad or narrow, then my perspective lands on the broad or thick side of the spectrum. I don’t want to be coy about my theological convictions. I believe that by God’s design we are born as men or women, and that this distinction is not first of all about ordination or who can preach but is a distinction that functions in all of life and in all kinds of activity. More on this point later.

With these caveats in place, here are four thoughts—clarifying in my own mind, if not in anyone else’s—on the current conversation.

1. There are lot of questions worth asking. We should be clear about the questions we mean to answer without denigrating or altogether ignoring other important questions.

In my own thinking and writing on this topic, I’ve found John Piper’s question extremely helpful: If your son asks you what it means to be a man, or your daughter asks you what it means to be a woman, what would you say? I appreciate the real-world practicality of the question. I have sons and daughters, and they need to know (and as they get older, want to know) what it means to be a man or a woman. I can talk about being made in God’s image and growing in Christlikeness. Indeed, I should talk about these things often. But the question about growing up into a man or a woman sharpens the tip of the theological spear. “Daddy, what does godliness look like for me as a boy?” “What does godliness look like for me as a girl?” Godliness for my sons and my daughters will look the same in all sorts of foundational ways, but it will also look different in a host of other ways.

If your son asks you what it means to be a man, or your daughter asks you what it means to be a woman, what would you say?

Complementarianism means not only affirming the existence of “a host of other ways” as a general truth, but also trying to help men and women practically know what these differences entail. If the term means anything, then surely complementarianism is about, at least in part, the inherent goodness in the divinely designed difference between the sexes. If we don’t say anything about that difference—and how it’s wonderfully true and beautiful and promotes the flourishing of men and women and children and families and society—then we are neglecting the uniquely good news of this thing we call complementarianism.

So that’s one important question: what does it mean to be a man or a woman? I don’t believe any substantive Christian conversation about men and women can ignore this question. This is especially true for a conversation among complementarian Christians. But I realize it’s not the only important question. You may feel the question of the hour is something else. “Daddy, are girls worth as much to God as boys?” Or, “Mommy, is it okay for girls to be experts in the Bible?” Or, “Can men learn things from women?” These are important questions too (and the answer to all of them is “yes;” and yes, men can ask women for directions). To ask any one of these questions should not be to deny the legitimacy of other questions. We won’t all be drawn to the same questions, but we can acknowledge—and with more than a clearing of the throat—that when it comes to talking about men and women there are many beautiful truths to affirm and a number of ugly lies to refute.

2. We should be mindful of the way our experiences, and especially our own sense of the most pressing dangers, shape what we want to talk about and what we want to guard against.

I freely admit that I usually see dangers on my left more quickly than I see the dangers on my right. I grew up in public schools—in Grand Rapids mind you, but still I was more conservative than most of my teachers and classmates. I then went to a middle-of-the-road Christian school where the majority of the students and professors were quite a bit to the left of me. I served for most of my ministry in a mainline denomination where my friends and I were considered the rightmost tent peg in the denomination. I see the dangers of liberal theology clearly. I know that some slopes are steep and slippery. I can sniff out theological compromise from a mile away, and I think that nose has served me well.

I’m not naïve that there are people to the right of me, but I tend to think their mistakes are obvious and confined to some alt-right fever swamp. Everyone knows that hyper-conservative patriarchy is dangerous, so why are we talking about it? But perhaps not everyone knows what I think they know or sees what I think surely everyone must see.

It’s also important for me to recognize that I’ve seen in my life mainly healthy gender dynamics. My parents love each other. My churches have been full of godly, intelligent, flourishing, strongly complementarian women. Most of my friends have very good marriages. Whatever I know to be true in my head about abuse or whatever I’ve seen of sin and dysfunction in marriages in nearly 20 years of pastoral ministry, there’s no doubt that it still feels deep in my psyche like most husbands are bound to be pretty good and most complementarian men are apt to be fundamentally decent. I don’t have a bunch of stories of boneheaded complementarians. But I don’t deny they are out there—men in our circles saying and doing cringey, offensive, or genuinely sinful things toward women in the church. That I don’t see them doesn’t make them unreal, and that other people have seen them does not make them ubiquitous. My point is we should all be aware that we tend to assume our experiences are normative and the divergent experiences of others are exceptional. This should make us quick to sympathize and slow to accuse.

So what is the most pressing issue facing the church today when it comes to men and women?

In recognizing our own inclinations, hopefully we will be less likely to project the worst of the dangers we see upon those who rightfully see other dangers.

There is no scientific answer to that question. It may seem obvious to you that gender confusion is the big issue, or abuse, or runaway feminism, or a wrongheaded complementarianism, or the worth of women, or the war on boys. I would be foolish to say you aren’t seeing what you think you are seeing. For all I know, you’ve been surrounded by male creeps your whole life. Our assessment of what surely everyone knows and what surely everyone must be warned against may be understandably different. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not calling for an easy intellectual relativism that says, “I guess we are all equally right (or wrong).” I’m suggesting that we should be honest—first of all with ourselves—about what we perceive to be the biggest dangers and why. In recognizing our own inclinations, hopefully we will be less likely to project the worst of the dangers we see upon those who rightfully see other dangers.

3. We should ask ourselves in these discussions whether we want to poke, to provoke, or to persuade.

I think there is a time for all three P’s. Poking and provoking have their place. They are useful in starting conversations and stirring up controversy. But they don’t usually support the goal of persuading.

We live in a day of intense polarization and tribalization. That’s true in politics and true in the church. We may think we are arguing about theology or exegesis. But often we are just raising the flag and rallying the troops. One side thinks of themselves as Team Compassion and the other side as Team Power, while the other side thinks of themselves as Team Truth and the other side as Team Compromise. Of course, people do abuse power and people do compromise the truth. And yet, the sides are often instincts more than arguments, which is perfect for a medium like Twitter where arguments are difficult to make but virtue signaling, outrage, snark, and put-downs are easy.

Our theology must not be formed by personal anecdote or personal angst.

I often think of Spurgeon’s line that when we must enter into polemics, we ought to make sure our words are soft and our arguments are hard. These issues are too important to get Spurgeon’s dictum backward. Our views on men and women must be rooted in robust exegesis and in a careful reading of the catholic tradition of the church. Our theology must not be formed by personal anecdote or personal angst. This goes for those being instructed and especially for those doing the instruction.

Across the political, theological, and ecclesiastical spectrum a lot of us would do well to ask: Am I committed to edifying those who disagree, or am I really more interested in entertaining those already on my side?

4. We need to consider whether the Bible’s “rules” regarding men and women, and even some of our cultural assumptions about masculinity and femininity, are rooted in something deeper than passing stereotypes and something more comprehensive than prescriptive fiat.

I hope no one denies that men and women are equally made in the image of God; they share the same human nature. And at the same time, I believe it’s absolutely critical to affirm (and celebrate!) that this shared human nature finds different expressions in manhood and in womanhood. As Herman Bavinck puts it, “The human nature given to man and woman is one and the same, but in each of them it exists in a unique way. And this distinction functions in all of life and in all kinds of activity” (The Christian Family, 68).

In other words, we are not philosophical nominalists who deny universals and believe only in particulars. We don’t just have males and females; there also exists maleness and femaleness. God did not create androgynous human beings, and he does not redeem us to become androgynous Christians. God made us male and female, and he sanctifies us by the Spirit so that we might follow Christ as men and follow Christ as women.

One of the themes in Bavinck’s book on the Christian family is that grace does not eradicate nature or elevate nature, but grace restores nature. God is in the business of returning us to what was once declared “very good.” That means that while male and female is nothing when it comes to being justified in Christ, the fact that we were created with a specific sex has everything to do with living as justified Christians. We must not misconstrue or despise our God-given sexual difference. “It has been willed by God and grounded in nature,” Bavinck observes. God is “the sovereign Designer of sex; man and woman have God to thank not only for their human nature, but also for their different sexes and natures” (5).

I belabor this point because I fear that the “rules” of complementarianism—male headship in the home and male eldership in the church—are sometimes construed as divine strictures absent any deeper recognition of natural theology and sexual difference. Allow for a homely analogy. Suppose you have two identical basketballs—one you reserve for outdoor use and one you set aside for indoor use. The “rules” of complementarianism are not like the arbitrary labeling of two basketballs. They both work the same way and can essentially do the same thing, except that God has decreed that the two basketballs be set apart for different functions. That’s a capricious complementarianism held together by an admirable submission to Scripture, but in time will lack any coherent or compelling reason for the existence of different “rules” in the first place.

But suppose you have a basketball and an American football. They are similar things, used toward similar ends. You could even attempt to use the two balls interchangeably. But the attempt would prove awkward, and in the long run the game would change if you kept shooting free throws with a football or kept trying to execute a run-pass-option with a basketball. The rules for each ball are not arbitrary. They are rooted in the different structure, shape, and purpose for each ball. It’s not the nature of a basketball to be used in football. In other words, the rules are rooted in nature.

Any attempt to recover biblical manhood and womanhood, or any effort as Christians to recover from the recovering, must start with the recognition that sexual difference is not simply a marker of who may hold the office of elder; it is an indication of the sort of image bearer God wants us to be in all of life. Of course, this does not mean we are bound to impermeable definitions of masculinity and femininity. As Bavinck argues, “No man is complete without some feminine qualities, no woman is complete without some masculine qualities” (8). But the fact that we can speak of some qualities being feminine and some being masculine assumes that sexual difference is real and can be identified.

Nature itself teaches this distinction. The man and the woman, Bavinck points out, differ in physical structure and physical strength, in different rights and duties, in different work before and within marriage, and in different responsibilities relative to the home and to the world (25). Later, Bavinck admits that describing the distinctions “crisply and clearly” between man and woman is difficult. Nevertheless, the distinctions exist and can be set in terms of main features (67). There are outward differences in size and shape, in strength and tone. There are different needs, different movements, and different capacities for suffering. There are differences in the life of the soul related to thinking, feeling, evaluating, and imagining. There are differences in the way they perceive religion and morality (67-69). There are differences in the place men and women occupy in the church and in the home. If the husband is called to be the head of the family, then the wife is called to be its heart (95).

This design is reflected not only in the “very good” of Eden, but in the very bad as well. The sin in the garden was, among other things, a reversal of the family order. Eve took charge, and Adam followed her. Eve sinned not just as a person, but as a woman and a wife; Adam sinned as a man and a husband (10). Not surprisingly, then, Adam was punished in his manly calling as a cultivator of the earth, while Eve was punished in her womanly calling as a cultivator of the womb. God’s callings and God’s chastisements are not indifferent to sexual difference.

Sexual difference is the way of God’s wisdom and grace.

Men and women are prone to different sins and defects (70). Marriage is, therefore, not just a complementary arrangement, but a corrective one. Man and woman are interdependent but not interchangeable. Marriage is God’s good gift because it is “thus grounded in the nature of both” (70). When the man exercises authority in the home he is not just filling a role, he is living out what it means to be a man. And when the woman supports her husband and cares for her children, she is doing the same relative to being a woman.

Way of Wisdom and Grace

This article has already gone on much longer than I intended, so let me close with this final thought.

There is room for different conclusions when it comes to living out biblical manhood and womanhood. We must know our church, know our context, know our family, and do our best to apply what we see in the Bible. But variation is one thing when we end up with different applications; it’s another thing when we aren’t starting from the same place. And that means a theology that elucidates rather than elides the central fact that God made us male and female.

Manhood and womanhood cannot be reduced to authority and submission, or to leadership and nurture. But these things are meaningful expressions of what it means to be a man and a woman, rooted not just in the names we give to people but in nature itself. The expression of nature will not look identical in the church and outside the church, married and single, younger and older, but, importantly, it does look like something and should be visible. Sexual difference is the way of God’s wisdom and grace. The most authentic and most attractive complementarianism will delight in this design and seek to promote, with our lives and with our lips, all that is good and true and beautiful in God making us men and women.

In an effort to help you get a quick feel for the book, I’m trying out a new format for each “brief.” I’ll provide the big idea of the book (using a quotation from the book wherever possible), mention the intended audience, and then give you my bottom line.

1. Herman Bavinck, The Christian Family (Christian’s Library Press, 2012)

Big Idea: “The human nature given to man and woman is one and the same, but in each of them it exists in a unique way. And this distinction functions in all of life and in all kinds of activity” (68).

Audience: Thoughtful Christian, especially good for pastors.

Bottom Line: While some people may find Bavinck’s assumptions dated here or there, on the whole this is a tremendous work, providing a robust theology of the family and a necessary corrective to contemporary notions that would have us believe there is neither a manly nor a womanly way to follow Christ.

2. David Walton, The Genius Plague (Pyr, 2017)

Big Idea: A science-fiction book about a mushroom plague from the Amazon that invades its human hosts, giving them heightened intelligence and nefarious instinct to take over everyone and everything in its path.

Audience: Any reader, teenage or older.

Bottom Line: I heard Phil Ryken recommend this book as one he couldn’t put down. I agree. While the theme of a global plague may not be your cup of tea at the moment, Walton tells a fast paced story that grips you from start to finish.

3. Thomas J. DiLorenzo, The Problem with Socialism (Regnery, 2016)

Big Idea: “This book will serve as a primer on socialism (and capitalism) for some; a historical reminder for others; and a handy sourcebook on all the problems of socialism and how it threatens a free society” (12).

Audience: General.

Bottom Line: Written by a professor of economics at Loyola University (MD), the title tells you what to expect. The book will probably do more to reinforce the already convinced than to persuade those on the other side.

4. Chuck DeGroat, When Narcissism Comes to Church: Healing Your Community from Emotional and Spiritual Abuse (IVP, 2020)

Big Idea: “Narcissism is born in the soil of shame and self-contempt, not healthy self-love. Narcissism is not fundamentally about self-love but about an escape from love. The fragile little boy goes into hiding and the protective false self takes the lead” (30).

Audience: Popular-level book for a Christian audience.

Bottom Line: This book hits on an all-too-real problem in the church. DeGroat’s description of emotional and spiritual abuse will sound familiar to many people. Unfortunately, I found the book much better at description than prescription, the latter of which consists in a psychological framework rooted in Thomas Merton, Carl Jung, Richard Rohr, and the Enneagram.

5. Michael Novak, The Spirit of Democratic Capitalism Thirty Years Later (Institute for Faith, Work, and Economics, 2015)

Big Idea: “Universal wealth is best created not by slavery or serfdom, and not by governmental direction from the top down, but by free women and free men using their own inventive and industrious minds to serve the largest public they can reach” (9).

Audience: This is a short pamphlet of a book (35 pages) for a general audience.

Bottom Line: A useful recapitulation (or re-introduction) of several key themes from Novak’s seminal book, The Spirit of Democratic Capitalism (1982).

6. Steven J. Keillor, God’s Judgments: Interpreting History and the Christian Faith (IVP Academic, 2012)

Big Idea: “The basic idea of this book—that we must return cautiously and accurately to the concept of God’s judging activity in history as central to Christianity—emerges partly out of the inadequacy of other ideas” (18).

Audience: This is an academic book written by a trained historian, but the content is accessible to an educated audience.

Bottom Line: Keillor convincingly argues that Christianity is an interpretation of history and that as the Christian interprets history we should dare to see God’s judgments as central to it. And yet, while I found this central theme persuasive, I was not persuaded by Keillor’s attempts to provide concrete explanations for specific divine judgments in history (e.g., 9/11, the burning of Washington).

7. Thomas Dixon, From Passions to Emotions: The Creation of a Secular Psychological Category (Cambridge University Press, 2003)

Big Idea: The notion that “emotions are physiological, non-cognitive and involuntary feelings” are “all ideas that gained currency as a result of divergence from traditional teachings about the ‘passions’ and ‘affections’ and the concomitant adoption of the secular category of ’emotions’ in the nineteenth century” (14).

Audience: Academic, helps to have a working knowledge of major thinkers from the 18th and 19th centuries.

Bottom Line: This important book shows how theology, psychology, and the way we talk about human experience is worse off for having the older categories of passions, affections, and sentiments collapsed into the modern category of emotions. Theologians and pastors should read this book (or at least read the first couple chapters on Augustine and Aquinas).

8. Steven J. Duby, Divine Simplicity: A Dogmatic Account (T&T Clark, 2016)

Big Idea: Simplicity is “a divine attribute rooted in Holy Scripture’s portrayal of God in his singularity, aseity, immutability, infinity and work of creation ex nihilo. In other words, this is not an iteration of the project of ‘perfect being’ theology, but rather an exercise in Christian dogmatics, setting forth the content of exegesis in an elaborative, discursive manner, and then identifying implications for divine simplicity” (2).

Audience: Academic, not going to meet the lay reader halfway.

Bottom Line: An impressive exploration and defense of divine simplicity, with scholarly chops on display in exegesis, philosophy, and dogmatics.

9. Robert Strivens, Philip Doddridge and the Shaping of Evangelical Dissent (Ashgate, 2015)

Big Idea: “Philip Doddridge has been rightly presented in the secondary literature as influenced significantly by John Locke in his philosophy and by Richard Baxter in his theology and spirituality.” This is not incorrect. But Strivens argues that Doddridge’s “appropriation of Baxter and of Locke has been shown to have been nuanced and influenced in important areas by other significant Puritan and Calvinist elements” (162).

Audience: Academic, but clearly written and well organized.

Bottom Line: While the book is written with specialists in mind, pastors and other students of Christian history would do well to know more about one of the most important evangelicals in the first half of the 18th century.

10. Joshua Muravchik, Heaven on Earth: The Rise, Fall, and Afterlife of Socialism (Encounter Books, 2019)

Big Idea: Written by the son of communists, this book is an intelligent and readable history of socialism told through a series of biographical vignettes. If Muravchik is subtly critical of socialism, it is only because the history of socialism’s leaders and experiments have so much to be objectively critical of.

Audience: General interested reader.

Bottom Line: Before reading a book on economics for or against socialism, I would read this book on the origins and historical development of one of the world’s most consequential ideas over the last 250 years.

11. Gordon R. Smith, Institutional Intelligence: How to Build an Effective Organization (IVP Academic, 2017)

Big Idea: “Pastors need to be encouraged to view the work of administration not as a necessary evil, a distraction, but as rather an integral part of what it means to provide congregational leadership” (8).

Audience: Popular-level book aimed at pastors, presidents, board members, and anyone who has a role to play in the fidelity of effectiveness of institutions.

Bottom Line: Most pastors and Christian leaders don’t give enough time developing institutional intelligence. This book is a wonderful remedy to this common gap in our discipleship. A wise and practical book.

12. George M. Marsden, Jonathan Edwards: A Life (Yale University Press, 2003)

Big Idea: “Edwards was extraordinary” (1). And yet, we must get to the person behind the monuments. “In writing this life of Edwards, one of my goals has been to understand him as a real person in his own time” (2).

Audience: This is a lifetime of scholarship written with such command of the material and with such ease as to make the book accessible to a wide audience.

Bottom Line: I read the shorter version by Marsden years ago and read parts of this magisterial biography here and there, but I never read the whole thing until now. It lived up to the hype. Truly, one of the best biographies you can read.

The book is entitled Everything Is Obvious, with an * after Obvious. If you turn the book upside down you can read the asterisk: “Once You Know the Answer.” The clever title gets at the book’s big idea. We tend to think there are simple answers to life’s most complex questions. We assume that solving major problems—whether in predicting human behavior, or in economics, or in government policy—is a matter of common sense. We believe everything is obvious. But, as Watts persuasively argues, most solutions to complex problems are anything but obvious. And if they are obvious, it’s only because we have the advantage of hindsight to see what worked.

Most likely, we are still at the front end of the coronavirus crisis. If the disease disappeared over the summer, never to return again, we would still be dealing with COVID’s emotional and economic fallout. Doctors and economists and journalists and historians and epidemiologists will be writing about the virus for decades. At some point, it may become “obvious” that closing schools saved lives or that it was pointless. At some point, it may become obvious which countries and which leaders made the best decisions. At some point, it may be obvious all the ways we made a massive problem less deadly or made a serious crisis worse. But at the moment—in the fog of a pathogenic war—it only takes fives minutes on Twitter to realize that the best way forward is not patently obvious.

That doesn’t mean some ideas aren’t better than others. I have my own opinions (informed, I hope) about which explanations and which policies are obviously correct. But as a pastor without an expertise in medicine, epidemiology, or mathematical modeling, I want to be careful about issuing any assured conclusions about what we should or shouldn’t do.

I don’t agree with everything in Watts’s book, but it’s a helpful reminder about the many ways intuition can fail us. We think people will act in their situations the same way we would act, but they don’t. We think that every problem has a simple solution, but many problems are horribly complex and beyond our ability to manage or control. We think we can understand most issues with a little effort, but many issues take years of expertise to grasp (and even then, the experts don’t agree on what is obvious!).

Watts highlights a number of biases that cloud our ability to make good judgments.

Hindsight bias. We come up with explanations that make sense because they’ve already come true, but they don’t have any real predictive power. For example, he cites an article about the success of Harry Potter in which the author argues that it’s a simple formula of a Cinderella plot, set in a boarding school, with easy stereotypes illustrating common vices, combined with moral statements about the value of courage and friendship, and an overarching message about the power of love and sacrifice, and you’re bound to have a popular book. As Watts points out, such an argument amounts to little more than: Harry Potter worked because it had the characteristics of Harry Potter.

Sampling bias. In suggesting causal explanations we often pay a lot of attention to what happens in special situations while ignoring what happens in normal situations. We may feel like we always get stuck at yellow lights, forgetting all the times we sail through green lights. We remember the basketball player’s clutch game-winning shots, but forget all the times he missed in the final seconds. More seriously, we might note that the mass shooter was a young man, who played video games, didn’t have a lot of friends, and could be moody, without stopping to think that such a description probably fits millions of people who never become mass shooters. In other words, we gravitate toward the examples that fit our hypothesis, while ignoring the ones that don’t.

Anecdote bias (my label). We are all prone to making sweeping judgments based on anecdotal evidence. You heard about a 104-year-old woman who recovered from COVID-19, and no one in your immediate circle has been to the hospital? It must not be a big deal. You saw two young moms on Facebook write about losing their husbands to the virus, and you have a doctor friend who had to make his own mask? It must be worse than everyone thinks. It’s easy to reach virtually unmovable conclusions based on a handful of personal experiences.

So what’s the takeaway when everything is not obvious?

Watts argues that we should rely on hard data and as much measurable information as we can muster. That’s good advice and certainly wise for a pandemic.

But I’d suggest one other lesson: epistemic humility. That’s just a fancy way of saying, let’s be mindful of what we truly know and of all the things we don’t really know. Along the same lines, let’s pray for our leaders to be men and women of wisdom and courage who want to do the right thing and the best thing no matter what it is and no matter who gets the credit. And finally, admitting our finite knowledge should make us gracious toward those who want the same ends in the crisis but don’t reach all the same conclusions. At some point everything may be obvious, but at present we don’t know all the answers—or, likely, even all the questions to ask.

The outline looks like this:

Want to read the whole thing? Here is my message: The Never-Failing, Never-Changing, All-Surpassing Goodness of God.

But the exalted Christ who cried over Lazarus is not crying at the right hand of God. Jesus does not continue to weep in heaven, and that is the good news we need.

I’ve written before on divine impassibility, the doctrine that says God is “without parts or passions” (WCF 2.1), that God as God does not suffer, does not change, and is never a passive agent acted upon by others. Of course, Jesus Christ suffered. That’s the point of the incarnation. In assuming a human nature, the God-man was able to do the most un-Godlike thing imaginable: he suffered and died. Tis mystery all, the immortal died! We must not dissolve the mystery by making God a suffering God. The gospel of Christ’s suffering is more glorious because God does not suffer.

So might it be possible, then, for Christ’s suffering to continue? After all, the incarnation is perpetual. Christ has not shed his human nature. Why wouldn’t he still share in all the experiences of our human nature? Perhaps the comfort we need in the midst of unprecedented trouble and uncertainty is to reflect upon a weeping Savior who weeps for us still.

But as attractive as that response to suffering may sound, it is theologically mistaken. Here are five significant problems with the notion that Jesus is in heaven weeping for us and why this sentimental view of Jesus is not actually the comfort we need.

First, the notion that Jesus still weeps undermines the completed nature of his atoning work. Surely, to weep is a sign of suffering. Jesus cannot cry in heaven without his anguish continuing for centuries and millennia. But Scripture tells us that Christ suffered once for sins (1 Pet. 3:18), and this suffering must not be limited to the cross. As à Brakel puts it, “This suffering in its entirety atoned for the sins of the elect—not merely His suffering on the cross during the three hours of darkness” (The Christian’s Reasonable Service, 1:585). In short, if Christ continues to weep, he continues to suffer, and if he continues to suffer, he cannot say about his atoning work “It is finished” (John 19:30).

Granted, there is a way in which we might speak of something “breaking the heart” of God. After all, Scripture sometimes speaks anthropomorphically of grieving God (Gen. 6:6; Psalm 78:40; Eph. 4:30). But this language is never used of Christ in heaven, let alone in a way that conjures up images of literal tears. Moreover, it’s striking that the language of grieving God always has to do with our sin, which is not what the proponents of a heavenly weeping Christ envision.

Second, to think of the Son of God crying in heaven confuses the state of exaltation with the state of humiliation. Theologians have historically spoken of the two states of Christ’s work—the state of humiliation in which Christ merited salvation for the elect, and the state of exaltation in which he applies this salvation to the elect. Humiliation has two parts: Christ suffering for the purpose of satisfaction, and Christ putting himself under the law for the purpose of meriting salvation. Suffering, not the incarnation itself, is at the heart of the state of humiliation.

Most evangelical Christians have a grasp on the humiliation of Christ—especially, and rightly, during Holy Week. But we often have an underdeveloped appreciation for the exaltation of Christ. The two states must go together: exaltation is made possible by prior humiliation, and the purpose of humiliation is to give way to exaltation. In the state of exaltation, we reflect upon Christ’s resurrection, ascension, and session.

If Jesus has been resurrected, he has been raised incorruptible, with a glorified body that is no longer subject to pain and suffering and the privations of the flesh.

If Jesus has ascended, he has won the right to set the captives free and give gifts to men.

And if Jesus is seated at the right hand of God, his work is completed, and he been given the right to reign.

Not everything true of Christ before glory is true of the glorified Christ now. Are we in danger of finding himself asleep? Or hungry? Or exhausted at the end of a long day? Just as an imperishable body, victory over death, and universal dominion did not belong to Christ in the state of humiliation, so the life of suffering, weeping, and death do not belong to Christ in the state of exaltation.

Third, to insist upon a crying Savior in heaven misunderstands Christ’s ongoing mediatorial work. An appeal to the tears of Jesus gets this much right: it wants to affirm that Christ is is not indifferent to our suffering and unwilling to help. But the ongoing mediatorial work of Christ is not in suffering but in intercession.

We should not confuse the sympathy of Christ with contemporary notions of sentimentality. As I wrote recently:

The point of Hebrews is not “because Jesus wept, he still weeps,” but “because Jesus wept, he can help.” This is why the New Testament makes so much of Christ’s intercession (Rom. 8:34; Heb. 7:25; 8:1; 9:24; 1 John 2:1). The suffering and death of Christ were “preparatory and antecedent to his intercession” (Turretin, Elenctic Theology, 14.8.10). Suffering was the part of his priestly work done on earth; intercession is the part of his priesthood to be performed in heaven. Christ procured salvation by his suffering; he continues to apply it by his intercession.

Fourth, if Jesus weeps for us still, it makes heaven a world of ongoing grief. The depiction of heaven in the Bible (even in the intermediate state) is one of unceasing joy and delight. It is the longing of every believer (2 Cor. 5:1-8; Phil. 1:21). Life after death is for Jesus, and for all the elect, a paradise (Luke 23:43). It is hard to imagine how heaven can be a place of rest and reward if those there—be it a sympathetic Christ or our sympathetic loved ones—continue to suffer through the torment and anguish of earthly sorrow. The notion that Christ still suffers in heaven can be an unwitting step toward process theology, the idea that God must help us in order to be set free himself from constant grief.

Fifth, a constantly weeping Christ draws the wrong lesson from the presence of the Crucified One in glory. We must never lose sight of the wounds of Christ. Carl Henry was right: “It is into the why of Calvary that we can now focus every other me of human existence” (God, Revelation, and Authority, 6:299). Let us never stop marveling at the man-identifying, God-satisfying suffering of Christ.

And yet, our comfort is not that Christ is still bound up in our sorrow, but that because he suffered for our sake we can be caught up into his glory. Suffering itself is not sacred. Christ sanctified suffering because he suffered for a purpose. He suffered to save the lost. The aim of Christ’s ongoing priestly intercession is not for Christ to continue to participate in the life of suffering on earth, but for believers to participate in the life of God in heaven. The one who for our sake became poor, the one who took upon himself the form of a servant, the one who died as a crucified criminal has conquered death and triumphantly reigns in heaven. Christ is the first fruits of the glorious life that awaits all those who trust in him.

The good news we need is not found in bringing the exalted Son back down into our misery. The good news is that he experienced worse than we will ever experience and has purchased the right to set us free from all misery. We do not need Jesus to weep any more. We need him to reign, and we need him to return. “Keep your eye fixed upon your future felicity and look away from this world, for this is not the land of your rest” (à Brakel, The Christian’s Reasonable Service, 1:621).

But yesterday’s editorial by Daniel Harrell, CT’s new editor-in-chief, was baffling.

The basic gist made sense: take heart, love God, and love one another. But to get to that conclusion, Harrell made some curious claims. Let me briefly mention three.

First, Harrell insists that COVID-19 “is not a ‘foreign virus’ but endemic to our common nature as humans and thus a means of drawing us together for the good of all.” Setting aside the fact that the virus undeniably originated in China—which is, of course, no reason to mistreat our Chinese neighbors—the rest of the sentence invites questioning. By “common nature” does Harrell mean our common human nature as given by God? If so, how is a killer disease endemic to that nature? If he means our common fallen nature, how do the two halves of the sentence advance more than a tautology? Of course, coming together in a crisis is good (though in this instance not literally coming together). But you could just as logically say “lying is endemic to our common nature” or “idolatry is endemic to our common nature” and thus lying or idolatry or anything that humans have in common is a means for drawing us together.

Second, Harrell argues that the reason for suffering in the world is explained by God’s inviolable commitment to human free will. Harrell extends this familiar argument further to the natural world, suggesting that the sea and the land have a kind of free will too. If human free will means freedom from external coercion and compulsion (and that is a meaningful kind of freedom) then humans are certainly free. But even if one does not accept a Reformed view of divine sovereignty, it must still be acknowledged that when the Bible stares into the depths of human suffering it does not come out the other side extolling human free will. When calamity fell upon Job he could have rightly pointed to the activity of the Sabeans, the Chaldeans, fire that fell from the sky, a great windstorm, or even Satan himself. But Job’s cry was undeniably theocentric: “The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD” (Job 1:21). The one explanation Job never countenanced during his whole, terrible ordeal was that natural and anthropological freedom were the answers to his heartbreaking questions. Job never imagined that God was not superintending the tragic events of his life.

Third, and most perplexing, Harrell seems to answer the title of his editorial, “Is the Coronavirus Evil?” with a firm “no.” Harrell explicitly rejects Barth’s contention that the bacillus attacking his (Barth’s) body late in life was a monstrosity that did not belong to God’s good creation. In contrast to Barth, Harrell argues that bacteria and viruses are among the first fruits of God’s good creation and that organic death existed before the fall. Furthermore, Harrell maintains that it is “Better to view creation not as something perfect gone awry, but as something begun as very good only not yet finished.” What should we make of these claims?

For starters, Harrell is right that bacteria and viruses as such were likely a part of God’s good design for an intricately ordered creation. We know from microbiology that bacteria play an integral role in sustaining life on the planet and that viruses contribute to the functionality of these bacterial agents. There is no problem in affirming that bacteria and viruses per se are not evil.

Likewise, let’s set aside the question of whether organic death (of some kind) existed before the fall. I believe that death is a result of the fall, which is one reason I believe in a young earth. But many orthodox theologians have held that the death of plants and animals occurred before the fall of Adam and Eve. So again, if Harrell’s argument were simply that God made bacteria and viruses, and that plants decayed and lions chased gazelles before the fall, those would be unremarkable statements.

But he is arguing more than that. Harrell maintains that when God looked over his creation on the sixth day and declared it very good, he meant that creation was not yet finished. To be sure, mankind was given a task to subdue the earth, to build “culture” as it were. In that sense, there was work to be done. But the work was man’s to be done in the created realm. There’s no sense in which “very good” can mean the divine work of creation was incomplete.

Most concerning, Harrell implies that the coronavirus is not evil, that a respiratory illness that may kill millions of human beings is not the result of creation gone awry. If Harrell wants to put in a good word for bacteria and viruses, so be it. But his post is about the coronavirus. A rogue virus already inflicting illness and death upon thousands is impossible to square with the depiction of creation as “very good” (Gen. 1:31).

Here, for example, is how Matthew Henry’s commentary describes the goodness of God’s creation at the close of the sixth day:

Or consider Calvin’s description:

Later in the same work, Calvin explains the effects of the fall on the created world. His description is not a unique Reformed reading of the text, but a mainstream understanding of what it means for human beings to make their way in a world that is not the way it’s supposed to be.

Could viruses have existed in Genesis 1? Sure. Do fatal viruses exist prior to the events of Genesis 3? Of course not. Water was God’s good creation; the flood was the result of sin. It makes much better sense to attribute a rogue virus not to the supposed incompleteness of God’s very good creation, but to the “thorns and thistles” that now grow up in a fallen world (Gen. 3:18), part of the futility to which the creation has been subjected in its bondage to corruption (Rom. 8:20-21).

The coronavirus is a natural evil, under God’s providential control to be sure, but whose existence is the result of original sin. The root of all human pain and suffering in the world is the rebellion of our first parents—a rebellion that Christ conquered on the cross and will one day wipe away, along with all its sad and sinister effects.

This is my favorite Lord’s Day in the entire Catechism. I love its poetic description of providence. “Sovereignty” is the word we hear more often. That’s a good word too. But if people run out of the room crying whenever you talk to them about sovereignty, try using the word “providence.” For some people God’s sovereignty sounds like nothing but raw, capricious power: “God has absolute power over all things, and you better get used to it.” That kind of thing. And that definition is true in a sense, but divine sovereignty, we must never forget, is sovereignty-for-us. As Eric Liddel’s dad remarked in Chariots of Fire, God may be a dictator, but “Aye, he is a benign, loving dictator.”

Coming to grips with God’s all-encompassing providence requires a massive shift in how we look at the world. It requires changing our vantage point—from seeing the cosmos as a place where man rules and God responds, to beholding a universe where God creates and constantly controls with sovereign love and providential power.

The definition of providence in the Catechism is stunning. All things, yes all things, “come to us not by chance but from his fatherly hand.” In my previous denomination, I used to ask seminary students being examined for ordination, “How would the Heidelberg Catechism, particularly Lord’s Day 10, help you minister to someone who just lost a job or a child, or just received a frightening diagnosis?” I was often disappointed to hear students who should have been affirming the confessions of their denomination shy away from Heidelberg’s strong, biblical language about providence.

Like most of us, the students were much more at ease using passive language about God’s permissive will or comfortable generalities about God being “in control” than they were about stating precisely and confidently to those in the midst of suffering “this has come from God’s fatherly hand.” And yet, that’s what the Catechism teaches.

And more importantly, so does the Bible.

To be sure, God’s providence is not an excuse to act foolishly or sinfully. Herod and Pontius Pilate, though they did what God had planned beforehand, were still wicked conspirators (Acts 4:25-28). The Bible affirms human responsibility. It also affirms comprehensive divine sovereignty. Prudence, yes. Precautions, yes. And providence, a thousand times yes.

The Bible also affirms, much more massively and frequently than some imagine, God’s power and authority over all things.

The nations are under God’s control (Psalm 2:1-4; 33:10), as is nature (Mark 4:41; Psalm 135:7; 147:18; 148:8), and animals (2 Kings 17:25; Dan. 6:22; Matt. 10:29).

God is sovereign over Satan and evil spirits (Matt. 4:10; 2 Cor. 12:7-8; Mark 1:27).

God uses wicked people for his plans—not just in a “bringing good out of evil” sort of way, but in an active, intentional, “this was God’s plan from the get-go” sort of way (Job 12:16; John 19:11; Gen. 45:8; Luke 22:22; Acts 4:27-28).

God hardens hearts (Ex. 14:17;Josh. 11:20; Rom. 9:18).

God sends trouble and calamity (Judg. 9:23; 1 Sam. 1:5; 16:14; 2 Sam. 24:1; 1 Kings 22:20-23; Isa. 45:6-7; 53:10; Amos 3:6; Ruth 1:20; Eccl. 7:14).

God even puts to death (1 Sam. 2:6, 25; 2 Sam 12:15; 2 Chr. 10:4, 14; Deut. 32:39).

God does what he pleases and his purposes cannot be thwarted (Isa. 46:9-10; Dan. 4:34-35).

In short, God guides all our steps and works all things after the counsel of his will (Prov. 16:33; 20:24; 21:2; Jer. 10:23; Psalm 139:16; Rom. 8:21; Eph. 1:11).

It’s worth noting that Lord’s Day 10 is explaining what the Apostles’ Creed means when it says, “I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth.” If God is the creator of all things and truly almighty, then he must continue to be almighty over all that he has created. And if God is a Father, then surely he exercises his authority over his creation and creatures for the good of his beloved children. Providence is nothing more than a belief in “God the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth” brought to bear on our present blessings and troubles and buoying our hope into the future.

You can look at providence through the lens of human autonomy and our idolatrous notions of freedom and see a mean God moving tornadoes and influenza like chess pieces in some kind of perverse divine play-time. Or you can look at providence through the lens of Scripture and see a loving God counting the hairs on our heads and directing the sparrows in the sky so that we might live life unafraid.

“What else can we wish for ourselves,” Calvin wrote, “if not even one hair can fall from our head without his will?” There are no accidents in your life. Nothing has been left to chance. Every economic downturn, every novel virus, every oncology report has been sent to us from the God who sees all things, plans all things, and loves us more than we know.

As children of our heavenly Father, divine providence is always for us and never against us. Joseph’s imprisonment seemed pointless, but it makes sense now. Slavery in Egypt makes sense now. Killing the Messiah makes sense now. At some point in the future—whether near or far—the coronavirus will make sense. Whatever difficulty or unknown we may be facing today, it will make sense someday—if not in this life, then certainly in the next.

We all have moments where we fear the unknown. The fact of the matter is our worries may come true, but God will never be untrue to his own. We don’t know what the future holds, but we do know who holds the future. God will always lead us, always listen to us, and always love us in Christ.

God moves in mysterious ways; we may not always understand why life is what it is. But we can face the future unafraid because we know that nothing moves, however mysterious, except by the hand of that great Unmoved Mover who moves all and is moved by none, and that this Mover is not an impersonal force but the God who is our Father in heaven.

That actually may be giving the current mood too much credit. It would be nearer the truth to say we value professing to feel the right thing over doing the right thing. We live in an age of sentimentality where feeling the joys, or particularly the pains, of another (or at least expressing that we do) is considered virtuous in itself.

But surely sympathy, while often commendable, is not the main point.

Lesson from Christology

This was brought home to me recently while reading William Shedd’s treatment of Christ’s temptations and impeccability. It is sometimes argued that being “tempted in every way just as we are” (Heb. 4:15) means Christ experienced the exact temptations we face in the exact way we face them. But Christ was never tempted to spend too much time on an iPhone or to give his wife the cold shoulder. Jesus didn’t face precisely the same temptations we face.

More importantly, he didn’t face temptation in the same way. Our temptation is often tainted with sin, arising within us as an expression of original or indwelling sin. Christ could not experience temptation just as we do and still be a sinless Savior. What Hebrews means instead is that Christ knew the kinds of weaknesses, sufferings, and afflictions we know. “In order to sympathize with a person,” Shedd writes, “it is not necessary to have the exact same affliction that he has. It is only necessary to have been afflicted” (Dogmatic Theology, 669). And Christ was certainly afflicted in suffering and in temptation. We may not know the internally psychology of our impeccable Savior as he was tempted, but he was genuinely tempted, even if the temptation did not arise within him, like ours often does, from the power of indwelling sin. Christ can sympathize with afflicted human beings because he too was afflicted.

The good news in having a sympathetic high priest is not that Christ sprained his ankle as many times as I’ve sprained my ankle, nor is the good news more generally that Christ continues to hurt when we hurt (let alone that God suffers when we suffer). No, the good news in having a theanthropic person in heaven—the God-man—who knows our weaknesses is that we can, therefore, with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and grace in time of need (Heb. 4:15-16).

It is a glory beyond measure that the incarnate and perpetual God-man is able to sympathize with our weakness, but sympathy itself is not the point (interestingly, the text doesn’t say he sympathizes with us, but with our weaknesses). The point is that because of the Son’s identification with his brothers he can help us. Surely, it’s significant that the two great Christological identification passages in Hebrews—chapter 2 and chapter 4—conclude with the reassurance that our faithful high priest will help us (Heb. 2:18; 4:16). The emphasis is not on Jesus feeling the right thing in heaven. Rather, the good news is that because he has felt what we felt, he will surely come to our aid. The doctrine of our sympathetic Savior should not be construed as the triumph of sentimentality.

What Is Love?

Of course, understanding Christ’s love for us has ramifications for how we understand that nature and exercise of Christian love for others. To be clear, sympathy can be a very good thing, but it is good because of what it may prompt. That may seem a harsh judgment, but consider: if Sam is sick and Andy hears about it and, unknown to Sam, cries himself to sleep every night over Sam’s predicament, how is Sam helped? The mere experience of sympathy with suffering does not by itself help the sufferer. That doesn’t mean sympathy is nothing. When Andy’s sympathy moves him to send a text or bring over a home-cooked meal, that will mean something to Sam. If a stranger feels what I feel and I never know about, the stranger’s experience of sympathy may make him feel better, but it has no effect on me. What helps is the movement that sympathy makes toward the person. It’s the word of comfort, the gesture of kindness, the written card that helps. Doing the right thing matters more than feeling the right thing. Again, Shedd puts it well: “The strength and reality of sympathy are seen in the amount of self-sacrifice that one is willing to make for the miserable, rather than in the mere fact that one has felt precisely the same misery himself” (669).

In other words, sympathy may lead to the tangible exercise of the Spirit’s fruit, but it is not by itself the work of the Spirit. While it requires an unusual cruelty to be completely indifferent to the sufferings of others, it does not require a work of the Spirit to feel sorry for people. There’s a reason that reality shows and sporting events like to provide sad back stories for athletes and contestants. Sympathy is a relatively easy emotion to come by—especially in the age of social media where such expressions are a click away. That makes sympathy a powerful ally in doing the right thing. It also makes sympathy easily manipulated so that people do the wrong thing based on what seems to be a right feeling or simply conclude they have already done the right thing by feeling what they feel (or at least saying that they do).

Rejoicing and Weeping

What about Romans 12:15, you may ask. There we are told to “rejoice with those who rejoice” and “weep with those who weep.” Isn’t this basically a command to sympathize with others?

Yes and no.

For starters, consider the inherent difficulty in being obligated to feel happy every time you are around happy people and to feel sad every time you are around sad people. In such an arrangement, no doctor could care for sick people or counselor work with the grieving. Neither, for that matter, could hurting people throw birthday parties for children. Paul’s instruction is not an absolute command to have chameleon-like feelings.

Surely, the saying is a type of proverb, a maxim, a saying of virtuous wisdom. The point is not to train your emotions to match every emotion you encounter, but rather to be a thoughtful, considerate person who doesn’t sing a dirge at a wedding or bring a kazoo to a funeral. I remember after the last presidential election hearing some Christians say that other Christians were obliged to weep with them as they grieved the outcome of the election. Romans 12:15, it was said, commanded others to share in their sorrow. But of course, on that application, Christians were also obligated to celebrate with those who cheered the results of the election.

I’m not suggesting Romans 12:15 had no application in that moment. No doubt, Christian maturity, if not basic human decency, would suggest that we would all be wise to remember that others may not have felt the same way we did. Love is not rude, which means obnoxiously mismatching the mood of those around you is quite often a sin. But Romans 12:15 is less about feeling the right thing than about maintaining the warmth and unity of Christian fellowship. That’s why verse 15 is followed by commands like “live at harmony with one another” (v. 16), “do not be haughty” (v. 16), “do what is honorable,” (v. 17), and “so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all” (v. 18). Raining on parades and dancing at gravesides does not help keep the peace.

Doing Over Feeling

Why all these musings on sympathy? Because I believe too many Christians share our culture’s preference for feeling over doing. Listen, I’m not against feelings—Dutchman though I am! I think I live my life with a healthy range of emotions. What’s more, many of the right things to be done are prompted and motivated by our emotions. But feelings are not infallible. Sensitivity is one thing, sacrosanct is another. I am always responsible for what I do; I am not always responsible for how you feel. If emotional ineptitude is a problem for some, then emotional blackmail is for others.

We too quickly attach exalted praise to easy expressions of sympathy. And on the flip side, we rush to judge those who may be quietly acting the part of a good neighbor in private but do not loudly profess the right sympathy in public. We demand of people proper emoting, and when they don’t oblige we condemn them more harshly for what we think they have not felt than for what they did or did not do. The internet exacerbates these tendencies. We are more aware of human suffering around the world than ever before, and likewise we are asked to express sympathy—often from strangers and often for strangers—in quantities that outstrip realistic human capacity.

And yet, the Bible never says “the greatest of these is sympathy.” Love may be related to sympathy at times, but it is far from identical. Just look at our Lord who was known to feast when others were fasting and ask impertinent questions when blood was spilled and towers fell. There are higher virtues than feeling what others feel and higher callings than legitimizing the emotional opinions of others. We have made sentimentality our chief moral duty, when cheap would be the more operative word.

And one of the worst things about the internet is that anyone can state his opinion about anything.

The digital revolution has made knowledge more accessible, the flow of information more diverse, and the ability to make your voice heard easier than ever before.

The same revolution has also made invincible ignorance more sustainable, pervasive crankery more common, and the ability to discern what voices are worth listening to harder than ever before.

There’s no putting the genie back the bottle. Even if more news and punditry is being “curated” these days, it’s still the case than anyone with a strong opinion and the self-discipline (or blinding rage, the case may be) to blog and tweet and post consistently can command a following and wield a level of influence that would have been unthinkable 20 years ago. If we are to be wise, then, in both what we read online and also how we read it, we need to stand by the unpopular conclusion that not all opinions are created equal.

In his book The Death of Expertise, Tom Nichols tells the story of an undergraduate student arguing with a renowned astrophysicist who was on campus to give a lecture about missile defense. After seeing that the famous scientist was not going to change his mind after hearing the arguments from a college sophomore, the student finished in a harrumph, “Well, your guess is as good as mine.” At which point the astrophysicist quickly interjected, “No, no, no. My guesses are much, much better than yours” (82–83). Just because someone is confident doesn’t mean he is anywhere close to correct.

So how do we evaluate the cacophony of punditry around us, especially the online variety? Few of us have time to research every author we read, let alone the subject matter on which they are pontificating. In most of life, it serves us well to assume that people are telling us the truth. Without knowledge of the inner workings of a church or school or institution, it can be hard to tell what’s factually accurate and what’s a false allegation. Sifting truth from error in an online world is no easy task.

But there are several common-sense questions we can run through our brains before giving undue credence to the latest and loudest opinions.

1. Does this person inhabit a healthy web of family and friends? Of the questions listed here, this is the hardest to answer. Often, we won’t know anything about the person we are reading online. But at times, we may be able to discern something of a relational pattern, for good or ill. To be sure, even nasty folks can find a friend or two, and sometimes the best people suffer through family drama not of their own making. And yet, as a general rule, if I know someone has a good marriage, a happy home life, a lot of supportive friends at church and at work, and a long track record of strong relationships, I’m more inclined to hear what he has to say, especially on spiritual matters. Conversely, I’m less likely to consider someone an expert on spiritual matters who is surrounded by a train of relational wreckage with himself at the center. We are whole people, and those who are emotionally unhealthy and unstable are not usually the best go-to guides for fair analysis and discernment.

2. Does this person have full-time responsibilities beyond independent punditry? Again, there are exceptions. Tim Challies, for example, has proven to be one the most trustworthy and reliable voices on the internet. He made his name as an independent blogger and has kept up the good work for years. But he’s the exception that proves the rule. When I read some people online I can’t help but think, What do you actually do for a living? I’m not talking about full-time moms either. I’m talking about people who don’t seem to be running a church, running a business, running a family, or punching in regular hours to pay the bills. If you mainly hang out online responding to every mention on Twitter, provoking your opponents, fishing for compliments, and getting into digital fights every few days, I wonder if you have the real-world maturity and perspective to be helpful. I take inveterate pugilists and narcissists with a massive grain of salt.

3. Does this person have the commensurate education or experience that makes them worth listening to? Yes, I know the talk of academic degrees can sound hopelessly elitist. There are plenty of dumb smart people in the world. But when it comes to real expertise, there is a big difference between someone who has taken years or decades to become acquainted with a subject and someone who has been looking into a given person, place, or thing for a few weeks (or minutes!). I prefer to listen to people who know more than I do, not simply emote their convictions more strongly.

4. Is this person held accountable by any meaningful institutions? When it comes to public controversy, institutions are always at a disadvantage. A lone blogger or tweeter can make allegations, respond to comments, and be single-minded in his effort to expose what he sees as corruption or error in a church, school, organization, or business. And sometimes, we need these whistle blowers to see what everyone refuses to see. Institutions do make mistakes; they can become corrupt. But lone wolves can make mistakes and be corrupt too. And when they are, the institutions they oppose are at a profound disadvantage. An individual can post and respond with relative impunity. Institutions have to move slowly and cautiously. They have boards and employees and constituencies to think about, not to mention financial and legal ramifications. This doesn’t mean that belonging to an institution makes one right. But I generally feel more confident about someone who is actively involved in and accountable to a church, a session, an employer, a school, a board, a presbytery, or some combination thereof, than I do about someone whose performance, ideas, and behavior reflect on no one but himself.

5. Does this person provide the necessary links and citations to bolster his assertions? Fairly often, I will have people in my church ask about articles and allegations they read online. Usually, the accusations involve people they thought they could trust, but now appear to be mixed up in some nefarious underworld. Almost always, the accusations brought to my attention come from those (the online source, not the people in my church) who provide no hard facts to substantiate their slanderous claims. When links are provided, they are often nothing more than elaborate attempts at guilt by association. The click bait is usually the product of hearsay, half truths, and an eagerness to believe the worst about people. Or else the most serious charges are based upon unprovable and ambiguous accusations about Illuminati-like conspiracy theories. Likewise, just the mere recitation of a claim does not make it true. If I assert that Organization X is funded by blood money, and Leader Y is a closet Zoroastrian, and Institution Z drowns puppies behind closed doors, those claims are no more true because I repeat them and no more tied to facts because other people start to assume them to be true.

6. Does this person express his opinions and state his case with a due sense of proportion? This rule of thumb will serve you well: don’t believe hysterics. If the matter at hand is truly grave, the facts should speak for themselves. Or if we must use hard words, make sure they are in conjunction with even firmer arguments. When everything in one’s public profile is a five-alarm fire, I tend to think the pundit is interested in starting fires more than in putting them out.

7. Does this person exhibit any interest in trying to understand the arguments of others or speak carefully about those he means to criticize? I can learn a lot from people who try to persuade. I learn little from people who do nothing but berate. When a writer, thinker, or critic never sees any good points on the other side, or never sees any trade-offs in his own position, I question his commitment to intellectual rigor. Likewise, when a pundit always—forever and ever, amen—finds fault in people to the left of him or only in people to the right of him, it makes me think the punditry is about party loyalty more than a honest search for truth.

Granted, these tests aren’t foolproof. There are exceptions to all these “rules.” But rarely does someone break all (or most) of these “rules” and prove to be a trustworthy voice. We owe it to our families, our friends, our churches, and to ourselves to think critically before we take in gossip, pass along slander, or simply succumb to logical nincompoopery and ill-founded bloviating passed off as courage.

Update: 7 Diagnostic Questions for My Writing Life (drafted by Samuel James)

1. How is the current quality of my relationship with my wife, children, friends, church members, and coworkers? Do these relationships lend legitimacy to my perspective or raise questions about my character?

2. Am I being faithful to my day-to-day vocation? Do my effort and focus at work lend credibility to my writing, or would they undermine it if readers could see my week?

3. Am I consistently speaking to areas in which I have valuable knowledge and experience? Am I regularly going “outside my lane” simply to get clicks/follows?

4. Am I saying anything that could damage the reputation of my employer or my church? Would I quietly prefer if these people didn’t read what I’m writing?

5. Do I take the time and effort to educate myself on topics so that I can point others toward credible resources? Am I trying to generate content more than I’m trying to generate knowledge?

6. Am I investing time and energy in issues that really matter? Do I easily get distracted by “conversations” that nobody will even remember next week?

7. Am I teachable and open to correction? Do I try to convince people or defeat them?

And I hope I am still improving. Preaching is a funny thing. It’s part science and part art. It takes a lot of hard work and discipline, but also a tremendous amount of creativity. As a pastor, nothing feels as satisfying as a good sermon, and almost everything feels easier to do.

Evaluating preaching is extremely difficult. I’ve heard sermons that are models of the craft, but lack all unction and power. I’ve also heard disastrous sermons, from a technical standpoint, that nevertheless communicate the biblical text in an effective way and connect with the heart on a deep level. I bet I’ve preached both kinds of sermons.

If homiletical evaluation is tricky, it’s also terribly subjective. I know some people think my preaching is too meaty. Other people have said I have too much humor. They may both be right, or both wrong. It’s hard to say. Even our preaching heroes elicit varying responses. Spurgeon was undoubtedly brilliant, but was he a model expositor? Lloyd-Jones is one of my favorites, but he had all sorts of habits that should not be imitated. There is no one way to preach a faithful, effective sermon, and no one way to evaluate sermons. Even if I could get the godliest members in my congregation to give me the most candid feedback about my preaching, I imagine I would hear—along with many common themes—a wide variety of strengths and weaknesses.

But back to my main point: I want to get better. I may be a leader, counselor, manager, team builder, writer, teacher, mentor, discipler, editor, fundraiser, and a dozen others things as a pastor. But as the senior pastor the main thing I do is preach. I’d like to be as good at this one thing as possible. If others are supposed to see my progress (1 Tim. 4:15), I hope one area in which they see progress is my preaching.

So I keep listening to other preaching (although less than when I was a younger preacher), and I keep on reading (and re-reading) books on preaching. I don’t hold myself up as a homiletical model. I resonate with Lloyd-Jones’s comment that he wouldn’t walk across the street to hear himself preach. But since the dear saints at Christ Covenant do walk across the street to hear me preach, I want to preach as winsomely and faithfully as I can.

Questions to Ask

Here, then, are 11 questions I’ve been asking myself as I think about improving as a preacher. I don’t use these as any kind of weekly checklist, but these are the sorts of things rattling through my head and heart.

1. Am I cutting corners in my preparation? I’m not a slave to any particular rule about time spent in study. The whole “one hour in study for every minute in the pulpit” has always seemed ridiculously unattainable, and usually makes for overly stuffed sermons. The longer I’m a preacher, the less time it takes to produce a good sermon. That’s the way it should be with anyone in any craft. I’m also sympathetic to the pastor who has Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Sunday school, and Wednesday evening prep to do. There simply aren’t enough hours in the week to produce four (or three? or sometimes two?) quality messages. You have to borrow old material. You have to give one of those settings less than your best. But all those caveats aside, I want to make sure I’m not in the habit of recycling old material for the main teaching time, or leaning on the digested work of others, or letting all the demands of ministry crowd out my preparation week after week. Good sermons take time.
2. Did I learn anything new in my preparation? I love teaching and preaching because I love learning. I have to use old material at times (especially when speaking outside my church), but the thrill of preaching is much less that way. Half the excitement is having learned something new during the week that I get to share with others. Basically, preachers can hold the congregation’s attention in three ways: with the force of their personality, with the genius of their stories, or with the intellectual stimulation of their content. Of course, the Spirit is at work too and can work through all of these. But I think too many preachers run out of interesting things to say so they fall back on their own pathos (sometimes manufactured) to keep people engaged each week.
3. Was I personally moved by anything in my preparation? I don’t just want to learn new things in my study. I want to feel new things, or have old affections rekindled. It is hard for a sermon to move others that hasn’t first moved us.
4. Did the best parts of the sermon come from my closest attention to the text? Too often, the real payoff in the sermon has little to do with exegetical insight from the passage. The power (or so it seems) comes from an illustration, a rant, or a well-placed aside instead of from the treasures we’ve unearthed from the Bible in the past week.
5. Did the mood of the sermon match the mood of the text? Sermons sound the same when the text always takes on the personality of the preacher. So, if you are a caring, tender shepherd, every sermon sounds like a soothing balm of Gilead. If you are a rebuker and exhorter, every sermon feels like a finger in your chest. It’s impossible to completely divorce the preacher’s personality from the sermon, but every preacher must be careful that he lets the text set the mood not his personality. Gospel-centered preaching doesn’t mean every sermon feels like the same message about acceptance in Christ. Sermons should be comforting, threatening, indicative-based, imperative-heavy, transcendent, or immanent depending on the mood of the text.
6. Am I getting enough sleep? It’s hard to be emotionally healthy, intellectually rigorous, and rhetorically creative when you are exhausted.
7. Am I getting consistent exercise? You’ve read all the studies: our brains work better when are bodies are engaged in regular movement and activity. The best sermon prep is often a long walk.
8. Am I reading well and reading widely? To be sure, you can be a good preacher without being an avid reader. Not all preachers in all places at all times have had the access to good books that we have. But most people reading this blog have access to an embarrassment of theological, educational, and literary resources. I know I am much better equipped for the intense outflow that is congregational preaching, when I have a strong inflow of ideas from other sources. That means I need books, articles, stories, lectures, or almost anything that keeps my mind fresh, stretched, and engaged.
9. Am I thinking through the pacing and dynamics of my preaching style? We all have different personalities that will shape our sense of fast and slow, of loud and quiet. The key is not some rigid standard of uniformity, but the thoughtful variation of speed and sound. When I suggested on another occasion that we might want to shorten our sermons, the advice wasn’t meant to eliminate important content. Rather, the comment was borne out of the conviction that many of us can eliminate unimportant content. We spin our wheels in preaching instead of moving on to the next point. We stay at one emotional pitch during the entire sermon. We are tour guides who only know one way of showing people around the gallery.
10. Have I considered experimenting with what I bring into the pulpit? I was taught in seminary to preach without notes. I did that for several years until I felt like I was wasting hours memorizing each week. I’ve tried using manuscripts too. That’s what most of my friends seem to do. The discipline is good for me, and it makes the sermons much more useful in the rear-view mirror. For most of my ministry, however, I’ve used full-ish notes. I used to bring 6-7 pages of notes, then 5-6, now it’s usually 4 pages. Each method—notes, no notes, manuscript—have their pros and cons. Why not try out one of the other approaches from time to time to see what you might like or learn?
11. Did I pray?

I still have lots to learn, but I am hoping to get better. Preachers, let’s give ourselves to this task with renewed zeal and discipline. Congregants, please pray for your pastor when he stumbles and encourage him when he hits the mark. And if you think we need help, keep in mind most pastors are more sensitive than they let on.

Malcom Gladwell, Talking to Strangers: What We Should Know about the People We Don’t Know (Little, Brown, 2019). I know Gladwell is a simplifier. He takes complex subjects and writes about them in ways that scholars probably find frustrating. But no one can tell a better (non-fiction) story than Gladwell. From spies in Cuba to terrorists in the Middle East, this book was fascinating from start to finish, and in the process Gladwell comes to a number of surprising conclusions. Note: I listened to the book on Audible, and it was masterfully done, more like a podcast than an audiobook.

James Clear, Atomic Habits: An Easy and Proven Way to Build Good Habits and Break Bad Ones (Avery, 2018). I’m a sucker for books on habits and productivity. If you keep in mind the genre—not a Christian book, so no understanding of the gospel or the Holy Spirit or heart change—this is an excellent book. Don’t let the title throw you off. Clear does not oversell his method, nor does he promise drastic life change in two weeks. But the book is a quick read (or listen) and will give you several good strategies for making small improvements right away.

Thomas R. Schreiner, Spiritual Gifts: What They Are and Why They Matter (B&H, 2018). This is an excellent primer on spiritual gifts from a cessastionist perspective. Shreiner is unrelentingly kind and fair in his analysis, especially when he disagrees with continuationists. There are more comprehensive books on the subject, but for an introductory volume this one is hard to beat.

Jonathan I. Griffiths, Preaching in the New Testament: An Exegetical and Biblical-Theological Study (Apollos, 2017). I’ve yet to be disappointed with Carson’s New Studies in Biblical Theology. This is one of the shorter ones in the series and one of the best ones too. The gist: “Preaching in the New Testament is a public declaration of God’s word by a commissioned agent that stands in a line of continuity with Old Testament prophetic ministry” (128-129). Griffiths argues, as I noted elsewhere, that there is such a thing as preaching, and not everyone does it.

Barry Hankins, Uneasy in Babylon: Southern Baptist Conservatives and American Culture (University of Alabama Press, 2002). Almost two decades old, Hankins readable analysis is still a helpful reflection on the conservative resurgence in the SBC in the last part of the 20h century. As the title suggests, central to Hankins’s thesis is the idea that SBC conservatives reasserted themselves due to a growing sense that they needed to be less parochial and more counter-cultural at the same time.

Stephen F. Knott, The Lost Soul of the American Presidency: The Decline into Demagoguery and the Prospects for Renewal (University Press of Kansas, 2019). Knott argues that James Madison and Alexander Hamilton envisioned a presidency—which George Washington fulfilled—that would be removed from the “passions” of the people and show little concerns for “the little arts of popularity.” Unfortunately, this vision of the American presidency began to lose its soul under Thomas Jefferson and unraveled under Andrew Jackson. Abraham Lincoln was (mostly) a return to the Hamiltonian vision, but the decline into demagoguery accelerated once again with Woodrow Wilson and has reached its apotheosis with Donald Trump. While Knott’s thesis is plausible, the second half of the book was not as strong as the first half. After dealing carefully with Washington, Hamilton, Jefferson, and Jackson, more recent presidents are covered so quickly and lightly that it feels like almost any thesis could stick.

Gregg Hurwitz, Orphan X (Minotaur Books, 2016). And now for something completely different—a high-tech thriller where the good guy tries to help people in need. Evan Smoak is the Nowhere Man, taken as a boy and trained to be a secret agent with incomprehensible skills and abilities. You’ll need to skip a few sections (like I did) that get unnecessarily racy. But if you don’t mind rooting for an assassin (with a moral compass) you will enjoy Orphan X. A page-turner filled with surprises.

In particular, Genesis is replete with examples of sexual sin. From Sodom and Gomorrah to Dinah and the Shechemites, some of the most horrific examples of sexual sin are found in Genesis. Most students of the Bible know those (in)famous stories of male sexual violence and assault. What we may have missed, however, is how diverse the other stories of sexual sin are in Genesis.

This point about the diversity of sins is convincingly demonstrated by Brian Neil Peterson in his article “Male and Female Sexual Exploitation in Light of the Book of Genesis” in the latest issue of the Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society (62.4 [2019]: 693-703).

Peterson, associate professor of OT at Lee University, makes the case that sexual abuse and abuse of power in Genesis cannot be confined to one pattern. While there are several examples of men sexually exploiting women, there are also examples of sexual sin and abuses of power involving men and men, women and women, and even cases of women sexually exploiting men. Peterson repeats several times that he does not want to minimize any of the sexual sins of guilty men—past, present, or future. At the same, if we are to do justice to the record of sin in Genesis, we must acknowledge that sexual exploitation has been part of the human condition, irrespective of gender, from the beginning of recorded history (694). With Genesis as an inspired and trustworthy account of sin’s work in the world, we should expect sexual sin and abuses of power to characterize both men and women, even if more prevalent by men.

Sexual Exploitation in Genesis

The brilliance of Peterson’s article is its simplicity. Once he lays out the examples in Genesis, the data looks exceptionally clear and compelling (701-702). Peterson points to more than a dozen examples of sexual exploitation in Genesis.

Many of the most (in)famous examples are of men sinning against women:

• Abraham leverages Sarah’s sexuality, putting his wife at risk in order to save himself (Gen. 12, 20).
• Lot offers his daughters for the sexual pleasure (essentially rape) of the clamoring men at his door (Gen. 19).
• Isaac leverages Rebekah’s sexuality, putting his wife at risk in order to save himself (Gen. 26).
• Laban uses Leah’s sexuality for financial gain (Gen. 29).
• Shechem rapes Dinah (Gen. 34).
• Reuben takes advantage of Bilhah, his father’s concubine, and has sex with her (Gen. 35).

Clearly, these are heinous examples of men—for their own protection or pleasure—sacrificing, seducing, or raping women. We cannot denounce these sins too strongly. And note, the examples above do not include the sin of polygamy—which was not part of God’s original good design and which almost always carries negative results in the biblical narrative. Polygamy can be seen as further exploitation of men against women.

There are also examples of men sinning against men:

• Ham takes advantage of Noah and engages in some form of inappropriate and shameful sexual behavior regarding his father (Gen. 9).
• The men of Sodom clamor for sex with Lot’s male visitors, who are really angels (Gen. 19).
• Peterson also mentions that Ishmael may have sexually abused his younger brother, Isaac, taking the language of “mocked” or “laughing” to be fondling or caressing (Gen. 21).

The sin of sexual exploitation, however, is not only a male problem. We also see examples of women sinning against women.

• Sarah forces her servant, Hagar, to sleep with Abraham and be a surrogate womb for her (Gen. 16).
• Leah does the same thing with her servant, Zilpah (Gen. 30).
• Rachel, in turn, uses her servant, Bilhah, in the same way (Gen. 30).

Finally, there are also several examples of women sinning sexually against men:

• Lot’s daughters conspire to get their father drunk and then both have sex with him so they can get pregnant (Gen. 19).
• Leah and Rachel bargain for Jacob’s sexual service in hopes of getting pregnant (Gen. 30).
• Tamar—who was previously sinned against—tricks and seduces Judah, her father-in-law, into having sex with her and getting her pregnant (Gen. 38).
• Potiphar’s wife tries to seduce Joseph and then lies about him when he refuses her advances (Gen. 39).

Clearly, sexual exploitation is not a one-way street in Genesis. This is not to suggest that the severity of each sin is the same, nor that the experience of being sinned against is the same in each instance. The point of comparison is not to foster a false moral equivalency, but to make the necessary point that sexual sins can be committed by men and committed by women, against men and against women.

Three Points

So what does this mean for our current cultural context? Three brief points.

One, we certainly don’t want to use Genesis to minimize the sin of men against women (or the sin of anyone against anyone!). The point of Peterson’s article—and the point of this post—is not to say, “Sexual sin and the abuse of power is no big deal,” or even to suggest that men and women commit this type of sin in equal numbers. Sexual exploitation is always a grievous sin.

Two, I can’t help but notice how men and women in Genesis sin in ways we might expect from men and women. The examples of sexual exploitation at the hands of men involve violence, physical abuse, and using female sexuality for personal gain. Women can sin in these ways too, of course, but it’s striking that the examples of sexual exploitation at the hands of women involve seduction, deceit, and the desire for motherhood at all costs. Surely, there is a lesson to be learned in the particular ways that men and women can be tempted to sexual sin and the abuse of power. The almost universal facts of nature are that men are physically stronger than women and more easily aroused than women. This means that sex is too often something men forcibly try to take from women, while sexuality is something women too often wield as a great power in relationships with men. Genesis shows that both happen in a fallen world and that both are wrong.

Three, while there is much good that can and has come from our cultural #MeToo moment, it would be a betrayal of biblical anthropology in general, and the testimony of Genesis in particular, to think that sexual sin and exploitation only occur at the hands of men against women. It’s simply not biblical to posit a matrix of oppression confined to tidy categories that only move in one direction. While certain ways of sinning may be more common to one gender, we should not think that either men or women are free from the sins of the flesh depicted so vividly in the first book of the Bible.

O loving and sovereign God, our heavenly Father, we come to you in the name of Jesus, your Son, our Lord, asking that you would hear our prayers for his sake.

In your providence, you have arranged for this week in January that we in America would be reminded of two of our most heinous national sins.

We celebrate this week Martin Luther King Jr., a man who not only exposed racism in this country but also called us to dream of a day when we would not be judged by the color of our skin, but by the content of our character. We give thanks for all the ways racism is less evident, less prevalent, and much less accepted today than it was 50 years ago.

We thank you for the different nationalities and ethnicities present in our church. We rejoice to know that there will people around your throne from every tribe, every tongue, and every language. In so far as we are able—given our time and place as a congregation—help us to reflect this reality. Show us our abiding sins and shortcomings. Give us grace, insight, and self-awareness that we might remove barriers to the faith and barriers to the church, save for offense of your truth and the enduring scandal of the cross.

While there is much to celebrate regarding racial harmony in this country, compared to where we have been, there is also much to pray for.

Wherever there are suspicions based on stereotypes and bigotry, forgive us. Wherever there is animus or prejudice based on differences in history, race, or economics, convict us. Wherever we are in bondage to self-pity or self-protection, redeem us. Wherever we are crass, insensitive, unthinking, or unfeeling toward the hurts and injustices others have experienced, deliver us.

May those who belong to groups that have historically been shown prejudice in this country be free from bitterness, anger, and thoughts of recrimination. May those who belong to groups that have historically been privileged in this country be free from ignorance, pride, and thoughts of superiority.

Keep us fixed on Christ, the author and perfecter of our faith. Change structures and systems where they are unjust. Change politicians and policies where they stir up division or seek out votes based on racial disunity.

Most of all, change the hearts of all those who are far from Christ and far from each other. May we all see the image of God in one another. And may we who call upon the name of Christ see in one another a brother, a sister, a certain heavenly companion, and the makings of an earthly friend.

We will also remember this week the anniversary of the legalization of abortion in Roe v. Wade. Just as the thought of slavery and lynchings is a tragic stain on our country, so is the scourge of abortion on demand. We could add together all the people living in North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Virginia, and Tennessee, and still it would be fewer than the number of children killed by abortion since 1973. We pray that you would stay your hand of judgment—a judgment our nation richly deserves.

Have mercy upon us, O Lord. Forgive our apathy and indifference. Bring healing to those who have performed abortions, had an abortion, or pressured others to get an abortion. Lead us to the cross of Christ where no sin is so big that your grace isn’t bigger still.

Give wisdom and courage to pro-life legislators and executives that they might protect the innocent and the vulnerable. May they work to ensure life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all Americans—in the womb and outside the womb, no matter how small, no matter their cognitive ability, no matter their dependence or independence. Give compassion and resolve to all those working with at-risk women. Give Christian doctors the knowledge to know what procedures and prescriptions are right and the conviction to never encourage a patient in a direction that is wrong.

Give to each of us a spirit of generosity that is supportive of birth, supportive of adoption, and supportive of foster care—in whatever ways we are able to be supportive given our season and station in life. Give to your people the spirit of Christ, who never pushed away children, but welcomed them into his arms, saying “for to such belong the kingdom of heaven.” May we live to see the day when not only legislation and judicial precedents are changed, but also minds and hearts and wills.

We confess that both of these matters, race and abortion, can seem like intractable problems—too complicated, too controversial, too entrenched. But your arm is not too short. No one is beyond your reach, and nothing is beyond your grasp. And so we pray that you would do more than all we could ask or imagine—for the common good, for the good of the gospel, and for the glory of your name. In Jesus we hope and in him we pray, Amen.

The existence of God is not a conclusion to be reached so much as a given to be assumed. “In the beginning God” is, after all, how the Bible begins (Gen. 1:1). We all have an innate idea of God, a sense of the divine that leaves us without excuse (Rom. 1:19-20; Acts 17:24-28; Eccl. 3:11). Only the fool says in his heart there is no God (Ps. 14:1). God’s existence is the starting place for human knowledge, not the end point of human deduction.

This does not mean, however, that arguments for the existence of God are necessarily misguided. One can argue for the existence of God in a way that is subservient to human reason or in a way that supports divine revelation. Aquinas, for example, begins his discussion with Scripture, establishing God’s existence from Exodus 3:14 (“I am who I am”). Only after this does he argue that the existence of God can be proven “in five ways” (Summa Theologica, I. Q.2. Art.3):

1. Argument from motion: There cannot be an infinite regression of motion. Someone or something must have absolute actuality, an unmoved mover.
2. Argument from the nature of efficient causation: Cause and effect must have begun with some first cause.
3. Argument from possibility and necessity: Existence cannot come from non-existence. Something must exist of its own necessity, not as a mere possibility.
4. Argument from gradation: Something must be most good, most perfect, and most true—a supreme being from which all degrees of lesser perfection are determined.
5. Argument from the governance of the world: Some intelligent being must exist by whom all natural things are directed to their appointed ends.

Protestant theologians often built upon Aquinas’s Five Ways. Turretin, for example, posits four proofs for the existence of God: the voice of universal nature (which encapsulated most of Aquinas’s arguments), the intricate design of human beings, the testimony of conscience, and the religious nature of all peoples throughout history (Elenctic Theology, III.i.i-xxvii).

Similarly, Shedd mentions five principal arguments (Dogmatic Theology, 201-216): ontological (a Perfect Being greater than which nothing can be conceived must by necessity possess existence), cosmological (motion implies a Prime Mover), teleological (the world is marked by design), moral (the testimony of conscience), and historical (all peoples believe in some kind of Supreme Being).

To be sure, we should not try to argue people into the kingdom of God, much less build a theological system on a rationalistic foundation. We know from the Bible that belief in the existence of God is ultimately an article of faith (Heb. 11:6). Nevertheless, there is a place for showing that the existence of God is rational and makes better sense of the world than does atheistic unbelief. Philosophy and human reason must not be the starting point for faith, but they can be used to defend, clarify, and confirm the faith.

At the heart of Griffiths’s examination is this well-defended conclusion:

Building on the work of Claire Smith, Griffiths argues that in the New Testament euangelizomai, katangello, and kerysso are semi-technical terms referring to the proclamation of the gospel. Griffiths charts all 54 uses of euangelizomai (“announce good news”), all 18 uses of katangello (“proclaim” or “announce”), and all 59 uses of kerysso (“make proclamation as a herald”). While the three terms are not employed in a uniform sense, they are “semi-technical” in that they normally refer to preaching by some recognized authority. Of the three verbs, kerysso is the most specialized term with the narrowest range of meaning. But even with the other terms, Griffiths notes, there are no examples in the New Testament where believers in general are commissioned or commanded to “preach” (36).

Preaching is a certain kind of speech carried out by certain kinds of people. Of course, there are other kinds of word ministries given to all believers (Eph. 6:13-17; Col. 3:16; 1 Thess. 1:8; 1 Pet. 3:15) but preaching (especially the speech signified by kerysso) is a ministry set apart. Paul’s charge to Timothy (2 Tim. 4:1-2) indicates not only that preaching is a task for one with commissioned authority, but also that the preacher is a man of God (2 Tim. 3:17) like the prophets of old (61-66). Likewise, Romans 10 assumes that New Testament preaching stands in continuity with the Old Testament prophetic ministry of Isaiah. We also see that being commissioned (i.e., sent out) is an essential prerequisite for preaching ministry.

As Griffiths moves through 1 Corinthians, 2 Corinthians 2-6, 1 Thessalonians 1-2, and Hebrews, he reinforces the main themes of the book: that New Testament preaching is powerful, that God speaks through gospel preaching, that God expects people to respond to preaching with faith and obedience, that preaching requires a commissioned speaker, that preaching stands in continuity with Old Testament prophetic ministry, and that preaching is, therefore, a unique word ministry.

Concluding Thoughts

So what does this mean for the church today? Griffiths offers several points of application, let me mention three of my own (which overlap with some of his).

1. Preaching is not what every Christian does. The work of heralding is related to other word ministries but is not identical with them. There are no instructions for non-leaders to preach or proclaim the gospel. Obviously, the Bible was written in Greek not in English. The apostles never used the word “preach,” but the words they did use under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit mean something distinct from bearing witness, one-to-one discipleship, or leading an inductive Bible study. There is such a thing as preaching, and not every Christian is called to do it.

2. The act of preaching is inherently authoritative. For some reason, I had not seen before how clear this is in Romans 10. Preachers preach the gospel. Yes, that’s clear. But what is also clear is that preachers don’t just decide themselves that they want to preach. They must be sent. Preaching implies a commissioned agent authorized to preach. Rightly understood, there is no preaching that does not come from an authority in the church and no preaching that does not carry with it God’s own authority. A corollary to this point, then, is that complementarians should not speak of “women preachers,” nor should we describe the word ministry of women as “preaching.” The use of such terminology is unwise and unbiblical.

3. Preaching is meant to lead to an encounter with God. The word of Christ preached is not only a word about Christ; it is a word from Christ (Rom. 10:17). Though coming from human lips, the preached word is nothing less than the divine word of God (1 Thess. 2:13). Think of the book of Hebrews, a word of exhortation (13:22) that most scholars now think is the earliest extant full-length Christian sermon. We see that preaching comes from a congregational leader (13:7-24). We see that preaching is an exposition of Scripture. And we see that in preaching we come face-to-face (or ear-to-ear, we might say) with the living God (3:7, 15; 4:7). God’s voice is heard in the Sunday sermon, which is why we are right to give preaching the central place in our worship services and why we should pray regularly for the powerful preaching of God’s Word.

Where to begin with such pablum? One could point to the verbal downgrade of the word “iconic”—now nothing more than a synonym for pop-culture famous. One could also mention the absurdity of modern art whereby a piece of ordinary fruit is sold for a handsome annual salary. But I’d like to focus on the last two words: “unforgettable moments.”

Please.

With the exception of the Notre Dame fire, everything in the article (warning: risque images) is utterly and entirely forgettable. Virtually no one will care about Jane Fonda’s red coat years from now or months from now (or seconds from now?). Just like the Instagram post from Phoebe Waller-Bridge will not be etched in our collective memory. In fact, when I first typed the last sentence, I wrote Bridget Walker-Phoebe, because I couldn’t recall the name I read two minutes ago.

The pop culture style moments detailed by CNN mattered almost nil to almost everyone, and their long-term cultural import will likely be less than that. What we have here is pretty much the textbook definition of what will not be remembered.

Trivialities and the Weight of Glory

I’m not a technophobe. I have a blog, a Facebook page, a Twitter account, and enough teenagers in the house to keep me conversant with my fair share of pop culture. I’m not quitting social media. Neither do I think it’s all a waste of time.

But honestly, most of it is.

Of course, there are common grace gifts to enjoy in the latest viral videos, memes, and GIFs. And yet, there are more gifts—of common grace and special grace—to be enjoyed in an excellent book, a thoughtful conversation, a long walk, time in silence, time in prayer, and time in the Word. If I’m going to suffer from FOMO, I want it to be the fear of missing out on all the things I could be learning, all the ways I could be growing, or all the ways I could be a bigger blessing to my family, my church, and my friends.

C. John Sommerville noted two decades ago that the news makes us dumb. He’s more right with every passing year. Here’s what I said several years ago:

In terms of pop culture consumption, I’m more attuned to some areas than others. I went to a movie theater exactly zero times in 2019, but I’m sure I pay too much attention to sports. I feel no temptation to binge watch anything, but I can mindlessly thumb through Twitter (is there any other way to look at Twitter?). And don’t ask about email; I stay connected to my inbox like it was kidney dialysis.

I need a digital detox just like most of you. If I’m to get more of the deep stuff, I need to be weaned from most of the trivial stuff.

Timeless Resolution

If you are in the business of making New Year’s resolutions, why not attempt one that saves time instead of depletes it? Give up trying to keep up. Let the pop culture whirlwind pass you by. Be wonderfully ignorant of the world of what’s happening now. Don’t worry, the important news will still get to you. But hopefully most of the other “news” won’t.

It can be scary to detach, even a little bit, from the screams of social media, Netflix, and cable news. But let’s not mistake knowledge for wisdom, or a multimedia platform for kingdom usefulness. There is no way to possibly stay with it, so why bother? Look out the window. Put down the phone. Lose touch with pop culture and reconnect with God. If you get to the end of 2020 and can’t recall any of the big style stories from CNN, don’t fret: in a few minutes no one else with either.

*******

The beginning of the Bible began with, well, a beginning. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” That’s the first verse in Genesis, the first book of the Bible.

The New Testament begins with another beginning. “The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ.” That’s the first verse in Matthew, the first book in the New Testament. “Genealogy” is a big word that has to do with tracing out your family tree. And that’s what we see at the start of the New Testament.

But here’s something special that your parents may not even know. The word that Matthew used when he wrote the verse is actually the word “genesis.” That’s right. Just like the first book of the Bible. The story Matthew wants to tell is about a new start, a new genesis, a new beginning.

Except this new beginning is definitely still connected to the old beginning. Jesus didn’t come out of nowhere, like a baby just fell from the sky (that would hurt). He wasn’t created with a magic wand or in a science lab. Jesus was a descendant of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. He was from the tribe of Judah and the house of David. He had in his family tree mothers with strange stories like Tamar, amazing stories like Ruth, and sad stories like Bathsheba. Jesus was a real Jewish boy born into a real Jewish family with a real genealogy full of real promises and real people with real problems.

Jesus was just like us.

And he was unlike us. That’s how things work when you are God and man. Jesus was born like boys and girls are born, but his birth was unlike any before or since.

Mary and Joseph were engaged to be married. But before they even had a wedding, Mary was pregnant! This didn’t seem right, so Joseph had a plan to quietly breakup with Mary.

But before he could do that, an angel appeared to Joseph in a dream. “Don’t be afraid to take Mary as your wife. She’s not done anything wrong. The child in her belly is from the Holy Spirit.” If that wasn’t enough to make Joseph drop his hammer on his big toe, the angel had more to say. “Mary is going to have a son, and you should call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

Things were about to happen that people had hoped to see happen for a long time. Centuries earlier the prophet Isaiah predicted that a virgin would have a son and he would be called Immanuel, God with us. In other words, a young woman with no earthly way to be pregnant would give birth to a heavenly child.

Joseph woke up and did everything the angel told him to do. Mary had a son, and they named him Jesus, meaning “the Lord saves.” That was the perfect name for a perfect Savior—and a perfect new beginning to the story God had been writing even before the beginning of time.

This list is not meant to assess the thousands of good books published in 2019. There are plenty of worthy titles that I am not able to read (and lots I never hear of). This is simply a list of the books (Christian and non-Christian, but all non-fiction) that I thought were the best in the past year. “Best” doesn’t mean I agreed with everything in them; it means I found these books—all published in 2019—a strong combination of thoughtful, useful, interesting, helpful, insightful, and challenging.

10. Robert Louis Wilken. Liberty in the Things of God: The Christian Origins of Religious Freedom (Yale University Press). There have been plenty of books in recent years about current threats to religious freedom. This book is a look at the history of the idea. In particular, Wilken argues “religious freedom took form through the intellectual labors of men and women of faith who sought the liberty to love and serve God faithfully in the public square” (5-6). In other words, religious freedom was not a Christian capitulation to pluralism or Enlightenment philosophy, but a Christian idea in its own right.

9. Andrew Atherstone and David Ceri Jones (eds). Making Evangelical History: Faith, Scholarship and the Evangelical Past (Routledge). If there is a theme that holds these chapters together it’s the tension between history that inspires the faithful and history that is faithful to the nuances, imperfections, and ambiguities of the past. I don’t believe the editors mean for Christians to choose between spiritual inspiration and intellectual rigor as mutually exclusive priorities, but they do mean to highlight how evangelical histories have typically aimed at the former more than the latter. For my part, I agree with Atherstone’s insistence that evangelicals ought to embrace both the “confessional” and also “professional” approaches to history (11).

8. Douglas Murray. The Madness of Crowds: Gender, Race, and Identity (Bloomsbury). The fact that Murray is a gay atheist helps and hurts the book. On the one hand, it’s nice to see Murray sympathize with conservative Christianity and make the sorts of points many Christians would make. On the other hand, there is no doubt Murray is missing out on all sorts of resources and ideas for understanding human nature, sex, and forgiveness. Murray is at his best when he argues that our Western culture is asking for impossibilities. We must believe that women have a right to be sexy without being sexualized, that race doesn’t exist and that race defines everything, that Caitlyn Jenner is a woman but Rachel Dolezal is not black. His argument that people are much less oppressed than they think is bound to be controversial. But he makes a good point that the more comfortable most people are, the more suffering carries rhetorical (and real) power.

7. Cal Newport. Digital Minimalism: Choosing a Focused Life in a Noisy World (Portfolio). After reading Newport’s earlier book on Deep Work, I was eager to get this follow-up volume on reducing digital distraction. Newport wisely observes that we are succumbing to screens not because we are lazy (though that may play a part), but because billions of dollars have been invested to push us into digital addiction. The call for digital minimalism, therefore, is not about efficiency or usefulness, but about autonomy. Like Newport’s book on work, I find this one easier to agree with than to put into practice.

6. Robert Caro. Working: Researching, Interviewing, Writing (Knopf). Fascinating from start to finish. I confess I have not read all of Caro’s famous work on LBJ, but I have read enough to know that as a researcher and political biographer, he has no equal. This little book is a snapshot into the subjects of his big biographies—Robert Moses and Lyndon Johnson—as well as a glimpse into the method behind Caro’s own brilliant madness.

5. Stephen Witmer. A Big Gospel in Small Places: Why Ministry in Forgotten Communities Matter (IVP). A wonderful antidote to one of the last remaining prejudices: small towns are not strategic, and small-town folks are rednecks and rubes. With a good mix of theology, exegesis, cultural analysis, and personal reflections, Witmer manages to be warmly pro-small places without ever sounding anti-big cities. This book will encourage many and may be used by God to call good gospel ministers back into our forgotten communities.

4. Kevin G. Harney. No Is a Beautiful Word: Hope and Help for the Overcommitted and (Occasionally) Exhausted (Zondervan). With 54 short chapters about saying “No,” you don’t have to wonder what the book’s big idea is all about. Nothing revolutionary, but lots of good illustrations, practical advice, and spine-stiffening courage for saying “No” to most things, so we can say “Yes” to the best things. A necessary book for anyone who feels margin-less, overstretched, and crazy busy.

3. Carl H. Esbeck and Jonathan J. Den Hartog (eds). Disestablishment and Religious Dissent: Church-State Relations in the New American States 1776-1833 (University of Missouri Press). I know, the title screams “Take me to the beach!” But this really is a fascinating book. Each of the original 13 colonies, plus a few other early states, is given its own chapter. From New Jersey (the first and simplest case of disestablishment) to Massachusetts (the last and most complicated) a talented group of scholars detail the political, cultural, and legal process of disestablishment in early America.

2. Robert Letham. Systematic Theology (Crossway). The Reformed world has been blessed with a steady stream of new systematic texts and resources in the past decade. What makes Letham’s stand out is his knowledge of the entire tradition, from the Fathers to the Reformers to contemporary voices. Letham marshals his impressive knowledge in one volume that is clearly organized and written without a lot of technical jargon. This is a book I will consult for years to come.

1. Carol V. R. George. God’s Salesman: Norman Vincent Peale and the Power of Positive Thinking (Oxford University Press). Originally published in 1993 and then reissued in a second edition this year (no doubt, because of President Trump’s connections to the Marble Collegiate minister), a biography of Norman Vincent Peale may seem an odd choice for my top 10 list. I don’t agree with Peale’s methodology, priorities, preaching, or theology. But he’s probably the most important 20th-century American religious leader that few think of. Even with something of a Reformed resurgence in recent decades, the reality is that the most popular Christian books, churches, and preachers in this country are still much more like Peale than like Piper. From his trust in the basic goodness of the human mind and heart, to his valuing of experiential and personal faith over doctrine and traditional religion, to his lifelong passion for Republican politics, to his emphasis on health, achievement, and success, Peale not only embodied the spirit of his age, his blending of New Thought philosophy and neo-evangelical ethos also helped shape generations to come.

For today, here are more than a dozen books I’ve read (somewhat) recently in several different categories.

Church History

I enjoyed Allan Kreider’s book The Patient Ferment (Baker Academic, 2016) on the rise of Christianity in the Roman Empire. At times I wondered if Kreider’s Anabaptist tradition was leading him to downplay the importance of doctrine. But on the whole the book is a needed corrective and countercultural reminder that the secret of the early church was patience more than strategy.

With everything written on the Puritans, it is still difficult to find a scholarly history of the movement that covers both sides of the Atlantic. Michael Winship’s book Hot Protestants: A History of Puritanism in England and America (Yale, 2018) fills this gap admirably, even if I found the tone a bit snarky at times.

Early Modern History

I’ll be teaching an elective class at RTS next semester on the Enlightenment, and so I’ve been on the lookout for an accessible introductory volume. I’ve opted for Gertrude Himmelfarb’s The Roads to Modernity (Vintage Books, 2004). I appreciate her categories: the British Enlightenment as the sociology of virtue, the French Enlightenment as the ideology of reason, and the American Enlightenment as the politics of liberty.

John Robertson’s The Enlightenment: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2015) is also good, but (surprisingly, given the title) tries to cover more ground than Himmelfarb and presumes more knowledge of Enlightenment figures and texts. Most people believe that human rights came from Enlightenment philosophy.

John Witte Jr provides a well-researched rebuttal to this assumption in The Reformation of Rights (Cambridge University Press, 2007), arguing that the core ideas of human rights and constitutional protections were formulated by Calvinists in the two centuries leading up to the American Revolution.

In a similar vein, Mark David Hall makes a compelling case for the seminal influence of the Bible and the Christian faith in Did America Have a Christian Founding? (Nelson Books, 2019).

Politics and Culture

I spent a good chunk of my free time over the summer reading these next two books. George Will’s The Conservative Sensibility (Hatchette Books, 2019) is a brilliant and flawed book. Will, a Princetonian, argues that the political vision of James Madison in the 18th century was undone in the 20th century by another Princeton graduate, Woodrow Wilson. Even many sympathetic readers, however, will not agree with Will’s insistence that the conservative sensibility does not depend upon religion or a belief in God.

Less philosophical and more journalistic is Tim Alberta’s detailed and even-handed book American Carnage: On the Front Lines of the Republican Civil War and the Rise of President Trump (Harper, 2019). Coming in at more than 600 pages, Alberta’s well-written chronicle requires a high level of interest in the political machinations of the Republican Party from 2008 to 2018. But if that’s your cup of tea, you won’t be able to put the book down.

Mary Eberstadt provides another provocative analysis of our cultural moment in Primal Screams: How the Sexual Revolution Created Identity Politics (Templeton Press, 2019), arguing that more and more people are finding their identity in figurative tribes because they no longer have literal families and communities to give shape and meaning to their lives.

Almost all readers of this blog will have heard something about Critical Race Theory. And yet, most often our knowledge is superficial and second hand. Critical Race Theory: An Introduction (New York University Press, 2017) by Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic is a brief and accessible introduction by two leading proponents of CRT. The gist: “Unlike traditional civil rights discourse, which stresses incrementalism and step-by-step progress, critical race theory questions the very foundations of the liberal order, including equality theory, legal reasoning, Enlightenment rationalism, and neutral principles of constitutional law” (3).

Theology and Ministry

Christians asking the question, “How should I think about politics?” would benefit from Christ and the Kingdoms of Men: Foundations of Political Life (P&R, 2019) by David Innes. While I didn’t agree with everything (e.g., I’m less Kuyperian and see more Christian underpinnings to Enlightenment ideas), this is a thoughtful and useful introduction to the purpose and place of government.

Richard Chin is the national director of the Australian Fellowship of Evangelical Students and a good friend. More importantly, he is careful with the Bible and explains is clearly. His new book, Captivated by Christ: Seeing Jesus Clearly in the Book of Colossians (Matthias Media, 2019), would make an excellent devotional or small group resource.

I’m always looking for books that can help me improve as a preacher. Alex Motyer’s Preaching: Simple Teaching on Simply Preaching (Christian Focus, 2013) is one of those books. Motyer offers lots of practical advice so that even if not everyone can be a good preacher, no one need be a bad preacher (9).

I love the design, look, and feel of Harold Senkbeil’s The Care of Souls: Cultivating a Pastor’s Heart (Lexham Press, 2019). As a longtime Lutheran minister, Senkbeil’s work is, not surprisingly, decidedly Lutheran, with distinctive views on the law, absolution, and baptismal regeneration. And yet, Senkbeil writes with a pastoral wisdom that we need to hear, reminding all of us that to be a minister is to fulfill a holy calling in service of God’s holy people.

Yes, I know, Jesus is the ultimate hero. He is the only flawless hero, the only substitute-for-our-sins hero, the only dying and rising hero. But that doesn’t mean Jesus is the only kind of hero.

As Christians, we are right to be inspired by faithful brothers and sisters. Why else were Timothy and Titus supposed to set the believers a good example? Why else do we have the Hall of Faith in Hebrews 11? Why else are we told in Hebrews 13:7 to remember our leaders, to consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith? God says to us, just as he said to the audience in Hebrews: don’t forget your heroes; learn from their example; be like them in all that was good.

But how can we tell which heroes should really be heroes?

We can all agree that every hero, except for Jesus, is flawed. We can also agree that many flawed heroes have elements of their theology, their practice, or their courage that are worth emulating. But beyond those truisms, who gets to be celebrated? Is Martin Luther off limits because of his comments in old age about the Jews? Or Calvin because of Servetus? Or Jonathan Edwards because of slavery? Is Dabney a theologian worth celebrating even if he was a strident racist? Can Martin Luther King Jr. be lauded even if his theology was not evangelical and he repeatedly violated the seventh commandment? Who gets to be the subject of inspiring Christian biographies? Who gets to be assigned in our seminaries? Who gets to have buildings and schools and conferences (and children!) named after them? Who gets to be our homeboys (or homegirls)?

Leaders in Hebrews

One way to answer the question is to look again at Hebrews 13:7, “Remember your leaders, who spoke to you the word of God. Consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith.” To be sure, there are thousands of people, dead and alive, we can learn from in life. You can celebrate the courage of Jackie Robinson, the statesmanship of Winston Churchill, or the magnanimity of Abraham Lincoln without making them patron saints of evangelical Christianity. But when it comes to Christian heroes for a Christian people, Hebrews instructs us to look for three things: they taught the Word faithfully, they lived an exemplary life, and they trusted in the promises of God.

That’s a start in evaluating heroes and potential heroes. We all have failings. We all have areas of our personality and practice that others would do well to avoid. But the “leaders” in Hebrews were, it seems, at least in general terms people worth imitating. We aren’t talking about perfection, but examples. Ask yourself this question: if more people in the church believed what my heroes taught and lived liked my heroes lived, would the church be a healthier, holier place?

Of course, even this question can be answered in a variety of ways, depending on your context and depending on what elements you think are most important in teaching and living an exemplary Christian life. There may be different heroes for different times and different places. But we aren’t left entirely to our own rankings of Really Important virtues and Really Bad vices. Perhaps we can approach some common ground in ruling a Christian hero “in” or “out” by looking at the whole life lived.

Kings in Chronicles

The assessments of the kings of Judah are instructive in this regard. Consider several examples.

Rehoboam: He may have been strong in some respects, but, overall, he did evil and did not seek the Lord (2 Chron. 12:13-14)

Asa: He did what was good and right in the eyes of the Lord (2 Chron. 14:2). Asa was one of Judah’s best kings, even though he was far from flawless. The high places were not taken out of Israel, but the heart of Asa was wholly true all his days (2 Chron. 15:17). Even though Asa finished his reign as a foolish, cruel, proud king, he was still afforded a place of privilege in his death, and they made a great fire in his honor (2 Chron. 16:14).

Jehoshaphat: He was another good king who did what was right in the sight of the Lord. But again, like his father, the high places were not taken away (2 Chron. 20:32-33).

Jehoram: This is as bad as it gets. He did what was evil and died to no one’s regret. He was buried in the city of David, but not in the tombs of the kings (2 Chron. 21:20).

Joash: He did what was right all the days of Jehoiada the priest, but once Jehoiada was gone, Joash turned treacherous. When he died he was buried in the city of David, but not in the tombs of the kings (2 Chron. 24:2, 25).

Hezekiah: He was one of Judah’s best kings, doing what was right in the eyes of Lord (2 Chron. 29:2). Even though his last days were marked with petty pride, he was honored at his death (2 Chron. 32:33).

Manasseh: He was one of the only kings who ended better than he started. He did evil in the sight of the Lord, but in his last days he humbled himself before God (2 Chron. 33:2, 12-13). Nevertheless, he was remembered as an exemplar of evil, a king whose reign was marked by sin and faithlessness (2 Chron. 33:19, 22).

This is a partial list, only seven of the 20 monarchs of the southern kingdom. But the list is enough to reinforce our main point: in determining whether a “leader” is worthy of honor, we must look at the whole life lived. Joash was not a hero in Judah for getting his reign half right. Manasseh’s reign was not salvaged by his final humility, even if spiritually Manasseh was in a much better place by the end of his life. Conversely, Asa was given great honor in his death, even though he stumbled across the finish line. Hezekiah could end up on a T-shirt, Rehoboam not so much.

Heroes in the Church

So what does all this mean for us and our heroes? For starters, we should be honest—candid about the faults of the good guys and forthright about the things the bad guys got right. More than that, the examples in Chronicles suggest that we should distinguish between high places and high-handed sins. At the risk of offending everyone, my conviction is that slavery was a high place for Edwards, while racism was a high-handed sin for Dabney. Slavery hardly played any role—let alone a central role—in Edwards’s thought and ministry. While Dabney’s writings are often infused with racism and animated by a desire to defend slavery. Does that mean we can’t learn from Dabney’s theology? Of course not, but it means that I would not celebrate Dabney, like I would Edwards, as one of the great heroes of the faith.

I realize that a cursory look at Hebrews 13 and at Chronicles will not answer all the thorny questions surrounding our flawed heroes. But at least we can see that the Bible has a category for heroes, and a category for flawed ones at that. May God give us wisdom, humility, and courage to be honest about our high places, while still giving thanks for those—living and dead—whom God would have us honor.

The doctrine of impeccability states that Christ was not only sinless, he was unable to sin (non posse peccare). As the incarnate Son of God, Christ faced real temptations, but these temptations did not arise in Christ due to sinful desires. Christ was not only able to overcome temptation, he was unable to be overcome by it (Shedd, Dogmatic Theology, 659).

Christ’s impeccability has been widely affirmed throughout the history of the church and defended by most of the leading Reformed systematicians. In the last 150 years, however, many theologians have rejected the idea that Christ was unable to sin, arguing instead that peccability is necessary for Christ’s temptations to be genuine and for Christ to sympathize with his people. Surprisingly, even the redoubtable Charles Hodge (1797–1878) denied impeccability (Hodge, Systematic Theology, 2:457), which may be one of the reasons his contemporary W. G. T. Shedd (1820–1894) offered an especially robust defense of the doctrine in his Dogmatic Theology.

In defense of Christ’s impeccability, Shedd makes three broad points.

First, Christ’s impeccability can be deduced from Scripture. If Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever (Heb. 13:8), he must be unchanging in his holiness. A mutable holiness would be inconsistent with the omnipotence of Christ and irreconcilable with the fact that Christ is the author and finisher of our faith (Heb. 12:2). Christ is unlike the first Adam in that he is the fountain of all holiness, and from him can proceed nothing but life and light. If Christ were able to sin, his holiness would, by definition, be open to change—his obedience open to failure—even if Christ proved in the end to be faithful. A peccable Christ is a Savior who can be trusted only in hindsight.

Second, Christ’s impeccability is tied to the constitution of his person. To be sure, Christ was empowered by the Spirit with extraordinary grace, but Christ was not only strengthened to resist temptation, the presence of the divine Logos made it infallibly certain that Christ would resist. We must not think that Christ’s two natures operated independently of each other, as if they were rival parties or two sources of knowing and doing veiled one from the other. Likewise, we must not conceive of the two wills of Christ as antagonists. The finite will invariably and perfectly obeyed the infinite, such that Christ never experienced the flesh lusting against the spirit, and the spirit lusting against the flesh (Gal. 5:17).

But what about Christ’s pain, hunger, sorrow, weakness, and death? How are these possible for the God-man? If we conclude that Christ is impeccable must we also conclude that Christ was unable to suffer? Surely not. Shedd distinguishes between “all the innocent defects and limitations of the finite” and “the culpable defects and limitations” of sinful man. The en-fleshed Son of God was liable to the weaknesses that come from a human body, but without the moral defects—or possibility of moral defect—that come from a human nature.

At the heart of this second point is the Chalcedonian conviction that whatever Christ did, he did as one undivided theanthropic person. Consequently, Shedd argues, Christ’s ability to sin must be measured according to “his mightiest nature.” Just as an iron wire by itself can be bent, but once welded to an iron bar is rendered immoveable, so the God-man Jesus Christ is rendered impeccable by the union of the human and divine natures (Dogmatic Theology, 660-61). In other words, while Christ possessed a peccable human nature, he was an impeccable theanthropic person.

Third, impeccability is consistent with temptation. One of the reasons for the assumption of a human nature by the Logos is so that the Logos might be tempted as a man and be able to sympathize with men (Heb. 2:14-18). If we elevate Christ’s impeccability in a way that casts aside his temptability, we are out of step with Scripture.

And yet, we must not absolutely equate our temptations with Christ’s temptations. The same Greek noun translated “trials” (peirasmois) in James 1:2 is rendered in verb form as tempted (peirazetai) in James 1:14. Some temptations arise from without as trials and sufferings—these Christ constantly endured. But also, temptations that arise from within as sinful desires—these Christ never experienced. When Hebrews 4:15 says Christ was tempted in every respect as we are, yet without sin, we should understand the preposition “without” (choris) as extending both to the outcome of the temptations (unlike us, Christ did not sin) and also to the nature of the temptations (unlike ours, Christ’s temptations were not sinful). In other words, we are tempted by the world, the flesh, and the Devil, while Christ never faced temptation from the flesh. Or as John Owen put it, Christ faced the suffering part of temptation; we also face the sinning part.

Christ’s inability to sin does not make his temptations less genuine. The army that cannot be conquered can still be attacked (Dogmatic Theology, 662). If anything, Christ’s temptations were more intense than ours because he never gave in to them. Our temptations wax and wane as we sometimes withstand them and sometimes succumb to them. But Christ never gave in, and as such the experience of temptation only mounted throughout his life. In this, Christ is able to sympathize with us in our human experience of temptation, even though as the God-man, he was incapable of giving in to these temptations.

While Reformation doctrine has been emphatic that faith is “the alone instrument of justification,” it has also repeatedly made clear that faith is “not alone in the person justified, but is ever accompanied with all other saving grace” (WCF 11.2).

The relationship between faith and works, between justification and sanctification, has always required careful nuance–whether in polemics with Catholic theologians, or in dialogue with Arminian objections, or in response to later Enlightenment concerns about the nature of true virtue. Thankfully, the Reformed tradition provides the necessary categories and distinctions to help us think through the thorniest problems.

Using Francis Turretin’s Institute of Elenctic Theology as our guide, let’s look at five relevant questions—relevant then and now—which get at the important relationship between faith and works.

First, how does sanctification differ from justification?

In addressing this question, Turretin makes clear that he is not talking about sanctification as a broad term describing the Christian’s position as set apart for God. Rather, he is talking about sanctification in the narrow sense usually assumed by theologians: namely, the renovation of man by which God takes the in-Christ, justified believer and transforms him more and more into the divine image (XVII.i.2-3).

Importantly, Turretin argues that sanctification can be understood “passively,” inasmuch as the transforming work “is wrought by God in us,” and also “actively,” inasmuch as sanctification “ought to be done by us, God performing this work in us and by us” (XVII.i.3). This is a crucial point. Sanctification is not understood correctly if we do not understand that God is doing the work in us, and at the same time we are also working. Any theology that ignores either the active or passive dimension of sanctification is getting it wrong.

Justification and sanctification must not be confused. The most serious, and potentially damning errors, surface when the two are not carefully distinguished.

Turretin explains how justification and sanctification differ.

• They differ with regard to their object. Justification is concerned with guilt; sanctification with pollution.
• They differ as to their form. Justification is a judicial and forensic act whereby our sins are forgiven and the righteousness of Christ is imputed to us. Sanctification is a moral act whereby righteousness is infused to the believer, and our internal renovation is affected.
• They differ as to the recipient subject. In justification, man is given a new objective status based on God’s acquittal. In sanctification, we are subjectively renewed by God.
• They differ as to degrees. Justification is given in this life fully, without any possible increase. Sanctification is begun in this life but only made perfect in the next. The declaration of justification is once for all. The inward work of sanctification takes place by degrees.
• They differ as to the order. God only sanctifies those who are already reconciled and justified by faith. (XVII.i.10)

There is often discussion about whether sanctification is by faith alone. I’ve argued before that “sanctification by faith alone” is not the best phrase to use, not least of all because it can lead to confusion about the absolutely essential affirmation that “justification is by faith alone.”

There is a sense in which “sanctification by faith alone” can be a true statement. Is sanctification a gift that only comes to those who put their faith in Christ? Yes and amen.

But the “by” in “justification by faith alone” is not the same as the “by” in “sanctification by faith alone.” Both justification and sanctification are by faith, but whereas faith is the instrument through which we receive the righteousness of Christ, faith is the root and principle out of which sanctification grows (XVII.i.19). We say that justification is by faith alone, because we want to safeguard justification from any notion of striving or working. But sanctification explicitly includes these co-operations (XV.v.1-2), making the description of “alone” misleading at best and inaccurate at worst.

Second, can we fulfill the law absolutely in this life?

Of the five questions, this one has been the least controversial in contemporary discussions. Virtually everyone agrees that the “perfection of sanctification” is not possible for fallen human beings on this side of heaven.

Interestingly, though, Turretin thinks certain kinds of perfection are possible. The question about fulfilling the law absolutely is not about the perfection of sincerity (serving God with a whole heart), nor the perfection of parts (being sanctified in body and soul), neither is it about comparative perfection (that some believers would be more advanced than others), nor evangelical perfection (whereby God in paternal forbearance perfects our works with his grace). Turretin affirms “all these species of perfections,” noting that the Bible often speaks of believers being “perfect” and “upright.” In other words, we can be obedient in a real sense.

But the question about fulfilling the law is, for Turretin, a question about legal perfection (XVII.ii.4).

That we are unable to fulfill the law absolutely can be seen from several realities taught clearly in Scripture: the remaining corruption of sin in the believer in 1 John 1, the struggle between flesh and the Spirit in Romans 7, the unbearable yoke of the law in Acts 15, the command to pray daily for the remission of sins in the Lord’s Prayer, and the example of the saints throughout the Bible (XVII.ii.10-26). There are many ways in which the Bible does talk about the believer being obedient, righteous, and holy. But we must not understand any of these to imply that we can so fulfill the law that God has nothing properly against us were he to judge strictly and legally.

Third, are good works necessary to salvation?

Turretin begins his discussion of this notoriously difficult question by noting that there are three main views when it comes to the necessity of good works.

Some are like modern Libertines, who make good works arbitrary and indifferent.

Others are like ancient Pharisees, who contend that works are necessary to justification.

In trying to hold the middle ground between these two extremes, Turretin maintains, in keeping with “the opinion of the orthodox,” that good works are necessary but not according to the necessity of merit (XVII.iii.2).

In other words, the question before us is not “whether good works are necessary to effect salvation or to acquire it of right” (we’ll get to that in the fifth question), but whether good works are “required as the means and way for possessing salvation.” It is in this last sense that Turretin affirms the necessity of good works (XVII.iii.3).

According to Turretin, the necessity of good works is proved from: (1) the command of God, (2) the covenant of grace, (3) the gospel, (4) the state of grace, and (5) the blessings of God. In the covenant of grace there are still stipulations and obligations (conditions, if you will). There are duties man owes to God and blessings that are connected to the exercise of these duties, even if—and this is important—God is the one who sees to it that these duties are carried out. Heaven cannot be reached without good works (Heb. 12:14; Rev. 21:27), which is why it is such good news that he who began a good work in us will be faithful to complete it (Phil. 1:6).

To insist on the necessity of good works is not to become a legalist or a neonomian. “Although we acknowledge the necessity of good works against the Epicureans,” Turretin observes, “we do not on this account confound the law and the gospel and interfere with gratuitous justification by faith alone. Good works are required not for living according to the law, but because we live by the gospel; not as the causes on account of which life is given to us, but as effects which testify that life has been given to us” (XVII.iii.15).

This question about the necessity of good works has often perplexed Christians. If, on the one hand, we say no, good works are not necessary, we can hardly make sense of the warnings and moral imperatives of the New Testament. But if we say good works are necessary to salvation, it can sound like we’ve suddenly made heaven the product of our effort and obedience.

But that’s not what Hebrews 12:14 means, nor what Turretin means. Read carefully this paragraph:

That’s a mouthful, but really crucial and really wonderful. Good works are inextricably linked to justification, sanctification, and glorification, but they are related in different ways. Good works come after justification as a result and a declaration. Good works are identified with sanctification as its definition and cheerleader. And good works come before glorification as God’s appointed means to a divinely secured end. Or as Turretin later puts it, “grace is glory begun, as glory is grace consummated” (XVII.iii.14).

Fourth, can justified believers do that which is truly good?

Before we answer that question, we need to understand what is required for a work to be truly good. Turretin mentions four things:

• that the work be done from the faith of a renewed heart,
• that the work be done according to the will of God revealed in his Word,
• that the work be done not just externally but internally from the heart, and
• that the work be done to the glory of God (XVII.iv.5).

This standard Reformed definition implies that however decent and ethical the works of the non-Christians may be, they are still not truly good in the fullest sense (XVII.iv.6).

Reformed Christians sometimes make the mistake of thinking that if they are to be really Reformed they must utterly denigrate everything they do as Christians. To be sure, as we have seen, we cannot fulfill the law absolutely. Even our best works are full of weakness and imperfection. But here’s where the careful distinctions of scholastic theology are helpful: good works can be truly good without being perfectly good.

The answer to this fourth question is: Yes, believers can do that which is truly good. “We have proved before,” Turretin writes, “that the latter cannot be ascribed to the works of the saints on account of the imperfection of sanctification and the remains of sin. But the former is rightly predicated of them because though they are not as yet perfectly renewed, still they are truly good and unfeignedly renewed” (XVII.iv.9). In other words, there is another category for our good works besides “earning salvation” and “nothing but filthy rags.”

According to Turretin, there are at least three reasons why we must conclude that the works of believers can be truly good.

First, because our good works are performed by a special motion and impulse of the Holy Spirit.

Second, because Scripture repeatedly says that such works please God.

And third, because the saints are promised a reward for their good works.

If, in order to sound extra pious and humble, we insist that our good works are actually nothing of the sort, we end up making too little of the Spirit’s work in our lives and muting dozens of biblical texts. While it may be true that even our best deeds are still sins, in the sense that they are still not perfectly righteous, this does not mean that they cannot also be considered truly good in a different sense.

In other words, the good works of the believers can be truly good works, even if the mode in which they are done is imperfect.

Fifth and finally, do good works merit eternal life?

The first thing to notice about this fifth question is that it’s not the same as the third question. When we hear the two questions as identical, we are bound to answer at least one of them incorrectly. For while good works are necessary to salvation, they do not merit eternal life.

We’re not going to get into the weeds of Roman Catholic theology and talk about merit of congruity and merit of condignity (Turretin rejects both). Let’s stick with the bigger, more relevant question about good works meriting eternal life.

Here again, we need to parse our terms carefully.

This is a crucial distinction. Here’s what Turretin is saying in effect: “Look, we have to realize that people use these words in different ways. Technically, merit means someone or something is given its due. In this sense, good works, even of the justified believer, do not merit eternal life. On the other hand, people sometimes use ‘merit’ more loosely, as another way of indicating sequence. So if B follows A, or if A is a condition for B, some people say that A gains, obtains, attains, or even merits B. This is not the best way to describe things, but many people, like the church fathers, mean to communicate nothing more than that eternal life is connected to good works in a necessary chain of events.”

What does it mean for a good work to be meritorious in the strict sense? Turretin mentions five characteristics:

• The work be “undue.” That is, we are not merely doing what we owe.
• The work must be ours and not owing to the work of another.
• The work must be absolutely perfect.
• The work is equal to the payment made.
• The payment or reward is owed us because of the intrinsic worth of the work. (XVII.v.6)

Clearly, our good works do not meet any of these requirements. Using a strict and proper understanding of “merit,” we must never conclude that our good works merit eternal life. For even our best works are (1) merely what we owe, (2) from God’s grace in us, (3) imperfect, (4) much less than the reward of eternal life, and (5) not worthy in and of themselves.

Good works are necessary to salvation, but not in order to effect salvation or acquire it by right. The necessity is not of causality and efficiency (XVII.iii.3).

In short, while our good works are often praiseworthy in Scripture—pleasing to God and truly good—they do not win for us our heavenly reward. There is a true and necessary connection between good works and final glorification, but the connection is not one of merit.

1. Create a vision for your life and ministry that you can return to over and over again (Acts 13:36; 2 Cor. 12:15; 2 Cor. 11:3).
   
2. Resolve to imbibe the Scriptures (Ps. 19, 119). Memorize them and meditate on them, frequently.
3. Resolve to make prayer a centerpiece of your life and ministry (Ps. 116:1-2). I still think of myself as a novice.
4. Don’t make the gospel too complex, although it is on some level incomprehensible (2 Cor. 11:3). Think often upon “the simplicity and purity of devotion to Christ.” It will be good for your soul.
5. Spend yourselves in serving the flock (2 Cor. 12:15; 1 Thess. 2:8). Know them. Love them. Laugh with them. Weep with them. Be there at critical moments such as hospital stays, death, and other distresses.
6. Make holiness and war with indwelling sin a priority (1 Pet. 1:15-16; 1 John 3:1-3; 1 Tim. 1:5; Titus 1:15). Read and heed John Owens’s Mortification of Sin. “Be killing sin lest it be killing you.”
7. Given what the Bible teaches about indwelling sin and temptation, be accountable always! (Heb. 3:12-13). Do whatever it takes. Remember Jeremiah 17:9, Galatians 5:17; Romans 7. You never outgrow your need for the gospel. Ministry is littered with former pastors who were unaccountable.
8. Make repentance from sin like involuntary breathing (Isa. 57:15). Be known by your wife and children as a man who is approachable, teachable, willing to listen and be corrected. Use these four questions on a recurring basis with your wife and children: How have I encouraged you? How have I disappointed you? How should I spend my time differently? How can I help you succeed? Give your children permission to respectfully approach you when they think you are over the top.
9. Be known as a good listener (James 1:19-20). My wife tells me I have a sign on my back that says, “You can talk to me. I will listen.”
10. In your pastoral counseling ask lots of open-ended questions (Mark 7:21-23). Connect the dots from the behaviors to the heart. Appropriately sharing your own failures will make you more effective. For better or worse, the power of the family of origin in the life of an adult, even Christians, is breathtaking. Everything changes but the hearts of men. Thus, the gospel is forever relevant.
11. Develop sympathy and patience for those caught in sin and addiction (Gal. 6:1).
12. Treat your colleagues with grace. Be lighthearted. Be interested in them. Same with your elders and deacons. Know them and their families. Spend time with them.
13. Have the backs of your colleagues. Competition/gossip among colleagues is a red flag!
14. Nourish and cherish your wives (Eph. 5). Court her regularly. Be curious about her. Study her. That is the best thing you can do for your children. My experience with troubled marriages where the wife has not been nourished and cherished reveals that this is a typical sin of omission for husbands. The divorce rates goes up again for empty-nesters.
15. Do not neglect quantity time with your family thinking quality time is what matters. Your kids are unlikely to see it that way.
16. You never stop being a parent. That’s the title of a book, but it is true. When your children become adults, you will love them, rejoice with them, and hurt with them as if they were still youngsters. I was surprised to discover that.
17. Do not make the church your mistress. Learn to say “No” to the good and “Yes” to the best. People do not have an inherent right to know why you can’t meet their expectations about meetings or other events. It is enough to say, “I already have a commitment at that time.”
18. Two disappearing doctrines: the church and the sinfulness of sin. The evidences of this are everywhere. Recover them. Teach them. Model being a good churchman. Only ordain men who are.
19. Be reasonably open to intrusions in your busy days. God’s providence doesn’t always cooperate with our busy schedules. Ken Boa has said that the most important appointment you may have in a given day may well not be on your calendar.
20. Think and live with the concept of life’s “seasons.” Seasons come in many forms: busy seasons, child-rearing seasons, seasons of suffering and distress, seasons of too little sleep, the empty-nest season, and so on. The point is, seasons transition into new seasons. Difficult seasons will usually (not always) transition to better seasons. This is a helpful perspective for persevering in difficult “seasons.” Of course, God governs all seasons of life for our good.
21. Read good books of all sorts. Ask folks you respect what they are reading. That is an easy way to stay up to date with good reads.
22. Manage change well when it affects God’s people. Do not surprise them. You will be spared much trouble.
23. Don’t confuse preference with principle. God’s people often cannot distinguish between the two. An example might be preferences in worship music. Churches have been known to split over preference issues!
24. Urge people not to speculate into/about what they don’t/can’t know. Human beings seem to be tempted to speculate into a vacuum of information and almost always speculate the worst. This is especially true with speculating about people’s motives. Multiple interpretations of a difficult conversation or disappointment are possible. Urge the judgment of charity be extended rather than just judgment.

Strikes me as Chestertonian in character. And mostly true. There are big dangers associated with being rich. Jesus makes that point pretty clear. But if there are big dangers for the rich, there are also big opportunities. The New Testament is not anti-rich, but it is emphatically anti-status quo when it comes to the way rich people typically view and use their money.

Anyone who has studied the Gospels knows that Luke’s Gospel uses the harshest language toward the rich and also includes the most about our obligations to the poor. For example, in Luke’s version of the Beatitudes, Jesus not only pronounces a blessing on the poor (Luke 4:20b), he also pronounces curses on the rich. “Woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. Woe to you who are full now, for you shall be hungry” (Luke 4:24-25a).

Of the four Gospel writers Luke has the most to say about wealth and poverty. He chooses his material and organizes it in such a way that his audience would understand that how you handle your money has everything to do with following Jesus.

With this obvious emphasis, it’s easy to make Luke (and the Jesus he writes about) into someone vigorously opposed to rich people. Indeed many Christians look immediately to Luke when they want to say something “prophetic” against materialism or income disparity or the wealth of the Western world. While these “prophetic” words are sometimes necessary, they don’t do justice to Luke’s aims and appeals. We make a profound mistake to see Luke as an evangelist against the rich. He is, more accurately, an evangelist to the rich.

Keeping the Audience and Author in Mind

We must remember two things if we are going to understand Luke’s attitude toward the rich.

First, Luke was almost certainly writing to the rich. Both of his books are addressed to Theophilus (Luke 1:3; Acts 1:1). In his Gospel, Luke gives Theophilus the title “most excellent,” the same honorific given to the Roman magistrates Felix (Acts 23:26) and Festus (Acts 26:25). Most scholars figure that Theophilus was some kind of Roman official, or at least a person of some social standing who was recently converted and in need of firm grounding in the faith.

Second, Luke was most likely relatively well-off himself. This occasional traveler with Paul was known as “the beloved physician” (Col. 4:14), not a meager profession now or then. Moreover, Luke shows evidence in his writing of being well-educated, well-traveled, and well-connected—a cosmopolitan Gentile convert and probably a person of some means.

Luke was not a poor man writing to poor people that together they might denounce the rich. It’s much closer to the truth to say Luke was a rich man writing to another rich man (and people like him) in order to show how the rich could truly follow Jesus.

Evidence to Support a Verdict

This thesis statement may sound strange, even jarring, but when we look closer at Luke’s Gospel and then at Acts we see several instances—unique to Luke—of rich people “getting it” and using their money well. Luke includes much material to warn and rebuke the rich. He also includes a surprising number of examples of wealthy persons who demonstrate genuine discipleship of Christ.

A brief survey of the relevant material in Luke-Acts will bear out both these points. Luke, more than any other biblical writer, wants us to see that the rich often get it wrong, but they can also get it right.

Surveying Luke

We read in Mary’s Magnificat about the great reversal that is coming where the poor will be exalted and the rich will be cast down (1:51-53). From the outset of the Gospel, we see that the humble, hungry, and poor are in a position of future blessing, while the proud, exalted, and rich are in danger.

In chapter 3 John the Baptist explains that repentance is directly tied to what you do with your money (3:10-14). Importantly, however, the text never suggests that being a tax collector or a solider made one complicit in an oppressive Roman regime. There was a right way to make money and work for the Romans.

We see Jesus preaching in his hometown of Nazareth in chapter 4. He reads from Isaiah 61 and identifies himself as the Spirit-anointed prophet sent to preach good news to the poor (4:18). In what follows, Jesus gives two examples of the “poor” who received the good news. He mentions the widow of Zarephath (4:25-26), who was materially poor. And then he mentions Naaman the Syrian general (4:27), who was materially rich. Here is our first example of a rich man who “got it”; though he was an elite general, he was humble enough to seek Elisha’s help and dip himself in the Jordan River.

In chapter 5 we see Jesus calling a tax collector named Levi to follow him. And when Levi followed Jesus, he left everything behind and then later threw a great big party in his house with all sorts of tax collectors (5:27-29). Here, then, is another rich man doing the right thing. He left his profession behind (at least for the moment), but he does not seem to have left all his wealth behind.

In chapter 8 we see a number of rich women serving as patrons for Jesus’s ministry and for his disciples (8:2-3). More rich people using their money well.

We meet the Good Samaritan who helps the needy in chapter 10. Here we see negative examples of the societal elite ignoring urgent needs right in front of them.

And in chapter 12 we meet the rich fool who lives for himself and trust in his wealth to save him (12:15, 20-21). If you are a rich man depending on your riches, you are (as the kids would say) not doing it right.

In chapter 14, the kingdom is compared to a wedding feast and then to a great banquet. Austerity and asceticism, while necessary at times, are not pictures of the good life God has waiting for his people.

In chapter 15, we see the prodigal son waste his inheritance on wild living, only to come to his senses when he is poor and destitute. Again, Luke (and Jesus) shows us the danger of wealth and the blessing that can come from being poor. But we also see another example of a wide-hearted rich man, the prodigal’s father who throws caution to the wind and spreads a feast for his long lost son.

In chapter 16 we have an example of a rich man using his wealth wisely and an example of a rich man using his wealth poorly. First we have the parable of the dishonest manager. We sometimes get hung up on the fact that Jesus is using a bad man to be a good example, but the point is clear enough: be shrewd with your money and faithful with your earthly wealth so that you can do strategic heavenly good (16:8-9). Second, we have the story of the rich man and Lazarus. This is the negative example to contrast with the positive example earlier in the chapter. The rich man lived in self-satisfied luxury and ignored the needs right in front of him (16:19-21). He faces unending torment in the flames of judgment.

The book ends with a positive example, as Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the council, “a good and righteous man,” does not consent to the council’s decision and asks Pilate for the body of Jesus (23:50-53). This was just as the prophet Isaiah predicted, that the suffering servant would be buried with a rich man in his death (Isa. 53:9).

So what have we seen in Luke’s Gospel? We’ve seen that the rich face unique dangers. They can be callous toward others, haughty, proud, cheats, swindlers, wrongly confident in themselves, and foolishly trusting in their wealth. If that is your life now, Luke says, you are in for a rude awakening at the end of the age, because everything will be turned upside down. The humble poor will be lifted up, and the arrogant rich will be cast down.

On the other hand, we see how the rich can be faithful with their wealth. They support Jesus and his ministry. They stand up for what is right. They use their money wisely for spiritual gain. The righteous rich in Luke are still rich, but they are also generous, repentant of any wrongs, and faithful to the cause of Christ.

Surveying Acts

In the book of Acts, just as in Luke, we see both kinds of examples. We see rich people at their worst, and we see how rich people can inherit the kingdom of God and live out its values.

Believers in the early church had everything in common (2:44; 4:32). At first glance it can look like the church modeled an early form of communism. Some people have tried to use the text in that way. They see it reminiscent of the Marxist slogan “From each according to his ability; to each according to his need.” In fact, later in Acts 11:29 we read, “So the disciples determined, everyone according to his ability, to send relief to the brothers living in Judea.” But two realities distinguish sharing in the early church from communism.

First, they did not abolish private property (see 4:34, 37; 5:4). People still owned homes (e.g., Lydia, house churches, Mary the mother of John Mark).

Second, The selling and distribution of their possessions was not by force or coercion, but free and voluntary. The church had a wonderful communal spirit, but that is far different from the spirit of state-enforced communism.

The expression “everything in common” was used to describe the radical generosity of the early church. Their pattern is a model for God’s people. The church was fulfilling the ideal of the promised land, in which “there will be no poor among you” (Deut. 15:4). Radical generosity in the church is a sign of the in-breaking of the kingdom. We when share with our brothers and sisters in need, we demonstrate that God’s promised reign and rule is taking root here and now. It’s a little bit of heaven on earth.

In chapter 8 we see Simon trying to buy the power of the Spirit with money (8:14-24). Peter tells him, “May your silver perish with you” (8:20). This is where we get the word simony, which was so prevalent in the Middle Ages; it means the buying of church offices. This is an example of the unrighteous rich.

Dorcas in chapter 9 is the opposite example, as she is said to be full of good works and acts of charity (9:36-37).

Lydia was likely a wealthy woman. She was a seller of purple goods (high-end retail clothing at the time) and had a house in which to host Paul and his companions (16:11-15). This rich person “gets it.”

The next story is of a rich person who doesn’t “get it.” A slave girl was used to make money for her owners by fortune-telling. When Paul delivered her from the spirit that inhabited her, the owners got upset, because their gravy train was about to fall off the tracks. So they used their connections to haul Paul and Silas before the rulers of the city, who then gave the order for them to be beaten with rods (16:16-24). More rich people blinded by their wealth.

In chapter 17 we are told that many leading women of the city believed (17:4, 12). More rich people turning to Christ.

In chapter 19, we see that when many people were converted in Ephesus they began divulging their pagan practices. So they burned their magic books, and the value came out to 50,000 pieces of silver. They renounced their former vocation, and its lucrative practice, in coming to Christ (19:18-19).

Right after this positive example, we have another negative example. Demetrius, a silversmith in Ephesus, was upset that Paul was ruining his business making gods and goddesses (19:24-27). People were so upset that their religious and economic way of life was being threatened that a riot broke out in the city (19:28-29).

Wretched Rich and Righteous Rich

We have seen in Luke-Acts a number of these pairings: rich people making an idol of wealth and rich people demonstrating a transformed attitude toward wealth.

We have the shrewd manager and then the rich man and Lazarus in Luke 16.

We have in Acts 16, the example of Lydia, a rich person who gets it, and then the rich owners of the slave girl, who don’t get it.

And in Acts 19 we see some in Ephesus who give up their magic arts at great financial cost to themselves, and then we see others in Ephesus who cause a riot because they’ve gotten rich from making idols and the gospel is threatening their way of life.

These pairings strongly suggest that Luke was trying to show Theophilus how he, as a rich member of the elite class, could sincerely and obediently follow Christ.

If you aren’t convinced by this thesis, let me go back to two obvious pairings I skipped over. These are the most important Wretched Rich/Righteous Rich pairings in Luke-Acts. We find one in each book.

We meet two of the most famous rich people in the Bible in Luke 18 and 19. First we have the rich ruler who hears what Jesus says about money and becomes sad because he thought he was a good person, until he realized the following Jesus was going to affect his bank account (Luke 18:24-25). For a moment it looks like it’s impossible for a rich man to be saved, but Jesus holds out hope that it’s not (18:26-27). That question—“Then who can be saved” (v. 26)—is answered in the next chapter when we meet Zacchaeus, a rich man who demonstrates his conversion by showing an entirely new attitude toward money (19:8). Zacchaeus didn’t literally give away everything he owned (like Jesus said earlier in verse 22), but Zacchaeus does what the rich ruler does not do. He realizes that following Jesus means repenting of his cheating ways. Zacchaeus does not trade places with the poor, but he turns from his wickedness and turns to Christ with a new heart of obedience and generosity.

The other obvious pairing is in Acts 4 and 5, where we find the deliberate contrast between Barnabas, a rich man who “gets it,” and Ananias and Sapphira as rich people just going through the motions.

Barnabas was a native of Cyprus and a Levite (the prohibition of owning land must have fallen by the wayside). As a Levite, he was likely part of the social elite. As a landowner he was part of the upper crust in Judea. Maybe as few as 5 percent of the Jews owned land. Barnabas sold a field and brought the money to the apostles to distribute. (Interesting that Luke doesn’t mind telling us who gave this gift. Maybe it was already obvious. Or maybe sometimes it’s appropriate to point out examples of giving just like we might point out examples in the area of evangelism or prayer.) Here then was a rich member of the elite who modeled Spirit-prompted generosity.

Then in the next chapter we read of two more rich people, Ananias and Sapphira. They too sold a piece of property and laid the money at the apostles’ feet (5:1-2). But they lied about how much they were giving. They kept some of the proceeds for themselves, which would have been perfectly fine, except that they lied about it so they could look as impressive as Barnabas. God killed them both for their deception (5:5-10).

Over and over, then, Luke is communicating to rich people like Theophilus (and to rich people like many of us): Here’s how you can be rich and absolutely blow it, and here’s how you can be rich and be a model of Christian commitment.

How Can the Rich Enter the Kingdom of Heaven

So how can the rich enter the kingdom of heaven? What does it look like for rich Christians to “get it”? Importantly, “getting it” doesn’t mean to feel constant shame for being rich. It doesn’t mean trading places with the poor. And it doesn’t mean prophetic denunciations of material goods or income disparity.

But it does mean something. A lot, actually. According to Luke-Acts, to be a rich Christian who “gets it” means (at least) these seven things.

1. We believe. Christ is our everything, our all in all. We cannot serve two masters.
2. We repent. We turn from any cheating, swindling, or lying, and we make amends with those we have mistreated.
3. We put Jesus before profit.
4. We are generous. We give freely to help the poor and to further the cause of the gospel.
5. We are good stewards. We don’t try to be manipulate our way to God by lying, putting on a show, or trying to accrue power with our wealth. We are always shrewd but never power-hungry.
6. We do not trust in our money. There is no real security in dollars and cents. The righteous rich do not expect their earthly riches to last. They live for the heavenly riches that do.
7. We demonstrate humility. We consider everything we have to be a gift from God. We are meek before others and meek before God.

In other words, Luke—that great evangelist to the rich—says exactly what Paul tells Timothy:

Yes, the camel can make it through the eye of the needle. Rich people can be saved and be faithful, rich Christians. It requires a new heart toward God, a new generosity toward people, and a new attitude toward money.

For many people, history is simply an account of what happened in the past. And while history as an academic discipline certainly includes a record of past events, names, dates, and places, history is never as simple as a naked recollection of facts. History is always an interpretive exercise. No historian can (or should try to) repeat every last detail from years gone by. Even fastidious historians must choose to include some information and leave out other information, and even the most even-handed histories will make a case for something from or about the past.

This does not mean we are doomed to historical nihilism. We can know things about the past. There is a history to be known, or at least various histories that can be accurately drawn from the evidence at our disposal. But it does mean that we must think hard not only about our past but also about how we tell the story from our past.

This is especially true for Christians. Our faith instructs us to draw lessons from the past and find inspiration from the past (1 Cor. 10:1-14, Heb. 11). And yet, our faith also teaches us to tell the truth (Ex. 20:16), especially about ourselves (1 John 1:8; Gal. 4:16). We must also remember that all our heroes, except for Jesus, were sinners (1 Kings 8:46).

Which is why history is more complicated than you might think. And why we should welcome the new book by Andrew Atherstone and David Ceri Jones (eds.), Making Evangelical History: Faith, Scholarship and the Evangelical Past (Routledge, 2019). [Full disclosure: A revision of my PhD dissertation is being published in this same Routledge series.] Yes, this is an academic book—and unfortunately it has the price point to match. But if you can get your hands on the book or borrow it from the library (they still exist!), there is much to learn from this volume, not merely about what happened in evangelical history—though that’s hugely important—but about how, as evangelicals, we have told our own history.

History of Evangelical Histories

Making Evangelical History begins with an introduction from Atherstone and Jones before moving into twelve chapters, each of which deals with the complicated story of how evangelicals have told their own history.

Here are the twelve chapters:

1. John Gillies and the Evangelical Revivals (David Ceri Jones)
2. Erasmus Middleton’s Biographia Evangelica (Darren Schmidt)
3. Dissent and Religious Liberty in David Bogue and James Bennett’s History of Dissenters (Robert Strivens)
4. J. C. Ryle and Evangelical Churchmanship (Andrew Atherstone)
5. Luke Tyerman and the History of Early Methodism (Martin Wellings)
6. Geraldine Guinness Taylor and the Histories of the China Inland Mission (Alvyn Austin)
7. G. R. Balleine and the Evangelical Party (Andrew Atherstone)
8. Arnold Dallimore: Whitefield’s Champion (Ian Hugh Clary)
9. Iain H. Murray and the Rise and Fall of British Evangelicalism (David Ceri Jones)
10. Ogbu Kalu and African Pentecostalism (Richard Burgess)
11. Timothy L. Smith, George Marsden, David Bebbington, and Anglo-American Evangelicalism (Mark Noll)
12. Andrew Walls, Brian Stanley, Dana Robert, Mark Noll, and Global Evangelicalism (David Bebbington)

If there is a theme that holds these chapters together it’s the tension between history that inspires the faithful and history that is faithful to the nuances, imperfections, and ambiguities of the past. I don’t believe the editors mean for Christians to choose between spiritual inspiration and intellectual rigor as mutually exclusive priorities, but they do mean to highlight how evangelical histories have typically aimed at the former more than the latter.

Or to put it another way: evangelical histories have often been written deliberately for, and to champion, evangelicalism and evangelical concerns.

Take John Gillies (1712-96), for example, the first biographer of the great preacher George Whitefield. Gillies wrote his history so that believers would be stirred toward revival and moved toward prayer (27). His was a teleological history, with the 18th century serving as an eschatological climax for God’s work in the world (32). No doubt, Gillies relayed an impressive amount of information about Whitefield, but he also had a certain kind of Whitefield he wanted to present. For Gillies, this meant saying little about Whitefield’s unhappy marriage, his Anglicanism, or his Calvinism. Whitefield was portrayed mainly as a revivalist preacher, the quintessential evangelical who had a simple doctrinal core—theologically orthodox but with little interest in confessional boundary markers—and whose life was marked by unceasing activity (40-41). It’s not hard to see how this early depiction of Whitefield helped shape evangelical self-identity in the years to follow.

The chapter on Hudson Taylor is another fascinating example of evangelical history that has sometimes bordered on hagiography. Geraldine Guinness Taylor (1865-1949) was married to Hudson Taylor’s second son, Dr. Howard Taylor, and wrote authoritative volumes on the China Inland Mission (CIM) and on its famous founder. Geraldine’s approach to history was unapologetically devotional. She prayed over every sentence she wrote and hoped for her books to be tools for spiritual edification (123). Her depiction of Hudson Taylor and of the mission were unrelentingly uplifting, to the point that later family members, while not disputing the many beautiful things recalled by Geraldine, questioned if everything was always as beautiful as she remembered it (123). Taylor himself wanted nothing detrimental to be written about the mission and ordered any potentially embarrassing documents to be destroyed (124). Even love letters from Taylor to his wife were edited by Geraldine so as not to offend Victorian sensibilities.

This is not to say that Geraldine’s story was false or made up, only that it was incomplete. Little was done to understand Taylor in his own context or as a man of his own time. Theological divisions and missionary squabbles were glossed over. No mention was made of Taylor’s self-baptism (or of his second baptism after that). The aim of Geraldine’s history was never history per se. Rather, she aimed to promote evangelical devotion, stir up missionary recruits, spur on surrender to Jesus, and stimulate financial support for CIM (143). It wasn’t until the pioneering work of Marsden, Bebbington, Noll, and others later in the 20th century that evangelical history moved away from strictly ecclesiastical aims and began to flourish as an academic discipline unto itself with an eye toward intellectual credibility and sophistication.

Two Approaches

Whether this new direction marks maturation or degradation is still a matter of debate within the evangelical movement. For my part, I agree with Atherstone’s insistence that evangelicals ought to embrace both the “confessional” and “professional” approaches to history (11).

On the one hand, evangelical historians—not to mention pastors, teachers, and lay leaders—should not be embarrassed to draw lessons of condemnation and commendation from history. After all, we see this approach in the Bible. The church needs heroes. The church needs inspiration. So the church needs history. The past belongs to God before it belongs to academic historians.

On the other hand, even inspirational history should be intellectually credible. As Christians, we should always aim to tell the truth, to love our neighbors as ourselves, and to describe our fallen and redeemed heroes as honestly as we can. This means we want to understand the past on its own terms—with all of its glory, all of its failures, and all of its complexities—before we try to make history serve our own ends in the present.

There are strengths and weaknesses of confessional and professional history. Confessional history seeks to build up the church and encourage the cause of the gospel, but, at its worst, it can be overly confident in reading the tea leaves of divine providence and overly simplistic when it comes to contextual analysis. Professional history seeks to further the pursuit of historical knowledge and encourage the cause of intellectually responsible discovery, but, at its worst, it can be overly suspicious of supernatural explanations and overly concerned to play by the rules of dispassionate analysis. I believe both approaches have their place—certainly in separate spheres, but also, for the Christian, with each approach informing the other.

To this end, Making Evangelical History is a stimulating and worthwhile project. To be sure, it is squarely in the field of professional history, but many of the contributors have been open about their own Christian commitments. One doesn’t have to agree with every judgment on every page to conclude that the work as a whole is not only a great example of intellectual rigor but can meaningfully serve the church as well.

You’ll just need a book budget to see for yourself.

Harper does not take sides in this transformation. Indeed, Christians could read the book and conclude, “Look at what good Christianity brought!” while secularists might read the same material and conclude, “Look at all the oppression Christianity wrought!” This is not a book with an agenda (so far as I can tell), other than to show what the transformation of sexual morality entailed and how it happened. Nevertheless, as a Christian, I found the book illuminating, not only for the historical understanding of sexual morality in late antiquity but for the lessons the church in the 21st century might learn from the witness of the church in the first centuries.

The Revolution

Harper’s title is not about the psychologizing of morality from external social judgment to internal angst and disapproval. Rather, the title is about the transformation of an assumed moral system to a radically different moral system—from one that had shame as a social concept to one that had sin as a theological concept.

Here is the transformation in a nutshell:

Sexual morality in the Roman Empire was permissive, based on social status, and sexual desire could be fulfilled in a myriad of ways.

Sexual morality under the triumph of Christianity was austere, based on gender, and sexual desire could be fulfilled in only one way.

Sexual Morality in the Roman Empire

Same-sex relationships were common in the Roman world. What made them acceptable or not was age and status dynamics. One piece of literature tells of travel to the afterlife where the Isle of the Blessed is described as “all the wives are shared in common without jealousy. . . and all the boys submit to their pursuers without resistance” (24). Pederasty was not considered a problem. Neither was sexual fulfillment with slaves. Slaves, prostitutes, and boys were seen as perfectly legitimate outlets for male sexual desire. In an empire of 70 million, between 7 million and 10 million were enslaved. Harper says, “Slaves played something like the part that masturbation has played in most cultures” (27).

Pederasty was common and widely approved by the Romans (with exception of some Stoics). It was not shameful for boys to give themselves to older men, nor was it shameful for older men to pursue boys. What was shameful was for men to play the passive role in a homosexual relationship. They were called effeminate, or she-men, or acting like men during the day and behaving like girls at night. This behavior was severely ridiculed.

At the end of The Ephesian Tale, an older lover “adopts” his young male beloved. It was not a marriage, but Harper says it was a happily-ever-after kind of union. In one of Juvenal’s satires he has a man of wealth given away in marriage to another man. He imagines a day when male-male marriage will take place publicly and be recorded in the official registers of the state.

In other words, there are examples in the Roman world of long-lasting same-sex couples. It’s not that all homosexuality was man-boy love. In fact, there is evidence that some same-sex pairs ritually enacted their own conjugal rights. At the same time, there never was, even in the sexually permissive Roman Empire, any sort of gay marriage with official legal standing. On the whole the Romans did not tolerate homosexuality, at least not for themselves. They were extremely tolerant of Roman men seeking out sexual pleasure from boys, slaves, and prostitutes. They were not at all tolerant of free Roman men being penetrated as the passive actors in same-sex relationships. “The viciousness of mainstream attitudes toward passivity is startling for anyone who approaches the ancient sources with the false anticipation that pre-Christian cultures were somehow reliably more civilized toward sexual minorities” (37).

As for women, they were to be virgins before marriage and loyal and faithful wives within marriage. To pursue any other path meant great shame (or much worse). Adultery was a crime against man. The woman’s chief virtue was pudicitia (modesty). Harper relates that from sexual maturity women wore their hair veiled as a sign of modesty.

Generally, there were laws insisting upon consent, for free women, for both marriage and sex. There were liberal divorce laws, allowing both men and women to unilaterally sue for divorce for almost any cause. We should not think free Roman women were pining for sexual liberation. Woman often promoted the value of modesty as much as anyone else, and they used the ideal of chastity to their advantage.

Prostitution was ubiquitous and uncontroversial. It was seen as a proper outlet for a man’s sexual energy. If a man had sex with prostitutes before marriage, he could still be counted a virgin. If he had sex with prostitutes during marriage, it was not considered adultery. One Christian bishop described Roman sexual policy as “forbidding adulteries, building brothels.”

Prostitution was part of the official, public face of Roman life, not something hidden or in the background. Prostitution was considered a social necessity, an important safety valve. Rome in the fourth century had no fewer than 45 public brothels. It was thought that if you removed prostitutes from civic life, you would overturn the whole social order, and lust would conquer. “The commodification of sex was carried out with all the ruthless efficiency of an industrial operation, the unfree body bearing the pressures of insatiable market demand. In the brothel the prostitute’s body became, little by little, ‘like a corpse’” (49).

Young women reached sexual maturity and were married soon after, while men often waited a considerable time after puberty before marriage. There were two main rules of sexual morality for free Roman men: avoid adultery and avoid being the passive partner in homosexuality. Beyond that, everything was open. The sexual escapades of young men, provided they were not with married women, were almost entirely inconsequential.

Marriage was important in late antiquity. There are even examples of the “sentimental” family. Romans did not usually marry for love, but they did want it to grow into love.

Here, then, was the basic system of sexual morality in the Roman world: “early marriage for women, jealous guarding of honorable female sexuality, an expansive slave system, late marriages for men, and basically relaxed attitudes toward male sexual potential, so long as it was consonant with masculine protocols and social hierarchy. . . . The value of a sexual act derived, first and foremost, from its objective location within a matrix of social relationships” (78).

Sexual Morality in the Christian Empire

The Christian sexual ethic, it should be obvious, was radically different from mainstream Roman culture. Even the more “conservative” Stoics should not be seen as precursors to Christian morality. While some of the language may be the same (e.g., contrary to nature), the ideas, the values, and the reasons for Stoic ethics and Christian ethics were entirely different. As Harper notes, sexual morality quickly came to mark the great divide between Christians and the rest of the world.

Christians inherited from Hellenistic Judaism an expansive category of porneia that made little sense to the Romans. There would no longer be harmless, innocent outlets for male sexual desire outside of marriage. There is simply no avoiding the conclusion that Christianity presented a sexual ethic that was radically new. This was felt poignantly when it came to attitudes toward homosexual behavior. “For the historian, any hermeneutic roundabout that tries to sanitize or soften Paul’s words is liable to obscure the inflection point around which attitudes toward same-sex erotics would be forever altered” (95). This new inflection point was Paul’s overriding sense of gender—rather than age or status—as the chief factor in whether a sexual act was licit or not. Paul’s concern for sexual morality was about males and females, not about men and boys or married women or single or slaves or free.

Harper explains that from Paul onward, Christian sexual morality “collapsed all forms of same-sex contact, whether pederastic or companionate, into one category” (99). “Nature” was seen as that which corresponded to social norms. With Christianity, “nature” would be that which corresponded to a gendered morality of sex. Preachers like Chrysostom condemned same-sex behavior, with no concern for whether it was pederasty, the exploitation of slaves, or more durable same-sex partnerships. Under Justinian we see the criminalization of same-sex behavior, though there is little evidence this was carried out with any kind of intrusive spying upon private life.

Harper argues that Christian sexuality led to a new understanding of the freedom of the will. In Christian morality, humans possessed moral agency over their sexual drive. Even men, it was believed, could exert control over their erotic experiences. No one was simply at the mercy of insatiable appetites and “normal” sexual overflow.

Marriage was critical, of course. Monogamy, Harper argues, was more of a Roman ideal than a Jewish one. A single conjugal unit was considered the norm for free Romans (even if men were allowed all sorts of exceptions that didn’t count against this single unit). Christianity redefined Roman monogamy to eliminate any other kind of sexual experience. Harper says two doctrines emerged as essential to Christian marriage that marked it off from the rest of the Roman world: sexual exclusivity and firm opposition to divorce and remarriage.

Here, then, was the basic system of sexual morality in the Christian age: “virginity was ideal, marriage acceptable, sex beyond marriage sinful, same-sex eros categorically forbidden. . . The most astonishing development of late antiquity is the transformation of a radical sexual ideology, for centuries the possession of a small, strident band of vociferous dissenters, into a culture, a broadly shared public framework of values and meaning” (135).

Winners and Losers

The triumph of the Christian sexual ethic would be unthinkable, except that it actually happened. Aphrodite was slain by the Christians (135). The Christian sexual revolution became codified in law under the reign of Justinian (527-565). Sex between males was a crime, and pederasty was outlawed. Christian laws under Justinian also vigorously opposed coerced prostitution.

Under the new morality, same-sex love, regardless of age, status, or role was strictly forbidden without any qualifications. Sexual behavior went from the background to the foreground of ethical concern. Sexual deviance went from something with social ramifications, to a sin that was grievous in the sight of God and could have eternal ramifications. Marriage, which was always understood in the Roman world as the union between a man and a woman, became the only appropriate outlet for sexual activity. “All the worlds’ diffuse erotic energy was to be cramped into one, frail, sacred union” (161).

If there were “winners” and “losers” in the Christian transformation of sexual morality, you could say that gay men and promiscuous Roman males were the losers, while women, slaves, prostitutes, and young boys were the big winners. “At the beginning of our story,” Harper writes, “the Mediterranean was home to a society where an emperor’s male beloved, victim of an untimely death, would be worshiped around the empire as a god; in this same society, the routine exploitation of slaves and poor women was a foundation of the sexual order. By the end, we are in a world where the emperor will command the gory mutilation of men caught in same-sex affairs, even as he affirmed the moral dignity of women without any civic claim to honor” (18).

Lessons to Be Learned

Harper’s book is a work of academic history. For the most part, he doesn’t comment on the history he presents either to approve it or condemn it. It should go without saying—but I’ll say it anyway—that the first centuries of the church’s history were not necessarily purer or better than subsequent centuries. I trust that few Christians today are pining for Christian Empire, let alone the enforcement of Christian morality by physical mutilation. The lesson for the church today is not to attempt to recreate the church from another age.

And yet, there are lessons to be learned from the transformation of sexual morality in late antiquity. Let me mention three.

First, for most of its early history, the church’s power came through preaching, writing, and through its own rigorous system of membership and discipline. Even when she was ignored, harassed, or outright persecuted, the church still wielded important power simply by consistently preaching the truth, developing an apologetic for the truth, and insisting that its members believed and lived out the truth. You can’t win the larger culture by losing your own.

Second, Christianity went from cult to culture in part because the sexual ethic was considered better and safer and more freeing for more people. Obviously, not everyone found Christian morality to be an improvement on traditional Roman standards. But Christian ethics meant a profoundly improved lot in life for women, children, the enslaved, and the poor. The changes came slowly—over centuries, not over years and decades—but changes did come. Virginity, for example, became a loud advertisement for the Christian religion, and women in particular took notice.

Third, we should expect conflict over sex. If Christians in late antiquity had made peace with the world over sex, Christianity would not have been true to itself. The same can be said today. Profoundly different versions of sexual morality cannot be wished away by civil discourse (though civility is good), nor washed away by theological compromise (that would be bad). “Because the problem of sex is inevitably tied to the problem of Christianity’s relation to the world, it is a tension that will surface during any great readjustment in the relationship between Christianity and the world” (160). In other words, the problem is not going away. Let’s hope the church’s winsome commitment to beauty and truth doesn’t either.

Here is the question I want to address:

Is there biblical justification, given basic complementarian convictions, for the practice of women preaching sermons in a Sunday worship service?

Most people reading this column understand the immediate relevance of this question. I’m not going to rehearse the cases where this question has been raised or sift through recent responses online. Instead, I’m going to interact with what I think is the best case, from a complementarian perspective, for allowing women to preach. First, I’ll explain the argument for women preaching as fairly as I can. Then I’ll make a case why the argument—no matter how plausible it may sound at first—fails to convince.

Hearing Her Voice

The best argument I’ve seen for women preaching is by the Australian minister and apologist John Dickson in his book Hearing Her Voice: A Biblical Invitation for Women to Preach (Zondervan, 2014). With affirming blurbs from J. I. Packer, Craig Blomberg, Graham Cole, and Chris Wright, one can see why this has been an influential book. Even if you aren’t familiar with the book, I’m quite certain it’s influenced people you do know. Besides the commendation from well-respected evangelical scholars, Dickson’s book is a model of clarity and accessibility. In a little more than 100 pages, Dickson makes a thoughtful, straightforward case—as one who admits “to being a broad complementarian” (88)—for the legitimacy of women preaching sermons in Sunday services.

Not surprisingly, Dickson focuses on 1 Timothy 2:12. While the application seems obvious to many of us—women aren’t permitted to teach or to exercise authority, so they shouldn’t preach sermons—Dickson argues that we’ve misunderstood what Paul meant by teaching. “Put simply,” Dickson writes, “there are numerous public-speaking ministries mentioned in the New Testament—teaching, exhorting, evangelizing, prophesying, reading, and so on—and Paul restricts just one of them to qualified males: ‘teaching’” (11–12).

At the heart of Dickson’s argument is a simple syllogism, we can summarize like this:

1. The only thing women can’t do in worship is teach.
2. For Paul, teaching was a technical and narrowly conceived enterprise that is not the same as our modern sermon.
3. Therefore, women can speak in almost every way in a church service, including preaching the sermon.

So, if preaching a sermon does not count as teaching, what did Paul mean by teaching? Dickson explains:

Dickson builds the case for this preliminary conclusion in four parts.

Part One. There are several different kinds of speaking mentioned in the Bible: prophesying, evangelizing, reading, exhorting, teaching, and so on. We know from texts like 1 Corinthians 12:28, 1 Corinthians 14, Romans 12:4–8, and 1 Timothy 4:13 that Paul did not treat these speaking ministries as identical. Only one of these types of speaking—the activity of teaching—is restricted to men (27).

Part Two. In the ancient world, and specifically for Paul, to teach (didasko) was a technical term for passing on a fixed oral tradition (34, 45). Teaching does not refer to expounding or explaining but to transmitting words intact (33). With the close of the biblical canon, there is not the same need for teaching in this technical sense.

Part Three. In the New Testament, teaching never means explaining or applying a biblical passage (50, 54). A teacher was someone who carefully passed down the fixed traditions or the body of apostolic words from their original source to a new community of faith (57, 59, 61). Some contemporary sermons may contain elements of this transmission, but this is not the typical function of weekly exposition (64). What we think of as the sermon is more aptly called exhortation (65).

Part Four. The apostolic deposit is now found in the pages of the New Testament. No individual is charged with preserving and transmitting the fixed oral traditions about Jesus (72, 74). Our preachers may be analogous to ancient teachers, but we do not preserve and transmit the apostolic deposit to the same degree, in the same manner, or with the same authority (73, 75). The typical sermon where a preacher comments on the teaching of the apostles, exhorts us to follow that teaching, and then applies that teaching, is not itself teaching. The modern sermon is, depending on your definition, more like prophesying or exhorting, both of which are open to women (75).

From Yes to No

Dickson includes academic footnotes in making his case, as well as caveats and qualifications along the way. But the gist of his argument is arrestingly simple: Teaching is not what we do when we preach a sermon. Only teaching is forbidden to women. Women, therefore, can preach sermons in our churches.

I find Dickson’s thesis unconvincing for two basic reasons. I believe his view of ancient teaching is overly narrow, and his view of contemporary preaching is exceedingly thin. Let me unpack this conclusion by looking at teaching from a variety of angles.

Teaching in the Early Church

The strength of Dickson’s approach is that he rightly points to the different speaking words in the New Testament. True, teaching and exhorting and prophesying and reading are not identical. And yet, his overly technical definition of “teaching” does not fit the evidence, or in some instances even square with basic common sense. If “I do not permit a woman to teach” can mean “I permit a woman to preach because preaching doesn’t involve teaching” we must be employing very restrictive definitions of preaching and teaching.

More to the point, we have to wonder why this highly nuanced reading has been lost on almost every commentator for two millennia. In a revealing endnote on the last page of the book, Dickson acknowledges, “I have no doubt that within time the word ‘teaching’ in the early church came to mean explaining and applying the written words of the New Testament (and entire Bible). That would be an interesting line of research, but I am not sure it would overturn the evidence that in 1 Tim. 2:12 Paul had a different meaning of this important term” (104). That is a telling admission. But it invites the question: “If ‘teaching’ in the ancient world clearly had a narrow meaning of repeating oral traditions, why does no one seem to pick up on this exclusively technical definition?” To be sure, the Bible is our final authority, but when an argument relies so heavily on first-century context, you would expect the earliest centuries of the church to reinforce the argument, not undermine it.

When an argument relies so heavily on first-century context, you would expect the earliest centuries of the church to reinforce the argument, not undermine it.

Take the Didache, for example. This late-first-century document has a lot to say about teachers. They are supposed  to “teach all these things that have just been mentioned” [in the first ten chapters of the book] (11:1). They are to teach what accords with the church order laid out in the Didache (11:2). Importantly, the Didache assumes the existence of traveling teachers, apostles, and prophets, all of whom are said to teach (didaskon) (11:10-11). It is telling that “teaching” is a broad enough term to include what prophets and other speakers do, not to mention the Didache itself.

While “teach” can certainly include passing on oral traditions about Jesus, it cannot be restricted to only this. As Hughes Oliphant Old explains, “the Didache assumes a rather large body of prophets, teachers, bishops, and deacons who devote full time to their preaching and teaching” (The Reading and Preaching of the Scriptures, 1:256). With full-time teachers and “a daily assembly of the saints, at which the Word was preached” it is hard to imagine these various ministers engaged in “teaching” that steadfastly avoided the explanation of all biblical texts.

Of course, the true teachers were passing on the apostolic deposit, but this does not mean they were simply repeating the sayings of Jesus. In the Didache, parents are told to teach (didaxeis) the fear of the Lord to their children (4:9). The author(s) apparently does not think teaching is restricted to a highly technical definition. Nor does he think preaching is little more than a running commentary plus application. “My child, remember night and day the one who preaches God’s word to you, and honor him as though he were the Lord. For wherever the Lord’s nature is preached, there the Lord is” (4:1). According to the Didache, teaching is broader than transmitting oral traditions, and preaching involves more than a few words of exhortation.

Teaching in the Synagogue

One of the key points in Dickson’s argument is that the Pauline conception of teaching is rooted in the practice of the Pharisees, who passed on the oral traditions of their fathers (Mark 7:7). Just as the Pharisees might repeat the sayings of Hillel, so might the New Testament teacher repeat the sayings of Jesus. According to Dickson, the closest parallel to New Testament “teaching” is the passing down of the rabbinical traditions that we find repeated and piled up in the Mishnah (39).

This is an important line of reasoning for Dickson, one he repeats several times (39, 73, 100–2). The problem with the argument is twofold.

First, while the Mishnah collects the sayings of first- and second-century rabbis, these rabbis saw themselves explaining and applying the Torah. In other words, even if the Mishnah is our example of “teaching,” there is no bright line between “oral tradition” and “explaining texts.”

Second, the Jewish synagogue service provides a much better parallel to early Christian worship services than the Mishnah. After all, Paul is talking about corporate worship in 1 Timothy 2. For centuries leading up to the Christian era, the Jews had cultivated the art of preaching and gave it a privileged place in synagogue worship. According to Old, “there was a large core of dedicated men who had given their lives to the study of the Scriptures, and who prepared themselves to preach when the leadership of the synagogue invited them to do so” (The Reading and Preaching of the Scriptures, 1:102). It makes more sense to think Paul had in mind the well-developed tradition of men doing exposition in the Jewish worship service, when he prohibits women from teaching in 1 Timothy 2:12, as opposed to the mere repetition of oral traditions.

Teaching in the Old Testament

What’s more, this synagogue teaching ministry had its roots in the Old Testament. Moses taught (didasko, LXX) the people the statutes and rules of God—repeating them yes, but also explaining and applying them (Deut. 4:1–14). The priests, at least some of them, were to be teaching priests (2 Chr. 15:3), going through the cities of Judah teaching (edidaskon, LXX) people the Book of the Law (2 Chr. 17:9). Ezra set his heart to study the Law of the Lord and to teach (didaskein, LXX) his statutes and rules in Israel (Ezra 7:10). Likewise, Ezra and the Levites read from the Law of God and taught (edidasken, LXX) the people so they could understand the reading (Neh. 8:8).

The practices described in Ezra and Nehemiah give every indication of already being well established. There are texts, there are teachers, there is a congregation. We have in miniature the most essential elements of Jewish synagogue services, and the Christian services that would use synagogue worship as their starting point. It’s hard to imagine Paul meant to communicate, let alone that his audience would understand, that when he spoke of “teaching” he had in mind nothing of the Old Testament or Jewish tradition and was only thinking of Pharisees passing along oral sayings. In each of the Old Testament instances above, the teacher explains a written text. That doesn’t mean didasko must involve exposition, but the burden of proof rests with those who assert that it most certainly does not mean that.

Teaching in the New Testament

I agree with Dickson that the prohibition against women teaching in 1 Timothy 2:12 should not be taken in the broadest sense possible. Paul does not mean to forbid women from ever transmitting knowledge to someone else. He is addressing propriety in worship, not the sort of teaching we find from women to women in Titus 2 or from Priscilla and Aquila to Apollos in Acts 18. But just because we reject the broadest definition of teaching does not mean the only other option is the narrowest definition. Dickson would have us equate “teaching” with passing on oral tradition. That was certainly part of teaching in the apostolic age, but many of the places in the New Testament that speak of the apostolic tradition never mention didasko (1 Cor. 2:2; 3:10; 11:2; 11:23–26; 15:1–11; Gal. 1:6–9; 1 Thess. 4:1–2). The language instead is of receiving, delivering, or passing on.

Crucially, the Sermon on the Mount is labelled as “teaching” (Matt. 7:28–29). According to Dickson, the Sermon on the Mount is “teaching” because Jesus is correcting the tradition of the scribes and handing down his own authoritative traditions. What Jesus is not doing is expositing a text (54). Of course, Dickson is right in what Jesus is doing. He is wrong, however, in asserting what Jesus is not doing. The Sermon on the Mount is filled with Old Testament allusions, parallels, and explanations. One doesn’t have to claim that Jesus is giving a modern sermon as we might. The point is not that “teaching” everywhere in the New Testament means “exposition,” but that the two ideas cannot be neatly separated.

The first-century Jewish understanding of teaching must not be separated from the judicious interpretation of inspired texts.

Jesus was recognized by many as “rabbi,” an informal title meaning “teacher.” As a teacher, Jesus frequently quoted from or explained Old Testament Scripture. In fact, Old argues that Jesus’s teaching in the Temple courts at the end of his ministry was meant to show Jesus as the fulfillment of the rabbinical office. In Matthew 21–23 we see the different schools of the time—Herodians, Pharisees, Sadducees—come to Jesus with their questions about the Law, and Jesus answers them all (1:106). In solving their riddles and stepping out of their traps, Jesus showed himself to be the master teacher, the rabbi of all rabbis. And in this display, he constantly explained and interpreted Scripture. The first-century Jewish understanding of teaching must not be separated from the judicious interpretation of inspired texts, nor can it be restricted to “passing along oral traditions.”

Teaching in the Pastoral Epistles

But what if—despite the Old Testament background and the synagogue background and the use of “teaching” in the Sermon on the Mount and the broader understanding of teacher in the early church—Paul choose to use a very narrow definition of teaching in the pastoral epistles? After surveying all the uses of “teaching” in the Pastoral Epistles, Dickson concludes that “teaching,” as a verb and a noun, refer not to Bible exposition but to apostolic words laid down for the churches (59). Simply put, “teach” does not mean exegete and apply; it means repeat and lay down (64–65). Pauline “teaching” was never (Dickson’s word, my emphasis) exposition in the contemporary sense (74). Whatever else teaching may entail in other places, according to Dickson, for Paul it only meant laying down oral tradition.

Dickson is certainly right that “teaching” in the Pastoral Epistles is about passing on the good deposit of apostolic truth about Jesus. Conservative complementarian scholar Bill Mounce, for example, has no problem affirming that 1 Timothy 2:12 has to do with “the authoritative and public transmission of tradition about Christ and the Scriptures” or that it involves “the preservation and transmission of the Christian tradition” (Pastoral Epistles, 126). But notice that Mounce does not reduce the Christian tradition to oral sayings only, to the exclusion of Scriptural explication. Likewise, the Theological Dictionary of the New Testament argues that didaskein “is closely bound to Scripture even in the NT” (146). Later the TDNT affirms that even in the pastoral epistles “the historical connexion between Scripture and didaskein is still intact” (147).

One does not have to equate didasko with a three-point sermon to see that transmitting the apostolic deposit can scarcely be done apart from biblical references and exposition.

Surely this is right. Are we really to think that when Paul insisted that the elders be apt to teach that this had no reference to handling the Scriptures or rightly dividing the word of truth (2 Tim. 2:15)? Teaching must be broader than passing on oral traditions, for how else could Paul tell the older women “to teach what is good” (kalodidaskalo) to the younger women? Or consider 1 Timothy 4:13, where Paul tells Timothy to devote himself to the public reading of Scripture, to exhortation, and to teaching. Sure, these are not identical tasks, but on Dickson’s interpretation Timothy was to read the Scriptures, exhort from the Scriptures, and then lay down the apostolic deposit without ever expounding any of the Scriptures just read.

Similarly, Dickson argues that when Paul says all Scripture is profitable for teaching, he means Timothy would privately read Scripture so that he could be better equipped to publicly pass on the good deposit, but again, without expounding a Bible passage (52–53). If this is correct, then Paul never meant for teachers to explain Bible verses in reproving, correcting, or training either. The Bible may inform these tasks, but it never involves exposition of any kind (57). This strains credulity to the breaking point. Look at the preaching in Acts. There was hardly any handing down of the good deposit that did not also explain the Scriptures. And in 1 Corinthians 15 where Paul is explicitly passing along what he also received the message is not the mere repetition of verbal formulas, but the apostolic tradition that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures. One does not have to equate didasko with a three-point sermon to see that transmitting the apostolic deposit can scarcely be done apart from biblical references and exposition.

Teaching in Today’s Sermon

If Dickson’s definition of ancient teaching is too narrow, his understanding of contemporary preaching is too impoverished. In Dickson’s telling, the sermon is essentially a running commentary plus application. I confess I have a very different view of what preaching entails, not because preaching is less than exposition and application, but because it is much more. The preacher is a kerux, a herald (2 Tim. 1:11). Of course, we don’t preach with the authority of an apostle, but for those qualified men called to preach they do pass along the apostolic deposit and they ought to preach with authority. Why else would Paul command Timothy—with such dramatic language and with such dire exhortations—to preach the word; to reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with complete patience and teaching (2 Tim. 4:1–2)?

In the end, I believe Dickson’s approach is not only historically and exegetically unconvincing, it is practically unworkable—at least for complementarians. Egalitarians will affirm women preaching for all sorts of reasons. But complementarians who try to thread the needle and argue that “this message on Sunday morning is a sharing not a sermon” or “this woman preaching is under the authority of the session” will find that their arguments for not letting women preach all the time and in any way look exceedingly arbitrary.

The heraldic event—no matter the platform provided by the pastor or the covering given by the elders—cannot be separated from exercising authority and teaching, the two things women are not permitted do in the worship service.

At various points, Dickson admits that some preaching today may involve teaching and that the different kinds of speaking in the New Testament probably overlapped.

• “I am not suggesting that these three forms of speech (teaching, prophesying, and exhorting) are strictly separate or that there is no significant overlap of content and function” (24).
• “Some contemporary sermons involve something close to authoritatively preserving and laying down the apostolic deposit, but I do not believe this is the typical function of the weekly exposition” (64).
• “I have no doubt that Timothy added to these apostolic teachings his own appeals, explanations, and applications, but these are not the constitutive or defining elements of teaching. At that point, Timothy would be moving into what is more appropriately called ‘exhortation’” (65).
• “I am not creating a hard distinction between teaching and exhorting, but I am observing that, whereas teaching is principally about laying something down in fixed form, exhorting is principally about urging people to obey and apply God’s truth” (65).
• “No doubt there was a degree of teaching going on in exhorting and prophesying, just as there was some exhorting (and maybe prophesying) going on in teaching” (66–67).
• “I also think that some transmission of the apostolic deposit still goes on in every decent sermon, in some more than others” (79).

With all these elements of preaching jumbled together, how could Paul have expected Timothy to untangle the ball of yarn and know what he was supposed to not permit women to do? Just as importantly, how are we to discern when a sermon is just exhortation without authority and when it moves into an authoritative transmission of the apostolic deposit? Perhaps it would be better to see “teaching” as more or less what the preacher does on Sunday as opposed to a highly technical term that doesn’t make sense out of the early church, the Jewish synagogue, Jesus’s example, or Paul’s instructions.

The heraldic event—no matter the platform provided by the pastor or the covering given by the elders—cannot be separated from exercising authority and teaching, the two things women are not permitted to do in the worship service.