Category Archives: Religion and theology

Liberalism

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On Twitter some time ago, John Piper offered this succinct definition of the impulse behind liberal theology: “Make the Gospel acceptable to the world rather than showing the world it is unintelligible without the Gospel.”

Some might say that many conservatives do the same—that the only difference is what part of the world they’re trying to please. Those people would be absolutely correct; but it doesn’t invalidate Dr. Piper’s point. Rather, what it shows is that many conservatives are, in fact, far more liberal than they think they are. Indeed, it shows just how great the triumph of the liberal Protestant project was, and how many of those who consider themselves to be in opposition to it are actually captive to its assumptions. The so-called “modernist-fundamentalist” controversy of the 1920s was in truth a conflict between modernists; fundamentalism was (and continues to be) a movement that sought to refute liberalism’s conclusions while accepting its presuppositions about knowledge, truth, and the proper basis for belief.

What Easter doesn’t mean

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The great mistake so many folks make in dealing with Easter is to interpret it as a story about something. Whatever that “something” might be, this is simply wrong. The key thing to understand about the Resurrection is that it isn’t about anything but itself. It isn’t an example of anything, or a metaphor, or an illustration; it isn’t for us to draw lessons about hope, or faith, or love, or even how wonderful Jesus is. Instead, it simply is, this utterly new thing God has done for the healing and the recreation of the world; it is not to be interpreted in the light of anything else. Rather, it is the point around which the whole history of the world orbits, to which everything else that has ever happened is oriented, and everything else is to be interpreted in its light.

We resist this, I think, because we want God to be about us, and we want Jesus to be about what we want for our lives, and so we want the Resurrection along with everything else to be primarily important because of what it means for us; but whatever we might want, that just isn’t the case. The fact of the matter is, like it or not, everything else we do and say and know and live as Christians is about the Resurrection. If we’re not talking and living that way, we’re missing the point.

Michael Spencer, RIP

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If you are going to think about God, go to Jesus and start there, stay there & end there.

—Michael Spencer

I don’t have the time or energy to give this the attention it merits, but Michael Spencer, the iMonk, died this Easter Monday after a four-month battle with cancer. One never agrees with anyone completely, of course, but the iMonk was a powerful and critically important voice calling the church that calls itself evangelical back from the heresy of making Jesus about something else (primarily, us, in one form or another) to the truth that we are supposed to be all about Jesus. I’m grateful that he got his book Mere Churchianity: Finding Your Way Back to Jesus-Shaped Spirituality finished before his death, and leaves that as his valediction to the church; I’m equally grateful that a group of folks who knew and loved him and believed in his work are planning to keep it going. But most of all, for his sake, I’m grateful that he is indeed truly resting in the peace of Christ.

Put not your trust in princes

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Praise the Lord!
Praise the Lord, O my soul!
I will praise the Lord as long as I live;
I will sing praises to my God while I have my being.

Put not your trust in princes,
in a son of man, in whom there is no salvation.
When his breath departs, he returns to the earth;
on that very day his plans perish.

Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob,
whose hope is in the Lord his God,
who made heaven and earth,
the sea, and all that is in them,
who keeps faith forever;
who executes justice for the oppressed,
who gives food to the hungry.

The Lord sets the prisoners free;
the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the sojourners;
he upholds the widow and the fatherless,
but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.

The Lord will reign forever,
your God, O Zion, to all generations.
Praise the Lord!

—Psalm 146 (ESV)

The witness of David Livingstone

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Today is the 197th anniversary of the birth of Dr. David Livingstone, the great medical missionary and missionary explorer to Africa. Though he’s far less well remembered in the West than was once the case, he was a man who did great work for God and, I think it’s fair to say, brought real blessing to the peoples of southern Africa. His Wikipedia entry sums up his legacy thus:

He had made geographical discoveries for European knowledge. He inspired abolitionists of the slave trade, explorers and missionaries. He opened up Central Africa to missionaries who initiated the education and health care for Africans, and trade by the African Lakes Company. He was held in some esteem by many African chiefs and local people and his name facilitated relations between them and the British.

Partly as a result, within fifty years of his death, colonial rule was established in Africa and white settlement was encouraged to extend further into the interior.

On the other hand, within a further fifty years after that, two other aspects of his legacy paradoxically helped end the colonial era in Africa without excessive bloodshed. Livingstone was part of an evangelical and nonconformist movement in Britain which during the 19th century changed the national mindset from the notion of a divine right to rule ‘lesser races’, to ethical ideas in foreign policy which, with other factors, contributed to the end of the British Empire. Secondly, Africans educated in mission schools founded by people inspired by Livingstone were at the forefront of national independence movements in central, eastern and southern Africa.

As it goes on to note, his life in Africa took a real toll on his family, which he regretted; he should not be idealized any more than any other human being. And yet, he is remembered and honored across southern Africa because of the work he did and the witness he bore for the gospel. And while he also endured considerable suffering and danger over the course of his life, he kept those things in gospel perspective:

For my own part, I have never ceased to rejoice that God has appointed me to such an office. People talk of the sacrifice I have made in spending so much of my life in Africa. . . . Is that a sacrifice which brings its own blest reward in healthful activity, the consciousness of doing good, peace of mind, and a bright hope of a glorious destiny hereafter? Away with the word in such a view, and with such a thought! It is emphatically no sacrifice. Say rather it is a privilege. Anxiety, sickness, suffering, or danger, now and then, with a foregoing of the common conveniences and charities of this life, may make us pause, and cause the spirit to waver, and the soul to sink; but let this only be for a moment. All these are nothing when compared with the glory which shall be revealed in and for us. I never made a sacrifice.

While we might do things somewhat differently than he did, we would do well to learn from his example.

HT: John Piper

On the real St. Patrick

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I posted this last year, but it deserves a repost, too; there’s a lot we don’t know about St. Patrick, but what we do know is very impressive—he was truly a great and a godly man. The American Spectator website ran two pieces last year that are well worth your time, a shorter one by James M. Thunder and a more detailed piece by G. Tracy Mehan III called “The Solitude of St. Patrick.” I commend both to your reading, especially if you aren’t familiar with the true life and accomplishments of this towering evangelist-bishop of the early church; if you are, they won’t be news to you, but you ought to read them anyway, because St. Patrick is one of those people who’s always worth spending time with. And then go and read his Confession, which stands to this day, over 1500 years later, as one of the greatest Christian books ever written. Here is deep wisdom, and a great love for God; here is a true saint, and a model for the church.

Song for St. Patrick’s Day

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According to the late Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, in New York City, Lenten disciplines are suspended by special dispensation on St. Patrick’s Day; so I thought I’d repost this wonderful prayer in honor of that great (and much-misappreciated) saint. He probably didn’t write the caim (encircling prayer) that’s often called “St. Patrick’s Breastplate,” but I don’t know that it matters much—I expect he would have approved. This is the Kuno Meyer translation, which has its own title.

The Deer’s Cry

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ’s birth with His baptism,
Through the strength of His crucifixion with His burial,
Through the strength of His resurrection with His ascension,
Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of the Cherubim,
In the obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In the hope of the resurrection to meet with reward,
In the prayers of patriarchs,
In prediction of prophets,
In preaching of apostles,
In faith of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God’s strength to pilot me:
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak to me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s way to lie before me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in a multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts body and soul.

Christ to shield me today
Against poisoning, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding
So there come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye of everyone who sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

The roots of disobedience

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One of the interesting things about the account in Genesis 3 of humanity’s fall into sin is that it gives us an inside view—not a blow-by-blow account, but the highlights—of the process of temptation. As I noted a few days ago, the snake begins the temptation not with a question, but with a deliberately false statement, because he wants to provoke his target into reacting without thinking. It works for him, as the woman immediately comes back with a correction; indeed, it works very well, because she’s so focused on correcting his misstatement (“God didn’t say we can’t eat from any of the trees”) that she makes a misstatement of her own (“He said we can’t even touch the tree in the middle, or we’ll die”).

The serpent, of course, doesn’t correct her. Instead, he comes back with a most interesting response: he says, “You shall not surely die.” This does a couple things. In the first place, it’s a direct contradiction, a direct challenge to the word of God—he’s calling God a liar, straight out. Genesis doesn’t say, but at this point, maybe the snake took advantage of the woman’s misstatement; I can imagine him saying, “Go on, test it—touch the tree. Touch the tree. See? You’re not dead, are you? You just have a little sap on your hands.” He calls God a liar, and the woman lets it stand; and with that, the first seeds of doubt are sown.

More than that, though, this statement by the serpent shifts the focus of the conversation. Starting off, the focus is on what God said, which means ultimately it’s on God; now, the serpent has changed that, and instead of being on God, the focus of the conversation is now on death. The question of whether or not to obey God is no longer a matter of the character and goodness of God; instead, it’s a matter of whether God is serious about the punishment he promised for disobedience.

This is a necessary shift for the snake. If he’s encouraging her to disobey God and she’s thinking about God, she’s going to come back and say, “No, I don’t want to do that because God is good and he knows what’s best for me and this is what he wants me to do”—and there’s really nothing the snake can say to that. But if he can instead get her thinking about punishment, then when he tempts her, then her response will be, “No, I don’t want to do that because if I do that, God is going to hurt me”—and that, he can argue about. To that, he can say, “No, God isn’t going to hurt you, no, you aren’t really going to die, and really, God’s only saying this because he wants to keep the best stuff for himself.”

You see, the tempter wants to get us into a cost/benefit analysis where he offers the benefit—whatever the temptation of the day is—and God offers us the cost—whatever our punishment is going to be for giving in to temptation; he wants us to see God simply as somebody who punishes us when we do wrong, because if the tempter can do that, then he can always convince us that what he’s offering us is worth the price. If our reason for obeying God is positive rather than negative, though—not just because we don’t want God to punish us, but because we love him and want to please him—then the devil has a much harder time with that.

(Adapted from “The End of the Beginning”)

On art that can truly be called “Christian”

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We in the church in this country tend to throw around terms like “Christian music” and “Christian fiction” pretty carelessly, without really thinking much about them, or what they mean, or even if they actually can mean anything at all. There’s a good argument to be made that only people can truly be called Christian.  W. H. Auden once declared that there cannot be “such a thing as a Christian culture” because “culture is one of Caesar’s things.” I’m beginning to understand what he meant, I think, and his point is one with which we must reckon.

That said—as Christians, as people made in the image of God, we are most definitely called to be culture makers; in Tolkien’s terms, we were made to be sub-creators working under our great Creator, and we have both the need and the responsibility to do so wisely and well, in a way that is true to our faith. As I wrote a while back,

Stories matter. They matter because they’re the stuff of our life, of our reality and our nature, and the expression of the creative ability we’ve been given by (and in the image of) the one who made us—and we matter. They matter because they affect us, moving our emotions and shaping our view of the world, both for good and for ill. And as a Christian, I affirm that they matter because everything we do matters, because the best of what we do will endure forever. And if they matter, then we need to take them seriously, both as readers and, for those of us so called, as writers—for our sake, and for everyone’s.

The same can be said, in a bit of a different way, for music, the visual arts, and for the other media in which we create; and if we want to call that “Christian art” as a shorthand, then the shorthand has value, assuming we realize that’s all it is. But that still leaves us asking, how do we do this—and when we do it, what exactly are we doing?

Among the folks who are wrestling well with this interlocking set of questions are the writers at the group blog Novel Matters; my wife pointed me this morning to a post there by Patti Hill that I think is particularly good. Of course, she has a real advantage because she starts off quoting Flannery O’Connor, which is always worth doing:

Ever since there have been such things as novels, the world has been flooded with bad fiction for which the religious impulse has been responsible. The sorry religious novel comes about when the writer supposes that because of his belief, he is somehow dispensed from the obligation to penetrate concrete reality. He will think that the eyes of the Church or of the Bible or of his particular theology have already done the seeing for him, and that his business is to rearrange this essential vision into satisfying patterns, getting himself as little dirty as possible.

To really understand where O’Connor is coming from in writing this, I think it’s important to add a couple other quotes from the same book:

Dogma is an instrument for penetrating reality. . . . It is one of the functions of the Church to transmit the prophetic vision that is good for all time, and when the novelist has this as a part of his own vision, he has a powerful extension of sight.

Your beliefs will be the light by which you see, but they will not be what you see and they will not be a substitute for seeing.

For O’Connor, then, I think we can fairly say that it’s our obligation as Christians to see the world truly and deeply, as it is rather than as we would like it to be—and that for those gifted and called to write or to create art in other ways (and if you are gifted, then you are called, in whatever way and to whatever degree), there is the further responsibility to represent reality in such a way that others can see more truly and deeply than they did before. Too many people (not just Christians, by any means) shy away from that, because as O’Connor says, it requires getting dirty—really digging into and dealing with the dirt of this world, because you cannot know this world and you cannot see it truly and you cannot portray it rightly without knowing and dealing with its dirt. There’s dirt all over the place, and in every human soul; you just can’t avoid it.

So then, how? Hill nails it, I think:

We look to Jesus.

No one saw the world more concretely than Jesus. A whore washed his feet with her tears. He not only made wine, he drank it. He touched leprous skin. He invited himself to a tax collector’s house for lunch. And, I’m thinking, he heard naughty words there. Caked with blood, spittle, sweat, and dirt he took the nails for us. Gruesome. Violent. Definitely off-putting. That’s crucifixion, the purest act of love.

To follow in the steps of Jesus, to write in a God-honoring, “dirty” way, we must see the world—as best we can—as Jesus sees it, with empathy, detail, and love. And so it is for the Christian writer to observe and portray the beauty and brutality and pain and suffering and redemption all through the eyes of love.

Yeah—that’s spot-on.

If it’s occurring to you that this all sounds like it’s not just about art, you’re right; after all, in a way, what we’re really asking here is how we’re supposed to create art as disciples of Christ—which is to say, how do we understand creation as discipleship—and that inevitably flips us around to the corollary: how do we understand discipleship as creation, as a process in which we stand under God our Creator as the sub-creators of our own lives, as the process of making our lives a work of art for God? As I’ve asked elsewhere, what does it mean for our lives to be poems for God?

Genesis 3 and the voice of temptation

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When the serpent tempts the woman in Genesis 3, he doesn’t start off with a question, but with a statement—with a statement he knows is false, and that he knows she knows is false. This is because if he were to ask her a question, she would have to think in order to answer it, and while he wants her to talk to him, he doesn’t want her to think; he wants her to react without thinking, and his opening false statement gets him the reaction he wants.

You see, the serpent wants the woman to talk about God without talking to God. Specifically, he wants her to talk about God to him, so that he can sow doubt and distrust in her ear; but if it ever occurred to her to bring God into that conversation, to allow God to respond to the snake’s lies, then the game would be up, and all his efforts to breed distrust would go for nothing. So he wants her to react without thinking too hard about it, so that he can keep her in that mode of talking about God without actually asking God to join the conversation—which is always a bad mode for us as believers to be in.

(Adapted from “The End of the Beginning”)