Atonement Justice

The recent death of Oglala Sioux actor and activist Russell Means brought brief but broad attention to the chronic issues plaguing Native American communities in the United States. Means, who was quite a controversial figure, brought national attention to the poverty and discrimination suffered by many in Native communities in the 1970's and 1980's. He is credited with reviving the warrior image of the American Indian through guerrilla-tactic protests against the United States injustice against its indigenous peoples.(1)

One tragic episode of injustice was called “The Trail of Tears.” This was the name given to the forced relocation of the Cherokee Nation from their home among the mountains of North Georgia to the plains of Oklahoma.(2) In one of the saddest episodes of the fledgling democracy of the United States, men, women, and children were taken from their land, herded into makeshift forts with minimal facilities and food, and then forced to march a thousand miles. Human loss for the first groups of Cherokee removed from North Georgia was extremely high. While records reflect differing accounts of casualties, some estimate that about 4000 Cherokee died as a result of the removal.

The story of Native American relocation is now a part of the history of the developing United States, where the North Georgia story is not unique. Russell Means and many other activists for Indian causes remind us that other trails of tears were forged in the land from east to west.  While there were minority voices protesting against these federal government policies concerning relocation, including Davy Crockett (better known for his failed stand at the Texas Alamo), they were few and far between.(3) The country that had swelled on a tide of freedom also had an undertow of injustice toward its Native peoples.

In human terms, the crucifixion of Jesus demonstrates a horrible injustice committed against him. While Christians believe that God was at work even in the midst of this act of injustice, Jesus had committed no crime deserving of this death reserved for the worst criminals. He was falsely accused, tortured, and nailed to the cross. Formal theology looks at the “injustice” of the crucifixion and seeks to explain the meaning of the event. Some theologians suggest that the atonement stands as the preeminent example of a sacrificial life in the face of injustice—an example which followers of Jesus are called to model in their own lives. Others see the Cross as the ultimate symbol of divine love or a demonstration of God’s divine justice against sin as the violation of his perfect law. Still others suggest the Cross overcame the forces of sin and evil, restored God’s honor in relation to God’s holiness and righteousness, and served as a substitution for the death we all deserved because of sin.(4)

While the meaning of the atonement may include a portion of all of these theories, I wonder about how the atonement might bring meaning to events like those suffered by Native peoples. And I wonder about how the atonement speaks to the personal injustices we all suffer, or commit against one another. Does the reality of the atonement give present meaning to the many injustices experienced and felt by many in today’s world?

The word atonement itself indicates that the willing offer by Jesus to absorb the injustices of the world creates the possibility to be at one, set right with God, and with one another. The apostle Paul indicates this in his second letter to the Corinthian Christians: “Now all these things are from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and gave us the ministry of reconciliation, namely that God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and he has committed to us the word of reconciliation” (2 Corinthians 5:18-19).

Christians believe that the enactment of reconciliation by God even through the human injustice perpetrated against Jesus, enjoins them to a ministry of reconciliation and justice. And the word of reconciliation—namely, that God has not counted our trespasses against us—frees us to give   the ministry of reconciling forgiveness to one another. Forgiveness, then, paves the way for justice.

I wish Russell Means could have known about many of these reconciling ministries. While at a local church gathering, I was introduced to a ministry that works with urban-dwelling Native Americans. Most are homeless and many struggle with alcohol and drug addiction. Like me, these individuals are far removed from the Trail of Tears. But like me, this organization wonders what meaning to assign to a tragic past. Clearly, all of us carry the events of our past into our present lives. In some cases, painful hurts and histories have ongoing repercussions. Cycles of violence, addiction, and despair are shaped, in part, by the meaning assigned to these past events. Therefore, this ministry seeks to reassign new meaning to difficult pasts through reconciliation and forgiveness.

In the same way, Christians who affirm the atonement of Jesus also affirm a God who enjoins them to do justice on behalf of others. The atonement gives meaning to the past that is redemptive for the present. Recognizing both our need for forgiveness and the need to offer forgiveness, we give meaning to those who need atonement today. Not simply an act of injustice perpetrated against Jesus, the atonement brings life, as surely as it binds us to give life to others.

(1) Robert D. McFadden, “Russell Means, Who Clashed With Law as He Fought for Indians, Is Dead at 72.” The New York Times, October 22, 2012.
(2) “The Trail of Tears,” About North Georgia, http://ngeorgia.com/history/nghisttt.html, accessed February 16, 2010.
(3) Ibid.
(4) Theories of the atonement as highlighted in Millard Erickson, Christian Theology (Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 1983), 781-823.

Crucible of Lament

In today’s world, it is often difficult to summon optimism. Bad news swirls around us blowing our hopes and dreams like leaves in the fall wind. In this gale, we often find it hard to cling to hope and to a sense that the future will be a bright one. In general, I see myself as an optimistic person. I try to find the bright side of bad situations, and I work hard to walk the extra mile to give others the benefit of the doubt in personal relationships. I am not a naïve optimist like the character Pangloss in Voltaire’s biting satire Candide. When it is clear the ship is sinking, I don’t believe everything will be alright nor do I believe, as Pangloss would, that the sinking ship is the best thing that could happen to me. I do all that I can to bail out the rising water, even as I wrestle against the fear and anxiety that accompanies impending disaster!

Yet despite my generally optimistic attitude and outlook, there are times when sadness overwhelms me. It may be a growing storm of weary longing or a tide of lonely isolation that sweeps over me, drowning me with a dolor that submerges my hope. Sometimes it occurs when I think about the aging process and our hopeless fight against it. Sometimes it occurs when I am in the grocery line, looking at the baggers and clerks who wonder if this is all they will ever do for work. Oftentimes, it occurs when I cannot see the good through all the violence and evil that oppresses the world and its people. I can easily become overwhelmed by the numbers of people who are forgotten by our society—the last, the least, and the lost among us—and wonder who is there to help and to save them from drowning.

It is in these times that I befriend lament. And I take great comfort in the loud cries and mourning that have echoed throughout time and history as captured in the poems, songs, and statements of lament. Indeed, a great portion of the Hebrew Scriptures comes in the form of lament, both individual and communal lament. The Psalms, as the hymnal of Israel, record the deepest cries of agony, anger, confusion, disorientation, sorrow, grief, and protest. In so doing, they express hope that the God who delivered them in the exodus from Egypt, would once again deliver by listening and responding to their lament.(1)  The prophets of Israel, who cry out in times of exile, present some of the most heart-wrenching cries to God in times of deep sorrow and distress. One can hear the anguish in Jeremiah’s cry, “Why has my pain been perpetual and my wound incurable, refusing to be healed? Will God indeed be to me like a deceptive stream with water that is unreliable?” (Jeremiah 15:18). In addition, Jeremiah cries out on behalf of the people of Judah: “Harvest is past, summer is ended, and we are not saved. For the brokenness of the daughter of my people I am broken; I mourn, dismay has taken hold of me. Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then has not the health of the daughter of my people been restored?” (Jeremiah 8:20-22).

As I listen to Jeremiah’s cries, I recognize that they arise out of a deep love for the very people he often had to speak against. As Abraham Joshua Heschel notes, “[Jeremiah] was a person overwhelmed by sympathy for God and sympathy for man. Standing before the people he pleaded for God. Standing before God he pleaded for his people.”(2) In this same tradition, Jesus cried out with deep longing about the people in his own day, “If you had known in this day, even you, the things which make for peace” (Luke 19:42). It is more than appropriate for us to weep and lament over the terrible condition of the world—a condition that all too often, we participate in and condone.

Many face realities in life that feel completely overwhelming: death, and loss, poverty, hunger, homelessness, job loss or under-employment, relational disruption. Lament seems the only appropriate response for those who find themselves on the losing end of things, or who through no fault of their own always find themselves in last place or left behind. Lament arises from looking honestly at these realities for what they are, and wishing for something else.

Yet it has been said that “the cry of pain is our deepest acknowledgment that we are not home.” The author continues, “We are divided from our own body; our own deepest desires; our dearest relationships. We are separated and long for utter restoration. It is the cry of pain that initiates the search to ask God, ‘What are you doing?’ It is this element of a lament that has the potential to change the heart.”(3) If this is true, then the overwhelming sorrow or feelings of bitterness over having to deal with what feels like more than one’s share of the harsh yet inevitable realities of life are, in fact, the crucible for real change. The same waters of despair that seek to drown and overwhelm are the waters of cleansing. Therefore, let the tears flow! The writers of Scripture give witness to the overwhelming compassion of God in the midst of grief: “For if [the LORD] causes grief, then He will have compassion according to his abundant lovingkindness.”(4) Perhaps, as we remember the one who was described as a “man of sorrows” who was “acquainted with grief,” lament offers a crucible in which we might experience a better compassion and care. Indeed, lament may yet have its own way of transformation.

(1) Barish Golan, “A Look at Lament Songs in the Bible,” www.disciplestoday.org.
(2) Abraham Heschel, The Prophets (New York: Harper Collins, 1962), 154-155.
(3) Dan Allender, “The Hidden Hope in Lament,” Mars Hill Review, Premier Issue, 1994, 25-38.
(4) Lamentations 3:32.

God as Psychological Crutch

God as Psychological Crutch

I remember getting into a cab outside a central London church. The cabbie took one look at my Bible and launched into his opinion of Christianity. He explained to me that belief in God is a crutch for weak, pathetic people who don’t have the strength to take responsibility for their own lives. When I answered, “Thank you very much,” with just a hint of irony, he blustered on with, “Well, I’m just saying it for your own good. A girl like you doesn’t need religion!”

This idea that Christian faith is a psychological crutch for needy people is a pervasive one, based on a number of assumptions. The first is that God is merely a psychological projection: he doesn’t actually exist in any real sense, but exists only in the minds of his followers, who have created him out of their own need—a need for a father figure or a need to give significance to their existence. The most famous proponent of this view was the Austrian neurologist and founder of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud (1856-1939). In arguing against the existence of God, Freud theorized that one’s view of God springs from the view one has of one’s father. When people grow up and find themselves thrust into the cruel, cold world, they look for a haven of security and protection from it. An adult can no longer look to parents for this protection, if he or she is to maintain dignity. Yet, Freud mused, we look for another “Someone” to do this job for us and this leads to the idea of a “Higher Power” or God.

From this perspective, God is merely a creation of the human mind, a projection emanating from human need and desire rather than a distinct reality. For Freud, God is made in humanity’s own image, the “ultimate wish-fulfillment,” the end product of human desire for a loving father.

Can God really be explained away so easily by one aspect of psychology? One obvious point to make is that the argument about projection cuts both ways. After all, isn’t it equally possible to say that Freud and other atheists deny the existence of God out of a need to escape from a father figure, or to argue that the non-existence of God springs from a deep-seated desire for no father figure to exist?

Clearly this doesn’t prove that God is real, but it does show that Freud’s arguments cannot prove that God does not exist while at the same time helping us tackle the question of projection. After all, dismissing God as a psychological projection while claiming neutrality in our own psyche is disingenuous at best and cannot be an adequate basis for rejecting God.

It also quickly becomes apparent that a Freudian belief in God as a human projection cannot provide us with an explanation for the Christian faith of converts such as C.S. Lewis or Alister McGrath, who would rather not believe but find themselves compelled by the evidence that Christianity is true and real.

In fact, we may go further by suggesting that a desire for a God who can fulfill our needs and provide moral order exists precisely because human beings have been created to desire him. The man floating on a raft at sea is unbearably thirsty, but he won’t get a drink of water simply by being thirsty. But the very existence of his thirst does show that a way for his desire to be satisfied actually exists: fresh water. As C.S. Lewis put it, “Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists.” Ultimately for the Christian the important question is not whether I have a psychological need for a father figure, or a desire for a father figure not to exist. Rather, the question is about what actually exists: Is God really there? The way to come to any conclusions about that is to investigate the evidence for his existence.

The second assumption we encounter is that because belief in God provides the faithful with a crutch, this means it is somehow suspect. The skeptic implies that since the believer finds protection from the cruelty of nature and the evil of the world, the idea of God is like a talisman, an irrational superstition. But surely, if belief in God provides a positive moral framework that helps people to live constructively, that is not a reason to disbelieve. Similarly, if relationship with God enables to believer to find healing, wholeness, and comfort in the midst of human suffering, we should not be surprised.  After all, if God is real, God’s existence will have a massive impact on life and on the experience of life. It is only if God is not real that we ought to be worried about the “crutch” God provides.

Finally, the third assumption is that people who make use of this “crutch” of relationship with God, and find it practical, meaningful, and effective, must be weak or inferior. This is a rather strange idea, since surely it makes sense to access real sources of support and relationship that are there for us. If a God of love does exist, the rational thing to do is accept that love, to come to know it. Entering into that relationship will have a positive effect, and that does not make the person weaker than or somehow inferior to anyone else. On the contrary, it is the logical, reasonable response if God himself is real.

Good Instincts

On an international flight, after waiting five long hours for takeoff, a voice announced that the flight was cancelled. It is a scene many have been privy to, so I know better than to solicit sympathy. But in the aftermath of this announcement was a scene that captured my attention.  A young girl, no older than 10, immediately cupped her face with her hands, visibly deflated by this news. In broken English, a woman nearby tried to comfort her and the story slowly unraveled. Apparently, the child had written an essay that had won an award, which promised a week at space camp in the United States. She was only halfway to her destination waiting anxiously for the second half when the flight was cancelled for the night and rescheduled for the morning. Since she was traveling alone, news of the cancelled flight meant an evening far from home, alone in a foreign city, and one less day of her much-anticipated camp.

As the story was slowly drawn out, listeners around the cabin responded instinctively. A man immediately provided a cell phone for her to call home, a young mother offered to help her get to the hotel, and a flight attendant sat down beside her and offered to stay with her for the night and bring them both back in the morning for the next day’s flight.

Perhaps you have been active in a similar scene—bringing help for the stranded motorist in the rain, responding with care for the family on the news whose house burned down, guiding a lost child in the grocery store back to his mom. What is it that pulls us toward goodness in such a scene? What is it that moves us with the desire to help, particularly if we are merely creatures operating with instincts to survive? When perfect strangers reach out as if intuitively shouldn’t we pause to ask about the intuition? When we sense our need to move toward something or someone in care and concern, could it not follow that we have been made to know this need?

A national radio program recently ran a segment discussing one company’s efforts with what they are calling “ethics rehabilitation” classes—classes meant to re-instill the ethics essential for effective business. I was fascinated by this call to morality even across a medium that daily chips away the idea of the good, the true, and the beautiful.

What is it within us that instinctively recognizes our need for some sort of moral framework? What is it that sees a need to distinguish right and wrong, good and evil? Why do we have this longing for goodness or beauty? Can it be truly explained if we are merely creatures surviving for our own right?

In a letter to an ancient community, the apostle Paul hinted at a deeper reality moving us toward what we long to find but often do not, what we long to see corrected in ourselves, in our communities, in our broken world. “Who hopes for what they already see?” he asks (Romans 8:24).   Perhaps this inward groaning for good, a longing for beauty, our need for what is true—it is the hope for what we were made to see. It is the instinct that recognizes that something stains our fallen world yet hopes for what God intended. We help the stranded child far away from her parents because the desire to see children cared for is set within us, because we hope for what is good and we hope to see goodness fully.

Paul suggests that our recognition of the good points us to the God who first saw things and called them good. We were made to know the beautiful and the true because we were made by creative and cultivating God of the garden. We were created to taste and see all of it. The Spirit who has given the hope and longing to know and see goodness is goodness and love and beauty and truth. Knowing this Spirit, Son, and Father, we know not only the why and who behind the instinct, but the one who makes it whole again.

In Remembrance

It is startling to consider the amount of information we carry about in our heads. Think simply of all of the numbers you have by memory: phone numbers, birthdays, ID numbers, zip codes, appointment times and dates.  Among these many numbers are some so inscribed in your mind with permanent marker that you could not forget the number anymore than you could forget the person or thing they represent. The significance moves well beyond the boldfaced digits themselves—the birth of a child, the death of a loved one, the street number of the house you grew up in, the number of times you failed before you finally passed the test.

In the days of Mordecai and Queen Esther the people set themselves to remember the days when they received relief from their enemies, the month that had been turned “from sorrow into gladness and from mourning into a holiday.”(1) And so it was determined: “These days of Purim should never cease to be celebrated by the Jews, nor should the memory of them die out among their descendants.” The days were weighted with enough hope to press upon them the need to remember them forever. More importantly, they saw the very certain possibility that they might forget.

I suppose there are moments in our lives when we realize that we are beholding the carving of a day into the great tree of history. On my way to the hospital on the day my son was born I thought about the date and how it was about to be something more. Like any bride or groom or parent I knew from that day forward it would be difficult (and detrimental) to forget this day on the calendar; it would carry the force of forgetting so much more. Like the number itself, my remembering is more than a recollection of detail; it is the recollection of a person.

With a similar sense of anticipation, God told the Israelites that they would remember the night of Passover before the night even happened. “This day shall be for you a memorial day, and you shall keep it as a feast to the LORD; throughout your generations, as a statute forever, you shall keep it as a feast” (Exodus 12:14). Moses and Aaron were given instructions to tell the whole community of Israel to choose a lamb without defect, slaughtering it at twilight. Then they were to take some of the blood and put it on the doorposts of the houses. “The blood will be a sign,” the LORD declared. “And when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike the firstborns of Egypt.”

The significance of remembering is a theme carried throughout all of Scripture. It is not about static facts or rules or figures, but the mystery of a place, the significance of a person, the marking of lives. Celebrating the Passover was nonnegotiable. The command to remember was passed down from generation to generation. But they were remembering more than the mere events of Israel’s exodus from Egypt; they were remembering God as God showed up and changed them—the faithful hand that moved among them, the mighty acts which exclaim a Father’s untiring remembering of his people.

As the disciples sat around the table celebrating their third Passover meal with Jesus, an observance they kept before they could walk, everything probably looked ceremoniously familiar. The smell of lamb filled the upper room; the unleavened bread was prepared and waiting to be broken. Remembering again the acts of God in Egypt, the blood on the doorposts, the lives spared and brought out of slavery, they looked at their teacher as he lifted the bread from the table and gave thanks to God. Then Jesus broke the bread, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.”

I have always wished that Luke would have described a little more of the scene that followed. Were the disciples hushed and confused? Did their years of envisioning the blood-marked doorposts cry out at the Lamb of God before them? They had spent their entire lives remembering the sovereignty of God in the events of the Passover, and then Jesus tells them that there is yet more to see in this day on the calendar: In this broken bread is the reflection of me. On this day, God is engraving across history the promise of Passover: I still remember you. I still seek you. 

I imagine from that day forward the disciples knew it would be difficult to forget that day on the calendar. It is not that different for us today either. Forgetting what was witnessed in the upper room on that Passover carries the force of forgetting so much more.

The Stuff of Memory

The word “souvenir” comes from the French word meaning “to remember.” Browsing through crowded airport souvenir shops or overstuffed booths of t-shirts in tourist-likely places, it is hard to remember the almost romantic origins of the word. A fuzzy magnet bearing the words of my latest destination may serve to remind me of a another land, but I still feel like I’ve sold myself out as the prototypical, easily-targeted, junk-buying tourist any time I leave a souvenir shop receipt in hand.

Creators of a souvenir shop in Buchenwald, Germany, claim, though controversially, to be bearing the less-materialistic origins of the word. The shop opened in time for the 60th anniversary of the liberation of the Buchenwald concentration camp where an estimated 56,000 people were murdered at the hands of the Nazis. Their souvenirs range from plaques embedded with stones from the camp to sprigs taken from the surrounding forest to be planted elsewhere. Moneymaking was never the point, the founders maintain; the project has always been about building bridges of memory, actively confronting history, and hoping to extend the somber lessons of the Holocaust to future generations.(1) From outrage to appreciation, reactions have been understandably varied. My own are admittedly mixed. Can materialism be set aside in a souvenir shop? Can history only be “actively confronted” with an object in hand? More notably, how do we best go about the vital act of remembering?

I remember looking at the gold cross around my neck differently after spending some time in the tourist-ready sites of Jerusalem. Amid the constant sounds of bartering beside some of the holiest places of history, the image of Jesus turning over the moneychangers’ tables was easy to bear in mind. But it was my own tables that were being overturned. Remembering had become for me an action I had taken as lightly as the delicate cross I put on each day.

A great amount of Christian Scripture calls the world to the act of remembering: remembering the story we are a part of, the moments God has acted mightily, the times humanity has learned in tears. “Remember this,” God uttered in history, “Fix it in mind, take it to heart, you rebels.  Remember the former things, those of long ago; I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me. I make known the end from the beginning, from ancient times, what is still to come.”(2) The story of faith is one that requires memory. God has moved; God is moving. Remember.

But how?

“Actively,” the answer seems to come, and with great weight, for it is possible to forget. “Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one.You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.  These words that I command you today shall be on your heart.Teach them diligently to your children, talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, when you lie down, and when you rise.  Bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes.  Write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.”(3) Memory plays a vital role in the story God continues to tell.

On the night he was betrayed, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it. “Remember me,” he asked, “as often as you do this.” Whether we are holding again the bread that tells of his broken body, clasping again the chained cross that remembers the death of God, or reconsidering this story of God coming near, as often as we do this, let us remember.

(1) Andreas Tzortzis, “At the Gift Shop: Souvenirs of Buchenwald,” The New York Times (September 15, 2004).
(2) Isaiah 46:8-10a.
(3) Deuteronomy 6:4-9.

Tipping the Scales

There are several places in Scripture that speak of God’s abhorrence of “dishonest scales.” Having recently read an editorial that sought to expose what the writer deemed “the unfair scales” of our justice system, the phrase catches my attention. There is something within us that cries out at the sight of injustice; we long to find the place where life is fair. But what does it mean to measure our own lives with an honest scale?

As the Israelites emerged from their slavery in Egypt and the perils of the desert through mighty acts of deliverance, they were asked to remember the almighty hand of God. The great plagues that came upon Egypt, the triumphant parting of the Red Sea, the manna from heaven—all were arguably unforgettable—and yet God specifically asked them to remember. Remember the great movement of God among you; remember the God who saw your misery and acted out in justice. Indeed, remember. For how easy it is to forget. How easy it is to forget that God not only sees the injustice of our situation, our yearning for help and crying for deliverance, but also the injustice we impose on others, our unwillingness to forgive, and our eagerness to tip the scales in our favor.

Through the prophet Micah, the LORD inquired of Israel, “Am I still to forget, O wicked house, your ill-gotten treasures and the short ephah, which is accursed? Shall I acquit a man with dishonest scales, with a bag of false weights?”(1)

Used in ancient Israel, the ephah was a large vessel with which merchants measured out goods for a buyer. Likewise, the shekel was used to weigh out the silver with which the buyer paid for it. By shortening the ephah and increasing the weight of the shekel, the merchant found a way to sell less than he promised for more than he agreed. The practice of utilizing measures to get ahead in business was quite prevalent amongst merchants in the ancient world—perhaps as prevalent as it is today. In a poem titled “Song of the Devil” W.H. Auden voices a chorus familiar to the ages:  “Values are relative/Dough is dough.”

Yet as God declared through Micah and again through Hosea and Amos, dishonest dealings make a mockery of the one who set the values. The cry of the prophet for economic justice is the cry of the God who is just. And God who is just demands a careful commitment to all that God values: “You shall not have in your bag differing weights, a large and a small. You shall not have in your house differing measures, a large and a small. You shall have a full and just weight; you shall have a full and just measure, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the LORD your God gives you.”(2)

Moreover, God who is just not only calls for justice in our dealings with others, but in our dealings with God. Here, the Christian story reports that we ourselves have been weighed on scales and found wanting. This is a difficult truth to accept, particularly where we want to measure the world with a sliding scale of tolerance. All the more difficult to comprehend, Christ’s death is said somehow to level the scales. Where we are lacking, where we are unjust, where we have tipped the scales dishonestly in our favor, where sin throws off the balance, and we carry our bag of false weights, Christ comes to restore our own value inasmuch as those we have slighted.  As the apostle Peter writes, “Christ died for sins once for all, the just for the unjust, so that he might bring us to God.” In Christ the scales are balanced; what is wanting is restored in him by the Spirit. Setting on both sides of the scale, he is our full and just weight.

(1) Micah 6:10-11.
(2) Deuteronomy 25:13-15.

The Apologetic of the Apologist

A starting point for taking on the responsibility of the work of Christian apologetics is recognizing the role that living out a disciplined Christian life plays. Even a brief examination of the Scriptures reveals this striking imperative: one may not divorce the content of apologetics from the character of the apologist. Apologetics derives from the Greek word apologia, “to give an answer.” 1 Peter 3:15 gives us the defining statement: “But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer (apologia) to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.”

I have always found this to be such a fascinating verse because the apostle Peter, under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, knew the hazards and the risks of being an answer-bearer to the sincere questions that people would pose of the gospel. Indeed, when one contrasts the answers of Jesus to any of his detractors, it is not hard to see that their resistance is not of the mind but rather of the heart. Furthermore, I have little doubt that the single greatest obstacle to the impact of the gospel has not been its inability to provide answers, but the failure on our part to live it out. The Irish evangelist Gypsy Smith once said, “There are five Gospels: Matthew Mark, Luke, John, and the Christian, and some people will never read the first four.” In other words, apologetics is often first seen before it is heard.

For that very reason the Scriptures give us a clear picture of the apologetic Christian: one who has first set apart Christ in his or her heart as Lord, and then responds with answers to the questioner with gentleness and respect.  Therefore, one must not overlook the stark reality that the way one’s life is lived out will determine the impact.  There are few obstacles to faith as serious as expounding the unlived life. Too many simply see the quality of one’s life and firmly believe that it is all theory, bearing no supernatural component.

I remember well in the early days of my Christian faith talking to a Hindu. He was questioning the strident claims of the followers of Christ as being something supernatural. He absolutely insisted “conversion was nothing more than a decision to lead a more ethical life and that in most cases it was not any different to those claims of other ‘ethical’ religions.” So far, his argument was not anything new. But then he said something that I have never forgotten, and often reflect upon: “If this conversion is truly supernatural, why is it not more evident in the lives of so many Christians that I know?” His question is a troublesome one. After all, no Buddhist claims a supernatural life but frequently lives a more consistent one. The same pertains to many of other faiths. Yet, how often the so-called Christian, even while proclaiming some of the loftiest truths one could ever express, lives a life bereft of that beauty and character.

This call to a life reflecting the person of Christ is the ultimate calling upon the apologist. The skeptic is not slow to notice when there is a disparity, and because of that, may question the whole gospel in its supernatural claim. Yet when they are met with gentleness and respect, we will help meet the deepest longings of the heart and mind, and they will find where true discovery lies. Let us live so accordingly.

A Year of Biblical Womanhood: A Review

There are several reasons why I decided to read and review Rachel Held Evans’ forthcoming book A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband "Master" (Thomas Nelson; October 30, 2012).

I certainly am not writing this review out of any sense of convenience and comfort. Here’s why I did:

First, as a Christian woman who adheres to Reformed doctrine, I believe the Bible to be the inerrant word of God, written by men, inspired by God, infallible in all that it teaches, sufficient for all of life and doctrine, and the very words of God, words from God. And this new book from Evans is a recent example of how this essential truth is lost.

Second, I write this review because I have something of a relational history with the author. I have had the pleasure of corresponding with her over emails and have enjoyed our brief interactions.

Third, and even more centrally, I write this review out of a love for my fellow sisters in the church who are trying to walk with integrity as women, as I am, before God.

Finally, I write this review out of a love for the lost who are searching for answers about God and the Bible and will read this book and sadly be misled.

Before I begin the review, let me say that I find this book to be most troubling because of Evans’ handling of Scripture. As much as I hoped to be pleasantly surprised, as I read my heart became heavy. And yet, for all its weaknesses, this book is sure to draw a lot of attention in the coming weeks.

Evans embarked on a yearlong mission to explore the Scripture references to women, following and practicing what they say as literally as possible. Her adventures take her through various Jewish traditions, she interviews polygamists, she camps outside, she spends the night in a monastery.

Each month, for one year, she tackled a new challenge or virtue such as gentleness, domesticity, obedience, and submission. At the end of each chapter, she features a specific woman in the Bible writing out a historical profile and her thoughts.

She interviews a wide range of people from a variety of faiths and traditions. Her book does not draw from purely an evangelical, or even distinctly Christian, perspective. Many of her rituals are from the Jewish tradition, and she quotes several Rabbis.

As I read the book, it became increasingly clear to me of one theme: God’s word was on trial. It was the court of Rachel Held Evans. She was the prosecution, judge, and jury. The verdict was out. And with authority and confidence, she would have the final word on womanhood.

Evans makes it clear that although she holds the Bible in high esteem as a historical document, she would warn us to be careful in attempting to use it as a guide for living out the Christian faith. A few quotes explain her stance.

Despite what some may claim, the Bible’s not the best place to look for traditional family values as we understand them today. (48)

I kept digging, and as it turns out, Peter and Paul were putting a Christian spin on what their readers would have immediately recognized as the popular Greco-Roman “household codes.” (216)

Evans also quotes Sharyn Dowd saying, “The apostles advocated this system not because God had revealed it as the divine will for Christian homes, but because it was the only stable and respectable system anyone knew about. It was the best the culture had to offer” (217).

The Bible is a sacred collection of letters and laws, poetry and proverbs, philosophy and prophecies, written and assembled over thousands of years in cultures and contexts very different from our own, that tells the complex, ever-unfolding story of God’s interaction with humanity. (293)

And you see it most clearly in Evans' conclusion.

For those who count the Bible as sacred, the question when interpreting and applying the Bible to our lives is not, will we pick and choose? But rather how will we pick and choose? We are all selective in our reading of Scripture, and so the question we have to ask ourselves is this: Are we reading with the prejudice of love or are we reading with the prejudices of judgment and power, self-interest and greed? (295)

And later:

This is why there are times when the most instructive question to bring to the text is not, what does it say? But what am I looking for? I suspect Jesus knew this when he said, “ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” (295)

Throughout A Year of Biblical Womanhood, Evans works to prove that the Bible is not without error and therefore cannot be applied literally — and in some cases cannot be trusted (as we see by the implications of Paul’s and Peter’s motives, she says, to keep their culture in the Scriptures). Furthermore, the Scriptures are called sacred but never inspired by God, never the very words of God.

This notion is applied to every text, except in the chapter on justice where she unequivocally determines that God got it right: “Justice is one of the most consistent and clear teachings of Scripture, and traditionally, a crucial function of the Church” (228).

Evans selects various Old Testament laws regarding women and discusses the horror of such laws, yet she never rises to the place where the purpose of these laws are made sense of. And yet she never introduces the redemptive history of Scripture. This point could take up an entire lengthy blog post of its own. Evans will not allow redemptive history into her courtroom.

This is not to say that Evans is a poor writer. She’s talented, engaging, funny, and at times I found myself wrapped in her story, pretending to grip a walkie-talkie for her as she described sleeping alone in her tent in the front yard during her monthly cycle (see Leviticus 15:19–33). While the living-biblically-for-a-year theme is not original to her, she wrote this book quite creatively.

But while the book is engaging, her methods and her conclusions on womanhood are confusing at best. And this is largely because she selectively decides which Scriptures apply to women and which ones do not. She spoke with men and women from a full range of backgrounds and faiths and then attempted to apply them to evangelical Bible-believing Christianity. The majority of her quotes and references from complementarians aim to show complementarianism as foolish and dated. Strangely she more often cites authors with a more traditionalist orientation (and less truly complementarian) and only one or two of the more biblical moderates.

Evans claims to be caught between conservative and liberal theology. She believes in the physical resurrection of Christ, and she believes in evolution. But in seeking to bridge conservative and liberal theology in this book, she invests so much time explaining what she does not believe, that readers will be left wondering exactly what she does believe.

Part of this comes down to widely differing worldviews. To understand womanhood, Evans blends Eastern practices and mysticism, with a few selected Scripture quotes. For me to properly understand biblical womanhood, I can only finally return to God’s sufficient word, which is living and active and sharper than any double-edged sword (Hebrews 4:12). Our worldviews split over whether the Bible is inerrant and sufficient. And when the Bible is determined to be insufficient to guide our faith and life, or to define womanhood according to God’s design, the temptation is to run to various methods, various faiths, and to synchronize selected doctrines — which is precisely what Evans does in this book.

Through this book it seems Evans is trying to “reach” women like me, who take the Bible seriously and believe God is honored through his design for complementary roles in marriage and the church. But I fear she will actually have the greatest impact on those who are already sympathetic to her undermining of the truthfulness and sufficiency and relevance of the Bible, those who are already suspicious of Christianity, and who are already prone to deny that God has designed a special and beautiful role for women in marriage. This is a book that will reinforce the views of non-Christian men and women who seek validation for thinking Christians are foolish for following the Bible closely.

In this book Evans is trying to build a bridge, but I wonder if it is not rather a comfortable bridge for shaky evangelicals to find their way into theological liberalism. This book is not ultimately about manhood and womanhood, headship and submission, or the complementarian and egalitarian debate. At its root this book questions the validity of the Bible. And denying the inerrancy and sufficiency of Scripture is a denial that will ultimately erode the gospel of our Savior.

Beautiful Submission

It's easy to tell a woman to submit, or to tell a husband to love his wife as Christ loves the church, but it can be excruciating to live out. It's easy to throw these Bible verses around like the rock in David's sling hoping to knock down that Goliath of 'My Way.'

In a marriage, there's a lot of submission and a lot of loving that's supposed to be going on. But who wants to serve, who wants to sacrifice, who wants to lay down their life for another? Who wants to humble themselves for the good of another human?

The answer: Jesus Christ.

I remember when submission was first presented to me as something I must do in order to be obedient and godly. I kicked against it. Because it wasn’t taught to me through the gospel, all I could see was subjugation. I had all kinds of arguments to throw against it; you just couldn't talk to me about submission.

How can you talk to a person about submission when they don't have a good grasp of the Godhead and are hazy minded about who God is?

We can't fully comprehend the beauty of headship and submission until we have a sober understanding of who God is: the true God, the Triune God . . . Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

It is never wise to start with what is required of man. We must start with who God is, proceed to what he has done and only then can we coherently speak to what is required of us. It is at these junctures where we find out just how important it is for us all to understand the doctrine of the trinity.

What brought me to faithful submission to my husband was not a “how to be a better wife” book. It was an understanding of the person and cross work of Christ. It was the gospel being pressed into every corner of my being.

Romans 8:29 says, “For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son.” If I am to be conformed to the image of Christ I need to know what his characteristics are so that through abiding in him and walking in the Spirit I can approximate the image of Christ in this life. If I am to live in relationship to others, I need to know how Christ lives within the trinity and among men.

One of the things Christ says about himself is, “take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart” (Matthew 11:29). Paul writes in Philippians 2:5–8,

Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.

Who is Christ? He is God the Son.

What is he like? Gentle, humble in heart, equal with God, in human form.

What did he do? He did not grasp for his equality but instead humbled himself to become obedient to the point of death on a cross.

Who was he obedient to? God the Father with whom he had, and has, equality.

How does this instruct me as I seek to live my life like Christ?

Kathy Keller says in The Meaning of Marriage, “Both women and men get to 'play the Jesus role' in marriage — Jesus in his sacrificial authority, Jesus in his sacrificial submission.”

As a wife I see my role in relationship to Christ in the words of the Apostle Paul: “I want you to understand that the head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife is her husband, and the head of Christ is God” (1 Corinthians 11:3).

As a woman I already have a Jesus role — the sacrificial gifting of my submission to my husband. Should I try to “grasp” for his “Jesus role?” Should I try to swap my Jesus role for his? To what end? If Jesus being equal with God did not grasp for his equality but instead submitted himself to the plan and will of the Father, should I as my husband's equal “grasp” for mine? How can that possibly transform me into the image of Christ?

To understand any of our roles we first have to understand the Godhead. Only then will any of this stuff make sense. Only then will it be shown that these roles are not cultural or social constructs but part of the warp and weft of objective reality.

 

Biblical Womanhood and the Problem of the Old Testament

As explained in my review of A Year of Biblical Womanhood, much of Rachel Held Evans’ book could be summed up, sadly, as an attempt to discount the validity of Scripture. I am hopeful that she does not intend for this to happen, but it is unfortunately what happens when she repeatedly speaks of the Bible as being outdated, useless in parts, and at times downright horrific — including at one point describing having a terrifying nightmare as she contemplated the texts (62). Tragically, that is her claim.

Evans is troubled by many things in the Old Testament, but especially by the harsh consequences in the law that follow from sexual sin — consequences that often required the death of men and women. In explaining why these same codes do not apply today — why adulterers are not stoned to death — she can only say, “Most Jews and Christians have long abandoned the practices associated with hard patriarchy” (51). But is it that simple — and that shallow?

She suggests this is because Jesus ignored certain Old Testament laws. He was a revolutionary who used “selective literalism” and who broke these anti-adultery laws when he urged compassion on the adulterous woman (53). But before we charge Jesus with breaking the law, we should give this question some serious thought.

Actually, we are faced with two questions. First, how should we handle the abuse of women recorded in the Old Testament? And second, how should we properly evaluate the ongoing value of the Old Testament law?

In one chapter, Evans sets out to find groups “committed to preserving as much of the patriarchal structure of Old Testament law as possible,” including polygamists. In polygamy, “the man’s consequent procreative prowess is listed by writers of Scripture as one of his most worthy virtues” (51, 58). That is a bold claim, but she provides no biblical citations to back it up.

In her thoughts on polygamy, Evans claims the Bible never condemns it. Yet monogamous marriage seems to be the norm in the Old Testament (Genesis 2:24, Malachi 2:13–15), and especially so in the New Testament (1 Timothy 3:12; Titus 1:6). Nowhere do we read the Bible sanctioning polygamy.

The abuse of women recorded in the Old Testament is one reason Evans reevaluated biblical womanhood and rejected complementary roles in marriage today. She notes that at one point she had confidence in the biblical view of submission. “When Dan and I got married back in 2003, we began our marriage with the assumption that I would submit to him because the Bible told me to, that while I had a voice in our decisions as a couple, Dan held the reins,” he writes. “Dan would bring home the bacon, and I would fry it” (204).

But during the early years of her marriage, Evans and her husband found that they needed to run two businesses, and as she put it “tasks tend to get assigned based on efficiency rather than gender” (204). As life continued to get busier, they realized that they functioned “best as a team of equal partners” (204). Why complementarian marriage cannot be defined as a team of equal partners (with differing roles), is not clear. In fact her chapter on submission (pages 201–220) leaves me with many unanswered questions. I’m sure other reviews will ask many of the same questions in the coming weeks.

Chillingly, Evans now claims that what she reads in the Bible is a nightmare of oppression for women. She calls upon Christian women to remember the dark stories.

Those who seek to glorify biblical womanhood have forgotten the dark stories. They have forgotten that the concubine of Bethlehem, the raped princess of David's house, the daughter of Jephthah, and the countless unnamed women who lived and died between the lines of Scripture exploited, neglected, ravaged, and crushed at the hand of patriarchy are as much a part of our shared narrative as Deborah, Esther, Rebekah, and Ruth. We may not have a ceremony through which to grieve them, but it is our responsibility as women of faith to guard the dark stories for our own daughters, and when they are old enough, to hold their faces between our hands and make them promise to remember. (66)

The sinful abuse of women in the Old Testament is troubling, but as troubling as it is, those sins are not determinative of new-covenant ethics for the church today, and they do not dismiss male headship either.

In writing this post, Tony Reinke passed along some helpful research suggestions as I processed what I was reading. On this point he sent the following quote from Margaret Köstenberger's book Jesus and the Feminists, where she writes:

It is true that the historical narrative books of the Hebrew Scriptures witness to numerous abuses of this abiding principle of male headship in the Old Testament period, such as arbitrary divorce (Deuteronomy 24:1–2), the intermittent practice of polygamy, adultery, rape, incest, and so on. Scripture does not condone these behaviors and attitudes. At the same time, the New Testament does not abrogate the principle of male headship even subsequent to redemption in Christ. Thus, Paul still can call Christian wives to submit to their husbands (Ephesians 5:22–24), and Peter similarly enjoins wives even of unbelieving husbands to submit to them (1 Peter 3:1–6). (34)

In fact, for all of her concerns about the Old Testament laws and polygamy and rape and abuse towards women in old-covenant times, Evans ultimately misses a fundamental truth. For Jesus and Paul and for the Church, sexual and marriage ethics (and biblical womanhood) are not based on the historical sins against women that are recorded in the Old Testament, but from the pre-fall monogamous union of Adam and Eve in Genesis 2. From reading Evans’ book, you would think this was not the case.

In the first marriage, in this pre-fall union, we find the norm for all human sexual ethics, for marriage, for male and female equality, and for the distinctives to biblical manhood and biblical womanhood. When Evans addresses Eve in particular (which is very early in the book, pages xx–xxii), she fails to notice that Eve was taken out of Adam and created, not to be a helper like him, but to be Adam’s perfectly adapted helper for him (Genesis 2:18, 1 Corinthians 11:8–10). By missing this foundational point — by missing the very genesis of biblical womanhood — the remainder of the book was certain to be unclear.

Which brings me to my second point. On top of polygamy, there is female slavery, the presence of concubines, death prescribed for sexual sins, separation from the community during a monthly cycle, widows forced to marry the brother of their late husbands, arranged marriages, pagan women slaughtered in battles, and so on (48–51). Without distinction, Evans blends what is prescribed in the law and what is described in narratives, making it all normative for “biblical womanhood.”

In her view, for womanhood to be considered biblical, everything in the Bible must be followed, what is prescribed and what is described. That isn’t possible, she says, therefore biblical womanhood is a myth (294). So we must select what we want to obey and what we don’t want to obey (a troubling theme of the book that I addressed in my original review).

Evans claims that this is what Jesus did, after all, when he refused to stone the adulterous woman (John 8:3–11). According to the law, adulterous women are to be stoned (Leviticus 20:10, Deuteronomy 22:22). Jesus refused to.

Evans writes:

Jesus once said that his mission was not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. And in this instance, fulfilling the law meant letting it go. It may serve as little comfort to those who have suffered abuse at the hand of Bible-wielding literalists, but the disturbing laws of Leviticus and Deuteronomy lose just a bit of their potency when God himself breaks them. (54)

Evans’ language for why Jesus did not stone the adulterous woman is confusing and misleading.

Jesus is sinless (Hebrews 4:15). It’s doubtful that breaking the law would be the best way to describe it. Ignoring the uncomfortable parts of the law certainly does not seem accurate either. Jesus does not abolish the law, not one little comma in it (Matthew 5:17).

The religious leaders sought to corner and discount Jesus’ entire mission (John 8:5–6). If Jesus would not stone the adulterer, then he must be a law-breaker — and Evans comes right out and says it.

In his commentary on the Gospel of John, D. A. Carson suggests that when Jesus says, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8:7), he was specifically referencing the sin of adultery in the accusing men themselves! The men bringing the accusation were also adulterers. “When it comes to sexual sins, the woman was much more likely to be in legal and social jeopardy than her paramour,” Carson writes. “The man could lead a ‘respectable’ life while masking the same sexual sins with a knowing wink. Jesus’ simple condition, without calling into question the Mosaic code, cuts through the double standard and drives hard to reach the conscience.”

In this story Jesus is not breaking the law or shrugging off the Old Testament law. Rather, Jesus is calling these men out on their double-standard, thinking the law applied more to adulterous woman than to adulterous men.

It is through the high standards of the Old Testament law that we see the beauty of our Savior shine, not in his ignoring of the law, but in his fulfillment of it, not in lessening of the holy demands of God, but in seeing them in all their divine righteousness.

Take these few examples:

In Leviticus 1:9, the offering of a whole sacrifice to God prefigures Christ’s giving of his whole self (Hebrews 10:5–14).
In Leviticus 6:13, the unceasing flame of the altar reveals the insufficiency of repeated sacrifices in contrast to the sufficiency of Christ’s once for all sacrifice (Hebrews 10:1–10).
In Leviticus 11:45, separation from uncleanness symbolizes separation from sin in order to be intimate with God. It prefigures Christ’s work bringing holiness (Hebrews 7:26, 10:16).
In Leviticus 18:5, we read that God requires perfect obedience that can only be found in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:21). Sinners like us cannot keep the law (Romans 10:5, Galatians 3:12–14).

These few brief references barely scratch the surface for the number of references and parallels to Christ’s coming and sacrifice found in the Old Testament.

And so, yes, women can look to the Old Testament law passages to be reminded of God's holiness in texts like Leviticus 15:19–33. These texts may make women uneasy, but they also remind us that God is holy and majestic. He is separate from all sin — male and female. His ways are not our ways; they are perfect in every way, and we are hopeless without a perfect Substitute.

In passages like Leviticus 15:19–33, women today are reminded that “regulations for the body” were imposed only “until the time of reformation” (Hebrews 9:10). That is, the Old Testament purification codes point to the arrival of Christ, the “high priest of the good things that have come” (Hebrews 9:11).

Any woman who practices purity regulations with her body is revealing her theology. It is a sad missing of how our Savior fulfills these specific regulations in his substitutionary death. It is tragically easy for all of us to minimize the significance of our sinless Savior’s life, death and resurrection from the dead.

The gospel reminds us that the world is fallen and sinful. Men sin against women. Women sin against men. Women sin against women. Women are not innocent, but sinners. Male and female, we all are each part of the problem. When we read of sin in the Old Testament, we are reminded of the sin that resides in our own hearts.

But the gospel reminds us that we can look at the Old Testament law without horror or terror. There in the purity codes we see a glimpse of the beauty and sufficiency of our Savior. We see the law that he came to fulfill. And in him we are saved from the greatest terror of all — an eternity separated from God.

And yet when the gospel is clouded, things go terribly wrong in our theology. Unless the veil is lifted (2 Corinthians 3:12–18), we cannot make sense of the Old Testament law in God’s redemptive plan. We cannot understand the hope and joy of biblical womanhood. And biblical womanhood, divorced from the gospel, becomes a very dangerous thing.

Brothers, We Are Not Professors

It has been said by one great Reformed theologian that we are living in the most anti-intellectual age in the church’s history. We are the TV generation, making way for the Internet generation. Images tickle our eyes, and sound-bites massage our brains. We are, compared to our Puritan fathers, ignorant shepherds leading sensate sheep in a dry and dusty land. Surely what we need then is more thought, more scholarship, more earnest hours spent pouring over the ancients in our studies. Right?

We are worldly when we, like the world around us, give ourselves to an entertainment mentality, when we amuse ourselves to death. We are still worldly, however, when we rightly reject the eye candy and froth of pop culture and then conclude that our problems are intellectual, and our solutions more learning. It was the enlightenment, not the Light of the World, that gave us education as its high and holy sacrament. What Jesus calls us to is to repent and believe the gospel. It is more important to us and our sheep that we would learn to believe more, than that we would find more to believe.

That means first that when we prepare to serve in the ministry, we have to prepare to serve in the ministry. Our seminaries, if we must have them, should more reflect a training hospital than a university. Divinity is not a body of knowledge to be mastered like geology. The Bible is not a book to be dissected like Moby Dick. We go there, if we must go there, not to study the Word, but to begin to learn to have the Word study us. We go to pursue not advanced degrees but the fruit of the Spirit. We go to lose our reputations, not to gain them. We go not to be thought wise, but to learn what fools we are.

That means next that when we are called to the ministry, that we minister. Our pulpits, sadly, are filled with men who started as seminarians eager to shepherd a flock. There they were introduced to a dynamic, likely godly professor, and suddenly the student determines he will pursue still more degrees, that he might follow in the footsteps of his hero. As seminary comes to a close growing debts, a growing family, and a growing urge to go and teach derail the plan to become a professor. Instead the young pastor determines to take a church that his flock can become his student body, and His Body, a tiny little seminary. He will lecture then during Sunday School, and regale them through each sermon. The Shepherd, however, calls us to feed His Sheep. We are not to give our wisdom, our insights, the fruits of our scholarship. Rather, like Paul before us, we serve up our weakness, our frailty, our need. That’s how the Word breaks through, where the power comes from.

Brothers, your flock may need some more information. What they need more, however, is someone to lead them, to show them the Way. They need to see you repenting. They need to see you wrestling with your sins. They need to see you preaching the gospel to yourself, not because you like the sound of your voice, but because you hate the sin that yet remains, and you need grace. They need to see you rejoicing in the fullness of His promises, and mourning both sin and its fruit, the last enemy, death.

No man needs advanced degrees, and arcane letters after his name in order to follow Jesus. Which means that no man needs these things to lead others in following Jesus. If you follow Him, they will follow you. If, however, you merely tickle their brains, they will soon go off in pursuit of someone who seems smarter than you. If they are taught to hear your voice, they won’t discern the voice of the Master.

When our days of ministry come to an end, our labors will either be dust, or they will be dust. No matter how many downloads our wisdom garners, no matter how many journals publish our insights, these will all one day decay. Our scholars’ hoods and robes, pulpits and libraries will become mere chaff.  If, however, we spend our days as shepherds, pasturing the flock, our labors will last forever. For we minister to dust, to men into whom the Spirit breathed twice. We minister to dust that is, through faithful, pastoral preaching, being burnished into the image of the Pearl of Great Price. Brothers, we are not doctors, but the sick, not scholars but fools. Let us then be fools for Christ. Preach.

Don’t Hide God’s Word from the Little Ones

It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were cast into the sea than that he should cause one of these little ones to sin. –Luke 17:2

It may long be remembered as the night Sinclair Ferguson went rogue.

The date was June 28, 2009. During the congregational singing, he felt an unusually strong impression to preach something altogether different — both text and topic — from the manuscript he was holding in his hand for the exposition he had prepared on Romans 6:6–14.

Here’s how he explained himself on the fly in abandoning the announced topic:

There are rare occasions when during the course of a service there is such an impression made upon one’s spirit and soul that one feels compelled to preach on something different from what has been announced. And feeling that compulsion earlier on in the service — those of you who were sitting in the gallery wondering why at points I was scribbling on a piece of paper will now realize that what I was doing was earnestly praying that if the Lord wanted me to preach on something different tonight he would at least give me an outline.

And provide an outline God indeed did. Instead of Romans 6, Ferguson took up 2 Timothy 3:14–15 and preached earnestly that his hearers not withhold the Scriptures from the little ones. Here’s the outline:

1. The value of children knowing the Scriptures from their infancy?
2. The vital importance of parental faithfulness in difficult circumstances?
3. The possibility of great usefulness for the most ordinary of Christians?
4. The wonder of what our children can become, despite all the obstacles

In particular, the point on which Ferguson wanted to challenge his congregation was this: “What kind of instrument are you? I’m thinking particularly this evening about what kind of instrument are you in relationship to young people?”

This is an especially sobering warning from the veteran pastor to a young father like myself: “If you hide the Scriptures from your children, it may be better that a millstone be hung around your neck and you be cast into the midst of the sea than that you should ever imagine that you're behaving like a Christian parent.”

The sermon is well worth the listen for young Christian parents — and everyone else. The preaching is raw and powerful — and Ferguson’s rich Scottish accent is icing on the cake.

Don’t Miss the Subtle, Ironic Poetry of God

When it comes to God, you must always keep your eyes open. If you don’t pay attention you’ll miss jaw-dropping glory.

Take the book of Esther, for example. If you’re not careful, you’ll only see a Hollywood-like story of a beautiful young orphan girl who against all odds becomes queen of Persia and, with a little help, recognizes her moment of destiny and courageously faces down a Persian Hitler.

And you would miss the real story.

The real story is not Esther’s inspiring courage or her beauty or Mordecai’s sage wisdom. This story is about what’s really going on behind the machinations of power.

Haman thinks he’s taking super-sized revenge on Mordecai for dissing him by orchestrating a kingdom-wide ethnic cleansing of the Jews. But all he really is is just the devil’s pawn.

Ahasuerus thinks he’s searching for a royal goddess-queen by culling “all the beautiful young virgins” (Esther 2:3) from the 127 provinces in his kingdom and hosting the world’s largest personal beauty contest. He has no clue that he’s God’s pawn to checkmate the devil. Oh, and, by the way, after all that work he “chooses” a Jewish orphan who lives down the street.

The book of Esther is the subtle, ironic living poetry of God where he chooses “what is weak in the world to shame the strong” (1 Corinthians 1:27) and shouts his total sovereignty over cosmic powers (Ephesians 6:12), raging nations (Psalm 2:1), and the course of human lives without ever mentioning himself once. Nor the devil.

One thing I love about John Piper is that he doesn’t miss the poetry and he helps us see it too. In fact, it stirs the poet in him, which is why he wrote a narrative poem-story based on the book of Esther, now published by Crossway and beautifully illustrated by Glenn Harrington. It has two movements. In the first, 12 year-old Esther asks her uncle, Mordecai, how she came to be an orphan. In the second, 35 year-old Esther tells her own child how she came to be queen.

Often we are helped to see glory by looking at biblical truth through someone else’s lenses. We see different facets by looking from different perspectives. That’s the value of this book. It will help you see more than you might on your own.

And it will remind you to keep your eyes open as you watch God’s living poetry going on around you right now. The real story is often not what is most visible.

 

Give the Priceless Gift of Corrective Lenses

Jesus died for me. What a treasure I must be!

I can think of a number of times over the years when I’ve heard people say something like this. And typically they were people I knew read the Bible frequently. But this idea isn’t in the Bible. Jesus didn’t die to purchase treasures. He died to ransom (Mark 10:45) enemies (Romans 5:10). We’re not the Pearl of Great Price (Matthew 13:46); Jesus is. So where did they get this idea from?

Faulty lenses.

Somewhere along the way their subjective experience and/or bad teaching caused them to look at the cross, see Jesus hanging on the cursed tree, and see a statement of their self-worth rather than amazing grace that saves wretches.

Lenses are extraordinarily powerful things. We interpret reality depending on the way we see it. If something is wrong with our seeing — our lenses — we won’t see reality. We will see a distortion.

And this is far more important when it comes to spiritual sight than it is with physical sight. Here’s how Jesus said it:

Your eye is the lamp of your body. When your eye is healthy, your whole body is full of light, but when it is bad, your body is full of darkness. Therefore be careful lest the light in you be darkness. (Luke 11:34–35)

The degree to which our spiritual eyes are bad is the degree to which our understanding is dark.

The truth is we all have bad eyes that need corrective lenses to let more light in. And the corrective lenses that Jesus provides us with are his Word and the gift of teaching in the church (Ephesians 4:11). When teachers “rightly [handle] the word of truth” (2 Timothy 2:15), people receive corrected sight and their “eyes” become more healthy and their soul more full of light.

And there is nothing more important for people to see clearly than why Jesus came to die. That’s why John Piper wrote the book, Fifty Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die. At 122 pages and only two pages per chapter, this is a great book to give away. It’s something people will read. And if you want to give a lot away, we’ll let you have them by the case (48 copies) for $1.65 per copy.

Right handling of Jesus’s word is about the greatest gift we can give anyone else. Because through it they may receive a healthy eye and lighted soul.

God Created Food and Sex for Believers

Sexual pleasure is too earthy. Enjoying delicious food is too unspiritual.

That’s a two-point outline for a demonic sermon that has no place in any church — so Paul tells us in 1 Timothy 4:1–5.

In fact, in a paradoxical twist of reality, the apostle says that sex and food were created by God with the intent that these gifts be received with thanksgiving. Positively, this means that marriage and food are properly used according to God’s design when believers accept these gifts with Godward thanksgiving. Negatively, this means unbelievers who are not thankful to God for these gifts have no right, in God’s economy, to food or to sex.

Or to say it even stronger: Unbelieving sex and unbelieving eating are a prostituting of God’s created gifts from their divine intent (1 Timothy 4:3).

Now hold that provocative thought for one moment, because it is also true that God sends rain upon the just and the unjust — although mostly on the just, as novelist Cormac McCarthy writes, because the unjust stole the just’s umbrella!

Seriously though, God’s rain falls, and the crops grow, so there is nourishment for all creatures, even rebels against God.

But in God’s kindness in giving rains and food and pleasure, he gives these gifts in order to lead sinners to repentance (Acts 14:14–18). The gifts are given as witnesses of his presence and power and gracious forbearance.

So back to the main point. In an ultimate sense, God gives sex and food for believers. This is how John Piper said it in his 1981 sermon “Sex and the Single Person”:

“God created these things to be received with thanksgiving by those who believe” [1 Timothy 4:3]. By its very design it can only be for believers, because it is designed as an occasion for thanksgiving. But those who do not “know the truth” — the truth, namely, that God is the giver of all good gifts and worthy to be glorified and thanked — those who hold down this truth (Romans 1:18, 25) and do not trust in God cannot satisfy their sexual desires according to the design of God. All their sexual behavior is sin because it does not spring from faith in God (Romans 14:23) and does not result in thanks to God.

Sexual pleasure belongs rightfully only to believers. All others are thieves and robbers. Don’t ever let the world deceive you into thinking that we Christians are trying to borrow and purify a limited amount of the world’s pleasure. God created sexual pleasure for his subjects alone, and the world has rebelled against him and stolen his gifts and corrupted them and debased them and turned them into weapons of destruction and laughed at those who remain faithful to the King and use his gifts according to his Word. But we will not be deceived. The gift is ours, and we will consecrate it, that is, we will keep it pure, as Paul says in verse 5, “by the word of God and prayer.”

John Calvin said it equally forcefully in his comments on the passage.

…[S]trictly speaking, God has destined the world and all that is in it for his children alone; for this reason it is said that they shall inherit the earth [Matthew 5:5]. In the beginning, Adam himself was given dominion over all things on condition that he remained obedient to God. Therefore, when he rose in rebellion against God, he deprived himself and his posterity of this right which was conferred upon him. So, it follows that we are restored to our original dignity only by the benefit we receive from Christ to whom all things are under subjection: and this we receive by faith. Therefore, whatever men without faith get hold of, they rob or steal from others.*

Clearly, believers are not called to legislate or govern food intake, or to criminalize non-Christian sexuality. That’s not the point. The point is that this world, though fallen, is filled with delights and experiences and marriage and food and sunshine and beauty. And none of it is the permanent possession of the ungodly. These experiences and delights were invented by God and distributed to us by him with the original intent of blessing his children and stirring our hearts toward thankfulness.

If that is true now in our daily lives, how much more will the new creation be our experience of God’s ceaseless outpouring of gracious gifts, given to us as we thank and worship him forever!

To further study this theme in 1 Timothy 4:3, see John Piper's book, When I Don't Desire God: How to Fight for Joy (Crossway, 2004), and especially chapter 11: "How to Wield the World in the Fight for Joy: Using All Five Senses to See the Glory of God."

* Joseph Haroutunian and Louise Pettibone Smith, Calvin: Commentaries (Westminster Press, 1958), 347–348.

Hope for Chronic Suffering

If I were asked to put my finger on Scripture’s most poignant passage about chronic suffering, near the very top of my list would be Psalm 88.

The psalms have been called “the prayer book of the Bible.” And, indeed, the better we know them, the more we see how they help us talk with God in every circumstance and mood. Psalm 88 is a plea for God to stop hiding his face from the suffering psalmist. It opens with the psalmist crying out continuously to the God of his salvation (verses 1–2) and it ends the same way (verses 13–14).

As with most of what are now known as the psalms of lament, the psalmist doesn’t say exactly what his trouble is, although he does say that he has been afflicted and close to death from his youth and that his affliction has been so deep that he is helpless, having lost all his strength (verses 4, 15).

We who have suffered some crippling disability can easily place ourselves alongside the psalmist and utter the same cries. And those who care for the deeply disabled should have no difficulty turning this psalm into a prayer to be prayed for them.

Psalm 88 is the only psalm that ends without any expression of hope. It expresses only unrelieved suffering. This may make it seem to be a psalm that we would want to steer clear of, especially as its startling claims begin to sink home. Why would we want to be reminded that sometimes God seems to be distant over someone’s entire lifetime? Why would we want to hear that someone can become so sick that everyone shuns him because he has become a horror to them? Does it seem right for the psalmist to claim that God’s wrath lies heavy upon him and that he is suffering God’s terrors?

Yet, as I shall urge in my talk at November’s Desiring God conference on disability, we ought not to steer clear of any part of Scripture, for every part of it ultimately comes from the mouth of God for our instruction and for our good. In fact, Scripture insists that God always ultimately brings good to his people through their suffering, no matter how difficult that suffering may be.

Psalm 88 (and the other psalms of lament) teach us at least two lessons that help us to breathe when we are feeling suffocated by suffering.

First, they teach us that when we have a complaint with God, we are to take it directly to him. The psalmists never complain about God; they always complain to him.

And, secondly, they teach us to be honest. All of the psalmists, exactly like the unknown psalmist who penned Psalm 88, model transparency, expressing their complaints to God as frankly as they can.

Both of these lessons are, so to speak, part of the psalmists’ exhaling, of their crying out, pleading, and complaining to God by breathing out to him what it would be harmful for them to try to withhold from him.

What we learn, when we go on to study all of the other psalms of lament, is that the psalmists always went on to inhale, to deliberately breathe in truths about God’s character, about his promises, about his previous wondrous acts for Israel, and about his record of individualized care for them. Breathing in these truths gave them hope, which is often what we most need when we are dealing with disability.

How I Forgot the Gospel

I forget the gospel. It’s one of the most maddening things about living with a truth-distorting sin nature. Let me give you a recent example.

A few weeks ago I said to my wife, “I’m feeling gospel fatigue. I’m tired of hearing ‘gospel’ in just about everything.” She looked at me funny. I explained that I was probably just feeling jaded by the commercialization of the gospel or how it seems like a trendy bandwagon. She didn’t buy that. She knows me well. She suggested I probe deeper. She was right, as usual.

So I asked myself what this “gospel fatigue” is. Am I really weary of hearing that Jesus became sin for me (2 Corinthians 5:21), cancelled my full sin debt (Colossians 2:14), and has promised me an eternal life of increasing love and joy in knowing God (John 17:3)?

No, that’s not it.

Have I gorged on the “gospel” so that, like not wanting another bite of turkey on Thanksgiving afternoon, my appetite is sated?

No, that’s not it either.

Here’s what I found when I probed: being so privileged to hear frequent exhortations to apply the gospel, the term’s meaning has begun to switch from resting fully on the grace of God to something else I have to learn to do better. I need to be a more gospel-driven husband, a more gospel-driven parent, a more gospel-driven neighbor, a more gospel-driven employee and boss. I need to do gospel-driven evangelism, lead gospel-driven small groups, and on and on.

See the irony? My “gospel” to-do list is getting long. So when another book comes out on how to apply the gospel to ___ it taps into guilt-induced discouragement that there’s another area in which I’m not gospel-driven enough.

Oh good grief! Jon, are you really turning the gospel into law? Have you forgotten (again) that the gospel is not something you need to do better, but a Person you need to know better — a Person whose grace is completely sufficient for you (2 Corinthians 12:9)?

When I saw this, the first book I reached for was God Is the Gospel. It’s far and away my favorite extra-biblical book on the gospel because it reminds me what the very core of it is. The best news in the universe for failing sinners like me is that “Christ… suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God” (1 Peter 3:18). Because of Jesus, I get God in all his fullness forever! The best gift of the cross is not forgiveness, but God. And God is not something to do better; he’s someone who promises to provide all I need “according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:19).

I share this with you because we all forget the gospel in different ways, and God is the Gospel is such a cool, refreshing glass of grace-water. In fact, we want churches and groups and schools to be able to get it cheap so they can give it to their folks. If you’re interested, click here to purchase cases (64 copies) for $129 ($2 ea.).

If you’re feeling “gospel fatigue,” it means the gospel is ceasing to mean the gospel. I highly recommend this book as an antidote.

How the Battle Against Evil Is Transformed

Joy changes everything, including our battle against evil.

Christian Hedonism changes our combat with evil. Jeremiah 2:13 — the Christian Hedonist definition of evil — "for my people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water."

What's evil? The suicidal preference of empty wells over the river of delights flowing from heaven. That's evil!

So the battle against evil is not to constantly say "No, no, no. Bad, bad, bad." There's no power in that. The power of the flesh is coming at you, the power of the devil is coming at you, and you're going to [muster] up your willpower and make that the victory? You're not. You're not.

One thing will give you the victory: Faith is the victory that overcomes the world. And faith is a being satisfied in all that God is for us in Jesus Christ. You've got to stoke that engine every morning so that the evils that are clawing at you lose its fangs. You can't have me, I've seen Jesus this morning. Lust, you can't have me. Greed, you can't have me. Fear of man, you can't have me. Bitterness and anger, you can't have me. I've seen Jesus this morning.

The battle against evil is totally transformed by Christian Hedonism.

How to Share a Believable Gospel

When the gospel is communicated in preachy, impersonal, intolerant, know-it-all ways, people find it hard to believe. Typically, this style of evangelism is reduced to information. We content ourselves with “name-dropping” Jesus or telling people doctrine, but rarely do we draw near enough to people to know how the gospel applies to their actual lives. People want to know why the gospel is worth believing. In the information age, people are used to seeing through words. Most evangelism offers a sound bite gospel, which is easily screened, distrusted, and dismissed. In order for people to see something of substance in our words, our gospel communication needs depth.

When I met Ben I was immediately confronted with the need for depth. Ben had been through hell and back as an addict and he was worn out, at the end of his rope, and ready for a new start. Name-dropping Jesus wouldn’t cut it. First, he needed to see and feel the gospel. I desperately wanted to embody the love of Christ and I prayed he would feel and see it. Instead of correcting his life choices, I needed to understand his choices.

Sitting at rehab with him, I asked him questions: “What was your childhood like? When the church rejected you, did you experience rejection from your parents also? How did that make you feel? What was your drug community like? What were you looking for in this journey?” I asked these questions because I cared for Ben. This wasn’t an evangelistic formula; it was a budding relationship with a man in the image of God. He was an addict who was struggling to make sense of his life. I expressed empathy, concern, and compassion. He shared that he was adopted by good parents but struggled with a sense of loneliness and rejection. He began using drugs at age nine. Eventually we got down to the heart of the matter. “Ben, what have you been searching for?” He talked about loneliness and disappointment. I asked him how he thought God could figure into his longings. He wasn’t sure.

There was a strong sense that he was tired of the old life. He wanted to escape the broken, cemetery life. He wanted a new start. He wanted to know that a brighter future was possible. I thought: “What gospel metaphor is most appropriate for Ben’s current challenges?” Ben wasn’t yearning for justification by faith but he was dying to hear the gospel of new creation. Discerning some of his longings, I knew the promise of new creation could make the gospel a little more believable. He needed to know that there was a grace that could run deeper than all his failures and remake him from the inside out.

Understandably, a cloud of skepticism still hung over him. At the risk of rejection, I told him something like: “Ben, I know you’re tired and worn out. I know this isn’t what you hoped for your life and I want you to know that God loves you. He wants to make you new. He wants to exile the old life and give you a new life in Jesus. Jesus died to give you this life, to forgive you and shower you with his grace. He wants you to come back home to enjoy his love, acceptance and peace. Instead of trusting in the escape of drugs and the fleeting acceptance of a drug community, he wants you to trust in Christ to become a new creation, to be remade from the inside out.”

He needed to know that his old man could be exiled and a new man could emerge (1 Corinthians 5:17–18; cf. Colossians 3:9–10; Ephesians 4:20–24; Galatians 6:15). If nothing else, I knew the hope of new creation would be desirable and, most of all, I knew it was true. We talked about his struggle to believe it, to believe in God and to trust the person of Christ. I asked if he would be willing to talk to God about it. He said yes. We got him a Bible and prayed.

A shallow gospel wouldn’t cut it with Ben, not with what he’d been through. His addiction ran deep and he needed a deep gospel. Hearing the information of Jesus’s death on the cross would be screened and dismissed. He needed to know how Jesus’s life and death is good news in his life. He needed a believable gospel.

Two years later, Ben stood up in one of our Sunday church gatherings. Healthy, calm, and composed, he kicked the doors off of his private struggles and shared the story of his addiction and recovery. You could hear a pin drop. When asked, “How has God’s grace been generous to you?” Ben responded: “Just being able to start new.” New creation! For Ben, God’s grace equals being new, liberated from the old life to experience an entirely new life in Christ. The old man exiled; the new man arrived! Belief in the gospel of new creation has made Ben new. The hope of new creation resonated with his longings; it pulled him towards Jesus.

There are struggles and hopes, fears and dreams that sit on the surface of people’s stories. If we listen well, with dependence on the Holy Spirit, we can discern which gospel metaphors people need to hear most. We can communicate a believable gospel. Using the gospel for how we share the gospel, we commend five ways forward for believable evangelism:

To those searching for acceptance in all the wrong places, we can point them to perfect acceptance in the gospel of justification. To those searching for fulfilling relationships, we can point them to profound, personal union with Christ. To those who struggle with tolerance, we can show them the uniqueness of Christ in the gospel of redemption. To those who fear disapproval or demand the applause of others, we can share the gospel of adoption, which offers an enduring approval and produces humble confidence. To anyone longing for a new start, there is the hope of new creation.

People need to know how the gospel is good news to them. Will you continue to recite canned presentations and avoid listening? Or will you love people enough to offer them a believable gospel?

I Am Going to Vote

Having read several articles by people who don’t plan to vote in the presidential election, my conclusion is: I’m going to vote.

It seems to me that the good that can be done, presumably by the protest of not voting, is mainly done by talking about not voting rather than by not voting. Then it also seems that this same good would be accomplished if those who thought they would not vote did all that talking, but then voted.

This wouldn’t be duplicitous if the main point of the talk is not mainly, “I am not going to vote,” but is mainly that the system or the parties or the platforms or the candidates or the views are so flawed. So why not let the blogs roll down like rivers against the defects of it all, and then take a few minutes to vote anyway? Do the right talking and the risky walking.

Here's my reasoning. Barring catastrophe, Obama or Romney will be president (yes, I know you may see it as a catastrophe even if either does get elected). The likelihood that both presidencies will be identical in the good and evil they do is infinitesimal. One will very probably do more good amid the bad, even if only a little.

We can be part of that guess, or sit it out. God promises wisdom to those who seek it. So the likelihood that prayed-up, Bible-shaped Christians will tip the scales toward the incrementally worse regime is small. Therefore, the likelihood that we will waste our time voting seems small.

Not a very inspiring rationale. I just find it compelling in a fallen world that is not my home.

So my suggestion to all who wonder if they should vote is: Tell as many people as you can the good reasons why you are disaffected with the whole thing; then go to the polls and take a burden-bearing, pro-active risk rather than staying home and taking a burden-dropping, reactive risk.

Related resources from John Piper:

If Your Church Is Not All You Want It to Be

Chances are your church gathering isn't all you want it to be. . . This or that should be different, so and so should talk less, he and she should be on time — and why can't we just get some better aesthetics in here?

Actually, though, this mode of critcism says more about our hearts than it does our local church. Perhaps we've forgotten what the church is. Perhaps we've mistaken it to be just another social club. Or maybe we've confused this gathering to be just another event on the calendar. Or, quite possibly, we've assumed the worship of the Triune God is supposed to meet our consumer wants rather than our greatest needs.

Let Dietrich Bonhoeffer have a word:

If we do not give thanks daily for the Christian fellowship in which we have been placed, even where there is no great experience, no discoverable riches, but much weakness, small faith, and difficulty; if on the contrary, we only keep complaining to God that everything is so paltry and petty, so far from what we expected, then we hinder God from letting our fellowship grow according to the measure and riches which are there for us all in Jesus Christ.

This applies in a special way to the complaints often heard from pastors and zealous members about their congregations. A pastor should never complain about his congregation, certainly never to other people, but also not to God. A congregation has not been entrusted to him in order that he should become its accuser before God and men.

. . . let [the pastor or zealous member] nevertheless guard against ever becoming an accuser of the congregation before God. Let him rather accuse himself for his unbelief. Let him pray God for an understanding of his own failure and his particular sin, and pray that he may not wrong his brethren. Let him, in the consciousness of his own guilt, make intercession for his brethren. Let him do what he is committed to do, and thank God.

Life Together, trans. John W. Doberstein, (New York: HarperOne, 1954), 29, paragraphing mine.

Jesus Gives Us Reasons to Obey

It’s puzzling. When I speak on living by faith I often ask, "How many of you know that Jesus calls us to love our enemies?" Everyone nods and says they know this.

Then I ask, "How many of you know the reason Jesus gives for why we should love our enemies?" Almost always the response is the same — very few know the reason.

Why don’t we know the reason?

Are we so good at loving our enemies that we don’t need Jesus’ reason? Um — no. I’m not so good at loving my enemies. And I’m pretty sure we all need help in this. And yet we remember only the command — but not the reason Jesus gives to help us obey the command.

What is the reason?

Here’s what Jesus taught in Luke 6:35, "But love your enemies, and do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return, and your reward will be great." Jesus motivates our love for enemies with the promise of reward — more of his heart-satisfying presence.

Here’s how this works: When we know that Christ has secured for us the joy of his presence forever — and that loving our enemies will bring us even more of that joy — we will be freed and motivated to love our enemies. So — if we aren’t very good at loving our enemies — and this reason would help us love our enemies — why don’t we remember the reason? It’s strange.

Imagine someone said “Walk three miles down to the Bank — and you will receive three billion dollars.” Notice there’s a command — and there’s a reason to help you obey the command. So, while you are walking to the Bank, is it possible you might forget the reason? Not a chance.

And yet — when Jesus urges us to love our enemies because of a reward infinitely better than three billion dollars — we remember the command but can’t think of the reason. [Stunned silence.]

Can you feel how wrong that is? So why do we do that? Here are my thoughts:

If this is what we’ve heard then we’ll assume rewards aren’t supposed to motivate us or that they are not very important, and we’ll forget them.

But over and over again God does motivate us with promises of reward. So they must be important.

See, gratitude does not replace reward. Gratitude reminds us of God’s past faithfulness so we trust his promise of future reward. So nurture gratitude and be motivated by God’s promise of reward.

This shows a misunderstanding of rewards. Biblical rewards are not something apart from God. Every reward involves more of God.

Like Matthew 5:8, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."

So God is enough motivation — he is the reward.

It’s tragic that people obey God in order to get health or wealth. But that’s not how Jesus motivates us. Jesus motivates us with the promise of himself — like in John 14:23, "If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him."

Why keep Jesus’s word? Because if I do, I will experience more of the Father and Son’s all-satisfying presence. So the alternative to the health-and-wealth gospel is not don’t pursue rewards. It is pursue God as your reward.

What do we do when we struggle to love our enemies?

What Jesus wants us to do is open our Bibles, find the reasons he gives to empower love for enemies, and pray over those reasons until the Holy Spirit changes our hearts.

But too often that’s not what we do. Too often we just rely on our own will-power, grit our teeth, and try harder. Which shows that we think we have the will-power to obey Jesus. But we don’t. Which is why he gives reasons which the Spirit will use to empower obedience.

Three miles is a long walk. I’m getting tired. I’m not sure I want to do this. I’d rather turn left and head to the beach.

Wait. 

What reason did he give me for walking to the Bank?  Oh, that’s right. There’s three billion dollars waiting for me!

Suddenly I’m no longer tired. I want to get to the Bank. Forget the beach.

That’s how reasons help us obey.

So learn the reasons in Scripture — and use the reasons in Scripture.

See you at the Bank.