You may or may not have noticed that my posts dropped off suddenly in December. That’s not terribly unlike me, but this time the reason wasn’t getting distracted by other work. I found myself writing a post here that probably should have been on my “regular” blog. Then I realized that I really had no reason to have two blogs anymore.

I originally started this blog because I was getting too hung up on looking professional, and I worried that my day-to-day ramblings would undermine that. I came to see that hiding wasn’t a good idea. Now I’m coming to see that I don’t really need a separate space after all.

I still like the name and the logo, so I’m not ready to give up on the site just yet. But you’ll find all my new writing over at joshvajda.net, along with everything I’ve already posted here.

Still wandering,
–Josh

Or “Stand in Wander,” part 2

The heart of theology is God Himself. What we believe about God undergirds everything else, and so what we have in common is that much more crucial, and where we disagree can be that much more divisive. As far as I am aware, I hold a very traditional Christian view of God. But this doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes bump into people who disagree with me.

I believe God is Trinity, one God in three persons. It is difficult to comprehend and difficult to explain to my kids sometimes, but I don’t believe it because it’s convenient. I accept it as the Bible’s testimony about who God is. There is only one God, but the Father, Son, and Spirit are somehow distinct. I take it that any competing view of God in church history is a rationalization, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. The Trinity does not seem to me to be a rationalization; it’s simply affirming what is there in the text on faith.

I think the Trinity is essential, but I don’t get too dogmatic about people accidentally confusing the persons of the Trinity in their prayers, as so often happens. One friend not long ago said, “Heavenly Father, we thank you that you are a risen savior.” Not true. But I know what he meant and I don’t think less of him for it. I suspect God is patient with people who come in humility and love and accidentally blur the details of a mystery.

One of my favorite books about God was in some ways not really a book about God at all. I chose Fools for Christ from a list of options to read and report on in my sanctification course at seminary, and at first I was baffled by what was there. 6 portraits, and not all of people I would normally think of as Christians. But author Jaroslav Pelikan was making a point with each of these about the nature of the traditional philosophical ideals of the True, the Good, and the Beautiful. And as I reflected on the book I came to see his point: for each of these, he demonstrated how we cannot use Truth, for example, to “get to” God. We cannot be good enough or beautiful enough. We cannot access God by these three virtues. But likewise, we do not use God to access these three virtues, as though if we want the Truth, we should pursue God, if we want Beauty, we should pursue God, etc. Why not? Because that would be idolatry, making God a means to getting some greater thing beyond Him. Instead, we approach God by grace for who He is, and in Him is Goodness, in Him is Beauty, in Him is Truth, and so we get these things thrown in, as it were. It did a great job of clarifying for me the doctrines of transcendence, of grace, and of God’s perfection. It gave me a clear vision of how to relate my own quests for truth, goodness, and beauty to Him, and I will be forever grateful.

Returning to the concept of the Trinity, I have never liked the idea of “perichoresis,” but it may be in part my bias against dance. I don’t mean that I think dancing is bad or that I don’t recognize the joy that comes from being moved by the music. It just always seemed like a frivolous image to attach to God’s eternal nature. God is God! He’s not a dance party. Of course, that’s just a metaphor, but metaphors are only good if they help you make a connection, and this one just doesn’t work for me. (For those of you who aren’t familiar, “perichoresis” is the idea that the unity of the three persons is something like a dance in which they are so closely working that they blend into a kind of oneness. This just seems sloppy to me. Perhaps there are better presentations out there than the one I heard.) Instead I prefer language I heard elsewhere, although I no longer remember where: that what one person does, the other persons do in, with, and through Him. This seems more accurate to me, although it probably has its own weaknesses.

One of the key doctrines that is running in the background behind my doctrine of God is the analogical nature of speech about God. I believe that words we attribute to God are not univocal in the sense that words are human conventions based on human experiences, and what God is precedes and transcends those concepts. Nevertheless, God is not wholly different from these things because He uses human words to reveal who He is to us, and since God is truthful and trustworthy, we know that there must be some truth to these words, even if they cannot be understood in basic human ways. So we have the language of analogy, that there is something in common but not precisely the same when we speak of God. God is Father, has something in common with human fathers, but is not a human father. God may be described as having a hand, but we know that what we think of as a hand is something He created, and that He does not have a body, so the word does not precisely mean what it normally means, but it does truthfully communicate something about God. This is primarily because of God’s transcendence.

On this note, one thing that bothers me is the trend in some circles to try and divest God of any masculine connotations. One book I read recently, for example, never called God “Him” but only “Godself.” Blech. I know God transcends human sex categories. He is not male the way we know male. And yet, God chose that word, that set of words (He, Him, His, Father, etc.) to reveal Himself. So it does not seem to me to be more enlightened to exchange them for something that He could have chosen to do but didn’t, out of fear of what the words God chose might do. Better to confront the error than to clear the table and start over.

Another doctrine that has profoundly influenced by theology is the idea that there is no nature apart from grace. (I believe I mentioned something about this in passing in my first entry for this series.) In virtue of God’s omnipresence, in virtue of God’s creating power, and even more so because of His sustaining power which “upholds all things,” I believe there is no such thing as a place on earth where God is not. Everything originates with Him, everything is proximate to His presence, and everything is sustained by Him. Everything is sacred, although it takes effort to properly understand this. God is distinct from Creation; we are not gods, and we are not in God in some pantheistic or panentheistic sense. But there is no neutral space, no place where God is not, nothing irrelevant to spiritual things one way or another.

There is more I could say about the traditional attributes of God, about how He is all-wise and almighty, or about His character and the astounding harmony of mercy and justice perfectly united and expressed in Him, among many other goods that we hold in tension in this world. Again, I think saying “I hold traditional views” pretty much addresses things. I have no hesitation about saying God is love, or seeing love as the defining characteristic of God (if we should be forced to choose one). Why? Not only because the Bible says “God is love,” but this is the core characteristic of our discipleship as well. If Paul can say “love is the fulfillment of the Law,” and Christi Himself can say that the two greatest commandments are to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength,” and “love your neighbor as yourself,” then it seems to me love is at the heart of all the rest.

And that brings me to where I will end today’s reflections, limited though they are. I am so grateful to have been trained at Dallas Seminary, where more than one professor emphasized the role of Jesus Christ as the fullest revelation of who God is. I understand some traditions try to emphasize God in a more all-encompassing way, or perhaps the Father because He is given priority of place over the Son in His ministry. But I am convinced our best representation of who God is comes through Jesus Christ, the incarnate God. As Dr. Burns said, it is impossible to make too much of Christ. God is Father and Spirit as well, but our access to them comes through the Son.

Note: I promise not to make a habit of wonder/wander puns.

I started this blog as an attempt to free myself to write and build, but apparently the space is not the problem. The problem is me. I have been convicted of late that I have practiced silence for too long. Wisdom suggested it as one conflict after another seemed to indicate peacemaking was in order. There is a fine line between peacemaking and “peace-faking,” as Ken Sande calls it. The past decade has been an increasingly precarious time for relationships, so why make things worse?

Why indeed. Well, as a teacher, you really cannot afford to be silent all the time. You have to pick some fights, even if you’re not a pugilist. I have some fight-picking in my past, and I walked away from that on purpose. But as so often happens in human nature, the same correction that keeps you from driving into oncoming traffic can wind you up in a ditch. We are always correcting. I think, to extend the metaphor, that just as we eventually log enough hours behind the wheel that we don’t notice our own self-correcting actions on the road, one sign of maturity is logging enough hours in self-correction that it becomes second nature, imperceptible.

And some corrections are, no doubt. But occasionally you still need a good conscious jerk of the wheel to avoid a problem.

So in this post, I want to outline some of the convictions that I hinted at in the beginning and take time to flesh them out in the weeks and months ahead. This is not to say I am done wandering. Far from it. I love to learn, and I will always need to be correcting something. And I don’t see myself becoming any more “normal” anytime soon. So the identity holds.

But there is no necessary conflict between the idea of wandering and standing. (Especially when one term is even less literal than the other.) It is not a lack of conviction that drives me to wander, but the convictions themselves that drive me on. For me, to wander is to stand.

But stand in what? What follows are not formal arguments so much as a set of positions related to one another. They represent varying degrees of study and reflection, but of course none are immune from correction where needed. Still, they are worth articulating from time to time if for no other reason than my own growth. Note, too, that this is not an exhaustive list of convictions like a doctrinal statement. This is a subset of views that have taken me in unexpected directions and invited a conflict or two along the way.

Method/Revelation/Bible

I still believe that the Bible is both a divine and human book, authored by men moved by the Holy Spirit such that the words of the text are the very words of God. Contra critical scholarship, I do believe in inerrancy. Historical backgrounds can be helpful for discerning the meaning of the text, but second-guessing the text is of little value. Contra folk spirituality, I do not believe it is a magic book where God gives you a special word through the text. The text is the word. It was written to someone else, but for your benefit.

Because of the Bible’s divine source, it bears God’s authority. To disobey the Bible is to disobey God. To accept the biblical account of something is to accept God’s own account. The Bible is not God, but it is a trustworthy expression of God’s wisdom and will. Contra modern approaches, the text of the Bible cannot be corrected by anyone or anything. This includes the sciences, my reason, and my conscience. Contra some strains of fundamentalism, I recognize my interpretation of the text does need correcting at times and that what seems obvious is not always true.

The scope of the Bible’s content is sufficient for discipleship, and it is clear enough in its essentials that God can hold the reader accountable for understanding and obeying it. No one can plead “you never told me” if it was in the Bible. That being said, spiritual things are spiritually discerned, so some truths will not make sense without the help of the Holy Spirit.

This brings me to one of my most crucial distinctive convictions: if we want more of the Holy Spirit’s help, we find it not by turning inward but turning to the community of faith. It is perhaps common knowledge that we should read the Bible in order to let it form our minds. It is perhaps common knowledge that sin quenches the work of the Spirit, so we strive to walk in obedience in order to receive His help. But many believers learn (because they are so taught) that if we want more than this, we must learn to turn inward and find the voice of the Spirit in our hearts. We must wait as Elijah did for a still, small voice. We must ask for God to guide us as He did the apostles in Acts, who could say “it seemed good to the Spirit” to do thus, and be “led by the Spirit” here or there. We long for that intimate connection with God, and truly Scripture teaches that God Himself indwells those who put their faith in Him.

This can cause Baptist thought to lean in a charismatic direction. We expect God to work immediately, personally, and miraculously, and that when He does it is a sign of our maturity, that we are doing something right. And God can work in those ways, make no mistake. But God also works through things, corporately, and in ordinary ways. He occupies both spaces. And we must recognize that God does miracles not only for the fit but the unfit, the beggars, the outcasts, the weak. I don’t ever mean to find myself telling someone what God cannot do, and so I am not opposed to the way Charismatic Christians characterize the magnitude and frequency of God’s power. My concern is that too often we mistake the source of our certainty, our reason, our conviction, our conscience, our impulses, our motives, etc. We might think that the strength or clarity of those inner thoughts and feelings mean that they come from beyond us. But why?

God can work this way. But I submit that even if you fully embrace the idea that God can speak to you, whether through impulses and feelings or verbal messages within or without, you need the community of the Spirit to verify and clarify. How much more so for those of us who do not expect such frequent, personal, immediate (that is, unmediated) communication and direction from God?

We dare not turn inward until we have learned from the community of the Spirit. First, because being a Christian means being a part of the church. When we receive the Holy Spirit, we join a pre-existing community of the Spirit. We are united to Christ together. We find our identity not in a label we appropriate but in the real organism united by the Spirit, in the new family created by that second birth and by adoption. Second, because the Spirit has been ministering to this community since the beginning. He is not just your teacher but our teacher, not just your comforter but our comforter, not just your keeper but our keeper. And so if we desire to experience the ministry of the Spirit, why on earth would we ignore the work He has already been doing?! On the contrary, that which is most necessary for faith, He has already supplied to the entire church. Which brings me to my third point: if we are to discern the wisdom of God, we need to consult the record of what He has already provided. Only then can we know how to interpret our inner life.

This is my Baptist apologetic for church history. Too many of us were raised to think church history is merely the record of how humans got in God’s way and spoiled God’s work. This presents far too high a view of man and far too low a view of God. Christ said He would build His church and the gates of hell would not prevail against it. The community of the Spirit was not extinguished when the apostles died, nor when Constantine meddled in the church, nor in the evolution of Roman Catholicism. Pick your favorite corruption narrative. This is not to say we have not been weak or confused or divided at times. Not at all. We do not accept tradition uncritically; I would have to turn in my Baptist card if that were the case. But I need other Spirit-filled Christians to help me discern where I end and where the Holy Spirit begins. And I need Spirit-filled Christians who are not like me to help me look for blind spots. Some of these blind spots are no doubt cultural, but many are the result of the times we live in. We need Spirit-filled Christians from other times to help us discern our modern and postmodern blind spots.

So you can see I’m passionate on that point.

Apparently this will have to be a series because I haven’t made it very far through the traditional theological categories. Let me at least try to round out the list of distinctive convictions regarding Scripture, revelation, and method.

The Bible is not the sole source of truth. God’s works reveal who He is, especially the divine image in women and men. God’s wisdom and order precedes and arranges our reasoning. God’s goodness and holiness precedes and arranges our conscience. There is no space in all of creation where God does not exist, and it is all upheld and sustained by Him. Therefore, everything that exists is both relevant to our pursuit of God and not rightly understood until it is related to God. The supreme expression of God is in Jesus Christ. With Christ as the interpretive center of the Bible, the Bible the interpretive center of tradition, tradition the interpretive center of reason and intuition, all of these together form an interpretive framework for everything that exists.

Interpretation is far too complex to get into in any detail here, but in short, I would call interpretation a judgment of the meaning of things, a dynamic response to what is in the thing based on what is in us. Good interpretation arises from informing our judgments with the right values in the right proportions. This partly happens as part of life, a kind of literacy of basic functioning in the world. It partly happens as we are taught to read, gaining textual literacy in our language. But it is completed by discipleship, learning to value what God values, to judge by what He has revealed, and to make connections accordingly. We receive the text, and it acts on us, but we receive it best when we are prepared, and the spiritually mature believer reacts with increasing fidelity.

I have dropped a few hints about reason along the way. I shall leave that as-is for now.

In his systematic theology, Pannenberg provides something of a history of prolegomena, the growing need to say something before we get into the traditional doctrines of the church, the substance of which might follow that of the Apostle’s Creed. It grew corresponding to the need to gain a hearing, to remove obstacles that would prevent one from accepting what follows. I have felt that need acutely throughout my life. But you will see from my discussion above that I cannot conceive of prolegomena as a word before doctrine. It is a set of convictions that arises with doctrine and from doctrine. You will not get very far before you have to confront the nature of God, the nature of man, and the interactions between them. You have to know that we as a race were limited before we became sinful, and now we are both. Our hope for truth comes from the work God has done to reveal Himself, heal us, and teach us. So our convictions must arise from a complete picture of doctrine: the work of the Son and the Spirit, the effects of the Fall and the work of salvation, the process of salvation in the context of the church, and the telos found amid last things.

I have by no means exhausted either prolegomena or the relevant convictions from other doctrines. Even so, perhaps I have said too much for one post. I can always flesh out and nuance and separate later. Today it is enough to stand.

I’ve been teaching off and on for nearly 20 years now, which is such an odd thought to me. It makes me sound old. Even though I can look back fondly on a great many of the lessons and series I’ve taught, I still have times where things don’t go as planned. My most recent church series was one of them. And as one of my seminary profs liked to say, it’s not experience that matters, it’s evaluated experience that really counts. So I’d like to share with you what I learned in my most recent experience.

The Setup

The subject of study was modern identity. I was excited about the new (2020) Carl Trueman book on the subject, I’d heard enough interviews with him to understand the main ideas, and I felt it was an important contribution to worldview. I enjoy taking things one might consider “out of reach” and packaging them for a lay audience, so I thought I would do that here. I was given three nights of an hour each to make it happen. And with all of my training, I was confident I could pitch the material in the right way.

The venue was Sunday evening church, and I didn’t realize it at first, but this was a fact that deserved a great more thought than I initially put into it. Regardless, I talked over the plan with the pastor and we both felt good about where we were going and why.

Complication 1: Subject Matter

The first mistake I made was suggesting a book I had not yet read. I have sometimes chosen a topic based on things I want to study, and that has always worked for me in the past. So I jumped at the chance to teach on this without giving it much thought. But in hindsight, every time I had done that was in the context of an elective course. The audience was a group who came in already sharing my interest in the subject. A broader audience meant that this approach would turn out to have serious drawbacks. More on that later.

Beyond this, the book left out some things that I thought were absolutely crucial to teaching on the subject. It did an excellent job of detailing the problems, but I wanted to present the solution. This meant I had much, much more research ahead of me than I initially thought. The subject of the book was not the kind of thing one can easily summon in Scripture.

By way of contrast, I once taught on the Bible’s view of homosexuality. While definitely a contentious subject, the question at stake is clear, there are many resources devoted to it on both sides of the issue, and it’s relatively easy to determine which portions of the Bible deal with it. This time, I was teaching on personal identity, which is less clear as a subject, not as well documented, and not as easy to target in Scripture.

It was a fascinating study! I have no regrets about that. But because the topic was tougher and the book I chose was less comprehensive, I set myself up for trouble when it came time to teach.

Complication 2: Audience

The second mistake is one I already alluded to: not putting enough thought into the audience.

I love people. I find that when I’m teaching, my passion for the subject and care for the student help pull things together in the moment, and it’s a glorious feeling. I remember one time where all my preparation had failed me, and I was terrified. After pleading with God, I found myself walking up to a podium with only a vague idea of what to say. And when I looked out at the audience, by God’s grace, something clicked, and everything went the way it should have. It’s a glorious feeling. So I thought that “click” would happen walking into this room, too.

But this was my first time teaching a Sunday evening church session, and it took time to process what that meant.

There are general rules for every format or venue. Sunday morning, I know to preach the Word. In Sunday School, I learned quickly that it’s best to study Scripture and bring in history, philosophy, etc., only when the subject required. In college courses, students are committed to the study because it helps them achieve their goals, so there are already boundaries and expectation to grease the skids. In adult electives, as I said, a common interest brings people together. In a small group, there is typically a commitment to one another that helps focus and drive the lesson.

But what is Sunday evening church? I thought it would be like an adult elective. What was I thinking?! I was totally wrong!

After the second night of class, it finally sank in: these people aren’t united by subject interest or commitment to each other. This is more like Sunday School. They are united by their interest in studying God’s Word together. I should have been preparing and teaching according to Sunday School rules.

Thankfully, the last night of class was already going to be devoted to Scripture, but that meant I had been fighting an uphill battle the first two weeks of the course. What I had to share was good, but because I misjudged the audience, (and self-confidence may have played a part, too), I missed the opportunity to make the most of the time together.

Lessons Learned

So there, I’ve confessed the error of my ways. How can we make it better next time?

1: Know the unwritten rules of your format. While it may seem like teaching is like a sport with its own set of rules, I’m more inclined now to think that teaching is really like “sports” in general. Despite their commonalities, basketball, volleyball, and soccer are different games with different rules, obviously. But less obviously, the same holds true for different venues and audiences. It’s not enough to know the people and care about them. It’s not enough to know “how to teach.” It’s not even enough to know what style best fits your content. You can’t simply get in there and hustle. You need to know which game you’re really playing. Format comes first because reaching the audience is everything.

Sunday evening may be different at your church. Maybe it’s another sermon. Maybe it’s small group time. Maybe it’s adult electives. Make sure to identify which format you’re teaching so that you know which set of norms to adopt. Don’t preach in a small group, don’t unpack Carl Trueman in a sermon, and don’t teach a college course to a Sunday School class.

(Note: actually, I do know what I was thinking. We used to do adult electives in this hour, but because of COVID, we combined the elective courses into one group that takes different courses in sequence. I just didn’t stop to realize this change in format also changed the rules of the game.)

2: Don’t trust the book to tell you what your students need. When designing a course, a program, an organization, a piece of communication—anything—you always want to clarify the win before you formulate strategy. Know where you’re going before trying to plot the course. I thought that a good book from a good writer with good reviews would come with its own “win” that I could deliver to my students. That was a mistake. The objective of the book was to detail a problem. But I would never have let that be the main objective for a church lesson. So what was my objective? I wanted to help students see where they might be captive to worldly thinking, yes, but in order to replace it with biblical thinking. The former served the latter.

By not stopping to note this ahead of time and being brutally realistic about what it would take to fill that gap, I bound myself to spending a far larger percentage of my prep time on research than on constructing a good learning experience. Research is great. Sometimes it takes time, and it’s important not to cut it short. But you need to protect enough time to process and package your research for the audience. And if you have a limited amount of time to offer a teaching project, you need to choose a topic that doesn’t go “over budget” on research.

Conclusion

I’m so grateful for the opportunity to teach, for the students who showed up week after week, and for the power of God’s Word to produce fruit during our time together. Last night was a good night, and I don’t mean to take away from that. I believe God was honored. But if I had it to do over again, I would have approached things very differently from the start. While a do-over is a rare opportunity, you can always stop and reflect and find ways to make the next lesson better, whatever it may be.

Before you plan your next lesson, do me a favor and avoid my mistakes: be sure you know the real format behind the venue and clarify your main objective before you commit to a good book!

Last year was so busy, I confess that I didn’t celebrate holidays all that deeply. This year I’m determined to make more of the time. Today is Good Friday, and while it’s not the first significant day in what some call Holy Week, it is one of the biggest.

Christmas gets more attention because the holiday has come to celebrate much more than Jesus’s birth. Easter isn’t celebrated quite as much these days, but we still have our sanitized festivities to share with our neighbors.

But I’ve never known Good Friday to get much attention outside of Christian circles, and frankly, I’m grateful. There are no gifts today, no candy, no jolly old men or fluffy white bunnies. Just the reality of the execution of Jesus Christ. The images aren’t heartwarming; they repel you.

So why do we “celebrate” Good Friday? And why attach the word “good” to it at all? I’ve been spending the past few months in the book of Genesis, and I want to offer a few reflections based on what I have seen there.

The Creator and the Cross

First of all, we reflect on the death of our very creator. Genesis teaches us that in the beginning God made the heavens and the earth, and often throughout Scripture this is how God reveals Himself to people who don’t have a personal relationship with Him. We all have a relationship with Him because He is our maker. In the New Testament, we see that Jesus Christ Himself was involved in creation. John says that “without Him, nothing was made,” and Paul says in his letter to the Colossians that all things were made by Him and for Him.

Could the creation kill the Creator? It’s part of the modern fantasy. Didn’t Frankenstein’s monster kill him, and wasn’t the maker’s hubris to blame? Nietzsche’s madman proclaimed the death of God as an enduring fact: must we not become gods ourselves to be worthy of the act? In the ancient world, Oedipus killed his father, but it was an accident.

As the early Christian writer, Melito of Sardis, powerfully wrote: “the One who hung the earth is hanging.”

Creation was a series of acts full of wisdom and power. God orders, fills, distinguishes, and names. He also blesses and makes one thing for another, as a gift. He needs nothing. All He must do is will it. When He speaks, the universe makes it so.

If the Creator is on the cross, something is terribly, terribly wrong. The very source of life met death. In that moment, the sky mourned and the earth shuddered when it should have unraveled. Adam had no father but God; he was called God’s son. There on the cross, the soldier noted in awe: surely He was the Son of God.

The Fall and the Raising Up

Adam and Eve were infamously deceived by a serpent, who we later find out was under the control of the Accuser who leads the rebellion against God the maker. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil was forbidden, but they ate from it. The unlawful eating of the fruit of that tree brought them sin, and sin introduced them to death. Disobedience brought a curse. All of creation was marred from then on.

The tree of life, which was originally theirs to eat, now became the forbidden tree, its fruit unavailable because it would permit them to live forever despite the evil now in their hearts. Death had come to man made in God’s image.

On Good Friday, God Himself was raised on a tree. This tree would bring God death, although not because He did anything unlawful. Christ was purportedly crucified for calling Himself God, an act of blasphemy on the lips of mere man. And yet if He was God, there was no crime. God was nailed to a tree not for His crimes but as a result of man’s. It was said “cursed is any man who hangs on a tree.” He hanged there. He became accursed.

The maker, our living tree of life, met His death on the tree that knew both good and evil. Man was still deceived, but Christ knew what He was doing. “Father, forgive them,” he said while dying, “they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Adam and Eve were naked, ashamed, and afraid, and God Himself met them and clothed them. Christ, with nothing to be ashamed of, was stripped bare. Man, who deserved and feared God’s contempt found care. Christ was reviled and mocked for nothing.

The Fall in the garden meant that sin was now in the world, and the wages of sin is death. But on Good Friday, a man without sin died. What could this mean?

Blood and Witness

Jesus was not the first innocent man to die. In fact, the very first death was not a punishment for sin but a wrongful death at the hands of a sinner. Abel was killed because he did what was right, and his brother took his anger out on him. God said that his innocent blood was crying out from the ground, that the earth that swallowed his blood would be cursed for the man who shed it.

On Good Friday, the ground opened its mouth to received the Creator’s blood. But Hebrews 12 tells us this blood speaks a better word. A better word? How can it be that divine blood shed by guilty hands could speak anything but condemnation when the innocent blood of mere man cried out to God from the ground?

The first innocent human blood received by the earth brought a curse, but the Creator’s innocent blood brought healing. Abel’s murderer, despite his sin, received a gracious mark to protect him from vengeance. Jesus’s murderers, while no less guilty, had no fear of God’s vengeance because this death would not need to be avenged. This life and this blood would bring reconciliation. And Paul saw that if Christ’s death meant reconciliation for His enemies, even greater things would be possible if somehow Christ’s death could be undone.

Putting an End to Sin

“In the day that you eat of it, you will surely die.” Sometimes I have been puzzled that Adam and Eve did not drop dead right there in the Garden. God chose to be patient with sinners, but God’s patience in and of itself does not deal with sin. We would have to wait for the Flood to see that.

In the Flood, the world was cleansed of sinners. In the Flood, the wages of sin were meted out to everyone with the exception of one extended family. The world was baptized and the wicked were washed away. This is justice. It is not pretty, but God only does what is right. As Abraham said, “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?” He was pleading for Sodom, and God said that for the sake of 10 He would not wipe away the just with the wicked. In the Flood, the Judge of all the earth did what was right.

On the Cross, Jesus demonstrated a radically different way of dealing with sin. Instead of cleansing sin by executing the sinners, cleansing would come by executing the sinless. The just punishment of the world would not be borne by the world this time. God would accomplish justice by making recompense Himself. The baptism of the world in flood would be replaced by the baptism of the believer, plunging under the water not to stay and in staying die, but only momentarily, to be baptized into the likeness of the death of Christ, putting to death not the man, but only the sinful version of that man.

The Giving of the Son

In the cross, God followed through on the unfathomable request He used to test Abraham. Abraham, after waiting decades for a son that his wife physically could not produce, found himself the father of a miracle child. And when that child had grown, God commanded Abraham to make him a sacrificial offering.

Abraham’s response confounds human wisdom. It has captivated philosophers. When his God demanded a child sacrifice, he obeyed. He trusted God. God had provided the child, and the author of Hebrews tells us that Abraham believed the same God who once brought life where it could not be would do it again.

God stopped that sacrifice. Abraham did not have to give his son for God. He was tested and passed the test. God provided another sacrifice so the boy could live. But on Good Friday, the Father offered the Son. Just as Isaac was spared because of the ram, we were spared because of the one John the Baptist called the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.

We don’t know when Isaac put two and two together. But I have to believe that he was alarmed when his father began to bind him. To some degree, he must have chosen to submit and trust. He didn’t run away from his 100+ year-old father. Even more so, Jesus submitted to the Father’s will, going willingly to the cross to become the sacrifice.

The foreign gods of Abrahams neighbors would have delighted in child sacrifices, but the Maker and Judge does not. Christ was a man. He was fully invested in this plan, even though it overwhelmed Him in His humanity.

Jesus was tempted in the desert by the Accuser after His baptism, but it was in the Garden of Gethsemane and the road to the cross that He was tested by the Father. Just as Abraham was faithful in providing the sacrifice, Jesus passed the test. He was faithful. At the cross we see Jesus’s character on display; we learn what He was made of. Now we know who He really is. He is the kind of man who lays aside His power for the weak, submitting to punishment at the hands of unworthy men, and forgives them even as they mock Him. An exceptional man may be resigned to his fate, but who could bind the power that made the universe for the sake of his enemies?

Wrestling with God and Man

Isaac’s son Jacob lived away from his family for decades, and he was afraid of reuniting with his brother after the mess he had made of that relationship. He had used deception to gain power and sacrificed relationships in the process.

He cried out to God, claiming the promises God had given him, and soon found himself wrestling with a man. He was a match for this man. And yet, soon it is revealed that this man is not just a man; somehow this man is also God. In this startling moment, God confirms that He can take on human flesh, and that when He does, He limits Himself accordingly. Jacob wrestled with the God-man and somehow won.

Who wins against God? Only the one God lets win. The same God who took on human flesh, weak enough to be beaten by Jacob, would take on human flesh in a new way by actually being born as a man. He would grow up to wrestle with the descendants of Jacob, and He would let them win. Jacob demanded a blessing; Jerusalem demanded Barabbas. But in letting Himself be defeated, Christ would offer up a greater blessing.

What God Has Done

This is not an exhaustive list; there are surely more connections to be mentioned. But for now, I will close with Joseph. He is a classic type of Christ, the servant unjustly punished who ends up saving his people. But the story of Joseph teaches us something about God that may not have been obvious at first.

Joseph was going to be killed by his brothers out of jealousy. (Jealousy was a motive of those who sought to kill Jesus, too.) At the last minute they chose to sell him for money instead. (Judas profited off of handing over Christ.) Joseph had sterling character and patiently submitted to the authorities around him.

And while the whole book of Genesis is rich with incredible stories and gripping moments, Joseph’s story has always been a page-turner for me. His rise to power, yes, but his dealings with his brothers even more so. How he chooses to deal with them and how they struggle to respond is so compelling. They betrayed him. And he forgave them.

The climax comes with new theological insight: what you meant for evil, God used for good. God’s power is unmatched. Not only can He work miracles, but He can even work through people who are opposed to Him. They cannot thwart His will.

As we see Christ on the cross, some accuse the Jews of crucifying Him. Some accuse the Romans. Doubtless there are other conspiracy theories out there. But no matter who was complicit—Jews and Gentiles—what they intended for evil, God used for good.

In fact, Joseph interprets his case even more strongly: “And God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God.”

Did God kill Jesus. No, of course not. And yet, what man intended for evil, God orchestrated for good. It was not man who sent Christ to the cross, but God.

Conclusion

If we’re not careful, we can stare at the cross all year long and forget what it means. It was the death of God, and it would be resolved on the third day, and it paid for your sins. And that is beautiful. But the death of God is no small thing. Neither is the redemption of the whole human race.

I hope these reflections have helped refresh you on the wonder of Good Friday. The betrayal, torture, and death, as dark as they are, contain something praiseworthy without parallel.

It is indeed a good, good day. Thank you, Jesus.

I have a confession to make: I have never read the Bible in a year. And I know it sounds wrong, but I don’t plan to do it this year, either.

The Bible in a year. It’s a popular New Year’s resolution, and I think I may have tried to do it once back in college. The thing of it is, I just don’t want to rush. Is that bad? There are some books worth speed reading, and for me, this is not one of them. Maybe if I read it through more often, I could read it faster without missing something. But as it stands now, this is an ideal that just doesn’t fit for me.

Of course, “Bible-in-a-year” isn’t the only model out there. I had a youth pastor who told us that you should read the Bible until you see something interesting, and then stop. His example was Genesis 1:1, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” Stop. Done for the day. Meditate on that and pick it up again tomorrow.

At that rate, I was sure I would reach Revelation by retirement.

Contrast this with one of my seminary professors, who insisted that each book of the Bible ought to be read in one sitting so that you see the big picture for each book. In his program, you would read all 50 chapters of Genesis today. And tomorrow, presumably, you would read all of Exodus. Is it hard? No. You’re just undisciplined.

When I’m teaching, I do try to get a sense of the whole book, but as part of daily devotions? That seems extreme.

Read it all in a year. Read a verse a day. Read a book a day. Who is right? How should I be reading my Bible?

Why Do We Read?

For me, there’s no point in trying to answer that question until I know what the purpose of Bible reading is. Once I know the purpose, I’ll have a better sense of which strategy is best. But before I go there (that is, to reason out the right answer), let’s stop and ask if God says anything about Bible reading.

Without doing an exhaustive search, I know for sure that there are many references to meditating on God’s Word day and night. I can’t think of a quantity statement anywhere in terms of how much ground to cover. Instead, what is clear is how much of me it should cover. In other words, the quantity to measure is my time and not chapter/verse/book.

I know that the Bible is useful for many things (teaching, correcting, training in righteousness, etc.). It’s full of wisdom and examples. So if I want to do any of those things, I should turn to the Word.

So we have two clues: meditate on it day and night, and know that it is useful for teaching and training. I believe God’s purpose for my Bible reading is to renew my mind by meditating on the truth. It’s a way of listening to God, and by listening I will find myself taught, rebuked, corrected, and in training.

What is clear is how much of me it should cover.

I’ve had seminars where I had to read a textbook a week in class. They were a stretch to say the least. But I don’t know that the value of reading the whole text was quite as important as the amount of time put into it. These were secular authors, so there was no point in relishing the language; our mission was to identify the central claims, trace the arguments and supporting evidence, and dig through the author’s background to become aware of agendas or biases. This kind of reading is right for a seminar, but it’s not the way I want to approach Scripture. I’m not evaluating and using the Bible as a tool for my purposes. I am coming to be evaluated and to let it reform my purposes.

So when I read, I have two goals: first, I want to renew my mind with the words and works of God. I want to meditate on who He is, what He has done, and His telling of the story. I want to know what He finds important. I want to know what frames I should use for interacting with the world and understanding my place it in. And second, in renewing my mind, I want to draw strength in my relationship with God. This is, to me, an important part of abiding in Christ. By renewing my mind, I’m hoping not just to gain a better sense of the world and better habits for acting in it; I want to hear God’s voice and enjoy close fellowship with the Triune God.

How Much Should We Read?

So if I’m right about the purpose, which mode seems best? Well, for me, I usually read a chapter a day, or more if there is a larger story being told. I just finished reading Genesis, and stories like the Flood or Joseph in Egypt simply demand to be read in one sitting. It makes most sense for me to read it at the story level, for the most part. These stories captivate, inform, and renew. The reading doesn’t exactly dominate my day, but what I read does have a better chance of sticking with me.

Do I miss things that the book-a-day or inspiration-a-day approach would uncover? Yes, I’m sure I do. You will always miss something when you read. That’s why you don’t read anything important just once. I’m at peace with not getting everything; my goal isn’t to get everything. My goal is to listen, submit, and be changed, and God can accomplish that quite easily even at a chapter a day.

Now, I must admit I often miss a few days here or there. I’m ok with that. While I am missing out, the quality aspect is more important to me than checking a daily box. I need it every day, I’m sure of that. But I don’t like cramming. Again, the goal isn’t rush to the end and say I did it. But don’t misunderstand; this isn’t about waiting until I “feel like it.” Practices often drive feelings, and so often the days I don’t feel like it are the days I need it most. Skipping is not about my mood, it’s about my schedule; some days it just doesn’t fit. This is almost certainly a result of poor planning on my part. As long as I am still living and thinking out of what I read the day before, that’s good enough for me.

So how long does it take me to get through the Bible? Well, the last time took far longer than it should have. I lost my way. I got discouraged at points. I read other “good things” and spent lots of time reading other Scriptures here and there. I don’t know that this is bad in and of itself. But what I missed out on by pausing my daily studies was moving away from the passages I gravitate toward and listening to passages that I overlook.

What’s more, long gaps like this make it harder for me to remember what I read two books ago and how it’s relevant to this other book here. Making the different books of the Bible talk to each other is, I think, a crucial mark of maturity. It means you’re not simply reading and moving on; you’re wrestling with what God is saying.

Of course, a huge part of reading is context. Some say it’s everything. There is always a context. If I read just one verse each day, my context for reading is almost certainly the rest of my experiences that day. I’m using my life (and the few verses I remember from previous weeks) as the frame of reference to process this verse. If that’s true, it’s a profound weakness of that method. If I read a book a day, the context for anything I read is book itself, which is absolutely right. That’s the context you want! The more you can swim in the context of the whole Word of God, the more you are reading the Bible in its proper context, because Scripture interprets Scripture. It should guide your focus and choices. So long gaps are bad, especially if you’re doing the pace I tend to pursue.

Trying New Things

Last year I finished a cycle of reading through the Bible, and I took a break for a few months, reading here and there as my interests dictated. This year I’m starting a new cycle. I need it. I want it. I’m excited to have the time to really enjoy it.

But this time around I’m also trying to share what I’m learning, and that makes it more complicated. I have not been blogging my reflections on each chapter; this is partly because I don’t want to make Bible reading a means to some artificial end, and partly because I don’t want to make it such a burden than I’m tempted to skip more often.

So I finished reading Genesis and what I am doing is looking for themes. What does God emphasize? I want to write about that. I have my own list of questions, but then questions I wasn’t asking start emerging and they intrigue me. I’m not done chewing on Genesis enough to share what I’ve found. But I also don’t want to move on and lose it. But I also don’t want to stop. So what do I do?!

This year I’m trying something new. I read through the book once, and now I’m reading through it again. The first time, I brought my black pen and made all kinds of general marks and notes. What jumps out? What surprises me? What seems deeply meaningful? Where do I see connections elsewhere? This second time, I grabbed a blue pen, and I’m reading with an agenda: I want to see exactly where God is. And I’m asking three questions: what names of God are being used, what is God doing, and what is God saying.

Since I just read these stories, I’m reading a bit faster this time. And because I’m reading with an agenda, new things are jumping out at me. I’m thoroughly enjoying it, and I think it adds a crucial layer to whatever I would have said about Genesis anyway.

When I’m done with this pass, I plan to choose another pen, another agenda, and read with that in mind, too. As much as possible, I’m trying to let the Bible tell me what my agenda should be. (Did you know God is mentioned over 30 times in Genesis 1? That helped inspire my “first agenda.”)

Yes, it means I have to wait on Exodus and the rest. (I may come to regret that.) There’s always a tradeoff. But this is helping me to meditate on God’s Word, which, again, is the goal. And I hope very soon to have some interesting studies to share.

This past weekend I had the privilege of preaching, and I felt led to preach on a topic that God was working on in my own life: anger.

I’m used to being pretty transparent with my flaws, but this is one I actually feel pretty self-conscious about. Feeling “irritated” or “impatient” is a more polite way to describe it. We can all relate to that. That’s still respectable. But if someone says they have an anger problem, something immediately feels unsafe. We instinctively associate it with violence.

I don’t think of myself as a violent person, but when anger starts affecting your actions, that’s the general direction, isn’t it? It’s a humbling thing to admit.

I’ve known I’ve wrestled with anger in my heart since I was young. I remember feeling convicted about having a temper as a kid, even though I was a generally joyful person. I went through a phase where the anger died down on the outside, but I was depressed on the inside. They say depression is anger turned inward, and I think there may be something to that.

After that depressed phase was over, I noticed the anger slowly starting to come back. As I reflect on it now, it typically came from one of two places: either 1) you’re getting in my way and I’m frustrated, or 2) you’re doing it wrong and I’m judging you.

None of this is good, of course. It may be the shadow side of a good desire, but there’s nothing good about it. It’s not Christ-honoring. Patience is a fruit of the Spirit. Love, peace, and joy are, too. Setting my sights on something good without producing the fruit of the Spirit is clearly flawed from the outset.

So I’ve known I needed to do something with it for a long time. I always had other priorities, but I have been able to pick up a few insights along the way. I became more aware of passive aggression and anger that I had stuffed down over the years when I should have sought resolution. I learned that I had a tendency to interpret things more negatively than warranted, and to withdraw from conflict instead of working through it. Those were helpful.

In an intro to biblical counseling class I took in seminary, I learned that anger is fundamentally rooted in our sense of justice, and the question to ask when I feel angry is what my expectations are and whether or not they are warranted. This was helpful, too.

I also found I was naturally less prone to anger when I stopped striving for my goals. After I dropped out of my doctoral program, I resolved to simply try to be a man of wisdom and character. Go for quality over a certain outcome. This was a very spiritually healthy period in my life, and it ended when I started setting goals again. Goals have a way of turning some people into obstacles, which is not at all how I want to see them.

So now that I am taking a break from work and trying to build something new, one thing God laid on my heart was to finally address this anger issue.

When I was a young man, I was told either in a sermon or some other context that anger was actually ok. The Bible says “be angry and do not sin,” which means it’s ok to be angry as long as you don’t sin. From that point on, I made no effort to restrain my anger. My only desire was to purify it. Let’s get good at this!

And let me pause again and say that while it may sound as though I’ve been living with this on a daily basis, I don’t. I really am a joyful person, and I would hope that those who know me best could attest to that. I’m describing a tendency to flare up too easily, not a constant burn. I don’t know that that’s actually any better, but it seems better to me somehow. In my mind it’s the difference between being emotionally immature (me) and being dangerous (someone else). But it’s possible that’s just denial.

Now, this desire to purify my anger mixed with the growing awareness I had of its sources and problems led me to a place where I was angry about better things, but not in a better way. What I mean by this is I was getting better at justifying my anger, to myself, to God, and to anyone close enough to know it existed. Because remember, this is mostly in my inner judgments, not the kinds of things that you would notice expressed in the office or at home. I’m not lashing out out there, but I am swift and decisive in my judgments in my heart. And if my judgments are more accurate, that’s the goal, right?

Perhaps at this point you are screaming NO! Perhaps all along this line of thinking has been intuitively uncomfortable to you. Maybe you have a disposition that sees this for what it is. I know some of you don’t. I know some of you can relate. But what comes next is a swift and decisive NO! from the Bible.

I don’t normally preach topical sermons, but I wanted a biblical theology of anger before I chose the passage that I thought would best speak to it. I may share more of the details in the future, and the sermon audio will be available shortly, but for the sake of this post, I will summarize briefly my findings.

1. Anger truly is not bad in and of itself. God is described as angry sometimes. It can indeed be a right response to a wrong in the world.
2. Anger in the hands of mortal man tends toward evil quickly. So quickly, in fact, that the Bible repeatedly says stay away. Don’t be angry. Don’t associate with an angry man. Anger is a work of the flesh. Anger does not accomplish the righteousness of God. Let it be put away from you ASAP. This is the overwhelming majority of the counsel the Bible gives on this subject.
3. God’s advice for how to deal with anger first of all is to ponder in your heart, put your faith in God, and let it go. Whatever injustice you sense is seen by God. He cares. He knows. He is able to make it right, and too good to let it slide. And frankly, He will deal with it much better than you ever could.
4. Ultimately, Jesus commands that we pursue reconciliation. Anger creates/reveals a breach in the relationship, and it should drive us to heal that breach.
5. Man is never commended for fueling anger, holding on to anger, expressing anger, acting in anger, etc.

So my takeaway is this: I am no longer trying to figure out how to justify anger. I don’t want to unlock the secret of righteous anger. I am ready to let it go.

And one reason that’s not so easy is that anger feels powerful. It can be especially intoxicating to someone who is constantly being interrupted and talked over. I’m not an alpha male and I have never desired to be. (I have no shame in saying it even though you may feel bad for me. I’ll save that for another post.) So in a world where people often assume you must be weak, and where following Christ seems to lead toward meekness, humility, service, and other apparently disempowering postures and activities, the thought of righteous anger seems like a way out. It feels like a way to be strong and Christlike at once. It’s a way to justify taking the reins from someone else, a way to justify asserting yourself so that you can make things right. You can have a sidearm holstered while you carry around your towel and basin of water.

Yeah, I’m here to serve. And you’d better not give me any grief about it.

So when I say that I am giving up trying to purify a righteous anger, part of what I mean is that I’m giving up a claim to power. I’m putting an end to that conversation in my heart where I tell myself they are the problem and I am the solution. I may have gotten better at identifying problems over the years, but anger is no part of the solution. And even in typing these words, I become more aware of the arrogance hiding just beneath the surface. Anger hides that. It misdirects attention.

So in letting go of anger, I’m being confronted with new issues like this. Wow, beneath that “righteous” anger was no small trace of self-righteousness. Beneath that “righteous” anger was a numbness to the astounding mercy God has shown me. Beneath that “righteous” anger was a lack of faith and trust in God’s sovereignty. I suspect there’s more to come.

If social media is any indication, there are a lot of angry people out there. And there’s a chance that my words here have offended you. Maybe your anger is better, purer, more justified. Maybe I’ve communicated something that seems dismissive of your real hurts. You have a right to feel angry. I’m not trying to challenge that. But based on what I see in Scripture and what I have experienced in my own life, that right has an expiration date measured in hours and minutes rather than days, months, or years. What you do with your anger is between you and God. But I know what I have to do. And even though I haven’t been on this path long, it already feels so good to walk away from the heat. I never learned how to “be angry” to the glory of God, but I can already see “let it be put away from you” bearing fruit.

In my last post, I described how I ended up prioritizing a doctrinal statement and why I’m beginning with church history rather than Scripture to build one. I want to flesh out these thoughts a bit more.

If the Bible is my authority (which it is), then everything I do should be in submission to that book. I believe it is completely true. Why? For the same reason I believe it’s authoritative: I believe God wrote it. No, I don’t mean God’s disembodied hand appeared and took up a pen. I believe He worked through people to produce His words, faithfully. The ancients had a metaphor that I like: it was like music played by a divine performer on a human instrument. It carries the unique qualities of the human author, but it is controlled by (and its truth is secured by) the divine author.

So if God authored the Bible, what it describes must be true. What it commands must be His command, therefore it must be right. His imperatives are the most important imperatives. What it leaves out, God chose to leave out. What it emphasizes, God chose to emphasize.

In the modern era, we read books in order to take from them or critique them. We sit in judgment on them. We listen for things we like or appreciate or find useful, and we reject whatever seems bad, poor, or untrue. That’s good critical thinking. You must determine for yourself what is true, good, and beautiful and leave the rest.

But if the Bible is God’s book, my relationship with it changes. It’s still very much like any other book in that it has stories, words, characters, themes, etc. But it’s different in that I must not come to judge but to be judged. I come not to take but to be taken. I come not to sift, approve, and condemn, but to be sifted, be approved, be condemned.

So my job when I read the Bible is to read open-handedly. Let the Bible tell me what is true, what is important. Let the Bible tell me what I ought to do. It’s too easy to formulate your plans on your own and then look for vindication or validation from Scripture. That’s not a terrible idea; if you’re testing something to know whether it is worthy, that’s fantastic. It’s when you are looking to justify yourself, to add a little divine endorsement—that’s when you’re using the Bible. I don’t think you ought to “use” God’s Word. It is useful, but it’s not your widget.

Now, if I want to take the Bible seriously (and I do) that means I have to make decisions about what I’m hearing. I have to make decisions like “was that command for them or for everyone?” and “if this verse says x and that verse says y, how do I hold these truths together?” They are not questions that give me power over the text. But they are questions that mobilize my response to the text. That I am in control over. That I must do.

So this means I’m engaged in theology. I take theology to be the next step beyond repetition and affirmation. I’ve been told that theology is any response to revelation, and I’m ok with that definition for the most part, but for my purposes here I want to say that it’s an engaged response. It’s not merely accepting, although that is, indeed, the foundation of a right response. God wants you to accept this map of reality, to obey these commands, to love what He loves, and that requires more than mere affirmation.

So now I’m a Baptist doing theology. Everyone does theology, but paying attention and striving to do it well is more like what we normally think of as theology.

There’s an old saying: “God said it, I believe it, that settles it.” On the face of it, I agree. But too often I have heard this phrase used to undermine theology. As though “God said it” were merely a matter of saying “amen” and everything else works out on its own. God said it, I believe it, therefore I meditate on it. God said it, I believe it, therefore I wrestle with it. God said it, I believe it, therefore I’m trying to change. God said it, I believe it, therefore we have to work this out.

Ok, so hopefully you see that being a good Baptist means doing theology for yourself, that taking the Bible seriously means doing more than simply affirming. So why did I start with historical creeds?

That’s the question I want to pick up next time.

I’m good at overcomplicating things, and part of the reason is I like to leverage actions for multiple outcomes. A sort of economy of intellectual motion. This tends to multiply the variables that affect my decisions, and that in turn requires more recalculating along the way.

Admitting it is supposed to be the first step. I’ll get back to you about the others.

I’ve decided to leave the question about audience for a little while and focus on what’s next for me. I’ll work on myself in public and hope that produces something worth sharing.

My first real moment of clarity on this was during the sermon on Sunday morning, when it dawned on me that the authority of Scripture was a watershed issue for me. I want to talk about it, but before I talk about it, I want to anticipate attacks. I want to defend it. No, I want to convince you it’s true.

That’s a tall order for a blog post or two.

That’s important work, and I look forward to doing it. But I’m putting it on hold as well. What I long to do most is enjoy and explore the theological world that unfolds from a life in submission to the Word.

So with that settled, I found myself today trying yet again to figure out what’s next. How do I prioritize all my ambitious plans?

This gets back to that intellectual economy of motion ideal/problem. I want something I can leverage professionally, in my personal walk, and as a parent. I always have questions I’m wrestling with. How do I prioritize them? What’s more, how do I prioritize them with so few creative restrictions?

I’m a firm believer that what you believe is the most important thing about you, to paraphrase Tom Morris. In my life, at least, I find that what I believe has a powerful impact on my perceptions, actions, and attitudes. Perhaps for some people, doctrines are just trivia, but for me, they are nothing less than the programming language of the mind. Flip this belief switch here and my patterns change there.

So since I’ve been slacking a bit on theology for the past couple of years, I thought the best first project was to revisit my doctrinal statement, identify holes or questions, and create a list of theological projects that I could then schedule out for study and use.

But the method problem always comes up early. You can start doing the work for a while, of course, but before long it will be obvious that you could be doing it a bit better. So at some point you have to stop and think about what you’re trying to do and what the best way is to do it.

In other words, if you want to be thoughtful about your process, you can’t avoid method.

So if I want to evaluate my doctrinal statement, I can open it up and just see how it strikes me. But that seems to me to rely heavily on reason and intuition. I like those. I’m very comfortable with those. At least, I am when they’re mine; yours make me uneasy.

My ideal would be to just read Scripture and let the patterns emerge. Let the Bible tell me what’s most important, then codify that in a way that is most faithful to the text and least contrived and molded by human tendencies. That’s my theological Holy Grail, as it were. It would probably take me a lifetime, but in the end I would be the only one convinced by it. And frankly, it shouldn’t say anything all that different from what’s already out there. So what’s the point? I just want to know whatever I believe is not just true but properly weighted according to Scripture.

So I’m working toward that in my devotions. Note patterns. Note questions. Launch a word study here or there. And I’ll share from that as things really strike me.

But today (and I will end with this) I chose to harvest where others have sewn. I was once at a talk where NT Wright said something to the effect that theology was a matter of picking your favorite verses and building from there. I don’t want to do that. On a more practical note, I once had a friend (who was obviously not raised Baptist) ask why one would want to write a doctrinal statement at all. Why not adopt one of the statements that already exist?

In the spirit of those insights, I started by studying the three “ecumenical” creeds: Apostles, Nicene, and Athanasian. I wanted to see how they compared and what theological categories arose from there. What questions were they asking? This will help me compare what I’m seeing and hearing with what others have valued.

It’s a very modest beginning, I know, but you have to start somewhere.

I’ve been in the church for my whole life, and I’ve been involved in ministry for most of that time. There are many, many questions that interest me, but a few that I keep coming back to time and again. Chief among them are these:

1. What does it mean to live in submission to the Bible, to respect the authority of an ancient text?
2. Why is good Christian leadership so hard to come by, especially in a world saturated with leadership resources?

The first question can lead to an endless set of objections about reason, interpretation, realism, tradition, culture, etc., etc. I have looked into all of these, and while I’m not expert in any one of them, I am confident that the Bible is true, that it bears God’s authority, and that He expects normal people to be able to understand and respond to it.

The second question has occupied more of my time in the years since seminary. It’s easy for me to become overly critical of someone’s doctrine or practice, elevating matters of personal conviction to the level that I’m willing to fight for them, but that’s my problem. God works through all kinds of imperfect people and systems. (There’s hope He may yet even work through me!)

But most of the problems I’ve seen aren’t technical. They are interpersonal. Leaders treat brothers as enemies, hide their plans and maneuver behind the scenes, say one thing and do another, or settle matters by force rather than by principle and persuasion.

I sometimes wonder if fundamentalists (and their children) are worse about this because they tend to value willpower over reason, and strong leaders over godly examples. Maybe everyone feels this pull, I don’t know. And there are a million different ways to fall; no denomination is free of those. But do we create and perpetuate a culture where we distrust others too easily and work around them when we should be addressing conflict directly?

Power is always tempting. Commands are easier than persuasion. Ejection is cleaner than reconciliation. And sometimes a strong hand is necessary. But I see these broken scenarios over and over again.

As a Baptist, I take seriously the need to study the text for myself and respond to it. But teachers are not mere advisors; God has given the church teachers to guide and equip. We must take them seriously. All the same, teachers are themselves accountable to the Word and false teachers are accountable to the congregation. So there is a kind of mutual submission in play. When the desire for control by any party outweighs the desire to submit to Scripture, trouble ensues. When circumstance or status protects someone from being questioned, trouble ensues.

Maybe it’s idealistic, but I believe that people who live in submission to the Bible and are committed to one another should be able to work things out far more often than they do.

Perhaps by properly addressing the first question can we begin to heal the second.