Song for the Christmas season

I don't care for most Christmas songs written during the last century or so, but there are exceptions; this year, we received a copy of Carolyn Arends' Christmas: An Irrational Season, and added a few more to the list. This one's my favorite, I think.

Come and See

Have you heard, have you heard,
All the rumors are true.
Spread the word, spread the word,
This is such good news:
The dream is not a dream anymore;
Nothing is the same as before.

Come and see, come and see,
He is lying in the straw;
He's a new baby boy
Who's the hope of us all.
Come and hear, come and hear—
It's a sound both sweet and strange:
It's the great love of God
In the cry of a babe.
It's the great love of God
In the cry of a babe.

See the star, see the star,
It will light our way;
Hear the song, hear the song,
Hurry to the place,
'Cause if his mama says that it's alright,
We can see the face of God tonight.

Chorus

Seeing is believing, yeah;
Believing is seeing, yeah . . .

Chorus

Words and music: Carolyn Arends
© 2004 Running Arends Music
From the album Christmas: An Irrational Season, by Carolyn Arends

The Great Counter-Attack

Even people who couldn't tell George Santayana from Carlos Santana are familiar with some form of his dictum that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Like most famous comments, it's been overplayed, and many people tend to quote it glibly, without thinking about it; but it's still an important warning of the consequences of failing to understand our history. To this, we might add that those who don't remember the past will have no sense of perspective about the present.

I was reminded of that truth recently in reading the novelist Sandra Dallas' review of the book Verne Sankey: America's First Public Enemy, by South Dakota circuit judge Timothy Bjorkman. As the title indicates, Sankey was the first person ever to be named Public Enemy #1 by the FBI, "because he was the first to realize that in the wake of the Lindbergh baby abduction, kidnapping could be a lucrative gig"; he's little remembered today because he wasn't flashy, while so many of his criminal contemporaries were. As Ms. Dallas writes, "This was the Great Depression, when the rich were held in low esteem and the robbers and others who preyed on them were rock stars, glorified by the press. It was the era of Bonnie and Clyde, Pretty Boy Floyd, John Dillinger and Machine-Gun Kelly." That set me thinking, because there's much complaint in certain quarters about the glorification of street thugs by segments of American culture—which I certainly agree is a bad thing; but it's often joined to the assumption that America is in decline from some past golden age when these things didn't happen, and that just isn't true. One might, I suppose, argue that the thugs some people glorify these days lack the style of past generations of celebrity criminals; but if we're honest, we have to admit they're really very little different.

The reason Santayana's comment is largely correct is that if we don't understand our past, we really can't understand our present, either—which leaves us vulnerable to those who would use a skewed picture of the past against us. Granted, a truly unbiased understanding of history is probably beyond our grasp, but we need to get as close as we can in order to defend ourselves against those who interpret it to serve their own agendas (whatever those might be).

Perhaps the most significant example of this nowadays is in regard to Islam, where the Crusades are often presented as a great crime by Christendom against an unoffending Moslem world, launched for no apparent reason. The truth of the matter is far different. As Hugh Kennedy shows in his book The Great Arab Conquests: How the Spread of Islam Changed the World We Live In, the early 7th century AD saw a new propulsive force break into world history: the conquering armies of Islam. Within the first hundred years, they had spread across most of the Christian world, and as Dr. Philip Jenkins notes in his excellent review in Christianity Today, "Before the Crusades", this "tore Christianity from its roots, cultural, geographical, and linguistic." The Islamic conquests essentially created the Western Christianity we now know, as the church was forcibly disconnected from its Asian heritage and character; and the Muslim armies didn't stop there, occupying most of Spain, invading Italy and the Balkans, and even reaching as far as the gates of Vienna.

However wrong the Crusades went over time (such as the Fourth Crusade, which conquered and sacked not Muslim Jerusalem but Orthodox Constantinople, in whose defense the First Crusade had been launched), they began as a defensive action, a grand counter-attack intended to roll back the Muslim armies before they conquered all of Europe. In the end, they didn't succeed; it would not be until the breaking of Ottoman power at the Battle of Vienna in 1683 that the tide of Islamic conquest would finally turn for good. Still, though we must never gloss over all the wrongs committed by Crusaders, it's important to understand that the Crusades as such were an eminently justifiable military and cultural response to Islamic military aggression; they were a counter-attack launched in a great war begun by the other side.

Settling in

Well, we started moving into our house on the 11th, and I started here at the church on the 16th, and now enough stuff is out of boxes and put away that it's possible to get around; I still have a lot of books to get organized on my office shelves, but it's beginning to look like someone actually works here. I keep getting sidetracked, though. This morning I pulled some of Stan Grenz' books out of a pile and put them in their place, and then I just sat down and looked at them for a while, and remembered. I can still feel the shock I felt in March 2005 when I was surfing the Web and tripped over the fact that he had died the day before, of a dissecting brain aneurysm. I can't claim any sort of special relationship with him or his family; he was one of my favorite professors at Regent/Carey, and I met his wife Edna on a couple of occasions around the school, but if he'd been asked to make a list of his favorite students, I have no reason to think I'd have been on it. He was just good to all of us, that's all, and I learned a tremendous amount from him, and enjoyed him greatly as a professor; you never quite knew what was going to happen when you walked into his classroom. He might be sitting there with his guitar, or the TV might be set up for Star Trek (he was a big Trekkie) or X-Files, or it might be a theological evaluation of a Gloria Estefan song. I won't say anything was possible, but he was never completely predictable, either.

And while I don't want to get into the arguments back and forth over the emerging church (at least, not today, anyway), I do want to say this. Dr. Grenz' name is conjured a lot these days in those arguments, and he's criticized pretty harshly by those fighting the emerging church; and I don't recognize the straw man they're holding up. The Stan Grenz they attack and vilify just doesn't sound all that much like the one under whom I studied. It's too bad; I learned a great deal from him, and I think those who consider him their opponent probably could too.

On the move

The movers are here early this morning. They've already gotten started (they were here Saturday), and the hope is to get most of the packing done today; I think the computer will be up until Wednesday (they have to be down in Denver Tuesday), but I'm not sure. In any case, the roots are coming up, and we'll be transplanting soon.

Five things I'm thankful for

bearing in mind that "the best things in life aren't things" . . .

For starters, and by way of introduction to this post, I'm thankful for Hap, who tagged me with this meme. Mind you, that's not the reason I'm thankful for her, though it isn't a bad thing, either. She's been a dear, firm friend for—what are we on to now, fourteen years? a good chunk of my life, anyway—a woman steeped in the presence of God who's as faithful as the sunrise and as true as eternity, and after my family, one of the people I love most on this planet. Glad you didn't go to Spring Arbor, sis. :)

Carrying on, in reverse order . . .

Bronwyn, my youngest, currently snuggling on Daddy's lap, chattering at me unintelligibly and pretending to drink water out of the cup in her older sister's ball-and-cup toy. Almost 20 months and a complete Chaos Child, she's also a complete charmer and something of a clown; I know she gets away with more than her sisters did because of it, but sometimes it's hard to help.

Rebekah, my middle daughter—the original Chaos Child, she's four now and more manageable, since she can be reasoned with (not that she always buys the reason). Absolutely fearless about most things, which is a good corrective and counterbalance to her older sister, she's our rampant extrovert. We spent an hour or so one night standing in the hallway of a hotel in Ogallala, NE because of a tornado warning; when Rebekah wasn't running full-tilt up and down the hall, she was walking up to total strangers, touching their elbows and asking them all sorts of questions. (Fortunately, they were all gracious about it.) She just loves everyone, and assumes they'll all love her too.

Lydia, my oldest, my miracle child. Her delivery was a crisis, and then she needed an operation when she was two days old (albeit a minor one, if any surgery on a newborn can truly be called minor), so we kept her very close for the first few months; it still seems a little strange, when I think about it, that that was seven years ago. She's an introvert, like both her parents (though oddly enough, our only one), but fortunately not too shy—certainly much less so than I was at her age. All our girls ask lots of questions, but she set the standard (and still does). She's in first grade and absolutely loves school—she can be running a fever and throwing up, and she's crying that she has to stay home; it no doubt helped that she had a certifiable genius for a kindergarten teacher (thank you, Jane Hill), but by nature, she's the sort of kid who goes through life with her nose in a book. She's a loving, generous, helpful child—even with her younger sisters, usually. :)

And finally, most of all, my wife Sara. Ten years is a pretty good start. I am richly, deeply blessed by her love, her wisdom, her insight, her care, her great gifts, her deep and strong relationship with God (even through the hard times we've had here) . . . I am blessed to know and love her, and to be known and loved in return. (I should note, she's one of the reasons I'm thankful for Hap—who introduced us. :) )

Anyway, I tag the Thinklings, both as a whole and in part. Y'all didn't like the last meme, guys, but you should like this one.

The Christian discipline of forgiveness

I've been thinking, periodically, about the whole question of repentance and forgiveness ever since Hap's post a couple months ago on the Emerging Women blog; and so I was interested, in dropping in on Dr. Stackhouse's blog this morning, to see that he began his reflections on Advent this year with that very theme. It's supposed to be the first post in a two-part series; the second part isn't up yet, but there's more than enough to think about already. I particularly appreciated this section:

Repenting and forgiving are not pretending the past didn’t happen and that what seemed evil is somehow okay. Repentance and forgiveness name what was wrong as wrong. If it weren’t wrong, it wouldn’t need repenting of and forgiving!

Repentance and forgiveness also do not pretend the future will be sunny and that there will be no repetition of wrong. You may have noticed that people generally don’t become perfect after a single round of repentance and forgiveness. Jesus tells us to forgive the same person seven times in a single day to make hyperbolically clear that a single episode of repentance and forgiveness may not be the end of it.

and this one:

To forgive the offender is to give a great gift. It cuts the offender free from the Jacob Marley-like shackles of past sins. It gives the offender a fresh start. It does not “re-member” the past sins by repeatedly bringing them up again and fastening them afresh to the present person. It leaves the past in the past, and lets people go ahead into the future.

But “forgive and forget” is bad advice, and on two counts. First, one can’t do it. Second, one shouldn’t. Refusing to pretend as if the past didn’t happen instead helps us act realistically to maximize shalom for everyone involved.

I like that—remembering as "re-membering," taking the the wrongs others have done us in the past and giving them new bodies (as it were) in the present, giving them new life to cause hurt all over again. Thus Dr. Stackhouse concludes,

So let us repent and let us forgive, and neither forget nor re-member. In that
paradox is the path of a hopeful, healthful future.

That's the idea in a nutshell, except that I don't think it's a paradox, really, just a middle way: the way of acknowledging the past but not living there, letting it be the past and not the present.

Harold O. J. Brown, RIP

Harold O. J. Brown wasn't one of this country's most famous evangelicals, and I don't recall Time putting him on its list of the 25 most influential; but he may well have been one of its most important. A multivalent scholar, writer and teacher, he had a remarkable career, but it's instructive that those who knew him were less impressed by what he had accomplished than by who he was in Christ. In particular, it's worth noting that he never had the high public profile of a Jerry Falwell or a Ted Haggard, not because he lacked the gifts—he was a prodigiously gifted man—but because he never wanted it.

Of the various eulogies for the Rev. Dr. Brown, the one I've appreciated the most has been this one, from S. M. Hutchens in the latest Touchstone. Since it isn't available on their website, I reproduce it (by permission) here in its entirety.

At a gathering of Harold O. J. Brown's friends after the memorial service in his honor, William D. Delahoyde, a Raleigh attorney and protégé from his Deerfield days, rose to state what I am sure was a consensus: While it was doubtful his passing would be noted by the general media, most of us there thought that in knowing him we had a brush with greatness.

In that company the observation bore a peculiar taste and weight, for the people with whom I had been conversing at the obsequies, especially the older ones who had known him for many years, were not the sort for whom the attribution would pass easily.

Many of them were, after all, members of America's nobility, old Harvard grads who knew, and often were on familiar terms with, people whom most of us have only read about. Listening to them reminisce was like an evening spent in a well-marked part of my library—but here the books were alive.

All of us knew Joe as a brilliant intellect: the valedictorian of a Jesuit high school who took his degree in Germanic Languages and Literature from Harvard College magna cum laude, who absent-mindedly forgot that he had been accepted at the Medical School, instead studying theology on the continent on Fulbright and Danforth fellowships, returning to Harvard after and Evangelical conversion in Germany to take his doctorate in Reformation history under George Hunston Williams. He lectured or conversed in German, French, Polish, Swedish, Russian, Hindi, and several other languages.

Like Max Weber, who taught himself Russian to pass the time during a week of convalescence, Joe's talent for language and the breadth of his literary knowledge were legendary among those who knew him. Conspicuous at the gathering were any members of his Harvard rowing crews, whom he had coached to notable victories, including first-place cups at the Henley Royal Regatta.

Most of us there had met him later than the Harvard days, and heard of all this as the prelude to a distinguishe pastoral, teaching, and journalistic career with InterVarsity in Europe, Park Street Church in Boston, Yeotmal Seminary in India, Christianity Today, Trinity-Deerfield, the Religion and Society Report, and finally Reformed Theological Seminary in Charlotte.

A strong Protestant, Joe was a friend of Christians wherever he found them, including us at Touchstone. He wrote several pieces for the magazine, and served as one of the principal speakers at the Rose Hill conference in 1995.

He was a particularly bold (sometimes to the point of folly) mountain climber, ran—or if he had to, walked—marathons, despite being plagued with the congenital lower-spine deformity that caused his distinctive posture and gait. He was a loving and attentive husband to Grace—a redoubtable counterpart, fully as remarkable in her way as he was in his—and father to Cynthia and Peter. While perhaps most widely known for his political and intellectual leadership in the pro-life movement, he was in scores of individual lives a paraclete who by dint of his gentle attention and concern became Kierkegaard's pinch of spice that made all the difference.

But this suffices to represent his phenomenal accomplishment. Joe was embarrassed by such notice, and on his deathbed, Bill Delahoyde told us, he emphatically said—or rather wrote, for he could no longer speak—that he did not see in himself the man that others saw in him.

His childhood and early family life, of which he spoke little, was odd and less than satisfactory, and what he became cannot be explained except through the glass of redemption. Here, to be sure, was great native ability and desire to achieve, energized by a strong sense of noblesse oblige, and a desire to love so that he might be loved in return.

This may become the stuff of greatness, but on reflection I think this is perhaps not really what we are speaking of here. The proper word is "glory," in which Joe's observation about what he could not see in himself merges into what he did see in Another, and which we beheld in him.

This glory was manifest in a humility that dispersed its gifts—which in others would have gone into the construction of a world-historical character—among his friends as the animating force behind a task to complete. His kenosis was not carried out simply in consent to a divine mission to the world, but in befriending us—making himself of minor repute principally by concentration on the cultivation of others. Thus we beheld his glory, but in its very revelation it was hidden, and so it is with the best of his servants, who, taught in his school and following his example, tend to spend their lives giving away what "great" men have so often learned to keep for themselves.

Harold O. J. Brown, whose view of his work at the end of his life echoed that of Thomas Aquinas, saw no greatness in himself because he had lived long in the shadow of his Master, simply doing for others what had been done for him. But he will be happy, I think, when his friends rise up to say that they saw in this the reflected glory of the Lord.

Christian escapism

I have Hap to thank for pointing me to ASBO Jesus, Jon Birch's strange, often fascinating, and frequently very funny comic blog. (I have Birch to thank for the following explanation: "btw. for the non british among you… an ‘asbo’ is an ‘anti-social behaviour order’… the courts here award them to people who are deemed to be constant trouble in their neighbourhoods… presumably according to their neighbours!") I've appreciated any number of his comics, but I especially like this one, because I too have a problem with the whole idea of the "Rapture." I agree with Birch that it's bad theology, though we can argue that at another time; more than that, it's bad exegesis.

I imagine that statement will surprise some people, who are no doubt already flipping to 1 Thessalonians 4 to prove me wrong. I can hear them now: "See, it says, 'The Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord.' See, there's the Rapture right there!" Fine, except . . . it isn't. Does that text say the Lord will return? Yes. Does it say we'll all meet him in the air? Yes. But look closely and notice what it doesn't say: which direction we'll go from there. The assumption behind the idea of the Rapture is that Jesus will go back to heaven for a while and we'll go with him—but the Scripture doesn't actually say that. It's only an assumption.

Now, I can predict the most likely rejoinder here: "It's obvious!" Except, once you get outside the assumptions of our culture, it isn't. To understand what's really going on in 1 Thessalonians, remember the parallels between this passage and the wedding parables of Jesus. In several places, Jesus compares those waiting for his return to people waiting for the bridegroom. Thus for instance we have the parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids, in Matthew 25. In that parable, the crisis comes for the foolish bridesmaids when the cry comes, "Here comes the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!" Here's the parallel to 1 Thessalonians 4: the Lord, the Bridegroom, returns, and we go out to meet him and escort him to the house.

In other words, the coming of Christ Paul talks about isn't a halfway coming to pick us up and leave the rest of the world to rot; it's his final return to earth, and we will go out as the wedding party to escort him in. There's no Rapture in this passage, no "Get Out of Trouble Free" card; only our wishful thinking makes it so.

Update: OK, this follow-on of Birch's really cracked me up.

Thank God for God (a Thanksgiving meditation)

"Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return there;
the LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD." —Job 1:21

During the time of Napoleon’s reign in France, there was a political prisoner by the name of Charnet. That is to say, there was a man named Charnet who had unintentionally offended the emperor by some remark or another and been thrown in prison to rot. As time passed, Charnet became bitter and lost faith in God, finally scratching on the wall of his cell, “All things come by chance.”

But there was a little space for sunlight to enter his cell, and for a little while each day a sunbeam cast a small pool of light on the floor; and one morning, to his amazement, in that small patch of ground he saw a tiny green blade poking out of the packed dirt floor, fighting its way into that precious sunlight. Suddenly, he had a companion, even if only a plant, and his heart lifted; he shared his tiny water ration with the little plant and did everything he could to encourage it to grow. Under his devoted care, it did grow, until one day it put out a beautiful little purple-and-white flower. Once again, Charnet found himself thinking about God, but thinking very different thoughts; he scratched out his previous words and wrote instead, “He who made all things is God.”

The guards saw what was happening; they talked about it amongst themselves, they told their wives, and the story spread, until finally somehow it came to the ears of the Empress Josephine. The story moved her, and she became so convinced that no man who loved a flower in this way could be dangerous that she appealed to Napoleon, and persuaded her husband to relent and set Charnet free. When he left his cell, he took the little flower with him in a little flowerpot, and on the pot he wrote Matthew 6:30: “If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith?”

There's a lesson in Charnet's story—the lesson of Job, I think. I struggled for years to make sense of that verse, until I found the key in an observation made by Rev. Wayne Brouwer, a Christian Reformed pastor in Holland, Michigan. Rev. Brouwer, writing on Psalm 22, muses, “Maybe it’s not that believers are grateful to God but that those who are grateful to God are the ones who truly believe him. Only those of us who are truly thankful are able to ride out the storms of life which might otherwise destroy us. Only those who have an attitude of gratitude know what it means to believe.” In other words, the root of our faith is gratitude.

We talk about the patience of Job, but in reality Job showed very little patience; what he did show was great faith, and that faith was firmly rooted in his determination to remain grateful for all the Lord had given him despite his losses. Thus he can say here, “The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord”; thus he can affirm at another point, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth . . . in my flesh I shall see God.” In the same way, once Charnet found something for which to be thankful, that little plant struggling through the hard, dry earth, he found Someone to thank, and his faith grew back along with that little plant. Before that point, faith was impossible for him, because there was no root to sustain it.

If our gratitude depends on the number of our gifts exceeding a certain critical mass, if we miss the Giver for the gifts, then we have a shallow faith indeed. The example of Job calls us to a deeper gratitude, and a deeper faith, a faith that is able to see God and give thanks even when things aren’t going well. This is the faith the poet Joyce Kilmer expressed when he wrote, “Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife . . ./Thank God for the stress and the pain of life./And, oh, thank God for God.” That’s really the bottom line, isn’t it? Thank God for God. Thank God, as Psalm 23 does, that even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, he is there with us. Thank God, as Psalm 22 does, that he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted. Thank God, as Job teaches us, that we don’t have to bury our grief and anger, but can bring them to God honestly; for Job challenges God fiercely, but his challenge is rooted in his faith, and so at the end God says of him, “He is my servant, and he has spoken of me what is right.” Thank God for God, because that is the root and beginning of faith; to quote Wayne Brouwer again, “Only the grateful believe, and faith itself which seems to soar in times of prosperity needs the strength of thankfulness to carry it through the dark night of the soul.”

One man who well knew the truth of this was Martin Rinkard, a Lutheran who was the only pastor in Eilenberg, Germany in 1637. This was the time of the Thirty Years’ War, and in that year Eilenberg was attacked three different times. When the armies left, they were replaced by desperate refugees. Disease was common, food wasn’t, and Rinkard’s journal tells us that in 1637, he conducted over 4500 funerals, sometimes as many as 50 in a day. Death and chaos ruled, and each day seemed to bring some fresh disaster. But out of that terrible time, Martin Rinker wrote these words:

Now Thank We All Our God

Now thank we all our God
With heart and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things hath done,
In whom His world rejoices;
Who, from our mother's arms,
Hath blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love,
And still is ours today.

O may this bounteous God
Through all our life be near us,
With ever joyful hearts
And blessed peace to cheer us;
And keep us in his grace,
And guide us when perplexed,
And free us from all ills
In this world and the next.

All praise and thanks to God
The Father now be given,
The Son, and Him who reigns
With them in highest heaven,
The one eternal God,
Whom earth and heaven adore;
For thus it was, is now,
And shall be evermore.

Words: Martin Rinkart; translated by Catherine Winkworth
Music: Johann Crüger
NUN DANKET, 6.7.6.7.6.6.6.6.

Thank God for God. Only the grateful believe.

One other hymn

My wife argued me into posting this—it's a communion hymn I wrote a while back—thinking that there might be folks out there who'd want to use it. For whatever it might be worth, it is available to use by permission; just send an e-mail to the address in my profile or post a comment here if you happen to be interested. (If you aren't familiar with the tune to which I've set the text, the link is below.)

Jesus Calls Us to His Table

Jesus calls us to his table,
Here to celebrate the feast;
He invites us to remember
How from sin we were released.
Here he calls us to communion
With each other in his name,
And assures us of the coming
Of the kingdom he proclaimed.

We remember Christ descended
To the human life we share;
We remember how we led him
To the cross and nailed him there.
We remember how he conquered
Death by rising from the grave;
We remember that he did this
All for us he came to save.

So we gather at the table
Joined together hand in hand,
Men and women of all races,
From all times and every land.
We assemble as a body,
Joined in Christ who is our Head,
Knowing he is with us always,
And in him our souls are fed.

Thus we stand in hope of glory,
Of the dawning of the day
When we’ll see God’s kingdom fully,
All his saints, in bright array.
Then we’ll gather at his table,
There invited by his grace,
And in wonder, as he promised,
See our Savior face to face.

Words: Robert J. A. Harrison, 2006
Music: Attributed to Benjamin Franklin White; from The Sacred Harp, 1844
BEACH SPRING, 8.7.8.7.D

Song of the Week

Most people know this hymn, but most of those who know it don't know it the way John Newton wrote it.

Amazing Grace

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come;
'Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow;
The sun forbear to shine;
But GOD, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.

Words: John Newton
Music: traditional American melody from Carrell and Clayton's Virginia Harmony, 1831
AMAZING GRACE, C.M.

Ministry as trinitarian work

I noted last month that I was looking forward to reading Dr. Andrew Purves' book The Crucifixion of Ministry: Surrendering Our Ambitions to the Service of Christ, and had been ever since reading a version of the book's introduction in Theology Matters. It's not a long book, only 149 pages, but I read it slowly; it's dense material, requiring thought and reflection and intentional engagement. I'm still processing it, and I expect I will be for a while.

At the moment, though, I'm only doing so indirectly. One of the blurbs on the back of Dr. Purves' book is from Dr. Stephen Seamands, a professor at Asbury Theological Seminary; the blurb reminded me that his book Ministry in the Image of God: The Trinitarian Shape of Christian Service had been sitting on my shelf, and my to-read list, for quite some time. On my last trip, then, I made sure to toss it in my bag so I could start reading it once I finished Dr. Purves' book. It proved to be a wonderful pairing.

The core of Dr. Purves' argument is that ministry isn't something we do, because our own ministries aren't redemptive; only the ministry of Christ is redemptive. Thus he writes, "The first and central question in thinking about ministry is this: What is Jesus up to? That leads to the second question: How do we get 'in' on Jesus’ ministry, on what he’s up to? The issue is not: How does Jesus get 'in' on our ministries?" We need to understand the work of ministry in light of "the classical doctrines of the vicarious humanity (and ministry) of Christ and our participation in Christ through the bond of the Holy Spirit," and understand that true ministry, redemptive ministry, happens not through our work but through Christ working in and through us. Thus Dr. Purves speaks of "the crucifixion of ministry," the displacement and death of our own ministry in favor of the ministry of Jesus.

Where Dr. Seamands' book is proving to be such a wonderful complement to this is in the fact that he makes the same point but sets it in a trinitarian context. He agrees that, as he puts it, "Ministry . . . is not so much asking Christ to join us in our ministry as we offer him to others; ministry is participating with Christ in his ongoing ministry as he offers himself to others through us. . . . The ministry we have entered is meant to be an extension of his. In fact, all authentic Christian ministry participates in Christ's ongoing ministry. Ministry is essentially about our joining Christ in his ministry, not his joining us in ours."

Where Dr. Purves focuses on unpacking that truth, however—and rightly so, since its implications for how we minister are significant—Dr. Seamands broadens the picture: "The ministry we have entered is the ministry of Jesus Christ, the Son, to the Father, through the Holy Spirit, for the sake of the church and the world." As he notes, Jesus' ministry on Earth was directed to and guided by the will of the Father, rather than being driven by the needs, desires, demands and complaints of the people around him. "Of course, Jesus often met human needs and requests, but . . . they did not dictate the direction of his ministry; his ministry to the Father did." This is a profoundly freeing thought for those of us who too often find ourselves captives to the wills and whims of people in our congregations—which I suspect is most of us in pastoral ministry, at least some of the time.

In discussing the role of the Spirit, at least in the first chapter (I'm not that far along in the book as yet), Dr. Seamands focuses on the fact that "only through the Spirit can we discover what the Father is doing," and thus keep the work we're doing oriented to the Father rather than to the church and the world. This is certainly critically true, and he's right to emphasize the importance of surrendering ourselves to the Spirit's guidance and leading; but I think he underemphasizes the fact that it's also only by the Spirit's empowering that we can in fact "get 'in' on Jesus' ministry," because it's the Spirit who unites us with Christ and fills us with the power of God. Without the Spirit filling us by connecting us with God who is the source of all life, we have no power to do anything beyond our own skills and hard work; and as Dr. Seamands notes, "ministry . . . demands more than our best, more than anything we have to offer. To participate in the ongoing ministry of Jesus, to do what the Father is doing, we must be filled with the Holy Spirit."

Between these two books, I suspect I'm going to be spending a lot of time thinking about these things, and their implications for the work to which God has called me within his church. I would invite you to do the same.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . ."

Unexplained Blue Cloud Floats, Darts Around Customers At Gas Station

I don't even know what to say about that except—that's really weird. I guess it's a salutary reminder, though, that we really don't know as much as we think we do. Hamlet was right: there really are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy (at least, most of our philosophies).

The spirit of the soul

My wife and I had an interesting experience while watching NUMB3RS tonight (as I've noted before, I like mysteries, and the writers are doing a good job with that one). Just past the teaser, up came Lynn Redgrave, looking regally and serenely into the camera, declaring, "I want to die from eating too much chocolate. Or from exhaustion, dancing the tango. I want to die of laughter, on my 87th birthday. But I refuse—I refuse—to die from breast cancer. I want to die from something else."

I'm not ordinarily much of one for commercials (that one was for Bristol Myers Squibb), but that was truly cool. Part of it, of course, was that Lynn Redgrave is a woman of great presence. More than that, however, I really liked the attitude she expressed. There was no fear of death, nor any effort to avoid the fact that she, like all of us, will at some point die; that much, she accepted as a given (which far too many people don't). It was simply the determination not to let that beat her, not to die that way.

I realize, certainly, that there's a danger here, that of coming to believe that we can die on our own terms; I realize that that way lies a great many dangers. And yet . . . there is still something noble and honorable in the refusal to accept defeat at the hands of a dishonorable enemy; when paired with the acceptance that death will come at some point, and the understanding that it really is beyond our control, to stand and fight and refuse to give in is admirable, as long as it isn't taken too far.

It reminds me of Harvey Mansfield's recent article in First Things titled "How to Understand Politics," in which Dr. Mansfield (a professor of government at Harvard) insists on the importance of the Greek concept of thumos. He defines thumos as "the part of the soul that makes us want to insist on our own importance . . . Sometimes translated as spiritedness, it names a part of the soul that connects one’s own to the good. Thumos represents the spirited defense of one’s own characteristic of the animal body, standing for the bristling reaction of an animal in face of a threat or a possible threat. . . . Thumos, like politics, is about one’s own and the good. It is not just one or the other . . . It is about both together and in tension." Like almost any good, we can become unbalanced in pursuing it; but we can also become unbalanced in undervaluing it. Lynn Redgrave, in that commercial, is expressing thumos; and I say, good for her—and thanks for letting us see it.

Packing up the dreams

For the last eighteen months, since May 2006, I have been in the process of searching for a new call—looking for a new church to serve as pastor. Last Wednesday, I accepted a call to another congregation; following subsequent developments, I'm finally feeling secure that nothing's going to happen to derail this.

I have no doubt that this is God's move in God's time, from the way everything came together; but it's still hard. For one thing, I had a lot of hopes and dreams for this congregation in this place, for what Christ could do in this community . . . and most of them haven't been realized. What has been accomplished is really pretty remarkable, given the history of this church; I've been here longer than any full-time pastor in Trinity's history except one (though my "temporary" predecessor was here on a part-time basis for eighteen years), and in that time, I think we've managed to break the congregation out of its death-grip survival-ministry mode, which is no small thing. There were a lot of issues and a lot of buried conflicts from past events in the church's history, and it took a long time and considerable work to bring those out to the point where they could be addressed; mostly, I think, we've done that. One of my colleagues in Michigan likes to say, "In ministry, you're either digging rocks or you're following the guy who dug the rocks." Here, the rocks were big enough and heavy enough that digging them needed two stages: before they could be moved, they had to be excavated. That much, at least, we've done. It's not nothing. But it's so much less than what I'd hoped, it still doesn't feel like enough. I've learned to accept that, largely thanks to colleagues in the presbytery; but I'm still a little disappointed.

That's ministry, though, often enough; and at this point, what's done is done and cannot be changed, and it's time to pack up the dreams I brought with me, using the lessons I've learned here as packing material to keep them from breaking, and carry them along to Indiana. I still don't think there's anything wrong with dreaming big, and I go forward hoping that what I didn't see God do here, I'll see him do there; after all, what's the point in asking for less than his best? And if I've begun to understand along the way that it truly is Christ's ministry, not mine—if I've come to see, at least dimly, what Andrew Purves means when he talks about the crucifixion of ministry (on which more shortly)—well, while it's been painful, it's been worth the learning. God send grace that I will be the pastor my new congregation needs to become everything he wants and calls them to be, now and (I hope) for many, many years to come. Amen.

Midway between luck and skill

I'm not sure what this world is coming to (admittedly not an infrequent observation on my part), but the best book on military history I've read this year was written by a lawyer. Dallas Woodbury Isom is a retired law professor from Willamette University in Salem, Oregon who decided to explore the reasons for the Japanese defeat at the Battle of Midway because he found the existing explanations insufficient; the result was the book Midway Inquest: Why the Japanese Lost the Battle of Midway. I haven't finished it yet, but I can already say it's an excellent piece of work, as his lawyerly standards for evidence and inquiry match the standards required to do good history—and he's a good writer, to boot. The book's critical contribution, and the reason it will almost certainly be a major landmark in WWII history, is the significant amount of primary research Dr. Isom conducted in Japan, both in official Japanese sources and through interviews with survivors of the battle. He notes that as a result of his research, "many of my findings will be surprising to devotees of the battle, and some are bound to be controversial in the military history community"—but though his argumentation is marred somewhat by faulty assumptions (he does not, after all, have any first-hand experience of carrier operations in specific, or military operations in general), his evidence is so solid and his conclusions so carefully marshaled that I expect his work will stand whatever scrutiny it receives.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of Dr. Isom's work to me is the number of times he uses words and phrases like "fortuitous," "miraculous," "bizarre twist of fate," "sheerest accident," and "incredibly bad luck" in describing the events of the battle. At one point he notes that "the luckiest break of the entire day for the Americans came out of what could have been a disastrous blunder: an inaccurately plotted 'interception point' based on the erroneous PBY sighting report." Luck plays a significant role in most battles, but at Midway, that was true to a remarkable degree. If you tried to write this in a novel, critics would complain that you were stretching the reader's credulity beyond the breaking point; and yet, it happened in real life. The crowning irony here, though, comes in Dr. Isom's conclusion, after he has constructed an alternate-history scenario based on a Japanese victory at Midway:

In a chronicle replete with ironies and paradoxes, the final irony is that Japan’s defeat would almost certainly have been much more horrible had it won the Battle of Midway than it was having lost it. All in all, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that Japan was lucky to lose at Midway. Such are the vagaries of war.

The reason I find this all very interesting is that Dr. Isom has no stronger word to describe all this than "luck," which is why he must repeatedly add adjectives like "incredible" and "bizarre"; though he does at one point use the epithet "miraculous," he shows no sign of actually believing in miracles. From a Christian point of view, however, I'd call this something else: divine providence. If "coincidence is God acting incognito," this many remarkable and improbable coincidences constitute a place where God is visible through the disguise, at least to those who have eyes to see. And as Dr. Isom carefully argues, this wasn't merely to America's benefit; as I would say, it wasn't just God acting on behalf of America to ensure the US won the war because we were the good guys. Rather, in the long run, it was just as much to the good of the Japanese, given how things likely would have unfolded with a Japanese win at Midway; God was at work to bring about what was best for both sides. Such are the vagaries of war? Yes, from a human perspective; but more than that, more meaningfully than that, such is the providence of God—who is ever redemptively at work in human history, even when his hand is hard to see. So I believe, and so I affirm—and so Dr. Isom shows me in his account of the Battle of Midway, even if he doesn't see it himself.

Credit where credit is due

Over at my favorite group blog, Quaid (whom you might call a quasi-Thinkling) has been beating the drum for Mike Huckabee for a while now. (An Arkansas governor as President? Can anything good come out of Nazareth? Does lightning really strike twice in the in the same place? Anyway . . .) He's managed to convince De in the process, but others have been more dubious that Huckabee has any real chance—me included, I'll freely admit. The thing is, though—as Quaid has pointed out—Huckabee's an extremely effective, engaging and winning candidate, and his supporters are fervent and committed, two factors which are doing a lot to overcome his tiny budget; he may not be able to spend much of anything, but he's continuing to climb in the polls, and the big names are starting to notice. Dick Morris, for instance, has been pointing this fact out for a while, even betting Bill O'Reilly that Huckabee would crack 10% in the national polls, which he now has; and Morris is now saying that Huckabee can win Iowa. If he does—or even finishes a strong second, which looks at this point to be the worst he'll do—then he will have established himself as a frontrunner. Should that indeed happen, he has a good chance to come out of New Hampshire as the leader, with second place behind Rudy as probably the worst likely outcome; and with that, the money will start to come, and the difficulties will start to fall away, leaving Giuliani as a very beatable opponent.

Huckabee's not the greatest candidate the GOP has ever put up; his record on social issues is strongly, consistently conservative, but his fiscal policies as governor of Arkansas have led to strong challenges from the likes of Grover Norquist and Americans for Tax Reform. Still, he's clearly better on both fronts than George W. Bush was, to say nothing of Dole or the elder Bush; and even if he's no Reagan, he's still the best option we've had since then (as Romney would also be if he manages to recover and win the nomination). That's not everything, but then, as Mal would say, it's not nothing, either; and in fact, it's good enough. Huckabee for President.

. . . and it's not even fake Carson

As a student at Regent College (the Canadian school—not Regent University in Virginia, which is a rather different sort of place) from 1997-2001, I had the opportunity to get to know Dr. John Stackhouse just a bit, and to appreciate him both for his first-rate theological mind and for his acerbic and rather black sense of humor (most notably expressed in his occasional turns as singer-songwriter in chapel). I've continued to appreciate him ever since, both for his books and more recently for his blog.

The newest post on his blog at the moment finds Dr. Stackhouse taking a swipe at D. A. Carson—and not fake Carson, either, but the real one. From the sound of things, it seems like Dr. Carson, ordinarily one of the best and most worthwhile NT scholars out there (at least on the evangelical side of things), needed a quote for his book Becoming Conversant with the Emerging Church: Understanding a Movement and Its Implications and couldn't find one from an actual emerging-church figure that fit—so he found the best quote he could find, from an article Dr. Stackhouse had written a decade before, and jimmied it in. Unfortunately, the result was that Dr. Carson ended up significantly misinterpreting and misrepresenting both the quote and its author, as Dr. Stackhouse points out (at some length).

Unfortunately, I say, for two reasons. The first is that this sort of academic misfeasance, minor though it may be, only weakens the argument Dr. Carson was trying to make. Whether you agree with his view of the emerging church or not, that's no good thing, because to the extent that his challenge is valid, it needs to be heard and addressed—and to the extent that it isn't, it still needs to be presented as ably as possible so that it can be answered as fully as possible. Second, this sort of misreading/uncharitable reading, whether deliberate or due to sloppy work, is unbecoming of Christian scholars, and yet (as one of Dr. Stackhouse's commenters notes) we're starting to see it with distressing frequency in arguments between Christian academics. Another example would be the exchange between Roger Olson and John Piper over the I-35W bridge collapse, as Alan noted over at The Thinklings. It's getting very tiresome, and I think it makes Christians look bad. We ought to have the grace to extend our fellow believers at least the first courtesy of disagreement: the assumption that though they might be wrong (as we see it), they are wrong for good reasons. To assume that since they're wrong, it must be for bad reasons (whether intellectually bad, morally bad, or both) is uncharitable and un-Christlike, and we need to stop doing it.

Oh, and before I forget

I can't let this gem from Wilson's column go by uncelebrated:

"Me, I'm a Republican Absurdist, which is handy as we enter the climactic year of the 2008 campaign."

Too perfect.

All that is old is new again

The state of American politics these days is messy and unpleasant. Voices across the country can be heard decrying the polarization and hostility of our political culture, and rightly so, I think, because it really isn't terribly healthy. As a consequence, we've seen a number of books in the last few years urging us to move beyond partisan divisions—though oddly enough, the solution most of them propose is that conservatives should capitulate and become liberals, a suggestion which seems neither plausible nor helpful.

Any truly intelligent response to the state of American politics needs to begin with the realization that we've been here before—indeed, that this might be considered the normative state of American politics. It certainly isn't the most polarized time in American history; even the most pessimistic sort would have to admit that it ranks somewhere behind the 1860s in that regard, while a good case could be made that in fact, most of the 19th century was at least as bad.

If you find that hard to believe, I'd suggest you check out a new book by historian Edward Larson, published by the Free Press, called A Magnificent Catastrophe: The Tumultuous Election of 1800, America's First Presidential Campaign. John Wilson, editor of Books & Culture, discusses Larson's book in his column in the November/December issue; and as he notes, there's an awful lot about the 1800 presidential election that sounds remarkably familiar, not least the overheated and over-the-top rhetoric of both sides. One suspects that had the term only existed back then, Thomas Jefferson would have been happy to off-handedly dismiss John Adams as "a raving fundamentalist"; from his comments, he'd fit right in with one of our age's atheist enfants terrible inveighing against George W. Bush.

Meme Reversi

So I've been on the road a lot the last couple weeks, and haven't had the time to hammer out a response to the challenge my wife tossed me after I tagged her; but I've been thinking about it. The problem isn't that I don't have areas of my life to work on—like anyone else, I surely do. The problem, rather, is to answer this key question: where is my walk lagging my talk? Where is the greatest gap between the belief I hold and the belief I live? I do try to be a doer of the world, but where am I falling shortest?

After a fair bit of reflection, I think the key for me is becoming more of an agent of grace. As I've written before, I'm coming increasingly to the conclusion that we in the American church really don't want grace, because we want to believe we deserve the credit for our salvation; which causes two problems. One, of course, is the badly distorted view of ourselves and our salvation which this produces. The other is that if we don't really appreciate the grace we've received, then we won't extend that grace to others, a point illustrated in the parable of the unforgiving servant (Matthew 18:23-35). As that parable shows, if we have received grace, we're expected to give others grace in turn; and I can't claim to be very good at doing that. As a pastor, there are almost always people in the church who beat you up and tear you down—people who, in some cases, are profoundly non-Christlike in some of their behaviors—and it can be a real struggle to show them grace. It has been for me, at least, to remember that when they don't deserve it, that's why it's called grace. And as a father, when I'm physically and emotionally spent, it can be hard to show my children grace, even when they don't mean any harm.

This, then, is what I will strive to do: to bite back the sharp words, to divert the quick flare of anger- and exhaustion-fueled irritation, and instead to show grace. If I try to do this merely by force of will, however, trying to catch myself at the last minute, I know I'll fail; as I've been reminded this week in reading Dr. Andrew Purves' excellent book The Crucifixion of Ministry, it's only because we're united with Christ by his Spirit that there's any hope for anything we do. (He's talking specifically about ministry, but the application is broader than that.) If I'm going to become truly an agent of grace, then, I need to start by drawing near to Jesus, and especially by drawing near to give praise and thanks for the grace he has shown me—to practice appreciating the grace of God. I need to start by making more time for prayer and worship, and by consciously directing my focus away from prayers of lament and prayers for guidance (though both those have their place, and will continue to have their place) toward prayers of thanksgiving for grace received, and prayers that God would show his grace through me to others.

Anyway, to keep the reversed meme going, I tag Happy. (I can't tag anyone else because no one I tagged with the original meme did anything with it, except my wife, who gave it back to me.)

Good news—no boundaries

"We are called to be global Christians with a global vision,
because our God is a global God."

—John Stott

It occurred to me today, all of a sudden, that I've never blogged about Words of HOPE. I've served on the Board of Direction since September 2005, but I've never so much as mentioned the organization here, nor did I have the link to our website up. (That's now been rectified.) That's really too bad, because Words of HOPE is a remarkable and wonderful ministry, and one which should really be much better known around the church in America.

Our purpose is captured quite well in our mission statement:

For more than 50 years Words of HOPE has pursued a single, well-defined mission: To proclaim Jesus Christ through broadcasting in the languages of the world's peoples, seeking with our partners in ministry to build the church by winning the uncommitted to faith in Christ and by encouraging Christians in the life of discipleship.

The only major thing that leaves out is our unblinking focus on working with the indigenous church in the hardest places in this world to reach with the gospel. We don't go in as missionaries per se; instead, we partner with our brothers and sisters in Christ in places like Iran, Bhutan, Turkey and Saudi Arabia—places where the church is small, where the work of spreading the gospel faces great difficulties, and in many cases where Christians face great resistance and even persecution—to equip and empower them to reach their own people with the good news of Jesus Christ.

We are committed to serving international Christians throughout the world, working with them to enable them to use broadcasting to communicate the gospel to their own peoples, with the goals of winning individuals to faith in Christ, strengthening believers in the life of discipleship, helping existing churches to grow, and establishing new churches where there were none before. In partnership with other mission agencies, we seek to work with and through indigenous organizations and churches, rather than establishing our own.

Broadcasting, and principally radio broadcasting, is our niche, and it's what we bring to the table for the global church. We do produce significant printed materials, and the Internet is becoming an increasingly important part of our ministry, but radio remains, as it has always been, the main part of our work. As our mission statement puts it,

Our goal is to enable international Christians to produce and air biblically-focused radio programs in their own languages. . . .

Our principal focus from the beginning has been the use of radio to communicate the gospel. Radio is universally available; it reaches large numbers of people, including those who are illiterate or living in "closed" areas of the world; and as a word-centered medium it is uniquely suitable for conveying the message of the Bible and its implications for all of life.

For penetrating closed societies (like most Islamic countries), and reaching the poorest parts of the world, where illiteracy is nearly universal (such as Niger), there is no better tool than radio broadcasting, especially as radio is easily the most trusted source for news and information in many places around the world.

Words of HOPE is a ministry which grew out of my home denomination, the Reformed Church in America, and is unabashedly Reformed in its founding theology; equally, we're unabashedly evangelical, committed to proclaiming

the good news that Jesus Christ died for our sins and was raised from the dead according to the Scriptures, and that as the reigning Lord he now offers the forgiveness of sins and the liberating gift of the Spirit to all who repent and believe,

as the Lausanne Covenant (1974) puts it. Finally, we're committed to an ecumenical and non-sectarian approach,

to the positive proclamation and propagation of what C. S. Lewis called Mere Christianity; that is, the large body of truth that all believing Christians hold in common.

We aren't interested in reinventing the wheel; rather, we want to find what God is doing around the world by his Spirit, and join in, working with whomever God has raised up to accomplish his purposes, seeking to enable and empower them in the work he has given them. Thus our mission statement concludes,

We totally and gladly depend upon the gracious sustaining and energizing power of the Holy Spirit to be fruitful in this ministry. We gratefully recognize that the Spirit is choosing to work through us, our partners and supporters. We recognize even more our limitations, inadequacies and failures. At the same time we rejoice with firm hope in the sovereign God who blesses our efforts and causes his word to bear fruit.

We're currently at work in over 40 countries, strengthening the local church around the world in its witness, serving the work of the Kingdom of God in some of the most resistant nations on Earth; and we do it all with a paid staff of twelve and a budget of less than $3 million. It has been said by others familiar with our ministry, and I completely agree, that if you want to put your money to work to reach the world for Jesus Christ, there is no more cost-effective way than to support Words of HOPE. "Good news—no boundaries." That's what we're all about.

The crucifixion of ministry

I'm a book person. As I've noted before, one of my regrets is that I don't have time to read everything I'd like to read. Still, every year there's a book or two that is simply a must-read for me, that I wait for and make the time for, whatever else might be going on. This year, at the top of that list is The Crucifixion of Ministry: Surrendering Our Ambitions to the Service of Christ, by the distinguished professor of pastoral theology at Pittsburgh Seminary, Dr. Andrew Purves; it's finally out from IVP, I have it on order from Amazon (though they still list the release date as October 30), and I'm very much looking forward to reading it. Indeed, I've been looking forward to it for about a year now; Theology Matters ran Dr. Purves' introduction to his book as the lead article in last year's November/December issue, and it completely blew me away. I won't try to summarize it, because I don't think I can do Dr. Purves justice; I'll just tell you, if you're in Christian ministry, either for pay or as a volunteer—if you're a leader in the church in any way—click the link and read it. Here are a few excerpts to whet your appetite:

Alternatively, Jesus is God active in the life of the world, in our personal lives, and in ministry at every turn. The problem is we rarely think radically enough concerning Jesus. We have him tamed, boxed, and safe. But as he is the living and reigning Lord, the question now becomes: What is he up to and how do I get in on whatever it is that he is up to? The answer is twofold: the classical doctrines of the vicarious humanity (and ministry) of Christ and our participation in Christ through the bond of the Holy Spirit. Everything is cast back on to him, on to God who is present for us by the Spirit in, through, and as Jesus Christ, yesterday, today, and for ever. In this case, because ministry is what he does, ministry is properly understood as gospel rather than law, as grace rather than as obligation.

The first and central question in thinking about ministry is this: What is Jesus up to? That leads to the second question: How do we get “in” on Jesus’ ministry, on what he’s up to? The issue is not: How does Jesus get “in” on our ministries? . . .

Exploring these issues brings us to the difficult awareness that our ministries must be displaced by the ministry of Jesus. This is more than relinquishment, however. We must be bumped aside, firmly, perhaps mortifyingly. For us, this means the death of our ministries. The reason is that this displacement is not an invitation to let Jesus take over by letting him “in” on our territory. Rather, this displacement has the character of mortification—otherwise, most likely, we would never let go of our grip on our ministries. What we think we should do, and can do, and in fact do in ministry, is put to death. Why? Simply put: too often they are in the way. Our ministries are not redemptive, even when conducted from the best spiritual, therapeutic, and moral motives. Only the ministry of Jesus is redemptive.

I am calling this process of displacement “the crucifixion of ministry” in large measure because crucifixion carries the notion of redemption in Christian thought. As the crucifixion of Jesus is staggering good news of our salvation, now also the crucifixion of ministry by the process of painful displacement by the ministry of Jesus, likewise, is staggering good news—for us, the ministers, and for the people we minister among. The crucifixion of ministry is the ground for the redemption of our ministries, and for us, the ministers, the source of hope, joy, and peace in our service. . . .

In summary fashion this is the argument. 1. The ministry of Jesus is the ministry of God. That, at the end of the day, is what most of our creedal and confessional language concerning Jesus Christ is about. 2. Jesus’ ministry is at once historical, present, and future. It is not just a past influence reaching into the present. 3. By sharing in the life of Jesus (the doctrine of our union with Christ, which is the principal work of the Holy Spirit), we thereby share in his, that is, God’s, continuing ministry. In other words, it is he, not we, who primarily “do” ministry; and by the gift of the Spirit we are joined to him to share thereby in his life, and thus, in his ministry in some regard. Wherever Christ is, there is the church and ministry. . . .

The crucifixion of ministry is good news! 1. Conceiving ministry as our ministry is the root problem of what ails us in ministry today. 2. Ministry, rather, is to be understood as a sharing in the continuing ministry of Jesus Christ, for wherever Christ is, there is the church and her ministry. The effect is that our ministries are displaced by Christ’s ministry—thus the notion of the crucifixion of ministry. In more formal terms, we need to recover the paramount significance of two weighty but quite neglected doctrines: the vicarious humanity and ministry of Christ, and our union with Christ. The Christian identity and the faithful practice of ministry are not possible on any other terms.

This is just to give you a feel for Dr. Purves' argument; for the rest, including his discussion of the "two major crucifixions or seasons of dying in ministry," go read the article.

Meme tag

Despite the fact that I hadn't posted in almost four months, my dear friend Happy was good enough to tag me with a meme that's going around, courtesy of Good Will Hinton, off the book UnChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks about Christianity... and Why It Matters. Apparently one of the co-authors of the book, Gabe Lyons, is a friend of Will Hinton's; I'll admit to knowing nothing more about it than what I've read in his post. (As a side note, the whole concept of "memes" has had rather an interesting journey since Richard Dawkins coined the word.)

In any case, the rule of the meme is as follows: name three negative perceptions about Christians and one thing Christians should be known for. Bearing in mind, as others have noted, that this is purely in relation to Western culture in general, and America in particular (my friends from Zimbabwe, for instance, would have a very different response to the question), here goes.

Negative perception #1: Christians are shills for the Republican Party.

This is a base libel on the denomination in which I serve, the Presbyterian Church (USA), whose leaders (like most mainline leaders) are in fact shills for the Democratic Party, thank you very much. . . . That said, there are far too many prominent evangelicals who deserve this label, so there's rather more than just a grain of truth in it. Politics in America is pretty polarized right now, and the church isn't really helping much; there are churches which are apolitical and churches which are enmeshed in the political system (on both sides of the aisle), and very few which are modeling a Kingdom perspective on political engagement. Let's work to change that.

Negative perception #2: Christians are more interested in winning arguments than in caring for people.

I don't know that this is any truer of Christians than it is of any other group; but it ought to be far less true. Here's another place where simply by not being different, we fall short.

Negative perception #3: Christians are intolerant.

There are two levels to this one. On one level, by the world's highly problematic definition of tolerance (which is basically a threadbare mask for apathy), yes, Christians are intolerant—and what's more, we're supposed to be. God doesn't tolerate sin, and neither should we. On another level, though, there are all too many Christians who truly are intolerant, who feel free to reject people whose sins offend them.

The problem comes when we forget that we, too, are sinners, not just those people over there, and that God doesn't tolerate our sin either; and yet, he doesn't write us off, nor does he merely tolerate us, but instead, he actively loves us. Lose that, and we lose sight of the fact that even as we refuse to tell people their sin is OK, we must not merely tolerate them, but actively love them.

What Christians should be known for: Living what we believe.

In the terms of James 1:22-27, we're called to be doers of the word, not merely hearers; which is a pretty major thing. As I put it in my sermon this past Sunday:

What does this mean? It means that if you say you believe the gospel, and it doesn’t change your life, you don’t believe it. If you listen to the preaching of the word, and you nod your head and say, “Good sermon,” and you don’t go out and put it into practice, you don’t believe it. If you read the Bible, and you understand what it’s telling you, and you don’t do everything you can to live accordingly, you don’t believe it. It’s not enough to say the right things, it’s not enough to sing the hymns, it’s not enough to repeat the Creed, it’s not enough to think all the right thoughts—if you don’t do it, if you don’t live this book, then you’re missing something. You might be saved for later, you might have your ticket to heaven punched, but if all this never leaves your head, if it never reaches your hands and your feet, then you aren’t living God’s life now.

You see, we aren’t here just to think certain things, or even to say certain things; it’s not enough just to know God’s word. It’s interesting, that phrase “doer of the word” is an odd one—this is an example of James thinking in Hebrew even though he’s writing in Greek. The Greek verb there is poieo—the noun version, poi­ēma, is the word from which we get our word “poem”—and it means “to do,” but even more, it means “to make”; and in normal Greek, this would have been read as “maker of words”—in our terms, “wordsmith,” or “poet.” To take the typical Hebrew phrase, “doer of the word,” and just import it into Greek the way he does creates a very interesting bit of wordplay—and a profound one, I think. As Christians, we’re called to be in a very real way God’s poems, to write out his words with our lives, so that people who look at our lives can read his message to them in us.

Put another way, we’re supposed to incarnate the word of God—to make God’s word real in our lives, to wrap the flesh of our lives around the bone of his will and his commands, to become walking examples of his teaching; as we follow Christ, who was the Word of God incarnate, we are called to be “little Christs”—that’s what “Christians” means—to be copies of Christ, copies of the word of God, walking around in this world. The Bible is the word of God written, presenting us with Jesus Christ, the word of God made flesh; and our job is to become the word of God acted out, lived out, in 21st-century America. It’s true, as many have said, that you are the only Bible many people will ever read; it’s also true, says James, that that ought to be enough. If you are the only Bible people have ever read, that ought to be enough to tell them who God is, and who Jesus is, and why they should follow him. That’s what it means to be a doer of the word, and not merely a hearer of the word. That’s what it means for your life to be a poem for God. That, says James, is what it means to be a Christian.

"Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary, use words." —St. Francis of Assisi

So, to keep the game rolling, I tag:

1. Sara
2. Jared, Bird, De and the gang (The Thinklings)
3. The Calvinator
4. Jim Berkley
5. Debbie Berkley

Madeleine L'Engle, RIP

One of the unfortunate things about real life is that you can't put it on pause while you do other things. It's been a crazy busy summer—the busiest in my nearly-five years in Grand Lake, which is saying something—and it's stayed busy rather longer than usual; on top of that, I have some major personal/professional things going on, taking up a lot of my time. All of which is to say, for the last several months, real life hasn't been leaving much room for any thought that isn't in some way work-related.

Which is a bummer.

Still, I'm getting back to this—for a while; there will be another hiatus coming in a month or two—and glad to be doing it. Truth to tell, I've had the time for a few weeks now; it's just been a matter of getting back on the bicycle. It always helps when you get a push . . .

Before I get to the push, though, I can't start blogging again without noting the death of Madeleine L'Engle. Late to the party, I know, as she died on September 6, but I can't let that go unremarked. As Heather McDougal of Cabinet of Wonders says, there was a great deal of power and beauty in her books, and for me, she was one of the writers (along with Tolkien, primarily) who taught me the connection between the two—how beauty is a far higher and deeper and more perilous thing than we realize. I know that, from a Christian perspective, L'Engle had some problematic aspects to her theology, and I acknowledge the points of criticism Sally Thomas raises in First Things (note: this article is subscriber-only until the end of 2007; just one of many excellent reasons to subscribe to FT); still, whatever may have been fuzzy around the edges of L'Engle's vision, the power of that vision came from the great truth at its core, and for that, she is worthy of all honor. In the end, I can give her much the same encomium as Thomas does:

I was captivated by the notion that there was such a thing as evil and, conversely, that there was such a thing as good. The idea, further, that even the weak and the flawed were called to the battle—that there even was a battle—roused something in my imagination that years of Sunday School had somehow failed to touch.

What these novels provided me with was something I cannot remember having possessed before I encountered them: a religious imagination. Perhaps I should have been reading them through the lens of the Bible; instead, as a teenager, I turned anew to the Bible with these stories alive in my mind.

The novels themselves were not the gospel, and I don’t think I ever mistook them as such. But they awakened my mind to the idea of a universe in which, even in distant galaxies, God is praised in the familiar words of the Psalms, as the creatures on Uriel sing: Sing unto the Lord a new song, and his praise from the end of the earth, ye that go down to the sea, and all that is therein. . . . Let the inhabitants of the rock sing, let them shout from the top of the mountains. Let them give glory unto the Lord.

1 Timothy and the misdirected conscience of the West

I'm preaching a series on 1 Timothy (yesterday was 1:12-20), and it's started me thinking about the whole concept of conscience, and how so many in the American church abuse it. Literally the word means “to know together with,” and it refers to the things we know together with God about the way the world is supposed to be and the way we’re supposed to live; it's the awareness God has placed within us of his character and will. We might almost call it a sixth sense, as it gives us the ability to perceive reality in its moral aspect. The problem is, it's only valuable as far as it accurately reports reality—in this case, moral reality, what is right and wrong in the eyes of God—but that's not how we want to use the idea of conscience; rather than recognizing it as something objective relating to real right and wrong and actual guilt, we want to take conscience as subjective, reflecting how we feel about something, whether we feel we've done right or not. We strive to unhook our conscience from God's character and will, so that far from challenging our own preferred standards of right and wrong, our sense of conscience merely reflects them.

As I was thinking last week about why this is, and reflecting on Paul's paean to the mercy of God, it hit me that at some level, we don’t want the conscience God gave us because we really don’t want what God is offering—we don’t want his solution, and we don’t even want to believe what he’s telling us about the problem. The word of God tells us we are sinners, rotten at the core, who need to accept his mercy, to be saved by his grace, through none of our own doing and none of our own merit, and we just don’t want to hear that. We want to believe we’re basically OK—and if we run up against something we can’t get around, that everyone agrees is bad behavior, we want to redefine it as a disease; that way, we’re not bad, we’re just sick.

When the Bible tells us that we do bad things just because we like to do bad things, and that the purpose of our conscience is to convict us of our sin, not to justify our behavior, we resist. As much as we call the gospel good news, it often doesn't come to us as good news. We don't consider it good news that we’re sinners saved—despite the fact that we do not and will not ever deserve it—solely by the loving grace of God through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. That kind of thinking is for losers, and we all want to think we’re winners, if there’s any way we possibly can; we want to believe that God saved us because we’re such all-fired wonderful people that we just had it coming. And the truth is, we aren’t, and we didn’t. The truth is, Christianity is for losers—and that means us. Even the best of us.

That's one reason 1 Timothy is so important for us. Paul was far more of a winner than most of us could ever hope to be, a man who would tower over the church of our day just as much as he did in his own time, and yet he gave all the credit for all his success to the power of God; for himself, he said this: “It is a true statement and worthy of acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost.” He understood what folks like the Covenant Network don't, or at least don't seem to (any more than bad drivers in Dallas), that the good news of the gospel has nothing to do with lessening our sin and our guilt. Instead, it has everything to do with the marvelous, infinite, matchless grace of God, this spectacular gift we have been given, which overwhelms our sin and guilt, washing it all away through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ and the power of his Holy Spirit. The good news of the gospel is that yes, we are sinners, yes, there really is a problem with us, and that God has fixed that problem, because Christ Jesus came into this world to save sinners, of whom I am the foremost.

Song of the Week

Another long-time favorite of mine is Randy Stonehill; I still remember getting the chance to meet him and talk with him a bit in college (our Dean of the Chapel was an old friend of his, and he came out to do a chapel service and concert; I was on the setup/tear-down crew). I've been thinking about this song of his in particular for quite some time now, because it so powerfully expresses what I want my life to be, and in the midst of everything else, I've been hanging on to that for all I'm worth.

Every Heartbeat Is a Prayer

Mighty Father of creation, You who stand outside of time,
To Your beauty, no other can compare.
While I still cast a shadow in these precious days of grace,
Your countless tender mercies I'll declare.
Perhaps it is the wisdom only weariness can bring,
But I've come to distinguish what is real from what it seems;
I've danced just like a dervish to the symphony of liars,
But Your voice of love rose above that desolation choir,
Desolation choir . . .

Won't You take me as Your child of light—
Break me if You must, I won't despair—
'Til every breath I breathe is a song of praise,
Every heartbeat is a prayer;
'Til every breath I breathe is a song of praise,
Every heartbeat is a prayer.

Oh, speak to me in the silence; come to me in my dreams;
Call me through the clutter of these days.
If I should turn to blindness, oh, let the church bells ring—
Pull me back before I fall away.
For I have stumbled down many a dark and crooked mile
Where seduction and destruction have dogged me all the while,
And the very things that I've embraced to medicate my pain
Turned out to be imposters and poison in my veins;
They were poison in my veins . . .

Chorus

From the day we are born to the day they close our eyes,
We are aching for belonging . . .

Chorus

Words and music: Randy Stonehill
© 1998 Stonehillian Music
From the album thirst, by Randy Stonehill

Song of the Week

I remember this song from Sheila Walsh's heyday back in the '80s, but I've never been able to find a copy of it; I'm glad to have Phil Keaggy's version, but I don't like his musical interpretation as well. It may be more fitting, though, as it's certainly more mournful; and though he didn't write this, it attests to his eye for a good lyric. He is and always has been a lot more than just a brilliant guitarist, after all. Anyway, I've liked this song for a long time—especially in my more cynical moods, or on days when loving the church is hard.

Jesus Loves the Church

You say that you believe in us—at times, I wonder why;
You say you see the Father in our eyes.
But I think if I were you, Lord, I'd wash my hands today,
And turn my back on all our alibis.

For we crucify each other, leaving a battered, wounded bride—
But Jesus loves the church;
So we'll walk the aisle of history, toward the marriage feast,
For Jesus loves the church.

We fight like selfish children vying for that special prize;
We struggle with our gifts before your face.
And I know you look with sorrow at the blindness in our eyes
As we trip each other halfway through the race.

Chorus

I want to learn to love like you; I don't know where to start.
I want to see them all but through your eyes.
For you believed enough to live amidst the madding crowd,
Enough to die before our very eyes.

Chorus

And as you hung in naked grief, bleeding for our crimes,
You saw our fickle hearts and cried,
"I love you—you are mine."

Words: Sheila Walsh; music: Phil Keaggy
© 1989 Word Music/Sebastian Music
From the album philkeaggy, by Phil Keaggy

Request for help

It's been a busy couple weeks. I was gone for several days, then came home to find that a young man in our community had been in a terrible motorcycle accident—apparently, a truck pulled out into the highway right in front of him. His name is Michael, and it looks like he'll recover fully, but his injuries are extensive and he has a long, long road of recovery ahead of him. Unfortunately, he's a major wage-earner for his family; he lives with his parents, who are getting on in years and have significant medical issues at the moment, so during the months he isn't able to work, things are going to be very, very tight for them. We're still doing an inventory on the family's needs, but it's clear that we need to make sure, somehow or other, that the mortgage gets paid, the lights stay on, and the family has enough food; I understand that our local electrical co-op is pitching in, and the mortgage company might, but they're still going to need a fair bit of financial help until Michael's back on his feet again.

This is a great family, good people who are well-liked in our small community; as I'm sure you can understand, this has been taking a fair bit of my time, energy, and attention. I wanted to put up this post to let folks know what's going on up here—and especially in case anyone feels led to help this family out. I can guarantee they're truly in need and worth helping, and that any help anyone can give will really matter in getting them through this period. Please pray for Michael's recovery, first of all, that there would be no major setbacks, and that his parents will get through this without any major health problems of their own; and if you want to offer any other assistance, you can call the Mountain Family Center at (970) 725-3257 and ask for Mollie.

Thanks. May God bless you.

Tributes

The big news, of course, is the death of the Rev. Jerry Falwell; there's a nice reflection on the man and his work by Joseph Bottum over on the First Things blog. Really, by this time, the Rev. Falwell was about 20 years past his period of broad cultural relevance, though he continued to be important as the founder and patriarch of Thomas Road Baptist Church and Liberty University; but all in all, for all the points where I disagreed with him and the times when he made me cringe, I'd still have to say that our nation is better off because he lived, and that from where I stand, it looks like God used him in powerful ways. Rev. Jerry Falwell, RIP.

On another note, there's an equally good tribute to the philosopher Charles Taylor, written by Dinesh D'Souza, on the tothesource website, on the occasion of Dr. Taylor having been awarded the Templeton Prize. If you haven't read Taylor, and you're up for a good deep read, you ought to--probably starting with his magisterial Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity. Meaty stuff, and very, very important.

Musings on worship, illustrated by the Songs of the Week

The last week or so has been really rough; but God is good, and rough weeks end, the sun still shines after the rain, and that's as worthy a reason to give praise as any.

As I write this, I have "Thinking of You," a cut from the new/old band Future of Forestry, playing through my computer speakers, and that's a good reason to give praise, too. I say "new/old band" because this is the same group as the worship band Something Like Silas—they reinvented themselves and went off in a new musical direction, under a new name. Fortunately, from the first listen (I'm now on to "Sanctitatis"), they brought their musical and songwriting gifts with them.

Anyway, if you'll pardon the right turn—I'll come back to Something Like Silas in a minute—I've been thinking about a conversation I had with a friend of mine a week or two ago about worship. This friend is one of the worship leaders for a big-city megachurch/satellite church/pocket denomination/whatever you want to call it; they seem to be doing great work for the kingdom, but from some of the comments my friend has made, I'm wondering when the folks leading that congregation will hit their Dave Johnson moment. Right now, they seem to be on top of the elephant; but they're making some decisions that, from the outside (and a considerable distance—no churches that size up here), I wonder about.

For one, I understand they recently issued the dictum that in worship (which is to say, in the singing part of worship), 3/4 of the songs need to be songs addressed to God, not songs about God. Which, OK, I can see the reasoning on this, but (as my friend pointed out), there are a couple of problems here. First, if you're trying to lead a church across multiple campuses, you need to accept that those are in truth different congregations, different gatherings of people, with different needs, which thus must be led differently. Trying to centralize decision-making in worship planning really isn't a good idea—there needs to be some degree of freedom for the folks with leadership responsibilities at the individual sites to do what is appropriate and fitting for them, not just what someone halfway across the metro area thinks is a good idea.

And second, songs addressed to God are, logically, songs in the first person; and unfortunately, given the way folks write, they tend to be in the first person singular—"I" songs. Looking at the landscape of what is generally called contemporary worship music, the great majority of "I" songs tend to be focused on me and my experience and what I'm doing for God. As such, the dictum to give most of the time to songs addressed to God will likely tend to produce a shift toward songs that are actually more about me and myself—not about who God is, not about who we are as the body of Christ, but about what I'm doing and feeling. Doing and feeling about God, yes, but . . . well, just think of the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector (Luke 18:9-14) if you don't see what I'm talking about.

That said, this shift is far from inevitable, even if it is the course of least resistance; and here's where Something Like Silas comes in. I only have their last album, Divine Invitation—as yet, I haven't picked up any of their indie releases—but while their songs are very personal expressions of worship, mostly "I" songs, they're also songs which are unquestionably focused on God; some are expressions of praise, while others are heartfelt prayers for God to act. So, since I missed posting a song for last week, I thought I'd post an example of each, two tracks off Divine Invitation.

Words That You Say

Speak in this close communion,
Though this hour seems timeless still,
I wait for your words that bid me come.
Breathe in me, Holy Spirit,
The will when my tomorrow comes
To follow when this song is gone.

So I await the words that you say—
I open my life;
I am longing just to hear these words
That you say, that you say.

Shape me with words of wisdom,
Free my torn heart from this world;
Renew my mind and form my will.
Teach me to wholly offer
More than words that I can sing,
So I become the song I bring.

Chorus

Can I be an instrument of praise
And here pursue your heart,
So my life will tell of who you are?
Can I be a channel of your love,
A reflection of your light,
And live to bring you praise and serve you, Lord?

Chorus

Words and music: Eric Owyoung
©2004 Birdwing Music
From the album Divine Invitation, by Something Like Silas



Infinite

Lord, a thousand years go by,
Just a moment in your eyes,
'Cause you alone are far beyond the infinite, O Lord.

Lord, all the heavens sing to you,
You're full of grace and truth,
And you alone are far beyond the infinite . . .

So I'll trust you when I cannot see;
So I'll trust you when the shadows hover over me
And I'll love you when the distance leaves me cold.
So I'll love you . . . I will still believe that you are sovereign, Lord.

Lord, your promises are true,
Your mercies always new,
Your love for us is far beyond the infinite, O Lord.

Though I fear I walk alone,
You reach into my soul;
Your love for me is far beyond the infinite . . .

Chorus

I'm learning to trust,
I'm learning to feel,
I'm learning to love you always . . .

Chorus

Words and music: Eric Owyoung and Steve Hindalong
©2004 Birdwing Music/New Spring Publishing, Inc./Never Say Never Songs
From the album Divine Invitation, by Something Like Silas