Homosexuality and the challenge of idolatry

It would be a lot more pleasant, in some ways, to be able to support the pro-homosex position. It would certainly be easier. After all, the church is called to welcome everyone in the love and grace of Jesus Christ, and it’s a fair bit easier to make people feel welcome if one can simply affirm their choices and decisions. That’s one reason why so many churches wink at so many other sins.

Beyond that, though, in American culture these days—perhaps not here, but in our country in general—being a straight guy who supports gay rights is a pretty comfortable thing to be. After all, the bigots on the conservative side—and there certainly are some—might yell at you a little, but they save the real abuse for homosexuals; the price paid by heterosexuals who argue for gay rights is pretty minimal. Meanwhile, liberal bigots—and there are definitely those, too—will pat you on the back and tell you how enlightened you are. For that matter, so will most of the American intelligentsia, and most of our rich and famous. And if a lot of other Americans disagree with you—well, that just offers the chance to indulge the ancient vice of snobbery.

These are some of the things that would make it a lot easier to throw in the towel regarding homosexuality. And yet, I am committed to understanding the Scriptures—which means standing under them, letting them read me and control my thinking, not trying to read my thinking into them. I am committed, further, to the principle that the call of God is a radical one, that Jesus calls us to give up everything to follow him, and that anyone who hears the call of Christ and is not challenged on some point of sinfulness in their lives didn’t really hear his voice at all. As uncomfortable as it might make me, as risky as it might be, if I start backing down on the issue of homosexuality, it won’t stop there. After all, it would be a lot easier just to affirm gossips in their gossiping and liars in their lying, too.

I keep coming back to the Rev. Tim Keller’s point, in his sermon at GCNC last year, that we cannot truly preach the gospel if we aren’t identifying and confronting the idols in our churches. It’s not just a matter of confronting sin; if all we do is point out and condemn the behaviors people already acknowledge as sinful and for which they already feel shame, we aren’t doing anything but piling on. The crux of the matter, rather, is identifying the desires and behaviors and heart attitudes that people (including ourselves, no question) don’t acknowledge as sin, and don’t want to admit are sinful—not the ones people already hate and wish they could give up (the challenge there is to support and encourage them in that work), but the ones they love and to which they cling, because those areas of sin have become idols in their lives.

That’s a necessary task in ministry, but it’s one from which we too often flinch, because people usually don’t respond pleasantly to it. Try it, and you’ll be called every name in the book, and maybe even some that aren’t in there yet; and in particular, you’ll be called hateful, unloving, judgmental, and maybe even pharisaical (depending on the other person’s vocabulary). And yet, doing so isn’t unloving in the least; in truth, it’s a profound act of love. Too often, I think, we don’t love others enough to risk their anger and abuse by telling them something they don’t want to hear, even if they deeply need to hear it. Easier not to care that much, to just be quiet instead. It’s a shame, really; in fact, it’s a damned shame. Literally.

On a different note

For those who might be interested, I just finished a sermon series working along the lines of the Nicene Creed (though I didn't hit everything the creed affirms) and ending up today with a sermon on the Trinity. I think that's the first time I've ever preached a full sermon on the subject. The texts are all up on the sermon blog; the audio of the sermons can be found on the church website, though at the moment only the first six are up—this morning's message will be posted tomorrow (Lord willing).

Update: OK, the audio of yesterday's message is up.

The idolatry of moralism

Tyler Jones, a church planter with Acts 29 down in Raleigh, has an interesting post up today on the Resurgence website called “The Poison of Quaint Moralism”; it’s addressed to his Southern context but has validity far beyond it. He writes,

The South has been poisoned, and the poison is “quaint moralism.” This poison has systematically infected tens of millions in the South and we are now in the midst of a moralistic pandemic. . . . Our churches are full of good-looking, upright, moral people. The tragic irony is that our goodness is our poison. A great many Southerners claim Christianity as their religion, mimicking righteousness on the surface while their hearts remain unchanged by the gospel of Jesus. I understand the gravity of that statement and do not make it hastily. Here in the South, the gospel has either been ignored or foolishly assumed. We have satiated our desire for God through quaint morality, allowing people to ignore their need for Jesus.

There is a common and deadly misconception that the church is supposed to produce people who live “good Christian lives.” This misconception spreads easily because it bears a strong superficial resemblance to the fruit of true holiness; but it just isn’t so. After all, it’s perfectly possible for most of us to be nice, moral people—good enough on the outside to make most folks happy, at any rate—in our own strength; and in this country with its Christian heritage, the world is perfectly happy to let you live a nice, moral life, as long as you are properly “tolerant”—which is to say, that you don’t do anything that makes anybody else uncomfortable. It’s a way of living that makes it easy for us to look at ourselves and think we’re doing just fine, and not realize how much we need God—while on the inside, our hearts remain closed to him. As C. S. Lewis said,

We must not suppose that if we succeeded in making everyone nice we should have saved their souls. A world of nice people, content in their own niceness, looking no further, turned away from God, would be just as desperately in need of salvation as a miserable world.

Moralistic religion is bloodless and powerless; it can affect behavior, but cannot touch the roots of sin in the heart. It directs our attention to ourselves and our own efforts, and thus away from God; it turns us away from grace and toward legalism, and thus waters the seeds of self-righteousness, arrogance and spiritual pride in our souls. The Devil is perfectly happy to make us moral, if only we will be moral to please ourselves (or other people) rather than God; what else, after all, was Jesus’ complaint against the Pharisees? Thus Michael Horton opens his book Christless Christianity with this story:

What would things look like if Satan really took control of a city? Over a half century ago, Presbyterian minister Donald Grey Barnhouse offered his own scenario in his weekly sermon that was also broadcast nationwide on CBS radio. Barnhouse speculated that if Satan took over Philadelphia, all of the bars would be closed, pornography banished, and pristine streets would be filled with tidy pedestrians who smiled at each other. There would be no swearing. The children would say, “Yes, sir” and “No, ma’am,” and the churches would be full every Sunday . . . where Christ is not preached.

If Christ is preached, everything else follows. If Christ is not preached, nothing else matters.

The power of the status quo

This is a snippet of a presentation given at Stanford by former Hewlett-Packard CEO (and, of course, current GOP candidate for the US Senate from California) Carly Fiorina. It's a good analysis of the problems that make any real change difficult—something which applies to pastors and churches as much as it does to politicians and governments.

The clash of self-righteousness

Of all the things poisoning our public discourse these days, I think the one that irritates me the most is the assumption—by people on both sides of our political divide—that we and our side (whichever side we stand on) are morally superior because of the policy positions we take. This is of course accompanied by denigration (sometimes sliding to contemptuous mockery) of the other side's claims to moral superiority. This is, I think, just one more example of the human desire to look down on other people; it's the use of dogmatic self-righteousness as a justification for arrogance and pride (which is why it so often goeth before a fall). The truth is, if you select a group based on any normal human characteristic—by their job, college, age, gender, pick one—you'll find saints and knaves both, and a lot of pretty mediocre people in between, in a typical distribution; selecting by political persuasion is no different. Confusing Republicans for Christians or Democrats for right-thinking people (or the flip side of that) is nothing more than wishful thinking.

Of course, I would like to be able to say that the church is an exception to that typical distribution. In some places, it no doubt is. In America, in far too many places, it isn't. It ought to be, but it isn't. We must grieve our Lord something fierce; and yet, in spite of everything, Jesus loves the church.

You say that you believe in us—at times, I wonder why . . .

No small things

Last week, Jared Wilson excerpted a post from a Christian counseling website, Counseling Solutions, called “Christ is not sophisticated enough for what I am going through.” It’s a remarkable post; the author, Rick Thomas, clearly advocates and seeks to practice gospel-centered counseling, which in my experience is not exactly the norm even among Christians in the counseling industry (and in fact seems to be actively discouraged by many who train counselors). Here’s how he opens:

Jeremy & Carol do not like each other. Jeremy is passive and Carol is hurt. Carol has been in therapy for many years and their problems have not gone away and their marriage is no better off today than it was when Carol began her therapy sessions. The fundamental problem with Jeremy and Carol is that they do not understand the Gospel.

When I shared this with them, they dismissed this notion with a wry smile. The Gospel is too simple and they had already “accepted Christ” twenty something years ago. From their perspective, they understand the Gospel, accepted the Gospel, and are now looking for something a bit more sophisticated to help them through their marriage difficulty.

Their attitude, unfortunately, is all too common among churchgoers in this country. We’re supposed to be gospel people—this is what we’re supposed to be on about, it’s what’s supposed to define us and give us our purpose—but somehow or other we’ve gotten the idea that this is kid stuff that we’ve outgrown. It’s not big enough or deep enough to apply to our grownup problems and struggles; we need something more.

I could be wrong about why that is, but I think it’s because we have far too small and shallow a view of our sin. That might sound counterintuitive, but hear me out. Our understanding of the gospel begins with the idea that it has something to do with saving us from sin; that’s where people generally begin, and even the most gospel-full people I know begin there, because it’s the truth. The gospel very much has to do with Christ saving us from the penalty of sin. The problem is, a lot of people don’t go any further than that—they get that the gospel means they aren’t going to Hell, and figure that’s the end of it.

Which wouldn’t be so big of a problem, except that in their heart of hearts, most folks don’t really believe they’d be going to Hell anyway, much less that they deserve to, because they don’t really think their sin is all that big a deal. Most people I’ve ever met basically figure that they’re either good enough or pretty close. Their view of their own sin is small and shallow, and they can’t imagine that God could really be that upset at them for it (though, interestingly, their view of the sins of others is frequently far less lenient). As a result, they don’t think saving them was (or would be) all that big a stretch.

The consequence of this shrunken view of sin, combined with a view of salvation that amounts to little more than a “Get Out of Hell Free” card, is a shriveled understanding of the gospel: the gospel as they imagine it is sized to fit what they conceive to be their relatively minor sins. In such a self-understanding, sin is not the major problem in their lives, but one of the smaller ones, if it’s even still recognized as a problem at all; the gospel, then, may have some value, but it isn’t enough to deal with the real issues in their lives. For that, they think something bigger is necessary. Because they do not understand the truly terrifying size and power of their sin, they cannot see the grace, mercy and love of God as the awe-inspiring thing that it is, great and powerful enough to save even them; their comprehension of this mystery goes no deeper than your average Hallmark card.

Of course, this is particularly understandable—none of us particularly want to look all that closely at our own sin; none of us wants to think of ourselves as capable of great evil, much less of doing real evil on a regular basis. Most of us tend to think of ourselves as being basically pretty good, because that’s what we want to think about ourselves. Unfortunately, that’s a misdiagnosis, and when problems arise, it leads us to turn to every solution except the right one; it leads us to believe that Jesus is not enough, and thus to look elsewhere for redemption when he is the only redeemer there is to be found.

The solution to this is, I believe, the one which Thomas prescribes:

Suppose Jeremy & Carol truly understood that they were on the precipice of hell. Let’s further suppose that they knew they were the worst, wickedest, and most undeserving people who ever lived. And there was not one ounce of an entitlement attitude in their souls. They were the worst of the worst.

Now let’s suppose someone came and totally transformed their lives. If anyone had ever gone from worst to first, Jeremy and Carol were those people. They received an “other worldly” gift that they not only did not deserve, but they were absolutely helpless in ever earning. Jeremy and Carol were truly regenerated: they were born again. They are now seated in heavenly places with the One who fully secured their regeneration. They have been affected by the Gospel.

That’s what all of us need to understand, because that’s where all of us are. God doesn’t owe us anything except judgment—even the best of us. But instead of giving us judgment, he gave us himself; he gave us his Son, Jesus Christ. We were and are utterly undeserving, and he saved us anyway, at unimaginable, immeasurable cost to himself; he did it because even though we turned our backs on him, he loved us too much to let us go. This is the reason for everything Jesus did, and it’s the reason he is the answer to all the deepest problems of our lives; it’s the reason that the truth of the gospel is sufficient, that it doesn’t need any of our human fake “wisdom” piled on top of it like poison ivy on a hot-fudge sundae. The gospel is enough; his grace is sufficient.

Back in the saddle (I think)

Life has been pretty crazy of late—we've had several folks from the church hospitalized of late, and a number of equally serious non-medical issues pop up as well—and in the middle of it, my laptop wound up in the shop, leaving me cadging computer time where I could get it. Needless to say, I haven't had a lot of time to write, and the blog shows it. Whether the crisis situations will ebb or not, I don't know, but at least I have my laptop back; I hope to take advantage of that to get back to blogging again.

In the meantime, Clover has the new iteration of their website engine up and running, and I've been making some upgrades to the church's website; check it out. (No, I don't have audio up for the new sermon series yet—that was one of the things I haven't been able to do without my laptop. That should be up shortly.)

Michael Spencer, RIP

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

—Michael Spencer

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

Shameless plug o’ the week

I haven't disappeared, I've just had several things conspiring to keep me from posting, including a lack of good Internet connection; I will be back to writing more soon. I did want to note, though, that the sermon audio on our church website is current through Easter, and I think I've finally made a breakthrough on some of the audio-quality issues—it's still not as good as I'd like it to be, but it's a long way better. I'm going to go back and clean up some of the stuff I've already posted, then set to work posting older series.

As I've said before

it's a wonderful thing being married to someone smarter than me. As I was putting together the retrospective post before this one (the first one I've done in a couple months), I was pointed again to a post my wife put up nearly two years ago now, addressed to some dechurched bloggers we'd gotten to know online, asking them, "What would it take for you to give us a chance?" It's a wonderful post, as Sara really lays out well our desire for our little church to be a congregation that's wide open to the reality of each other, in all our messiness and all our struggles and all our darkness as well as all our strengths and triumphs—and thus, as a consequence, wide open to whatever Jesus might want to do in and with and through each of us, and all of us together. I thought she was right on then, and I'm only more convinced of it now.

On not apologizing for Christmas

This past Advent, I preached a sermon series on the women mentioned in Matthew's genealogy of Jesus—Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba, and of course Mary. If you're interested, you can find the texts of the series here. It was the second time for that particular series, as I had preached it four years before in Colorado (though of course all the sermons were revised to one degree or another, since I'm a better preacher now than I was then; at least, I hope I am). It didn't meet with the same degree of acceptance here as it had there, though; that probably shouldn't have surprised me, since I know well the difference in culture between the small-town Midwest and the West, but it did. This was probably the first time I've ever met significant congregational resistance to an entire sermon series, with a number of people pronouncing themselves offended because "the sermons were so explicit" (or so I was told, at least; nobody would tell me who was offended, of course, since then I might actually be able to talk with them about it), and even the suggestion being made that perhaps I should apologize for the series.

But I do not apologize for it; in fact, I insist on it, for good theological reasons. For one thing, I do not share the evident presumption of many that any pastoral offense must necessarily be grounds for apology. Indeed, though there are certainly exceptions, I believe that the problem with most American pastors is not offensiveness but inoffensiveness—we fail far less often because we offend people than because we water down the truth and dodge necessary conflict in a determined effort to avoid doing so at any cost. Though I do not compare myself to Jesus (as no one should, except to see just how incredibly far short we fall), I can't help remembering that we worship a Savior who was frequently, bluntly, and often spectacularly offensive to the respectable people of his day. He was only "gentle Jesus, meek and mild" to the sinners who knew they were sinners in desperate need of grace. To those who thought they were doing just fine, if he ever pulled a punch, I've yet to find it.

This is not of course to say, or even to suggest, that offending people is therefore a good thing in and of itself, or that it's always defensible; far from it. It is, however, to say that there is such a thing as holy offense, and that sometimes the only way to avoid offending people is to avoid preaching the word of God, and particularly the gospel of Jesus Christ. Put another way, if we are going to be faithful representatives of Jesus Christ on this earth, sometimes we're going to offend people, and sometimes that's absolutely necessary and important. The only question is, are we offending people for the right reasons?

Of course, even when the answer to that question might be "yes," it can be at best a qualified "yes," because our own flaws, limitations, errors in judgment, and of course sin always mar even our most excellent efforts. I have no doubt, for instance, that there were things in those messages that I did not do as I should have. For one thing, I manifestly failed to make clear to the congregation what I was doing with the series, and what my purposes were in preaching it—perhaps in part because, though I could easily have done a better job on the first part, I hadn't really stopped to clearly articulate my purposes beyond a vague sense as to what I was doing. To make it sufficiently clear to them, I would first have had to do that work for myself.

Which isn't to say that I didn't know what I was on about, merely that I hadn't taken enough time to bring that fully into focus (a fact which no doubt weakened the messages). In the first place, this series was (and is) aimed squarely at the debilitating sentimentality that clings in sticky cotton-candy clouds to our celebration of Christmas and our understanding of the Incarnation. We have this powerful image of Jesus the innocent and helpless, the perfect baby boy, which is certainly all true enough—but we've let it grow like kudzu all across the December landscape, choking out our ability to see anything else.

If we take Christmas seriously, this must be in truth a disturbing and unsettling holiday, the first intimation that we worship a God who is profoundly and disquietingly unsafe, not because he isn't good, but because he utterly defies either our prediction or our control. It's the first hint that we don't worship a nice, respectable, moral God, but one who—while, yes, he certainly does proclaim a moral code—refuses to be constrained by any moral code we would consider reasonable (or to allow his commandments to be so constrained, either). It's the first warning that God will not respect our conventions and our standards, but in fact is on about subverting them. It's the first indication that reality is not going to conform to our expectations, that there is indeed more in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in our philosophy—and that in fact, in the last analysis, the fool may know more of how things really work than the wise.

In other words, at the heart of the message of Christmas is an announcement that God is not going to play by our rules or abide by our proprieties and protocols; it is the grand upending of our expectations and the complete upskittling of our comfortable assumptions. It isn't a Hallmark-card moment in history, but a crashing, rocketing, tearing scandal—and as Matthew shows us, and as I was at some pains to show in that sermon series, that scandal is embedded in the story going all the way back to the early days of Jesus' family line. It is implicit in the story of Jesus, as it must be, because Jesus comes among us as the ultimate subversive: he must necessarily subvert our expectations of him, because he comes to subvert the governing tragedy of all of human history.

Jesus wasn't born to be nice, and he wasn't born to teach us to be nice; respectability and propriety, while they have their place, weren't what he was about, and he would not be bound by them if they were being used for purposes contrary to his own. The stories of Jesus' ancestresses show us clearly that God can work to carry out his plan even through people whose morality is uncertain and whose grasp on his character is sketchy at best, and that he can turn even deeds which scandalize the upright, done by those who are outside the pale, into elements of his glorious work—and if we do not understand this, then we cannot understand why Jesus was born to an unwed mother among the common people, why he was feared and loathed by the most religious people of his day, or why they contrived to have him killed.

Indeed, if we do not understand this, then we cannot understand why he died, much less why he rose again, for this is the reality and the mystery of redemption. Redemption isn't for the worthy—whether for those we consider worthy, or those who consider themselves worthy—it's for those who know and confess themselves unworthy. Which fact is, inevitably, offensive to many who are unwilling to do so, including many whose unwillingness is rooted in their perception of themselves as "nice Christian people." Which is, in the end, why these are the stories the church needs to hear, if we're to be true followers of the Christ whose name we claim.

For the blessings of the evening

Every once in a while, I hear a sermon that really shifts me, one through which God speaks to me and works in me in such a way that I know I have been changed. I had that privilege this morning at the Worship Symposium as Laura Truax brought us the word of God; I'm going to listen to this one again once the audio is up, and take some time to reflect on it. For now, I'm just thanking him for a truly blessed day.

Dr. Jeremy Begbie's plenary address was also exceptional (as I expected); he's also giving the plenary address tomorrow, so I'll probably wait to write about that until I've heard both of them and had the chance to consider them together. I think what he had to say may well produce significant change in my sermon this Sunday, though. The three workshops I attended were also all excellent (I probably won't write about all of them, but all three were very helpful); and then I get to spend the evening with my brother-in-law and his family. God has definitely poured out riches on me this day, and for that, I am humbly grateful.

To know nothing but the gospel

I heard a sermon recently which infuriated me, and the less said about what, where, and why, the better. It sparked a number of reflections, though, on which I've been chewing in the time since, so it wasn't a total loss. In particular, it provoked this thought: anything which is not the gospel can become an idol. Seriously, anything. Even good things, like love of country (as I've written more than once) or love of our family; even godly things, like faithfulness, or holy living, or salvation. Anything which is not the gospel—however close it might be to the gospel—can become an idol, because anything which is not the gospel can be made to be all about us, in one way or another. Only the gospel is purely about Jesus Christ; only the gospel focuses our attention entirely on him; only the gospel tells us that it isn't about us, it's all about God. It's only by making our churches all about the gospel that we can keep them free of the idolatries that will otherwise, inevitably, seep in. Any other focus makes idolatry inevitable, because if we have the opportunity to make church all about us, we'll take it. Every time.

The old pastor didn't do it that way . . .

Carol Howard Merritt put up an interesting post early last week about intergenerational differences in work style and approaches to getting things done, and the ways in which those differences affect our churches.

Work looks different. And sometimes it pesters the intergenerational tensions like a chigger just below the skin. There is something annoying and wrong, although we can’t figure out just what it is. Older generations of people cannot point to anything that their younger pastor is not doing. In fact, the church might even be growing, but there is a difference in the manner in which she is getting it done that vexes them.

She lays out differences in the ways we study, the ways in which we communicate, and the work which we do; and though every pastor and every church is different from every other, as generalizations, I think the differences she identifies are quite perceptive. (Certainly her first point is all too familiar to me as something that got me into trouble at the last church I served.) It's not a long article, but you'll likely spend more time thinking about it than you do reading it.

Oh, and as a side note, you might pray for the Rev. Merritt, who fell last Wednesday and dislocated her shoulder.

Note

Obviously, I haven’t been around much the last few weeks; between being busy, being short on sleep, and being sick, I’ve had little time or energy to be. I hope to have more time to write in the next couple weeks; we’ll see how that plays out. I certainly have things I want to write about, if I can get the brain space and schedule space to focus on them. In the meantime, at least I finally have audio for the whole James series posted over on the church website, so that’s something.

Further programming note

The last sermon in the series on James is now up over on my sermon blog (as can be seen as well from the post below this one, which was adapted from that sermon); I'm not as far along in getting sermon audio up over on the church website, but that should all be done within the next few days. As well, this morning's message, the first in this year's Advent series, is also up; I won't be excerpting these sermons on this blog, because their narrative structure doesn't really suit that sort of excerpting, but I'm quite fond of this series. Titled "The Women in His Life," it's a look at the women named in Matthew's genealogy of Jesus in the first chapter of his gospel—women whose inclusion in that genealogy was out of the ordinary, in more ways than one. Check out this morning's sermon, on Tamar, and you'll see what I mean.

Programming note

A combination of illness and technical problems put me behind on updating my sermons online, both the texts on my sermon blog and the audio files on the church's website. Those problems have now been resolved, however; I'm not fully caught up (I still have the text of this past Sunday's message to post, and a number of audio files to post), but I should be by the end of the week.

Things good pastors say

The inimitable Jared Wilson has a wonderful post up today titled "10 Things Good Pastors Say" which captures some important truths about ministry. I will note that #1 really does not make one feel like a good pastor—nor, in some cases, does #2, especially when it comes in combination with #1—but that's one of the reasons why they're so critical. You don't say them, you never have the chance to become a good pastor.

Here's the list, and I'll include his comment for #1; if you want the rest, go read the full post.

1. Please forgive me.

Better than "I'm sorry," which can often be followed with an "if" or a "but," these words indicate a humble heart. Bad pastors hide their faults behind the cloak of their authority, practice self-defense against all charges, and basically pretend. Good pastors know they're sinners and admit it.

2. You're right.

3. You're wrong.

4. Jesus loves you.

5. I love you.

6. Me too.

7. Any time.

8. Thank you.

9. Grace is true.

10. You're approved.

Amen.

Now, who is this church thing about, again?

I was blown away last night by a great post from the Vice Moderator of the 218th General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA), the Rev. Byron Wade. I've never met him, but I'm confident in saying two things about him: 1) he's good people, and 2) he's on the liberal side of things in his beliefs. He was, after all, chosen for this position by the Moderator of that GA, the Rev. Bruce Reyes-Chow, of whom both those things are also true. (GA always elects liberals.) I've had various interactions with Bruce online—on this blog, and his, and Facebook—and I like and respect him a great deal; he's the sort of person who can disagree with you with grace, respect, affection, and an honest desire to understand where you're coming from. That's all too rare (and probably always has been). As such, though I don't know the man he chose as vice moderator, in my book, Byron Wade comes well recommended for character.

All of this is by way of saying that the following passage comes from someone with a real heart for the church, but not from an evangelical (as in fact he says himself):

The surprising thing that I have heard in my travels is stories about pastors/laity who do not preach and/or mention Jesus Christ. While I have not heard it a lot, it has been said to me enough that it caused me some alarm. . . .

I am in no way a Fundamentalist or a person who is considered an "evangelical street preacher." What I am saying is that I believe that we who call ourselves followers of Jesus Christ may want to preach him to others, for if we don't people will go elsewhere. And I would hate to think that we are losing out on witnessing to others because we don't talk about Jesus.

Byron titled his post (quite properly, I think) "Is it just me or are we supposed to be talking about Jesus?" Read the whole thing—some of the stories he tells truly are worrisome. As I read, two thoughts struck me, both rather sad. First, it's a wonderful thing to hear this point being made by somebody on the liberal side of the aisle; I don't say that all liberal Christians shy away from talking about Jesus, but one doesn't often hear liberals calling out the American church for its Christlessness. Second, several of the stories he tells may perfectly well have happened in churches that consider themselves "evangelical"; when folks like Jared Wilson and Michael Spencer criticize the Jesuslessness of the church in this country, it's not Ivy League liberals they have in mind.

As such, it's a good thing to be able to make common cause with more liberal folks like the Vice Moderator to ask the American church together, "Is it just me, or are we supposed to be talking about Jesus?" Who knows—maybe coming from someone like Byron, it will actually scandalize the church into paying attention.

Book recommendations

No, not from me (though I second many of these, and others are on my to-read list), but from a Twitter poll taken by Johnathan McIntosh of Rethink Mission. Since it was mostly a poll of pastoral types, it's a list of books about God, church, and leadership (including, in the "honorable mention" category, Jared's book Your Jesus Is Too Safe, which I was glad but not surprised to see there). It's a great list of great books (with a definite Tim Keller slant—two of his plus the Jesus Storybook Bible, a wonderful work whose author acknowledges her great debt to Dr. Keller with deep gratitude—which I think is a good thing). If you're looking for something to read, check it out.