Over the past decade it has been popular to distinguish between “cultural fundamentalism” and “historic fundamentalism.” Cultural fundamentalism is regarded by its critics as very, very bad. It consists of folksy/outdated traditionalism that has drifted from its quaint, innocuous origins and has entered a bitter, skeptical stage of life—complete with theological errors of a sort that typically attend aging, countercultural movements. Historic fundamentalism, which focuses more on basic theological issues, fares a little bit better, but only a very little bit. Critics puzzle over those who accept this label, marveling that anyone would risk associative guilt by lingering near those nasty cultural fundamentalists: “Why not get with the program,” they ask, “and become a conservative evangelical?”
Part of the reason, I would venture, is that conservative evangelicalism itself appears, to all but those blinded by its euphoria, to be yet another cultural phenomenon—a new iteration of a broader movement (evangelicalism) that, let’s face it, has a track record easily as jaded as that of fundamentalism. True, the conservative evangelicals of today are a bit more conscious of theology and mission (that’s how the life cycle of ecclesiological “movements” begins), and their culture is more up-to-date; but it’s just a matter of time until the present iteration of evangelicalism grows old, propped up only by the same nostalgia that today keeps Billy Graham crusades and Bill and Gloria Gaither homecomings on cable TV (except that these will be replaced, for a new generation of elderly evangelicals, with John Piper recordings and Keith and Kristyn Getty sing-alongs that allow folks to relive the glory days).
Last week Darryl Hart, a notable critic of conservative evangelicalism (a.k.a. the “New Calvinism” and “Young, Restless, and Reformed” movements), wrote a scathing exposé of today’s culture-heavy evangelicalism. Speaking specifically to his own confessional concerns, he made the obvious point that the major attraction of the “New Calvinism” and the “Young, Restless and Reformed” movements wasn’t primarily theological (the “Calvinism” and “Reformed” part) but cultural (the “New, Young, and Restless” part). Calvinism, he observed, has been faithfully preserved for centuries in confessional churches (like the OPC of which Hart is a part) that guarded it far more carefully than the confessionally unconstrained evangelicals ever could. No, the major attraction of the “New Calvinism,” Hart opined, was that it offered something that the Old Calvinism didn’t, viz., “the sorts of celebrity, technology, mass crowds, and enthusiasm upon which the young sovereigntists thrive.” The “Gospel Allies” (a derogatory label Hart uses for the conservative evangelical movement) deliberately denigrate the Old Calvinists for one prevailing reason: They’re not new. And since they’re not new, they have little appeal for the young and restless crowd. The “Gospel Allies,” on the other hand, stay new by brokering alliances with cool, edgy, avant-garde, and (mostly) Reformedish celebrities like Driscoll, McDonald, and Mahaney, who, granted, might fall over the edge with which they flirt—but it’s worth the risk.
So what comes next? Well, if history is our guide, the generational cycle of cultural ecclesiology will soon move to its next phase, what I call ecclesiastical “niche-making.” The fundamentalist version of this is well documented. The 1940s and 50s revivalist culture (the best snapshot of which is found in its music) was all new and fresh and culturally edgy in its day. But now it is the realm of churches populated by 80-year-olds who can’t figure out why there are no “young people.” It’s happening again with the Patch the Pirate generation. Patch and Company were all the rage in the 1980s and early 1990s, but now they’re old news. Still, by publishing their magnum opus, Majesty Hymns, a coalition of Patch-culture churches lives on, populated mostly by those who were parents of small children during the 1980s. Now they’re beginning to wonder why the “youth group” is so small.
But evangelicalism is no different. Visit the various evangelical churches in your neighborhood and you’ll find Gaither churches, romantic but theologically vacuous churches from the golden age of CCM, and now Getty/Townend/SG churches (hint: this is where that missing generation has gone). I have little doubt that this cycle will repeat, because there is little in place to break the cycle. The pattern for all of these groups has been to push the cultural envelope until they create their niche, then settle down to enjoy it.
The possible conclusions, then, appear to be twofold: some churches will (1) do nothing and become culturally backward, ingrown congregations that reminisce together until they eventually die of old age, while others will (2) transition to the next cultural cycle and thrive for another 25 years or so. But is this the way it’s supposed to be? I think not.
The answer, I would suggest, is faithful ministry in confessionally bounded churches committed more to the spirituality of the church than they are to the socio-political and cultural relevancy of the church. By striving, self-consciously, to be as culturally transcendent as possible, I would argue, we can cultivate timeless, transgenerational bodies that do not need to reinvent themselves every quarter century to remain solvent. It will not be easy—after all, culture has told us for a hundred years that this is not the way church is done. But it’s definitely worth the effort.
In 1768 the French Enlightenment philosopher Voltaire wrote: “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.” Voltaire was not trying to denigrate Christianity. Rather, he was arguing for the social benefit of belief in God. He thought that belief in God helped provide incentive to people to live morally and helped establish social order and justice. Thus, if God did not exist, it would be better for society to convince people that God did exist.
There are a growing number of atheists in our day who are clamoring for the abolishment of religion. The late Christopher Hitchens was a leading voice in this movement, and he did not hide his contempt for Voltaire’s sentiment. “Though I dislike to differ with such a great man, Voltaire was simply ludicrous when he said that if god did not exist it would be necessary to invent him. The human invention of god is the problem to begin with” (God is Not Great, 96).
In response to these calls for the abolishment of religion, some are continuing to argue that religion, though perhaps (likely?) false, is still good. Thus, much of the discussion has moved past the question of whether or not Christianity is true to whether or not Christianity (and religion more broadly) is beneficial. Where should Christians side in this debate? Should we tout the idea that religion has tangible benefits even if it is false?
One of the central tenets of the Christian faith is that Jesus is alive today—He rose from the dead. This historical event has been both questioned and affirmed for centuries. A couple of years ago, we held a lecture for our campus ministry at Wayne State University on whether or not Jesus rose from the dead. During the Q&A session afterward, a young lady—after stating that she was a Christian—asked whether or not it really mattered. Is anything changed if Jesus did not rise from the dead? Even if Jesus didn’t rise from the dead, isn’t Christianity still good?
In Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, he addresses an issue related to that question. Some in Corinth were denying the Apostolic teaching of the resurrection of the dead. In confronting this error, Paul considers the consequences if Jesus did not rise from the dead.
And if Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain. 15 We are even found to be misrepresenting God, because we testified about God that he raised Christ, whom he did not raise if it is true that the dead are not raised. 16 For if the dead are not raised, not even Christ has been raised. 17 And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins. 18 Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished. 19 If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied. (1 Cor 15:14-19)
What if Jesus did not rise from the dead?
The first consequence Paul mentions is that the preaching of the gospel would be empty. If Paul were to talk with the preachers in churches all over America who do not believe Jesus rose from the dead but still “preach” each Sunday, he would tell them it would be better if they just went fishing or golfing on Sundays. There is no truth to the message being preached if Jesus did not rise.
Some in our day might respond that the objective reality of Jesus’ resurrection is insignificant. What really matters is that we believe he is alive in our hearts! But Paul next states that our faith is empty if Jesus did not rise. The Christian faith is not about wishful thinking. It’s not hoping something is true in spite of the fact that it probably isn’t. It’s about trust in a person and what that person did. If that person did not do what he claimed, then the faith is empty.
Many today would point to the value of moral instruction that religion provides. But Paul next states that he and the other apostles are liars if Jesus did not rise from the dead. He and the other apostles have been preaching that God raised Christ from the dead, and if He did not then they have been lying about God. They have been testifying falsely against him. If they’ve been lying about God, why would we trust them on what they have to say about moral issues? (Or why would we trust Jesus on moral issues when He said He would rise from the dead?) Here’s some valuable advice you may want to tuck away: you don’t want to get your ethical instruction from someone who has been lying about the central part of their message!
But isn’t there still a personal, psychological benefit from believing in Christianity even if it is not true? Paul points out that our faith is of no value if Jesus is still dead. Whereas before Paul says our faith is empty, here he says it is futile or worthless. It’s incapable of accomplishing anything for us.
The reason our faith is futile is because it is not intended to provide a psychological benefit but to deal with our problem of sin. Jesus, as a sinless person, died to pay the penalty for our sins. The resurrection is God’s public display of approval of Christ’s payment for sin. But without the resurrection the payment was not accepted. If Jesus did not rise from the dead then his death was simply for his own sin—just like everyone else who has ever died.
If our sin has not been dealt with, then there is no hope of escaping death. If we are still in our sins, death is not simply falling asleep in Christ but is really the end—eternal separation from God.
Paul concludes by declaring that, if Christ is not raised, Christians are the most to be pitied. He is not simply saying that Christians are to be pitied because they expected heaven but didn’t get it. Christ’s resurrection has bearing on our current lives. It frees us to willingly sacrifice for the sake of God and others (cf. 1 Cor 15:30-32). But if Christ is not alive, there is no point in living a sacrificial life for others. We might as well simply live for ourselves.
Paul does not believe that the Christian life has meaning in itself if Christ is not risen. Christians are a bunch of fools if Christ has not risen! But as Paul points out in the next verse: “But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead” (1 Cor 15:20). Christianity is worthless if it is not true. But Christianity is true, and the truth of Christianity is infinitely good.
The winner of our recent book giveaway was Chris K. in Clarkston, MI. His copy of Four Views on the Apostle Paul is in the mail. Congratulations, Chris. And thanks to all who participated.
Hopefully, at this point in the summer you’ve made a pretty good dent in your summer reading list. We’re looking to add one more title to that list, and we’re going to give a free copy of Four Views on the Apostle Paul (Zondervan, 2012) to someone who comments on this post.
In order to enter the drawing, you need to leave a comment below telling us the author and title of the best book you’ve read this summer (outside the Bible). The book can be fiction or non-fiction, academic or popular, long or short. It doesn’t matter. To be entered, you only need to tell us the title and author, but if you really enjoyed the book and want to tell us why, that would be great too.
The deadline to be entered in the drawing is 11 pm (EST), Wednesday, August 13.
It’s no secret that I have an abiding interest in the place and function of sanctification in the life of believers. The journey that began for me as a doctoral dissertation answering the Keswick model of sanctification that has historically punished dispensational fundamentalism has taken a new twist in recent years as a new threat has emerged within conservative evangelicalism: the gospel-driven sanctification approach most vividly seen in the writings of Tullian Tchividjian, but certainly not restricted to his sphere of influence.
In ultimate terms, I am not opposed to the label “gospel-driven” as applied to sanctification. My tension with the contemporary use of this label by those in the “contemporary grace movement” (as it is now being labeled in some Reformed circles) is that it restricts the gospel, in varying degrees, to Christ’s accomplishment of justification for us while giving scant attention given to Christ’s accomplishment of regeneration in us. As such, “gospel-driven” sanctification becomes, to a greater or lesser degree, an exercise in recalling Christ’s righteousness imputed in justification (with an attendant abhorrence of all that smacks of “doing” or “rule-keeping”) rather than as a disciplined cultivation and exercise of Christ’s righteousness imparted in regeneration. This is an irregularity of no small concern.
The Great Commission knows nothing of this irregularity. Its burden is not only to secure professions of faith, but to create Christ-followers who are baptized into local church communities and then “taught to obey everything I have commanded you” (Matt 28:20). In short, the Gospel includes teaching new believers to keep God’s rules, both cultivating virtue and extirpating sin. This very compact expectation represents, I think, the very essence of sanctification, and it is a part of the Great Commission. Obedience is not, to be sure, necessary to salvation, but it is, most emphatically, necessary of salvation. So necessary are obedience and good works in the Christian religion that the Scriptures can say, “Without holiness no one will see the Lord” (Heb 12:14). The burden of this statement, which dominates several whole books of the NT canon (James, 1 John, and 2 Peter), informs us that obedience is important to God. As Rick Phillips has recently (and very carefully) explained, The Gospel Includes Sanctification (read the whole thing—he says things so very much more clearly than I). But let me take his statement one provocative step further: if the Gospel includes sanctification/regeneration (and I think Pastor Phillips is correct in affirming this), then to the degree that gospel presentations suppress/omit these ideas, they risk altering the Gospel into something other than what the Bible claims it to be. And that is a very, very big deal.
The reason we Protestants tend to diminish the importance of obedience is, of course, the real and vital concern that we might communicate to an unbeliever that one’s obedience contributes to one’s justification. This is a devastating error, and we rightly want to avoid it at all costs. And so, we reason, if introducing regeneration/sanctification/obedience in a Gospel presentation might confuse an unbeliever about the means of justification, then we may dispense with these topics as matters of secondary importance: it’s more important, after all, to get people saved than it is to get people holy. But this is a very anthropocentric sentiment that flies in the face of Christ’s earthly mission. Christ came not only to rescue his people from the guilt of sin, but also from the power and practice of sin—he came to destroy the works of the evil one and to create a heaven that is scoured free not only of guilt, but of all unrighteousness (see, e.g., 1 John 3:5–8; Rom 6:1–14; Acts 28:16; etc.).
I remain mindful that the “movements” from which many of us and many of our churches have emerged have emphasized obedience and rules to excess, and I cannot condone this. Still, we err mightily if we adopt the binary approach that sees libertinism as the only remedy for legalism. There is an excluded middle here that we badly need to discover.
Earlier this summer I had a chance to read and review a new and increasingly-influential book on Hebrews by David Moffitt, assistant professor of NT at Campbell University Divinity School. The review’s slotted to be published in the Fall edition of Trinity Journal. Here, however, I wanted to post a lightly revised, pre-publication version, principally because I think the book’s fundamental thesis is just plain wrong. I’ll explain why. But, first, a summary.
Summary. Moffitt tries to overturn two common assumptions in Hebrews’ scholarship. Against those who argue that (1) Jesus’ resurrection is unimportant for Hebrews and (2) Jesus’ resurrection has been conflated with his exaltation, he insists that Jesus’ resurrection should be distinguished from his exaltation and that Jesus’ resurrection stands at the center of Hebrews’ theology. He supports this intriguing thesis with three arguments.
First, he argues that Jesus’ human presence in heaven is what makes him greater than angels, which, therefore, presumes his bodilyresurrection (and ascension). The argument of Heb 1 turns, in other words, on ontology: the son, as an exalted human, is greater than angelic spirits. The focus on Jesus’ humanity in Heb 2, then, is less on humiliation than it is on eligibility and eschatology. The son became “like his peers” and, thus, eligible for the sort of eschatological exaltation described in Heb 1 and anticipated, according to Heb 2, in Ps 8. Second, Moffitt argues that Jesus’ qualification for priesthood—his perfection—required his resurrection. After all, Jesus’ appointment as heavenly (Melchizedekian) priest (Heb 8:1–2, 4) required death (Heb 2:9–11; 5:8–10) and an “indestructible life” (Heb 7:16). Jesus perfection, therefore, “st[ood] between [his] death and elevation to the heavenly priesthood” (p. 199). Third, Moffitt argues that Jesus’ resurrection, rather than his death, is at the center of Hebrews’ atonement theology. Hebrews, he insists, consistently presents Jesus’ offering as taking place inheaven, not on earth (e.g., Heb 9:11–12, 23–25), and Jesus’ offering as his offering of his resurrected, not bloody body (e.g., Heb 10:5–10; 13:12). Were it otherwise, the author’s Day-of-Atonement typology would be undone. Hebrews would bring to the center—sacrificial slaughter—what Leviticus leaves on the periphery. Jesus’ death, instead, serves as a model of exemplary suffering and, moreover, as a necessary, if still preparatory step for his (heavenly) atoning work (p. 294).
Critique. Moffitt’s thesis, while nicely argued, is nevertheless untenable, primarily for two reasons. First, Moffitt’s understanding of Jesus’ priesthood is reductionistic. Moffitt forces precision where Hebrews simply will not allow it. Hebrews—however frustratingly—never gives us a clear idea when Jesus became a high priest. While it could suggest that Jesus’ priesthood began only after his resurrection (Heb 7:16) or only once Jesus entered heaven (Heb 8:4), it could also suggest that Jesus’ crucifixion—his voluntary death—was itself a priestly act. After all, while one might, with Moffitt, separate sacrificial slaughter from atonement, no one—especially anyone familiar with the Day-of-Atonement ritual—would suggest only the latter was a priestly activity (see, e.g., Lev 16:11, 15). Second, Moffitt’s understanding of atonement is reductionistic. Whether or not sacrificial slaughter—death—is less central to atonement than the presentation of blood/life can presently remain an open question. Neither Hebrews nor the OT, however, will allow death to function simply as the preparation for atonement, which is to say, as simply the preparation for the atoning manipulation of blood in God’s presence. This sort of conclusion would make nonsense of those instances in the OT where atonement is secured by death alone, without any reference to the Levitical cult, much less to the ritual manipulation of blood (see, e.g., Exod 32:30–32; Num 25:13; 35:33; Deut 21:1–9; 2 Sam 21:3ff. et al.) or, related, to those cultic contexts which accent the atoning value of some ritual element other than manipulation (see, e.g., Lev 1:4; 4:26). Moffitt’s reading, moreover, is also out of step with a more traditional and, arguably, convincing reading of Lev 17:11, which emphasizes death—life given in the place of another’s life—rather than life released and, therefore, available for atoning purgation. Much the same, in fact, could be said for Hebrews, which stubbornly refuses to view Jesus’ death as simply preparatory for and, thus, “peripheral” to atonement (cf. p. 276). Rather, it is Jesus’ death itself that restores humanity’s lost glory (“because he suffered death,” Heb 2:9), frees humans from the devil’s grip (“by his death,” Heb 2:14), and provides the forgiveness necessary for the inauguration/mediation of the new covenant (“now that he has died as a ransom to set them free from…sins,” Heb 9:15; et al.). None of this, of course, requires a metaphorical reading of Jesus’ archetypical blood ritual, which is to say, none of this undercuts Moffitt’s more fundamental point about the literal nature of the Day-of-Atonement antitype. What does, however, is Hebrews’ one explicit reference to Jesus’ resurrection in 13:20. There the author says that Jesus was raised because of the efficacy of his covenant-inaugurating—and, thus, atonement-securing—death (“through the blood of the eternal covenant”). In other words, Jesus’ death—his blood—had atoning virtue prior to his resurrection and, thus, prior to the moment at the center of Moffitt’s thesis.
In sum, in an attempt to interpret Jesus’ priesthood consistently and his atoning presentation non-metaphorically, Moffitt has overcooked his evidence and, thus, misread Hebrews. Hebrews simply will not allow Jesus’ sacrifice to be separated from his priestly, atoning work.
Eusebius of Caesarea (c. 260–c. 340) is generally considered the church’s first real historian. Although he provides invaluable insight into the history and workings of the early church, Eusebius is often criticized for his selective record and especially for his rather generous depiction of Emperor Constantine (c. 272–337). Shortly after the emperor’s death, Eusebius wrote a panegyric in which he described Constantine in very positive terms while omitting some of the more negative details about his character and domestic life. In addition to his book on Constantine, Eusebius also wrote several other works including an account of the church’s first three centuries titled Church History. This too was not strictly speaking a critical work, but it is the earliest chronological description of the church in this period which is still extant. Without it, we would be much the poorer.
In his Church History, Eusebius covers the time from Christ to Constantine. He describes the persecution which many early believers faced at the hands of Roman authorities. He tells of Ignatius of Antioch the early second century bishop who was martyred in Rome and “became food for wild animals because of his witness to Christ” (3.36). He records the conflict which surrounded the various heresies which the early church was forced to confront and the difficulties which notorious heretics caused within the church (e.g., 4.7; 5.14–20). And he recounts some of the terrible events which took place during the Diocletian persecution of his own day (8.1–13).
In describing the persecution which some second-century believers faced, Eusebius preserves the following account from the church in Gaul:
In addition to all this, on the last day of the games Blandina was again brought in, with Ponticus, a lad of about fifteen. Each day they had been led in to watch the torturing and were urged to swear by the idols. Furious at their steadfast refusal, they showed no sympathy for the boy’s youth or respect for the woman but subjected them to every torture. Ponticus was heartened by his sister in Christ and bravely endured each horror until he gave up his spirit. Last of all, the blessed Blandina, like a noble mother who had comforted her children and sent them on triumphantly to the king, rejoiced at her own departure as if invited to a wedding feast. After the whips, the beasts, and the gridiron, she was finally put into a net and thrown to a bull. Indifferent to circumstances through faith in Christ, she was tossed by the animal for some time before being sacrificed. The heathen admitted that never before had a woman suffered so much so long.
Not even this was enough to satisfy their maniacal cruelty. Goaded on [by Satan], they threw to the dogs those who had been strangled in jail, watching day and night that we did not tend to them. Then they threw out the remains left by the beasts and the fire, torn and charred, while a military guard watched the heads and trunks of the rest for many days, denying them burial. Some gnashed their teeth at them; others laughed and jeered, glorifying their idols for punishing their foes. The more moderate, with little sympathy, taunted, “Where is their god?” and “What did they get out of their religion, which they preferred to their own lives?” (5.1).
At times Eusebius’s account is quite interesting, and in many places, such as this, it is quite troubling. One of the great values of Eusebius’s record is that it reminds us that the Christian life bears more resemblance to a battlefield than it does to a park intended for family picnics. Eusebius and the experience of many early Christians illustrates the fact this world is not our home; everything we see here will ultimately burn. Thankfully, the believer’s hope lies not in this world, but in the next.
For a number of years the Seminary faculty has produced the Basic Library Booklist. It is updated every few years, and you can find the 2014 edition here. The Booklist has been specifically designed to answer the question of which books are the best on a particular book of the Bible or theological subject. In the case of commentaries, best means those that are the most helpful in exegesis and exposition, as well as understanding the overall argument of a book. The books are listed in order of importance. The first book listed is the one that should probably be purchased first, though it is doubtful that one commentary would be sufficient for adequate sermon preparation.
Besides commentaries the Booklist also rates books in systematic theology, historical theology, and practical theology. Check out the Booklist and let us know what you think.
Keep watch over yourselves and all the flock of which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers. Be shepherds of the church of God, which he bought with his own blood—Acts 20:28
What does Paul mean in his speech in Acts 20 when he says that God purchased the church with “his own blood”? God doesn’t have blood. He’s a spirit. In fact, it’s precisely because God doesn’t have blood that God the Son became incarnate. Otherwise the human problem of sin and death could not have been solved. So, what is Paul saying here? Let me try to untangle this one by offering three of the more plausible solutions, one text critical and two interpretive.
A text-critical option. One solution to the problem is found in a handful of important manuscripts that read “church of the Lord” instead of “church of God.” For a list, see the online apparatus of NA28 here. As most recognize, however, the manuscript evidence for this alternative reading is pretty evenly matched with the manuscript evidence for the reading followed above by the NIV. What tips the scales away from this solution, then, is the internal evidence, principally two considerations. First, neither Paul nor any other NT author (incl. Luke) uses the phrase “church of the Lord.” Most often the NT refers to the “church of God” (11x) or to the church of a particular region (“of Galatia”) or city (“of the Thessalonians”). The closest the NT comes to the “church of the Lord” is Paul’s reference in Rom 16:16 to “all the churches of Christ.” Of course, all this could suggest that a scribe changed an original “of the Lord” to “of God” to match the NT’s normal idiom. What points against this, however, is the intrinsic difficulty of the resulting phrase, “the church of God, which he purchased with his own blood.” It seems to me (and others) that a scribe would more likely go against the NT standard idiom than introduce such a difficult theological concept. Thus, “church of God” is the more difficult reading and, as a result, explains the existence of the alternative reading and should be preferred. In other words, the text-critical solution probably won’t work.
Two interpretive options. First, the communicatio idiomatum. This option suggests that Paul uses a quality or property of one of Jesus’ natures—the “blood” of his human nature—to describe or predicate his other nature—his “God”-hood (i.e., God’s blood). In theological discussions, this is known as (one version of) the communicatio idiomatum, the “communication of properties.” This solution to Acts 20:28 has been, as far as I’m able to tell, the standard way of explaining the text throughout Christian history. For a couple high-powered examples, see Calvin’s note here and Jaroslav Pelikan’s note here (pp. 221–22). The trouble with this reading, however, is that it is out of step with the NT. Elsewhere the NT never conflates Jesus’ two natures in this way. While it predicates of the one person what is true of both natures, it stops short of predicating of either nature what is true only of the other (cf., e.g., Harris’ note here). (Luke 1:43 is no exception. On this text, see, e.g., Bock’s comments here.)
Second, a term of endearment. This options suggests that what Paul means here is that God purchased the church with the blood of his Own. That is, “own” refers not to God’s own blood but rather to the blood of God’s Own, which is to say, to Jesus. Thus, the idea would be similar to what we find in, e.g., Eph 1:6 when Paul talks about Jesus as “the beloved” or in Acts 3:14 when Peter calls him “the righteous one.” What points in favor of this option, moreover, is that elsewhere in the NT when “own” is used adjectively (i.e., “God’s own blood”), it’s not often found in the word order used in Acts 20:28. That is—and this one’s for the Greek students out there—it occurs 68x in the first attributive position (art. + adj. + subst.) and only 4x in the second attributive position (art. + subst. + art. + adj.), the position it’s found in here. Added to this, “own” is used substantively in the NT (i.e., “blood of his Own”), and in literature contemporary with the NT, it’s used substantively as a term of endearment (see, e.g., MM here).
While it’s not a total home run, this last option is the best of a bad lot or, as my dad likes to say, it leaves the least number of questions unanswered.
Over the past month or two, I’ve put forward a few suggested reading lists in the field of church history. These lists have included surveys of church history, books on the history of Christian doctrine, books that discuss church history in specific areas of the world, and books related to Baptist history. In this last post of the series, I am going to recommend a few Christian biographies. There are so many good biographies available that it was hard to decide which ones to mention. Below is a list of six Christian leaders from the past 500 years with a recommended biography of each. If your favorite biography doesn’t appear in the list, feel free to mention it in the comments at the end of the post.
Martin Luther (1483–1546) is generally credited with beginning the Protestant Reformation. He was a bold, courageous voice at a pivotal time in church history. There are many good biographies of Luther and several great ones. One of my favorites is still the classic work by Roland Bainton, Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther (1950). There are certainly a number of more detailed and more recent biographies of Luther, but in terms of spiritual encouragement and enjoyable reading, Bainton’s work remains one of the best.
Sometimes people think of John Calvin (1509–1564) and Martin Luther as being contemporaries who interacted on a regular basis. However, Calvin was a young boy living hundreds of miles away when Luther nailed his 95 Theses to the door in Wittenberg, and although the two men eventually read each other’s works, they apparently never met. Luther and Calvin shared some similar goals, but they were in many ways quite different from each other. Whereas Luther was a fiery prophet of sorts, Calvin was naturally reserved, and of the two, Calvin was the more careful thinker. Like Luther, Calvin has been the subject of dozens of biographies, and there are a number of very good works on his life. One of the best biographies of Calvin was published just a few years ago. Written by Bruce Gordon, Calvin (2009) is both rigorous and readable. It’s a great introduction to a deep thinker who continues to influence large portions of the Christian church.
Many people regard Jonathan Edwards (1703–1758) as the greatest theologian ever born in America. One could argue that designation, but Edwards was clearly an important figure within the Great Awakening, and he was a profound thinker who authored a small library of influential theological works. While there are several good biographies of Edwards, George Marsden’s Jonathan Edwards: A Life (2003) stands as the definitive work on Edwards’s life and thought. At about 600 pages, this one’s a bit longer, but it is worth the effort to read. In addition to being a great study of Edwards, this book is a model of how to write an intellectual biography.
In contrast to Luther, Calvin, and Edwards, George Müller (1805–1898) is not usually remembered as a key figure in shaping the direction of the Christian church. He didn’t leave behind any significant theological works or begin a new school of thought within the church. What he did leave behind were thousands of children who had been cared for and taught the Scriptures in the orphanages he built west of London. And in building these orphanages, Müller also left behind remarkable evidence of God’s ability to hear and answer prayer. A. T. Pierson was a contemporary of Müller. Shortly after Müller died Pierson decided to compile a memoir of Müller for the benefit of American readers (Müller was born in Prussia and ministered primarily in England.). Pierson’s George Müller of Bristol (1899) appeared about a year after Müller died. In terms of spiritual encouragement, I can think of few better places to turn than to biographies of Müller, and in particular this one by Pierson.
James Petigru Boyce (1827–1888) is best known within Southern Baptist circles. He was a pastor, a theologian, and an educator. One of my favorite Baptist historians has written the definitive biography of Boyce. Tom Nettles’s James Petigru Boyce: A Southern Baptist Statesman (2009) is a sympathetic, well-researched study of a key leader among nineteenth-century Baptists.
The last figure I want to highlight in this post is Charles Spurgeon (1834–1892). Known as the “prince of preachers,” Spurgeon was a uniquely gifted Baptist pastor who ministered in London during the mid-to-late 1800s. A number of good biographies of Spurgeon have been written in recent years. A shorter one, and in fact the shortest book in this list, is Arnold Dallimore’s Spurgeon: A New Biography (1984). Several longer, more detailed works on Spurgeon are definitely worth reading. But this little volume by Dallimore is a good place to find a quick overview of Spurgeon’s very fruitful life and ministry.
If you are not in the habit of reading Christian biographies, I’d challenge you to try to read at least one during the second half of this year. Good biographies of imperfect but faithful Christians can be great tools for encouraging spiritual growth.
A few weeks back I offered a tribute to my dad for being a good parent to an unbelieving child (yours truly) by (1) being an agent of common grace, introducing me to “received laws” that God communicates generally to man in his image (language, logic, conduct, industry, etc.) and by (2) offering me the special grace of salvation and urging me to receive it. In his mercy God softened my heart in my late teens to receive the latter, but in the meantime, my parents were not stymied in their parenting efforts—they had plenty of common grace to pass along to their little pagan. They knew well that the world is filled with pagans of various degrees. Some pagans are morally upright, honest, industrious, law-abiding, and conservative. Others are immoral, dishonest, lazy, lawless, and licentious. And since I was at the time determined to remain a pagan, they deduced that a moral pagan was preferable to an immoral one. So they heaped common grace upon me and worked hard to make me the best possible pagan I could be.
Common grace, you see, is the sphere in which believers and unbelievers are able to successfully interact, and the sphere in which special grace is introduced. Greater levels of common grace typically lead to greater opportunities for the Gospel. And that is because greater levels of common grace tend to make the intersection of believers and unbelievers more agreeable and thus more frequent. When common grace is abundant, Christians are more easily able to earn a hearing as neighbors, teachers, lawyers, governors, etc. Further, when common grace is abundant, unbelievers themselves tend to be better neighbors, teachers, lawyer, governors, etc. As a result, we are able to have greater confidence in our pagan acquaintances, whether they be pagan gas station attendants, pagan grocers, pagan auto mechanics, pagan building contractors, or pagan governors. Most of us will even entrust our children to the care of pagan relatives, pagan doctors, pagan athletic coaches, and pagan teachers of various types. Reciprocally, when believers are on the giving end of these graces, it is easier to offer neighborliness, medical care, coaching, and other forms of instruction to children—Christian and pagan alike—without discrimination.
That is why I am a bit perplexed when I read parenting books that suggest we raise toddlers as though they were already Christians, viz., recipients of the special grace of God. In such a situation, we’re told, we must shepherd their little Christian hearts, paying attention, especially, to the avoidance of draconian rules that can never commend us to God and that tend rather to “moral paganism.” We should instead give them grace, cultivating authentic fruit in hearts grateful for God’s saving grace. One Presbyterian blogger went at length last week to assert that parenting is practically impossible if parents cannot regard their children as Christians from their infancy (by means of infant baptism), adding, “I wouldn’t actually know how to raise [my children—two of which he divulged to be just three years old] if I were not a Presbyterian.” He then expressed astonishment that Baptists could be good parents, imagining, apparently, that Baptist parents are left twiddling their thumbs nervously until Junior says the sinner’s prayer before the shepherding process can begin.
As a staunchly Calvinistic Credobaptist who would happily die before applying the label Christian or extending the waters of baptism to infants/toddlers, my response is very simple: until one’s children are demonstrably Christians, parents should be hard at work creating respectful, obedient, industrious, safe, and otherwise moral pagans.
At a basic level all parents do this. Irrespective of the faith commitments of parent or child, parents everywhere manage to teach their children to walk, talk, read, add/subtract, avoid common hazards, catch a ball, sing a song, and ride a bike without ever explaining the “why” of these disciplines to their little hearts—we simply tell them what to do and they do it. Of course when kids finally mature sufficiently to sustain discussions about the philosophical/theological basis and reasons for these skills and disciplines, faith commitments do emerge (I am deeply committed to presuppositional apologetics and the transcendental approach to gospel witness if any were wondering), but we do not ordinarily think of these as Christian skills per se; rather, we think of them as human/social/civic skills. Christian parents can cultivate these skills successfully in both pagan and Christian children, and pagan parents can cultivate these skills successfully in both pagan and Christian children. And that is because the family is, first and foremost, a civil institution created for mankind generally. And so we should treat it as other civil institutions.
For instance, if I am a Christian governor ruling pagans, my goal is to produce not a Christian society, but a “peaceful and quiet” society where the opportunities for the gospel abound and are unhindered (1 Tim 2:2). If I am a Christian mechanic fixing cars that belong to pagans, my immediate goal is not to convert my customers, but to “try to please them and not to steal from them, but show them that I can be fully trusted, so that in every way I will make the teaching about God our Savior attractive” (Titus 2:9–10). If I am a Christian wife married a pagan husband, I should be “submissive,” “pure,” “reverent,” and “beautiful,” in order to “win over my husband” (1 Pet 3:1ff). And if I am a Christian parent charged with the stewardship of a pagan child, I should cultivate in that child the kinds of discipline, obedience, and honor that anticipate, as much as it lies within the apologist, a respectful hearing of the Christian gospel.
I would argue further that this approach is strongly implied in the qualification lists for NT elders. Paul does not demand that elders be fathers of Christian children, but rather fathers of children who, so long as they are part of his household, are “respectful,” “submissive,” “obedient,” “faithful” (in their deportment), and “not accused of being wild or rebellious” (so 1 Tim 3:4; Titus 1:6). In other words, the minimum requirement for an elder is that his children be moral pagans. Of course we should yearn for the realization of the greater goal of producing Christians, but that is not the requirement for the children of elders. The biblical requirement is that an elder’s children exhibit morality vis-à-vis immorality—because that is the extent of a Christian father’s purview.
Moralism is under assault in Christian parenting literature today, and I sometimes wonder whether morality is under assault too. True, the most hopeful end for our children is not that they become moral pagans. But producing moral pagans is not, as is sometimes assumed, necessary evidence of parental failure. All Christian parents should both hope and pray earnestly for God to save their children, but if God chooses not to do this (a prerogative that he alone possesses), then the goal to which Christian parents should aspire is the production of moral pagans in whose hearts are faithfully planted the seeds of the saving grace of God.
One of the best-known lines from St. Paul is found at the beginning of his letter to the Philippians where he says, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain” (1:21). I think this was my life verse for at least a few years. In fact, I’m pretty sure I put the reference under my name in a handful of my friends’ high-school yearbooks. The problem, however, is that it’s never been obvious to me exactly what this verse means. I’ve known, of course, that it has something to do with Paul’s commitment to Christ. I just haven’t been sure about much beyond this. After all, Christ isn’t an obvious pair with gain. We’d expect something more like “For to me, to live is loss and to die is gain” or “For to me, to live is pretty good; it’s not terrible. But, to die—to rest with Christ, that is gain indeed.” Why does Paul use Christ here? What’s he trying to say?
The key, it seems to me, is found in the five verses that follow, which suggest that were Paul to continue to live, his ongoing ministry would benefit the Philippians (vv. 24–25; cf. also “fruitful labor” in v. 22) and, as a result, would benefit Christ (v. 26)—in an even greater way than would his martyrdom (v. 20). They’d be strengthened in their faith and would, therefore, boast in Christ as a result of Paul’s renewed ministry (cf. 2 Cor 1:11 with Phil 1:19, 26). So we might restate what Paul says in v. 21 like this: For to me, to live is gain for you—and, thus for Christ—and, in at least one sense, loss for me (v. 23b), and to die is gain for me and loss for you—and, thus, in at least one sense, for Christ (cf. v. 20b with v. 26). Admittedly, stating it this way isn’t quite as elegant, but I think it captures what Paul is after.
What’s more, while Paul doesn’t quite say it, he gives the impression in vv. 24–26 that he’s chosen to live for the benefit of others rather than to die for his own benefit. This is, in any case, what he’s convinced God has decided. On this reading, then, Paul’s brief autobiographical reflection here plays a vital role in the letter, illustrating one of its central themes: Christians live worthy of the gospel when they, like Christ, put others’ interests before their own (2:4; vv. 5–11). The point of the reflection, then, is pretty clear, even if the logic of v. 21 is a bit compressed: Paul was willing to put others’ gain before his own. And the challenge for us, therefore, lies right on the surface: how can we, who are likewise called to imitate Christ’s selfless sacrifice—his loss, do anything less?
In recent weeks, I’ve posted a few suggested reading lists in the field of church history. These lists have included broad overviews of church history, books on the history of Christian doctrine, and books that discuss church history in specific areas of the world. In this post, I want to narrow in on the Baptist denomination and recommend a few books related to Baptist history.
The standard Baptist history survey text and the one we currently use at DBTS is H. Leon McBeth’s The Baptist Heritage: Four Centuries of Baptist Witness (1987). This fairly large book (850 pp.) is arranged by region within an overall chronological scheme. Although McBeth’s work is largely about Baptists in England and America, it doesn’t overlook the origin and growth of Baptists in places like Canada, Australia, and continental Europe. While not as geographically broad-sweeping as Robert Johnson’s A Global Introduction to Baptist Churches (2010), McBeth’s Baptist Heritage is generally a better guide. One unusual strength of McBeth’s work is that the author has also written a companion volume titled A Sourcebook for Baptist Heritage (1990). This volume follows the same basic outline as its predecessor, but it consists of primary source documents (excerpts from books, letters, confessions of faith, etc.) that support and illustrate the narrative found in Baptist Heritage.
A more recent and very substantial work (743 pp.) is James Leo Garrett’s Baptist Theology: A Four-Century Study (2009). This book covers much of the same ground as McBeth with the twist that Garrett emphasizes Baptist theologians. One interesting feature of Garrett’s work is a chapter on “New Voices in Baptist Theology” (ch. 13). Here Garrett includes short discussions of contemporary Baptists such as John Piper, Tom Nettles, Wayne Grudem, and David Dockery, among others. Overall, Garrett’s book is a little more biographically and theologically oriented than McBeth.
Even more recent than Garrett’s work is David Bebbington’s Baptists Through the Centuries: A History of a Global People (2010). This book is a very interesting read, and at fewer than 300 pp. of actual text, it is also a much quicker read than either McBeth or Garrett. Although described by the publisher as “a chronological survey” (back cover), Bebbington’s work is largely arranged in a topical format that can be be helpful though it also has the potential to be a bit disorienting at times. For example, I found it rather odd to read about William Carey almost 100 pages after Walter Rauschenbusch when Carey was born exactly 100 years before Rauschenbusch. Similarly, the book includes a chapter titled “Women in Baptist Life” (ch. 10). I wondered, why not just discuss key Baptist women at appropriate points in the historical narrative (e.g., in the first nine chapters)? I don’t see a compelling reason for making that topic a distinct chapter. A similar observation could be made about the chapter on religious liberty (ch. 12). On the other hand, if one wants to read an insightful chapter on these topics or on things like Baptists and the social gospel (ch. 8) or Baptists and race relations (ch. 9), Bebbington is a very good place to turn. Overall, Bebbington’s work is definitely helpful and well worth reading, but the potential reader should realize that Bebbington doesn’t tell the story of Baptist history in anything like a chronological narrative. So I’m recommending it with the caveat that if you like to read history in a generally chronological format, Bebbington may drive you crazy. But if you want to read about some key topics in Baptist history, this is a helpful book by a first rate historian.
The last book I’d like to recommend is rather different from the rest, and it isn’t really the kind of book that one is likely to read straight through. William Lumpkin’s Baptist Confessions of Faith (first published in 1959, but updated by Bill Leonard in 2011) is a classic compilation of Baptist confessions. Chronologically, it ranges from the Anabaptist confessions of the 1500s up through the SBC’s Baptist Faith and Message (2000). In terms of geography, while Lumpkin and Leonard certainly include the major confessions from Baptists in England and America, they also include confessions from Baptist groups in places such as France, Germany, Romania, Russia, and New Zealand. Even a few smaller Baptist institutional confessions from places like Hong Kong and the Middle East are included thanks to Leonard’s 2011 update. If you want to explore what Baptists have professed to believe through the centuries, Lumpkin’s work is the single best place to look.
“OK, men, everyone gather around, and let’s get this football season under way,” Coach Paul deTarsus bellowed out.
As the young recruits swaggered over, jostling each other manfully, Coach deTarsus continued gruffly, “This year the school steering committee has asked us to try a totally new approach to the game developed by a new assistant coach they’ve hired for me—Coach Terry Trzwijiasck. He wants you to call him Double T, so do it.” With that, the grizzled old coach turned to a young fellow standing nearby: “Double T,” he said, “They’re all yours.”
As one, the recruits turned to give their attention to Double T.
The new coach smiled winsomely and began speaking. “I know that you’re used to working hard, striving to meet the team’s high standards, and knowing the rulebook and playbook from cover to cover. But this year, we’re trying a new approach,” he said. “And the key to the new approach is to remind yourselves over and again that your coaching staff accepts you no matter what. Win or lose, we accept you. Fumbles or first downs, we accept you. Turnovers or touchdowns, we accept you. And when you’re laying flat on your back after you’ve missed that game-saving tackle, don’t despair. Just remind yourself one more time that we accept you. Winning is fine, but when it’s all done, it’s not about what you do. All that matters is that we accept you. Any comments or questions?”
Puzzled, the players glanced at each other, not sure what to say. Coach deTarsus was a tough old bear, and they were not used to this kind of kid-glove treatment. Finally, Tim Wothe stepped forward. Tim was a senior linebacker and the obvious choice as defensive team captain, a position he had held for the past two seasons. “Yes, sir, Coach Double T, I do.”
The junior coach smiled and interrupted. “Just call me Double T,” he said, “and there’s no need to call me ‘sir.’” Then he leaned forward and added, “When I hear ‘sir’ I look around to see if my grandpa is in the room.” Everyone laughed tentatively.
“OK, D-double T,” Tim said, glancing over at Coach deTarsus to make sure he approved. deTarsus stared back with his gray eyes hard as flint, revealing nothing. Not sure what to make of his coach’s steely glare, but knowing he was the team leader, Tim turned to the new coach and asserted, “You got it, Double T. We’re with you 100%. So what’s the first step? Blocking? Tackling? Sprints? Ball Security? Let’s do this.”
“Let’s do this,” the upperclassmen echoed in a booming unison. They had been repeating this slogan for years now, and when they all said it together, it was very, very intimidating.
Double T held up his hand softly and wiggled his forefinger back and forth. “Uh-uh-uh,” he said. “Remember, it’s not about what we do. It’s all about getting used to what’s already done: we accept you. In fact, my first policy change—wait, check that: my first suggestion—is that we modify the slogan we use when we break huddle to those very words: ‘We accept you.’ And don’t say it with so much chest-beating bravado—say it…well…say it more authentically.”
Then, deliberately brushing Tim aside, Double T touched a wiry freshman on the shoulder and beckoned him to step forward. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“My real name is Antino Mahan,” the boy replied with a thick accent. “But since my family were just declared citizens of this great country last week, I want to go by the name Liberty instead.”
“That’s wonderful, Liberty!” Double T said with great sincerity. “But have you ever tackled someone carrying a football?”
“Nope,” he replied. “They don’t have football where I come from. We played with switchblades and brass knuckles.”
“Oh my,” Double T said with mild surprise. “That’s OK. We accept you no matter what.”
Then, placing a football into the hands of great lumbering fellow with the name “Samson” on his jersey, Double T instructed the big fellow to run past Liberty to see whether Liberty could tackle him. Samson smirked, gave a bellow, and rumbled toward Liberty. But just as the team was closing their eyes to avoid seeing Liberty get a medical redshirt on his first day of practice, Liberty rammed his knee into Samson’s groin, stuck a rigid finger under Samson’s helmet directly into his left eye, grasped Samson’s faceguard firmly with his other hand, twisted hard, and in a moment Samson was moaning on the ground.
“Perfect!” Double T said, picking up the ball that Samson had dropped. “With moves like that, I think we’re ready to handle just about anything!” Hearing these words of approval, several of the freshmen squealed excitedly. They clearly liked Double T a lot.
Not able to handle his consternation any more, Tim burst out, “That’s not how it’s done! Coach deTarsus has told us over and over that we’ll never win unless we play according to the rules!”
“Rules!” Double T ejaculated with a snort. “The sooner you stop thinking about rules, the better off this team will be. Now everyone pair off for some sharing time and think happy thoughts about your coaching staff.”
“No sir,” said Phil, gaining courage from Tim’s words. Phil was the senior starting quarterback and the team’s offensive leader. He had earned the respect of the whole team (including Coach deTarsus, who in his coaching career had kicked more players off the team than he had kept). “I’m very happy that you have confidence in us, Double T, but our team is not ready,” Phil said firmly, “and we’re surely not perfect. We’ve not yet lived up to the confidence that you’ve given us. We need to work hard and strive mightily if we’re going to win that state championship at the end of the season. I speak for all the seniors here, and that’s what needs to happen.”
“That’s right,” chimed in a talented transfer player, who hadn’t yet played for Coach deTarsus, but who had obviously received some very good instruction from some other nameless coach. “We need to work off that weight we put on this summer and re-establish disciplined habits, do those wind sprints, and everything else that Coach says we need to do to perfect our skills for a long season.”
“Yeah,” growled Big Thess, the starting tight end. “And whoever doesn’t work, doesn’t play.”
Just then, the school’s most famous alumnus, Abraham Fromur, stepped off the bleachers and walked up to the group. Abe had played for 13 years in the NFL, had played in three Pro Bowls, and wore a Superbowl ring on his right hand. But he always stopped by on opening day of football tryouts to inspire the young men. “Men, when I played years ago in this school, I started out as a skinny kid with no skills. But the fellow coaching here at the time accepted me onto the team like he did so many others. He called me one of his ‘project kids.’ I never figured out why he chose me and not some of the other, stronger fellows, but I didn’t sit around idly and think endlessly about that mystery. Instead, I worked hard to make him proud of me, and the more I worked, the more alike we became. And you know, I really think that this was my coach’s greatest joy in life—seeing his players following in his footsteps and forging friendships that have lasted to this very day.”
Striding to the center of the circle, tramping hard on Double T’s toes and eliciting a yelp in the process, Abe gathered the young men around him and said, “It’s true that once your coach picks you for the team, you have his acceptance. But don’t ever imagine that his acceptance means that you’re ready for the game of football. You get ready for football by learning the rules and cultivating the disciplines that make you game ready. These disciplines will be hard, but if you persevere, your hard work will pay off. But if you don’t pursue those disciplines, then I guarantee you that none of you will ever see a state championship.”
Then, looking straight into Coach deTarsus’s hard eyes that, try as he might, could not hide their appreciation, Abe barked out, “And now, let’s do this.”
“Let’s do this,” the young recruits roared back.
2 Tim 2:5
Rom 4:1ff with Jas 2:22–24.
Who was John Stott? It’s been a couple of years since Stott died, and his legacy is still taking shape. I suspect that for many of us he’ll be remembered as the author of one or two books on our shelves—probably The Cross of Christ and/or Basic Christianity—or as the name we associate with the International Congress on World Evangelism(think Lausanne). One thing that he deserves to be remembered for was his life-long passion to see his native England and the world beyond won to Christ. Alister Chapman recently wrote about this in a book entitled Godly Ambition: John Stott and the Evangelical Movement. Chapman highlights Stott’s passion for evangelism and explores the tension between Stott’s desire to maximize his own gifts and influence for the sake of the gospel and the temptation he faced to do the same for self-promotion. I suspect that most of the seminarians reading this will resonate with Stott’s big dreams and this tension and, therefore, would benefit from reading Chapman’s account. I don’t want to spoil it all here with a dry, full-scale review. Rather, I simply want to pass along two things I learned from Stott thanks to Chapman’s book. The first is that Christians should beambitious. The second is that it’s possible to tell when ambition is godly and when it’s not.
First, Stott reminded me that Christians can be ambitious because ambition can be godly. Stott, in fact, would want to say that Christians mustbe ambitious and that our ambitions must be extravagant. As he put it, “[a]mbitions for God…if they are to be worthy, can never be modest. There is something inherently inappropriate about cherishing small ambitions for God” (155). “They ha[ve] to be great because God [is] great” (156). What Stott meant by all this is that if God is worthy of honor and glory and if our gifts bring him these things, then we should “develop [our] gifts, widen [our] opportunities, extend [our] influence, and [seek] promotion in [our] work—not to boost [our] own ego or build [our] own empire, but rather through everything [we] do to bring glory to God” (8, also 157). Here Stott is simply echoing sentiments we find in the New Testament, not least those found in the parable of the bags of gold where Jesus tells his disciples that they must “improve their master’s assets” as they wait for his return (cf. Matt 25:14–30; for a similar reflection, see here).
Second, Stott’s life taught me that it’s possible to tell when ambition is godly and when it’s not. Two examples come immediately to mind. The first is the way Stott pursued his ambition on the parish level as Rector of All Souls Church. His church could have been much more successful than it was had Stott continued to focus on the demographic where the gospel was having the greatest success, namely in the well-heeled section of his parish. Stott, however, had a vision for All Souls that included more than filled-pews and, in fact, more than simply conversion growth. Stott wanted to see the power of the gospel displayed in every area of his parish and, as a result, gave persistent, prayerful, and creative attention to the working-class areas of his parish. As God would have it, Stott’s efforts here were constantly frustrated. But, it’s the effort and, indeed, frustration that lets us see that Stott’s ambition, his vision for success, was not simply a pious mask hiding a heart singularly-aimed at self-promotion. Had he wanted that, it seems, he would have cared more that his pews were filled and less about who filled them.
The second example is the way Stott used his post-retirement years. Stott could have eased up a bit in his latter years and enjoyed some of the fruit of his labors and influence. Instead, it was during these years that he became increasingly burdened for the plight of the evangelical cause worldwide. And, at the center of his concern was the plight of the majority-world church, particularly its need, as he saw it, for evangelical resources and for theologically-equipped clergy. Stott, therefore, started a trust that would provide for both, and funded it largely at his own expense. (In fact, several of my own international friends at TEDS sat side-by-side with me in class thanks to the vision and generosity of John Stott.) Once again, had Stott’s ambition been simply for his own advancement and the material benefits such advancement often brings, then his sacrificial commitment to the majority world makes little sense.
Who was John Stott? Well, like most of us, he was an imperfect Christian. I suspect he’d be the first to admit this. Still, Stott wasa powerful example of what it means to pursue God’s glory with every last ounce of energy we have and to develop our gifts and expand our influence in the service of this worthy, world-transforming pursuit. So, in a month, when we remember Stott’s life and reflect on his legacy, let’s take a few moments to thank God for his godly ambition and let’s ask God to put something similar deep within our hearts as well.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve posted a couple of suggested reading lists. These lists have included broad overviews of church history and books on the history of Christian doctrine. In this post, I’m going to recommend a number of books that focus on the history of the Christian church in specific geographic areas.
The Church in North America
My favorite book in this category is Mark Noll’s work, A History of Christianity in the United States and Canada. Although the vast majority of this book is about the church in the United States, Noll includes an extended section (ch. 10) on the history of Christianity in Canada, and he includes other references to Canadian Christians throughout the book. Our neighbors to the north are often overlooked and understudied by church historians, and their inclusion in this work is, to me, a strength of this volume.
In addition to Noll, a few similar books are worth mentioning. Edwin Gaustad and Leigh Schmidt’s The Religious History of America is excellent. It’s a bit shorter and perhaps a little simpler than Noll’s work, but it’s definitely worth the read. If you are feeling ambitious, you may want to check out Sydney Ahlstrom’s A Religious History of the American People. Including the bibliographies and index, Ahlstrom’s work is just a hair short of 1,200 pages, so it is not a “read on the airplane” kind of book. But if you want to consult one of the best and most detailed works in this area, Ahlstrom is the place to turn.
The Church outside North America
Looking to our south, Justo González and his niece Ondina González have recently written a book titled Christianity in Latin America: A History. In just over 300 pages, this is currently the best overview of church history in Latin America.
With regard to Christianity in Asia, Catholic historian Jean-Pierre Charbonnier has written a fairly robust history of Christianity in China titled Christians in China: A.D. 600 to 2000. Beginning with the spread of Syrian Christianity eastward, Charbonnier discusses the arrival of Christianity in the Far East and the condition of the church in China during various time periods up to the present. A shorter, more readable, and more Protestant-focused work is Daniel Bays’s A New History of Christianity in China. Bays’s book isn’t very long (just over 200 pp. of text), but it’s probably the best place to begin reading about Christianity in China. And then one of the more broad sweeping works on the history of Christianity in Asia is Samuel Moffett’s 2-volume A History of Christianity in Asia (vol. 1; vol. 2). Moffett focuses largely on western missions in Asia, not Asian Christianity as such, but since the author is the son of Presbyterian missionaries to Korea, perhaps this is not too surprising. Overall, Moffett provides a remarkably full study of Christianity’s spread and growth throughout the continent of Asia.
In recent months, I’ve read a couple of works related to the history of Russia and the former Soviet Union. One of the books I’m currently working through is Thomas Bremer’s Cross and the Kremlin: A Brief History of the Orthodox Church in Russia. This book is generally more topical than chronological, but it’s a good overview of major themes in the history of Orthodox Christianity in Russia. And for a helpful summary of the history of the Eastern Orthodox Church as well as an introduction to its major beliefs and practices, one could hardly do better than Timothy Ware’s standard work, The Orthodox Church.
Concerning the church in Africa, two of the best works currently in print are Elizabeth Isichei’s A History of Christianity in Africa and Adrian Hastings’s The Church in Africa, 1450–1950. Hastings’s work is the longer of the two. Admittedly, both works are somewhat challenging for readers with limited familiarity with African history and geography, but both books are indexed and well-outlined.
In compiling the list above, I haven’t attempted to be geographically comprehensive, but if you are looking to read about the history of the church in one of these regions, these are some of the best books to check out.
Father’s Day is this Sunday (just in case you’ve forgotten.) It’s a day set aside for us to show our gratitude to the men who have provided, cared for, and guided us throughout our lives. Unfortunately, too many have never experienced the joy of having a father. Some were deprived by death, while many others were deprived by the bad choices their fathers made. One of the greatest problems we face today is the failure of men to be good fathers. It is a terrible thing when a child cannot look up to his/her father and want to be like him.
I am truly grateful that the Lord has given me a godly, loving father. I could not begin to recount all the ways in which my dad has influenced me for good and helped me to grow in the Lord. I can confidently say that I both admire and want to be like my dad in many ways.
Yet, my father isn’t perfect. In fact, none of our fathers are perfect. In reality, all of our fathers are evil, which is exactly what Christ said. Jesus, while encouraging His disciples to pray to their Father in heaven, made an interesting assertion.
Which one of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” (Matt 7:9–11).
Did you notice how he described earthly fathers? They are evil! Every person on earth, no matter how “good” they are, is by nature evil. But the wickedness of earthly fathers stands in stark contrast to the goodness of God, the Father of believers. Because our heavenly Father is good, He will surely give us good things if we ask Him.
This Father’s Day, you may not be able to celebrate your earthly father. But if you have trusted in Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, you can rejoice in your perfectly good heavenly Father. If God is not your Father, then this Father’s Day would be an excellent time to become His child.
When I was a boy I grew up in a traditional American home. My father taught me the value of hard work, integrity, courtesy, and the disciplines of standing alone for right, offering a firm handshake, and looking people square in the eye. He had learned these things from his father, he from his father before him, and so on for many generations of my family. The Snoeberger name was a good one, I was told, and I knew early on that it was my duty to represent that name well. I reflect fondly on this bit of personal history as Father’s Day approaches.
My father also introduced me to the Gospel. Not every father in the Snoeberger clan did this. While I can’t bring to mind a Snoeberger who was not a good citizen and a hard worker, I regret to say that not all were genuine followers of Christ. Some lived, it seemed to me, as though their reputation for industry, integrity, and benevolence were sufficient ends unto themselves, and, as a result, they put little stock in the work of Christ, except perhaps to follow his ethical example. By God’s grace my father knew better, and so he taught me not only that I should be a good student, citizen, and worker, but also that success in these areas could never save. Only Christ could save, and that quite entirely apart from the virtues I might cultivate before or after I submitted to Christ.
I did not submit to the saving grace of Christ’s Gospel until my late teens. My father told me regularly about God’s saving grace, but I refused it. This refusal did not, however, bring his parenting efforts to a grinding halt. And that is because he also had common grace to offer. He taught me how to drive a nail straight and true, how to mow the lawn and shovel the drive swiftly and in tidy rows, how to read both books and people, and in summary, how to be a disciplined, careful, and contributing member of human society. Even though I was not growing in favor with God, he knew, I could and should be growing in favor with men (cf. Luke 2:52). He was troubled, no doubt, by the absence of God’s regenerating work, but he did not think it dangerous or sub-Christian to teach me how to live according to the received standards of moral integrity. And in this way he prepared me, as best he could, both for the inevitability of life in the civic sphere and also for the hope of a life in the ecclesiastical sphere.
The trend in Christian parenting these days is to favor “grace-based” over and against discipline-heavy parenting. I laud the emphasis on grace, but reject the insinuation sometimes communicated that discipline is the enemy of grace. Christian parents should not, of course, have the goal of raising “moral pagans,” but in view of the fact that parents really don’t have the final say (or any say, for that matter) in whether or not their kids turn out to be “pagans,” it seems to me that we should be working pretty hard at the “moral” part. My hope and prayer is ultimately that I will raise two morally informed Christians, but if in God’s inscrutable wisdom he has appointed me to raise a pagan, then I certainly hope to raise a moral pagan and not an immoral one!
I think my dad got it right. Thanks, Dad, for giving me grace—of both varieties.
These are a shadow of the things that were to come; the reality, however, is found in Christ.—Colossians 2:17
Colossians 2:17 gives us another important insight into how the earliest Christians put their Bibles together. But, the NIV here nicely obscures some of the difficulties of this verse, which literally reads: “These are a shadow of the things to come, but the body of Christ.” Here I simply want to surface Paul’s biblical theology by untangling his compressed logic.
An uncommon metaphor. Paul uses an uncommon metaphorical word pair when he contrasts shadow with body. Let me tease this out with five observations on the use of this sort of metaphor and word-pair in Paul’s day. (a) Literal objects cast shadows. (b) One of the objects that casts a shadow is a body. For a quick example, see Philo, Confusion 190. (c) This literal phenomenon generated various metaphors. For the classic example of this, see Plato’s Allegory of the Cave here. (d) When this sort of metaphor was used, the reality casting the shadow was most often a “thing” (Heb 10:1) or a “model” (Philo, Alleg. Interp. 3.96) and only occasionally a “body.” One clear example of the latter is found in Herod Antipas’s accusation against his brother Archelaus, whom he insisted “desire[d] the shadow of…royal authority, whose substance [“body,” σῶμα] he had already seized to himself” (Jos., J.W. 2.28). (e) Paul, therefore, uses the less-common metaphorical word-pair “shadow-body” in Col 2:17 likely because of the prominence of the latter word (“body”) in the letter. See Col 1:18, 22, 24; 2:11, 19, 23; 3:15 (cf. also 2:9).
Mosaic law. The “shadow” in Col 2:17 is the Mosaic law. This is confirmed by four observations. (a) The “shadow” in Col 2:17a is cast by “the things that were to come.” And these “things…to come” are related in Col 2:17b to the messianic era, since the “body”—“reality”—casting the “shadow” is related to Christ or messiah: literally, “the reality of Christ/messiah.” What else, besides pre-Christian Judaism and, more specifically, its law, could be described as the preparatory “shadow” of the messianic era? (b) The items in Col 2:16 called a “shadow” in verse 17 are all Jewish practices, rooted in the Mosaic law. This is seen, above all, in the mention of “Sabbath” observance. For the association of “eat[ing] and drink[ing]” with the law, take a look at the Letter of Aristeas, 128, 142 and 158 (see here, 129, 143 and 158) and Heb 9:10. (c) This understanding of the Mosaic law—that it’s a shadow of the messianic era—would correspond with early Christian thought found elsewhere (see Heb 8:5; 10:1). (d) And, in fact, this understanding would correspond with Jewish thought found elsewhere. For example, the Jewish commentary on Genesis, Genesis Rabbah, notes, “There are three antitypes: the antitype of death is sleep, the antitype of prophecy is dream, the antitype of the age to come is the Sabbath” (17:5; for this translation, see here).
Ellipse. The trickiest part of Col 2:17 is the ellipse in the second half of the verse. The Greek simply reads “but the reality of Christ.” Translators, therefore, have to infer the phrase’s logic, since it’s incomplete as it stands. Thus, the NIV reads “the reality, however, is found in Christ” and the ESV and NASB both have “But the substance belongs to Christ.” The verse would have read quite a bit smoother had Paul exchanged “not” for “but” (NIV’s “however”) and repeated “of the things that were to come” instead of inserting “of Christ”:
These are a shadow of the things that were to come not the reality of the things that were to come.
Paul, however, wanted to say more than this. He wanted to say not only that the Mosaic law is a shadow and not the reality that is to come; he also wanted to identify what the reality that is to come is and show that it had come. (After all, if what was to come is still to come, Paul’s argument would have lost its steam. His opponents might simply have insisted on the shadows “in the meantime.”) Paul, in fact, wanted to do this—to identify the reality and show that it had come—and he wanted to make a word play. What Paul says here then is this: “these practices are the-things-that-were-to-come’s-shadow, but [...] the body of Christ” and what he means is this:
These practices are the-things-that-were-to-come’s shadow, but the-things-that-were-to-come’s reality belongs to Christ.
What is left implied, therefore, (the ellipse) is “of the things that were to come.” Moreover, the genitive “of Christ,” like the genitive “of the things that were to come,” signals something like possession, which explains my insertion of “belongs to” (as in the ESV and NASB) and the apostrophe in the (admittedly-clunky) “the-things-that-were-to-come.” Thus, Paul identifies the things that were to come with Christ, which indicates the coming things had indeed come—the opponents, after all, were ready to admit messiah had come—and, Paul’s ellipse preserves the word play, which literally reads, “body of Christ.” In other words, had he repeated “the things that were to come,” this would have muted the word play, giving us instead (and, once more, quite literally): “but the body of the things that were to come of Christ.” That this sort of word play explains Paul’s ellipse here is suggested by the uncommon metaphorical word-pair (noted above) of “shadow-body” and by the familiarity of the Pauline idiom it preserves: “body of Christ.” For other occurrences of this phrase, see Rom 7:4; 1 Cor 10:16; 12:27; Eph 4:12 and here. (Compare the similar idioms found in 1 Cor 6:15; 11:24, 27; Eph 1:23; 5:30 and Col 1:22, 24.)
In short, what Paul says here in Col 2:17 is this: the regulations of the Mosaic law and, thus, the law itself foreshadowed the Christian era. “Why let anyone judge you by the shadow, when the reality has come?” Finally, this understanding of the role of the law is of a piece with what Paul says elsewhere. The law served a specific purpose and that purpose has expired (see, for example, Gal 3:10–4:7 and 2 Cor 3:7–18, on which, see here).
About two weeks ago I began a recommended reading list for those who wish to brush up on the history of the church. My initial suggestions included a couple of church history survey texts. In this post, I’m going to mention a few titles that focus on the development of Christian doctrine over the past 2,000 years or so. The earlier list was comprised of books that emphasize key people and events (the story); these books emphasize the development of theology (the ideas).
In the summer of 1998, I took my first course as a test drive student at DBTS. The course I chose was History of Christian Doctrine, which was then taught by Dr. Gerald Priest. Our textbook for that class was Louis Berkhof’s classic work, The History of Christian Doctrines. I thoroughly enjoyed both the lectures and the reading. Berkhof’s work (first published in 1937) is now somewhat dated, but it remains a fine place to begin reading about the history of Christian doctrine. In fewer than 300 pp., Berkhof discusses the historical development of theology under headings such as prolegomena, the Trinity, the doctrine of Christ, the doctrines of sin and grace, and the doctrine of last things.
Another work that is slightly longer and much more recent is John Hannah’s book Our Legacy: The History of Christian Doctrine (2001). Whereas Berkhof was no friend of dispensationalism, Hannah is a dispensationalist and a long-time professor of historical theology at Dallas Theological Seminary. Like Berkhof, Hannah discusses the historical development of major theological ideas within chapters that focus on topics such as authority, the Trinity, the person of Christ, the work of Christ, end times, etc. Both Berkhof and Hannah are excellent “read through” type volumes.
In addition to the volumes by Berkhof and Hannah, there are a couple of very good longer works that one may want to dip into. In an earlier post, I mentioned Justo González’s Story of Christianity. González has also written a three-volume work titled A History of Christian Thought (rev. ed., 1987). Weighing in at something over 1,100 pages, most people probably won’t want to read straight through this set, but it is a helpful companion to the Story of Christianity volumes. Unlike Berkhof and Hannah, this set is more chronological in nature, with volume one covering the early church, volume two the medieval church, and volume three the Protestant Reformation up through the mid-twentieth century. In keeping with this layout, volume one includes chapters on the theology of the apostolic fathers, western theology in the third century, the theology of Athanasius, and Trinitarian doctrine in the West, among others. Chapters in the second volume discuss topics such as the theology of Augustine, western theology after Augustine, and eastern theology up to the fall of Constantinople (i.e., 1453). And chapters in the third volume cover topics like the theology of Luther, the theology of Calvin, Reformed theology after Calvin, and theology in the twentieth century.
Another even more recent work in this field is Gregg Allison’s Historical Theology (2011). Intended as a companion volume to Wayne Grudem’s Systematic Theology, this volume largely follows the topical arrangement of Grudem’s book. Like the three-volume set by González, most folks probably won’t choose to read this work cover-to-cover, but this is a great volume to consult when one wants to read about the historical development of a specific doctrine. This book contains 33 chapters in a little over 700 pp. A few of the more interesting chapters focus on topics such as the canon of Scripture, the interpretation of Scripture, creation, providence, the atonement, justification, church government, baptism, the Lord’s Supper, and Christ’s return and the Millennium. Within most chapters, Allison discusses what the church believed about a particular doctrine and how that doctrine developed during four different time periods: (1) the early church, (2) the Middle Ages, (3) the Reformation and post-Reformation era, and (4) the modern period.
All four of these works provide a good overview of how the church has developed theologically over the course of its history. The volumes by Berkhof and Hannah can be read through pretty quickly; the volumes by González and Allison are reference works that lend themselves more to perusal and “spot” reading.