The problem with spiritual disciplines is that the rest of life does not stop to give you time and space for them. There are still people to see, tasks to perform, ordinary life to live. And there are still annoyances and irritants and distractions galore.
Right.
So, what to do with all the stuff that just keeps getting in the way? Say I wanted to spend the day meditating on my sinfulness - how am I to do that when my kids are noisy and excited and I have jobs at church, and tomorrow's working day is already starting to invade my mind?
Have you thought about meditating on that last paragraph? Seems like there's plenty of sinfulness there to be going on with - selfishness, for starters, and an unwillingness to serve.
Oh, come on, you know I didn't mean that. I wanted to spend the day thinking about My Need For A Saviour, and maybe The State Of Fallen Man. That sort of sinfulness. Not just the petty everyday stuff.
So you wanted to meditate vaguely on big ideas rather than think through your actual sins?
Obviously.
Seems like you might be wasting your Lent.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Friday, February 20, 2015
Three-fold sin
Karl Barth describes sin in three ways, each in relation to an aspect of the work of Christ:
1. Where Christ humbled himself, each and every other human being exalts himself. This is all the more striking when we bear in mind the inherent glory of Christ as the Image and Son of God, and on the other hand the dust from which humanity is shaped. Despite this, Christ humbled himself to death - even death on a cross, in striking contrast to the status-seeking and self-promotion of humanity. Sin in its first form is pride.
2. Where Christ obeyed God and lived a life of active fellowship with him, each and every other human being avoids God's call and resists his fellowship. Jesus always did the will of his Father, even when that will led him to Calvary. We, on the other hand, do not respond to God's call. We do not take up the responsibility of living toward God, but instead fall for the lure of irresponsibility and inaction. Sin in its second form is sloth.
3. Where Christ bore true witness to God, each and every other human being distorts or ignores the knowledge of God. Jesus was the light of the world, but we prefer to live in darkness. We manufacture idols, literal or metaphorical, and create gods in our own image. In doing so, we lose touch with ultimate truth, and consequently with all truth. Sin in its third form is falsehood.
Obviously this is not the only way to think about sin, but I find it helpful especially for the way it places our sin in the context of Christ's righteousness. Here, face to face with the only example of human righteousness there has ever been, we are surely forced to acknowledge that we not only fall short but set off in entirely the wrong direction.
Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.
1. Where Christ humbled himself, each and every other human being exalts himself. This is all the more striking when we bear in mind the inherent glory of Christ as the Image and Son of God, and on the other hand the dust from which humanity is shaped. Despite this, Christ humbled himself to death - even death on a cross, in striking contrast to the status-seeking and self-promotion of humanity. Sin in its first form is pride.
2. Where Christ obeyed God and lived a life of active fellowship with him, each and every other human being avoids God's call and resists his fellowship. Jesus always did the will of his Father, even when that will led him to Calvary. We, on the other hand, do not respond to God's call. We do not take up the responsibility of living toward God, but instead fall for the lure of irresponsibility and inaction. Sin in its second form is sloth.
3. Where Christ bore true witness to God, each and every other human being distorts or ignores the knowledge of God. Jesus was the light of the world, but we prefer to live in darkness. We manufacture idols, literal or metaphorical, and create gods in our own image. In doing so, we lose touch with ultimate truth, and consequently with all truth. Sin in its third form is falsehood.
Obviously this is not the only way to think about sin, but I find it helpful especially for the way it places our sin in the context of Christ's righteousness. Here, face to face with the only example of human righteousness there has ever been, we are surely forced to acknowledge that we not only fall short but set off in entirely the wrong direction.
Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Ashes
In the past, it would be fair to say that I've not always had positive things to say about Lent. I'd stand by that, perhaps especially this one. But I have also shifted quite significantly in recent times. As I get more into the rhythm of the church year (and I see that I started to follow it back in 2011), I find that there really is virtue in alternation of fast and feast. Today I've been pondering how together they help us to live into our Christian identity.
The Christian is simul iustus et peccator - at once righteous (in Christ) and a sinner (in themselves). To forget one or the other is to wander dangerously from the gospel. The fasts of Lent and Advent help us to remember that we are sinners in need, with no inherent goodness before God. They help us to remember that we still need to put to death the sinful deeds of the earthly nature and to discipline our bodies. Now, this can go horribly wrong. We can attempt to change our behaviour by our own willpower; we can perceive any effort toward change as earning God's favour; we can imagine that discipline is a good in and of itself. But those errors will creep in whenever we try to pursue godliness. They don't detract from the need to remember our sinfulness by nature, and to put to death the sinfulness that still remains.
But to be at once righteous and a sinner is not an equilibrium. It is not as if I am equally well defined by both words - 'righteous' and 'sinner'. My identity in Christ is by far the more fundamental. If I am joined to him by faith, I am righteous. Everything is done for me by him. So, the fasts do not just peter out; they lead to feasts. Because my meditation on my sinfulness and need is meant to drive me to Christ, and to celebrate his work. In Advent I consider the need that I have, and that the world has, for a Saviour - and then I celebrate his coming. In Lent I consider the need I have for a remedy for sin, for redemption, for a new start - and then I celebrate Jesus' death in my place and his resurrection. The church calendar keeps me on the move. It reminds me that the painfully present sin is actually, fundamentally past. It is possible to feast, because knowing my need and emptiness I can turn to Jesus and be filled.
A fast is a witness that what I need is not fundamentally food, but Christ.
A feast is a witness that in Christ I have what I fundamentally need.
The Christian is simul iustus et peccator - at once righteous (in Christ) and a sinner (in themselves). To forget one or the other is to wander dangerously from the gospel. The fasts of Lent and Advent help us to remember that we are sinners in need, with no inherent goodness before God. They help us to remember that we still need to put to death the sinful deeds of the earthly nature and to discipline our bodies. Now, this can go horribly wrong. We can attempt to change our behaviour by our own willpower; we can perceive any effort toward change as earning God's favour; we can imagine that discipline is a good in and of itself. But those errors will creep in whenever we try to pursue godliness. They don't detract from the need to remember our sinfulness by nature, and to put to death the sinfulness that still remains.
But to be at once righteous and a sinner is not an equilibrium. It is not as if I am equally well defined by both words - 'righteous' and 'sinner'. My identity in Christ is by far the more fundamental. If I am joined to him by faith, I am righteous. Everything is done for me by him. So, the fasts do not just peter out; they lead to feasts. Because my meditation on my sinfulness and need is meant to drive me to Christ, and to celebrate his work. In Advent I consider the need that I have, and that the world has, for a Saviour - and then I celebrate his coming. In Lent I consider the need I have for a remedy for sin, for redemption, for a new start - and then I celebrate Jesus' death in my place and his resurrection. The church calendar keeps me on the move. It reminds me that the painfully present sin is actually, fundamentally past. It is possible to feast, because knowing my need and emptiness I can turn to Jesus and be filled.
A fast is a witness that what I need is not fundamentally food, but Christ.
A feast is a witness that in Christ I have what I fundamentally need.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Kingdom Through Covenant
I recently finished reading this book by Peter Gentry and Stephen Wellum. In essence, the book is an attempt to show a 'third way' between dispensationalism on the one hand and a Reformed covenantalism on the other. If that immediately confuses you, think of it like this: this is a debate about how much continuity and discontinuity there is along the Biblical storyline.
For dispensationalists (although there are various flavours and varieties), there is a great deal of discontinuity. The way God deals with human beings changes over the course of salvation history. The discontinuity is greatest when we reach the 'new covenant' in Christ, when in the classical dispensationalist scheme the church is understood as a sort of parenthesis in God's plan, which is really still focussed on the Jewish people. For dispensationalism, the covenant with Israel and the covenant with the church are totally different things.
In the classical Reformed scheme, on the other hand, there is one covenant, and it is common to talk about the 'unity of the covenant of grace'. (Actually, on some versions of Reformed thinking there may be a couple of other covenants, notably the 'covenant of works' broken by Adam - but these are not hugely relevant here). This is why many Reformed folk are keen on infant baptism, and not keen on Christian Zionism - the covenant is the same, so if infants were circumcised they are also to be baptised, and the people of God is also the same, so non-Christian Jews cannot still be related to God via a different covenant with different terms (although the covenant of grace may still have implications for them).
Gentry and Wellum's middle way has a lot to commend it. The book itself I found quite hard going, but I think that is just because there was a lot of very, very detailed exegesis. I struggle with that level of detail! Actually, the book itself promised to be a mix of Biblical and systematic theology, but in fact it was almost entirely the former with a slight consideration of some of the headline implications for the latter. But that is by the by,
The system itself is clear: the Biblical storyline is driven by the covenants, which really are different (contra the Reformed), but which all point in the same direction (contra dispensationalism) and all find their climax in the death and resurrection of Christ. This is, I guess, a 'Reformed Baptist' hermeneutic, so it's no surprise I found it fairly convincing. One of the most useful points I took from the book as a whole is the nature of all the covenants as both conditional and unconditional. Whereas there has been a tendency to divide the covenants into those which are unconditional - God will uphold them no matter what - and those which are conditional - they depend on human obedience for fulfillment - Gentry and Wellum helpfully show that a large part of the narrative of Scripture is driven by the fact that all the covenants require human obedience, and yet underneath that requirement is God's sovereign determination to establish his covenant. It is the tension which this introduces, given the constant failure of the human partner, which drives the narrative forward, and is only resolved in the perfect human partner, Christ. This also helpfully highlights the need for a clear doctrine of Christ's active obedience.
On the whole I found the book more convincing when tackling dispensationalism, but that could just be my bias. I'd like to see more attention given to the implications of this Biblical Theology to Dogmatics/Systematic Theology. Maybe that would be another book; this one is long enough! But if you're up for a thorough examination of the issues, you could do much worse than this.
For dispensationalists (although there are various flavours and varieties), there is a great deal of discontinuity. The way God deals with human beings changes over the course of salvation history. The discontinuity is greatest when we reach the 'new covenant' in Christ, when in the classical dispensationalist scheme the church is understood as a sort of parenthesis in God's plan, which is really still focussed on the Jewish people. For dispensationalism, the covenant with Israel and the covenant with the church are totally different things.
In the classical Reformed scheme, on the other hand, there is one covenant, and it is common to talk about the 'unity of the covenant of grace'. (Actually, on some versions of Reformed thinking there may be a couple of other covenants, notably the 'covenant of works' broken by Adam - but these are not hugely relevant here). This is why many Reformed folk are keen on infant baptism, and not keen on Christian Zionism - the covenant is the same, so if infants were circumcised they are also to be baptised, and the people of God is also the same, so non-Christian Jews cannot still be related to God via a different covenant with different terms (although the covenant of grace may still have implications for them).
Gentry and Wellum's middle way has a lot to commend it. The book itself I found quite hard going, but I think that is just because there was a lot of very, very detailed exegesis. I struggle with that level of detail! Actually, the book itself promised to be a mix of Biblical and systematic theology, but in fact it was almost entirely the former with a slight consideration of some of the headline implications for the latter. But that is by the by,
The system itself is clear: the Biblical storyline is driven by the covenants, which really are different (contra the Reformed), but which all point in the same direction (contra dispensationalism) and all find their climax in the death and resurrection of Christ. This is, I guess, a 'Reformed Baptist' hermeneutic, so it's no surprise I found it fairly convincing. One of the most useful points I took from the book as a whole is the nature of all the covenants as both conditional and unconditional. Whereas there has been a tendency to divide the covenants into those which are unconditional - God will uphold them no matter what - and those which are conditional - they depend on human obedience for fulfillment - Gentry and Wellum helpfully show that a large part of the narrative of Scripture is driven by the fact that all the covenants require human obedience, and yet underneath that requirement is God's sovereign determination to establish his covenant. It is the tension which this introduces, given the constant failure of the human partner, which drives the narrative forward, and is only resolved in the perfect human partner, Christ. This also helpfully highlights the need for a clear doctrine of Christ's active obedience.
On the whole I found the book more convincing when tackling dispensationalism, but that could just be my bias. I'd like to see more attention given to the implications of this Biblical Theology to Dogmatics/Systematic Theology. Maybe that would be another book; this one is long enough! But if you're up for a thorough examination of the issues, you could do much worse than this.
Tuesday, February 03, 2015
Fry - and the cross
Of course many people have offered comment on the Stephen Fry interview. If he, unexpectedly, came face to face with God after death, Fry would essentially accuse God. The world is full of suffering. Cancer in children. Hideous parasites. God, if he made a world like this, is 'capricious, mean-minded, stupid'. If such a God exists, he should be resisted and hated.
This is not so much atheism as anti-theism. I am not denying that Fry is an atheist, just making the point that this particular argument is not an argument against God's existence, but an argument against God's goodness. If God exists, he cannot be good, based on our experience of the world.
I have some sympathy.
I have definitely had moments when the world in its beauty has cried out to me that there is a Creator. The starry sky above me certainly seems to demand an explanation, not just for why it is at all, but for why it is so great, so beautiful. I have seen my children born and, for a moment, had no doubt whatsoever that a good God exists.
But I think more often I have been painfully aware that the world is a terrible place. I have not really suffered, personally, but I know people who really have. And I watch the news. I am more often impressed by the horror of the world than the beauty. I can see where Stephen Fry is coming from. Based on observation of the world alone, I doubt I would be a worshipper of God. Maybe there are philosophical answers to the 'problem of evil', but I don't think any of them would be enough to shift the suspicion that God might well be capricious and mean-minded.
So here's the thing, the one thing, that for me clinches the question of faith and suffering: Jesus Christ, crucified.
Once you have seen God stretched in agony on the cross, it is hard to think of him as capricious, no matter what else is going on in the world.
Once you have heard God cry out with one of his last painful breaths for the forgiveness of his enemies, it is hard to think of him as mean-minded, no matter the apparent evidence from elsewhere.
A God who voluntarily suffers is not the God against whom Fry launches his accusation. And if the Christian story is true - if that suffering was redemptive for us - then God, far from being capricious and mean-minded, is astonishingly loving.
It is not that every question about suffering is answered by the cross of Christ. But every question is changed. If God is so committed to the elimination of suffering, and of the moral evil with which the Bible insists suffering is associated (albeit in complex ways), then the question to direct to God in the face of ongoing horror in the world is not 'how dare you?' but 'how long, O Lord?' You have said you hate suffering, you have demonstrated that you are serious at the cross - how much longer must we endure it? That question is painful, but perhaps it is a pain that is bearable in the light of the cross.
Other questions are changed too. Why would a good God create a world which contained so much suffering? That is a valid question. But it means something different when placed alongside the questions 'why would a sovereign God create a world in which a creature like Stephen Fry could call him stupid? Why would a glorious God create a world in which Roman soldiers could spit in his face?' Of course we can ask 'why have you put us all through this, God?' - but we can also ask 'why have you put yourself through all this, God?.
And the answer from the cross is: because of love.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Jesus, the Elect
If you want to know where the idea of election, commonly attributed to (blamed on?) John Calvin, comes from, and how it works, you need to look at Jesus. Jesus is the chosen one of God. He is the elect par excellence. When the Spirit descended on Jesus at his baptism, this was a clear witness that he was the Father's chosen one, his elect.
If you believe that Jesus is unique amongst all human beings, you already believe in election, and you already believe in what many consider to be the most offensive part of the doctrine: that some are chosen whilst others are not. If Jesus is the chosen, nobody else is. Already you have the scandal of particularity - that God deals with this particular person, in this particular way which is not accessible to the rest of us. Belief in Jesus as the Christ necessitates this.
But what is offensive to many about the Calvinist doctrine is that it is unconditional election; God's choosing does not depend on anything in the recipient. This, too, can be traced Scripturally to Jesus (although I don't know whether Calvin ever did this, and I have reason to doubt it). Early church theologians, following the witness of Scripture, spoke of the anhypostasis of Jesus' human nature, which was just an invented Greek word to say that the human nature of Christ had no existence apart from its assumption into union with the divine nature of the Son of God. In other words, there weren't a bunch of humans sitting on a shelf and God chose one he liked; rather, in willing the incarnation, God willed that this particular human be. He wasn't the elect of God because of anything he had done. Everything he was and did flowed from his being the elect of God.
Which brings us to the aspect of election which doesn't get enough airplay in Calvinist circles: the elect are chosen for the sake of others. Jesus is the elect in order to gather in the elect. Until such time as that circle of election is complete, election always means election to service, because that is what it meant for Jesus. And since Jesus was chosen in order to bring salvation to the world (without limits known to us), we cannot ever assume that anyone currently standing outside the circle belongs there. Election means service.
Thursday, January 08, 2015
Mocking God
God is not mocked - Galatians 6:7
...twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on his head and put a reed in his right hand. And kneeling before him, they mocked him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” - Matthew 27:29
...twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on his head and put a reed in his right hand. And kneeling before him, they mocked him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” - Matthew 27:29
A god who needs protecting is no god at all. In particular, a god who needs human beings to take offence on his behalf and to violently protect his reputation and honour is no god. If he is a god, let him contend for himself. Let's be straight: a god who is this brittle, this fragile, this needy - he is nothing. An idol. Emptiness.
What difference does it make that God - the God we see in Christ - willingly submitted to mockery and scorn? Surely at least this: every Christian crusade, every Christian blasphemy law, every time a Christian says 'well they wouldn't get away with mocking Islam in this way' - this is always a misunderstanding and diminishing of God. It does not serve his glory for us to try to fight for him; rather in so far as we are able we conceal his glory. His glory is revealed at the cross.
Christians serve a God who is big enough, strong enough, secure enough, that without his own glory being threatened in any way he could endure mockery and abuse from creatures he had made. Indeed, we serve a God who could take that very mockery and abuse and turn it into the most stunning revelation of his own glorious love: the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ. He does not need us to take offence on his behalf. He does not need, or ask for, our defence.
Let us not transform him into an idol, imprisoned by his own fragile glory.
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