White Horse Inn Blog

Know what you believe and why you believe it

Two Kingdoms and Slavery

A few years ago I had the privilege of speaking at a conference on Karl Barth at Princeton Seminary.  In one unforgettable moment, George Harinck, history professor at the Free University of Amsterdam, explained the difference between the way members of his church (a confessionally conservative Reformed body) and the students of Barth responded to the Nazi occupation.  Consistent with the Barmen Declaration, the Barthians told Hitler to take his hands off of God’s church.  “But our church’s leaders,” related Harinck, “told Hitler to take his hands off of God’s world.”

Professor Harinck belongs to the Reformed Churches—Liberated, a continuing body of the denomination led by Abraham Kuyper.  This remark stayed with me and has haunted me as I try to think through the relationship of Christ and culture.  Where it has clear exegetical warrant, the church speaks authoritatively for God, in Christ’s name, to all of the principalities and powers in this present age.  Christ is Lord of all, not just the church, and his universal claims are to be proclaimed to the world as well as to be embraced and obeyed by those who are called by his name.

I was reminded of Harinck’s provocative comment while reading an interesting volley over the “spirituality of the church” in the blogosphere.  The concern was raised by someone I respect that this doctrine—more generally identified as “two kingdoms”—led to the toleration if not outright encouragement of slavery and segregation in the Southern Presbyterian Church (PCUS).

Like the “two kingdoms” distinction advanced by Luther and Calvin, the “spirituality of the church” refers to its distinct calling in the world.  When I affirm “two kingdoms,” I have in mind the Great Commission issued by our Lord, which mandates that the church preach his Word, administer the sacraments, and preserve the discipline and unity of the body through its officers.  As the Westminster Confession puts the matter, “Synods and councils are to handle or conclude nothing but that which is ecclesiastical: and are not to intermeddle with civil affairs which concern the commonwealth, unless by way of humble petition in cases extraordinary; or, by way of advice, for satisfaction of conscience, if they be thereunto required by the civil magistrate” (31.4).

According to the caricature at least, a “two kingdoms” view separates the believer’s life in the church from his or her life in the world.  Anthony Bradley is a conservative Reformed and African-American theologian. In his dialogue with Carl Trueman and others, he raised some pretty important questions about whether such a “dualistic” perspective was precisely what kept the Presbyterian Church in the South from opposing slavery and then segregation.

This is a hugely important issue, especially since the sins of our fathers are still with us and our own Reformed and Presbyterian denominations do not seem yet to reflect the diversity that anticipates the worshipping throng in Revelation 5:9.

So I’ll offer a few brief comments as a pushback to this charge.

First, it is implausible to suggest that the “spirituality of the church” (or “two kingdoms”) was the glue that held together the southern Roman Catholic, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Methodist, and Baptist churches in their common defense of slavery.  Slavery held them together.  Their views on the matter were argued on the basis of racist doctrines and tortured appeals to slavery in biblical times, as if it were anything like modern slavery that depended on kidnapping, murder, theft, and numerous other sins identified in Scripture as capital offenses.

Second, even if we could accept the caricature of the “spirituality” or “two kingdoms” approach as dualistic, this would only mean that the church refused to address the evil because it was a political matter.  In actual fact, though, the church itself was segregated—often more so than society at large.

Third, Southern Presbyterian theologians who labored indefatigably to defend slavery may have cloaked some of their arguments in appeals to the church’s spiritual mission, but they were calling the state to perpetuate the institution from the pulpit and classroom lectern.  I have in mind especially R. L. Dabney and James Henley Thornwell, who based their arguments on a vision of a Christian society that would make the South the envy of the world and enemy of revolutionaries everywhere.   Their arguments for slavery were not based on the spirituality of the church (I’m not even sure how they could be) but on racist dogmas, Scripture twisting, and wicked cultural prejudices that vitiated the gospel.  Charles Hodge was exactly right when he said that Thornwell was using the spirituality of the church as a cover for his errors.  Assimilating Christ to culture is the sort of thing that the spirituality of the church is especially designed to guard against.

Fourth, it is “guilt-by-association” to argue that because such views on slavery and race were held by people who also spoke of the “spirituality of the church,” the latter view is implicated.  One has to show that the doctrine actually supported racism.  Yet it is very easy to argue that the theological architects of apartheid in South Africa thought they were implementing the transformative vision of Abraham Kuyper.  In fact, they had some support for it in Kuyper’s own writings.  When South Africa’s largest Reformed body confessed apartheid to be heresy, the explanation of its development was linked directly to the Kuyperian movement.  In his biography of Kuyper, James Bratt relates that the Dutch leader did not favor the emerging Afrikaner nationalism.  Nevertheless, many of his ideas were applied:

Key leaders in the Reformed churches in South Africa would work their way to Amesterdam to study at the Free University, and they would have considerable impact in shaping Afrikaner thought and identity in the 1920s and 1930s. They magnified the suggestion Kuyper had taken up from S. J. Du Toit that Afrikaners had a holy calling in their land. They savored the biblical warrant that Kuyper gave to the pluriformity of human cultures, giving the Tower of Babel episode normative status for human history and interrelationships. Most crucially, they adapted philosopher H. J. Stoker’s addition of the volk to the sovereign ‘spheres’ ordained of God. With that, Romantic sociology and European racism received a warrant beyond appeal–and quite beyond what Kuyper had accorded them. The results were startling: a system of separate organization based on race instead of religious confession….

This was a radical reversal of the inter-racial Reformed churches and missions that went all the way back to the time of the Synod of Dort (Abraham Kuyper: Modern Calvinist, Christian Democrat [Eerdmans, 2013], 295-96).

So, from a “two kingdoms” perspective, Southern Presbyterians like Dabney and Thornwell and the Afrikaner architects of apartheid were driven by cultural prejudice over Scripture and by a vision of creating a “Christian” (code for “white”) culture.  Any view of the relation between Christ and culture can be abused—including a “two kingdoms” approach.  It would be easier to blame our tradition’s complicity with social sin on a group or party that held a particular doctrine.  But the issue here is racism, pure and simple.  And it is still with us.

Now let’s imagine ourselves back in the 1850s.  What would a “two kingdoms” or “spirituality of the church” doctrine lead one to do?

First, it would lead the church to exercise its spiritual function—specifically, the ministry of the keys (opening and shutting the kingdom of heaven in Christ’s name).

This would be done by preaching the whole counsel of God, including his wrath against the sin of slavery.  There is no Christian liberty to disobey God’s commands and he has commanded clearly that he hates kidnapping, theft, and murder—sins on which the modern slave trade and slave-holding thrived.  Even Christian families were separated from each other for the economic gain of white Christians.  There is no comparison between this form of slavery and the largely debt-based indentured servitude of ancient societies.

Further exercising the keys, churches committed to the spirituality doctrine would have disciplined members and especially officers who held slaves or shared in the traffic of slaves.  It would have been as natural for a church embracing its spiritual mission to do this as it would have been in the case of members and officers participating in a chain of whorehouses.  After the customary steps, the discipline would take the form of excommunication for the unrepentant.  Dr. Dabney was held in high esteem after the Civil War as a minister and professor, as he continued to defend slavery as an honorable institution.  What would have happened if the church had in fact exercised its spiritual vocation?

Second, there is nothing in the “two kingdoms” or “spirituality” doctrine to keep the church from declaring to the civil powers directly what it proclaims to the world from the pulpit.

Recall the judicious language of the Confession above: “…unless by way of humble petition in cases extraordinary; or, by way of advice, for satisfaction of conscience, if they be thereunto required by the civil magistrate.”  It is hard to conceive of a greater example of a “case extraordinary.”  Today denominations offer solemn declarations on all sorts of matters that are not addressed in Scripture and should, therefore, be left to Christian liberty.  The church has no authority to determine the details of public policy, but it does have the authority—indeed, the obligation—to declare God’s condemnation of public as well as private sin.

Third, the church is not only the people of God gathered, but the people of God scattered into the world as parents, children, neighbors, and citizens.

Imagine what might have happened if the Southern Presbyterian Church (PCUS) had fulfilled its spiritual mandate in the first two ways I’ve mentioned.  Wouldn’t the members be shaped by God’s Word and Spirit to oppose such a horrific evil?   And wouldn’t they do so not only in their extended families but in their towns and cities?  Wouldn’t they carry their convictions to the voting booth as loyal citizens?  Some would even do so as judges, legislators, and generals.  What if the church that nurtured R. L. Dabney had denounced slavery with one voice, with all of the spiritual authority in heaven behind it?  Would he have become a notorious defender of racist religion as he preached, wrote, and served as chief of staff to Stonewall Jackson?

Some Southern Presbyterians who held a “spirituality” view (such as B. B. Warfield’s father and grandfather) did oppose slavery on theological grounds.  In fact, his maternal grandfather did so as chairman of the Republican Convention that re-elected Abraham Lincoln, in opposition to his nephew, former Vice President of the United States and a Confederate general.  B. B. Warfield himself shared his father’s pro-abolition and “two kingdom” views and, at the turn of the twentieth century, wrote one of the most moving pleas for integration.  What if the church had been unified on the Word of God touching this crucial matter?

So to return to Professor Harinck’s arresting point:  Anyone who affirms the “two kingdoms” acknowledges Christ as the Lord of both.  Even through pagan rulers, Christ exercises his worldwide dominion.  We tell the principalities and powers not only that the church belongs to Christ, but that ultimately the world belongs to him as well and will not tolerate indefinitely the injustices of this age.  We address Caesar with confidence where the one greater than Caesar has spoken.  And yet addressing the magistrate in his or her public office can be done only “in cases extraordinary,” and “by humble petition.”  In any case, we encourage Caesar in his defense of justice and punishment of evil-doers.  More than this, we announce a law to which everyone is bound and a gospel by which even Neros may be reconciled to God and those they’ve offended.

To lodge the authority of the church in the mission that Jesus assigned to it seems restrictive and ineffective in transforming the world only if we forget that the gospel is the power of God unto salvation.  Are the preaching of the Word, the administration of the sacraments, and church discipline inconsequential in this great battle between the powers of this present evil age and the reign of Christ?  Or are churches powerless against the evil one precisely to the extent that they fail to fulfill their sacred mission?  The history of slavery, Jim Crow, segregation, and the racisms that still haunt our society teach us just how sorely we need the state and the church to carry out their distinct but often cobelligerent callings—the one as God’s minister of temporal justice and the latter as the ministry of everlasting life.

WHI-1169 | Courage in the Ordinary

Have you noticed that words like “extreme” and “revolutionary” have ironically become part of our “ordinary” vocabulary, even in the world of contemporary Christianity? We’re constantly encouraged to “transform the world,” to pursue “radical discipleship,” or to do “big things for Jesus.” What is the cost of this continual use of superlatives? With the help of Tish Harrison Warren, we’ll discuss this issue and point to a recovery of “ordinary discipleship” in a world of hype.

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Ordinary: The New Radical?

Radical.  Epic.  Revolutionary.  Transformative.  Ultimate.  Extreme.  Emergent.  Alternative.  Next.  Impactful.  On The Edge.  Beyond.  Awesome.  Legendary.  Innovative.  Breakthrough.

 Everything has to have an exclamation point to catch our attention these days.  For many of us, the worst word in our vocabulary is “ordinary.”  Who wants a bumper sticker that announces to the neighborhood, “My child is an ordinary student at Bubbling Brook Elementary”?  Who wants to be an ordinary person in an ordinary town, a member of an ordinary church with ordinary friends and callings?

Our life has to count.  We have to leave our mark, a legacy, make a difference.  And this has to be something that we can manage, measure, and maintain.  We have to live up to our own Facebook profile.

Yet there seems to be a restlessness with restlessness.  It seems that a lot of us are becoming less eager to jump on bandwagons or trail-blaze totally new paths to greatness.

Truth be told, it is actually easier to dream big, pull up roots, and become anonymous—to start over—with a new set of upwardly mobile peers.  And then to do it all over again, somewhere else, reinventing ourselves whenever we want a fresh start and a new set of supporting actors in our life movie.  There is nothing wrong with moving to the city or pursuing adrenaline-racing callings.  But the hype creeps into every area of our life.  It’s making us tired, depressed, and mean.

Given the dominance of The Next Big Thing in our society, it is not at all surprising that the Christian sub-culture is passionate about superlatives.  Many Christians were raised in an environment of managed expectations with measurable results.  Like other aspects of life, growth in Christ as individuals and as churches could be programmed with predictable outcomes.  Many Christians express astonishment when a fellow believer is content with an ordinary Christian life, with an ordinary church, among ordinary Christians, where God showers his extraordinary gifts through ordinary means of grace.

 

“Everydayness Is My Problem”

The writer Rod Dreher observed, “Everydayness is my problem. It’s easy to think about what you would do in wartime, or if a hurricane blows through, or if you spent a month in Paris, or if your guy wins the election, or if you won the lottery or bought that thing you really wanted. It’s a lot more difficult to figure out how you’re going to get through today without despair.”[1]  I know just how he feels, and I’m guessing you do too.  Facing each day with ordinary callings to ordinary people all around us is much more difficult than chasing dreams.

In Christian circles, successive waves of extraordinariness have whipped us up into a frenzy, only to leave us exhausted or disillusioned. Sometimes it’s a new program for personal growth.  For others, it’s a new form of worship.  According to others, radical discipleship means more social interest in transforming the wider world.  For still others, it has meant a longing for revival and awakening to stir us from our apparent slumbers.

For all of its vitality, evangelicalism is a movement, not a church.  In many ways it has not only been influenced by but has helped to shape this aspect of the modern American personality. “Institutions kill the entrepreneurial spirit,” evangelicalism says, “You have to break out of the ordinary and follow the Spirit into new frontiers.”  How much of this actually comes from Scripture and how much of it is simply part of our cultural conditioning?  As Mark Galli, executive editor at Christianity Today, puts it, “The strength of the evangelical movement is its activism; the weakness of the evangelical movement is its activism.”

My target isn’t activism itself, but the marginalization of the ordinary as the richest site of both God’s activity and ours.  Our problem isn’t that we are too active. Rather, it is that we have been prone to successive sprints instead of the long-distance run.  There’s nothing wrong with energy.  The danger is that we’re burning out ourselves—and each other—on restless anxieties and unrealistic expectations.  It’s an impatience with the familiar, sometimes slow, and mostly imperceptible aspects of life.

Think of the things that matter most to us.  They aren’t movements; they are institutions.  They require us to submit to a community, to be “tied down” in ways that clip our restless wings.  Yet in the process, the discipline brings wisdom and delight.

Take marriage, for example.  Is there a plan or program that allows you to expect and to measure progress?  How do you measure a relationship?  My wife and I often have different takes on how things are going.  We may be able to rejoice in the way the Lord has bonded us together since our first year, but how exactly do you measure it from week to week?  And as you look back, what counted most: the extraordinary weekend retreat or the ordinary moments filled with seemingly insignificant decisions, conversations, and touches?  You have distinct memories (if not photos) of the former, but probably not of the latter. The richest things in life are made up of more than Kodak moments.

Is it any different with raising children?  When it comes to the time we spend with them, the mantra among many upwardly mobile parents (especially dads) is “Quality Time.”  But is that true?  What happens in those seemingly mundane moments that are unplanned, unscheduled, and unplugged?  Nearly everything!  Lifetime nicknames are invented; identities and relationships are formed.  On the drive home from church, your child asks a question about the sermon that puts one more piece of the puzzle into place for an enduring faith.  The trip to Disney World may be memorable, but it can’t compensate for just being there in ordinary ways through ordinary moments.

Big expectations are placed on Christians.  Some fly coach; others find their way to first class.  There are the “ordinary” believers who are content to come to church regularly, participate in fellowship and hospitality, and support the ministry financially.  Then there are the truly Spirit-filled, victorious, soul-winning or society-transforming warriors who take it to the next level.

Of course, we’re not new at this.  There were plenty of schemes for spiritual ladder-climbing in the medieval church.  Many Protestants created their own version of “lower” and “higher,” ordinary and extraordinary.  You could still be a member of the official church in town, but if you’ve experienced the new birth you’ll join the nucleus of the true church that meets in small groups.  It isn’t the ordinary ministry of the church—its public and corporate hearing of the Word, baptism, the Supper, and the prayers—, but the extraordinary “after-hours” programs that sift the wheat from the chaff.

Then revivalism came along.  It led to an even sharper division between the ordinary Christian life in ordinary churches and families and the summons to individuals to break away from the herd and join the extraordinary move of the Spirit.

I recall the anxiety over not having a great “testimony.”  Every time we went around in a circle to recount our “before” and “after” pictures of conversion, I was tempted to embellish a little. I couldn’t even remember the date of my conversion!  I was raised in a Christian home and church.  I couldn’t recall a time when I didn’t trust in Christ and sense his gracious hand in my life.

If you think of initial conversion as a measurable and datable “big bang,” it stands to reason that, when that gets old, you’ll keep looking for the next crisis experience.  You may be “saved,” but are you “Spirit-filled”?  The ordinary growth of a believer from baptism to burial was considered at best secondary. At worst, it was a “churchianity” that stood in the way of a genuine personal relationship with Jesus.  The revival was planned, staged, and executed with predictable outcomes.  The climactic moment at summer camp was more exciting and measurable on a spiritual Richter scale than the gradual growth in Christ through faithful family members, friends, and elders.  You may have been baptized and looked after by Christ’s under-shepherds in the church, joining gradually in the songs of Zion as you matured, and learning to join the church in its prayers and, eventually, at the Lord’s Table.  You may have heard and prayed the Scriptures with your family each day, perhaps even learning the great truths of Scripture through a catechism.  Yet none of this really counts.  What really matters is the extraordinary spiritual event.

In American church life, we’ve gone through successive waves of the Next Big Thing. There were giant crusades in stadiums and campus crusades.  There was the Jesus Movement that just happened to coincide with the 70s youth revolution.  For every cultural upheaval in society, there was a Christian knock-off.

In recent decades, the Emergent Movement captured the attention of the hipster generation, at least for a while.  It was supposed to be a radical “rebooting”: “The Next Christians,” “A New Kind of Christian,” and all. Already, though, it seems to have spent its fuel.

Adapting to the culture—and especially to the profile of each generation—has been a remarkable strength of evangelicalism.  Yet growing up into Christ as members of his body, across all generations and locales, is being undermined by frenetic activity.  Patient dedication to the ordinary and often tedious disciplines of corporate and family worship, teaching, prayer, modeling, and mentoring are often eroded by successive waves of enthusiasm.

Even Calvinism seems to have gotten back its groove.  According to TIME, the “New Calvinism” is one of the top ten trends changing the world today.  Collin Hansen’s description—and title of a book explaining the phenomenon—says it pretty well: “Young, Restless, and Reformed.”[2]  While it’s exciting to see many younger folks digging into the doctrines of grace, the “restless” part works against the “Reformed” bit.  Like all movements, the “New Calvinists” often display a greater interest in making it up as they go rather than wrestling with the actual confessions, concerns, and convictions of churches that have forged their consensus through a long conversation.  There is more to being Reformed than “five points.”

In many ways, it’s more fun to be part of movements than churches.  We can express our own individuality, pick our favorite leaders, and be swept off our feet at conferences.  We can be anonymous.  Although encouraged by like-minded believers, we are not bound up with them so that we should feel compelled to bear their burdens or suffer their rebukes. Yet this movement-mentality keeps us restless and makes ordinary life in and submission to an actual church seem intolerably confining.

It’s precisely because we need to look outside of ourselves—up to God in faith and out to our neighbors in love—that it’s important to talk about the ways we’re stepping over God’s activity in ordinary and everyday ways.  I’m not trying to throw a wrench in the conversations about various ways of being radical, but to add a few cautions and caveats that I wouldn’t have been prone to think about, much less write about, in younger years.

Just think of all of the pastors, elders, and deacons whose service is as unheralded as it vital to sustainable discipleship; to all of the spouses and parents who cherish ordinary moments to love and be loved; and to all of those believers who consider their ordinary vocations in the world as part of God’s normal way of loving and serving neighbors right under their nose each day.

And who knows?  Maybe if we discover the opportunities of the ordinary, a fondness for the familiar, and marvel again at the mundane, we will be radical after all.

 


[1] Rod Dreher, “Everydayness,” Nov. 14, 2012 at http://www.theamericanconservative.com/dreher/everydayness-wallace-stevens/, accessed 7/24/2013.

[2] Collin Hansen, Young, Restless and Reformed: A Journalist’s Journey with the New Calvinists (Wheaton: Crossway, 2008).

WHI-1168 | The Case for Civility

How should we present our case for the faith in the public square? How have Christians failed at this in recent years? Os Guinness will join me in this program to discuss issues surrounding the recovery of civility and persuasion in a post-Christian culture. Os is the author of numerous books on the intersection of faith and culture including Dining with the Devil, Time for Truth, and The Case for Civility: And Why Our Future Depends on It (originally aired Feb 15, 2009).

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(Late) Summer Reading–Esther Lightcap Meek

(Esther L. Meek is Professor of Philosophy at Geneva College, and Instructor of Apologetics at Redeemer Theological Seminary. Her 2003 Longing to Know: The Philosophy of Knowledge for Ordinary People (Brazos) is a book for people considering Christianity who have questions about how we know anything at all. Her 2011 book, Loving to Know: Introducing Covenant Epistemology (Cascade), proposes the interpersonal covenantal relationship as the paradigm for all human knowing. A third book is forthcoming.)

Esther Lightcap MeekMy daughter, Starr, names seasons. She names seasons, and her friends and I live into the theme she has designated. This summer is the “Summer of Beauty.” So I took it as all the reason I needed to start through David Bentley Hart’s The Beauty of the Infinite. The book makes me feel as if my whole life has been preparation for this event. And it catches up all of my life in its exuberant toccata on the theme of the Holy Trinity.

I’ve had a glorious late-afternoon-on-the-deck reading regimen this summer: along with Hart, I have dipped daily into Aquinas’ Summa Theologiae (for an upcoming class); John Paul II’s Man and Woman He Created Them: A Theology of the Body (a Christmas present); Roger Lundin’s biography of Emily Dickinson, The Art of Belief(for a faculty seminar); Gascoigne and Thornton, Tacit Knowledge (for a book review); Dostoyevsky’s Brothers K (for “pleasure”…(sigh)). But Hart’s Beauty has crowned and caught them up, too.

I half-understand what Hart says! All my years in philosophy have been vindicated in reading this book, even as they prove inadequate. All my years as a Christian believer have just opened out onto splendor, even as Hart has revealed the poverty of my experience hitherto. I have been, shall we say, surfing in high seas, tumbling off regularly, bowled over by mammoth waves, nevertheless happily splashing about. I feel that death would be, not so much “but my entrance into glory,” as Bach writes, so much as a slight adjustment of the frequency on my reality monitor (my radio-repairing dad’s hypothesis): glory is already near—very near.

Exuberance aside, in a short effort at coherence: Hart’s is a work in theological aesthetics, following up the work of Hans Urs von Balthazar. He argues that Christianity, with its unique doctrine of the Holy Trinity, alone espouses a view of ultimate reality that is both infinite and beautiful, where shalom really is the ultimate real. Other philosophies generallyThe Beauty of the Infinite posit chaos or violence as ultimately real, with all human efforts toward logos and order developed in opposition to it. These warring opposites are always about power and totalizing, absolute, control. But the Christian Trinity, with its eternal dance of love and gift, mutuality and particularity, ever creative of new possibilities—all of this externalized in the rhetorical analogy of creation—ensconces and ensures harmony of one and many from all eternity. Shalom need never be wrested, ultimately, from violence or chaos, for it is original. Infinite distance and infinite variety need never be feared (contra Jorge Borges), for it is beauty—God himself. What we must do is resist persistently the totalizing forces of modern (and postmodern) Western thought and culture, and their adverse effects in our lives and theology, with the exuberance of the good news of Jesus Christ, who retells and reinscribes the story of reality. “If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy, then flit not from this Heavenly Boy!”—the words of poet Robert Southwell.

If you found that last paragraph half-understandable but tantalizing, I have succeeded in giving you a taste of the book. I have also, hopefully, indicated why Hart’s text itself must be ever-new sentence after ever-new sentence, seemingly to joyous infinity. With the fall semester just around the corner, I don’t have much prospect of finishing the book. But I anticipate with joy another summers of surfing until—well, maybe I’ll just keep rereading it. It probably won’t matter what the season gets named; that theme will prove to have been original with God, too.

(Late) Summer Reading–John Bombaro

(Rev. John J. Bombaro (Ph.D., King’s College, University of London) is the parish minister at Grace Lutheran Church in San Diego, California and a lecturer in theology and religious studies at the University of San Diego.  He’s a frequent contributor to Modern Reformation.) 

John BombaroWhat book are you reading right now?

I have made a good choice with my present read: Craig A. Evans, Jesus and His World: The Archeological Evidence (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2012). Evans has distinguished himself as an internationally recognized expert on New Testament studies and always has something new, something insightful to say about the biblical text. This time he does so through a book that collates salient information from the realm of archeology that has immediate bearing on the historicity of Jesus and the accuracy of the New Testament witness.

Why’d you chose it?

In looking for a reliable author and text that would be accessible and informative to my University of San Diego students taking an introductory level class called “Christianity and Its Practice”, Evans immediately came to mind due to his orthodoxy and devotion to Christ. Jesus and His World will be highly accessible and convincing for neophytes to Christianity and those indoctrinated by pop pessimism about the Bible.

Jesus and His World

What’s the best part about the book so far?

The best parts of the book are (1) when Craig gentlemanly disabuses agendist pseudo-scholarship that casts aspersions on the historical Jesus and (2) his inclusion of thirty-nine photos of major archeological finds that visually substantiate the author’s explanations of their significance.

 

What’s the worst part about the book so far?

Negatively, the back cover says almost nothing about the content of this winning book. It would be easily glossed over in a bookstore. Thankfully, Evans’ name is easily recognizable so that a gem like this isn’t missed.

(Late) Summer Reading–Anthony Parisi

(Anthony Parisi is an independent filmmaker and online editor-in-chief for Houston Baptist University’s Cinema & New Media Arts.)

Anthony ParisiWhat are you reading right now?

I have been reading several books this summer but the most noteworthy by far has been Matthew Lee Anderson’s new book, The End of Our Exploring: A Book About Questioning and the Confidence of Faith. It is a deeply thoughtful and stimulating work about (you guessed it), questioning and the confidence of faith. In the author’s words, the book is “chiefly concerned to explore whether we can question well and what such questioning might look like.” (pg. 12)  What moves us to ask a question? What sort of answer would it take to move us to give up our questions? What happens when we question? Are questioning and doubt the same thing? The End of Our Exploring asks good questions, questions us as readers, and urges everyone to learn the art of questioning well.

 

 

 

“… if the young question most, the wise question best. The art of questioning takes a lifetime to perfect, for the most interesting questions flow from a deep well of insights. The more we understand, the more fine-grained our awareness of the negative spaces will be. The more we learn about the world, the more we will realize how much more there is to know, if we will only remember our ignorance and continue noticing the negative spaces. Those who have learned best and longest will explore hidden nooks and corners that those of us starting out cannot begin to imagine. The wise have seen negative spaces that only well-trained eyes are strong enough to detect. “ (pg. 21)

End of Our Exploring

Why did you pick this particular book?

Matt is a fellow alumnus of Biola University and while I don’t know him personally, his blog Mere Orthodoxyhas been favorite reading of mine for quite some time now. Reading him and other bright graduates of Biola’s Torrey Honors Institute should be enough to convince anyone that rumors of evangelicalism’s death may be greatly exaggerated. If you want to find the best and brightest from an evangelical institution you need look no further.  More personally, the subject resonates with me very deeply. As a child of postmodernity and surrounded by our default, cultural cynicism that’s obviously no surprise. But I do feel all of these questions at a gut level. My analytical mind can needlessly torture itself by questioning (badly!) and I’ve come to see how sin in my own life can distort serious thinking. As a young adult, there are also faces and relationships now attached to all these of issues. I have watched childhood friends make shipwreck of the faith and abandon Christ. The subject is a weighty one. A proper reverence and seriousness toward questioning is one of the strongest qualities of this book.

“The man who asks whether God’s mercy allows for justice may be asking a sincere question and faithfully opening himself to the creative destruction of his own false ideas or to a deepened understanding of his true ones. His questioning may be rooted in love and aimed at his growth. Or he may be clinging to the final vestiges of his rebellion, making a final desperate stand against the holiness of God. Or he may be merely playing a game, reducing God to an abstraction for his own intellectual satisfaction. These possibilities and countless others stand beneath every inquiry that we make.  How can we tell if our questions are subverting the healthy confidence that we or others have in God? How do we know if we have deceived ourselves into believing we are “just questioning” rather than expressing our hostility against God, a hostility that may even be hidden from ourselves? That such self-deceived rationalizations of our questions are a possibility should be enough to give us pause. It is a serious thing we undertake, this exploring.  There can be no “merely” or “just” of our questioning. Such qualifiers indicate that we think our inquiries are somehow exempt from sin and temptation. It would be convenient to think that our questions are immune from the fundamental conflict of right and wrong, that they are quarantined from the possibility of confession and repentance. But the first moment of questioning well is the recognition that as a human endeavor, our questioning is fallen and broken, entangled with sin and in need of reformation. We should be wary of affording to ourselves a cheap grace that cordons off a crucial area of our lives from our responsibility before God.” (pg. 35)

 

What’s the best thing about it so far?

As I read through the book I’m impressed at how well Matt explores our cultural climate and responds to it. This book could resonate with anyone. The universality of the subject and his careful nuance should prove thought-provoking for both ardent conservative and progressive skeptic. I’ve had to resist highlighting every line of the perceptive chapter “On Doubt and What Doubt Isn’t.”

Faith is not fundamentalism—nor is doubt the same as questioning. While the tendency is to react to fundamentalism by embracing doubt, I think it is important to not replace one problem with another. What we should pursue is a confident faith that questions and questions well, not the vague instability of doubt that replaces the overweening certainty of fundamentalism. (pg. 50-51)

He argues that “conflating doubt and questioning is one of the chief confusions of our age” and that faith “does not close off questioning—it reforms and orients it. It is not the bunker mentality of fundamentalism, which shuts down inquiry because it is afraid. Faith seeks understanding, and the form of its seeking is the questions that it asks within the life of the practices of the church.” (pg. 51)  Undergirding all of the book is a high view of church authority and Scripture that is crucial to the way Matt articulates the place of questioning in the Christian life. This may be the most counter-cultural feature of the book (even for many professing Christians). It enables him to illustrate a healthy way of questioning and reasoning in the church without resorting to individualism or undermining church structure. Christians in Reformation traditions will especially appreciate a shout-out to the recovery of catechesis as “one of the most hopeful signs for Christians interested in cultivating their ability to question and live into the answers.” (pg. 79)  The book also has a warmth and generous tone that we can all learn from in our questioning and engagement with others. There is a generous spirit of catholicity coupled with winsome conviction. The End of Our Exploring doesn’t just tell us how to question well but truly embodies it. I can’t recommend it enough.

 

What’s the worst thing about it so far?

Nothing is coming to mind, so I suspect this may be a bad question. Here’s a better one: have you bought the book yet?

(Late) Summer Reading–Nancy Guthrie

(Nancy Guthrie is the author of O Love That Will Not Let Me Go and the Seeing Jesus in the Old Testament Bible study series (www.seeingjesusintheoldtestament.com)  In addition to teaching opportunities at her church, Christ Presbyterian Church in Nashville, Nancy speaks regularly at conferences and events around the country.)

Nancy GuthrieWhat are you reading right now?

My stack of books has three categories—the books for my current seminary class, books I’m reading for my current writing project on the prophets, and the manuscripts I’m reading for endorsement requests. I’ve gotten to read several terrific books in the biblical theology category over recent weeks from this endorsement request stack including David Murray’s forthcoming Jesus on Every Page (Thomas Nelson, August release), and Jim Hamilton’s What is Biblical Theology? (Crossway, November release), as well as Name Above All Names by Sinclair Ferguson and Alistair Begg (Crossway).   I have to admit that I laughed out loud at the absurdity of the publishing process when I received the request from the publisher to consider offering an endorsement for Begg and Ferguson’s book. These are two of my most respected mentors-from-afar in regard to handling and communicating the scriptures with a sense of the big story of the Bible. They are also two of my favorite people. So when I received the request my thought was that while they have little to gain from my endorsement, I am quite sure I have plenty to gain from reading this book.  Since this was a book I knew I would want to read as soon as I got my hands on it, I was glad to get to read it in advance. However, I read it quickly in its manuscript stage in the press of other projects. So I’ve been glad to have some time to work through it more slowly and thoughtfully now that the printed book is in my hands.

 

Why’d you pick that book?

I grew up in Sunday School and have studied the Bible most of my life. But it wasn’t until recently that I began to listen to preachers like Ferguson and Begg who present the scriptures with a sense of the Bible as one grand story of God’s redemption of all things through Christ. My own publishing projects over the past five years have been my way of re-orienting the way I read and understand the Old Testament, moving away from using the characters and situations of the Old Testament as moral or faith lessons and instead seeing the beauty of the person and work of Christ throughout. I’ve learned a lot, but I still have plenty to learn—not only about how to understand these things in the scriptures, but also how to communicate them clearly and simply to others, which is just what this book does like few others.

 

What’s the best part of the book so far?Name Above All Names

While the presentation of the person and work of Christ in these short seven chapters is profound and fresh, it is also personal and easy-to-follow. Its chapters trace Jesus as presented in the scriptures as Seed of the Woman, True Prophet, Great High Priest, Conquering King, Son of Man, Suffering Servant, and the Lamb on the Throne. And while the scholarship is sound, it is never technical. This is a book I could give to someone who has never heard of biblical theology and when they finished they would have a sound sense of biblical theology without ever hearing the intimidating term. And while reading the book would cause them to think about the story of the Bible in new ways, mostly it would call them to worship the God of the Bible.  One of many “Aha!” experiences for me came early in the book in the chapter about Jesus Christ as the Seed of the Woman, which says that Adam was created to be the gardener, but that he failed. It then goes to the resurrection of Christ when Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and didn’t recognize the resurrected Christ, “supposing him to be the gardener” (John 20:15). The book reads: “The gardener? Yes, indeed. He is the Gardener. He is the second Man, the last Adam, who is now beginning to restore the garden.” While certainly I had seen the garden at the beginning and ending of the story of the Bible, I had never before seen Christ as the Gardener, there in the center of the story, beginning his work to restore and renew. But I won’t forget it.

 

What’s the worst part of the book so far?

I have only one beef with the way Begg and Ferguson put the book together. I don’t know for sure which one to credit with this brilliant Gardener insight and so many others throughout the book. They don’t identify themselves as to who is speaking and so refer to people they both knew, and experiences they both had, using phrases such as, ‘in one of our churches” and “one of our children.” Because these two pastors each have so much wit and personality, their own charming humor, and of course their own unique experiences and acquaintances, every time I came across one of these personal references I would have preferred to know who was speaking. But I suppose it helps that even though I don’t know who is speaking, I can hear the same accent in my head. More than that I recognized the same love for Christ and ability to call to me, as the reader, to see Christ in all of his sufficiency and to love him with all of my heart.

(Late) Summer Reading–James K. A. Smith

(James K.A. Smith is professor of philosophy at Calvin College where he holds the Gary & Henrietta Byker Chair in Applied Reformed Theology and Worldview.  He is the author of a number of books including Letters to a Young Calvinist: An Invitation to the Reformed Tradition and, most recently, Imagining the Kingdom: How Worship Works.  He also serves as the editor of Comment magazine.)

James-K_A_-SmithWhat book are you reading right now?

I’ve finally moved James Bratt’s biography, Abraham Kuyper: Modern Calvinist, Christian Democrat (Eerdmans, 2013) to the top of the stack.  I’m not sure that Jim ever envisioned this as a “beach read,” but in fact I enjoyed reading it while decamped on the gorgeous sands of Grand Haven, Michigan, our very own “west coast.”  That I eventually dozed off is no commentary on Bratt’s prose, which is far from soporific.

Why’d you choose that particular book?

As a member of the Christian Reformed Church and a Christian scholar at Calvin College, an institution nourished by Kuyper’s legacy, reading this book is pretty much an occupational requirement.  But like the law of love, it is a happy obligation!  Abraham Kuyper was a remarkable individual whose life makes for a compelling story: a convert from bland liberalism, he went on to become an influential pastor, newspaper editor, theologian, and statesman (serving as Prime Minister of the Netherlands from 1901-1905).  My own thought is deeply indebted to Kuyper and his heirs, but I knew the ideas and not the man.  But my interest is not just antiquarian or a biographical fascination: I’m also intrigued to see how a Christian like Kuyper operated in the public sphere—a public sphere that was increasingly secularized and pluralized, and thus beginning to look more and more like the world we currently inhabit.  I’m intrigued to see if there are lessons to be learned here, including lessons to be learned from Kuyper’s failures.

Abraham-Kuyper

What’s the best part about it so far?

Well, first and foremost, I have to say that Bratt’s prose is lively and engaging, characterized by a verve and wit that he exhibits in person as well.  One of Jim’s best friends, the film scholar Bill Romanowski, recommended that Bratt organize the biography like a screenplay, and I think that’s reflected in the book’s dramatic pace.  Second, Bratt’s mastery of the archival materials is remarkable.  For example, Bratt goes back to early sermons and captures their key themes in ways that bring Kuyper to life beyond his published legacy.  But I also love it that at the same time he draws on Kuyper’s love letters to his fiancée, then wife, Jo.  As Bratt puts it, “Father Abraham” was a romantic in more ways than one.  Finally, so far I have learned the most from Bratt’s ability to locate Kuyper in the social, political, and intellectual context of 19th century Europe.  It is far too easy to read someone like Kuyper anachronistically, reading him as if we were just a contemporary American.  Bratt’s biography is an important antidote to that.

 

What’s the worst part about it so far?

I don’t think I’ve encountered a “worst part” so far.  I would just say this: I can already feel a certain theoretical frame that Bratt brings to the story of which I am a tad suspicious.  I’m just a little worried that the “true” heirs of Kuyper are going to be progressives, whereas “right wingers” (as Bratt puts it, gratingly) are going to turn out to be unenlightened repristinators.  I’m suspending judgment until I’m finished the book, but I’m on the lookout for an interpretive frame that might load the dice just a bit.

WHI-1167 | A Christian Witness to Israel

What do contemporary Jews believe about the Messiah? How should Christians talk to their Jewish friends about Jesus? We are joined on this episode to think through these issues by David Zadok, Pastor of Grace & Truth Church outside of Tel Aviv, and the Field Director for Christian Witness to Israel.

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