Based on the common P2P as shorthand, I offer up F2F as shorthand for “Face to Face.” This is how we should envision ourselves as we post and particularly comment – be it on this blog or any other.

This was driven home to me, recently, in a quite experiential manner. I had a discussion, in real life, with a person face to face, on a topic… a topic I had also recently engaged in on this site. “Recent” is relative, so there is no point conjecturing to which thread I refer.

What struck me in hindsight was my demeanor when arguing a theological point F2F compared to the same argument on the web. The obvious advantages aside (e.g. – body language, facial expressions, history), our F2F discussion was equally impassioned yet it lacked the common escalation I so often engage in on the web. I am not sure why this is. I suppose it is hard to become frustrated and blunt when sitting across the table from someone. I suppose it is harder to be come angry and escalate the rancor when the person’s response (which include their own anger and hurt) are readily visible. There is still something removed and anonymous when arguments are held on the web – even when they are between people who have a history F2F.

We see this all too often in our favorite ODM sites. I am convinced they label people way too eagerly, of course, but I bet (I certainly hope) that they would not be so quick and eager if they knew the person, if they bothered to conceive their point of view, if they engaged them F2F.

We are guilty of this as well. For all the ways in which we struggle to be different… for all the ways that we actually are different… for all the way I believe our approach is superior and more in the spirit of our Lord… I am guilty of saying things in such a manner as I would never dream of doing to a brother/sister in Christ F2F… We are guilty of saying things in such a manner as I would never dream of doing to a brother/sister in Christ F2F.

Maybe P2P is a good reminder: peer to peer. “Peer” – a person of the same legal status. If I do not know this is even more true of those of us in Christ, I don’t know noth’n,

Ephesians 2:4-6 (NKJV – emphasis mine) — But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up together …

I have noted before on my blog that legalism mocks God’s grace. If we are raised in a home that doesn’t perform “worldly” externals, and all Christianity is about is not doing those “worldly” externals, then God hasn’t really saved us from much — we weren’t dead in our trespasses; we just had the sniffles.

A couple weeks ago, Neil wrote about labels, and how they can be helpful at times — and downright useless and silly at other times. The latter issue was the larger portion of his post and (although he didn’t initially identify it at the time of the writing), I was one of the people that he wrote about who had been incorrectly and unfairly labeled. (He later went back and filled readers in on who the label-ers were. ‘Twas a hop, skip, and jump from there to figure out who the label-ees were.)

Unfortunately, for any “fact-checkers” out there, the background of my incident can’t be accurately checked, as the moderators of the site on which I was labeled chose to conveniently excise large parts of the exchange in which either (a) I made a strong point or (b) they looked foolish in retrospect. But that’s not why I’m writing this, anyway …

I was attempting to answer the question “Is Francis Chan emergent?” by noting that the important question was not whether or not someone had attached a label to Chan, but whether or not what he teaches/writes is the truth. As the questioner appeared to truly be researching Chan, but coming up empty, I pointed her to a couple of book reviews and a brief (and, for me, convicting) video by Chan.

(For what extremely little it was worth, one of the book reviews included a quote from Chan that pretty much answered her irrelevant question.)

Having just made the point that the issue was truth (not labels), the very next comment — by a moderator, no less — asked me if I was emergent. Quite frankly, I was stunned at how incredibly and thoroughly he had missed my entire point. I felt like tapping the mic and asking, “Is this thing on?”

I temporarily evaded the question, as it was no more relevant for me than it was for Chan. However, after a while, it became obvious that I was never going to get that point through, even though I repeated it numerous times in different ways. So I just (metaphorically) threw up my hands and answered their question. I worked off a list of teachers/writers that one of my accusers had provided, and (I’m sure to their utter shock) largely agreed with their stances on these men.

But then I “messed up” and dragged God into the conversation (what was I thinking?):

Bottom line though: While none of those men are on my bookshelf, I do not think God incapable of using them to speak truth to me.

The responses to this statement (all of my others “disappeared”) made things abundantly clear — they were so utterly focused on these men, that they totally (dis)missed God. One can only come to the conclusion that they do think God incapable of using those men.

There was even a great, though certainly unintended, illustration of this. One of the moderators has an image in his signature line — riffing off of President Obama’s “Hope” slogan — that says “Hopeless” (complete with the same logo in the “O” as was in the original). While no fan of the president by a long shot, I have to note that this image says infinitely more about the moderator’s view of God than his view of the president.

I ran across a post on another blog today about some truly horrific people — murderers, drunkards, adulterers, pimps, prostitutes — the scum of the earth. Oddly, they’re all characters cited in Genesis, many of whom were greatly used by God. And some of them don’t even have the “good” testimonies of how they did all that bad stuff before they met God, and walked the straight and narrow ever since.

The phrase “another gospel” (riffing off Galatians 1) has been perverted in its overuse to mean “that with which we do not agree”. And, to be sure, I saw that phrase used often in the discussions surrounding Chan and others. But to claim (even indirectly) that God is incapable of using anyone requires not only the ignoring of large portions of Scripture, but an outright mockery of God’s grace and the heart of the gospel message.

That, my friends, is truly “another gospel”.

Galatians 1:9 (NKJV – emphasis mine) — As we have said before, so now I say again, if anyone preaches any other gospel to you than what you have received, let him be accursed.

Don’t blame me — I didn’t say it.

We need to listen attentively to every conversation, read discerningly every book, if we hope ever to discern the truth and implications of the love word.–Eugene Peterson, Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places, 311

Nineteen Years

For nearly nineteen years of my life I have gone to bed with the same woman every night. The darkness comes upon earth, the doors of the house are locked, the children are tucked into their beds and then I climb into bed and roll onto my side. Then I gently scootch as close as humanly possible next to my wife, my bride, my girl; my girl of nearly nineteen years. She is usually asleep because, for the better part of those nineteen years, I have been a preacher or a student who does his best work at night after the darkness has fallen upon earth, the doors have been locked, and the children tucked into their beds.

She does not mind; too much. Most of the time she awakens from her slumber and scootches back against me and I feel our warmth mingle and dance like the flames from two candles mingling and becoming one. I hold her close for several minutes until my hyperactivity disorder kicks in and I am forced to roll on to my other side. Of course she follows; without fail. We do this a few times before we settle into a comfortable deep sleep.

What is amazing to me is that she lets me. And, no matter how much we have argued or complained at each other during the hours of sunlight, when we get under the covers—we always sleep under the covers—there is only room for one of us in the bed. So we sleep next to one another. In the early days of our marriage (and again during our senior year at Bible college) we slept in a twin bed. It was only sometime within the last three years we graduated to a queen size bed.

Nearly nineteen years.

Nearly nineteen years of room for one.

Nearly nineteen years of shared warmth.

It’s like all those hurtful things we have said and done to each other vanish once the covers cover, the pillows absorb, and the flesh melds. I’m not talking about sex. I’m just talking about the closeness, the oneness, the friendship of a lover who is closer than a friend; closer than God.

And if you don’t think I’m telling the truth about that ‘closer than God’ remark, then look back to Genesis where we are told about God making man and woman, husband and wife. There you will see, as I saw one day, what God saw: “God saw that man was lonely, and this was not good.” So what did God do? Send his Holy Spirit? Infuse man with a dose of religion? No. Instead, he made the man a bride, a woman, a lover, and a friend.  She was flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. It was the first and only time in the history of the world that a man gave birth.

The rest, as we say, is history; or future.

So in a sense, the woman has a power that even God does not have. Man was alone, lonely, when it was just him and God. That loneliness went away after God made the woman. I’m not saying God created the woman to ‘cure’ the man’s problems, but rather the man’s problem was cured when God gave him the woman. Eve satisfied a place in Adam’s life that God did not and, presumably, could not.

That’s a powerful way to see Eve. It’s a powerful way to see my wife.

8 Months

I have worked my way through a tremendous amount of suffering over the last several months. I have fleshed it out here quite a lot. It has not been a happy time for the most part. Constant worry about how I would pay my bills. Deep depression at the fact that I was no longer fulfilling my vocation on this earth. Anger that I was (am) working at a job that is frustrating and purposeless. Distress that I have essentially been forced out of my denomination of ordination. Embarrassment before my peers and friends who have not been kicked out of their pulpits—jealous that I am no longer a part of the ‘club.’ Sinful because I was no longer under the constraints of maintaining the ‘pulpit demeanor.’ Fear that my children might judge the church, or Christ, because of the actions of one congregation.And worse. All of this haunts me day in and day out.

Prayerless because I have been terribly angry with God for allowing evil and greed to prevail in my former congregation—because he did not answer my prayers but remained silent. Incredulous that none of the elders, deacons, preachers, or members of the other congregations in my denomination (in my part of the world) have reached out to me, my wife, or my sons—those who were my friends, those with whom I worked, served, and prayed, those who had formerly listened to me teach and preach the Gospel, those who formerly counted on me to lead, visit, conduct funerals or weddings or prayer retreats. Stupefied that I was hung out to dry after nearly ten years of service to the same congregation whom I loved and cared for deeply. Disappointed that I rarely see my sons or my wife because of the work and school schedules we have to maintain. Frustrated because it seems God has taken away all that I thought I was supposed to be and replaced it with things I never imagined myself to be.

I have no other words to describe it, although I’d like to. This is what Renee has had to deal with for…well, forever. And yet, she’s still with me; we are still one.

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“One of you will say to me: “Then why does God still blame us? For who resists his will?” But who are you, O man, to talk back to God? “Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?’ “Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for noble purposes and some for common use?” (Romans 9:19-21)

If you would, please allow me some pastoral license that I might rip this passage of Romans out of its intended context for a moment or two in order to illustrate a point. I realize it probably has very little to do with what I am about to write and share with you, but I think at this point in time I can rightfully  be accused and found guilty of worse.

The short and long of it is that I have no excuse. “Who are you, O Man, to talk back to God?”

I went to my doctor yesterday. I usually go to my doctor not because I have any particular ailment but because I want to talk, blow off some steam; make sure I’m not crazy. He listens. He offers me some pills if I ask for them. He gives me advice, like he did yesterday, that resembles anything but modern medicine: Go out for a twenty minute walk each night, take note of the position of the moon, and keep a journal of your moods in relation to the moon. OK. I’m not having menstrual irregularity, but I’ll try.

Or, he’ll say, without a hint of irony, “Well, the Chinese say…” and then, “maybe we could do some acupuncture.” If my insurance company knew this is what me and my doctor were talking about I suspect the bill would be entirely my responsibility. I think he knows me well enough to know that when I come in to see him I am not there to talk about my kidney stones or hemorrhoids or my nightmares. Strangely enough, I think he knows I am there to talk shop which, in our case, is theology; or Zen; blades of grass; grace.

So he asks how I have been and it spills out of me like the Niagara River over the edge. I tell him that since August of 2008 my life has been a train wreck. I sit there on the paper covered bench-thingy, hunched over, and my sadness pours out of me as if he were Jesus or my pastor. I sit there in the cold, barren dung-heap of an office, scratching myself with a pen cap confessing to him my pain. “124/76,” says the nurse. “Is that good?” I ask. “Yes, excellent,” she replies. “Well, that’s because I don’t carry stress in my chest, but in my abdomen.”

Kidney stones. Diarrhea. Constipation. Hemorrhoids. Cramps. Gas. I’m a walking advertisement for Pepto Bismol and Milk of Magnesia. Aleve is really nice. I can’t tell the twenty-four year old shapely brunette nurse any of this. No, I am a fine specimen of man. I stand tall and crack some jokes. She barely laughs, but is courteous nonetheless; she humors my wit. Later she will come in and clean a couple of spots on my skin that will be operated on by the doctor. So much for my bearded, manly presence: There I lay in a ripped gown, half naked, raising my boxer shorts and covering myself while this nurse preps me for surgery.

I know you don’t want to hear it, but there it is.

“Well, since August of 2008 here’s the story. My brother in law, who was thirty, died from a brain tumor…”—‘he didn’t die from it, but with it; so say the Chinese’ he interrupts—“and that set off a string of events that I haven’t been able to figure out yet.”

“My wife and I were buying our first house; after 17 years of marriage we finally could. Then Bobby died. Then the shit hit the fan at the church. In July 2009 I was fired. That quick. They called me on my last day of church camp and told me to be at meeting the next day (they had been having meetings behind my back for some time). I knew it was coming.” By now it is pouring out of me even faster. “But there was nothing I could do. They had lost confidence and blamed me for twenty some years of no growth. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. We had just bought a house. My brother in law—what’s up with all the brain tumors going around anyhow?”—‘It depends upon who you talk to,’—“I’m sick of it!”

Silence.

But I was talking to him and he was listening. I was spilling my guts to a practitioner of Chinese medicine, who is more in tune with the Ohio State Buckeyes than with Jesus, and who was furiously typing away our conversation on his laptop even as I am now reporting my version of it on my laptop. I visit my doctor maybe once every two years. I noticed that the lobby was empty when I arrived; he knows.

He knows I won’t listen to his advice about cholesterol and that I won’t take pills. He knows that I don’t really care too much about having my prostate examined even though I am nearly 40 and should. He knows that even if I take pills it will be for a week and then I’ll throw them away.

“Maybe it was about pride,” I say. ‘It’s always about pride,’ he responds. Dammit. I was hoping it wasn’t. “Seriously, I’m working at Blockbuster Video. I spent four long years learning how to do something I am not now doing. Death. Major life changes. Career changes. Age. Am I going nuts? I studied hard to be a preacher and now I’m not. I’m working at Blockbuster, not contributing anything to the world. And let’s not even talk about how this has upset my sons. My eldest questions church, is uncertain of God. Behavior issues. All three have struggled in school since we lost our church of nearly ten years. And my wife? Am I losing it?”

‘No.’

He then goes into this long, thoughtful monologue about the Chinese and how there are no accidents and how God is in the blade of grass and acupuncture and the moon and menstrual cycles and half a dozen other things. I nod thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.” I always say that because I don’t want the doctor to think that the things I believe faith is supposed to do are not being done—you know, like giving me courage, making me holy, giving me peace—“I am not happy; I have no peace; I’m all out of balance; can’t find an even keel…”—I don’t want him to think that Jesus is a failure just because I am.

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So it’s 6:09 AM, Wednesday. I haven’t slept at all, and I won’t be anytime soon. I have to work in three hours so there is no point in even trying. So here I am: awake and blogging.

I have recently blogged about Shane Claiborne’s book Jesus for President and some of that blogging caused heated exchanges and much good, very good, and worthless conversation. I’m intrigued by Claiborne–not least because of the really cool glasses he is often pictured wearing–but also because he irritates me, sort of like that sand that gets stuck in swim trunks after a day at the beach. There are few people who irritate me in such a way and yet, like the beach, I still go back. Not too often, but enough.

He recently wrote an article for Esquire. Well, it was a month ago. I don’t know if you read it or not but he (or the editor) titled it, What If Jesus Meant all that Stuff?. The article is written in the form of a letter to his ‘non-believing, sort of believing, and used to be believing friends.’ I like that. Those are the people he should write to. Here’s how he began:

I feel like I should begin with a confession. I am sorry that so often the biggest obstacle to God has been Christians. Christians who have had so much to say with our mouths and so little to show with our lives. I am sorry that so often we have forgotten the Christ of our Christianity.

Forgive us. Forgive us for the embarrassing things we have done in the name of God.

The other night I headed into downtown Philly for a stroll with some friends from out of town. We walked down to Penn’s Landing along the river, where there are street performers, artists, musicians. We passed a great magician who did some pretty sweet tricks like pour change out of his iPhone, and then there was a preacher. He wasn’t quite as captivating as the magician. He stood on a box, yelling into a microphone, and beside him was a coffin with a fake dead body inside. He talked about how we are all going to die and go to hell if we don’t know Jesus.

I admire Claiborne. He is in the trenches of the place he lives, with the hurting and weak. He, obviously, has great compassion for the people of the world–the down and out, the weak, the poor, the hopeless, and helpless. It is nothing short of the ministry of Christ and I’m glad that he does it. I’m not criticizing that at any level.

Nor am I particularly concerned with his theology either. He has some important things to say and I think he gets a lot of it right–in the sense that I also get a lot of it ‘right’. He’s a fan of grace, as am I:

In closing, to those who have closed the door on religion — I was recently asked by a non-Christian friend if I thought he was going to hell. I said, “I hope not. It will be hard to enjoy heaven without you.” If those of us who believe in God do not believe God’s grace is big enough to save the whole world… well, we should at least pray that it is.

This is not a post about universalism. I don’t particularly care one way or another whether any of us believe all will or will not be ’saved.’ You won’t change my mind, and I’m not asking you to change yours. Nor is this a post about the merits of hell either. I don’t particularly care if you believe hell is a place we go or if it is right next door to your house.

What I am concerned about is this idea that Claiborne feels the need to apologize for me, for you, for other Christians as if he has been appointed to such a place. God himself doesn’t feel particularly compelled to step down out of heaven with his megaphone and apologize for us so why should Claiborne do so? Part of the idea of Claiborne’s article is that God did not come to condemn the world but to save it and then, as if speaking out both sides of his mouth at the same time, he condemns the very ones God has already deliberately saved–Christians. Why? Because he disagrees with the way some Christians convey the message and the use of some of the words that Christians use in doing so. (Condemn might be a harsh choice of words here, but hopefully, even if it is hyperbolic, you get what I am saying and won’t get stuck in that moment.)

There is a terrible incongruity in that, don’t you think? If God hasn’t condemned us (and Paul seems rather convinced in Romans 8 that he hasn’t; and won’t; and that no one can) then who is Shane Claiborne to do so? What right does Shane Claiborne have to apologize for me and my actions and my failures and my triumphs? What right does he have to condemn his brothers and sisters–simply because they do things differently than he does–while at the same time acting as if he himself is the father of all humility who alone has tread the path of righteousness? (Because that’s how he comes off at times with his apologies on behalf of me and you as if he somehow stands apart from all that is ugly about the church.)

You know how he sounds don’t you? We pejoratively refer to those who cast stones and heap scorn upon the church as ODM’s. There is an instinctive discomfort experienced by those who hear such things from other christians. Why do we shoot our own? No one has ever said, as Claiborne falsely dichotomizes, that Christianity spreads better ‘by force’, but who is to say his way (’fascination’) is any better? (Although Matthew 11:11-13 might suggest differently.) Who can say if God uses a preacher and a megaphone and a coffin or if God uses a man who grows vegetables in old toilets or if God uses humbled world leaders to accomplish his purposes? And who are we to criticize when he does? And who are we to apologize? I may not find street preaching particularly appealing or effective way of sharing the Gospel, but Jesus did and used the method quite often himself.

And who is Shane Claiborne to apologize for me? God has already ‘apologized’ for me: it’s called the cross. And the way I see it, no other justification is needed. That’s grace.

Maybe God used Slice of Laodicea to minister to the needs of people. Maybe God used Nooma to minister to the needs of people. Maybe Ghandi was a bag of hot air and his opinion of Christians is meaningless because he is DEAD. Maybe Mark Driscoll is just as effective as John McArthur? Who’s to say? I have a hard time reconciling this statement:

So if God should choose to use us, then we should be grateful but not think too highly of ourselves. And if upon meeting someone we think God could never use, we should think again

with his statements at the beginning where the street preacher with the megaphone is somehow the bad guy. If God can, and does, use anyone or someone (as Claiborne writes) we think he could never use (such as ‘bullhorn guy’), maybe we should take Claiborn’s advice and, well, think again.

Maybe he should too.

Look, I get his point: many (all) Christians have done many stupid things. OK. We get it. And humility is good. Right on! I’m with you. But we don’t need a spokesman and the world does not need apologies. All the ‘I’m sorry Christians are such a lousy lot of buggers who killed witches in Salem and Muslims in Jerusalem and did a  bunch of other unsavory things in the name of Jesus in hopes of converting a few’ will not change the world one iota. Enough of those apologies have been uttered or muttered.

If, as Claiborne rightly asserts, God can and does use people like murderous and adulterous king David, whoring and lying Rahab, slithering and scandalous Solomon, adulterous Samson, and the whole lot of them (just look at the list of nasties in Hebrews 11) and saved their stories as the articles of our faith, and didn’t apologize for doing so, then I think it is right to ask whether or not Shane Claiborne or any other ODM has the right to criticize fellow believers or apologize on behalf of Christians in this world who routinely make a mess of things and give unbelievers a reason to unbelieve.

If God is for us–that’s us: stupid, simple, weak, sinful, fragile, faithless, unkempt, makes bad choices, don’t honor God’s name properly, us, we, the church–then who can be against us? Shane, my friend, my brother: That’s the whole freaking point of grace! When I foul up, I will say I’m sorry for myself, to the person I hurt, for the sin I commit. I don’t need help thank you very much.

Who needs to apologize for us when He has already done so at Calvary?

For another point of view, click here.

I have a friend who doesn’t really believe there is such a thing as love. Oh, I don’t think that she thinks love doesn’t exist, just that in one way or another we are thoroughly incapable of the sort of love the Scripture talks about so often. We have debated this point often. I’m sure I always come away unsettled by the discussion–either because she’s right or because I don’t want to admit it. Either way, it’s become difficult to dismiss her judgment: Does love really exist?

One of the first sermons I ever preached (in first year homiletics) was about love. I childishly, naively, spoke of the glories of love and how love is like a diamond and many faceted. I remember extolling the virtue of love and speaking of its grandeur and magnificence. But it’s easy to write and speak about something being so grand when you have never experienced that part of it that is utterly disappointing. And love breaks the heart at times. There are times when love disappoints.

I am nearly 40 and I have loved and been loved. My mother still loves me; so does my wife. My sons do, for the most part. My dad does. My brothers too. I have many friends who love me. (I know I’m selfishly concerned about the love others have for me. It’s a two way street, I know.) I’m like Peter Gabriel who sang, “I love to be loved.” Yet, too, I love these I have mentioned deeply.

But still our hearts break and heal and break again–sometimes they stay broken. I almost let myself believe, in agreement with my friend, that love really doesn’t exist. Because of… hurt, hate, and helplessness. Here, then, is my thought, or question, for the day:

Why is it so easy to get angry at, or to resent, or simply to grow indifferent toward the very people we once loved? (John Eldredge, Waking the Dead, 113)

And if that isn’t enough, he continues:

A common story, I’m sorry to say. The worst blows typically come from family. That’s where we start our journey of the heart, and that’s where we are most vulnerable. (115)

So, if you want to go further with this, then click below to read the rest, but don’t be surprised if you don’t find what you are looking for. I have no answers here, only questions, and questions that cut deep into the heart of the matter.

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I am nearing the end of Justification by NT Wright. What an amazing read! I cannot tell you, in a short space as thought for the day, how important this book is, but I can give you snippets of its importance and let you decide for yourself. Here’s a wonderful, beautiful snippet of delight:

But the great story of Scripture, from creation and covenant right on through to the New Jerusalem, is constantly about God’s overflowing, generous, creative love–God’s concern, if you like, for the flourishing and well-being of everything else. Of course, this too will redound to God’s glory because God, as the Creator, is glorified when creation is flourishing and able to praise him gladly and freely. And of course there are plenty of passages where God does what he does precisely not because anybody deserves it but simply ‘for the sake of his own name.’ But ‘God’s righteousness’ is regularly invoke in Scripture, not when God is acting thus, but when his concern is going out to those in need, particularly to his covenant people…God’s concern for God’s glory is precisely rescued from the appearance of divine narcissism because God, not least God as Trinity, is always giving out, pouring out, lavishing generous love on undeserving people, undeserving Israel and an undeserving world (NT Wright, Justification, 70-71).

There’s more to it than that, of course, but I promised a snippet.

I agree with him. There is a big-arch to Scripture and we do well to notice it, preach it, and live it. Oh Happiness! There is grace enough for us and the whole human race! And He wants us to know it.**

**disclaimer: that is not, in any way, intended to be a plug for ‘universalism’ of any stripe. so please, please, don’t go there.

I think I know what the problem is when it comes to Genesis, creation, and my faith. The difference between myself and others is that I’m not static in my understanding and I’m not afraid to explore the possibilities presented by alternate points of view and interpretation. I’m not afraid to be challenged even if I happen to put up a good fight along the way. I blog because I want to learn not because I believe I have anything particularly thoughtful or original to say. I’m writing this post not as a lesson on creation or origins or hermeneutics (even though I know some will invariably go that direction and thereby miss the greater point); I am writing this post as a thought or two about faith.

“We know in part,” Paul wrote, “then we shall know fully, even as we are fully known.” (1 Corinthians 13:12)

I know what I believe; I do not know completely what I do not believe. The possibilities are endless, but I also recognize that a large part of my problem is that I graduated from Bible college nearly fifteen years ago and, to a large extent, I never quite treating the Bible like a textbook. I know how I feel about textbooks—they disseminate information, present information on beautifully illustrated pages, and give us enough giddy-up in our heads that we can create pie-charts, graphs, and systematic manuals all day long, all night long, till we are puking out information to our classmates or writing blog posts or research papers just to get it out of our minds.

One of my classes is Introduction to Special Education (ESE 500). Every week we have a 20 question test over the chapter material. Maybe we feel that way about the Bible sometimes—like there’s going to be a test at the end and if we do not get all the answers right then we will not get the credit we feel we so richly deserve after having diligently studied for the test, read the chapter, and memorized countless charts, graphs, and graphic organizers. I’m not a test taker so if there is a test, an entrance exam, I’m out for sure. I’d rather write a paper.

Scripture is not a textbook; it is a story.

I hate charts, graphs, and graphic organizers. Even in Special Education, how can I justify my making a person’s disability into a spread sheet? People are not pie charts; furthermore, passing a test is not necessarily an indicator of whether or not I know the material or whether I can do the job or whether or not I care. Conversely, the Bible is not a textbook that we should study as if there will be an exam. Nor, for that matter, is our particular knowledge or understanding of the Bible the badge determining whether or not we ‘can do the job’ (live by faith), love God (in Jesus), or love our neighbors as ourselves.

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It is not uncommon to hear the argument against [insert favorite ODM whipping boy here] that s/he is popular with or respected by the “world”.  Conversely, disdain by the “world” is seen as a stamp of godliness.

Now certainly, Jesus did warn His disciples that if He was getting persecution, they definitely would.  But one of His disciples also noted that sometimes we suffer simply because we’re booger-heads (1 Peter 2:20).  As with many things there is a distinction made here, and “A” does not always imply “B”.

John Calvin wrote about this distinction, and Tim Keller quotes him and expounds on the thought.  Keller (citing Calvin) notes the danger of missing the distinction, and suggests that those that miss it are acting not out of courage, but out of pride.

A good, quick read.  I recommend it to you.

I hope you get the opportunity to hear this song in its entirety. It’s from the new Crowder CD.

Oh, happiness
There is grace
enough for us
And the whole
human race.

–David Crowder, Oh, Happiness

Be blessed and well my friends.