Traditions of Men

Jesus rebuked the Pharisees of his day for elevating their traditions above God’s word. He cited several examples of how their time-honored customs had subtly undermined, perverted, and even outright contradicted many of God’s commands. The Pharisees were, of course, deeply offended by this accusation. In their own estimation and by all outward indicators, they held God’s word in the highest regard. I think the poison that Jesus noted in the Pharisees' twisted traditions, however, often manifested without them even being aware. It’s easy enough to see the Pharisees as a group of men who simply set out to twist the word of God with their traditions, but I think this is a dangerous oversimplification of who they were (and, by extension, who we are). It’s truly astounding how self-deluded our sin-stricken human hearts can be, even effectively keeping us in the dark when it comes to our own deepest motivations and intents.

I want to be clear from the start that traditions alone aren’t the problem here. Jesus wasn’t waging a war against the human practice of making and keeping traditions (On the contrary, he utilized several existing traditions and even instituted a few of his own). I'm not with the overzealous crowd of Christians who dogmatically reject any tradition unless it’s explicitly outlined in Scripture (ultimately out sola scriptura-ing even Luther himself). That’s certainly not the drum I’m beating. There are numerous extra-biblical traditions that have been crafted by the Church with the intent of magnifying God, declaring his good news, and edifying his people. And in many cases they accomplish just that. Our Catholic and Orthodox brothers and sisters, as examples, rely heavily on tradition within their particular expressions of the Christian faith. Protestants, despite our reputation as being anti-tradition, hold fast to numerous extra-biblical traditions as well. And though tradition doesn’t carry the same weight as Scripture in our dogma, it certainly does at times in our actual practice. That’s where the problem lies. But if we can’t even distinguish between our human traditions and the word of God, we’re likely to cross this dangerous line without even realizing it.

Many Christ-followers, I think, fail to see the prevalence of identity politics and extreme nationalism, which have long found a home within the American Church (especially among evangelicals), as potentially the same sort of Scripture-stifling traditions that angered Jesus. It’s as American as apple pie, for example, for “Old Glory” and the “Old Rugged Cross” to share the same space in our church gatherings. So long have the two narratives (the story of our nation and the story of God) been made to walk together that many Christians can now no longer separate the two (and both get warped as a result). It’s easy to see how our pro-slavery, Christian ancestors blatantly misrepresented Scripture in their attempts to defend their traditions (just as the Pharisees had a mountain of proof-texts for their hypocritical nonsense), but hindsight is 20/20. It’s infinitely more difficult to see how our current Christian traditions, which inevitably intersect with notions of patriotism, individualism, economic theory, self-defense, immigration, race, gender and sexuality, healthcare, foreign policy, and environmental conservationism, are often at odds with God’s heart for kingdom loyalty, community, generosity, sacrificial non-violence, hospitality, justice and reconciliation, grace and truth, compassion, mercy, and responsible stewardship. Sociopolitical allegiances often come with deep seated traditions. If we’re not careful, these partisan values will skew the way we read Scripture, and our stubborn hearts will willingly devise all kinds of Pharisaical “explanations” for why the sacred text condones our present course.

Every church community (no matter how fresh and contemporary) will inherit, and likely create, traditions. As mentioned, this is to be expected and perfectly fine to a point. But we need to be able to properly name our traditions as such so that they don’t inappropriately find their way into the wrong category. No doubt there are some explicit biblical instructions regarding church structure and practice, but our traditions often come in just where the command leaves off. It can become understandably difficult to distinguish between the two.

The “sinner’s prayer” is a good example of a cherished, and somewhat recent, tradition that has become in many Christian communities the exclusive way in which one is ushered into the kingdom of God. I’m not saying that the common practice of leading someone in a prayer, as their first response to the Gospel, in which the new believer is encouraged to acknowledge their sin and ask for God’s forgiveness on account of Jesus’ death and resurrection is a bad thing or that it should be abandoned. The tradition is after all rooted implicitly in passages like Acts 2:21 and Romans 10:9-10. But I think we’re hard pressed to find the contemporary practice of what we now know as the “sinner’s prayer” explicitly modeled in Scripture. Let me reiterate: That doesn’t mean it’s a problem, but it probably means that it’s one of our traditions, and it should be treated accordingly. We don’t see Peter, after preaching the Gospel to the Pentecost crowd, saying “now with all heads bowed, and with every eye closed, can I get a show of hands for who would like to accept Jesus into their hearts as their personal Lord and Savior?” Likewise, Phillip, after declaring the Gospel to the Ethiopian eunuch, didn’t lead him in a prayer to “get saved.” And Paul, after preaching the Gospel to the Philippian jailer and his family, didn’t have them come to the front and repeat after him to receive Jesus.

The sinner’s prayer has risen to prominence within evangelical circles in the last few centuries and seems to initially have been adopted for the sake of well-intentioned expediency (particularly so that large crowds of people could be readily welcomed into God’s kingdom at big tent revivals). However, baptism, the new believer’s Scriptural first response to the Gospel, has been somewhat sidelined or even replaced by the rise of the sinner’s prayer. Baptism almost feels redundant within this new arrangement. We usually get around to it (Jesus commanded baptism after all), but it’s something like an afterthought, especially in many non-denominational, evangelical traditions. We sometimes have a waiting period on baptism (as if you’re buying a gun or something), maybe even with a prerequisite class before getting in the water (to be sure you understand what you’re doing, I suppose). I’m all for knowing what you’re getting into (“counting the cost” and so on), but you should have already been brought up to speed with an accurate presentation of the Gospel. If it wasn’t the invitation to be united with Christ in his death so that we may partake in his resurrection (as illustrated in baptism) then it wasn’t the Gospel we heard to begin with.

If someone insists they’re “Heaven bound” simply because they raised their hand or repeated a prayer—even though there’s no evidence they’ve been born of God, truly repented, are filled with God’s Spirit, and Jesus is now their King—then their faith is not actually in Christ and his “new creation” project but in a human tradition. Traditions are best used to point us to God, to magnify Christ in our lives and in others. Only a fool would put their faith in a human tradition, expecting it to act as a golden ticket, lucky charm, or a magical incantation, as if it could undo or supersede the word of God. That’s the backwards thinking of the self-deceived men who conspired to murder the Author of Life.

It’s difficult to really even know how many human traditions we each, and collectively, subscribe to. As I’ve suggested, many of our human traditions are intertwined with Scriptural traditions (i.e. the specifics of how we observe baptism and the Lord’s Supper, organize our Family gatherings, carry out communal worship, and structure church leadership). I think there’s room in the diverse body of Christ for our various distinct traditions (so long as our traditions know their place). When our human traditions become divisive or elevated above God’s word, we've gone too far.

We’re following dangerously in the Pharisees’ footsteps, then, when our preferred traditions become dogma. Many Christians take dogmatic stances on everything from teaching styles to carpet colors (growing up in the church, I feel like I’ve heard it all, every arbitrary position declared with the same zealous conviction as Stephen the Martyr). It’s perfectly normal to have opinions, but recognize that many of our subjective preferences are simply rooted in human traditions and not Scripture.

The main objective of this post is to encourage the reader to faithfully examine all dearly held human traditions. We must be ready to reject—with extreme prejudice—any traditions that undermine or contradict the commands of Christ (or he simply isn’t our King). It’s shocking how many of our political and religious traditions attempt to render Jesus’ commands to love our enemies, care for the poor, and take up our cross (as only a few examples) completely meaningless.

Our next step is to critically examine the traditions we hold to that don’t directly oppose the word of God (This can be the more difficult task of the two). Are these traditions ultimately helpful in achieving what they’re designed to accomplish (In other words, do they draw us and others closer or further away from Jesus)? Is there perhaps a better more effective way to pursue the same goal? Has our tradition in its current form outlived its usefulness? In this category, the conversation revolves around how helpful or unhelpful a given tradition is rather than declaring its inherent “wrongness” or “rightness.” Cross-cultural ministers of the Gospel are often more attune to this important process (with perhaps a clearer vantage point of typical American syncretism) as they seek to plant a pure seed in a foreign context. I’ve raised some of these questions elsewhere regarding the widely accepted building-centric nature of our gatherings. These are hard questions that we should have the courage to passionately discuss in Spirit-filled community (with grace and humility). If our goal is truly to glorify God by sharing the good news of Jesus (and not simply to maintain our own preferences) then our traditions should readily bend to that aim. None of our human traditions should be beyond the possibility of the chopping block. And if we feel that they are, then we know for sure that our traditions have become idols to us.

“You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions. Thus you nullify the word of God by your tradition” —Jesus (from Mark 7:8, 13a)

Requiem for a King

 

Saul, Israel’s notorious first king, is usually remembered for his role as the “bad guy” in King David’s epic story. He of course tried countless times to snuff out the shepherd boy who God had appointed to replace him. But people often forget that before he became the villain, he too was chosen by God (1 Samuel 10:24). His is a tragic story of a sometimes great leader with enormous potential who was ultimately overcome by his own insecurities, doubts, and fears.

Saul was tall, dark, and handsome (1 Samuel 9:2). He was every inch the picture of a king. He was also a fierce warrior with numerous military exploits to his name. God used him mightily to deliver the people of Israel from foreign oppressors. And to his credit, Saul had the courage to show up for his final battle, even knowing in advance that it would certainly end in his defeat and death.

From early on, Saul was unsure of himself (1 Samuel 9:21, 10:22). He had a less-than-accurate, understated perspective of who he was, who God had made him to be. When Samuel told him he would be king, for example, Saul insisted that the prophet had the wrong guy, that he was a nobody, and that “[his] family [was] the least important of all the families” in his small tribe (even though the text specifically says his father, Kish, was “wealthy” and “influential” – 1 Samuel 9:1, 21 NLT).

God fully equipped King Saul with his Spirit, gave him a “new heart,” and changed him into a “different person” (1 Samuel 10:6, 9). He had everything he needed to succeed, but time and time again he kept reverting back to the insecure guy who once hid among the luggage, frequently preoccupied with what people might think of him. He “felt compelled” to break God’s command when things seemed to be unraveling (1 Samuel 13:12). He was “afraid of the people” and sometimes allowed himself to be carried along with the prevailing streams of public opinion rather than holding fast to God’s instruction (1 Samuel 15:24). “Although you may think little of yourself,” said Samuel in his final rebuke, “are you not the leader of the tribes of Israel?” (1 Samuel 15:17).

Eventually, God revoked his life-giving Spirit, and Saul was overcome with depression and fear (1 Samuel 16:14). He spiraled down into a place of total darkness and basically lost his mind. At perhaps his lowest, he ordered the murder of 85 innocent priests and their families in a desperate effort to retain control of a kingdom that God had already given to another. He finally died on the battlefield, hopeless and alone, his enemies closing in around him, and left with the crushing knowledge that his three sons had been cut down.

“Samuel was so deeply moved,” following God's rejection of Saul, “that he cried out to the LORD all night” (1Samuel 15:10-11). After delivering God’s message of judgment to the wayward king, “Samuel never went to meet with Saul again, but he mourned constantly for him” (1 Samuel 15:35). Samuel’s gut-wrenching response to Saul’s fall is very sobering, I think. Without it, we might be tempted to breeze right past Saul’s story on our way to King David. He can easily become a one-dimensional villain in our minds, a footnote in the narrative, simply a faceless antagonist standing between David and the throne. But if we deny Saul his humanity—his initial potential and the nature of his brokenness—we run the risk of missing his costly warning.

Saul’s low opinion of himself wasn’t a sign of humility. It wasn’t a virtue. It was rooted in his unbelief and maintained by his failure to fully grasp that God had chosen him, empowered him, and assigned him a task. Saul didn’t wear the crown because he was great. He wore the crown because God is great, and he ultimately lost it because he couldn’t connect the dots. It wasn't that he thought too little of himself. On the contrary, he thought too much of himself (or too often of himself). Saul’s fixation on his own inadequacies (that he wasn’t good enough, that he’d eventually be found out, that he’d lose it all to someone better) and his resulting jealousy and paranoia was evidence that his hope wasn't in God. His hope was in himself. His fears, which sprang from his self-reliance, became self-fulfilling prophecies. In the end, Saul fell on his own sword.

“A gazelle lies slain on your heights, Israel. How the mighty have fallen! Daughters of Israel, weep for Saul... How the mighty have fallen”

—From the “Lament of the Bow,” a funeral song composed by King David, recorded in 2 Samuel 1 

 

Saving the Story

Saving Private Ryan is one of my favorite movies. It's a powerful World War II film about a small band of U.S. soldiers who are ordered to journey behind enemy lines to retrieve Private James Ryan after three of his brothers are killed in separate engagements (and all within days of each other). Ryan's would-be rescuers are initially resentful of their dangerous task, questioning why the life of a single ordinary soldier—who they've never even met—carries more weight than all of their lives combined. Somewhere along the way, though, the mission becomes more than just saving Ryan: The band of searchers also seek personal redemption, desperately striving to accomplish one decent thing, to regain a measure of their humanity amidst a multitude of unspeakable acts, to “earn the right to go home.” It's an incredible story about sacrifice and redemption with several unforgettable scenes.

Stay with me. I'll do my best to come to the point shortly.

Now suppose, for a minute, I ask two people (We'll call them Kate and Greg) what Saving Private Ryan is about. Let's pretend Kate has only seen the film once, while Greg is the movie's all time “biggest fan.” How about we go a bit further and say Greg has seen Saving Private Ryan no less than 100 times, he knows every line, and can even do a spot on Tom Hanks impersonation. His enthusiasm for the film has prompted him to become a World War II history buff who can elaborate in great detail about nuanced 20th Century European politics, precise troop deployment and military tactics during the invasion of Normandy, and he can even tell me what Himmler's favorite color was. Greg went so far as to become fluent in German, so he wouldn't need any of the subtitles. Now suppose our first person, Kate, after only one viewing, can more or less tell me what the movie is about (though she may have forgotten some of the character's names and certain details here and there) while Greg, on the other hand, is completely unable to explain the plot (even in the most simplest terms). Lets say Greg (who, remember, can act out every individual scene) earnestly describes Spielberg's gritty war film as a “romantic comedy.” Anyone who's seen the film, with its graphic violence and sombre tone, knows Greg is way out to lunch with his description. Given what we know about Kate and Greg, which of the two would you say has a firmer grasp of the story? Now suppose we're talking about a much more significant story than Saving Private Ryan. A similar occurrence to what I've just described with Greg, our fictional “movie buff,” unfortunately seems to happen way too often when Christians attempt to tell the story of God. They may be extremely well versed on several of the individual components, but they're, in many cases, tragically unable to identify the main beats of the narrative or even the overarching point of it all.

The Disconnect

One of the reasons for this inability to see the big picture is due to the disjointed way in which we typically learn the story (or better said, the way we learn the stories). N.T. Wright, in How God Became King, discusses how we tend to miss the forest for the trees in our reading of the four gospels, and I think the same can be said for our reading of the whole story. In Sunday School, we're taught moral lessons from the biblical characters' exploits (courage in the face of persecution, for example, through the tale of Daniel and the lion's den, learning to trust Jesus as Peter steps out of the boat, etc.). And then later in “big church,” we learn important theological concepts like the nature of the Trinity, the sufficiency of the cross, and so on (We tend to work backwards, though, using the stories as explanations and evidences for the important doctrines that we've isolated and to reinforce our resulting sophisticated theological models). Unfortunately, we quickly develop tunnel vision (the kind that has allowed Christians through the ages to justify the genocidal underbelly of “manifest destiny,” slavery, segregation, rabid nationalism, social isolation, consumerism, apathy toward refugees and immigrants, pursuing safety and security over the Gospel, etc.). The simple truth is we tend to live our lives based on our perception of what the story is about (including where it's all headed), even if the narrative we're operating under was merely Frankenstein-ed together in our subconscious from all the loose bits and pieces.

Maybe to me the story is best described as a low-budget indie film that gives an artsy close-up of my own “personal salvation” (in which the original widescreen narrative is conspicuously truncated, I'm the main character, and passages like Jeremiah 29:11 were obviously written with me in mind). It could also be more of a buddy comedy that follows me and my wisecracking, pocket-size Jesus as I’m “tossed to and fro” on a wild romp through relativism (In this version I'm too “authentic” for organized religion, so I pretty much improvise the story all by myself as I go). Perhaps I see the story as the feel good movie of the summer that whimsically chronicles my prosperous “best life now.” Maybe I’m at the other end of the spectrum, and it’s an intense thriller that’s built around a great escape theme (where my role in the unfolding narrative is to hunker down in this present liberal “hellhole,” withdraw from society, gather as much “helpful intel” from questionable pseudo news sources as possible, and wait for the hero to suddenly and dramatically break me out and relocate me to a beach in Tahiti). Perhaps I see the story of God unfolding like a political propaganda film that equates the U.S. to the kingdom of God and nationalistic endeavors of “making America Great again” with the Great Commission (in this script, the epic “spiritual battle” between the elephant and the donkey is center stage). I guess I could even see it as a bizarre sci-fi, in which the audience is frequently asked to suspend its disbelief, as nothing in the story makes any sense (I’m looking at you, Joseph Smith). Some say it’s a “love story.” We're probably getting warmer (It ends with a wedding after all). But if it’s a romance, it’s no Sleepless in Seattle or The Notebook by any stretch. It would have to be much more one-sided, something like When Hosea Met Gomer.

Establishing the Story's Important Landmarks

Back when I was an art student, my figure drawing instructor would teach us to roughly block out our construction lines and basic forms before drawing in the details and shading. One of the marks of a novice is how they're always too eager to move on to the fine tuning before laying a proper foundation, and it shows in their finished composition (No amount of shading can make up for a poorly constructed and disproportioned figure). The figure we're drawing here is Jesus. He frames the unfolding story from Genesis to Revelation. He's the Author, the Protagonist, the Beginning and the End.

So here's my best attempt at identifying the main beats of his story:

The story began with God (the only Hero in the narrative)

He created an Ideal universe by the power of his Word

Humans were made in his image as his representatives (God's plan is to reign over his creation through his human administrators). They were instructed to multiply and fill the earth.

A single law was given…

Followed by rebellion/exile/bondage/death (With the rejection of the Tree of Life, all of creation was broken and heaven and earth were torn apart)

A broken man and his family were chosen as representatives to a rebellious humanity (God is set on his original plan to reign over his creation through his image bearers). He promised to multiply them and bless the whole earth through this man’s Seed.

An expanded law was given…

Followed by continuing cycles of rebellion/exile/bondage/failure

God sent his Son, just as he promised, as a descendant of the man “who believed” and as a stand-in for his inadequate family. He accomplished on their behalf the task of keeping God’s law and reconciling the Creator and his broken creation (by way of his life, death, and resurrection). As the only obedient image-bearer (the perfect Representative), he reclaimed the family of faith’s original birthright and vocation (which also happened to be humanity’s original birthright and vocation) and dealt a fatal blow to rebellion and death.

Everyone who acknowledges God’s Son as the rightful King is invited to participate in his kingdom as redeemed and restored representatives. These redeemed kingdom people—who are collectively an extension of the King, his “body,” his “church,” his “bride”—are the true family of faith as they are marked, empowered, and led by his Spirit and instructed to multiply and fill the earth (by sacrificially and incarnationally declaring and demonstrating the story of what God has accomplished through his Son).

He writes his law on renewed hearts...

And by God's grace, his renewed people inherit obedience/reconciliation/freedom/LIFE (and the mended become menders).

All authority has been given to the King. He oversees his advancing kingdom, through the power of his Spirit, as he's presently seated at the right hand of the Father.

The human rebels who tragically opt out of God’s active redemptive plan for his universe, along with the instigator, will be judged by the King upon his physical return (at which point he will “make all things new” by raising the dead/swallowing death up forever, banishing evil from his universe/fully restoring his creation, completely reunifying heaven and earth with his presence, and submitting everything to his Father).

I see the story of God as a big-budget (considering that the Director has literally poured his blood, sweat, and tears into its production), sweeping, redemptive story of how God is taking back his rebel world through the person and work of Jesus.

Core Themes

There are several significant themes threaded through God’s story. I’d like to briefly highlight a few. Redemption and restoration are among the most frequently reoccurring themes: that is taking something spoiled, spent, wasted, and ruined and making it new again (usually at great cost). God’s propensity toward redemption and restoration is illustrated on just about every page of Holy Scripture. He is gloriously inefficient in his stubborn refusal to simply scrap broken things and start again.

One of my personal favorites is the underdog theme. God has a noticeable affinity for the long shot. He often takes the youngest, weakest, unskilled, outsiders, never gonna happen, lowliest tribe, least likely, lost causes and losers and makes them into kings, prophets, freedom-bringing, giant-slaying, miracle-working, champions of God. He brings his best news to shepherds, beggars, orphans, widows, the marginalized, and the outcasts. In God's kingdom, “the last will be first, and the first will be last” (Matthew 20:16), and the King will wash their feet. “He has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts,” says Mary, the mother of Jesus, “He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty” (Luke 1:51b-53). God's own Son comes to us from a poor family, a marginalized ethnic group, laid in an animal feed trough, and raised in a hick-ville, backwoods part of Judea, formerly uneducated, and, for all intents and purposes, homeless (“he had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him”—from Isaiah 53:2). According to Paul there is a method to the Creator's madness, “God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him” (1 Corinthians 1:27-29).

Another reoccurring theme in God’s story (and the mechanism by which he carries out redemption and allows for restoration) is this idea of substitution: a person or a people standing in for others (this is no doubt difficult for individualistic Americans to accept, but none of the story makes any sense without comprehending God’s thinking on this). The first humans were assigned the task of tending to the world and being God’s go-betweens, his representatives or stand-ins to/from creation. Adam, as our first father, acted negatively in this capacity. In God’s mind, since all of humanity proceeds from this man, there is continuity between Adam and us. All of humanity has inherited his rebellion against God, his failure in the garden (we all subsequently contribute our own personal rebellion as well).

Redemptive human substitutes (as a foreshadowing of the ultimate stand-in) are often used of God to rescue by way of their own suffering. Joseph, as an example, was rejected by his brothers, sold into slavery, wrongly accused and thrown into prison, eventually vindicated, elevated, and ultimately used to rescue his family, the people of Egypt, and most of the Near East. According to Joseph, the whole thing was God’s plan to turn evil back on itself, to bring about good.

Abraham and his family, which eventually became a nation, were also said to serve as a stand-in for humanity. God purposely used Abraham’s family to retell the story on a smaller more intimate scale (he’s a skilled storyteller who knows good stories need characters, faces, and flesh for humans to connect). God promised to bless this family so that they would be a blessing to everyone else. They were to be a nation of priests, or go-betweens, leading the world back to the Creator and mediating between the two. But, as Wright points out, the proposed rescuers needed rescuing themselves. So Jesus (as the descendant of Adam, Abraham, and King David) stood in for all of humanity, but, more precisely, as the heir to David’s throne, he stood in for Abraham’s family of faith (who, in a sense, was standing in for the rest of humanity). That gets a bit convoluted, but it’s important to understanding the progression of the story (how the sub-story of Israel plays into the story of God). The gospels make it clear that Jesus was standing in for Israel, fulfilling their vocation, as he was depicted symbolically retracing their historic steps (He was called out of Egypt, passed through water, and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness for forty days, and so on). At every turn, he was faithful where his ancestors failed (he withstood temptation in the wilderness, he perfectly upheld the law of God, he overcame in the garden). He’s Israel’s divine do-over—and, by extension, he’s humanity’s do-over too.

Another important theme that drives the narrative is God’s desire and promise to dwell among his people. God is of course everywhere to begin with (“omnipresent”), but he hasn’t made his home, his dwelling, everywhere and in the same way (Just as a husband and wife can simultaneously occupy a room, perhaps in a state of disinterest or strife, and yet still fall short of the closeness that God is after). Before Adam’s rebellion, the Creator and his creation enjoy a state of indescribable unity. It’s far beyond just occupying the same space.

This early idyllic state embodies God’s original intent, in which all of creation acts as his temple, his dwelling (a fully unified heaven and earth), and he reigns over the natural world through his human administrators (Genesis 1:26, 28). We can see, then, how the shattering of this paradise, due to human rebellion, causes destructive ripples throughout all of creation.

After the Fall (the rending of heaven and earth), God illustrated his promised return, in the dwelling sense, through a number of artifacts, icons, and “holy” places (the Ark of the Covenant, the Urim and Thummin, the Temple, etc.). These were objects or locations (in which heaven and earth symbolically intersect or “interlock,” as Wright would say) that prophetically pointed forward to the scene described in Revelation when paradise is restored, God comes to dwell among his people on earth, and we see him “face to face.” Solomon’s Temple (as the pinnacle of these holy spaces) illustrated this same longing for a return to Eden, when creation effectively functioned as God’s temple, with numerous pictorial examples of trees, fruit, animals, and nature.

Jesus—a genuine human who is also the exact image of the transcendent Creator—is the ultimate example of heaven and earth intersecting. He is “God with us,” and, as such, he naturally supersedes all the illustrations that came before. In John’s Gospel, Jesus describes himself as the true Temple of God. He tells the Samaritan woman at the well (in response to her question about where one should worship the God who dwells in heaven) that a time is coming (and has come) in which location will no longer be an issue. Through the person and work of Jesus (which includes the sending of his Spirit), God has extended this heaven-and-earth-intersecting phenomenon (illustrated in “spiritual hotspots,” so to speak, like the Temple, but truly realized in Christ) to everyone who wants in. This present existence—being a Spirit-filled extension of the Living Temple, a mobile, kingdom-bringing spiritual hotspot—is merely a taste of what’s to come.

The full consummation of this theme comes with the physical return of Jesus and the complete restoration of his creation. At which point, he will “dwell” with his people in a freshly restored and seamlessly reunified, heaven and earth. The story of God, then, is a long and painful round about trip back to the beginning. Well, almost. It’s a bit more than just ending up back home where we started. Paradise begins with the early seeds (two image-bearers and endless potential) of what God ultimately envisioned and is finally reborn with a whole city, made from “living stones,” of redeemed and restored administrators who possess intimate knowledge regarding the weight of rebellion, the sting of death, the high cost of redemption, and the unfathomable distance our King will go to put things back on track.

Simple Steps Forward

We might have added a third character to Kate and Greg: Let's call him Phil. Phil has really only seen about ten cumulative minutes of Saving Private Ryan (He was in the bathroom, getting snacks, talking, and sleeping through the rest). He probably still has a strong opinion about the story, though. And if any questions come up, Phil will likely ask Greg (he's the expert after all). One of the most immediately helpful remedies for the mass confusion surrounding the story of God is for all Christians to simply see the whole movie. I’m a slow reader, myself, and getting through all 66 books can definitely seem like a daunting task for a newcomer (especially Numbers), but a through-the-Bible-in-a-year format (in which the whole Bible has been conveniently broken up into 15-minute daily readings that correspond to a calendar year) has really been helpful to me (it’s exciting to start spotting repeating themes and important parallels, especially when you progress through the Old and New Testaments concurrently). There are also a bunch of great audio and video options to have Scripture spoken to you on your computer or smartphone if reading isn’t your thing (You can even find one with a British accent for when you’re feeling particularly classy). Don't be dissuaded by those who imply anything short of reading from a page is somehow a less “spiritual” method of learning the story (especially if you're an auditory or visual learner). I recommend changing versions each year, too, in order to have a fresh look at something that may already be familiar to you (I like the NIV and ESV in most cases, but I also enjoyed reading God’s story by way of the NLT this last go around). The big idea is to consume and metabolize the story, though, in whatever format compliments your individual learning style.

It’s a little trickier if it turns out we’re Greg, the confused film enthusiast, who already considers himself an expert. It’s incredibly difficult, once we’ve firmly established in our mind that Saving Private Ryan is a romantic comedy, and spent years interpreting each of the individual grisly scenes with that understanding in mind, to then humbly step back and look again with new eyes. There are many of us who, like Nicodemus, need to unlearn what we've learned so we can start over from the beginning. Jesus of course commended the “Gregs” for their thoroughness in some areas. Greg's extensive historical knowledge, for example, could potentially give him a greater appreciation for the film (a depth that Kate may not experience with her single viewing and lack of background info). It's awesome if one has studied Hebrew and Greek and given a lot of thought to historical context and complex theological concepts. But Jesus also sternly rebuked the Gregs of his day for being overly attentive to small things while neglecting the “weightier,” or “more important,” aspects of the law (the aspects that reveal God's heart for “justice, mercy, and faithfulness”—Matthew 23:23). I've read and heard many respected teachers and theologians who, despite their extensive biblical knowledge, sometimes express gross ignorance about core themes of the story of God (as seen in many of their conclusions, allegiances, and endeavors). Our mastery of the individual components is pointless if, like Greg, we fail to comprehend the overarching story.

Learn to tell a 3-5 minute version of the Story of God from Genesis to Revelation (Just thinking about the overarching story and how best to tell it is incredibly good for us). Practice with other Christ-followers, and ask for feedback (People aren't always hearing what we think we're saying, so this becomes a very helpful exercise). If we've succumbed to the story of God—been transformed by the good news of his better kingdom—then we need to be ready to explain to onlookers just exactly what's happening (not only within our own lives, but what God is up to in the world and where it's all headed). I've heard it said, "The Gospel found you on its way to someone else." Become a great story teller, like Jesus, and share his good news often and in everyday life. Be familiar enough with the story to be able to contextualize the Gospel to your hearer's specific brokenness (the story doesn't change, but what we emphasize and how we deliver it should be customized as the Holy Spirit leads us). Jesus addressed a promiscuous woman's underlying longing, for example, by offering “living water” that would satisfy her true thirst. In an earlier encounter, he told a jaded theologian that he would need to start over and be “born again” (this time, by way of the Spirit). Jesus also invited a young rich man of power to give it all up and find his treasure and identity in the true King instead.

A film like Saving Private Ryan has an actual story that the writer, director, cast and production team are trying to tell. We, as the audience, aren’t at liberty to just rewrite the movie as a slapstick comedy, a horror film, or a western. We’re of course free to create our own stories, but we shouldn’t commandeer or misrepresent someone else’s story. All the more, we should take the time to get God's story right. Remember that our understanding of the story will inform how we live our lives (for better or for worse). So let's invest in developing a strong foundation built around the main beats of the narrative and a firm grasp of the overarching themes (It's all well and good to progress on to deeper truths, but we should first get the basics down). Ultimately, it's through the story of God that we come to know him, know ourselves, and become known. As we faithfully read the script, we find that God has written each of us into his epic redemptive tale. But if we fail to see the story unfolding—what God is up to in the world—then we'll undoubtedly miss our cue, and the story will simply carry on without us.

“...beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, [Jesus] explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself.” - Luke 24:27

(The Bible Project has a bunch of great videos that guide you through God's story book-by-book. They just finished their through the Bible series, and they also have some great theme videos. I highly recommend them as a resource.)

The Eschaton

 

Our culture seems to have a genuine fixation on the apocalypse, or the “end of days,” as of late. Post-apocalyptic, dystopian stories fly off the shelves faster than you can say “exclusive movie rights.” Popular Christian culture isn't getting left behind either. A steady stream of best-selling book series and movie adaptations have given us a fanciful, modern interpretation of Jesus' Revelation. And why not? The end of a story is arguably the most important part. Everyone understandably wants to know what's going to happen on the last page. Will the hero defeat his enemy or overcome his obstacle? Will he finally get where he's going and achieve what he's after? How we see the ending of the story—what we identify as the point of it all, the culmination, the climax—will greatly inform how we read the whole story. It will inform how we see our part in the story, how we live it out in our everyday lives, and how we tell the story of God to others who have yet to hear.

I don’t plan to get into the nuts and bolts, the nitty-gritty, of all the various eschatological positions. This probably comes as a great relief to many and perhaps a disappointment to some. If you find yourself among the latter, we’ll have to set up a time to sit on my porch with our tea and pipes in hand to gleefully deliberate for hours about the eschaton (I’ve never actually smoked a pipe, and I’m not much for tea, but it just seems like the thing to do when one is having a deep and nerdy theological discussion). My aim in this post (and in all my posts) is to speak primarily of the Gospel, and hopefully to let that which is of “first importance” frame our understanding of biblical eschatology.

I think we have to approach this topic, as we should all theology, with a humble and teachable spirit. As human beings, we are extremely susceptible to marrying ourselves so completely to a way of thinking, or an ironclad theological model, that we may end up inadvertently imposing our beloved framework on the biblical text (creating theological tunnel vision). We should be very alert, even reasonably terrified, of this all too common and mostly subconscious behavior. The Jewish theologians of Jesus’ day, for example, held to a specific and finely tuned eschatological model that didn’t line up with the young Galilean prophet who stood before them. Ultimately, when faced with the contradiction, it was their Messiah and not their misconstrued model that they foolishly abandoned. These were learned men. They spent their lives studying the Scriptures. Many of them could quote entire books, replete with messianic prophecy, just as readily as we could rattle off John 3:16. It’s unnerving to think that we can arrive at a place of extreme biblical familiarity only to find ourselves, due to our theological presuppositions and hard hearts, still incapable of perceiving the heart of God as it’s dancing off the pages. We are each of us undoubtedly wrong about something, probably a great many somethings. We must be willing to learn what those somethings are.

While one can easily get bogged down in the details (and I’m not saying they aren’t important), we simply can’t afford to miss the broad strokes of the story. We must, at the very least, be able to see the forest for the trees. So by all means, study the various barks and leaves within, become a master of the theological flora and fauna, but God forbid that while doing so we fail to connect the dots, to appreciate the cumulative sum of the individual parts, and to grasp the overall lay of the land (How's that for a hearty mixing of metaphors?).

As best as I can see, the overarching story that the Bible is telling is of an all-powerful, all-knowing, timeless, just, loving, hyper-personal, and completely self-sufficient spiritual Being who (for reasons only fully known to himself) decides to create an incredibly vast and beautiful physical universe (comprised of space, time, and matter). Within this universe, he fashions an ideal world and populates it with all kinds of amazing life. He then establishes one set of his creatures above the rest as his uniquely crafted image-bearing representatives to creation. Heaven (what we now think of as “God's space”) and earth (“our space”) seem to harmoniously coexist in this early state, characterized by perfect communion between the Creator and his image-bearers. Curiously, this all-powerful Being intends to rule his creation through these fragile human creatures. But the first humans, of course, reject the Tree of Life and abandon their noble vocation. All of his once-good creation suffers the harmful effects of these unwilling, and now unqualified, administrators. Earth is, in a sense, torn from heaven (though God is of course ever-present, our ability to perceive him, to experience his life-giving fellowship, and to benefit from universal human submission to his reign, is at this point tragically constrained). Undaunted by this colossal setback and unwilling to wipe the board clean, the Creator patiently works through flawed human messengers and broken leaders—committed as ever to his original intent for humanity—to reveal his heart for reconciliation and to foretell his plan of restoration (an extremely truncated summary of thousands of years of human history). The culmination of these efforts is finally seen in the dramatic and miraculous appearance of a divine human in 1st Century Palestine. According to the story, this humble God-man is the Creator’s only Son, the perfect image-bearer, the promised King, and the sort of human we were all meant to be. He alone is uniquely qualified to reclaim humanity's birthright and, in so doing, to return to God what is rightfully his, as well (The Creator certainly knows how to untangle a knot). God then takes back his rebel world through this man, Jesus, and gives birth to his everlasting and long-promised kingdom (as he begins to mend the tear between heaven and earth one person at a time). Previously disqualified humans are now scandalously invited to resume their original vocation as “ambassadors” and “priests” of God and to participate in his redemptive work in the world. By way of his death and resurrection, Jesus counterintuitively wins a decisive victory over his enemy and purchases a costly citizenship and adoption for once-rebels who now acknowledge him as their rightful King. His kingdom-people are empowered with God’s own Spirit and commissioned to share the good news of his reign. Like a tiny mustard seed, his kingdom steadily grows and will continue to grow into a mighty tree that fills the whole earth. No human kingdom will be able to overthrow it or even resist its advance. And yet it will not spread by the typical human means of violence, hollow propaganda, or coercion but by a diverse army of sacrificial servants and martyrs who follow their Founder's example (as a Spirit-filled extension of him) and faithfully demonstrate and declare his better kingdom. In many cases, the illegitimate powers of this world will not even notice his subversive kingdom's liberation movement until it's too late. Though all authority in heaven and earth is already his, there are still many who do not know, or simply refuse to accept, that Jesus is now King. His rule will therefore be complete upon his physical return to earth, at which point evil will be permanently eradicated from his restored universe, he will judge the living and the dead, death will be swallowed up by Life, heaven and earth will be once again seamlessly and fully reunited, and we will see him face to face. All of human history is leading up to this climactic moment when death and decay—the results of human rebellion—are forever undone and God's good and perfect will is at long last carried out consistently and effortlessly here “on earth as it is in heaven.”

Our hearts should ache for this (Rom. 8:23). The heart of God—including his Spirit who resides within his people—longs for this steadily-approaching future (“The Spirit and the bride say, 'Come!'” -Rev. 22:17a). All of creation groans, as well (Rom 8:22). Jesus instructs his followers to regularly pray that God would essentially bring heaven to earth (Matt. 6:9-10). The Lord's Prayer should cause our anticipation for the reunification of heaven and earth (both incrementally in the present and universally at the eschaton) to build into a fever pitch. In his well known Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells us to live as if it were already so, even when living this way will presently cost us dearly.

There are numerous popular predictions about the eschaton that I would disagree with, but I don't feel the need to vehemently debate every potential error (although, we'll certainly leave no stone unturned if you happen to hit me up for the eschatology-fest on my porch). There is undoubtedly a hierarchy of errors, and we should always give greater attention to the errors that erode (either directly or indirectly) the core elements of the Gospel. If one is unfamiliar with the common use of metaphor in apocalyptic genres, for example, then one may be very sincere in their expectation of seeing a literal, scaly, fire-breathing dragon at some point near the end. They also may be racking their brain in a good faith effort to creatively figure out how all the stars will literally fall from the sky or the moon will turn to blood. They may even take a certain pride in their remarkable ability to believe such absurdity. Many of these hyper-literal conclusions (when the biblical author is clearly attempting to convey something else), in my estimation, are extremely misguided but arguably benign to a point. However, regularly divorcing apocalyptic prophecies (such as Jesus' colorful predictions in Matthew 24 and his subsequent elaboration in the Revelation to the seven churches) from their clear biblical antecedents (like Isaiah using similarly cataclysmic language and hyperbole to predict the 539 BC judgment of Babylon—Isaiah chapter 13) can also lead to egregious error (It's easy to see how some small exegetical errors naturally produce greater errors down the road. In arithmetic, for example, if we misstep early in the process, our initial miscalculation is magnified as we continue on).

One popular interpretation of God's story (with multiple eschatological implications) insists that God has “two distinct people” and subsequently “two distinct plans.” This teaching has led many evangelicals to conclude that there are two ways to be reconciled to God: one (for Gentiles) being to trust in the finished work of Jesus and the other (for sincere, ethnic Jews) to simply be genetically related to Abraham's grandson, Jacob. This grave error (which essentially undermines the exclusivity and sufficiency of the cross, a core tenant of the Gospel) is not often expressly taught, but, given what is commonly taught, it is easy to see how the laity within this camp arrive at this erroneous conclusion. On this point, I would say shepherds and teachers are responsible, to some extent, not only for what they say but also for what the flock hears. According to the story of God, there is decidedly only one Seed of Abraham with the power to save, only one ancestry that affects our standing at the eschaton, and, by the grace of God, anyone can become related to him. I've also heard well-intentioned Christians of this persuasion express how they think it would not only be a “good idea” but perhaps even a moral imperative for Christians to help rebuild the Jewish temple (right where a high-profile Muslim mosque now stands, no less). This sort of thinking reveals catastrophic ignorance about pivotal developments within the Gospel story (i.e. Jesus as a better Temple, a better Priest, and a better Sacrifice). Rebuilding the temple and re-instituting the sacrificial system are dangerously regressive endeavors for a Christian and completely at odds with Christ's clearly articulated kingdom agenda (Check out Galatians and Hebrews for more developed warnings).

“Rapture” theology plays heavily into this eschatological model as well. A fascination with being “caught up” has certainly caught on among many evangelical Christians (as clearly seen in the numerous book sales and movie adaptations of rapture themed fiction). I really think Paul’s beautiful picture of believers being lifted into the sky to greet the returning King (1 Thessalonians 4) has been commonly misinterpreted as a mass evacuation, but, if so, it’s probably a misinterpretation of the mostly harmless sort. Something to be cautious of, however, is the resulting escapist perspectives that can arguably be traced back to rapture theology. Some of these rapture-centric Christian traditions have at times produced a very pessimistic, “duck and cover” outlook on the world within their respective church cultures. The story they're telling seems to go something like “everything is getting worse all the time, but if you'd like to say this prayer to 'accept Jesus as your personal savior' then we can all hunker down in my basement together and watch the news for subliminal clues to which world leader may or may not be the 'antichrist' this week while we're waiting for Jesus to come back.” “When he gets here, he'll get us out of this hellhole—right before he torches the whole thing—and we'll finally be able to live with him forever in heaven.” This may be an extreme characterization of this camp, but, even in its milder forms, it starts to sound far more Gnostic than Christian (i.e. “the physical world is inherently evil and irredeemable, therefore God's endgame is to eventually extract me so that I can live with him forever in an ethereal, spiritual realm”). I've written about this elsewhere, so I'll just briefly recap here: Resurrection (which is, by definition, a physical event) is an essential element of the Gospel, as is the eventual complete restoration of creation. These repeated themes of the physical universe being redeemed and restored are not “unimportant” details that we are free to overlook or outgrow—they are bedrock to the biblical narrative (Rom. 8:19-23). Contrary to what many may think, the story the Bible is telling is not of a great escape from earth to heaven. It's a story about God bringing heaven back to earth through the person and work of Jesus (Rev. 21:3).

Some of this retreating from “secular spaces,” accompanied by extreme pessimism about the state of God’s kingdom, and trends toward spiritual escapism (marked by an abandoning of the physical world) now commonly seen in American evangelicalism is due in part to a long history of bad examples and failed attempts at “kingdom expansion.” Centuries of European “theocracies” have contributed to the reluctance most modern American Christians presently have in referring to “God’s kingdom,” as Jesus did, as something that is happening (or at least starting to happen) now. The rise and fall of Christian Triumphalism and movements like the “Social Gospel” of the early 20th Century, which is often criticized for merely focusing on societal reform and scientific advancement (perhaps over-emphasizing the demonstration while neglecting the clear declaration of the Gospel), has contributed to a far dimmer outlook of the future for those who are left in the wake of these flawed movements. The response tends to be one of overcorrection. Many of today’s church cultures have, with their theological traditions, completely neutered the dynamic and world-changing kingdom of which Jesus passionately spoke; Instead, promoting a merely internal and harmless, spiritualized version of God’s kingdom message. It’s both equally wrong to pursue a man-made utopia (in which Jesus is conspicuously absent) as it is to abdicate or abandoned the real-world implications and demands of God’s all-encompassing kingdom agenda.

My purpose here is not to mock, malign, or conversely promote a specific eschatological model (though adherents to some versions of Premillennial Dispensationalism may feel like they’ve taken some lumps in many of my cautionary examples. I only bring up so many issues resulting from this theological camp, however, due to its extreme popularity within the evangelical circles in which I run. If I were fellowshipping more often with mainline traditions, I would probably have more to say about the potential pitfalls of Preterism, and so on). Ultimately, I think it’s helpful to hear multiple perspectives from a variety of studied and Spirit-filled brothers and sisters. I’ve routinely disagreed with many of my closest and dearest spiritual family members on secondary theological issues. In spite of our differences, we’re able to live, learn, and serve together in a spirit of deep mutual respect due to our shared love of the God his story reveals. The conversation within the church regarding what story the Bible is telling, including sub-conversations about the ending, has been going on for some time now (with great saints of the past and present contributing much to the collective effort). As such, there’s really no need for us to start from scratch, nor should we.

So be a proud Premillennial, Postmillennial, Amillennial, or even eschatologically undeclared follower of Christ. But also be alert to elements of these eschatological models that might undermine core tenants of the Gospel by becoming extremely familiar with the broad strokes and governing themes of God’s epic story, as it plays out from Genesis to Revelation (i.e. Be able to distinguish between primary and secondary elements of the narrative). Be aware that your understanding (or misunderstanding) of the story’s ending will inevitably affect how you live. Be inquisitive and willing to surrender your most beloved theological presuppositions and cherished church traditions if they turn out to run contrary to the higher authority of God’s word. Be reasonably informed about our brothers and sisters who came before us and who tackled many of these same complex questions. More than this, be genuinely excited about the return of Christ, and be about your Father’s business.

I would respectfully suggest that if you're more enthusiastic about “blood moons,” implanted micro-chips, and stocking up your personal bomb shelter than pursuing the mission of God (by meeting the neighbors, welcoming the stranger, serving the least, and declaring and demonstrating the good news of God's kingdom in numerous other ways throughout your everyday life) then you're tragically missing the heartbeat of the redemptive story that God has been telling—that he's even now telling. Likewise, if you find yourself at the other end of the spectrum, with the crowd who smugly allegorize everything to the point of meaninglessness, or who reject the resurrection, the physical return of Christ, and the ultimate supernatural restoration of the cosmos, and instead seek generic social justice and man-made utopia, then you are also telling a different story of your own making (in which Jesus and some of the language of his Gospel has merely been appropriated in order to promote a secular humanist fantasy). The Gospel of the kingdom of God that Jesus preached has an amazing third act. Let's learn the story right, live the story well, and tell the story often.

“Yes, I am coming soon” —Jesus (Rev. 22:20)

Shadow of Doubt

 

I’m a natural born skeptic. Those who know me can confirm that cynicism runs through my veins. “If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is,” and all that. It’s to God’s credit, however, that he can effectively transform a very selfish person into a servant of others, a violent person into a gentle soul, a greedy materialist into a philanthropist, or even a confirmed skeptic into a believer. After all, it’s in our weaknesses that his power is made perfect. And so we become his trophies, monuments to his ability to overcome any barrier that the human heart can erect. As a believer, I still regularly wrestle with doubt, and it’s this internal and near constant struggle that has largely come to define me.

C.S. Lewis describes faith as “the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted, in spite of your changing moods” (Mere Christianity). I’ve noticed that my doubt is often tied to my emotional state. This was hard for me to accept at first because I consider myself a very rational person. It’s humbling—yet extremely helpful—to know that my critical faculties can be so easily influenced by my fleeting brain chemistry. I’m frailer than I first imagined.

It seems that belief to a certain extent is a matter of choice. Hear me out, as I’m not suggesting that one could choose to believe against one’s better judgement that, for example, the moon is in fact made of cheese or that the tooth fairy is actually open for business and ready to trade with the children of the world. Regardless of the incentives, I simply cannot believe these things. However, we regularly make choices about how we will process/file/believe the numerous evidences that our world offers. Confirmation bias—the human tendency to seek out evidences for that which we already believe to be true—is present in atheists, believers, and everyone in between. Otherwise reasonable people will regularly choose to believe any number of outlandish things regarding vaccines, conspiracy theories, political candidates, etc. despite the ample existence of compelling contrary data. The resulting cognitive dissonance is more obvious in some than others, but I would put forth that none of us is completely immune to this human phenomena.

I’m not suggesting that truth is relative, only that our ability to arrive at truth is very much related to our subjective perceptions and emotions. We must be aware of the intellectual pitfalls common to the human experience if we’re to steer clear of them in our journey toward truth. It’s ultimately an unwavering love of truth that allows one to reject fiction, regardless of how emotionally entrenched it may be.

The broad strokes of the biblical narrative are widely known within Western culture: An all-powerful, timeless, and good being makes humanity in his image and places them in a beautiful and vast universe as his administrators. Humanity quickly rebels and condemns the universe to death and decay. The merciful creator then interacts with fallen humanity through human messengers to reveal his heart for reconciliation and to promise a rescuer. At long last, the creator miraculously comes as a human to bring the good news of God reclaiming his rebel world. He accomplishes this by living a perfect life, dying an excruciating death at the hands of his creation, and rising from death victorious. This divine human claims to have power over life and death and offers pardons and adoption to all rebels who acknowledge him as king. Before ascending to another dimension, he instructs his followers to go tell the rest of the world about the good news of his kingdom. He promises to one day return, eradicate evil, raise the dead, and punish his enemies. Along the way there’s water turned to wine, pillars of fire, invisible supernatural beings for and against the creator, a guy who gets swallowed by a giant fish and lives to tell about it, and a one-time talking donkey.

I don’t think we should pretend that the story isn’t odd, that it isn’t at first hard to believe. An extraordinary claim of this scope and magnitude must reasonably come with proportionately compelling evidence that it’s true if anyone is expected to believe it. Oddly enough, though, it’s the strangeness of the story at times that causes it to smack of authenticity (strangeness alone, of course, couldn’t be the sole criterion for determining the truth of something). The human authors of Scripture don’t seem to be overly concerned with the strangeness of their testimony. They often recount things that would’ve been more easily accepted had they omitted certain details or slightly altered things to be more palatable to the hearer (such as their ancestors' and their own personal failings, less than ideal witnesses of key events, etc.). The fact that they didn’t, however, is one small marker for me on the road to accepting their credibility. I believe Lewis in Mere Christianity discusses how we could easily in a short time manufacture from our own minds a simple religion which could quickly be understood if that’s what we set out to do. Real things, however, aren’t always how we would’ve first thought them to be and often have a complexity, a strangeness even, that naturally requires time and effort to comprehend.

Ancient mythology, animistic religions, and such have their obvious earthly antecedents. The Greek pantheon, for example, is clearly made up of humans like us, what we think we might want to be, only magnified times ten, ultimately more passionate, petty, and insecure than any single human and with greater propensity and capacity to pursue the basest of human desires for an indefinite period of time. The God of the Bible, on the other hand, isn’t what we could’ve imagined. He is clearly not what we would have imagined. His counterintuitive thinking seems to even confound his prophets, who sometimes must reluctantly convey his strange messages only at his emphatic insistence. His revealed triune nature alone is enough to make your head spin, but it points to a truth about an allegedly transcendent being that is both confounding and confirming. I’ve heard it rightly said that the deity described in Islam, for example, couldn’t be accurately called “loving” apart from the existence of something or someone else. There must logically be an object of affection, something besides the lover, for love to exist. The most that could be said for Allah (along with numerous other deities) then, before he allegedly created the universe, is that he had the potential to be loving. His very nature is philosophically contingent on his creation (the Greeks were at least more up front about this facet of their gods’ reliance on humanity). Do not misunderstand my noting of this ontological difference as a petty expression of “my deity can beat up your deity.” I don’t think in those terms. My aim is always to follow truth wherever it leads. It’s the God of the Bible, who uniquely is said to exist as a harmonious community—Father, Son, and Spirit—unto himself, who alone could truly be complete and loving without the necessary existence of anything beside himself. He’s not merely us magnified (after all, we’re said to be made in his image and not the other way around); His divine personhood is logically more sophisticated than our own. That an infinite being, who is more of a person than you or I, possessing hyper-personhood, would exist in this complexity is both impossible to have figured and yet obvious once it is revealed to us. The way he wields infinite power is also like nothing a human could have thought up. His clever and startling solution for reclaiming and restoring his rebel world is at the same time elegant and horrific, the product of a moral genius who has yet to encounter a truly no-win scenario and who fully demonstrates the necessary fortitude required to bleed out his costly and innovative rescue plan.

If we’re entertaining the idea of a transcendent being that’s capable of architecting the universe from nothing, then we immediately realize that he will have to initiate any potential interaction between us if it’s to occur. This is where divine revelation comes in (most frequently delivered to/through human messengers). Truth be told, I thoroughly dislike the method this infinite being primarily chooses to communicate with his finite creation. No doubt, he has his reasons. Still I would much rather have my own earth-shattering vision of God seated on his throne then have to experience it vicariously through the prophet Isaiah’s alleged encounter. And I’d have preferred to see Jesus, with my own eyes, raise Lazarus from the grave then have to merely read the testimony of those who did. Thomas’ famous need to confirm an outrageous claim with his own senses really resonates with me. I’m not saying that God refuses to speak to most of us directly. I’ve had some personal and what I think are remarkable encounters with him. But I cannot through these personal encounters know what the first humans were like when the world was young, surmise what went wrong, and piece together what he’s even now doing to correct things. Like it or not, I must look to the authors of Scripture, who were said to be “carried along by the Holy Spirit,” for the larger narrative (2 Peter 1:21, 2 Timothy 3:16). As it turns out, God did not think it necessary to consult me on how I would like to be contacted. And it does no good to go on endlessly about how we wish things were. We must instead consider things as they are. I think it would be truly unfortunate if someone refused to examine an important message simply because they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, accept the way in which it was delivered (especially since God is said to intentionally use seemingly “foolish” and “lowly” things to accomplish his objectives – 1 Corinthians 1:27-29).

The Biblical story of a Syrian commander named Naaman comes to mind (2 Kings 5). His initial snobbery toward divine revelation almost cost him a miraculous healing, not to mention a life-changing encounter with a living God. Naaman had heard about the powerful God of Israel and had sought out his prophet Elisha with the hopes of being healed of his untreatable and degenerative, flesh-eating disease. While Naaman was still on the way, Elisha sent his servant to instruct the commander to bathe seven times in the, apparently unappealing, Jordan River. Naaman was indignant. He was expecting Elisha to “stand before him” (instead he would receive the revelation from the messenger of the messenger—twice removed from the divine source), “call on the name of the LORD,” and “wave his hand” (God was not offering anything so flashy). Furthermore, the proud commander could think of several “superior” bodies of water back home from which his rescue could just as easily come. It was Naaman’s own servant who finally exposed his master’s prejudice and convinced him to not discount the revelation of God simply because it was not the message or method he was anticipating. Had Naaman not considered and acted on the revelation given to him by God through the prophet Elisha, had he left in search of a “better” revelation, one more palatable to his preconceptions, he would’ve eventually succumbed to his flesh-eating illness. Had Naaman thought that washing in a river would be a good idea, only a different river other than the humble Jordan, then he would have died just the same (the river of course had no intrinsic healing properties, but, by the will of God, it became a conduit of his grace). Had he consented to wash but insisted that he would only wash six and not seven times as God had clearly instructed, his terminal disease would have continued its work. Naaman’s rescue was contingent on his willingness to accept divine revelation on the Revealer’s terms. I have come to realize, though I may have in my mind what I think would be a better way for God to have revealed himself to humanity, or to me in particular, this is not itself a good enough reason to outright reject the method he has allegedly employed (humble as the method may be).

There are numerous internal and external indicators that point to the human authors of Scripture being credible eyewitnesses. The existence of many of the places, people, and events, for example, can be confirmed by ancient historians and modern archeology (with additional corroborating data unearthed all the time). The multiple instances of fulfilled prophecy point to an unearthly vantage point that can’t easily be ignored. However, my skepticism compels me to take seriously every reasonable case against the supposed witnesses (accusations that the story was compiled/constructed generations after the events mentioned by unknown authors with unknown agendas, innocent corruption of core parts of the story due to early oral transmission, and so on). Even prominent critics of the Bible acknowledge the authenticity of many of Paul’s 1st Century letters (several external historical documents make this case). In Paul’s 1st letter to the infant church in Corinth, which was written in the mid-50s AD (Paul was executed by Nero sometime before the emperor’s suicide in 68 AD), he perfectly and succinctly recounted the gospel story’s key events, referring to these events as being of “first importance.” Likewise, Luke the physician wrote his gospel and sequel, the Acts of the Apostles, based on eyewitness testimony and almost certainly before Paul’s death (Acts, which heavily features the life of Paul, concludes with Paul’s eventual fate yet to be determined). John, knowing the extraordinary nature of his testimony, emphatically reassured his readers that he had “heard,” “seen,” and “touched” this “Word of Life” that has now consumed him. One might question whether the author of John’s gospel actually saw water turned to wine or shared a meal with a once-crucified Galilean, but one can be reasonably certain that the author had firsthand knowledge of an early 1st Century Jerusalem (significant due to the city’s decimation shortly after in 70 AD during the Jewish-Roman Wars), including the layout of the city, and specific structures like the now-excavated pool of Bethesda (described in John chapter 5), as well as local politics and personalities. Several other examples exist, but this post isn’t meant to be a comprehensive argument for the reliability of Scripture. I can choose to disbelieve their testimony, but I must admit that their odd story seems to have remained consistent since the beginning, even in the face of torture and death.

Few things that we now know were established by way of our firsthand experience. I have never been to Australia or the moon, for example, but I have no trouble believing that they are real places. The facts surrounding Australia, the moon, and millions of other things, have been firmly settled in my mind on the basis of credible authority. Our task then is to determine what sources of information are credible, reliable, and trustworthy. If we will not receive truth on the basis of credible authority, then we must resign ourselves to never knowing very much about anything. This necessary expression of faith is an unavoidable and unpleasant reality for a skeptic like me. But it is said that God's own Spirit is ready and willing to help any of us—those who are humble enough to ask—sort all of this out.

I hope the reader doesn't conclude that one can from the safety of their armchair simply analyze their way into communion with God. At some point we must conclude our reasonable deliberation and actually decide whether or not we will get into the water. Jesus tells a story about two sons who are asked to work in their father's vineyard (Matthew 21). The first son initially refuses, but then later reconsiders and eventually obeys his father's instruction. While the second son quickly and emphatically agrees he will go, but then never makes it. The sort of belief that God is after is not the talking kind. I think he takes great pleasure in the one who, despite uncertainty, finds themselves waist deep in the Jordan, half way through their seventh consecutive bath. After all, he invites us to “taste and see” for ourselves (Psalm 34:8).

I’ll admit to not having everything resolved to my complete satisfaction (or even anywhere close). This is a post about doubt, after all. My unrelenting skepticism ultimately compels me to keep searching for answers. There are several passages in Scripture that I’ve wrestled with for years, some that I’ll probably never fully understand. But I can attest that God has shown himself to be true and trustworthy in certain significant instances, so much so that I sometimes find myself extending great leeway to him in other areas that confuse or concern me. This is, I think, the essence of faith.

The Word of God became flesh and lived among us.

A somewhat nondescript, homeless, Middle Eastern man from 1st Century Nazareth is said to be God’s greatest revelation to humanity, the clearest picture of who he is and what he’s up to. Attempt, if you can, to temporarily bypass the cultural familiarity and preconceptions you have regarding this now well-known character (complete with his pale skin, flowing hair, and red sash). That this man, of all people, is the “Son of God” is nothing short of scandalous, and we should not so quickly overlook the oddness of his bizarre claim. If one was ever going to be put off by the humble packaging of a divine revelation, this would probably be the time. But ordinary as he may seem, this divine man resembles the first humans in his untarnished perfection while at the same time pointing forward to a restored humanity, and a seamless reunification of heaven and earth, which he is ushering in. The story of God can only be understood in its entirety when viewed through the lens of this person Jesus. He is a better Adam, a better Israel, a better temple, a better high priest, and a better sacrifice—truly “the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End” (Revelation 22:13).

What would the perfect human being, God’s image bearer as he intended, be like? Said another way: What would happen if the Creator gave us a living breathing commentary on humanity (addressing both what we are and what we could be) and simultaneous revelation of himself by becoming one of his creatures and walking among us? I find the Bible’s answer to this intriguing question extremely compelling. There are a few things we could guess without knowing anymore of the story. If humanity is as broken, as out of step with God, as the previous prophets let on, then we’d expect that God’s commentary on humanity would not be entirely welcomed by his wayward creatures (to say the least). In fact, this perfect human would be so out of step with everyone else that he’d almost certainly be met with unequaled hostility. His very presence would threaten to expose cherished fantasies as the fiction that they are. Those who thought humanity was mostly fine, that they themselves were mostly fine, would undoubtedly be his greatest adversaries. While those who miraculously agreed with this perfect human’s estimation of things would be drawn to the revealed God who compassionately and humbly came to help.

The extraordinary evidence we have been waiting for, that we reasonably need to corroborate the spectacular story of God, comes chiefly with the physical resurrection of Jesus. A man who publicly predicted his own death and subsequent resurrection, was subjected to arguably the most excruciating and humiliatingly public death imaginable, and ultimately was seen publicly by hundreds after he stepped out of his borrowed grave. These remarkable events did not take place “in a corner” (Acts 26:26); they were a matter of public record and became common knowledge (rippling out from Jerusalem and quickly buzzing in every province of the known world). The amazed witnesses went forth in the power of God’s Spirit and “turned the world upside down” with their simple testimony (Acts 17:6). They freely gave their possessions to those in need, cared for the poor and marginalized, and willingly surrendered their bodies to be brutalized and destroyed, singing as their murderers sadistically tried in vain to extinguish their light. Hundreds quickly became thousands and then millions. As a skeptic, I of course realize that rapid growth and a willingness to be martyred do not alone prove the validity of the story. However, these powerful indicators, taken along with numerous other sign posts (some of which were mentioned), are difficult to ignore. In light of this compelling information, I would agree with Paul that our otherwise bizarre behavior as Christ-followers is more than “reasonable” given the extraordinary circumstances (Acts 26:26).

Most days I believe the whole story. Some days I am overcome by the oddness of it all, and I can hardly believe any of it (even questioning my own unexplainable encounters with him). I have experienced both the crushing weight of doubt and the ecstasy of having that unbearable weight miraculously lifted off my shoulders by a patient Savior who never stops rescuing me. I often repeat the plea of a desperate father who famously cried out to Jesus, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24b). I feel a kinship with John the Baptist, who was appointed to be the Messiah’s herald even though he would later express uncertainty about Jesus’ identity. I also appreciate that Matthew records how even among the eleven, and on their way to hear their resurrected Lord deliver the Great Commission no less, “some doubted” (Matthew 28:17). In my most lucid moments, I recognize that he is more real than I am—that he is more alive than I am—and I even sometimes chuckle at the absurdity of someone who has only existed for 35 years questioning the existence of someone who has always been. He is the dreamer, and we are merely his dream. He is the source of life—He is LIFE: “For in him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28).

So count me among the “fools” who will bathe in the muddy Jordan, give up our lives in order to truly live, pursue an invisible kingdom, and hope in a 1st Century homeless guy who claimed to be “the resurrection and the life.”