Showing posts with label grace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grace. Show all posts

Sunday, April 21, 2013

My Best Moments


       Even in my best moments, I sin.
       When I praise God, I do it mostly for things He has given me.  My praise is not so much rooted in his character but in his giving me what I want.  In such instances, my real god is not God Himself, but my own ease and pleasure.  He gets my praise for catering to me, which reduces Him to little more or else than a means to my ends, a mechanism, a utensil, an instrument.
       At the beginning of his Institutes, Calvin righty insisted that real wisdom consists of two things, knowledge of God and knowledge of myself.  In my sinful prayers they both emerge.  I learn that, at my best, I am wicked.  I learn too of God’s infinite descent and mercy, which graciously accepts praise even on that fetid basis.      

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Philosophy, the Great Cheat, and the Great Delusion


         Even though they rightly chastise their students for question begging, philosophers themselves always beg the question.  They always cheat.  If they did not cheat, if they did not beg the question, they could not do philosophy at all.  Philosophers begin with a colossal cheat and cannot proceed without it.  They beg the question, THE question, the question before all questions, right from the start. 
         Here is the question:  “Are mind and senses together a reliable way of understanding the world?
         In order to answer that question properly, in order to answer it without begging it, philosophers must not use the mind and senses in question.  But they do it any way.  They know that not to cheat here is not to begin.  In the choice between beginning with a cheat or not beginning at all, they elect to cheat.  They construct an entire system of reason on the foundation of a begged question, which is the philosopher’s version of the house built on sand.  Theirs is a system of reason based on unreason, even anti-reason.  Theirs is a rationality that is irrational at the root.  They start with a non-starter and march boldly forward nevertheless.  They build, in effect, a metaphysical Potemkin village, something far less profound and substantial than what meets the eye.
         Not to do so brings their entire project to a halt.  To acknowledge that initial cheat, and to refuse to go forward until it is resolved, is to bring the philosophic endeavor to an abrupt end at the very beginning, and that they will not permit.
         They do not permit it because to the great cheat they add the great delusion, which is the pose and pretense that human creatures are careful, precise, and objective seekers after the truth.  They are not.  They are wicked, sinful, self-glorifying sinners whose heart, Calvin rightly observed, is an idol factory.  It displaces and replaces God at every possible turn.  The philosophic impulse, like everything else about us, is fallen.  That’s because the will to power is stronger in us than the will to truth or to validity.
         If the philosophers have such knowledge about their crippled, indeed morally dead, selves, they deny it or suppress it.  If they do not have such knowledge, they are even more woefully ignorant and self-deceived than we yet have said.  They beg the question not only concerning a starting point, but also concerning themselves.  To the question “Even assuming that mind and senses are reliable, am I myself to be trusted in this philosophical pursuit?" they must begin by assuming that they are indeed capable or else not begin at all.  Somehow, that they have cheated at the outset of the philosophical enterprise by begging the question of mind and senses does not does not lead them to conclude that they are cheaters who cannot be trusted.  No; instead they cheat and then cheat again:  If they know they have cheated just to begin, they are deceivers and cannot be trusted.  If they do not know that they have cheated just to begin, they are incompetent and cannot be trusted.  Nevertheless, they trust themselves to begin.
         Do not follow them in their mistake, in their whirling self-delusion.
         Philosophers are like all other human creatures.  They are desperately fallen and deeply wicked.  They are not objective and truth-seeking analysts.  No one is.  Philosophers are subject to the same debilitating noetic effects of sin as are we all.  Ignorant of, or defiant of, the fundamental truth about us, philosophers march boldly and publically forward, spinning out false universes in their minds, hoping to lure you into the vortex of their delusions, mocking those who refuse to follow, but doing so only on the basis of the house of cards they have constructed for themselves and the lies they believe about themselves.  They not only misconstrue the world, they misconstrue themselves and God, which is utterly fatal to wisdom.  They do not know what Calvin knew:  Wisdom is comprised of two things:  knowledge of God and knowledge of ourselves.  Calvin knew that such knowledge is a package deal.  Those two foci of knowledge come tied closely together and are gotten only through Christ, Who is both truly God and authentically human.  He is known only through the historical events narrated and explained in Scripture, which for their work philosophers reject.  Were they to accept Scripture as the basis for their thinking, they would not be philosophers but theologians.
         In a display of unmitigated hubris, some philosophers even think they can reason their way up to God Himself.  They think that they can, simply by means of the mind and senses they cheated to use, construct a system of thought that encompasses and rightly understands the world, themselves, and even things beyond the world.  Regarding the last, they do not know that whatever they reach by such means is not God.  They do not know that God cannot be reached; He reaches.  We cannot get from here to there; He can and does get from there to here.  To know Him requires revelation and regeneration.  It requires raw, undiluted, redeeming and transforming grace, which is no part of philosophy.
         How to avoid begging these questions I have explained elsewhere.  Here is but one:

         (An aside:  some philosophers think they can justify their use of mind and senses because mind and senses can be shown to work.  But that is simply to mistake pragmatic preference and utility for metaphysical warrant, which it is not and never can be.  It also simply continues to beg the question because both to determine and to measure utility requires mind and senses.) 
       

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Deep Sin, Deeper Grace


         I’m so selfish and sinful that even when I tell God I love Him it normally means little more than I’m happy with the circumstances of my life.  As long as things keep going smoothly, as long as He does what I wish, as long as He does things my way, I call it love.  But when the road gets rocky, or the way gets too steep for my comfort, I rebel.  My affection wanes.
         But not really.
         If that’s what my heart means by love for God, then it wasn’t affection for God in the first place, and it couldn’t really wane.  It wasn’t love for God; it was love for me.  It was self-love all along.  It just masqueraded as piety.  Real piety, real affection for God, isn’t a masquerade.   If my expression of love for God were born of real piety, it would be rooted in His character, the shattering and bracing character found in Christ, Who upends the idols of my mind and of my impiety, and Who drives them from the temple of my heart with a whip, if that’s what it takes.    If I am really to love God, I must love the One revealed in Christ, and not in the conformity of His gifts to my desires.  My desires, after all, might sometimes be the worst thing for me.  If so, God’s goodness and love would set them aside in order to give me what I need, not what I want.
         I find it so humiliating.  Even in my moments of spontaneous outbursts of alleged affection for God, it’s sometimes nothing more than my pleasure at having reduced God to my Cosmic Errand Boy.  Even after years of faith, my best moments are still just echoes of the first sin, displacing God and putting myself in His place.
         Selfishness goes so deeply down into our hearts that we can never cut it out, never fully set it aside, not in this life.  None of us has plumbed the depth of our own evil.  We cannot.  We cannot because evil isn’t simply what we do; it’s what we are.  I’d have to shed myself before I could shed my sin.  Under every layer of my sin lies another layer deeper down.  If I could peel the onion down to its last layer, I’d still find sin, and when I’d discarded that last remaining layer, my sin would be gone, and so would I.
         I need a new me.  We all do.  That’s what God provides, and that why He provides it.  Regeneration means a new you. Regeneration means you are born again and that new life is given you.  In that new condition, you finally can alter your fundamental orientation.  By God’s grace, and only so, can you look at God’s character rather than at your own circumstances in order to see Him as He really is.  You do it by looking to Christ, by spending time with Him, by listening to Him talk, by watching Him work, and thereby learning in Him what God is really like.  You learn that God is not the magic genie who grants your wishes.  God is the One revealed in Jesus.  To know Jesus is to know God.  To see Jesus is to see God (John 14: 9).  To love God properly and well is to relate to Him in the way the Son relates to the Father.  There is no better way.  There is no other way (John 14: 6).

Monday, August 20, 2012

Philosophy in Peril

It seems to me that the best philosophers begin (or ought to begin) with two basic principles, one from Socrates, one from Aristotle:  Know yourself, and ask the right preliminary questions.
If philosophers actually followed these two rules, they would realize that these two principles meld into one.  If those philosophers asked whether or not they were capable of pursuing knowledge of God, and if they knew themselves well enough to understand the radically debilitating effects of sin on the human mind and heart, they would see that knowledge of God is beyond their reach.  They would know that they do not know and cannot know.  They would see that, even if the world outside us were a perfect revelation of God, our understanding of that revelation would inevitably be twisted, truncated and self-glorifying, and that in our narcissistic frenzy we would turn nature from a window for seeing God into a mirror that reflects only our own sinful selves and our own wicked doing.   They’d realize what they do not realize now:  Apart from revelation and a radical regeneration of our very selves, we are hopelessly adrift in a sea of divinely omnipotent fact with no compass, no North Star, and no rudder.  We sail in ever-decreasing circles that spin tighter and tighter in upon ourselves.  If they really knew themselves, and if they asked the right preliminary questions, they would realize the abject foolishness of considering themselves and their thoughts the measure of Heaven and earth.  But in their current condition, this knowledge is beyond them.  They do not know, and they do not know that they do not know.  They are blind to their blindness. 
In other words, the problem with combining philosophy and God begins with the philosophers.  That problem can be fixed or transcended only by God.
I have yet to mention Satan, a supernatural deceiver posing as an angel of light against whom, apart from Christ, we have no defense.  He is an enemy intent upon driving us from the Bible, not to it, and driving us from Christ, not to Him.  He is an enemy who remembers what was done to him by the Bible in the hands of the One Who inspired it (Matt. 4: 1-11).  He is an enemy determined to convince us of what we are already too willing to believe, namely that we are able to get to God without God, as if we did not need Christ to know God, and as if we were gods ourselves.  Philosophers believe the Liar and his lies precisely because they do not acknowledge him and his works.
Remember:  You are most likely to become an unwitting agent of the enemy you neither recognize nor admit -- and philosophy does not recognize or admit the Devil and his doings.  His self-appointed task is to blind the minds of unbelievers (2 Cor. 4: 4), Aristotle included.  At that task he is an unquestioned expert.  Against him we are no challenge.  Satan fights unremittingly against eternal life, which is knowing God and His Son (John 17: 3).  Never forget that philosophy is ill-equipped to resist Satan.  It has not the tools necessary for the task because those tools have been removed from philosophy's armory at the outset:  Philosophy permits no Bible in its work and no word from Christ.  Philosophy has yet to come to grips with demonology and its own undefended exposure to relentless and colossal evil, against which only the blood of Christ prevails. 

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Paul in Athens (part 3)

The general tone and tenor of Paul’s Areopagus speech was one of condemnation and opposition.  In Corinth, it continued.  Paul was not looking for common ground.  He was not building bridges.  Pagan beliefs and practices were his target, not the object of his affirmation.  The perverse beliefs of the Greeks are what separated Paul from them.   Their beliefs were not a truth they and he both owned, but the foolish and wicked errors he intended to correct.  He did not reach out to them on the basis of their beliefs.  He condemned their beliefs.  They returned the favor.
Paul knew the options that fallen life gives us in this regard:  Either we worship God or we worship things that are not God.  To worship God, requires the mediation of Jesus Christ -- a mediation both of knowledge and of salvation -- of which the Greeks philosophers had neither.  In order to fill that staggering lack, Paul determined to know nothing among them except Jesus Christ and Him crucified.  In this regard, just as it was with Jesus Himself, nothing about the god of Aristotle or Plato crossed Paul’s lips.  At the shocking sight of idolatry surrounding him on all sides, Paul’s spirit convulsed and wretched within him, just as ours ought to do within us.
But rather than wretch and convulse, some Christian theologians and apologists attach themselves to Greek errors both for apologetic purposes and for theological method.  Paul did not.  Rather than attaching his preaching and his apologetic to their idolatries, he pointed out to them their superstition and their ignorance and, in order to heal what ailed them, he directed them to Christ and the resurrection.
Paul’s speech was iconoclastic.  Because the Athenian marketplace reflected the hearts of those who made it and who frequented it, Paul cast down their gods, not from pedestals made of marble, but from pedestals in the human heart.  Paul knew that their invocation of an unknown god was a sham and a pose.  He knew it was a suppression of the truth.  It was an evasion of their obligations before the one God Who is.  It was a substitution of a false god for the real God.  It was not innocent; it was as wicked as it was false.  Suppression, evasion, substitution:  It was what Cornelius Van Til said it was: “culpable ignorance” (Van Til, Paul at Athens, p. 11).  In Paul’s own words:  “Where is the wise:  where is the scribe?  where is the disputer of this world?  hath not God made foolish the wisdom of this world?  For after that in the wisdom of God the world by wisdom knew not God it pleased God through the foolishness of the preaching to save them that believe.” (1 Cor. 1: 20, 21).
Do not miss Paul’s point:  The wisdom of God decreed that, by means of the wisdom of the world, the world could not know God.  Natural theology simply does not lead to knowledge of God.  To say otherwise is to oppose both Paul and God.  Human wisdom, whether Aristotle’s or someone else’s, is more than merely challenged; it is exposed, debunked, and rejected.  The Greeks, known for their supposed wisdom, could not locate even its beginning (Psalm 111: 10).
Rather than endorsing their natural theology, from verses 24 onward, Paul used it as a weapon against them, resisting them and refuting them, sometimes with their own words and ideas.  He directed them to seek God (v. 27), implying quite clearly that by their philosophy and religion they had missed Him.  Paul told his Greek listeners that, despite their excessive religiosity (v. 22), they failed to know God, and that they were ignorant (vv. 23, 30), in response to which he placed before them the resurrected Jesus as Lord.  Concerning Jesus, Paul mentioned that He is fully human and, as such, is subject to death, and that he is Judge of the world (v. 31).  Apart from knowing that, they could not and did not know God.  No one can.  They were estranged from God, and, by rejecting Paul’s message, remained so.  They demonstrated that amusement and novelty (v. 21) are not the same as the pursuit of Truth.  When the Truth Himself appeared in Paul’s speech, they mocked it and turned away (v. 32).  That was where their natural theology led them.  That is where it always leads.  Nevertheless, despite their failing and their rejection of the truth, even when it was proclaimed directly before them, the Greeks thought they offered God authentic worship.  Paul, in order to puncture their bubble of delusion, highlighted their ignorance.  By limiting himself here primarily to highlighting their ignorance, Paul declined to trace out in fuller details the whole litany of their evils and errors the way he did in Romans 1.
According to F. F. Bruce, Paul “does not argue from ‘first principles’ of the kind that formed the basis of various systems of Greek philosophy; his exposition and defense of his message are founded upon the biblical revelation and they echo the thought, and at times the very language, of the Old Testament writings.  Like the biblical revelation itself, his speech begins with God the creator of all, continues with God the sustainer of all, and concludes with God the judge of all” (Bruce, Paul: Apostle of the Heart Set Free, p. 239).  To be sure, Paul finds his preaching text in an altar dedication.  But that they know they do not know God, and that he knows they do not know God, is hardly an endorsement of their natural theology.  Rather, their ignorance offers him a chance to explain to them the history of salvation, which, in this speech, finds its climax in Christ, just as it does in Paul’s epistles.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Paul in Athens (part 2)

(Yesterday I posted a brief introduction to Paul's speech in Athens from Acts 17.  Today I give a verse-by-verse explanation of that speech.  I strongly recommend reading the Biblical text along side its explanation.  Tomorrow I plan to articulate the theological implications of Paul's speech.)
 

Upon entering Athens, Paul’s spirit stirred within him (v. 16).  The word translated here as “stirred” is the Greek word from which we get our word “paroxysm.”  Athenian idolatry made Paul shudder.   He was appalled at the extent to which they worshipped the work of their own hands.  He was in a city full of idols the way a forest is full of trees.  The tense of the Greek verb here indicates that, for as long as Paul continued to behold the idols that surrounded him on all sides, his revulsion and disgust continued along with it.  His response was no mere passing emotion or superficial reaction, but a deep and abiding state of mind triggered by the collision of his theological commitments with the pagan surroundings.  What he saw, he “looked upon with abhorrence.  They were to him impersonations of everything evil; they expressed the deification of lust, cruelty, revenge, fraud, malice, and falsehood, and the deification of those evil things, not in the far-off past, but now at the moment enthralling and debasing the souls for which Christ died; so his spirit was stirred, the spirit of the faithful and devout Jew, on whose heart was written that law of God, ‘Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image, thou shalt not bow down to them, nor worship them.’ . . .  No matter how divine the beauty, their use was accursed” (Sadler, Acts of the Apostles, p. 328).
“What will this babbler say?”  the Greeks around him asked (v. 18).  The word for “babbler” is “seed picker,” which is “a small finch, here standing for those gossip mongers who scuttled about the agora picking up news, novel ideas, they could pass on to other “chattering parasites” (Plumptre, The Acts of the Apostles, p. 27).  Their description of Paul in such terms, of course, was evidence of their contempt and ridicule.
The Greeks leveled against Paul the same sort of charge leveled earlier against Socrates:  He seemed to them to set forth strange gods (v. 18).  Conversely, they seemed to Paul to do exactly the same.  They were no more respectful of his views and his God than he was of theirs.  They thought as they did about Paul because he preached Jesus and the resurrection (v. 18), a notion they considered bizarre and impossible.  They themselves called it “strange,” which tells us that, to them, Paul’s gospel was not a mere continuation or supplement to their pre-existing beliefs, and they told him as much.  Their view of the relation between their beliefs and Paul’s is quite distant from the view held by modern advocates of natural theology and the way they tend to meld biblical theology and natural theology indiscriminately together.
According to some commentators, because the Greeks employed the plural word “gods” here, they believed that the anastasis (resurrection) which Paul preached in conjunction with Jesus, was itself a separate deity (cf. Sadler, Acts of the Apostles, p. 330) a fact indicative of the depth of delusion to which their minds had become habituated by their worship of false gods, and not an indication of how their false gods prepared the way for the gospel.  For bringing up these  “strange things” (v. 20), Paul was brought to Mars Hill, where he was given the chance to explain himself.
Perhaps because he rankled at their arrogant depiction of his teachings as “certain strange things” (which is the sort of demeaning epithet Greeks might use of barbarians), and because of his abiding disgust at their idolatry, Paul addressed that idolatry first:  “I see that you are excessively superstitious” (v. 22), he said, an opening not well-suited to win their approval.  Nor was it intended to win it.  Paul was not at all tolerant of those who rejected the resurrection:  Against such views Paul was vehemently opposed, calling those who thought that way “fools” (1 Co. 15: 35, 36).
Paul’s use of confrontation here is not unique for him.  A man who called even his own Galatian friends and converts fools (Gal. 3: 1), and who corrected the apostle Peter himself in front of his friends (Gal. 2: 11ff.), would not, and did not, shy away from pointing out to the Athenian philosophers who came to hear him speak that they were “excessively superstitious,” a tactic fully in keeping with his clothes-rending rant against idolatry earlier in Lystra (Acts 14: 8ff.) and his subsequent denunciation of what passed for wisdom in Corinth (1 Cor. 1: 17 – 2: 8).  His blunt, confrontational style was sometimes considered “contemptible” (2 Cor. 10: 10).  Perhaps his Greek auditors thought it so this time.
To Luke, the author, the degenerate condition of Greek thought and religion was obvious:  The pursuit of truth in Athens had shrunk to nothing more than a frivolous chase for novelty, he says (v. 21).  With that polluted and shrunken context as the background, Luke explains that, to Paul, Athenian religion was a religion of ignorance (v. 23).  But Paul was there to dispel their ignorance, and he told them so.  He was there to declare to them the truth about the God of whom they were so shamefully ignorant, the God Whom both the Greeks and their renowned philosophers did not know.  To Paul, their religion was characterized by “ignorant reverence” (v. 23), and ignorant reverence is not real worship, and it is not knowing God.
Naturally, his explanation was not well received.  As Plumptre explains, “That any human teacher should have power to proclaim that ‘Unknown God’ as making Himself known to men, was what neither Epicureans nor Stoics had dreamt of” (Plumptre, The Acts of the Apostles, p. 284).
But to Paul, the case was completely different.  He knew what they did not know and could not know:  He knew God.  He knew God because he knew Jesus and the resurrection -- without which God remains unknowable and unknown.
Of course, Paul was not always so.  When confronted by the Lord Himself while on the way to Damascus, the first thing Paul asked was “Who are you?” (Acts 9: 5).  He had to ask because, like the Athenians to whom he now was speaking, he simply did not know.  He did not know even though he was “circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; in regard to the law, a Pharisee” (Phil. 3: 5), none of which brought knowledge of God, and all of which his Athenian hearers lacked.
In addition to attacking their ignorance, Paul attacked (1) their temples, (2) their worship, and (3) their arrogance.   Surrounded on all sides as he was by buildings dedicated to false gods, Paul told the Athenian philosophers that God does not dwell in temples made with hands (v. 24), something he heard personally from Stephen, the Christian proto-martyr, over whose execution Paul had presided (Acts 7: 48).  In his statement against their temples, Paul employs the words of Isaiah 42:5.   Then, echoing Psalm 50: 9-12, Paul further insisted that God is not worshiped with the work of human hands, as if He needed anything (v. 25).  Interestingly, the word Paul uses here for “worship” he also uses in Romans 1: 25, in reference to worshiping the creature more than the Creator, and in 2 Thess. 2: 4, in reference to worshiping the man of lawlessness.  Finally, Paul tells them that God has made of one blood all nations (v. 26) -- a view to which no self-regarding Athenian could consent.  The distinction between the barbarians and themselves seemed too radical, too obvious, and too persistent for the Athenians to overlook.   They thought that overlooking that distinction was to think of themselves as no better than benighted slaves.  But to Paul, these alleged distinctions were meaningless (Gal. 3: 28).  He undercut their arrogance by including them in the same boat as all other peoples and all other nations.  By explaining that God had made all nations of one stock, and had set their national and historical limits, Paul was drawing upon the Genesis account of creation and, it seems, upon Deuteronomy 32:8 and Job 12:23.
Paul then re-emphasized his contention that under God we all are in the same condition.  God has made us all one, Paul said, and He has providentially laid out his plan for the nations -- where they should live and when they should flourish -- as well as the reason for it all:  that under his guidance we might grope after him (vv. 26, 27).  That is, God controls the history of all nations.  Because He does, human history is a school, a vale of soul making, in which we all must detect the impossibility of ever satisfying the longings and “gropings” (v. 27) of the human heart with the gods of our own making.  They should “seek the Lord,” he told them (v. 27), as well as how that seeking and groping ought to be done (vv. 30, 31).  By explaining to his hearers some of the things God does in human history, Paul is distancing himself quite radically from the Epicurean god, who is detached and aloof from human life, a god absorbed in nothing so much as sloth and cosmic disregard.  
Having hit them twice, once with their own ignorance and once with their likeness to all other persons under God, Paul hits them again, this time with their own writers:  Quoting Aratus (from Paul’s own home region of Cilicia), and perhaps Cleanthes’ hymn to Jupiter, Paul asserts that we all live in the light of God’s omnipresence, because we all are his children (vv. 28, 29).  But because God is who He is, and because God does what He does, to worship humanly devised images and idols is ignorant and irrational (v. 29).  So, despite all their providentially bestowed advantages, they were still ignorant.  In His mercy and patience, however, God momentarily overlooked their universal ignorance and postponed judgment.  He has done so, Paul tells them, with the purpose of eliciting their repentance (vv. 30, 31).   Had God not mercifully and momentarily overlooked their ignorance, his justice long ago would have crushed them under the weight of their own idolatry.  Now, absent their repentance, nothing was left but judgment.  The historical evidence of God’s plan in all this is the resurrection from the dead of the very man who will be universal judge (v. 31). 
At the mention again of bodily resurrection from the dead, the Greek philosophers had had enough.  They mocked.  They subjected Paul to derision.
Paul left. 
From Athens, Paul traveled to Corinth, where his stance toward the alleged wisdom of Greek philosophy remained the same as it was in Athens and before:  antagonism and opposition – a stance notably distant from the theological implementation and apologetic incorporation practiced by contemporary natural theology devotees.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

When Homosexuals Tell You They were Born that Way: A Response

Because we are fallen by nature, the fact that something is natural to us, the fact that we are born with it, is not a moral justification.  Indeed, the fact that something is natural to natural-born sinners seems a good reason to suspect it, not support it.
If, for example, someone is born a pedophile or a sexual sociopath of some other sort, that fact is neither an exoneration nor an excuse to let their preferred activity proceed unabated, much less to endorse it with government protection.  Sex is too important and too powerful a thing to leave to our fallen nature.  It needs redemption too.  It needs to be transformed and domesticated or else by it we will ruin ourselves and others.  It takes only a moment to notice the pathetic litany of misery, betrayal, disease, guilt, conflict, and death that sex has scrawled across human history.
We all are born pagan, and our sexual desires, like everything else about us, desperately need the redemptive and transforming grace of God.  It's not what we are born that is the measure of good and bad, but the things that God wills us to be once we are born again, the things into which He is re-creating us, that show us the direction we ought to go.  The measure here is the mind and character of Christ, into whose image we are being transformed, and not what proclivities we have at birth.  We are duty bound to stand with Him.  When we see Him either endorse or practice things like homosexual activity and homosexual marriage, then we can endorse it too.
Until then, when it comes to sexual sin, we must tell ourselves and others what He told the woman caught in adultery:  “Go and sin no more” (John 8: 11).
It won’t be easy to do, either in our own personal practice or in our address to others.  But that is our obligation

Monday, March 19, 2012

Knowing God . . . for People Like Us

“ Hear the word of the Lord, ye children of Israel:  for the Lord hat a controversy with the inhabitants of the land, because there is no truth, no mercy, no knowledge of God.”
Hosea 4: 1, 2

“I am savagely attacked . . . because I do not adore Aristotle, but there is another one whom I adore, who promises not vain and frivolous conjectures about treacherous things which are good for nothing and have no solid foundation, but a knowledge of Himself.”
Lorenzo Valla, The Profession of the Religious


“Of all the writings of Cicero those from which I often received the most powerful inspiration are the three books . . . On the Nature of the Gods . . . When I read these passages I often have compassion on his fate and grieve in silent sorrow that this man did not know the true God . . . The ancients, and particularly Cicero, may pardon me if I say:  this great man devoted much energy to compiling what, it seems to me, ought not to have been written and, as I think, ought not to be read either. . . If I have said all this of my Cicero, whom I admire in many ways, what do you expect me to say of others?”
            Petrarch, On His Own Ignorance


“The Word became flesh,” and when He did, His own people dragged Him to the slaughter.  To our great humiliation, we ourselves are made from the same stuff as were His killers.
Epistemologically speaking, that changes everything.  It takes away the self-congratulatory delusion that we are objective, reliable, honorable seekers after Truth, that we are full of teachable good will and clear thinking.   We are not.  Even Nietzsche understood this about us:  The will to power is stronger than the will to reason or truth.  When Truth showed up, we killed Him.  God deigned to walk among us, to reveal Himself in human flesh, in human history, and in human terms.  In response, we deigned to annihilate Him.  That today He lives among us at all is no thanks to us.  We meant it to stop.  He meant it to reconcile his death-dealing enemies to Himself.  His plan worked.  Ours did not.  Graciously, He overwhelmed it and overturned it.
Without the revelation of our personal hatred for God and His ways that surfaced in our response to His incarnation, we might have gone on forever thinking that we are well-suited to knowing the world both properly and well, and through it, by means of our own ratiocenation, knowing the God Who made it.  Be deceived no longer.  The Truth Himself finds no welcome here other than what He makes.  Apart from that Divine making, He finds only enemies and death.
But whenever He wills, we cease to be our murderous and truth-suppressing selves.  By His grace, He makes us His friends, the recipients of redemptive and renewing mercy, which alone makes knowing Him possible.  Knowledge of God is mediated by saving grace because to know Him as God is to know Him as Redeemer.  If you do not know Him as Redeemer, you do not know Him. 
The redemptive Word of God had to come to us.  We could not, and would not, go to Him.  When He did come, He came as a human Person in history, as a Storyteller, as the chief and pivotal Character in the narrative drama of redemption -- not as a metaphysician, much less a metaphysical disquisition, something for which He seems to have precious little tolerance and of which to He seems to make precious little use.
Or, if Polanyi suits you better, if there is no subject who knows, there is no knowing.  The fundamental fact about the subjects who think they know God is their decisive rejection of Him and His revelation, which they suppress and exchange for lies and for gods of their own making.  The fallen, human subject who knows (or thinks he does) is very far from objective.  Indeed, there exist no such persons, especially when what they claim to know is nothing less than God.
It seems not to have occurred to those who adopt the philosophical path to knowing God that truth results in freedom.  Freedom does not result in truth.  You don't free yourself and then find truth.  The Truth must free you or in bondage you must remain.  Truth, you will recall, is a He, not an it (John 14: 6).  Truth Himself must liberate you from you.  Until He does, you are hopelessly lost and locked away in an error you cannot escape, no matter which philosopher’s path you walk.  The Biblical understanding of truth is not the allegedly timeless truths of nature or of metaphysics, but the narrative of God’s historical actions, the gospel.  Natural theology has its creed, but it is not the creed of Biblical Christianity, the creed of God’s grace.   

Sunday, August 7, 2011

"The Forgiveness of Sins" (part 3)

This is the third and final installment of our explanation of "the forgiveness of sins," as articulated in the Apostles' Creed:

          God does not treat sin the way we do.  To forgive sin is not to ignore it or to play it down.  For God to forgive sin is to take it upon Himself, much the way creditors must pay for every outstanding debt owed to them but which they elect to cancel.  Thus, the cost of the bad loan is borne, though not by the borrower.
          In other words, from the creed we learn yet another thing about "God the Father almighty, maker of Heaven and earth:"  He forgives.  Our Maker is our Redeemer.  God does not excuse sin and He does not condone it.  He judges it.  The sentence He passes upon sin is a sentence He Himself has borne.  God brooks no compromise with evil.  He eradicates it root and branch, and at high cost to Himself.  He deals with it the only way a righteous God can -- judgment.  But because He loves us, this judgment He has taken upon Himself.  In the mirror of human redemption, therefore, we see two faces reflected -- God's and our own.  He is high, pure and loving; we are sinners in need of rescue.  Were God not merciful, we would be utterly undone.  Our redemption is the proof that God is love and that we are sinners, yet beloved. 
           Our forgiveness is based upon the saving work of God in Christ.  It rests upon the death of Jesus on our behalf.  It costs us nothing; it cost God everything.  The forgiveness God offers us is free, though it is not cheap.  That is, it was provided for us by Christ.  He saved us by his righteous life and atoning death.  He paid our penalty, providing for us what we, of ourselves, could never have provided.  God puts Himself in the place of the sinner.  He died so that we might live.  Mercy is free to us though not to God.  It is purchased at the price of God's Son, whose life was the ransom paid to redeem a race captive to evil.  He is the Lamb who takes away the sins of the world (John 1: 29).  The forgiveness of sins demonstrates that in the battle between love and evil, love is stronger.  Love has wrestled with sin, has engaged it in mortal combat, and won.  Once we accept this free gift of grace, however, we are to give ourselves fully to God, not in order to be redeemed, but because we are redeemed.  This is gratitude, not achievement.
           Repentance is not the same as regret or as the desire to escape punishment.  Desperately desiring to escape the punishment of sin is natural, but it is not repentance, only fear.  We are to repent of our sins, not merely to fear their consequences.  If we fear impending punishment and employ that fear as we ought, we repent of, and flee from, our sin.  Our flight from evil toward God is good, and is made possible partly by the fear instilled within us by divine judgement.  But if we permit our fear of punishment to loom so large in our minds that we see nothing else, if it prevents us from truly repenting, then the good has become enemy of the best.  For sinners, repentance is best. 
           In the New Testament, "repentance" (metanoia) means literally to have an after thought, to think again, to reassess one's actions.  Put differently, repentance is a U-turn, an about-face, a radical change of heart regarding one's sinful actions.  To wish to have God's forgiveness without this renunciation of things contrary to God, without this about-face, is impudence.  It is to play a nasty and dangerous game with the grace of God.
           To confess means, literally, to speak along with, or to agree with, someone.  To confess one's sins is to say about them what God says about them, to agree with Him that those sins are indeed evil.  To confess is to admit that you have done something wrong and to take responsibility for it.  You must own your sin.  Forgiveness depends upon the sinner being forgivable, that is, being in a condition where the remission of sins does no harm, a condition that sees sin as sin.  Were God merely to forgive sins indiscriminately, that is, without regard to the moral condition of the sinner, He would do us great injury, not great good, for He would be undermining, perhaps even obliterating, the difference between sin and virtue, for He would be treating them as if they were the same.  But this He does not do.  He requires us to confess.  If we confess our sins, the Bible says, God is faithful and just and will forgive us for our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness (1 John 1: 9).  But confess we must.  
           Finally, we must be forgiving if we are to be forgiven.  That is, we believe that God forgives sin; we believe that we ought to grow to be like God.  We too must be merciful.  He who would withhold forgiveness from his brother cannot expect to receive it from God, as Jesus Himself taught (Matt. 5: 7; 6: 14-15).  The possibility of forgiveness goes hand-in-hand with the desire, indeed the responsibility, to be forgiving.  Only the forgiving can be forgiven, for only they really believe in forgiveness.  To paraphrase something said centuries ago by the English poet George Herbert, he that cannot forgive others destroys the very bridge over which he himself must pass if he is ever to reach Heaven.
          But here is good news:  If you repent, if you confess and forgive, God will forgive you.  He will pardon your offenses and never call them to mind again (Jer. 31: 34).  Or, to return to the words of William Merrill, "If you want with all your heart to be rid of sin, and to live in the beauty of holiness, I declare to you that nothing can keep you from that great joy and success of overcoming; for God is merciful and gracious, long-suffering and tender" (Merrill, The Common Creed of Christians 138).

Saturday, July 30, 2011

"The Forgiveness of Sins" (part 2)

          Near the beginning of his famous Confessions, St. Augustine said to God, "You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in You."
           St. Augustine said so because he learned from personal experience and with great difficulty that no matter where one looked, no matter how hard one tried, nothing in this world can satisfy the human heart except the God Who made it -- not money, not fame, not power, not privilege, not excitement and not prestige.  Our chief problem seems to be that we have not yet learned what Augustine knew centuries ago.  We insist on looking for love and joy in all the wrong places, in all places but the one where they can actually be found, namely in God.  That failure is sin.  We have not yet learned what Blaise Pascal knew -- there is a God-shaped vacuum in every heart, though we try foolishly to fill it with everything but God, always to our disappointment and injury.
         Sin, we fail to realize, results in the fragmenting of our hearts and minds.  The one who breaks the law is broken.  You do not break the immutable law of righteousness that governs the universe, you break yourself against it.  As Plato understood, because of the destructive effects of our own wickedness upon us, the horses that draw our heart's chariot now pull in different directions.  We are, so to speak, drawn and quartered by our own sin, though that has not persuaded us to pursue it with any less ardor or glee.  Sin is an employer for whom we all work and by whom we all get paid.  The payment we receive for our sin is death (Gen. 2: 15-17, Rom. 6: 23).  In other words, your sin has issued a death warrant bearing your name.  That warrant will be served.
         Nevertheless, we take sin lightly, as if it were unimportant, as if it would not eat alive both we ourselves and all those we love.  We even maintain our own pet sins, as if evil could be safely or routinely domesticated.  But to see sin as it really is, to see it in all its horrific ugliness, we need to see it as God sees it.  To do so we need to look carefully at the cross of Christ, at the death of the One Who made us and redeemed us.
         Imagine, if you will, that you are the proud and happy parent of a beautiful infant, whom you love.  Imagine further that one morning you entered the child's room only to find it lying in its crib, cold, motionless and blue, a snake curled up upon the child's small dead chest.  How much would you hate that snake?  That's how much we ought to hate sin, and that's a faint hint of how much our Heavenly Father hates sin, which cost Him the life of his only Son.  The passion of Jesus Christ expresses with eloquent pathos what God thinks of sin.  So does Hell.  The crucifixion of his only Son and the punishment that awaits the unrepentant are proof that God takes sin seriously.  They are evidence of what one theologian called the uncompromising severity of sin.  Still, in our self-deluding foolishness, we imagine that sin can be winked at, that it can be passed off as inconsequential or unimportant.  We tell ourselves that one or another particular sin is no longer of consequence because it was committed long ago, as if the mere passing of time were the cure for wickedness.  Not clocks ticking but Christ dying atones for sin.  That atonement can be appropriated only by faith, not by waiting.
          The more you sin, the more likely you are not to feel its sting, and the more likely you are to become oblivious to its approach.  Thomas Carlyle was right:  The best security against sin is to be shocked by its presence.  In that light, we leave ourselves utterly unprotected.  If you cannot feel sin's approach, you cannot arm yourself or ready yourself against it.  If you no longer feel pangs of conscience once you commit sin, you strip yourself of the remorse that makes you determined not to repeat your mistakes.  Without that determination, you sin all the more.  Thus, because it is morally debilitating, sin breeds sin.  The ancient Jewish Talmud puts it like this:  Commit a sin twice and it will no longer seem to you a moral crime. 
          Because He is completely pure, and because not to punish sin is to condone it, God cannot and will not say of our sin that He shall simply let bygones be bygones.  He does not shrug his shoulders and sigh to Himself about how boys will be boys.  He either punishes sin or forgives it.  There is no other way.  As a result, each of us stands in desperate need of mercy and grace.  We stand in need of the forgiveness of sins.  In the New Testament, to forgive sins means to cover them, to send them away, to blot them out.  Forgiveness entails both the absolute putting away of sin and the reinstatement of the sinner.  In the words of Wolfhart Pannenberg, "Forgiveness of sins means liberation from everything which divides us from God and therefore from a fulfilled and free life" (Pannenberg, The Apostles' Creed, p. 160).  Here we see why Christianity is a religion of joy:  It restores sinners to the filial relationship they ought to have had with God.
         The cure for sin is not moral reform, as important as that might be, but forgiveness, mercy, grace.  Forgiveness means that Christ has taken our place, that He has stood in our stead and received the punishment we deserved.  If we attach ourselves to Him by faith, his death in our place permits us to go free.  Our punishment has been paid.  But rather than turning to Christ in faith, too many people seek to deal with sin in a way that does not deal with it at all.  They seek to assuage their feelings of guilt but do nothing actually to rid themselves of the sin that spawns it.  They seem not to realize that most people feel guilty because they are.  All too often, such persons want badly to alleviate the symptoms of their disease but not the disease itself, as if the cancer in our souls would miraculously get better if only we ignored it, as if not going to the doctor were a form of therapy.  But sin is a real wickedness; it requires a real remedy.  That remedy comes only from the great Physician of our souls.  That remedy is the grace of God in the death of Christ.  Foolishly, however, rather than availing ourselves of the only antidote to evil, we flock to the secular messiahs of our age, the psychologists and psychiatrists who can lighten the feelings of guilt but not the guilt itself.  They drug the conscience instead of quickening it.  They cover sin instead of healing it.
          We seem not to realize that the pains of sin, our pangs of conscience, are a great grace.  We flee from them; we seek to rid ourselves of them by any imaginary means that presents itself rather than the only way possible.  To rid ourselves improperly of the pangs of conscience is to infect ourselves with a deadly disease without symptoms.  If you have no symptoms, you fail to realize you are sick.  If you fail to realize your sickness, you do not go to the doctor.  If you do not go to the doctor, you receive no medicine.  Without medicine, you die.