The Virtue of Doubt

Doubt walks a fine line between en vogue provocation, and faith-undermining parasite. Requiring little to no accountability, doubt darts in and out of the margins of belief, highlighting opinions from those we trust to turn precious beliefs into yesterday’s mental blunder. Doubt creeps in, or acts as a battering ram. It shakes the firmest of foundations, and paves over freshly broken ground to build the intellectual structures of each tomorrow.

Doubt smothers the winds of hope, leaving one in the cold, still air of crisis. It beads away the quenching waters of faith, keeping alive the glowing ember of torment and anxiety to press on the heart and sear the conscience. A branding to associate one with the cornered flock that huddles away from certainty and comfort.

For many Christians, doubt comes as an enemy to tear down our faith and push us into skepticism. We fear doubt because it threatens to rob us of that precious connection between ourselves and the God of the universe. The bulwarks of faith give greater comfort when mortared with certitude. Apologetics gives the young intellectual Christian a feeling of validity, an empowerment to not only feel that she is certain, but to engage others in debate to prove that her certainty is warranted.

Doubt is both poison and medicine. Unchecked, it wreaks havoc on systems and can spiral into incredulity toward any statement aimed at controlling the boundaries of inquiry. Checked, it can bear the sweetest intellectual fruit. Doubt should not cause fear; it should effect action. Its medicine is a powerful antidote against simple answers—the answers that shut down further development of inquiry and stem the tide of mature thought.

In order for doubt to become a virtue for the Christian, she must recognize the moments when doubt swells. She must prod it for confession: why is it here? What does it want? The Christian must keep reason firmly in her grasp, asking whether the doubt has a purpose—and if not, she must give it one. Why do I doubt this or that aspect of my faith? Did this doubt arise from informed critique of the positions I hold? Am I fighting doubt because I fear losing my faith, or because I cannot imagine my faith without this doctrine? If I remove this doctrine, will the entirety of my faith shatter, or will I move into the ever-scary “liberal” camp?

What does it matter?

The move from one set of beliefs to another does not, in fact, change who God is. When I became a Calvinist, it did not change how God actually operates in the world. When I became an Annihilationist, it did not affect what will happen at Judgement Day. We do not fear change because it changes God; we fear change because it changes us. More importantly, we fear change because it changes how others see us. For many of us, vocational ministry precludes disinterested scholarship. We have a doctrinal statement to uphold, a church declaration of faith on which to sign our names. Jobs are at stake. Reputations fall prey to the intellectually honest Christian’s desire to really “just read the Bible.” The situation becomes much worse once the intellectually honest Christian enters seminary, and learns not simply what to think, but how to think. My most sweeping theological changes came first, after completing a degree in Philosophy, then again after I completed six years of New Testament Greek training and seminary. The standard, apologetical answers did not suffice any more.

This does not mean, of course, that all who hold theological or pastoral vocations do not read honestly, or somehow delude themselves into their beliefs. On the contrary: many, if not most, took these positions because they became convinced of the beliefs they hold, and are compelled to shepherd others along this same path.

We have been narrowing down the candidates for whom doubt can truly install itself as a virtue: Those at whom doubt gnaws. Those for whom no theology is safe from the onslaught of inquiry. Those who collapse from the pain and overwhelming exhaustion of feeling their faith torn away. Those for whom indwelling sin raises the question: why would God allow me to continue in this, to be tempted beyond what I can bear? Why does God not step in and help those who are weak, abused, powerless, hungry? Many have fallen by these arrows, learning how to creatively re-engineer their faith to support what they find within the context of theology; but not knowing how to hold onto their faith when the doubt overwhelms. I cannot help but find in many stories of de-conversion a lack of creativity. By “creativity” I do not refer to a willingness to gerrymander the texts, engaging in theological-exegetical-hermeneutical gymnastics for the sake of apologetical gamesmanship. I mean a courage, a bravery, to see beyond the simple answers that either side offers.

For some, when their faith no longer makes sense they manipulate their thought, stuffing down doubt and plodding ahead out of fear. Others possess that enviable faith that presses ahead, never doubts, never fears, and moves them into action. I truly envy those people. For others, when their faith no longer makes sense they punt, giving way to the opinions of those who shame them for bowing to authority. In an ironic turn of events, the shamers succeed in producing sheep of a different sort, only they are satisfied with these sheep precisely because they can brand them and pen them in their own fields.

The virtue-making of doubt requires the exhausting practice of dwelling deeply in tension. Resolving to never stop demanding of doubt what business it has in the believer’s mind; not to shut it down or silence it, but to press it for answers. To doubt one’s faith is not simply—and irresponsibly—to doubt one set of beliefs within our occidental prejudices; but to doubt the entirety of the western mindset we are all subject to. To tear down a structure in this way is to build a support around it, removing what needs to go, keeping what needs to stay. And in the case of the undecided element, to let it alone, unmolested, until its time comes.

Let the atheist speak loudly in your mind. Ponder Nietzsche’s words. Even give Dawkins and Hitchens a few minutes. They do not speak from cold, purely logical minds (which is obvious to anyone who has read them). They speak from pain, from living, from existing alongside us. Do not fight the skeptic’s questioning. Embrace it. Do not fear the loss of faith at difficult questions. Steady it. Your faith is not singular; it is a compilation, an assortment, a tapestry, a stained-glass window. Let your doubt settle in, making good use of it as a friend come to move you into Christian maturity; not so you can pride yourself on having defeated it and finally removed it from your life so your faith is certain. But, so you can continue moving forward, re-working and breathing in the truth that God is there.

Live in faith—yes. But if you are one of the “lucky” ones for whom doubt has made a space in the spare bedroom, make your mind its home. Do not let it trouble your sleep; let it help your faith breathe so you sleep more soundly. Doubt put to service will reward you for the rest of your life.

Room for the Universal

“If others go to Hell, I will go too. But I do not believe that; on the contrary, I believe that all will be saved, myself with them—something which arouses my deepest amazement.”

–Søren Kierkegård

My theological and exegetical training afford me myriad tools with which to address the question of Universal Salvation. The expectation amongst many of my friends is that I will put forth clear, black-and-white interpretations of the Bible, replete with conservatism-friendly apologetical strategies that play properly into our agreed upon dialectic.

A recent gathering of some Houston and Dallas friends for a short summit on the topic of Universal Salvation all but destroyed such a strategy from my plan, and here’s why: we all realized that anyone can play that game. The appropriation of this or that text to suit my theological needs is not going to settle the matter for me or anyone else, because we don’t make theological decisions that way. Certainly, we want to treat the Bible fairly, giving it enough of its own voice as we can, working hard to ensure that our philosophical and theological desires don’t interfere with our interpretations; but how successful are we at doing this?

What highlights this problem very well is asking the question itself: Is Universal Salvation a live option for Christians? The most accommodating response I received thus far has been a smirk, with a head toss, followed by a “I don’t know, man…that’s a tough one.” Other responses range from “Does it really matter? Just follow Jesus.” to “There’s no way, and here are all the reasons John Piper knows that can’t possibly be what God would ever do.” It wasn’t until I visited my summit friends that I heard more than one person admit the possibility. One thing on which we all agreed: you can read nearly any salvation text in a Universalist way, giving a perfectly reasonable interpretation, and being justified in doing so. The summit was set up so that I defended the Universalist view, while a good friend argued against it. He had made up his mind beforehand, but even he admitted that things were not as cut-and-dry as he previously thought. Questions were raised that stumped all of us, and we could not give a good reason why Universalism should not be a live option for any and all Christians.

Indeed, I have yet to hear a good reason why not. Every person who has had a ready-made answer thought they said something novel, made an objection no one had thought of before, and had an emotional reaction to the very idea. But why? What is so objectionable? The problem with deciding beforehand is difficult enough to swallow, but to have such a strong reaction against the idea raises another very troubling issue: why do we seem so opposed to Universal Salvation? It’s one thing to say, “You know, I wish it were true that everyone went to heaven when they died, I just don’t see it in the text; but I’m willing to change my mind in light of better evidence” and another to say, “No way. There’s no way. That’s heresy, and it’s not biblical, and it’s spitting in Jesus’ face.”

So, before we even consider the texts, the philosophical arguments, the theological discursive strategies, we need to decide if we’re willing to have our minds changed. If not, then there’s no point moving forward. If not, I’d really love to hear a good reason why not. What are we so afraid of? What do we really lose if we change our minds? Can we imagine that there might be more to gain than to lose?

A Universalist Prolegomena

Intellectual honesty offers little comfort when faced with the possibility of estrangement from the vast majority of people one knows. To consider the marginal theologies of Christian history viable means to challenge the popular opinion, the “traditional” view, the “biblical” or “orthodox” position. One’s church options shrink, particularly in the Bible Belt where conservative perspectives rule, and the last comment on “liberal theologies” is laughter—the marginal is also the joke. If one has been trained at an evangelical seminary, the move into adopting a different theology relegates one to the number of graduates who have either abandoned the faith or, at least doctrinally speaking, “gone astray”.

The climate continues to change, of course. Many I know are sympathetic to various theological niches, and most have lightheartedly entertained my willingness to bend, flex, and change. My move from angry Arminianism to compassionate Calvinism proved moderately difficult. Then came a more drastic change: abandoning the traditional view of eternal conscious torment for the Conditionalist/Annihilationist view, which states that, after allowing for some period of conscious punishment, those who do not belong to Christ will be completely destroyed—the utter elimination of opposition to God’s redemptive, restorative purposes. This view draws a fair amount of criticism, with some even considering the view heretical. Our family’s movement away from an Anabaptist understanding of baptism to a Presbyterian (paedobaptist) one raised a few eyebrows, but did not cause much of a stir otherwise.

My most recent exploration is quite different. Evangelical Universalism is the doctrine that all will eventually be saved, will enter into God’s kingdom because Christ paid the price for all people, every individual. Not to be confused with religious pluralism (any and all religious paths lead to God), in Evangelical Universalism there is still no salvation apart from Christ—He took on the sins of the world by dying on a cross, and was raised to life three days later, which conquered death in our place and secured the salvation of the entire world. The major difference between this and traditional belief is that Hell is a place where punishment still takes place, but for the Universalist it is restorative, corrective, purposeful; not ultimate and final. Hell still exists, but those who go there eventually see the full impact of their sin and are able to repent, praising Christ, and rejecting opposition to Him.

The doctrine of Hell is what makes this brand of Universalism evangelical: there is still reason to preach repentance here and now because Hell is not a place anyone wants to go. The objection that Universalism removes the urgency to preach the Gospel is false: if my wife is using a chainsaw in such a way that, though she won’t kill herself with it, she will cut off an arm, I would still warn her and help her use the chainsaw correctly. Just because Hell will not last forever does not mean we should cannonball into the Lake of Fire. The punishment is not the ultimate point anyway. Christ is. If our humanity functions at its best when it properly worships and obeys its Creator, then that is our task and our song regardless of whether or not punishment will result from disobedience. This objections runs the risk of making avoidance of Hell, instead of the beauty of Christ, the reason why someone should repent—the very reason why Jonathan Edwards threw away his famous sermon, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” after only a few preachings. He was no Universalist, but he knew the dangers of emphasizing Hell in quickening sermons instead of emphasizing Christ.

This exploration of mine has several movements that I will develop in the posts to come. Feel free to interact and ask questions as much as you wish. I have not finished this exploration, and much is at stake, but I am looking forward to the rest of the journey.

After the Advent

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“So come down from your mountain and stand where we’ve been

You know our breath is weak and our body thin.”

–Mumford and Sons, “Babel”

The Advent

Even if not embraced as historical event—the abdication of the ultimate power; the willing subjection of the self to conquer evil in a way that creates love—the Advent provides a sublime picture of the response to what ails us.

I’m stopped at a Buc-ee’s near Austin on my way to an early Christmas celebration with family in San Antonio. My wife is inside grabbing consumable essentials. I’m on my phone checking the Facebook news feed for social consumables. My chest tightens and my brain begins the long division that deciphers unimaginable atrocities through my wavering theological filter when I read that a town I had never heard of has experienced a pain I hope to always avoid. I latch onto the idea that children have been gunned down. My toddler is asleep in the back seat, blissfully unaware of the horror glowing from my screen. When I hear about things like this, my reaction is, Really, God? Selfishly, I don’t immediately pray for survivors, for friends, for neighbors, for those who have suffered inexplicable loss. I immediately pray for what I feel I’m losing in those times—my faith. And then it starts. I check the back seat again. My boy is safe. I had better park closer to the building. Probably need to face the storefront. I need to go to the bathroom so I’ll pull right up to the door, then when my wife gets in I’ll lock her and my son inside the car and set the alarm. I wish the key fob had some kind of alert on it. I’ll have my phone and she’ll have hers. God, please don’t let anything happen to them while I’m in the Buc-ee’s bathroom. It hits me: in order to pray, I need to trust the God I don’t trust right now. This terrible tension robs me of joy and of hope. God, please protect my family. Did those families pray the same thing that morning? Why did you not protect them? Are you able? Are you indifferent? How can I trust that this prayer will reach attentive ears? That it will reach willing ears? That my prayer makes any kind of difference to the God that watched this from afar? 

He came down from his mountain and stood where we’ve been. He embodied youthful innocence cut down by insanity. His family and friends shook and sat devastated at the news. His story was not over. And neither is the story of Newtown. Nor the story of our broken world, replete with Newtownian physics. Our answer to the tragedy is love. It provides no “answer”—no satisfying logical conclusion, no scientific demonstration, no psychological evaluation, no retribution. It provides the direction, the power to move forward, the plan for continuing to create our world anew. Love moves into the destructive present and quells its acidic drip into weakened hearts. It promises to carry on and stand as the balm for roughened skins. Love moves into the disorder. Love takes steps, makes progress, comforts, and provides. It goes. It runs. The significance of the advent does not stand or fall with its historicity. I am not promoting demythologization here; if historically true, the advent is even grander than its ethical fodder. But the story of Christ’s coming into the world climaxes at the resurrection—the defeat of death, the ensuing outpouring of the Holy Spirit, the reinstatement of God’s people to reflect his loving image into the rest of the world. Precisely because people are infused with this love, and are commanded to love others, this message is historical here and now. It is the fact of loving people working together, creating, moving, going. The mobilization of an abdicating, sacrificing love cannot solve the logical problem of evil. It is not a “because” to any “why?” We may never receive or concoct a “because;” but we can always choose to respond in love—the perfect counter to any evil set on utter destruction.

The terrible event in Newtown has brought destruction; in its aftermath love can slow the spread and encourage us to build again.

A Conversation With A Gay Christian

This last Friday night afforded me the opportunity to hang out with my best friend and his co-workers at The Dubliner on Greenville. I had the pleasure of meeting some cool new people, including a married lesbian couple. I don’t get this opportunity very often so I wanted to not only get to know my friend’s co-workers, but also see what I could learn and put some of my recent thinking on this subject to the test.

I had a brief conversation with one of the girls in which I minced no words explaining that I needed a better understanding of the issue of homosexuality and marriage, particularly regarding its relationship to Christianity. I did not lay it on too thick since I don’t ever want to “use” anyone just to get information and, since we had just met, I didn’t want to be a tool. We saw eye-to-eye on several things and didn’t take the conversation very far. I made a friend and was happy with that (she also let me check out her new iPhone 5 since mine had not arrived yet.)

Later on that evening, I had a chance to talk for quite a while with her spouse. I could not have anticipated this kind of discussion in all my life. This girl was raised Christian and still wanted to follow Jesus with all her heart, soul, and mind. I admitted my ambivalence but made it clear that judgement is not my thing and that I would rather communicate love in areas that aren’t as clear as many of us think than to alienate anyone. What I did not expect was that she empathized with my ambivalence. She didn’t know what to think, either.

So there we were—two people trying to figure out how to best follow Jesus. Both of us more repentant in some areas than others. Both of us ruminating on the mercy of God extending to every Christian who is not now and never will be fully repentant (at least not enough to stop sinning.) I told her many things that night, but the last thing I said to her was, “Don’t give up.” I hope that even an atheist having a conversation with her, seeing how much she loves Jesus, would tell her the same thing. That a Christian, who isn’t sure about what Scripture teaches on the subject (which we discussed for a while—anyone who thinks it’s as clear as many say it is has not done their exegetical or historical homework, or stopped when enough evangelical writers confirmed what they already wanted to think) would tell her the same thing.

Why do we feel the need to “win” this battle? Why do we want to levy political help to force our point? It pains me to think that another believer (who, in all fairness, is highly likely to be much more faithful than I in so many other areas) would do anything less than communicate God’s mercy, love, and grace toward us all. How repentant does someone need to be before you judge them worthy of your reiteration of God’s love for them? Does the cross fail to be an example at that point? Jesus said, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do” about the people who knowingly put him to death. Yet we assume that those who cannot imagine being anything other than gay somehow have a fuller knowledge and “know what they do” to the point where we’d rather win some apologetical battle than communicate the depth of the mercy and love of Christ as shown on the cross.

I can’t take that pill anymore. I’ve done my homework. I’ve weighed these issues carefully. I keep listening with the knowledge that I could very well be wrong. But until I have some face-to-face with God about the less-clear issues wherein He blesses my hermeneutic, I think I’ll go with what all Christians know is crystal clear: that Christ’s sacrifice is sufficient, and that it shows God’s love to every one of us who is not fully repentant, and that it’s our responsibility to God and to others to communicate that.

Christians and Homosexuality—Part II

Historically, Christians have lost in the public arena. That is how it all began, in fact, with the greatest loss, the death of Jesus of Nazareth. His policies were not forced or voted upon to be implemented. He did not rally like-minded people for His cause. He gave up, lost, humbled himself. He loved while still proclaiming his message.

What would it cost a Christian to love without pretense? We hear of our offenses against those whom we invited to this or that social function if only to “witness” to them. Our message is so great we belie its patience and humility through our forced “boiling down” of the message and trickery. What if we gave up this battle against homosexual unions? What would it really cost us?

We tire of “the left” preaching tolerance when it seems to have tolerance only with its like-minded constituents, which is agreement, not tolerance. Yet we pretend to accept everyone with our gospel message while declaring war on them. Are we afraid that we don’t possess enough love? That God can’t love people despite their sin? Are we so sin-free that complete repentance is demanded of everyone else before we will give them an opportunity?

I want to take things a step further. What do we lose even if homosexuality is merely a preference? What battle are we really fighting? When did the gospel—allegedly our greatest responsibility—take a backseat to the issue of American citizens’ rights to homosexual civil unions? I ask because I don’t see the stand against intoxication, which is already legal. I don’t see the stand against obesity, which is already legal.

The point is not to give up and allow anything and everything. The point is to pick our battles against the right things. We are battling sin; not homosexuals. How much greater would our message of hope and love be if we conceded all the ground we feel entitled to in order to present a humble, weakened, compassionate, understanding Gospel? What impact has the gospel had in our lives that we attribute to Jesus campaigning and dividing the country on political issues? None—we proclaim his humility, his love, his willingness to die with the sinners and become one himself.

Can we still point sinful people toward the gospel? I certainly hope so. The world is sick and Jesus is its healer. Sinful people need to be pointed toward Jesus. We don’t need any more people being pointed toward homosexuals and pretending they are the enemy. We don’t need any more bad logic that says allowing homosexual unions means not preaching truthfully about sin. Do we really need to identify everyone’s individual sins before we can feel good about preaching the gospel? We are all born into sin, into a broken system. Suppose you do “fix” that gay girl or guy, what about their pride? What about their lust? What about their anger? What about their idolatry? What about their greed? Do you also need to beat them over the head about those things? Or can you stand firm in the truth of the Gospel that all are under the power of sin and all need freedom from it?

Picture this: you support homosexual unions and can tell a gay couple that you fought for their civil rights because you believe in their humanity and dignity as such; not as trickery or a “foot in the door,” but as a true display of humble love. You then let them know that you have tried to love as Jesus did, by humbling yourself even where you weren’t sure or disagreed; not to add another church-goer but because such a message of love ought to be proclaimed. You refused to dehumanize them because you love them. That is tolerance. You might have been sure that homosexual activity was sinful, but how sure were you that you needed to oppose it like you did? How sure were you that it was “the” issue it has become? How sure were you that you spent as much time sharing the gospel or sending money to impoverished people?

How much time did Jesus spend condemning people and fighting against their public rights?

How much time did Jesus spend welcoming outcasts, feeding the hungry, proclaiming hope despite sinfulness?

Christians and Homosexuality—Part I

I say “Christians and Homosexuality” instead of “Christianity and Homosexuality” or “Christ and Homosexuality” because I cannot speak on behalf of the latter two with any real confidence. I can suppose, derive, conclude, and assume; but none of those things would prove official enough. I can, however, speak on behalf of myself—a Christian—as well as on behalf of those Christians with whom I have spoken. Perhaps “Some” should go at the front of the title, but I’d like to retain enough gravity without the presumption.

Talking Past One Another

Christians who understand homosexuality as a personal preference do not understand why such a thing should carry so much weight. Of all the personal preferences humans have, why should this one make the headlines, alter legislature, or assume civil rights status?

Others, including some Christians, who understand homosexuality as equal to race or color do not understand why opponents would cite an ancient text in defense of limiting the civil rights of a group of human beings.

Do you see where we talk past one another? Both sides have a responsibility that each too infrequently assumes.

For Christians opposed to homosexual practice (as opposed to attraction without practice only) there needs to be a realization that, throughout its history, Christianity has been willing to bend and flex with science without risking biblical authority. With six years of formal exegetical training under my belt, I am fully aware of the limits within which the exegete must work. In other words, the Bible can only say so much and we can only make so much room for interpretation before we run out of textual warrant for the various interpretations we make. This does not mean that anything goes, or that anything is possible, nor that we cannot be fairly firm in our convictions about what the Bible teaches. It does mean, however, that we cannot be as reactionary. If patience is a fruit of the Spirit, our public presence should reflect that. If we are truly confident that God’s authority is behind the Bible, then we need not worry.

We need to decide what is really at stake in this discussion. I have yet to hear of such phobia, anger, outrage, and push for legislation over divorce—an infinitely more devastating problem than homosexuality could ever pose to traditional marriage. Two gay guys getting married has absolutely nothing to do with the sanctity of my marriage. It just doesn’t. Me not loving my wife like Christ loves the church? Me feeding sexual urges outside of my marriage? Where are the picketers for that? Where’s the presidential statement against that? Until I see people lined up outside of court houses protesting another divorce between two church-goers, I’ll not take seriously anyone’s “defense” of the sanctity of marriage or arguments against homosexual unions outside of those same court houses.

For others, including some Christians, defending homosexuality as a civil rights issue, please exercise patience and good judgment and take the time to actually explain things. Emotional outbursts and marches and parades certainly bring awareness and have their place; but they seldom teach anything to anyone who doesn’t already support the cause. They serve as public debates wherein the opposition hears no real argument and is given no opportunity to offer a real rebuttal. I know countless Christians, including myself, who are all-ears on this issue, waiting for good reason to overturn what was nearly universal opinion until relatively recently—that homosexuality was a merely a preference. Why? Because we strive to be people marked by love. Jesus was infinitely patient with the social outcasts of His day and we want to be just like Jesus. He also stood for things. Many things. So, we will stand where we need to while still being loving.

Christians are not bigots or homophobes for trying to be faithful to the God of the universe. If you believe that such a god exists, and act in accordance with what you think that god expects, then you are acting consistently as well as intelligently. No, really, if you think a god is “out there” and its opinion is the ultimate one and that there are consequences for siding against that god, anyone expecting you to be hypocritical about that is a fool. Granted, being faithful to God often takes forms that are anything but faithful and indeed bring shame and disgrace to the name of Jesus. But on what planet could you really lump together Billy Graham and the hateful punks of that “church” in Kansas?

That said, the argument against limiting freedom to a group of people because of their sexuality is a solid one, if indeed that sexuality is not a simple preference. If it is a simple preference, like ice cream or shoes, then it does not deserve the impact it’s having. If it does, then NAMBLA actually has a point (God forbid.) But be more proactive in educating people about the issue. Do you have solid scientific evidence that supports your view? Great! Then act consistently within the worldview to which you adhere and present your case on your terms. Holding on to what you know to be solid evidence while expecting others to bend to your emotional whims is not only irrational but ineffective. There are many who will listen, but not to nonsensical ravings. The Christian worldview has quite a history of being compatible with various philosophical systems, scientific theories, and sociological data. What would a truly “humanist” worldview look like if it promoted true tolerance and found solutions for bringing the myriad facets of humanity under one umbrella without the destructive hand-waving anger of a Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens? Anyone can be angry and exclude others; but true peacemakers appreciate the mess for what it is and work to bring the messy into the fold of the allegedly neat, which is what Jesus did.

In conclusion, each side talks past the other and both are too seldom willing to sit and listen, to actually consider the other viewpoints and maybe give a little ground here and there. Are we so committed to the “grey” areas that the only means of arriving there are “black-and-white” battles? And what if the evidence points the other way, for either side? Will that side be willing to admit a mistake? If you’re reading this and are already convinced that homosexuality is not a preference, that this is a civil rights issue, that Christians not on your side are dead wrong, how willing are you to back down if the evidence points the other way? Are you hanging your hat on evidence or on something else? As a Christian who believes in the authority of the God who somehow inspired the original words of Scripture, I’m willing to let some things go. I’m willing to admit wrong and to let God be God where I cannot be. I’m willing to let two gay guys have a wedding and get tax breaks and visit each other in the hospital. But don’t expect me to simply take your word for things, and I won’t expect you to believe the things I do.

Revisiting the Problem of Evil…Again

The problem of evil constantly occupies my thoughts. So much of theological reflection takes place within the emotional effects of reality; its practical import never escapes me and I fail to understand how so many Christians draw such a sharp distinction between theology and practice. These thoughts about evil have a direct impact on how we see things, how we treat people, how we handle the troubling things that happen to us and the rest of the world. Theological appropriation for the religious person is paramount.

While vacuuming my house today, I dwelled on the thought that if evil is the strongest argument against God’s existence, then God’s existence must be the strongest argument against the problem of evil. Maybe. If this life is not the whole story, if justice comes, if somehow all of the suffering proves to have been worth it, then that means evil does not ultimately prevail. Believe me: I tend to side with Ivan in The Brothers Karamazov and say that I would give that ticket back—the kind of suffering humanity has experienced can’t possibly be worth any compensation, can it? I suppose on certain levels the idea seems reasonable enough. Nasal congestion, pets dying, minor surgeries, bumps and bruises, even death at the end of a long life. But we all can think of myriad events and situations that offer an insurmountable case against any metaphysical compensation.

Christians speak of a hope that we can scarcely imagine: living on the new earth that God will create, in His presence, without evil or trial. We will have the “benefit” of having endured all the suffering, which indeed shapes us, yet living freely without fear or anxiety. Therein lies the appeal of universal salvation, at least for me. I have already done away with any notion that infants, the mentally handicapped, or any other person incapable of “making a decision for Christ” will undergo any kind of judgment. If God is all-loving and all-just then what possible reason would we have to think He could find an infant deserving of the same condemnation as Hitler? I’m familiar with the possible answers and, frankly, they all suck. They don’t actually answer the question. If you find yourself in a hospital with a mother who has just lost her child, you’re a monster if you give her anything less than hope that her baby is snuggled up with Jesus and waiting for her mommy to join her “soon and very soon.”

I followed Jesus for years before I became aware of the problem of evil. My most basic response then, as it is now, was “But that’s not the whole story.” The last twelve years have realized a persistent revisitation of the problem. Because of my insistence that theology directly impacts my life and ought to do the same for any Christian, I don’t find theological answers to this problem proving themselves utterly useless; indeed, the hope that my beautiful baby boy is loved by the God who created him supports my own weak love. When daddy fails him, when it seems like daddy doesn’t love him, he is loved on the deepest level with the unfailing love of the God who lovingly knit him for His own glory. Imperfections and all, babies belong to the Lord and I believe He is faithful to restore them.

I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t know if every parent is reunited. I don’t know how the future will make up for the past and for now. Many days I don’t care how or why and I don’t believe anything can be compensated for. But I won’t hang up my hat. The irony presented by the problem of evil lies in the fact that it asks me to sacrifice what I now know for what is not a reality for me. When we shake our fists at the sky over what happens to others, we don’t abandon our families over it. Other evil is not my evil to endure in the same way, (and I think both sides of this debate do an awful disservice to those who have and are suffering by making them object lessons.) I don’t live less thankfully for my own child when someone is devastated by the tragic loss of theirs. Please understand, I’m weeping as I write this because I’ve seen what it looks like for a family to lose their child. I hate it with every fiber of my being. It utterly baffles me why God would allow such a thing in silence (which is perhaps a lesson to us theologians and to the apologists who venture “the answer” when even God won’t reach down in the darkest times and offer a whisper for a crushed family.) But whether religious or not, the response of every witness who has their own child is to squeeze that child even tighter and sigh grateful sighs that they still have their child. I just can’t hug my boy and not be grateful.

The suffering of others has set up camp in the center of my mind. I beg for an answer. I pray angrily sometimes and ask, “What are you doing?!” I’ve nearly abandoned my faith because of it on several occasions. But intellectual honesty and integrity don’t allow me to abandon the reality of the fact that I have been spared, and that the hope I have was given to me as a gift that I did not originally want, and that it circulates throughout my being with the same blood and along the same pathways as the hope I have for others. I don’t abandon that hope for others because as badly as I want their suffering to end, I want to give them hope. I want to comfort the dying child in his hospital bed. Russell may not have been able to believe in God after seeing that child, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to punt when that child asks me if she is going to heaven.

Take Some Wine for Your Demon

Sneeze.

“Bless you!”

“I don’t have a demon, but thanks.”

The “history” for the phrase “bless you” following a sneeze, cough, or other symptom is assumed by many to reflect the ignorance of Puritans or whatever other Christian group gets the blame for the allegedly ill-informed nicety. The way I’ve most commonly heard it described goes like this: “Did you know that they [the ‘they’ is never backed-up] said ‘bless you’ because they thought there was a demon inside you?”

The truth is that prior to widely available medical treatment, a sneeze or cough could mean you’re going to die in a few weeks. The common cold used to kill people. Saying, “Bless you” is a well-wishing, a pronouncement of God’s “blessing” on your life since you were probably going to die in a puddle somewhere. Ironically, famous 18th century theologian Jonathan Edwards died from the small pox vaccine. He accepted its use because he understood—along with nearly everyone else at the time—that bodily ailments are not chalked-up to demon-possession.

We can even go further back than that to the New Testament, wherein Paul advises Timothy, “No longer drink water exclusively, but use a little wine for the sake of your stomach and your frequent ailments” (1 Tim 5.23.) Obviously Paul, as well as Timothy and anyone else who read the letter aloud in a 1st or 2nd century Sunday morning gathering, did not think Timothy’s “ailments” had anything to do with demon-possession.

As a matter of fact, it wasn’t even assumed that seizures or any other violent physical or mental ailment must be a demon. Jesus healed several people of physical illness and said nothing about demons. Demon-possession was a very specific thing. Someone could have an illness similar to what a demon-possessed person had but not be demon-possessed.

What makes this discussion even more fascinating to me is the fact that there are those today in Christian circles who attribute everything to some spiritual malady. We occasionally read about them in the news—they let their kid(s) die because medicine won’t fix spiritual issues or is of the devil or isn’t putting faith in God or something. There’s a very good reason why these are so few and far between, and it sure ain’t because they’re some extra-blessed group walking through the “narrow gate.” It’s because they’re ignorant people who have shunned not only medicine and basic biology/psychology, but also the rules of grammar and normal biblical interpretation.

Some Christians are less strict and happily find remedies for physical ailments that anyone else would use. But even some of these folks are unwilling to seek counseling, psychotherapy, psychiatry, etc. They’ve accepted a sharp dualism between mind and body that excludes any space-time involvement, assuming that only spiritual healing can bring about mental healing.

A third group makes things a little tougher. This group is fine with medicine and psychology, but groups everything under the “sin” rubric. In one sense I’m totally on board with this. In another sense I respectfully disagree. If everything was affected by the Fall of humanity, then everything is—in that sense—spiritually wounded and in need of spiritual healing. However, it isn’t necessary to assume that the means or processes have to originate from or actualize in some metaphysical, unobservable, unrepeatable way. In other words, if God is the giver and sustainer of my life, then allowing me to continue to seek professional help for my various psychological issues means that he is still the provider and source, but the way this works out doesn’t have to be in some metaphysical realm. The healing doesn’t have to be “miraculous” in order to find its ultimate source in God. Adam and Eve were instructed to actually do things; not sit around and wait for God to put everything in front of them. He provided the basics, but they were expected to continue the project as image-bearers of a creative God.

If Timothy’s ailments were alleviated by wine, Timothy can still thank God for the wine’s availability, and for Paul’s advice, and for the processes that make wine do the great things it does. Clearly, neither Paul nor Timothy expected some sort of “instant healing” that came from nowhere and defied all normal explanation. Why does Paul say “I discipline my body and make it my slave” (1 Cor 9.27) if he was expecting any and all help to only come in a mystical way from the Holy Spirit?

Can God heal someone in that way? Well, yeah—he’s God. Are we all to expect that? Not at all. In fact, there’s a joke that illustrates my point well:

A man was sailing in the ocean when suddenly his boat sank. As he tread water he prayed for God to rescue him. After a while, another boat came by and offered help.
“No, thanks” the man said. “I’m waiting for God.”

A second boat came by, offering help, which the man turned away. A third a final boat came by and the man insisted that God will rescue him and that’s what he will wait for.

The man drowns and finds himself face to face with God. “Hey, God!” he says. “Glad to be here but I gotta ask: why didn’t you save me out there?”

God responds, “I sent three boats. What more did you want?”

I have several issues I’m trying to work through right now. I don’t want to pretend that they are only psychological—I see how sin works in myself and others and I just can’t deny it in light of such evidence. But I also don’t want to shun every tool available to me and assume that God is going to just sort of “do something” to make everything go away. If he does—great! But sitting around and repeating myself in my prayers not only goes directly against Scripture (Eph 5.16 & Matt 6.7,) it’s a waste of the time and resources God has given me, which would make me a poor steward (Matt 25.) I’d rather not add more sins to the trouble my sin causes me. Instead, I’ll go see a professional, and thank God that I can.

No True Scotsman

Zach and I banter about what he calls the “No True Scotsman” defense for Christianity on account of appalling behavior by those claiming to be Christians. It goes like this: That mass-murderer calls himself a Christian, but he probably isn’t a Christian since a true Christian would not do that.

Like most issues we discuss, this has multiple layers. On the face of it, it is true that people who say they follow Jesus often do stupid, mean, or outright horrible things to other people.

How do we distinguish between those who merely call themselves Christians and those who really are Christians? In one sense, we can’t. We aren’t God so we can’t know for certain who really belongs to Christ and who doesn’t. In another sense, we can observe people’s behavior and have a fairly good idea of whether or not they are following Jesus as they ought.

The biggest indicator is repentance. Does the person have any remorse over their sin? Is it something they wrestle with and have simply lost this battle but are resolved to overcome it? Is it a sin that they are justifying? A mass-murderer is simply not someone who is following Jesus. A mass-murderer also is not in a state of overcoming their temptation and trying to not sin—by definition they are on a spree.

Usually, however, saying that someone is not a Christian comes into play when considering something like the Crusades. Anyone can take a set of Scriptures and twist it to fit whatever purpose they want. It isn’t about what the “Christian” thing to do is at that point; it’s about finding popular support for one’s ambitions—if it can be made to seem Christian enough and if the “enemy” can be portrayed as enough of a threat to God’s Kingdom, then justification and rationalization win.

I think this discussion can be more fruitful if we don’t set the goal as determining who is or is not a Christian. Since Jesus is the “author and perfecter,” we are better equipped to determine what does or does not constitute Jesus-like behavior, and leave it to God to say who belongs to Him or not.

While cliche and over-merchandized, the acronym “WWJD” is still a good question when discussing things like murderous cults and child molesters. Would Jesus murder a bunch of innocent people? Probably not. Would Jesus molest children? Definitely no. So if this or that person does things Jesus wouldn’t ever do, we can safely say that—at least at that time—they are not following Jesus. We can also safely say that a group of people acting under selfish consensus and misusing Scripture to justify horrible things is a group of people not acting Christianly. Moreover, since the Spirit works to unify believers to be more like Jesus together, then a group of people consciously acting contrary to how Jesus would act is not a group of people attentive to the Spirit’s work of unity for the purpose of being a light to the world.

So, we can stack all the cards we want against a person or a group of people, but the real point is that anyone who says they are following Jesus and acts in a way He wouldn’t is someone who—at least at that point in time—is not following Jesus.