Sin, Love, & Association (Valentine's Day 2014)

Most Christians of most denominations know the answer to the question of whether we should continue sinning. We quote the Apostle Paul:

"Of course not! Since we have died to sin, how can we continue to live in it?" (Romans 6:2, NLT)

The rub, however, is how to actually pull this off. I have yet to meet a sin-free Christian, and I don't expect I ever will. In saying this, I reveal my own bias about our born-again nature, about how I view us. Others, preachers I've heard, for example, more optimistically say we can achieve mastery over time, getting to the point where we no longer sin. Cleverly playing Switzerland, Lutheran theology says we're 100% saint and sinner at the same time, but this probably doesn't clarify what Paul means in Romans 6.  

My purpose is not exegetical; my purpose is to consider what "not continuing in our sin" already means to most of us in our own normal experience. We who, on a good day, might say that we are getting there or have even arrived. The alternatives being to admit that we have no idea what Paul is talking about, to concede that we are inferior to real Christians, or to conclude that we aren't really saved. So what do we mean if we think of ourselves as generally successful Christians? That we are no longer sinners? Or that we are advancing to the next levels of sin, from the obvious "biggies" to more subtle, more debatable "sins"? Like spending too much of the family budget on tracts last month, or listening to NPR. Perhaps we think we should get credit for graduating to the private sins, ones easier to hide, ones easier for our churches to overlook? Do we get to a point where we stop thinking that sin is a problem, once we're no longer smoking, going to movies, reading the Living Bible, and wishing we were married? Even worse, when we practice denominational carbon trading, offsetting our sins with being more right in political or doctrinal debates. 

These are more disturbing possibilities than just blatantly sinning, knowing we're wrong, and confessing it. There is real danger for spiritual blindness when we become proficient at camouflaging our sin from others' notice and are smugly relieved to have a higher holiness score. This is sin, based on hypocrisy, compounded by deception and pride, and used as justification for avoiding other Christians -- even entire other churches deemed too "unbiblical," perhaps, for our tastes and standards. By contrast if we humble ourselves and admit that we never overcome much of our own sin, then what really is the difference between someone with many and someone with a few less than many sins, or someone else's 27% obedience to Christ and my 34%? What cause for boasting or comparison is there?

The root problem may well be that we use sin rather than love as the Christian lens when we look at ourselves, the church, and the world. What is wrong is the first thing we think about and look for, distorting our view of God's creation and scarring our hearts. Moreover sin scoring helps me perpetuate the myth that I'm better than you -- or at least that we're better than them. Your sin helps me sleep better, knowing that I won't be the first one Jesus kicks out of heaven. We need a theology that doesn't assume or require sinlessness as a condition -- not only before conversion but always. If I know I'm always a sinner, in the lifelong process of being fully saved by grace, then I should not embrace my sin or justify it. BUT I might spend more time thinking through what real Christianity looks like in the context of my ongoing sin instead of in the context of my amazingly whitewashed life. I might stop all the pretending that my smaller list of sins is better than someone else's longer list. Or that sinful I, with my sins of pride, sloth, gluttony, and secret lust, am surely more pleasing to God, secure in my salvation, and deserving of God's blessing and answers to all my prayers than those other, less righteous Christians who listen to rock music, think homosexuality might be natural, are divorced, struggle with addictions, or vote wrong. 

Mmmmm. Soup!

The truth is that I and probably most Christians who have been at this awhile still think a lot about sin and sin-tidying. It is still too much of the focus of our spiritual lives instead of loving the unlovely or even the simple task of setting tables at a soup kitchen. Instead of actually doing something that God wants us to, actually being God's hands and feet in a dying world. I doubt we're really living in the kingdom of God when most of the time we're praying for ourselves, singing songs we enjoy, calculating our 10% tithes, and solidifying our opposition to the rest of the church. We spend a lot of time and energy arguing about and critiquing the sins (personal, political, or doctrinal) of other Christians when it doesn't change anything, does the needy no good, and establishes a terrible model for how our children should live out their own faith.

What if we gave ourselves one entire day per year to publicly proclaim the fact of our opposition to other Christians' cherished or unacknowledged sins and then agreed to live out lives of grace and love and forgiveness and service with those liberal / fundamentalist / other Christians for the rest of the year? The churches that care could get credit for saying they're not "being tolerant" of sin in the camp -- but without completely abandoning the great commandment. How different from what the world usually sees us doing! How will "They will know we are Christians by our love" ever happen when what we actually show the world most of the time is our hostility to each other's religious scorecards, styles of worship, and politics? If we can't stand the Body of Christ, why should anyone else listen to its "good news"?

We have to learn to show love in the midst of disagreement or we're no better than the pagans and tax collectors. And love means association, as Jesus' incarnation and social calendar demonstrated. We never get close to the point of showing love to the rest of the church as long as we stay separate, content to lob stones over our walls. We keep insisting on the condition of conformity with our view, our interpretation, our conviction, while refusing to worship or work together until they become like us. We need to start with love and hope for more-perfect agreement later, not the other way around. That's what "unconditional" requires. We can always wrestle with the details (what is immorality that precludes association, for example), but most of us still resist the very idea that agreement doesn't precede all else.

How about this: All parties agree that they are saved by Jesus, are still not free from all sin, are willing to be changed by God, and are willing to give up their own doctrinal idols if God should convince them. Shouldn't that be a good enough starting point for dishing up soup together? And you never know: Serve Jesus together today, maybe worship together someday.

The Low Guilt Christian Checklist

Here's an excerpt from Chaplain Mike's refreshing essay in defense of Christians who are "just Christians." Thanks InternetMonk!

It’s OK to say, “I don’t know.” Doesn’t make you less of a Christian.

Baptized as an infant? OK. Dunked in the creek as a young teen? OK.

Love to receive communion because you meet Jesus there, but have no idea how to explain it? In my opinion, that’s OK.

Because you trust in Jesus.

You know in your heart that you’re broken and need fixing.

[...] 

That’s what you know, and that’s who you are.

You’re just a Christian.

And that’s OK.

I have many strong opinions about the Bible and Christianity -- and shelves of theological books. I also believe that, in the end, most of our knowledge won't have mattered much, and less will matter anymore. Means to an end, merely. Lenses by which we try to make better sense of our lives. The real issue is who we know, and who knows us. 

Killing the Postmodernism Boogeyman

John Armstrong has an excellent trio of posts [here and here and here] on the postmodernism issue and the inappropriate reaction from Christians that the word "postmodern" often triggers. He begins by responding to the common misconception that a postmodern Christian must be apostate or deluded, discarding the premise that such a Christian must "reject truth claims and moral absolutes and embrace relativism." The real misunderstanding, he continues, is that much of the American church has been co-opted by the modernist methodology for discovering and knowing truth:

Conservative Christians . . . reasoned that if you used the Bible correctly, studying the text of Holy Writ with a proper (scientific) method, then you would get the very mind of God about every thing that you could discover in this treasure house of divine (inerrant) revelation.

The problem with this approach to knowing the real truth that Christianity indeed does profess and testify to is that,

a Christian knowledge of God rests not on precise understanding or biblical equations but on personal knowing. We come to God, by the power of the Holy Spirit, based upon a personal relationship with the risen and reigning Christ. . . .

Modernity gave us confidence in our method. It told us that we could have precise understanding about every mystery that we encountered in the revelation of God. But the gospel calls us to place our total confidence in Christ, not in a system. . . . In modernity we figure something out and get hold of it. In the gospel someone gets hold of us and reveals himself to us.

Wrapping up the second post, Armstrong acknowledges the benefit that a postmodern stance can yield, and reiterates the key difference between the relationships with absolute truth that secular and Christian postmodernists can have:

The developing postmodern critique has helped more and more Christians become aware of a simple fact: God knows the truth in a way that we humans do not. The right use of postmodern suspicion is to employ it to combat the notion that we have easy access to the truth. When conservative pastors tell their people that solid exposition and Bible study will make them into mature disciples then they get very close to this danger! (This is not an attack on study and Bible exposition so read the statement carefully.)

A secular postmodernist deduces that there is no absolute truth. The reason for this is that the person has not yet met the one who is the truth in Jesus Christ. But no postmodern Christian, who knows the one who is the truth, will ever claim that there is no absolute truth since they have a personal relationship with the one who incarnates the absolute truth.

This difference is crucial. Knowing God is not the same thing as knowing about God. Our knowledge about an eternal, transcendent, and spiritual being is necessarily incomplete and likely flawed, particularly when much of it is obtained and limited by our human ability to read and interpret written text; but if this God adopts us into his family, we have access to an entirely different way of knowing him: relationship!

Moving the Hand of God?

"Prayer moves the hand of God," I have often heard, but I wonder: "Really? Is that really how it works?" Now, maybe it is one thing to make this claim in the excitement of the moment while rejoicing at answered prayer, though I would hope that the tone is not self-congratulatory or even smug. It is quite another thing to seriously contemplate a cause-effect relationship between our prayers and God's actions given a view of God as all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving; and given a view of ourselves as none of the above.

What really happens when we pray? Do we think we can speed up the unfolding of God's will? Do we think we can change the cosmic calendar? If so, is his original will before we pray not quite as loving, or flawed in some other way? Or is his original timetable perfect, as befitting his character, but he lets us sway him from that plan to a less-perfect but more-accommodating one—perhaps because he is bound by the heavenly law about prayer moving his hand? Either way, it is disturbing to imagine that we are able to make God do what he wouldn't otherwise have done, perhaps even by means of prayers that aren't all that fervent, persevering, or even important to us. Really, if it boils down to God's judgment of what is best or my own, I'll vote for God, thank you very much.

What else might we infer about prayer, if it moves God to act? Does God wait to heal a sick child until someone prays for her? Or until a critical mass of prayers is finally reached? God forbid. What happens when equal numbers of people pray opposite prayers—for victory in sports or politics, for example? Do the prayers balance and cancel? Perhaps the prayers of some people carry more weight. Does God have his favorites? Children, maybe, or the clergy? If ten people pray, is an answer twice as likely as when only five people pray? Does God not know our needs, relying on us to fill him in on the situation down here? Does he pretend to wait until we "show him that we mean it" before answering us, like a rock band quickly filing off stage to trigger the big applause before returning immediately for their obligatory "encore."

When we frame the questions in these ways, some answers seem more clear:

1. God doesn't or shouldn't show favoritism; 
2. God will or should help people even if nobody, or nobody else, is praying for them; 
3. God doesn't or shouldn't dole out mercy in proportion to the math; the same prayer prayed repeatedly or by more people shouldn't make God care about it more; 
4. God already knows or should know what is best before anybody prays.

Despite such beliefs, however, both how we talk about prayer and how we pray are different stories: We ask for prayer. We take comfort in having multiple people praying for us. We thank people for their prayers, even claiming that we could really "feel" them. We make lists of prayer requests so we can pray repeatedly about the same thing, and so we don't lose track of these requests so trivial that they must be written down or else forgotten. We bring desperate prayers to God as though he hadn't been paying attention. We feel guilty if we forget to pray, assuming that our dropping the ball makes an answer nigh unto hopeless. We pray prayers of logical persuasion, as much to convince ourselves that God should want to answer them as to convince God to do so.

All of which suggest a theology of prayer as mechanical device, or magic box, or flowchart of proper if-then conditions. I'm not sure which is worst, but all of them share both an assumption that answered prayer is within our control and a requirement that we have to do the right thing for prayer to work: push the button, say the magic words, or jump through the hoops. If so, God does what we want; if not, it's our fault. Misinterpretation of favorite verses reinforces this error. There's the one about two or three gathering together to loose and bind in heaven and on earth, and the "blank check" classics about asking whatever we wish and  asking anything in his name. No wonder we are confused about how prayer really works and overestimate the extent of our power or influence to make God give us what we want.

In his brilliant essay, The Efficacy of Prayer, C.S. Lewis rejects such a causal relationship between who we are or what we do and God's response to our prayer. Reflecting on Jesus in the garden, where his request to his father was rejected, Lewis writes:

When God becomes man, that Man, of all others, is least comforted by God, at His greatest need. There is a mystery here which, even if I had the power, I might not have the courage to explore. Meanwhile, little people like you and me, if our prayers are sometimes granted, beyond all hope and probability, had better not draw hasty conclusions to our own advantage. If we were stronger, we might be less tenderly treated. If we were braver, we might be sent, with far less help, to defend far more desperate posts in the great battle.

 How then might we better understand prayer? Look for Part 2.

Noah Webster & God

[Salvation #6] 

Having established that salvation may be knowable, even when we are unable to clearly define salvation or unable to agree upon such a definition, we turn to the question of why we have been left to write our own definition. If our own definition writing requires that we wade in the oft-murky waters of scripture interpretation, then why has God failed to clearly provide such crucial information? Why didn't God just give us a dictionary if he knew the mess we would make of this? Why did he give us the Bible, filled with poetry, riddles, proverbs, songs, correspondence, code, and lots and lots of stories and parables, instead? Understand that these are types of writing not normally used to dictate precise definitions, or genres from which we expect to extract them. And why use Hebrew of all languages for the majority of this, a language known for its ambiguity?

Maybe neat, theological definitions don't exist. Maybe God isn't at all eager to spoon-feed them to us if they do. Maybe they are as nonsensical as mathematical equations written to explain color. Maybe God is less interested in developing our knowledge than our character, our humility, or our relationship with him. Maybe God knows that definitions create the illusion of mastery, certainty, and control; and maybe he is less interested in being defined or understood than being known, obeyed, and loved. 

What definition of "God" do we find in Scripture, for that matter, and shouldn't that be even more important than understanding salvation? "God is love;" "God is spirit;" "God is a consuming fire;" "God is light." How's that for a single and clear definition of what God is? And what about Jesus? How eager was he to give key definitions? The gospels record his question, "What shall we say the kingdom of God is like?" and multiple different answers—yeast, a farmer, a landlord, seeds, etc.—but no instances of "What is the exact definition of God's kingdom?" Really, if he wanted to communicate definitions, he picked an odd way to do it.

The obvious answer is that God's purpose, both for his inspiration of the Scriptures and in his glorious performance on the stage of history, was not and has never been to give us definitions, or to satisfy our desire for propositional certainty. Or, as Karl Barth reportedly said, "Jesus does not give recipes that show the way to God. [...] He is Himself the way." His purpose is that we might come to know the guide himself, rather than a map. As a result, much of our theological definition writing distracts us from God's real message and intent. And, perhaps, is as misguided and inappropriate as reading love poems for a technical understanding of how the heart works. To put it another way, the point and priority of neither God nor the Scriptures is to give us a definition of salvation that we can memorize, recite, and stick on our bumpers. 

Noah Webster's contribution to the English-speaking world was a book of words and definitions. What God the Father has given to all of us instead is Jesus, the Word of God. He has spoken to us directly through his Son, that we might know him. And this is eternal life. This is salvation.

LOST

So we've begun watching the first season of Lost on DVDs from the library. What struck me pretty quickly was the recurring "every man for himself" theme. Even the characters who seem the most likable, or reasonable, or heroic suddenly go winging off into the jungle on some personal Quest that just has to be done. Right now, of course. In the rain, at night--it doesn't matter. Of course, the hero's quest inevitably intersects the path of at least one innocent bystander, and moving at such speed tends to make it hard for the hero to even see said bystanders before running them over.

The first lesson I see in this is that "no man is an island" (Sorry!). When trying to survive in a foreign land, we need each other. How well we get along doesn't change this at all; we still need each other. Nobody has all strengths and no weaknesses. Some jobs can't be done well alone--if at all. Nobody sees the whole picture. C. S. Lewis argued that a map--the collection of many people's experiences, stale though it may seem--is more useful than one's personal experience of the sea if one actually wants to leave the beach and sail somewhere. How much more we need others in the church, the body of Christ, if it is God who joins us together and gives to us different gifts and talents.

Furthermore, what we do has an impact on everyone else. How important we believe our fool's errand to be doesn't matter; our actions ripple out across the pond and can't be taken back if we realize it was a bad idea. The kid can't just run off with the dog whenever he's upset with his father, because then the dad has to follow him to keep him from getting eaten by the polar bears and monsters. The doctor's personal demons don't change the fact that people in need of medical care are lying back on the beach. "I just needed to be alone" doesn't cut it when a rescue party has to be sent out after you. Or when someone in the rescue party gets hurt in the process.

The second lesson is not to make important decisions while the adrenaline is flowing. Adrenaline produces many amazing physiological changes to help us in the "fight or flight," but one of them, tunnel vision, is not so amazing when our choices affect others. Not so useful when trying to analyze a complex situation. Not so helpful when when we ought to be thinking through the consequences that our decisions will have on those who are just a little too far to the side to focus on properly. The WORST time to make an important decision is during a crisis, when emotional, while under stress. That's when we are most likely to fight or flee to protect ourselves. When the "I" rears its ugly head.

How often we wish we could take back what we said in the heat of the moment. How much harder to take back our actions. To restore the confidence that others once placed in us. To reassure them that we actually do think they matter. To prove that we really aren't as selfish as we looked. To rebuild trust once it has been lost.

Stay in the Boat, Jackson.

I'm the firstborn, so rules and being right come naturally. Add to that my amazing brain power, and it's a wonder that I haven't taken over the world already. As I have become (ahem) wiser, however, I have decided that being right is not so important--is not the main goal of life. I recognize (often much too late) that I have made some terrible mistakes; I know that I am capable of doing so again. But these do not signify the end of the world to me.

I am blessed to be part of a family, a great circle of friends around the world, and a church community. What these have in common is relationship, if we are willing. And relationship provides the means for someone, the "other," whomever that may be, to help me see the plank in my eye--and faster than I might by myself, even if I were willing to look for it. Relationship relieves the pressure to be right all the time. We don't have to figure everything out by ourselves; I don't have to make myself perfect. That won't happen "until we see him face to face" anyway.

Spiritual maturity isn't about being right more often. Relationship isn't happy-happy all the time. And we don't even get to choose the family relationships we are born into--neither our immediate family members nor Adam, for that matter. When I enter into relationship--serious, covenant-type relationship--I "sign up for" heartache, disappointment, and as much nonsense as God knows I can bear. And I know that I will be the source of these, as well.

So, I can be very tolerant of others' mistakes, others' ignorance, others' faults, unhappy though I may be. And I can hope and expect that others in community will extend the same grace to me. I can endure a lot of arguing about where the boat should be going. There is a fundamental requirement, however, in relationship. Not "rightness," and not that everyone agrees with me, even when I'm right. What is required is that we stay in the family, in the circle, in the community.

That we stay in the boat.

Staying provides the opportunity to work out the process. To sharpen the dull iron. To take as long as it has to take. Staying means that we are "there" together, wherever that is. Recall Ruth's willingness to make Naomi's country, people, and even God her own. If we leave, how can we hear reason from those who love us? Who can speak sense into our nonsense? Who will help us? Who will slap us when we need it? Whom is God more likely to speak through than those whom we already know and who know us better than anyone else does? Those whom we have already committed ourselves to.

We don't have to be right, or smart, or lovely, or strong. But we have to stay in the boat.