Christmas Came for Leviticus 20:27

I've heard some people observe that the bringers of gifts to the baby Jesus were not kings. But here's another thing they weren't: they weren't wise men. The bumper sticker that says, “wise men still seek him” may be a nice sentiment, but no wise men sought him in the first place. Matthew calls them magi. Magi were Zoroastrian priests hailing from what is now Iran. They not only served a pagan god, but practiced various forms of magic, most especially astrology. These men were not so much like rulers or like learned professors, but more like the proprietor of that kooky crystal ball gazing and palm reading shop that I shake my head at on my way to church.

That didn't go down any better with devout first century Jews than it does with us – in fact, probably worse. Leviticus 20:27 says, “A man or woman that is a spiritist or soothsayer is to die: you will stone them to death with stones; their blood shall be upon them.” Any good Jew would be thinking: “if these guys were one of our people, we would kill them.”

I don't know what drew the Magi to Jesus, except for a star and the call of God on their lives. Maybe they didn't know either. There has been a lot of speculation, some of it appealing and plausible. But perhaps the greater mystery is not that they came “at Christmas,” but that Christmas came for them. God allowed his Son at his most vulnerable to be seen, to be adored, by such as these. Was not the manger humble enough? Were not the shepherds smelly enough? Was not an unwed mother shameful enough? Was God's holy Son now to be looked upon and cherished by the wicked?

In this is the glory of Christmas: not that wise men sought the Son of God, but that for some reason, sinful, wicked rebels sought the One who had sought them from ages past. We do the same. Christmas came for Leviticus 20:27, for sinful wicked rebels, people like the kooky crystal ball gazers – and for people like you and me.

A Walk Through the Forest

Almost anyone can enjoy a walk through the forest. The sights are as diverse as they are beautiful. Towering leafy trees, providing spring buds, summer shade, autumn colours, and the stark winter contrast of white on dark dominate the scene. Various smaller plants rely on the shade and support of the larger trees. Occasional streams or ponds, rock formations, and sightings of birds and animals round out the picture. It is an extremely rare person who cannot appreciate at least some aspect of a forest.

But that's only what I see. If I were to walk in the woods with an expert in natural sciences – in botany, or geology, or wildlife biology, or a host of other disciplines – I would be shown so very much more. As we walked they would be able to stop along the way and explain to me things like the various vital functions of the trees, which plants are edible and which are not, how to tell where the various critters have dens or burrows and tips for spotting them, and a thousand other things. If you get the right person, they can make moss interesting.

As usual, I'm not really talking about a walk through the forest. I believe that everything I've said is true of forests. It's also true of scripture. Sometimes I run across people who are suspicious of theology, or scholarship, or biblical and theological academics. Don't we just need to know the gospel? Isn't it just about reaching as many as possible, as soon as possible? Can't we all just read the Bible and understand what it says? The answer to those questions is yes – mostly. Almost everyone can appreciate the Bible, see it's beauty, and understand the big story of the great Creator who turns his rebellious creation into redeemed and righteous sons and daughters. But in the same way that an expert in matters of the forest can open my eyes to a world so much deeper than I had ever seen before, so too can the academics of a theological education open our eyes to a world of scripture that some have only glimpsed.

Those of us who've spent some time and accumulated some “forest” knowledge aren't any better than anyone else. There's no special class of “forest appreciators.” We have the same need to spend the time in the forest, to see its beauty, to be restored by the peace that is there. We're walking the same path as everyone else. But we have the privilege to be able to poke our fellow hikers and say, “Hey! Lemme tell you about this thing over here. It doesn't seem very big, but the whole forest depends on it.” We have an excitement for the deep things and the details of the forest, and we want to tell others. We want everyone to appreciate the forest better, because we believe that it will help us to love better and see more fully the Lion in whose forest we wander.

In Christ Alone, On Election Day

Something happened a few weeks ago when I was travelling in the States that bothered me. I've been trying not to say anything about it, because a lot of ink has been spilled and hype has been built over this election. But I haven't seen anyone deal with quite this issue, and I just can't get it out of my mind.

I was in an adult bible class, and in the context of talking about God's greatness, the teacher remarked, “our presidential candidates are not God.” The person beside me immediately muttered, “Candidate X certainly isn't.” Wait, what? If we say that Candidate X certainly isn't God, doesn't that imply that there is a way in which, or a possibility that, Candidate Y is? Now, I know this person. This person is a faithful Christian. Of course they don't think that any human is God, except Jesus. And yet, as that same God-man once said, “out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks.” (Matt 12:34).

A number of people have reminded America that they are not voting for a Messiah-in-Chief. Of course no one would dare to disagree with that statement. But an off-hand, knee-jerk reaction like I heard suggests to me that it is all too easy to affirm right belief, but to pin too many hopes on a candidate.

Christian, remember that in your native land, there are no elections. You have a king. In him, and in him alone, your hope is found. Only his blood makes you truly free. Only his government is truly just. And there is no one – no one! – like him.

The Measure of Our Lives

"Let the glory of your name be the passion of the Church
Let the righteousness of God be a holy flame that burns
Let the saving love of Christ be the measure of our lives.
We believe you're all to us."

We sang this song at the Heritage Preaching Lectures, and the words stayed with me strongly through the day. Not only is it a song that I have quickly come to love, but they seemed to form the theme of the day.

In the evening, there was a dinner honouring the life and ministry of Dr. Stan Fowler. He received a festschrift, a volume of essays written in his honour by friends and colleagues and students. A festschrift is an unsolicited labour of love, and perhaps the highest honour a scholar can receive. A few people mentioned that he has often said that he has worked to be a scholar in service to the church. That is the culture he has fostered at Heritage Seminary, where he has taught, and the spirit of scholarship that he has inspired in me. In his impromptu (though eloquent as ever) speech of thanks, he ended by saying, "All honour is really due to God, our triune God who is worthy of our study and adoration and obedience."

Let the glory of your name be the passion of the Church!

Through a day of lectures, Dr. Don Carson showed us the God of sovereign power and glory and holiness who is revealed in apocalyptic literature. He showed us a God in ultimate control of history, whose purposes cannot be thwarted by evil, and who is the object of ceaseless worship.

Let the righteousness of God be a holy flame that burns!

And in these two very different events -- the teaching of the word, and the honouring of a beloved servant of God -- somehow I heard the same message: that our lives are not about us. All we have and are is derived from the God who created and redeemed us. All that we could want from our lives will be found in service and praise to our God.

Let the saving love of Christ be the measure of our lives!

Thank you, Don Carson and Stan Fowler for teaching me yesterday. My heart is full. Most of all, thank you Jesus for being the one who gives meaning to it all.

We believe you're all to us!

God's Not Dead 2, Christamericanism, and Simple Truths

I was very disappointed in the first God's Not Dead movie, as I felt like it spent more time perpetuating myths about non-Christians than thinking carefully about apologetics. After a lot of wavering, I decided to watch the second movie, because religious liberty is a topic of interest to me. The premise of the movie is that a Christian high school teacher ends up on trial for quoting the words of Jesus in a history class. I almost turned it off after the first third or so of the movie, after what passed for a Christian movie had mostly been a lot of Constitution thumping and Christamerican rhetoric. But then the movie takes a turn as the teacher points out to her lawyer that she was answering a question about a historical figure and the effect of his thought on history in a history class.

The movie then gets really good, because they end the political nonsense, and start examining simple truths. They defend the historical reality of Jesus. They defend the historical reliability of the gospels. In a court of law, they bring the evidence of the life and death of Jesus, and treat him as a historical figure whose voice can be heard alongside any other historical figure.

I'm not completely sure what the movie was trying to do with the first bit. They never really address whether or not the political route that they try to take at the beginning of the movie was a good idea. They just sort of drop it and walk away. It could be that they wanted to demonstrate that both are valid. What I really hope is that they were actually trying to encourage people to stop getting so caught up in the fusion of patriotism and Christianity, and focus on the simple truths: the reality of the life of the man Jesus, the coherence of scripture, and the power of lives lived quietly and courageously for the glory of Jesus and Jesus alone.

Don't Let Anyone Rip Your Book in Half

There are some perennial questions that tend to annoy me, because too often they aren't handled carefully. One of these is “which Testament is more important?” A (very pleasant) Facebook exchange with a friend got me thinking about how best to handle this thorny issue. I think it's best explained via an illustration:

Characters:

Me.

A friend (who, I assure you, would not be my friend much longer).

Friend: (takes a novel that I haven't read and rips it in half) Which half do you want?

Me: Dude! You tore my book?!?

Friend: But which half do you want? I'm only giving you back half.

Me: But you tore my book! It's incomplete now!

Friend: You gotta* pick.

Me: (sigh) I guess I'll take the second half.

Friend: Yeah, it's probably more important.

Me: Well, not exactly. But you can discern more about the beginning of the story by reading the end than you can about the end of the story by reading the beginning. So I guess if I'm stuck, I'll take the end.

--Exit stage whatever--

*Anyone who would rip a book in half is, I'm sure, capable of such atrocious grammatical gaffes.

This illustrates well how I feel about “which Testament is more important?” I understand why Bible translators translate the New Testament first. Logically, the end of the story bears more weight than the beginning, but it's not a matter of importance. The character and nature of God, human sin and need for forgiveness, the promise of the restoration of all things – all of these are taught in detail in the Old Testament.

Don't let anyone rip your book in half.

Your Country Will Fall

Your country will fall. It's completely inevitable.

I don't know when. It could be tomorrow. It could be a thousand years.

I don't exactly know how – whether by war or poor leadership or natural disaster, or whether it merges with another or splits into several.

Even if Jesus doesn't return for another ten thousand years, and your country lasts until then, it won't last beyond it. Your country will fall. If not before, it will fall when Jesus comes.

There are no Canadians in heaven. There are no British people in heaven. There are no Burmese, Algerians, Americans, Saudis, or Peruvians in heaven. All these boundaries and citizenships are of human design. Yes, they are boundaries that are ultimately appointed by God. But they were not part of the first, perfect creation, and neither do we read about them in the renewed heaven and earth. All these countries that we know will be burned away. Only the kingdom of God, only the people of God, will remain.

There are some ways in which I am incredibly patriotic. I love seeing us take gold in the Olympics. I love sharing a national identity with some of the heroes that have hailed from my country. I will always remember the day that I sat at my computer, weeping through the updates, as our Parliament was attacked and a young soldier lost his life to terror. I truly love my country. But one day it will be no more, and that's OK. I hope that it will not happen until Christ's return. That would mean I would simply be trading a good thing for a thing infinitely greater. But even if it should happen before that, even if something terrible happened, it would be well with my soul.

So love your country. Work for its good. But remember that one day your country will fall. Nothing lasts forever.

Except Jesus, and his kingdom, and those whose citizenship is most truly in heaven.

Look How That Turned Out For Him

Two things happened today that have me reflecting once again on a question I keep coming back to.

“How is this going to turn out?”

By which I mean: this life of faith, this walk with Jesus, following the example of my King, my (largely untested) conviction that I am called to suffer for and with my Saviour, that in so doing I participate in his life and so become more like him – how is that going to turn out?

The first thing: I read a statistic written by a missionary that out of 150 Somali believers he had known when he moved to Somalia, eight years later only four were still alive. If that statistic provides anything close to the norm, that means that 97% of Somali believers die for their faith. I felt like I'd been punched. Look how that turned out for them.

Later, I was at a barbeque for a youth mission team that came up to visit our baby church. At supper, a couple of us got talking about this trip largely being about teaching young people to really own the “as you go” of the Great Commission – to see the spaces in every day life to bless people with the love of Jesus in word and in deed. A couple of the tweens in our church, who I think had just had a bad day, got pestering us about method – are all these ideas found *exactly* in the Bible? They didn't have conversations on buses, did they? Finally, our preacher turned it around on them and said something like, “Don't you think that as the apostle Paul went about his life, he just used every opportunity to tell people about about Jesus?” And one of the kids mumbled back, “Yeah, and look how that turned out for him.”

And isn't that our problem? Don't most of us, in our hearts, have that response lurking? We don't say it – we know we shouldn't – but we really wonder how it will turn out if we venture big for the gospel. We know that at every turn the apostles were marginalized, were beaten, were falsely accused, were thrown in jail. We know that they found themselves in danger from governments and robbers and fellow citizens. They shared the gospel. They were the first to do what we are called to do. How did that turn out for them?

Paul had an answer: “I will rejoice, for I know that through your prayers and the help of the Spirit of Jesus Christ this will turn out for my deliverance, as it is my eager expectation and hope that I will not be at all ashamed, but that with full courage now as always Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death.” (Phil 1:19-20)

Paul says he'll rejoice. That usually means good things, right? Check out the word “this.” “This” is Paul's imprisonment. “This” is Paul's looming trial before the emperor. “This” is the package of difficulties that arise in the churches he can no longer care for directly. All summed up, almost dismissed, with “this.”

But then Paul says he knows how it will turn out: deliverance! Yay!

Oh, but wait. “Deliverance” seems to be meant two ways by Paul. For he goes on to say that what he expects is not some sort of “Suffering – Been There, Done That” badge. What he expects is that he will have the courage to honour his Lord in his life – or in his death. He finishes by saying, “For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.” Deliverance may come when they unlock the shackles, or deliverance may come through the edge of a Roman sword.

And so here we find our answer. How did that turn out for Paul and the other apostles? Badly. Very badly – if our eyes are fixed on what we have here. Paul has a bigger picture. He wants nothing more than to bring glory to Jesus, in life or in death.

We want to know how all this is going to turn out. Even as Christians, it seems we still ask “meaning of life” kinds of questions. The answer to the question is not an answer, but an instruction. Pursue Jesus. Believe that not one thing is beyond his control. Live for the fame of his name. Then when others ask you, or when you ask yourself: “how's it going to turn out?” your answer can confidently be, “whether in life or in death, for his glory.”

Praying with Anglicans, and my Mother

Most of my life, I have heard how terrible high church worship is. It's repetitive, not heartfelt, uses man's words and not God's words, and everyone just drones on together with no one giving any attention to what they're saying. It's works righteousness at its worst: people coming just to churn out yet another prayer so that God will like them better.

And yet...

Long before my mother met my father and became a member of the Church of Christ, even longer ago than the dark times when my mother wasn't sure that God was worth worshiping, she was an Anglican. And it seems that while you can take the girl out of the Anglican church, no one ever quite got the Anglican church out of the girl. I remember how she would speak of incredible Christmas services. I remember how much she valued and longed for the corporate prayers and intercessions, read together as a community. She truly loved to worship. I remember seeing that on her face many Sundays. But I know she also loved the worship of the Anglican church.

So it is curious that I now find myself a PhD student at an Anglican theological college. Having been there this past week for their research conference, I participated in the prayer service each morning. To be honest, I wasn't expecting much. Despite my mother's insistence that Anglican prayer was beautiful and valuable, the other voices in my life had been rather louder (not to mention longer lived!). I went partly for the experience, partly to be involved with my colleagues, and partly, just a little, to see if I could see what my mother saw.

And I did. I wouldn't say it's the best way to worship – I don't know if there is a “best” way to worship – but one could do a lot worse. To take up a few of the issues my own people have had with this manner of worship:

1) Regarding the droning: Every once in a while in a Church of Christ, there will be a short reading, and the reader will say, “let's read this together.” Invariably, it's terrible. It sounds rather like the Borg, “resistance is futile; you will be assimilated.” It also tends to sound very disjointed. But gather a group of people who are accustomed to it, who have been trained through practice to put just a little emotion in their voice, and to observe the punctuation marks, and it comes off quite nicely.

2) The accusation that it's “man's words and not God's words,” is patently false. We spent much more time reading and praying scripture than anything else. There were two hymns. Most days there was a total of eight “man written” sentences that were prayed in the entire half-hour. There was an open time for people to pray for requests on their hearts. All the rest was scripture. Each day saw one Psalm, one reading and one prayer from the Old Testament, and one reading and one prayer from the New Testament. Most mornings we were reading or praying the majority of five chapters of scripture, from a broad cross-section of the Bible.

3) The accusation that it's not heartfelt is unfair. I can tell you that's not what I saw among my fellow students. And really, who are we to judge another man's servant? We look at them and say the service is repetitive, and we would be right. They could look at us and say that our services are haphazard, and in all too many cases they would be right. Scripture nowhere teaches us a set plan for worship. We're all working this out the best way we can. I find it hard to condemn them for a service so thoughtful and so saturated in God's word.

All that being said, I do understand the concern of such worship becoming rote. I do think that when done well, I prefer the style of worship that I have known in the Church of Christ, which allows just a bit more room for expression and tailoring a service to the needs of a congregation. I have some rather serious theological disagreements with Anglicans, disagreements that aren't disappearing any time soon. But I take no issue with their worship. I see now, I think, what my mother saw: a depth and beauty and thoughtfulness, and a deep rootedness in the entirety of God's word. We could learn much from that. And I do look forward to worshiping with them again next year.

A Thousand Stories

I'm really not up to date on popular contemporary music, never mind the avant garde jazzy whatnot that Starbucks tends to play. I was thus all the more surprised when, as I sat researching at Starbucks this morning, a naggingly familiar guitar intro caught my attention. As I listened, I found myself shocked, then delighted, as the familiar intro resolved into familiar words:

“I've heard a thousand stories

Of what they think you're like,

But I've heard the tender whisper

Of love in the dead of night

And you tell me that you're pleased

And that I'm never alone.

You're a good, good Father

It's who you are

It's who you are

It's who you are

And I'm loved by you,

It's who I am

It's who I am

It's who I am.”

Starbucks is the place of a thousand stories. They have worked hard at aligning themselves with the values of progressive millennialism. Sometimes this manifests itself in good ways, such as creation care, fair trade, and sustainability. Sometimes it manifests itself in unfortunate ways, such as their obvious support for a culture increasingly centered on self-definition. And yet out of their speakers comes a song that rejects the thousand stories, to proclaim two simple truths. God is a good father. We are loved by God.

Starbucks is a sort of microcosm for how society at large likes to see itself: soulful and sensitive, welcoming and inclusive, accepting of everybody, ultimately tolerant. And yet this song got airtime. This song, which while not having the deepest theology has the most important theology. God is a good father – and fatherhood is something painfully lacking in our society. We are loved – and love is something that is painfully lacking in our society. There are a thousand stories we hear every day – but only one of them is true.

And if a song like “Good Good Father” can get airtime at Starbucks, maybe that's the message that can get Christians a hearing in today's world of a thousand stories: that God is good, and that he loves us. Doctrine can come later – doctrine must come later – but let us start with the most basic truth that the world has forgotten: that the true story of God is that God is love.

Back on the Field

When I was in high school, I took an advanced phys ed class to fulfill my phys ed requirement, so that I could learn things in a class rather than do a bad job of throwing and catching various types of ball. A number of my classmates were excellent athletes, some of them already at the end of their careers. One had competed provincially in judo tournaments, but had suffered so many injuries that she was no longer competing. She was fairly happy moving into a teaching role, but you could tell she missed participating as she once did.

Pain has a way of getting to us. When we are hurt, we simply don't operate like we should, and often compensating for that injury creates a whole host of new problems. It's true physically, and it's true emotionally and spiritually.

Being part of a church plant and working with some rather tough inner-city youth – especially as young and stupid as I was when I started – left some hurt. Losing that church family hurt even more. I felt like I never again wanted to venture that much, to commit that much, to fight so hard, even for the sake of the gospel. It was a feeling that I didn't like. Mom always said, “you feel what you feel,” but she also always clearly taught, through word and example, that one must always act rightly in spite of our feelings. And so to feel like I didn't want to serve and risk and sacrifice for Christ was a feeling I hated, and one that I knew I needed either to move beyond or act beyond someday.

I've spent the last three years sitting comfortably in a pretty big church that doesn't need me. It's been kind of nice. If I don't show up, I don't have to worry that the attendance just dropped ten percent, or someone else will have to put together coffee or communion or potluck. But then four inconvenient people show up in my life: on fire for the gospel, with a heart for the lost, committed to proclaiming the glory of God in the city of Guelph.

I've spent the last three years loving the idea of church planting, loving church planters, even teaching prospective church planters, but not really wanting to do it myself. But I can't allow myself to be on the sick list forever. I can't let one instance of hurt cause my retirement. Jesus calls us to use well the things he has given us. God's people were told in Deuteronomy to love him with all their heart and life and resources. This isn't a matter of thinking a thing, it's a matter of doing. In Old Testament conception, to love is to serve.

We visited them recently, specifically with an eye to whether we thought we might fit there. Some concerns that I had were alleviated in a conversation, without the other person having any idea that he was addressing my concerns. But more than that was something a bit hard to put my finger on: a general feeling of peace and rightness and belonging. I figured if God called me, it would be kicking and screaming. For some reason, I thought that if I went back on the field, it would feel terrible. But it doesn't feel terrible at all. In fact, it may just feel like home.

Painting What I Know

I recently went to an art night with my cousin. It was one of those “the teacher tells you what to do, and you all find out that you can paint” event. The group paints basically the same picture, with some personal creative tweaks in the details – and some obvious differences in skill level! I was one of those who had a more obvious skill level difference. And by this, I mean that my painting skills remain on a roughly kindergarten level. The picture was to be a sunset landscape over water, with a large tree and a few small bushes in the foreground. I found the sunset extremely challenging. The land in the foreground was less difficult. But by the time I had finished that, the idea of having to paint a tree just about made me cry. My work was slow and I had trouble keeping up, and at least to my eyes it was far inferior of the work of those around me. I stopped, and thought about what to do.

When I was young and wanted to write, my mother told me, “write what you know.” When we express ourselves creatively, we express either what we know, or what we believe matters. So I painted a large tree in shadow, and a stone next to a cave. These are the things that matter to me. The tree was not the lovely leafy tree in the original picture, but the tree of curse, on which hung our curse-bearer. The stone is next to the cave, not in front of it, for the cave is a tomb, and the tomb's inhabitant didn't need the tomb anymore, and left the door open. Jesus has taken our curse upon himself. Jesus has propped open the door to the grave. That is what I know. That is the truth that I have committed to proclaim in my life and my work. The picture may leave a lot to be desired, but the message comes through.

“And I, when I came to you, brothers, did not come proclaiming to you the testimony of God with lofty speech or wisdom. For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.” (1 Cor 2:1-2)

The Armour of God versus the Armour of Rome

I don't think I've ever really studied the armour of God. Sure, I've heard lots of Sunday School lessons and some sermons that talked about Ephesians 6 and what a Roman soldier's armour looked like. But I was reading Isaiah the other day, and was struck by this passage:

“The Lord saw [lack of truth], and it displeased him that there was no justice.

He saw that there was no man, and wondered that there was no one to intercede;

then his own arm brought him salvation, and his righteousness upheld him.

He put on righteousness as a breastplate,

and a helmet of salvation on his head;

he put on garments of vengeance for clothing,

and wrapped himself in zeal as a cloak.

According to their deeds, so will he repay, wrath to his adversaries, repayment to his enemies;

to the coastlands he will render repayment.

So they shall fear the name of the Lord from the west, and his glory from the rising of the sun;

for he will come like a rushing stream, which the wind of the Lord drives (Isaiah 59:15b-19).”

I didn't know, or somehow had forgotten, that the language of the armour of God is rooted in the Old Testament. But I got thinking about how we talk about the armour of God in Ephesians 6. We spend so much time thinking about the Roman soldiers that Paul may or may not have been looking at that we forget to talk about God's armour.

The context of Isaiah is God's wrath against the deep sin and wickedness of his own people. After a long discussion of the unrighteous acts of those who should know better, and a description of the how the righteous are oppressed, we see God essentially fed up with the lack of protection for the poor, and so he, the righteous king, becomes the avenger of evil. In his hatred of wickedness and his love of the righteous, he prepares himself to battle sin. And I think it is this passage, much more than the soldiers of Rome, that underlies Paul's words in Ephesians 6. We are not told “the armour of Rome is a mystery revealed in Christ, so now take up the *real* armour of Rome.” Rather, we are told to take up the very armour of God. It is this same armour with which God has always battled evil – a battle for which Rome, or any nation, could never be prepared.

If anything, the picture of the soldier's armour is meant to be shown up as the poor substitute for armour that it is. What good is leather and metal plate when faced with the true armour of righteousness, salvation, and zeal? How mighty is the sword when faced with the word of God? History can give us the answer to those questions. So take up the only armour that can save you. Study not the historical reenactment of Sunday School lessons, but the very character of God himself that can make you strong against Satan's attack.