How Shall We Remember: Discerning the Role of Asian American Christians in the Black American Struggle for Justice and Freedom

Scripture Reading: Lamentations 1:7-11

Introduction:

One of the deep shames of America’s underbelly has been its long-enduring legacy of racism primarily against people of black and brown skin. And when we look back historically, such instances are much easier to identify, because they’re easier to point out. For instance, we can point to the transatlantic slave trade; the dehumanization of black bodies upon auctioning blocks and lynching trees; the forced labor of African slaves across Southern plantations; the laws of racial segregation; the discriminatory housing practices among poor urban populations, and so forth. For us, it’s easy to look back on these things and see them as being clearly motivated by racial prejudice, because we know such practices were explicitly justified on the basis of race.

Yet now that racial discrimination is no longer technically legal, many people have come to assume that racism, by and large, has also died along with it. But if recent events have taught us nothing else, it’s that racism is still very much alive and well. In her book, The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander writes that because we live in an era where “it is no longer socially permissible to use race, explicitly, as a justification for discrimination,” what we’ve done is we’ve found other ways to do so.[1]Nowadays, it is under the guise of the criminal justice system, which unevenly targets and convicts African Americans as a way to legalize and legitimize, once again, old forms of discrimination.[2] So, it’s not that racial discrimination ever went away, but rather it’s merely been redesigned and repackaged in a more cunning fashion.[3]

Of course, Asian-Americans know something of racial discrimination as well. We have the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, the Japanese internment camps of the second World War, the terrorization of Chinese Americans during the Cold War, and more recently the public assaults made against Asian-Americans because of covid-19. Now, to be clear, the point is not to compare the Asian American experience with that of the Black American experience. Rather, the point is to say that given our common experience of racial discrimination you would think that there would be more unity between Asian and Black Americans in their ongoing struggle. But here’s the thing: If we believe such a solidarity should exist, then how is it possible that an Asian-American police officer can be so quiet and calm while a white police officer presses his knee into George Floyd’s neck for nearly nine minutes? That’s the crucial question confronting every Asian-American right now.

The simple answer is that Asian-Americans have been oppressed themselves, but they’ve been oppressed in such a way so as to be pitted against people of color.[4] Let me explain. Now we’ve all heard the Asian stereotypes, namely, that Asian-Americans are smart, law-abiding citizens, who generally excel in the fields of science and math, go to prestigious universities, achieve high degrees of success, and have stable marriages and incomes.[5] But the fact of the matter is that that narrative didn’t just come out of nowhere.

Otherwise known as the ‘model minority myth,’ it was crafted towards the latter half of the twentieth century as a way for white policymakers to deal with the new wave of Asian immigrants, and by dressing us up in this narrative it set out to accomplish two things.[6] First, to keep the influx of Asian immigrants in line with the predominant white culture, and second to hold up Asian success as a deflection shield against Black Americans, so that they would see their failings as their own fault and no fault of the system.[7] And here’s the sad thing about all of this. It’s that to some degree or another, whether we realize it or not, we’ve all bought into this narrative, and because of that it has harmfully shaped how we relate to people of color.

So, do you see? If the oppression of Black Americans is based upon the forces of whiteness working against them, then the oppression of Asian Americans is based upon the forces of whiteness assimilating us into becoming one of them.[8] That is why Asian-Americans in particular have a much harder time recognizing their own oppression, because we don’t see it as oppression but as our benefit, and that is precisely why that Asian-American police officer had absolutely no problem with just standing idly by. But it goes beyond him, doesn’t it? Because every time we look at those disturbing images, we have to ask ourselves, “Would that’ve been me? And moreover, is that me right now? Calloused and indifferent to what black people are going through.”

As important as it is for us to be aware of these things, I don’t say these things merely to give us a history or sociology lesson. Rather, I recount these things to show us how the Black American experience is deeply intertwined with our own. As Asian-Americans, our history and our experiences afford us vast resources for greater levels of empathy. Yet, we are not just Asian-Americans, are we? We are also Christians, and because we are Christians we have the moral obligation to do more than just stand idly by (Matt. 22:36-40). Thus, the challenge we are presented with is not simply participating in the joint struggle for justice and freedom, but it’s also the challenge of simultaneously undoing the false narratives of assimilation that tempt us to believe that we have no part in the sufferings of Black Americans. So, how do we go about doing this?

In this morning’s passage, we see that it is by learning to remember, but doing so in and through the form of biblical lament. You see, how we relate and how we enter into the sufferings of others depends largely on how we go about remembering, and what that suggests is that our memories are never just that, memories. Rather, memories are shaped and defined by the narratives we select as well as the narratives that get imposed upon us, like the model minority myth. So, what we’re doing this morning is we’re doing nothing less than asking God to sanctify our memories, and it’s in light of that that I now offer us these three main points: 1) what we should remember; 2) how we should remember; and 3) redeeming what we remember.

What Should We Remember:

When I was at Yale, I was trained under a secular Jewish professor for my studies in the Old Testament, and in one of the lectures my professor was making the argument as to why the bible was generally unreliable. Who are the ones who write history? They are the victors. And because the victors are the ones who write history we know their accounts are unreliable. They embellish key events, they twist important facts for the sake of being remembered in a favorable light, and more importantly they leave out the voices and perspectives of those who are suffering. That was his core argument.[9]

And for the most part, I actually agreed with what he was saying. If that’s how certain histories were being written, then indeed we shouldn’t trust those histories, or, at most, we should only take them with a grain of salt. But to say that the bible was unreliable for that reason, it made me wonder whether he had read the bible at all. Of course, that’s not to say we don’t find instances of victors recording their moments of victory throughout scripture. Only that if you really think about it, the bible is not being written by winners, but it’s actually being written by losers. Just look at the book of Lamentations. And so, if we’re assessing the truthfulness of scripture by that standard alone, it would seem to be the case that the bible is actually true. But that’s not really the point I want to make here. What I’m trying to say is that the professor’s overall point is well taken, namely, that if we want to know what’s true, then we have to listen to the voices of the marginalized and the oppressed.

And in Lamentations 1:7, we hear such voices. It says, “Jerusalem remembers in the days of her affliction and wandering all the precious things that were hers from days of old. When her people fell into the hand of the foe, and there was none to help her, her foes gloated over her; they mocked at her downfall.” What are they doing here? They are remembering the things that they’ve had to endure, and the things that have caused them to suffer. And by doing so, they are refusing to relinquish the truth of their identity as God’s people. So, too, what this passage is pointing out to us is that if we are going to see the dignity of the suffering, know the truth of what’s going on in our world today, and do something about it, then we have to remember what it is that our black brothers and sisters have not only gone through in the past, but are currently going through in the present moment.

The theologian, James Cone, poignantly once said, “Truth cannot be separated from the people’s struggle and the hopes and dreams that arise from that struggle.”[10] What he’s saying, in other words, is that truth is found not beyond but amongst the voices that are being crushed under the weight of racism and sin, which means when we hear people voicing their struggles we cannot turn away. You see, in John 14:6, Jesus says, “I am the truth.” And because Jesus is the truth that means it is through the voices of the oppressed that Christ is speaking to us and asking us, “Do you see me in them? Do you see how I’m suffering? What are you going to do about it?”

And so, what we need to be remembering these days is not what we hear on the media, nor the narratives being pushed upon us by people in positions of power. But rather, we need to remember what the victors would prefer us not to remember. We need to remember the long history of racism within our country. We need to remember that our country was not founded upon some moral and philosophical ideals, but rather the blood poured out by our black brothers and sisters. We need to remember their pain and their drowned-out voices, and in this way remember Jesus.[11] Because it is through such remembrance that God empowers us to effect change.

How Should We Remember:

One of the major difficulties in recalling the pain of others, as well as the pain of our own lives, is that we’re not just remembering the painful moments themselves, but we’re also feeling the pain of what we remember. And for that reason, we tend to deal with it in either one of three ways. The first way is we suppress the memories. We try and forget what happened because remembering such things causes us too much discomfort.[12] The second way is we remember masochistically. Remembering masochistically is taking painful memories and viewing ourselves in light of them. For example, if someone called you stupid, you take that memory, and you start to believe that that’s what you are. The third way then is remembering sadistically, which takes painful memories and uses them as a justification for hate and revenge against wrongdoers.[13]

Now, in Micah 6:8, it asks us, “What does the Lord require of you?” And it says, “To do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God.” And so, if we take justice seriously as the Lord commands, then we’ll notice that there are some glaring issues with these ways of remembering. For instance, it is unjust to forget the atrocities that people commit against us and others, because you are then letting them go free when they should be held accountable. It is unjust to chain our identities “to the injuries we have suffered,” because then our self-perception is being warped by lies.[14] And it is unjust to let evil spread in our hearts like cancer by allowing hate to dominate us.

Generally speaking, I think we, Asian-Americans, tend to struggle with mainly the first two ways of remembering. We either forgive and forget, or we internalize those injuries and make them a part of who we are. And for me, writing this sermon was difficult in part because so much of it was an exercise in remembering what I had tried so hard to forget. Growing up in a predominantly white suburban neighborhood, and going to predominantly white public schools, the racist remarks hurled at me by peers, and yes even teachers, never seemed to end. One of the things I dreaded the most was riding the school bus, because I couldn’t make it to school without someone calling me an oriental, a chink, or without someone making ‘Chinese eyes’ at me. In my head, I said these things aren’t worth remembering because I’m sure they’re only joking. And for others, I told myself they probably just mean them as terms of endearment. And so, I suppressed the memories.

But when it came to hurtful things I couldn’t forget, I internalized them, which then began to shape how I saw myself. For example, friends so often commented on our smelly Korean dinners, and they so often mocked my parents’ Korean accent, that I never really questioned their comments, but I just grew up assuming that these things were worth being ashamed of. And looking back, it hurts me so deeply when I think about how my parents knew their son was ashamed of them. Of course, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t call them out on it, because then I would be ‘that guy’. So, I just had to assimilate, keep my mouth shut, and be what they wanted me to be.

If justice requires us to remember our pain, rather than suppress or internalize pain, then how do we go about doing so without letting it turn into hatred, or without letting it crush us all over again?[15] And moreover, how do we obey Jesus’ command to love our enemies even in our memories? Well, if we look at vv.8-9, we’re shown how: “Jerusalem sinned grievously therefore she became filthy…,” and “[h]er uncleanness was in her skirts…” Here, we’re given a window into what it means to remember in and through lament, and why that’s important. You see, lament not only remembers the sins of others, but it’s honest about the sins within our own hearts. Through lament, God helps us to be honest about both things, so that we do not downplay our sufferings, while not demonizing the people who have caused us pain or have made us feel lesser than.

Remembering through the shape of lament also reminds us that we worship a God who is an impartial judge (Rom. 2:12-16). Therefore, we have to constantly ask ourselves: What does it mean for us to remember our evildoers in the way we ask God to remember us in our own evildoing?[16] Indeed, we ask God to remember us in light of grace and not judgment, but why don’t we do this for others? Jesus says, “Just as I have loved you, so you must love one another” (John 13:34). Which means remembering the wrongs that need to be condemned, but also remembering the wrongdoers as people worth receiving the same grace that we have received. That is what God’s justice is, and that’s what we see being displayed for us through the cross of Jesus: condemning the sin within the sinner, while working to restore and reconcile the sinner himself back to God.[17]

Redeeming What We Remember:

So, it’s not just what we remember, and how we remember, but it’s also redeeming what we remember, because only if our memories are redeemed can we then go about doing the first two things. But what does that mean exactly? In short, it means standing within the truthfulness of our injured memories and asking God to meet us there with his healing and restoration. And we see this exact thing happening in a couple of places within our passage. In v.9, for instance, it says, “Her uncleanness was in her skirts; she took no thought of her future; therefore her fall is terrible; she has no comforter. ‘O Lord, behold my affliction!’” And then in v.11, “All her people groan… they trade their treasures for food to revive their strength. ‘Look, O Lord, and see, for I am despised.’”

The problem of therapy is that it often encourages victims to rewrite their memories, or to put a spin on traumatic events, as a way to help them cope.[18] And that’s kind of what I was doing when I dismissed those racist remarks as mere jokes, even though I clearly received them as disparaging insults and was deeply wounded by them. But as we’ve just seen, that is precisely what God does not allow us to do. The captives of Babylon do not give themselves false meaning by rewriting the script. Instead, they are truthful about what’s been done to them, and they are truthful about their own sins, because they know that that’s where God meets them, and that’s where they meet God. You see, rewritten memories may help us cope, but rewritten memories can never be redeemed, because they’re not based on reality.

Now, if God did not meet us in the pain of our injured memories, then we might have reason to resort to superficial coping mechanisms. But it’s precisely because God doesn’t do that that we can remember truthfully without being driven to despair or violence. And that’s what the gospel is about. It tells us that our stories of racial discrimination and our memories of past injustice do not define who we are at the deepest level. The gospel reveals to us that in Jesus we are not defined by how human beings mistreat us, but rather we are defined by how God saves us; that we are not defined by ignorance and hate, but rather by God’s truth and love.[19] That doesn’t mean the pain of our memories go away, only that we are given the grace to remember that we are more than what we suffer.[20]

However, it doesn’t end there. Our memories are not redeemed unless we also allow God to gather what we’ve suffered, that is, as individuals and as a people, and to use them towards his restorative ends of healing and justice. One of the ways God does this is by drawing us into deeper levels of empathy.[21] That is, by truthfully remembering our own experiences of racial discrimination, as well as the historical sufferings of our own people in America, we give these things to God, so that by doing so we are able to step inside the sufferings of others in more intimate ways.[22] But here’s the other thing. That can’t happen apart from relationships. If we are going to come alongside our black brothers and sisters, and help them heal during this time, then we need to have friendships and relationships with them. We need to be present, and we need to hear their stories.

Yet, at the same time, if we are going to come alongside our black brothers and sisters in their struggle for justice, we have to do so by not allowing our own injured memories to envelop us with darkness; otherwise, we’ll only be tempted to encourage more violence and hate. This is why we have to constantly go back to Christ. So, as we see Christ in them, it should also be the around way around. They should be seeing Christ in us, by seeing us as people who genuinely care about their lives and their deep sufferings. And not only that, but they should be seeing Christ in us as we continue to help them see what we’ve been shown in Christ, namely, that they are more than what they suffer, that they are supremely loved by God, and that in Jesus they can find true hope and freedom.

Indeed, what the world needs right now isn’t more violence and bloodshed, but the healing power of the cross and the hope of racial reconciliation, and by virtue of our own unique Asian-American past I strongly believe that God has truly positioned us to play a unique part in all of that. But if only some of us would awaken from the slumber of indifference and apathy… Yet, it’s precisely because we don’t want to be – and cannot be – indifferent and apathetic to everything that’s going on, we have to learn how to remember rightly once again. And again, so much of that crucial work is in refusing to let the false narratives, which pit Asians against Blacks and Blacks against Asians, from bleeding into our lives. That is the crucial work we have got to do, but cannot hope to do unless we’ve been given sincere humility by way of God’s grace. Among all the other things we ought to be praying for at this time, sincere humility should be at the top of the list.

Conclusion:

As Christians who so happen to be Asian-Americans, indeed, this is our task, and this is where we must begin. Calvary, let us hear and remember the voices of the suffering and the oppressed; let us be truthful and loving in memory as it relates to our own unique pains and experiences; and, by doing so, let us ask the Lord to draw us deeper into empathy and deeper into the heart of the struggle of Black Americans, so that we, too, can participate in what the Spirit of God is doing in and through them, as they fight not only for freedom and justice, but also the very basic thing we call breath. Amen.

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[1] Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow (New York: The New Press, 2012), 2.

[2] “Criminal Justice Fact Sheet,” NAACP, accessed June 18, 2020, https://www.naacp.org/criminal-justice-fact-sheet/. Studies show that African Americans are incarcerated at more than five times the rate of white people.

[3] Alexander, The New Jim Crow, 2.

[4] Crystal Tang, “Unpacking the Model Minority Myth,” Beneficial State Foundation, accessed June 18, 2020, https://beneficialstate.org/perspectives/unpacking-the-model-minority-myth/.

[5] Looking back on my own experience, I’ve come to realize that I’ve never heard this narrative being propounded by Asian-Americans themselves, but rather it was my white friends who would constantly re-tell it to me as I grew up in the Chicago suburbs.

[6] Kat Chow, “Model Minority Myth Again Used as a Racial Wedge between Asians and Blacks,” NPR, accessed June 19, 2020, https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2017/04/19/524571669/model-minority-myth-again-used-as-a-racial-wedge-between-asians-and-blacks.

[7] The undergirding mentality being, “If Asian-Americans can make it in the United States, then why can’t you, Black Americans, go on and do the same?”

[8] Whiteness is a highly ethereal and elusive concept. For me, it is the logic of the enduring colonial matrix that puts everything around itself in reference to itself, and then passing them through its filter to remake them into its own image. See also Willie J. Jennings, “Can White People Be Saved?: Reflections on the Relationship of Missions and Whiteness,” in Can ‘White’ People Be Saved?, ed. Love L. Sechrest et al. (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 2018), 40: “The difficulty we face at this moment is the success of that work. Whiteness feels normal and natural. It feels normal and natural because it is woven into how we imagine moving toward maturity. Whiteness feels… We have to talk about whiteness in relation to affect and feeling because how whiteness feels is how whiteness thinks.”

[9] In my estimation, the professor seemed to be operating under the presumption that history always had to be written by the victors, which is obviously not true. We have historical accounts of Holocaust survivors, we have accounts from those who survived the Cultural Revolution, we have books and monographs that were written by the marginalized and the oppressed from the perspective of Black America. So, the issue is not so much whether we have history being written by the sufferers, but the conditions and curriculums that seek to drown them out. Moreover, in relation to matters of historical accuracy as relayed by victims, traumatized memories we know are very tricky things to work with.

[10] James H. Cone, God of the Oppressed (New York: Orbis Books, 1997), 16. Italics added.

[11] Willie J. Jennings, Acts (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2017), 63: “It is precisely this inability to see God’s own political action in the concrete actions of the common that enables us to watch casually the perpetuation of violence without being moved to action.”

[12] Miroslav Volf, The End of Memory: Remembering Rightly in a Violent World (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2006), 70.

[13] Volf, The End of Memory, 11.

[14] Volf, The End of Memory, 69.

[15] Volf, The End of Memory, 69: “Victims will often become perpetrators precisely on account of their memories. It is because they remember past victimization that they feel justified in committing present violence. Or rather, it is because they remember their past victimization that they justify as rightful self-protection what to most observers looks like violence born of intolerance or even hatred.”

[16] Volf, The End of Memory, 9.

[17] Soong-Chan Rah, Prophetic Lament (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 2015), 58.

[18] Volf, The End of Memory, 74-75.

[19] Volf, The End of Memory, 79.

[20] Volf, The End of Memory, 80.

[21] Volf, The End of Memory, 31.

[22] Jacques Maritain, Reflections on America (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1958), 86-87: “It is to be hoped that that strange source of insuperable strength and energy which comes from the influx of the poor and the humiliated, welcomed here to live a worthy human life, will never cease to vitalize American civilization. Without this humble source, namely the tears and sufferings of the poor pouring into the flux of American life and transmuted into human energy, America would lose an essential ingredient of her spiritual identity.”

The Meaning of the Cross

Sermon Preached to the Calvary Baptist Church of New Haven on Good Friday

Scripture: John 3:16; Matthew 18:1-4

I remember those days well. The days when we had our own Good Friday services back at Antioch Bible Church in Wheeling, Illinois, the church where I grew up. When I was a child, without fail, my parents and I would go to church for evening service whenever Good Friday came around. Inside the church, I remember the atmosphere always seemed to be covered by thick clouds of darkness. The lights were always dimmed, and in the hallways the people never stopped to make casual chit chat as they usually did on Sundays. And it was odd that no one seemed to laugh, not even willing to give so much as a smile. People would arrive at church, walk straight to the sanctuary, and then they would start praying in the dark as they waited for service to begin.

As an observant child, I noticed these things. To be sure, I wasn’t able to understand exactly why things were always so different on this one particular day of the year, but even so there was never a doubt in my mind that there was something serious here that I needed to pay attention to. So, with mom and dad on either side of me, and my short little legs dangling off the edge of those hard, wooden pews, I remember just sitting there, listening so intently to our pastor preach, because I needed to know what happened on Good Friday. As with most children, when it came to the obscure points of the sermon, which I assumed were mostly reserved for the adults anyway, I didn’t really pick up on much of what our pastor had to say. But, as with most children, when it came to the points that mattered most, I remember being transfixed by the cross in ways not even most of the adults seemed to be.

The story of Jesus’ death penetrated my virgin ears, and then made its way into my childish heart. Reading from the bible, the pastor said that God loved us so much that he sent his one and only Son, Jesus Christ, to die for our sins, so that whoever believes in him would not perish but have eternal life. In the brevity of that statement, the fullness of the gospel overwhelmed me, and I remember as a child the flood of tears welling up in my eyes and then streaming down my face once it was clear I could no longer hold them back. Indeed, I didn’t know much about sin, and I was certainly too naïve to understand the evil that was out there. But that didn’t matter. It was simply enough for a child to know that Jesus died for him. In that moment, I felt a love deeper than any fairy tale and more real than any Disney movie, and I remember sitting there thinking: “Amazing love, how can it be? That thou, my Christ, should die for me?”

I can’t remember a time when I experienced the cross with such exceptional purity as I did back then. For it seems to be the case that, as we get older and as our lives grow busier, and as we become more and more preoccupied with fear and death, the cross progressively loses its wonder, kind of like bread that has grown stale. To be sure, we still eat it because we know we cannot live otherwise, but our hearts are no longer stirred by it, as they usually are with any other good meal, because we can no longer detect its flavor. But on Good Friday, here it is, once again, in its fullest form: the body of Christ broken for you, and the blood of Christ shed for you. Can you taste it? Or, have your taste buds grown stale and numb to the sweet manna of Christ?

Last year, at the cusp of Advent, I preached to our Board of Deacons a short homily on the reason why the church calendar exists. In short, it’s because our faith is not primarily rooted in knowing things about God, but rather our faith is rooted in actively participating in what Christ has accomplished for us. In other words, knowing Jesus in his life and in his death demands the participation of our being, including our bodies.[1] This is why, for instance, we don’t simply listen to sermons about baptism, but we actually do the act of baptism, in order to die with Christ in his death. And this is why tonight, we are here not to simply listen to a message about the crucifixion, but to behold with our own eyes the scourged flesh of Christ now being raised upon a cross. Behold, your Maker! You see, there is something here, all at once beautiful and terrifying, which we need to experience again like we did when we were children. And that something lies beyond what mere words can articulate. But what stands in our way? I can think of three things.

First, in the Gospel of Matthew, we see that the disciples just don’t seem to get it. They’re going at it again, arguing about who is the greatest, “who has got the most likes, the most followers, the most [published] articles and conference talks, the most church members, the most [prestigious ivy league] degrees,” and so forth.[2] You see, their obsession with status and achievement keeps them from seeing that where the love of Christ ends up is not power and glory but humiliation and suffering. By taking a child, and holding him up in front of his disciples, Jesus effectively says no to all of the things his disciples think will give them meaning and life. For Jesus says whoever wants to be the greatest must become the least (Matt. 20:26).

Therefore, the child is the greatest in God’s kingdom, because unlike the disciples the child is under no illusions of his own power and his own achievements. The child, in other words, is under no illusion that he is in control.[3] And if Jesus were here right now, he would look out at us and say the exact same thing. He would look at the adults of the English and Chinese congregations, and then he would look over at the last and the least among us, namely, the children. And he would hold them up and say, “Here they are, the greatest in my kingdom.” In the gospel, children are the ones who are in tune to what God is doing in Christ, because it is the children who live in a state of surrender.

Second, it is the children who really get why Jesus had to die, because along with Jesus they shoulder the heavy burden of his cross. To be clear, this is not a matter of strength, but it’s a matter of hearing. And remarkably, children are the ones who hear the voice of God in the most clearest fashion. They hear God speak in new and in fresh ways for no other reason than the fact that they have not hardened their hearts against him. Unlike us, they have not grown spiritually dull. There are no walls or defenses in their hearts, because children know they have nothing to lose. Thus, is it any wonder why, in the Old Testament, that it was not the elder, Eli, but the young boy, Samuel, who heard God speak? Sure, Eli was important since Samuel needed help to interpret, but nonetheless it was young Samuel himself who heard the divine voice. God called to him, “Samuel! Samuel!” And the boy replied, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening” (1 Sam. 3).

For us, though, we’ve heard the story of Good Friday so many times that it has “lost both its power and its glory.”[4] From the cross, Jesus is crying out in agony as the salt from his sweat stings the cut of his brows and seeps into his bloody wounds. He is pleading with the Father for the forgiveness of our sins: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do” (Luke 23:24). And yet we cannot hear him. Some of us are even yawning right now, wondering if this is all there is. You see, just as we have become desensitized to the global horrors we see on the news, so, too, we have become desensitized to the grotesqueness of the cross. The story has become too familiar. Here, we are called to go to Jerusalem and to stand alongside the weeping women at the foot of the cross. But, if we’re honest, “we find ourselves too tired, too busy,” or reluctant.[5] In fact, some of us barely even made it to this online service. However, the children cannot stay away. They have heard God’s voice, and now they need to see it for themselves.

Third, we’ve become like the adults back at my home church in Chicago, focusing on everything except the things that matter. We’ve turned Christianity into an intellectual game, and the cross a cognitive puzzle, and like the crowds we would rather enjoy Jesus from a safe distance. Indeed, we don’t want to get too close to the cross, because if we do we risk staining our nice dry-cleaning with blood. But we forget that Jesus’ blood is already on our hands, and moreover we forget that we cannot have any part in him unless we learn to say with Peter, “Lord, not just my feet but my hands and my head as well!” (John 13:9).

Jesus’ blood is the undeniable evidence of our collective guilt. In sin, we have rebelled against our God, and therefore we deserve never-ending torture and death. And God would have done absolutely no wrong in giving us what we deserve. But rather than having us pay the ultimate price, Jesus does so instead.

At the cross, our sin is now exposed for all the world to see. It hangs there with Christ in his bleeding flesh. But for this reason, we are embarrassed by it, because it means admitting that we were the ones who put him there. So, we would rather not go to Jerusalem. But the blood of Christ is also the undeniable evidence of our salvation, which means unless we go to where Christ is we cannot have the life that God offers. Therefore, we must go to the cross, and learn to do so in humility. But that doesn’t mean reading more books or finding more Sunday school teachers who will talk about it. It means picking up your feet and going to Calvary. It means beholding with your own eyes the beaten face of the wounded Savior. If the power of Jesus’ death is going to take its full effect in us, then this is the only way.

I once asked a friend what some of the joys were in having children, and I remember she said this to me: “The joy of having children is in being able to re-experience the world vicariously through them. There is something they sense about the world, which we lose as adults.” You see, children have an ability to enjoy life in all of its simplicity. They find pleasure in making mud pies, catching fireflies in jars, staring at beautiful sunsets, embarking upon backyard wilderness adventures, and living in worlds of wizards, knights, princesses, and fiery dragons. You see, in ways we eventually outgrow, children seem to be more tuned in to the beauty that surrounds them. They can’t explain it, but they know that it’s there. Yet, in many ways, children are at the same time clueless. Surely, very little of them are aware of the current plummeting stock prices, the unemployment rate now being at an all-time high, the rising tension within our current geo-politics, the empty shelves now lining our local supermarkets, or the ongoing tragedies taking place within our hospitals.

By holding them up, Jesus is not offering us some idealized notion of children, nor is he saying we ought to be clueless in that regard. Indeed, if the cross tells us anything, it tells us that even Jesus didn’t turn a blind eye to the horrors and sufferings of this world. Rather, what he is commending is their ability to know and experience the truer things of this world in ways that transcend all forms of conventional knowledge. What is he talking about? He’s talking about the things we cannot express in words but can only express through art. Which is why, all along, my point has been that the cross is first and foremost an aesthetic experience.

As I sat there in the pews as a young boy, I could not explain to you why I was brought to tears. So, would that have made my response insincere? Certainly not. For it was enough to know that Jesus died for me, and the tears were God’s gift to a young child, showing him that he had been moved by something, which, for most people, they seemed to have missed out on. Indeed, I didn’t know what sin was, but I certainly felt the gravity of it. And I didn’t know exactly what God’s love meant, but still I felt God pouring his love into me.

In all of this, I remember being completely mesmerized by these two questions: How bad must my sins have been that Jesus had to die for me? And how loving must God be that he was willing to take my place?[6] You see, I didn’t realize it then, but I realize it now that no one can ask such questions, and do so with sincerity, unless, by his grace, God somehow brings them to where the cross of Jesus stands.

Church, on this Good Friday, let us remember that this is the way we were meant to discover the cross and its meaning, that is, by humbling ourselves and by becoming like little children. And how do we do that? By laying aside our pride, by renewing our spiritual senses, and by allowing God to move us towards Calvary. The cross is where the love of God and the evils of humanity collide, and the cross is where the light of God and the world’s darkness now meet. This is the mystery that stands at the center of everything, and it is now a mystery for us to behold but only as we become like little children. So, may we humble ourselves and experience afresh the glory of what we’ve been told this day: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” ἀμήν.

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[1] Fleming Rutledge, The Crucifixion: Understanding the Death of Jesus Christ (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2015), 44: “Taking up the cross, as Jesus himself called us to do, means a total reorientation of the self toward the way of Christ.”

[2] Jennifer Herdt, “It Is Sufficient,” Marquand Chapel Message by Yale Institute of Sacred Music, April 6, 2020, 11:54, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=piXX7PVj49g&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR22Gd9WNCYweI9kNMkdJ4wjhe6krOyQTNaqtSbyslqDdZRmUTjQzlw_aJE.

[3] Herdt, “It Is Sufficient,” 6:10.

[4] Sarah Coakley, “The Coronavirus Story Meets the Passion Story: Ten Meditations for Holy Week,” ABC Religion and Ethics, April 6, 2020, https://www.abc.net.au/religion/sarah-coakley-coronavirus-easter-holy-week/11002378.

[5] Coakley, “The Coronavirus Story Meets the Passion Story.”

[6] Karl Barth, “The Criminals with Him,” in Deliverance to the Captives, (Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 1978), 80: “In giving himself in Jesus Christ, [God] reconciled the world unto himself; he saved us and made us free to live in his everlasting kingdom; he removed the burden and took it upon himself. He the innocent took the place of us the guilty. He the mighty took the place of us the weak. He the living One took the place of us the dying.”

Rediscovering Advent

Scripture: Luke 2:11

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.

Homily:

Last semester, at the start of the Lenten season, the youth group students and I observed what is called Ash Wednesday. As a way of reminder, Lent is the six weeks leading up to Easter, and it is the season of penitence, where Christians reflect more deeply on their sins and spend time repenting, specifically, through the mode of concentrated fasting. And Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, which is meant to help believers get into the proper posture for that sobering season.

Now, if you are unfamiliar with what takes place on Ash Wednesday itself, in general, during the morning of, many Christians go to church for corporate prayer, to be followed by their priest or pastor crossing their foreheads with the ashes of burned palm leaves. And as he crosses their foreheads, the pastor says to them the very words God spoke to Adam in Genesis 3:19, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” To help us understand the significance of this practice, one Christian historian puts it this way: “On this day, your mortality is quite literally being rubbed in your face.” In other words, the substance of the ash is a tangible reminder that death awaits us all, and the shape of the cross reminds us that our only escape from death is through the cross of Jesus.

However, because we don’t usually meet on Wednesdays, the youth group and I did an Ash Friday. We went through a litany, I shared a short sermon, and then, at the end, I did what I just shared with you: I crossed their foreheads with ash, and spoke those words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Now, because Calvary doesn’t really observe the full scope of the liturgical calendar, and the traditional practices therein, that is, apart from the more obvious things like Easter or Christmas, I was fully expecting to see confused, and even concerned, looks on parents’ faces once their children were handed back to them with conspicuous, black ash-crosses on their foreheads.

In fact, one parent came up to me with a polite inquiry, quickly followed by a gentle push back against the practice. He said, “Isn’t this what Catholics do?” To which I answered, “Yes, this is something that Catholics do, however, it’s not something that only Catholics do. Many Protestants observe this practice as well, though to be sure not many evangelical protestants.” And I’m guessing far less from those who are Chinese. (There are historical reasons as to why that is, reaching all the way back to the Reformation, but I won’t get into that now.) And then the parent replied, “Well, this doesn’t seem biblical.” Now, we all know that that term biblical is very broad and very loaded, but in that context it was obvious to me what he meant. He was saying that nowhere in the bible do we find an explicit teaching or command for Christians to observe this practice, and therefore he was saying I probably shouldn’t be doing it at all.

To be honest, that response threw me off guard, although he was indeed right to say that that practice was not explicitly taught in the bible. The problem, though, with a statement like that is that it implies that Christians should only do things that are explicitly mentioned in the bible. But if that were true, then we would not be left with many practices at all, many practices that, I think, are not only good but actually help us to be faithful to what the bible does explicitly command and teach. In fact, if that were true, then the church would be in serious trouble.

For instance, if Christians should only do what the bible explicitly states or commands, then, among other things, that would mean we would have to begin by doing away with our language of the trinity. The word trinity is nowhere mentioned in the bible, yet the early church fathers, upon their faithful reading of scripture, formed the doctrine to help subsequent generations of believers make sense of the explicit biblical teaching that though our God is one he is one in three persons, co-equal, and of the same substance. That is, the doctrine of the trinity correctly frames our understanding of the God who is revealed to us in scripture, and, therefore, to do away with it would mean leaving Christians vulnerable to all kinds of heresies and thereby idolatrous worship.

Moreover, if Christians should only do what the bible explicitly states or commands, then that would mean we would not get very far in the things we know it explicitly commands us to do. For example, we know in scripture that Christ and his Apostle explicitly command us to observe the sacrament of bread and wine. But along the lines of this parent’s argument it seems we would then be rendered unfaithful because here at Calvary we don’t drink wine, we drink juice. And how can we even participate in communion when Jesus doesn’t even specify what kind of bread we’re supposed to eat! The New Testament never tells us! Nonetheless, we do communion in order to obey the explicit teachings of scripture, and we do it in the way that we do because, though not plainly stated, we believe there are good biblical grounds for doing so.

In other words, doing what’s biblical is not simply a matter of doing what the bible explicitly teaches, but understanding that there are good, biblical reasons for doing things, which either are not explicitly stated within the bible or left open-ended, such as infant baptism.

I say all of these things to help us better appreciate the biblical intent of the ancient church in forming the liturgical calendar and thereby its theological purposes. For in the Old Testament, God instituted certain practices and set apart certain seasons to help Israel remember that time indeed belongs to God. And because of that, that their identity as God’s people is inextricably rooted in the narrative that the God they are called to worship is the God who brought them out of the land of Egypt. Thus, God commands Israel to observe Passover, the Day of Atonement, Sabbath, and so forth, so that they would remember their identity as God’s people as they live out of God’s time.

But because this God has now taken on human flesh in Christ, the early Christians believed that God himself has now redeemed time, and because of that we who are in Christ no longer operate according to the world’s calendar but God’s. Through the work of the Spirit, prior Christians codified the liturgical seasons – as we broadly have it today – because it was clear that we can only know who we are to the extent we are caught up in the drama of Christ’s redemption. Which is why Paul says in Colossians 3:3, “For you have died, and your life is now hidden with Christ.” You see, it was their primary conviction that the Christian faith was not primarily rooted in knowing things about God, but rather participating in the things that Christ has accomplished for us, summed up in Jesus’ command, “Come. Follow me.”

For this reason, I think I could now give a clearer answer to that parent, and say that it is indeed biblical to observe the Christian calendar. Not because we are explicitly taught to per se, but because the bible gives us good and compelling reasons to do so. To be sure, I don’t think observing the practices of the entire liturgical calendar, or a lack thereof, is necessarily a matter of salvation. But having said that, why wouldn’t one be more intent on doing so if it provides a clearer path for us, namely, for focusing our lives in Christ? Similarly, I don’t think neglecting to read a good book in theology is going to damn my soul, but why wouldn’t I if it would help me love God and others more? I say these things to perhaps help us better understand why the liturgical calendar exists, why for centuries Christians have found its practices to be beautiful, and why we (low-church Protestants) stand to benefit in taking it more seriously – that is, going beyond the mere acknowledgment of the seasons but actually engaging with them.

For as many of you know, last Sunday marked the first Sunday of Advent. If Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus, Good Friday his death, and Easter his resurrection, then Advent, the season of waiting and longing, does something a little different, by drawing our attention back to our own hopelessness. You see, if Lent cautions us against rushing into Easter without proper repentance, Advent cautions us against rushing into Christmas without properly taking the time to reflect on, and dare I say live into, the hopelessness of our human condition. Why? Because the way things are are not the way things had to be.

Despite our celebration of Christmas, I sense that many of us still don’t fully grasp its utter profundity, because we have not allowed ourselves to truly marinate in our own hopelessness first. And because we forget just how hopeless we are, I suspect we forget why Christmas really even matters. As I often tell my struggling students, the reason why so many of us fail to understand the gospel is because so many of us don’t take time to do the preliminary work of seeing just how hopeless we really are.

But we will do well to also remember, that Advent, as the season of waiting, is not merely pointing us to the fact that Christ has come, but is at the same time pointing us to the fact that Christ again will come. However, this time not as an infant baby, born in a lowly manger in Bethlehem, but now as the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords, seated on his throne, arrayed in glory, power, and fire. Thus, Advent beckons us to be haunted by what this world would be had Christ not come in the first place, and what this world would continue to be if Christ had not given us the hope of his promise: that he will come again in glory, and his kingdom will have no end.

Even so, the church continues to suffer in darkness as she waits for the return of her Lord. The church remains in Advent, even after Advent itself is over. For this reason, the church’s life is fundamentally an Advent life. So, as we embark upon Advent this year, may we move past mere acknowledgment and press into it. Ask Christ to teach you what it means to live in and out of Advent. As you press into the suffering, pain, and disappointment, which characterize your life in this present world, this Advent may you go to Christ, and ask him to give you a deeper longing, one that is commensurate with his coming glory. May we live the Advent life in faithful waiting, so that when he returns we would receive him in a manner that is worthy, and thereby experience the fullness of the satisfaction that he brings.

God and Space: A Response to Jonathan Edwards

In Of Being, Jonathan Edwards sets out to demonstrate the eternality of God’s being by refuting “that there should absolutely be nothing at all” because it is an utter impossibility. One of Edwards’ supporting arguments is “that space is God,” space being an essential condition for human thought. But it appears that Edwards avoids one contradiction by setting himself in another, viz., equating space and God. I argue that this claim does not work.

Edwards’ argument goes as such. Human beings cannot conceive of a pure nothing because it is always thought out in terms of space. However, that in itself is an immediate contradiction because space is something, used to conceive of nothing. In other words, that nothing is not purely nothing because the condition inside of which it is conceived is something. So, space “is the very thing that we can never remove and conceive of its not being.” Therefore, contra pure nothing, space is God who must be eternal, infinite, and omnipresent.[1] This is the necessary precondition for thought that human beings cannot do without.

Because human beings always require some sort of spatial plane, Edwards believes this to be God since God is the necessary, divine being. However, Edwards’ placement of what appears to be creaturely space, albeit on a grander scale, within the nexus of divine attributes (i.e. eternal, infinite, omnipresent) would stand as a contradiction in terms. For space is limit that stands directly antithetical to the notion that God has no limits. By starting with space, Edwards errs by trying to make space function in a way that it cannot along with the other divine attributes. Reversing the direction, that is, going from the divine attributes to space, makes clear that there is a logical discrepancy. Of course, Edwards does not want to say that space is the same thing for God as it is for humans: “that all the space there is not proper to body, all the space there is without the bounds of the creation, all the space there was before the creation, is God himself.” Be that as it may, insofar as God is infinite space, or that infinite space is God, as creatures conceive of it, does not uphold for it circumscribes God within some sort of space, even if that space be infinite.

Moreover, it is not self-evident that space is God, nor can it be appropriate. As mentioned above, beginning with space as the guiding principle already circumscribes God to a certain degree, i.e., whatever space implies at the human level must be only infinite for God. However, this only warrants human beings to import their preconceived, spatial categories onto the divine. If God is truly infinite, omnipresent, and eternal, then one can posit, along the lines of Kierkegaard, Barth, and others, that God is not a greater being on a chain of other beings; God is wholly other somehow, which includes what we may or may not conceive of divine spatiality qua divine spatiality. If so, following this line of argument which Edwards presents leads – or, at least could potentially lead – to a circularity since there is no way of knowing if we are actually thinking of God, or just a limitless version of our spatio-temporal existence that could very well be hypothetical.

In short, Edwards’ argument that space is God, in my view, does not succeed because it presents a contradiction, which reinforces a dangerous presupposition of spatial categories inappropriate for an infinite, eternal, and omnipresent, divine being, and thus getting us no further.

[1] “And besides, it gives as great a shock to the mind to think of pure nothing in any one place, as it does to think of it in all; and it is self-evident that there can be nothing in one place as well as in another, and so if there can be in one, there can be in all. So that we see this necessary, eternal being must be infinite and omnipresent.”

Adjustments have been made to the original post for clarification, specifically in regards to spatial ontology between creaturely and divine realms, that is, from a noetic standpoint. 

So We Might Be Known

Sermon delivered for the English congregation at the Calvary Baptist Church of New Haven for Tenebrae on Good Friday.

Matthew 27:46: And about the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Something we don’t really think about but certainly feel very often is our desperate need to be known or understood. It’s a need that comes to us like hunger. We hunger for food because we cannot live without proper nutrition. So, too, we hunger to be understood because we know we cannot live without someone telling us – and affirming for us – that our existence matters. This need, in many ways, is what makes us social and relational beings, that is, it’s what makes us human. It’s what drives us to pursue social interactions and human conversations. It’s the reason why we chase certain relationships, while perhaps avoiding others, because some people seem to get us in ways no one else can.

The mystery of the incarnation is that God became man. That God took on human flesh in Jesus Christ, so that he not only appeared as one of us but truly became like us in every respect.[1] Which means Jesus experienced real hunger, real thirst, and even the real human need to be understood.

However, because we live in a broken and fallen world, we are constantly misunderstood, even by those who are closest to us. Surely, there are times when people assume the worst in us. There are times when people overlook our achievements. There are times when people point out to us our worst qualities and failures, only to use them against us. And there are times when some people just outright tell us that it would’ve been better for us to not have been born at all, that our existence is a mistake. To some degree or another, we’ve all experienced this, and so we all know just how painful it can be, that is, to be misunderstood and to have our existence denied, or at least a part of it.

But if Jesus became like us in every respect, what must’ve this been like for Jesus as he experienced it? How was he misunderstood? Well, he was misunderstood by the crowds. They followed him and they loved him, but not for who he was, but merely for what he could do. He was misunderstood by the scribes and the Pharisees, who, after having heard his teachings, would go around telling people that Jesus was a nutcase simply because he spoke the truth. Simply because he spoke the truth, they looked for ways to undermine his reputation, and they schemed to harm and injure him. But not only that, Jesus was even misunderstood by his closest friends, his disciples. They called him Rabbi, Messiah, and Son of God, but it’s clear they had no idea what they were actually saying by calling him these things, since they all abandoned him in the end. For Jesus, these things meant that he would have to carry his cross unto death, and the disciples weren’t willing to go that far with him.

Sometimes when we are misunderstood it more often than not comes from a place of truth. It makes me feel bad, for instance, when someone points to a mistake I made in the past while not acknowledging how I might’ve grown from that mistake. But just because I feel bad about it, or just because my growth goes unacknowledged, that doesn’t mean I didn’t make that mistake. But for Jesus he was always above reproach. He lived a sinless and perfect life. He was without blame. And people knew that, which is why the only thing they could do was either twist his words or fabricate false lies about him.

Because we are sinners, we will never be able to imagine the sort of pain that someone so innocent as Jesus experiences in moments like this. For us, we are pained not because we’re sinless but because we just want other people to know what we know. But for Jesus, he is pained because he is falsely accused though he is sinless, and he undergoes tremendous suffering because such is the cost of obeying God within a rebellious world that chooses not to. But there is another reason why this sort of misunderstanding is so painful for him.

Notice that the degree to which we experience pain is determined by the significance of the relationship itself. Let me give you an example. It would be painful if one of you came up to me and said I am a mistake. But if one of my best friends came up to me and said that, the pain would certainly cut far deeper into me. Now if I try and imagine my parents saying something like that to me, no doubt I would be crushed and devastated. So, think about Jesus’ relationship to us, and those he came to serve.The reason why Jesus’ pain is far greater and so unimaginable for us is because his relationship to others is always determined by his unconditional love for them, that is, as the one who is their Creator and they his creatures. You see when it comes to us we so often demand to be known or understood for selfish reasons, whereas for Jesus he wants to be known for no other reason than for us to share in God’s love.

But instead of accepting his love, and responding in kind, God’s creatures reject him. Let’s pause here, and really try to see this from God’s perspective: Can you even imagine how much pain we cause Jesus, that though he patiently pursues us in love we treat him like trash and throw him aside? That his own creatures, instead of loving him, the Creator, for who he is, we merely want him only because of the things he’s able to do for us.

Even so, the reason why Jesus keeps going in the midst of loneliness and pain, the reason why he continues to walk the path towards the cross, is because of the joy he possesses in being completely known by the Father. Though the world misunderstood him, though the world chose to misunderstand him, His Father knew him completely, and for Christ that’s all that mattered. That was enough. So, though he was heckled by the crowd, slandered by the scribes, and abandoned by his disciples, the human need to be understood, that Jesus shares with us, was always met as the Father continued to affirm his existence, his life, and his mission in the words: “This is my beloved Son, with him I am well pleased.”[2]

For us, though, our life is so precarious because, among other things, our longing to be understood feels like it’s something we can never truly have satisfied. I mean, if we can’t even trust our friends and our family to know us in the way we long to be known, who else can we turn to? This question plagues our generation, and it’s the reason why right now we are living in the loneliest generation ever in history, though we are more well-connected than any other generation that has come before us. Unsure of who to trust, because we are afraid of being hurt, people have removed themselves from others, looking for stability elsewhere in places like social media or videogames, and if not stability then at least an escape.

To simplify, the problem is that within every human heart there is the real need to be known and to be understood, but it seems like there is nothing in this world that can actually meet that need. But how can that be? Our hunger suggests that something called food actually exists. Our thirst suggests that something called water actually exists. Our sexual urges suggest that something called sex actually exists. So then what about this particular longing to be known?

In answer to this, C.S. Lewis brilliantly once said, “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.”[3] Here Lewis is only explicitly stating what we’ve already seen in Christ. Christ didn’t bank his hopes within this world, in being understood by us or other men, but rather he banked his hopes in God and in his kingdom. Having said that, that doesn’t mean he experienced any less pain by being so misunderstood by men. In fact, he would’ve felt a deeper pain, because for anyone who knows God and tries to live in the way he has called them to live Jesus tells us it will actually be more painful since the ones we are called to love will not love us back. Instead, they will reject us and they will mock us, in the same way they rejected and mocked him. So, the point is not that it was less painful for Jesus. The point is that within the great pain of being unknown by men there was the greater satisfaction of joy of being so completely known by his Father.

But now that we know this, that doesn’t mean we can simply say, “Great, God’s the answer, and now everything will turn out fine.” It’s not so simple, and his grace is not that cheap. Don’t forget, you are his enemy because you sinned against him. And because you sinned against him, you are estranged from him. What that means is because you are a sinner God does not know you. Because you have sinned against him, and have chosen not to acknowledge him, God no longer chooses to acknowledge you. And this is nothing less than death, the death and punishment we deserve. How could there be a greater death than this? That is, to hear the very source of our life and being say to us that he does not know us. This is why hell is loneliness in the most complete sense, because in hell not only are you not known by men, you are now no longer known by God, the very one who created you. Which means in hell you are left unknown for eternity.

God is a God of justice, and so this is what we deserve; yet God is also a God of love and so he steps in to save us. He wants to know us. Prior to having his hands and his feet nailed to the wooden beams of the cross, Jesus was stripped naked and beaten to a pulp. They then smashed onto his head a crown of thorns, and he was forced to walk the excruciating miles, while embracing a two hundred pound cross, to the place where they would eventually crucify him. But for all of the physical pain Jesus went through, the greatest pain that any human could ever experience Jesus experienced so that we would not have to, when he cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

In this moment, as he hangs and bleeds from the cross, God’s wrath is satisfied, and Jesus is now left completely alone. He has been abandoned by his Father. The Father who loved and delighted in the Son from all of eternity; the Father who the Son loved and delighted in from all of eternity. Remember how we said the level of pain is determined by the significance of the relationship? Imagine how much Christ suffers in this moment. That the infinite love that has been shared between them from all of eternity is now broken. Because Christ took our sins upon himself, and died in our place, he also bore the eternal punishment we deserve. Here God the Father says to Jesus the very words that constitute death: “I no longer know you” Why? So that through the cross he could now say to us, wretched sinners, “I know you, I see you, and I love you.”

On this day, God turned his face away from his most beloved and precious Son, so that his face could now shine upon us, so that we would never have to hear those soul-wrenching words “depart from me, I never knew you,” so that the pain of our longing to be fully known would at last be put to rest as we find ourselves in him, now and forever.[4] Never in the history of the world has anyone been so misunderstood than Christ – and all for our sake.

[1]Hebrews 2:17

[2]Matthew 3:17

[3]C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1980), 136-7.

[4]Matthew 7:21-23

Pride Leads to Death (A Short Sermon)

For my youth group students, at the start of Lent. 

At the tender age of 19, Jonathan Edwards wrote in his private journal a list of resolutions, committing himself to a “God-centered life lived in harmony with others.” There were seventy resolutions in total, yet the one I want to focus our attention on is the twelfth resolution, which goes like this: “Resolved, if I take delight in [anything] as a gratification of pride, or vanity, or on any such account, immediately to throw it by.”[1]

Why was Edwards so concerned with his pride – so much so that it came near the top of his list of resolutions? Why did he feel the need to throw out anything and everything that not only had been but may have been tainted by it? Simply put, it’s because Edwards took his pride seriously, because he took Proverbs 16:18 seriously, where it says, “Pride goes before [death and] destruction.” Pride, for Edwards, is the main “handle by which [Satan gets a] hold of [Christians] and it is the chief source of all the mischief that [Satan] introduces to clog and hinder a work of God.” Therefore, pride is the deadliest of all sins, since it leads to and supports all other sins.

So, why am I speaking about pride at the start of Lent on Ash Friday? Lent is the Christian season of penitence, during which Christians intentionally make room in their lives to acknowledge their sins, admit their faults, and repent before God. Of course, we’re supposed to do these things in every season, not just during Lent. However, with life’s hustle and bustle, it’s easy for us to put our relationship with Christ on the backburner, and to skimp on prayer and time spent with God.

We do this because we’re forgetful, lazy, apathetic, and complacent. Yet when we lose sight of the fact that we are sinners, that is, sinners in desperate need of God’s grace, what we’re really doing is we’re allowing our pride to go before us. You see God cannot rule your heart unless you acknowledge your sin, because anything else is a denial of the fact that your life is utterly dependent upon Him. Thus, if God is not leading you, and if you are not depending on Him for everything, then that can only mean you are depending on yourself. Your pride goes before you. And if that’s you, and it is, scripture says don’t be surprised when your life begins to fall apart and things are brought down to ruins. For this sort of life, it promises destruction, at the end and along the way.

We are here tonight for no other reason than to repent before God. That is, as we pause from all of life’s mundane activities, and put some distance in between, we see how we’ve been relying on ourselves more than we’ve been relying on God – even if we thought we were relying on Him at the time. How often we take matters into our own hands than turn to God for help. How often we make rash life-decisions instead of waiting for God to speak. How often we seek to accomplish certain tasks by our own strength and energy than out of the Fount of Living Water. We see how we’ve fallen short, in failing to love God and in failing to love our neighbors. We see how we’ve fallen short in all the ways we haven’t turned to Him.

If you wish to enter Lent, you must begin here, and place your pride and ego at the foot of the cross. In doing so, what you’re really doing is you’re making room for God in your life once again, or perhaps for the first time. By doing this, you’re asking the Spirit to dwell within you; you’re asking Him to convict you of your sin and to show you just how deep your sin really goes. Only in knowing that one is a sinner does one realize that one is in need of a Savior. Greater awareness of one’s sin will obviously bring greater pain with it. Yet despite the pain of such an awareness, it is necessary because therein lies the fundamental joy of knowing just how deeply one is loved, forgiven, and covered by grace.

Only a prideful person would think he or she doesn’t struggle with pride. If that’s you, then Ash Friday and the Lenten season won’t mean much. If that’s you, Christ has nothing to offer you: “For those who are well have no need of physicians, but those who are sick. I have not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance” (Luke 5:31-32).

[1]Jonathan Edwards, “Resolutions,” in A Jonathan Edwards Reader, ed. John E. Smith, Harry S. Stout, and Kenneth Minkema (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 275.

The Sacrament of Baptism

The Nature of Baptism:

In Matthew 3:11, we find the nature of John’s baptism qualitatively distinct from that of the baptism Christians now receive. The water with which John baptizes is for repentance, that is, it is a preparatory rite for the One who is to come, namely, Christ, as well as the kingdom he inaugurates. Here John is telling those who have gathered to him that baptism, in the current dispensation, is mainly to prepare the hearts of worshippers to receive the full blessings to come in Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection.

But John knows and expects that, unlike him, the Messiah who comes after will baptize with “Spirit and fire” – which is something only Christ can do – in order to bring repentant sinners into the kingdom of God, as it takes on its form through the [catholic] church. There are, of course, many interpretations as to what that might mean, but we know that it cannot mean that water’s substance is therefore made irrelevant, less significant, or even merely symbolic. Reading it in context, “Spirit and fire,” within this passage, speaks to the consecration of baptismal waters, not its dismissal, so as to give it new meaning and purpose. How do we know this?

The Effect and Command of Baptism: 

We read further. In vv.13-17, we see that Jesus subjected himself to baptism. Thus, Christ’s submersion beneath the waters is the very act of its consecration for future believers. It reveals through the direction of Christ’s humanity to Christ’s divinity that the Spirit and grace of God are mediated to repentant sinners through baptism, that is, for the forgiveness of sins, by which they are joined to Christ’s life and thereby the communion of saints. To put it differently, baptism is the initial rite [after which comes the Lord’s Supper] through which we not only obtain forgiveness of sins but also become members of the church-community itself, and thus to Christ himself.[1]

And for those who have received Christ in faith, the command to become baptized primarily comes by way of Christ’s own example. The early church fathers and Reformers took this very seriously. Christ is demonstrating that for those who would be his disciples they too must become baptized because their Lord and Master was also baptized. Christ did not dismiss it, nor did he consider himself above it. Because the sinless Savior saw it fit that he should be baptized with water, how much more so for mere sinful mortals who would follow after him?

The Meaning of Baptism:

So, baptism is no longer a rite of repentance per se, since God’s kingdom has now come in Christ. We discussed before how Christ consecrates baptismal waters. Its signification, on the other hand, is brought about through Christ’s death and resurrection. That is, baptism illustrates through dramatization the deeper spiritual realities of what Christ has already accomplished for us on the cross. In obedience to the Father, Christ humbled himself to the point of death, even death on a cross, for the sake of our salvation [Philippians 2:8], and then on the third day he rose again, conquering sin and death forever. The benefits we receive through this are unmerited, for they are freely given to and received by those who profess faith in him. Therefore, baptism is not a human accomplishment. It is not something we achieve for ourselves.

This leads me to the caveat of my pastoral concern. A lot of today’s Christians think that if I can reach a certain level of spiritual maturity, and demonstrate that maturity through my manner of speech or outward acts of service, then I know I’ll be ready for baptism. But this is categorically false, since it is not what the baptism of Christ is about. This mindset is premised on law, as opposed to the life-giving grace and freedom of the gospel. Covenantal baptism is first and foremost about the promise of God for sinners, and how it is secured and obtained only through what Christ has done. Baptism is divine gift.

Which is why baptism, having been reconstituted through Christ, portrays sinners dying to themselves by being submerged beneath the waters. “What shall we say then? Are we to continue in sin that grace may abound? By no means! How can we who died to sin still live in it? Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?” [Romans 6:1-3]. Thus, we die a death like his in denying a life of sin, to which we are then raised to a new life like his. “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come” [2 Corinthians 5:17].

In short, Christ consecrates, recreates, and commands baptism; Christ mediates the promise of God’s covenantal grace to believers through baptism, in and through which they are joined to him and the church-community; and baptism is the dramatic, embodied declaration of God’s invisible grace at work within believers as they die and rise again with Christ.[2]

Pastoral-Ministerial Application:

That is why I hesitate to say “he/she is ‘ready’ to be baptized” because that insinuates that that person has accomplished a spiritual status for him or herself, and thus reduces baptism to a hollow, grandiose gesture of how good I am as opposed to how good and gracious God is. No one is ever “ready” to be baptized, insofar as our understanding of readiness means how much I know, how much I’ve accomplished, how moral I am, etc. The only readiness there is is the one where sinners have genuinely experienced the grace of God’s word in Christ. Read Acts 2:41. As soon as the apostle Peter finished preaching God’s word at Pentecost, those who encountered the grace of Christ were immediately baptized. Or, perhaps take a look at Acts 8:36-38, where the Ethiopian eunuch is struggling to understand the mysteries of God, veiled in the prophetic writings of Isaiah. God charges Philip to preach the good news, and the eunuch responds, “See, here is water! What prevents me from being baptized?” The response is always initiated by the grace of the Holy Spirit.

Many of my current students at the Calvary Baptist Church of New Haven have this dangerous notion that they have to be more than what they are – spiritually and otherwise – in order to become baptized. But apart from trying to convey why baptism is significant for believers, I want them to understand that baptism is about entrusting ourselves to Christ because he has shown himself to be faithful first. He alone is worthy of all our lives. So, we die to sin and are resurrected to the newness of life in imitating the patterns of Christ through the divine gift of baptism.

This is why it is improper/inappropriate to manipulate/coerce people who have not experienced – or, have not received the assurance of – God’s grace in their lives towards baptism, since this is something only God and God alone can do. With that said, Christian forerunners and spiritual advisors ought to help believers discern whether they should be baptized, and appropriately and gently encourage them to do so, especially when the church-community finds that they are unnecessarily delaying it.

[1]Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2015), 210-211.

[2]See John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, ed. John T. McNeill (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006), 4.15.1-6.

That They May Be One

Denominationalism is one of the most pressing issues facing the church today.[1]Of course, it isn’t a recent phenomenon as much of today’s major denominations are the direct result of Christian contentions drawn out over the course of history. Since the Protestant Reformation, however, church divisions have occurred at precipitous rates, normalizing these patterns at the site of conflict. We’ve now reached the point where many people understand denominationalism as something worth celebrating because of its testament to the diversity within Christ’s body.

This divisive spirit, though, long predates the Reformation as we observe its inchoate form even among the early Christians. Specifically, Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians betrays the formation of divisions within that community. But instead of applauding this, Paul immediately reacts against it. Why? For Paul, division is none other than the disintegration of the fabric of true Christian community, and so does not find that sort of diversity, that is, diversity outside the context of unity, as cause for celebration. Rather, Paul would find it as cause for deep lament.

Because denominationalism is largely taken for granted, it is difficult for modern Protestants to grasp just what is at stake. Thus, it will be helpful for us to hear from Paul, and what he has to say on this matter. To do so, we will consider what the church ought to be in Paul’s conception, and why church division poses a serious threat to Christian life.

According to Paul, the church is the body of Christ, constituted by the fellowship of believers.[2]But how does this come about? By virtue of the cross, Christ offers wayward sinners the gift of redemption, which they receive in faith. They then become baptized, the sacramental means by which believers are incorporated into the life of the church. And since only Christ can effect this, he is the Lord of the church, or the head of the body. By his grace, Christ brings together a diverse group of people, and acts as their common bond. The efficacy of his grace is such that those in Christ are now able to transcend social and ethnic boundaries once thought to be impenetrable.[3]Thus, they are united to one another because they are united to Christ.

When Paul writes to the church in Corinth, we should not confuse his call for unity as a call for uniformity.[4]That divisions exist within the church presupposes diversity, and still Paul calls them to be united. Diversity, for Paul, is a great gift to the church because it is the site in which they get to actively take on the form of Christ. Conflicts, for example, that arise due to differences of opinion should be seized as opportunities for believers to submit to one another in humility and love. In doing so, they live in the way Christ taught them to live whereby they are reworked into his image.

Paul also finds diversity to be a blessing since it means believers bring a variety of gifts to the church. That is, every individual by virtue of who they are and the gifts they possess has something unique to contribute to the church’s corporate life. This, too, allows Christians to live out of their distinct capacities in order to bless others, and become more like Christ in the process. Moreover, diversity entails Christians being in different places in their faith journeys, which is why Paul commends the strong to bear with those who are weak.[5]Paul leads by example as he talks about giving up his rights so that he would not be a hindrance to the reception of the gospel. This resembles the servant form of Christ, who came to serve and not be served.

Thus, diversity, in all these forms, is to be kept within the body of Christ for the mutual edification of believers as well as the outward advancement of the gospel by way of the church’s united existence. Despite the world’s pre-established dividing lines, in Christ Christians are able to transcend these barriers and live in a manner set apart for the gospel by loving one another. In this, the church realizes its function of gospel witness.

This should help us better understand what’s at stake when Christians split from one another. In 1 Corinthians 1:13, Paul asks the rhetorical question, “Is Christ divided?” Because Christ cannot be divided, so too the church cannot be divided. Anything else would be an inherent contradiction to the life of the church since it tears apart what Christ has put together. That is, if the church’s existence is fundamentally constituted by its unity in Christ, then division is ultimately spurning Christ’s Lordship over it, which makes the church what it is.

One of the reasons why the challenge of church division, or denominationalism, seems so insurmountable today is because Protestants are so engulfed by this notion of a pseudo, individualistic spirituality where their minds are no longer able to move past the egotistical horizon. So, it becomes difficult to imagine a grace beyond one’s own personal feelings, which leads to the false assumption that grace is meant to be experienced in an unmediated fashion. As a result, the church is rendered a secondary reality, and is no longer central for what it means to be Christian. These things, of course, mutually feed off each other; that is, denominationalism perpetuates this sort of individualistic spirituality, which in turn encourages church division. Thus, it is imperative for Christians to understand how they are rejecting Christ in rejecting one another, and thereby break out of this schismatic cycle.

For it is easy to celebrate diversity from a distance so long as it doesn’t infringe upon one’s own preferences. But as we’ve seen, the sort of diversity Paul envisions is one within unity because that is where Christian bonds are refined and fortified. For Paul, schism is nothing but spiritual cowardice, for its sole aim is to be understood.[6]So, what you end up with is a congregation where people look like each other, think like each other, act like each other, and speak like each other because they cannot live without the constant affirmation of their like-minded peers. They may be willing to acknowledge diversity, but so long as it doesn’t disrupt homogeneity in whatever form that may take.

When the church splits, crucial members are being excised from the body of Christ, members that are irreplaceable by virtue of their unique gifts and capacities. The loss of such gifts is detrimental to the life of the church because the church is no longer being edified in the way it once was when its former members were there. At the same time, its harmful to said members because it robs them of the opportunity to be conduits of grace for others. Furthermore, divisions over who is worthy to join the body attempts to usurp a role that is strictly Christ’s. For Christ has joined together both the weak and the strong so that they would learn to care for one another by being Christ for one another. Division takes away the encouragement the weak need from the strong as well as the humility the strong need from the weak.

In all of this, the fundamental error is when Christian factions claim Christ for themselves while denying him to others. Churches split for a variety of reasons, but make faithfulness to God their pretext. Paul notices this to be the case particularly with one group more so than the others in 1 Corinthians 1:12. They are the ones who say, “I follow Christ.” The issue is not with following Christ per se, for that is what Christians should do. Rather, the issue is with the exclusive nature of this claim, namely, that they have special access to Christ in a way others do not. Recall, all members within the body have access to Christ in that they are redeemed by him and are baptized in his name; thus, the absurdity of such exclusive claims is highlighted by this fact.

By its very nature, denominationalism sets groups up to believe that theirs is a more privileged communion than others. It is founded on hubris, and covered over in the veneer of faithfulness. Because diversity is flattened out in schism, the church forfeits its identity and power. Opportunities to celebrate one another at the site of difference, or to love one another at the site of conflict, are lost, and thereby Christians miss the effective opportunity to pattern themselves after Christ. Thus, the church loses its power for gospel proclamation as they live according to the standards of this world rather than the ones set out by Christ. For Christ commands his disciples to love their enemies, especially those within the church.[7]To remove ourselves from people we don’t like or disagree with is something non-believers do; however, to love each other even in the midst of strife is something only Christians can do because of their shared commitment to Christ. How will the world know where the presence of Christ resides if the church just blends right in?

In 1 Corinthians, Paul provides us with a compelling portrait of the church. The church is Christ’s body, made up of a diverse group of members. They are united to one another in Christ, and their diversity affords them the possibility to experience Christ’s grace in receiving and sharing it with others by way of their unique gifts and capacities. In this, the church is built up, and the gospel is displayed for all the world to see. This is why denominationalism is no celebratory matter since it is the mutilation of Christ’s body. Schism is the refusal to love others by withholding grace from them. It compromises the identity of the church because it places human beings at the level of Christ. The church is called to submit to Christ in being united to one another, but go against his command in splitting off from one another. Since denominationalism is now so much a part of our ecclesial fiber, Protestants have grown hopelessly numb to it.

The purpose here, however, was to help us understand why we can no longer afford to remain in this state of disobedience. For Paul, visible church unity actually matters, contrary to most Protestants who aver mere spiritual unity, since it is only within the graced messiness of life together that Christians take on the shape of Christ, and thereby become the sort of church Christ envisaged from the beginning. In that regard, Paul is simply echoing Christ, who prays that “they may be one.”[8]

[1]By denominationalism, I mean the existence of ecclesial factions specifically within Protestantism as well as its disposition towards schism whether it be over theological disagreements or any other kinds of conflict that may arise within the church.

[2]1 Corinthians 1:13

[3]Galatians 3:28

[4]That is, Paul is not an advocate for ecclesial homogeneity.

[5]1 Corinthians 8-10; Romans 15:1

[6]1 Corinthians 1:12

[7]Matthew 5:44-46

[8]John 17:22

Emil Brunner: A Reappraisal || Alister E. McGrath

During a time of great political and social unrest, a theological movement swept across twentieth century Europe to protect the integrity of the Christian faith, to offer the hope of the gospel to believers [and nonbelievers], and to discern God’s plan in the midst of profound turmoil.

The participating theologians whose works are still widely read are Karl Barth and Rudolf Bultmann. However, a participant whose name is rarely heard of these days in the academic study of theology is Emil Brunner. Who is he? What are some of his theological and ecclesiological contributions? And why is he important?

In Emil Brunner: A Reappraisal, Alister E. McGrath (Oxford University) resurfaces the neglected theology of Emil Brunner and offers an unadulterated account of his life and theology [that is often unfairly read and critiqued through a Barthian lens]. This work is “both the exploration of the emergence of his theological vision, set against its cultural context, and an assessment of its continuing relevance.”

Here are some points from the book that I found interesting and worth noting…

Brunner and Barth:

One of the things that McGrath expounds upon is the interesting relationship between Brunner and Barth. For one, Brunner had an inferiority complex because he was constantly being overshadowed by Barth and could not compete with his theological ingenuity and prowess. As a result, Brunner felt like he needed to prove himself, and at times, perceived Barth as a threat to his reputation and career. But that does not mean that Brunner did not have anything unique to say.

Nein!:

On the rare occasion that someone has heard of Brunner, it is likely as ‘the one who was utterly humiliated and defeated by Barth’ in his Nein! Antwort an Emil Brunner from the 1934 debate concerning the viability of natural theology. On this exchange, McGrath provides a raw portrayal of the typical German-Swiss theologian hubris, noting the defining mark of the debate to be polemical instead of theological or intellectual [or respectful for that matter]. A lot of Barth’s disdainful critiques stemmed from his failure to understand the finer nuances of Brunner’s position; Brunner too rejected the popular notion of natural theology! For some reason, Barth could not see that.

Culture: 

Brunner was a major contributor to the dialectical movement as he vigorously advocated for theology’s engagement with culture via eristic to offer an approach that allowed critical evaluation and appropriation of cultural trends [as opposed to Barth’s categorical ‘No’ to culture]. On other related topics, he wrote extensively on theological anthropology, political theory, and personalism.

Theology’s Relationship to Natural Science:

Brunner saw natural science and theology as beneficial to one another. “Brunner was emphatic that a proper knowledge of God results only from self-disclosure, a self-manifestation of God – that is, when there is revelation.” But his doctrine of creation mandated the natural sciences for Christians: “The world is only knowable as something created by God through divine revelation; but, as created by God, it is the subject of legitimate scientific investigation.” Thus, “Brunner’s theological framework creates conceptual space for dialogue between theology and the natural sciences.” Here, I found myself to be more sympathetic to Brunner’s approach over Barth’s.

Doctrine of Trinity:

Brunner maintains an anti-speculative approach on the Trinity. Wary of post-enlightenment tendencies to rationalize God, Brunner reminds his readers of the theological function of the doctrine of the Trinity, and how it serves to show Christians the “historical revelation of God in Christ” and does not invite for musings of God’s nature apart from that. In so doing, Brunner displays the doctrine of the Trinity as the outcome rather than the presupposition of faith.

There are so many things in his theology, which I found beautiful spiritually and intellectually. There are also many practical things that Christians can take away from his works at the devotional/catechetical level. It’s a shame that Brunner isn’t talked about more especially since he lends much needed perspective for the Church today. Let us reengage with Brunner once more for the edification of theological dialogue!

Bridging the Divide: The Pastor as Public Theologian and Theology as Discipleship

Today, many Christians of the laity disregard theology as pertinent to the life of the church. It is merely the academic discipline, reserved for the erudite theologians who sit in their ivory towers of academia. Beyond the university, it has no pragmatic value. On the other hand, many theological students gradually inch away from ecclesial life out of their frustration with the laity. Hubris takes them over, and they believe their knowledge is better spent elsewhere than within church walls. In other words, churches have no time to waste in abstract theological concepts/jargon when there are real-life issues to deal with while the academy has no time to waste with the pragmatic church because theology is for the intellectual titillation of the learned.

Unfortunately, modernity has strengthened this dichotomizing fallacy. Yet, in recent times, evangelical scholars have resurged the inquiry on the relationship between church and academy, pastor and theologian. Looking to the example of the early church, there was no such thing as being a pastor without being a theologian and no such thing as being a theologian without being a pastor. For the pastor’s life gave shape to his theological thoughts, and the theologian’s life gave direction to his pastoral ministry. The church was closely connected to theology as well since no issue was resolved apart from it. Thus, the church today must reclaim what is rightfully hers, theology. For without it, it is not the church. And the academy must rediscover what it means to do theology as a means of discipleship – in service to God for the spiritual and intellectual growth of the church.

Two of the evangelical scholars mentioned above are Kevin J. Vanhoozer and Owen Strachan who have recently co-authored The Pastor as Public Theologian. In this book, Vanhoozer and Strachan endeavor to reclaim the theological vision that is lost within the church and particularly within the pastorate. Vanhoozer begins with an introduction, which speaks to this lost vision and offers his diagnosis of today’s pastor. Part one then follows with a biblical and historical theology and then part two with a systematic and practical theology of pastor as theologian.

Vanhoozer writes, “Pastor-theologians must have confidence that the ministry of the gospel is more than another helping profession.” In this, he means that pastors must rediscover the unique and God-given aspect of their role as public-theologian who offers people what no one else can, namely, an understanding of what God is doing in Christ through and for his people. This book argues for the rediscovery of the theological vision in terms of the pastor and laity.

A theological dullness has swept across the evangelical churches of America where pastors are more concerned with being eloquent orators and efficient administrators and business-people. American pastors have become so concerned with vision and growth that they have lost sight of what it means to be faithful with what God has given for today. Pastor as Public Theologian beckons pastors to reevaluate the purpose of their calling as first and foremost theological in helping their flock discover what it means to be participants within God’s grand narrative, wrought by the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. On the other hand, members of Christ body are called to support their pastors in love and prayer while holding them accountable to the unique tasks of the pastorate. Thus, the church overall must regain the theological vision.

Keith L. Johnson writes from the other side on what it means to be a theologian in service to the church in Theology as Discipleship. This book offers a Christological argument of reclaiming the task of theology as a means for discipleship rather than a means in itself. He writes, “If we attempt to practice the discipline of theology in distinction from the life and work of the church, then the presuppositions governing the modern university likely will govern our theological method.”

Theology, for Johnson, is the humble, prayerful submission of oneself to Christ in the posture of bended knee. Christ is the beginning and end of all our theological inquiry. If this is true, then our knowledge begins and ends with this God-man. However, Christ does not impart knowledge for the sake of knowledge. It is always for the sake of discipleship, learning what it means to live a cruciform life.

Johnson, a reformed theologian and Barthian, is constantly warning his readers through the book [implicitly and explicitly] of idolatry. Human beings are constantly prone to produce idols for themselves by trying to conjure a God made in their own image. Solution? Jesus. He is the revelation of God the Father and apart from him there is no warrant for speculation. He is the source of true knowledge whereby the knowledge of God in Christ leads theologians to see their knowledge in service to the church to help the church understand its function within the theo-drama. This comes about as theologians take on the mind of Christ.

Today, there is a dichotomy where it once did not exist. The Pastor as Public Theologian and Theology as Discipleship are just two of many great works written by evangelical pastors and theologians to help the church and the academy bridge the theological and ecclesial divide. Pastors must reclaim their God-given role as the generalist-shepard, charged with the task of doing theology, because the church must learn from their pastors the theological shape of their corporate lives. Theologians can no longer afford to remain idle in the life of the church; after all, to be a theologian is to be a doctor of the church, in the quite literal sense, by teaching orthodoxy, clarifying truth, and correcting falsehood. Theologians use their academic privilege to help the church to know who this man, Jesus, really is and see more of his glory and magnificence. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the great pastor and theologian, once said, “Only the believing obey, only the obedient believe.” Where, in this sense, I think he means that orthodox theology produces orthopraxy, and orthopraxy shapes how we understand what is orthodox theology.