Simple Faith

"But I fear, lest somehow, as the serpent deceived Eve by his craftiness, so your minds may be corrupted from the simplicity that is in Christ." -- 2 Cor. 11:3

My cell group discussions lately have been not just encouraging but personally challenging. Last night one of the sisters described her experience of losing a spouse* and finding herself without her closest companion (not to mention the sole source of income for her family). In the weeks and months that followed she managed to find peace, she said, by continually looking to Christ alone in prayer and faith. My immediate inclination was to think something along these lines: "That's just too simple. There are a host of psychological coping issues that need to be addressed in such a situation." But as I thought more about it I realized that her response was a testimony of exceeding wisdom and spiritual maturity. In our "information age" too many of us have bought into the notion that complicating things is somehow the mark of intelligence. Some things are by nature complicated, of course, and the only way to understand them is to wade into their complexities. Faith in God, however, is not one of those things.

Of course this tendency is really nothing new. Well-meaning believers have been overcomplicating the truth since the first century. Legalism, for example, is essentially a complication -- a huge list of requirements meant to supplement or even replace simple faith in Christ. Paul asked rhetorically of God's gracious works of salvation and healing, "Does He do it by the works of the law or by the hearing of faith?" (Gal. 3:5) Idolatry is equally complication, as is materialism and other worldly pursuits. Scripture declares that there is but "one Mediator," but through the centuries the church has managed to add a host of popes, priests and pastors, consultants and counselors, etc., as indispensable means of finding the grace and presence of God.

As a student of Christian apologetics (the practice of defending the faith against critics), I once embraced a philosophy known as evidentialism. This is the idea that anything worth believing ought to be supported by evidence. I held my Christian faith to be one of those beliefs -- not merely true but also well-grounded in historical evidence. And so it is. Yet the essence of faith is to look beyond the evidence, to embrace the love of an invisible God while living in an earthly body, for example, and to envision His promises of a gloriously bright future in the face of often terribly difficult present circumstances. Even philosophers and intellectuals can learn to appreciate simplicity. Christian philosopher Alvin Plantinga once remarked that

knowledge of God is not arrived at by inference or argument (for example, the famous theistic proofs of natural theology), but in a much more immediate way.... It isn't that one beholds the night sky, notes that it is grand, and concludes that there must be such a person as God; an argument like that would be ridiculously weak. It isn't that one notes some feature of the Australian outback -- that it is ancient and brooding, for example -- and draws the conclusion that God exists. It is rather that, upon the perception of the night sky or the mountain vista or the tiny flower, these beliefs just arise within us. They are occasioned by the circumstances; they are not conclusions from them.

Amen. I hope and pray that I too can learn to appreciate such circumstances as gifts from God, and thereby learn to enjoy the simple pleasures of the life of faith.

* Temporarily, that is. I am confident, as is she, that the two of them will be joyfully reunited in the not-too-distant future.

The Spirituality of Music

During a visit with friends and family in San Antonio for Thanksgiving, we got into a discussion about classic church hymns, which drifted into the subject of music generally and the old songs we used to love as teenagers and young adults. A few days later I had a similar discussion with my church cell group. In both instances most everyone present was to my knowledge a sincere and enthusiastic but fairly "conservative" believer in Jesus -- yet there was a certain liveliness to this particular topic. Everyone, it seems, has their personal set of "greatest hits."

It all reminded me a bit of Plato's teaching in the Republic (or more properly Allan Bloom's interpretation of Plato) about the emotional, psychological and even political power of music. Music can inspire us to worship, motivate us to acts of courage and kindness, and generally extend the horizons of our vision beyond our comfort zone of rationality and predictability. I have written entire sermons whose inspiration began with the hearing of a song on the radio while driving around town.   

One of the songs I mentioned was "Roll with the Changes" by REO Speedwagon. For those who can't remember it, or are too young to have ever heard it in the first place, click below (there is a can't-miss guitar solo with a keyboard lead-in that all starts around 3:21):  

Some of the lyrics go as follows:

I knew it had to happen
Felt the tables turnin'
Got me through my darkest hour
I heard the thunder clappin'
Felt the desert burnin'
Until you poured on me
Like a sweet sunshower

So if you're tired of the
Same old story
Oh turn some pages
I'll be here when you are ready
To roll with the changes....

Now, I don't think anyone would confuse REO Speedwagon with a church worship team, but just a bit of tinkering would make this song worthy of a place in a revival service. Here we have the call to hope, to endure hardships, and to experience "new life," so to speak. Then of course there are the songs of pure worship that need no tinkering. It was with full knowledge of the human sensitivity to the emotive influence of music that Paul taught the church in Colosse to edify one another "in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your heart to the Lord" (Col. 3:16) In terms of sheer power to inspire reverence for Christ, the "Revelation Song" may be my all-time favorite:

With the holidays upon us I must also recommend "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" courtesy of my son Vance and his band, Divisions:

Finally, having just returned from a Karaoke birthday party for a friend, I have to add that music can be downright hilarious -- and in that sense it can promote joy in the way of laughter and mirth. Few things are funnier, after all, than people with precious little musical talent making a go of it anyway.... 

Supply, Demand, and Discipleship

The law of supply and demand is the bedrock principle of economics. Most often the idea is expressed as a simple function of price: When price decreases, supply decreases while demand increases. When price increases, supply increases while demand decreases. Common experience confirms what economists teach. Every worker wants a job that pays more, for example, so that supply of labor increases as wages increase; just as every consumer wants to pay less for tennis shoes, so that consumers buy more tennis shoes marked down than at regular price. One consequence of the law of supply and demand is that of shortage and surplus: When the price of a good exceeds the market-clearing price, a surplus results, and when the price is below the market-clearing price, a shortage results. Everyone wants the most bang for the buck.

The truth of all this holds not just for tangible goods, but for most anything imaginable that could potentially enhance human well-being. As Roger Arnold has noted in his text Microeconomics,

[A] good is anything from which individuals receive utility or satisfaction. In everyday conversations, the word good usally applies to something tangible that is bought or sold in a market. But there are more goods in the world than just the tangible items sold in markets. Friendship and love are both goods, although neither is tangible and neither is bought and sold in a market...

What about the Christian life, or as some have called it, "the good life"? Clearly a majority of people, in America at least, consider being a Christian somewhat valuable. With various levels of zeal we support Christian causes, read Christian books, attend Christian churches, defend Christian causes. Professing Christians are everywhere you look. At the same time, skeptics and critics point out that in behavioral terms Christians are scarcely distinguishable from anyone else: Indeed, statistically we are no less likely than anyone else to have children out of wedlock, get caught in a financial scandal, or commit a violent crime.

Why the inconsistency? Perhaps economics can provide some insight. If the church is experiencing non-stop numerical growth with little spiritual growth to show for it, the problem may have to do with what Dietrich Bonhoeffer referred to contemptuously as "cheap grace." That is, the advertised price for following Christ is simply too low and consequently everyone wants in on the deal. But the Christian life is not cheap. It cost the Son of God an agonizing death to provide us access to eternal life and communion with himself, who warned that each of his disciples would have to "take up his cross" in order to follow him. It should not suprise us, then, that Jesus compared the life of discipleship to a costly all-out war or an expensive long-term building project, and then urged us to "count the cost" before presuming to be his disciples:

"So likewise, whoever of you does not forsake all that he has cannot be My disciple" (Luke 14:33).

The Opening of the Christian Heart

In one of my all-time favorite books, The Closing of the American Mind, the late professor Allan Bloom remarked on the phenomenon of individualism in our culture:

Country, religion, family, ideas of civilization, all the sentimental and historical forces that stood between cosmic infinity and the individual, providing some notion of a place within the whole, have been rationalized and have lost their compelling force. America is experienced not as a common project but as a framework within which people are only individuals…

Substitute "the church" for "America" and we can begin to see, as can be seen so often on so many fronts, the influence of the secular culture on the church.  In countless segments of the Evangelical church, fellowship with others has become an option, a personally beneficial but not altogether essential activity. The church is reducible in many quarters to an organization at best, a building on a lot at worst – "a framework in which people are only individuals." Such was my own experience in the church for many years.

This situation is tragic not only because I lose the personal benefit of fellowship with others, but because others are counting on my fellowship for their benefit. There is a power and mutual blessing in fellowship that cannot be had any other way. Consider the following account from Acts 14: "Then Jews from Antioch and Iconium came there, and having persuaded the multitudes, they stoned Paul and dragged him out of the city, supposing him to be dead. However, when the disciples gathered around him, he rose up and went into the city" (v. 19-20). In his utter helplessness, Paul found strength from brethren who were willing to stoop down and minister to him. This is the same Paul who urged the church to "rejoice always in the Lord," to "pray without ceasing," and to "meditate on the Scriptures" – yet he found himself in a place where praise, prayer and knowledge of the Word did not rescue him. His fellow disciples rescued him.  

I believe these disciples were able to minister to Paul because they knew Paul personally. They were his friends. They knew he wasn't suffering because he was lazy or unspiritual or unbelieving, but largely because of his courageous and sacrificial ministry. They also loved him. Love for our brethren is, of course, a tell-tale indicator of love for our God. "By this all will know that you are My disciples," said Jesus, "if you have love for one another." Unfortunately that is a big if, one which carries some serious spiritual implications. As John declares, "We ought to lay down our lives for the brethren," and then asks: "But whoever...sees his brother in need, and shuts up his heart from him, how does the love of God abide in him?" (1 John 3:16-17).

Paul suggests the same basic idea when he says to the highly divisive, individualistic Corinthians, "We have spoken openly to you, our heart is wide open…. Now in return you also be open" (2 Cor. 6:11, 13). The power of fellowship, the kind that moves beyond routine church attendance and into honest, loving, supportive relationships with one another, thus begins with the opening of the heart.  

The Gospel to the Poor

Luke 4:18-19

The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,
Because He has anointed me
To preach the gospel to the poor.
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives,
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty those who are oppressed;
To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.

To read the Gospels is to know that Jesus had a special burden for the poor. For most of us "the poor" means simply the financially destitute or economically disadvantaged. But Jesus also promised a blessedness upon the "poor in spirit" along with "those who mourn" – i.e., the emotionally wounded. So it is with Luke's account of Christ announcing his ministry. "The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me," said Jesus, "because He has anointed Me to preach the gospel to the poor." He then describes these poor souls: the brokenhearted, the captives, the blind, the oppressed.

As one well acquainted with the anguish of clinical depression and other painful experiences, this speaks to me. After all, depression can be accurately described as both brokenheartedness and captivity, a sheer inability to think clearly or experience any appreciable peace or joy. And the frustrating elusiveness of perspective and truth during a depression equally signals a "blindness" of sorts. Of all these terms "oppression" may best describe the relentless, terrifying onslaught that is a depressive episode. Yet Jesus announces that he has "good news" for all of us. Can there really be any good news during a depression or other severe hardship? I think so.

For one thing, Jesus seems to make ministry to depressives – and others struggling with emotional handicaps like PTSD, or anxiety, or even raw discouragement in the face of life's hardships – a priority in his gospel. Right away, that tells me that Jesus is on a mission to help and heal broken, wounded people, including of course his own. Any believer susceptible to shame or condemnation during a round of depression can take some comfort in this. God has nothing but compassion and mercy for his children as they cry out for help and deliverance, though sometimes he "bears long with them." Does any father not feel – if possible – even greater love for his children when they are sick and struggling than when they are happy and well? He certainly does not love them less! To emphasize the point, Jesus calls this new era "the acceptable year of the Lord." God accepts those who come to him, even the most weary and broken, just as they are.

Better still, Jesus promises that he will heal these terrible and painful afflictions. So experience bears out what Jesus here declares. As is true of any trial or hardship Christians must sometimes endure, depressions do not in fact last forever – though it often seems otherwise. A typical depression episode lasts some 26 weeks. For some it will be longer, for others not as long, but depression will eventually fade out and normal moods and cognitive functioning will return. As William Styron wrote in his memoir of depression, Darkness Visible, "Even those for whom any kind of therapy is a futile exercise can look forward to the eventual passing of the storm." Archibald Hart agrees: "Even a severe depression will eventually lift." And so it is with any difficult circumstance.

Finally, there is the reward promised for those who endure. Again and again Jesus and the apostles spoke of crowns and honor and blessings awaiting those who patiently suffer for Christ on earth. Now some would suggest that since I am not being persecuted for preaching the gospel, my suffering doesn't count. I disagree. Paul the Apostle counted his sicknesses, fears and sleepless nights as legitimate trials of faith. Job, who suffered more than most, experienced no trouble from unbelievers during his long depressive trial, yet the apostle James held him up as the model of Christlike perseverance.

In Scripture this life is consistently described as fleeting, transitory, quickly passing. We are nowhere promised any certain level of  happiness in this life, but we are repeatedly assured of unlimited bliss in the presence of God – the very source of all good things – in heaven. We are thus described as pilgrims momentarily passing through this world on a journey to the next. Paul accordingly lumps together all forms of suffering – depression included – as "light affliction, which is for a moment." Our hope lies well beyond the perils and pains of this sin-scarred life. So we wait on the Lord, our Great Shepherd, "for now is our salvation nearer than when we first believed" (Rom. 13:11).

Stirred, Not Shaken

Not long ago my wife was cleaning out the closet and came upon my grandfather's old army helmet, given to me when I was a young boy. For many years I thought it was just an old enlisted man's helmet – "standard issue"—and nothing more. Then I learned a bit of its history from my mother and my grandmother. It turns out my grandfather had volunteered for service in WWII, had been sent to Europe with the 2nd Infantry "Indianhead" division, had landed at Normandy, had fought in the Battle of the Bulge, had somewhere along the way been promoted to Captain, and had won a Purple Heart. One other detail they mentioned: My grandfather had left for the war with very dark, almost black hair, and had returned with white hair. That last part intrigued me. Here was a man of great courage, and yet a man who clearly had experienced the deepest horrors of war.

Reading the Apostle Paul's second epistle to Timothy the other day I was reminded again of my grandfather. Famously, Paul encouraged Timothy to "stir up the gift of God," and explained why Timothy did not have to shrink from that calling: "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind" (2 Tim. 1:7). For most of my life as a Christian I, like most Christians, took that verse to mean this: "Don't allow fear a place in your heart, Timothy, because fear is not of God." During times when fear gripped my heart I would read that verse and find not encouragement but condemnation. Try as might, I simply could not make the feeling of fear go away at such times, not even by commanding it to flee in the name of Jesus. Why can't I shake these anxieties and fears? What's wrong with me?, I would ask myself. Then reflecting on my grandfather's indisputable bravery on the battlefield I realized something: The experience of fear is not a sin. Indeed, Paul knew that as well as anyone.

Why do I say this? Well for starters, Paul openly confessed that he was occasionally fearful: "I was with you in weakness, and fear, and much trembling" (1 Cor. 2:3). In Second Corinthians Paul points out that the hardships he endured in Asia were so intense that he "despaired even of life" (2 Cor. 1:8). In Macedonia, he continues in Chapter 7, "we were troubled on every side. Outside were conflicts, inside were fears" (v. 5). Clearly, Paul experienced fear. Furthermore he mentions this fact not in the context of confessing his sins, but of defending his apostleship. To say that feeling anxious or fearful is a sin amounts to saying that soldiers like my grandfather, who visibly tremble and quake as bullets scream past their heads, are actually more guilty of cowardice than the average civilian enjoying an evening at home with his family. But that doesn't really make sense.

Here's what I believe Paul is saying: "You may be experiencing fear, Timothy, but that's not from God himself -- not what God desires for you, and not who God made you." The difference is subtle, but important. Fear is something God allows us to feel and experience, but not something at the heart of God's will. That doesn't make it sinful, but simply undesirable. In much the same way, it is not God's will for my house to get robbed, but I certainly have not sinned if my house gets robbed nonetheless. My job is to manage and respond to each situation – whether having my house robbed or having feelings of fear rise up within me –the best I can in obedience to God. So Paul continues in verse 8 of 2 Timothy, "Therefore do not be ashamed of the testimony of our Lord, nor of me his prisoner, but share with me in the sufferings for the gospel according to the power of God." In other words, fear cannot be allowed to compromise our testimony of obedience to Christ. All this suggests that the power, love and sound-mindedness of God enable us to carry out our responsibilities even in the face of present fears.

Now it should be obvious that if believing that God has given us a spirit of power, love and a sound mind results in a state of perfect peace, then there would be no suffering. Suffering by definition involves a lack of peace. But Paul connects the assurance of one with the assurance of the other. The suffering to which Paul invites Timothy to share includes often, or at least sometimes, a measure of fear itself – the very sorts of fears my grandfather faced on the battlefield. But as Paul argues, a Christian obeys God despite those fears. "You therefore must endure hardship as a good soldier of Jesus Christ" (2 Tim. 2:3).

The Unchained Word

If I had to name one book in the Bible that is my "favorite," 2 Timothy would have to win the prize simply for frequency of readings. In my twenty-seven years of being a follower of Christ, I have read the entire Bible some twenty-five times (roughly once a year), but 2 Timothy probably forty times or more. To say why I have such a deep connection to this particular book I have to briefly disclose some not always flattering aspects of my own personality.

Written by Paul the Apostle just prior to his own execution under the authority of Nero in Rome around 64 AD, the second epistle to Timothy speaks words designed to equally challenge and comfort a young pastor overseeing a growing church body in Ephesus. Timothy by all accounts was a good man -- diligent, dedicated, a loyal and reliable friend. But he was also timid by nature, easily discouraged, and given to obsessing and disputing about things that don't matter. Sounds familiar.

In the process of encouraging a temporarily unconfident, struggling Timothy to "stir up the gift" of faith within him (and others like him in our own day), Paul mentions the fact that he has problems of his own. He has been suffering persecution, many of his closest friends have betrayed him, and as a result he is languishing in prison awating execution. On top of all that, even mature believers in the churches are afraid to visit him for fear of drawing the same kind of attention.

Paul then reminds Timothy of something powerful: "...that Jesus Christ, of the seed of David, was raised from the dead according to my gospel, for which I suffer trouble as an evildoer, even to the point of chains; but the word of God is not chained" (2:8, 9). That says to me basically this: Despite the pain and humiliation of being shackled with irons by hard-hearted men with seemingly unlimited power to control Paul's life, Jesus is still risen and God's word is just as true as it ever was. No amount of suffering can alter the promises of God to his people. "Therefore I endure all things," continues Paul, again because God is eternally reliable and faithful:

"If we are faithless, He remains faithful: He cannot deny Himself" (2 Tim. 2:13).

That's much of what this blog will be about: the faithfulness of God and the truth of his word. Feel free to comment or share how something here relates to your own testimony. Thanks for reading!