by Chris Alexion, Copyright February 18, 2008, all rights reserved.
I once heard a story. A man driving through a bad part of town was carjacked by a local gang. They beat him within inches of his life and stripped him of his cash and credit cards. The man lay there, unable to move, as his blood darkened the pavement. After some time, a noted Reformed scholar happened down the road. Seeing the wounded man, the Reformed man thought about helping, but, realizing that the man could have been a heretic in need of divine judgment, passed by on the other side. More time elapsed. A Southern Baptist preacher came upon the robbery victim. He too would have helped the man, only he was late for an important meeting. The preacher looked down the street, glancing between the horizon and his watch, and finally drove off, giving the wounded man a wide berth. Surely someone would come in time.
Finally, someone did come by. This man was a homosexual who attended a liberal mainline church. Seeing the injured man, the homosexual stopped the car and checked the man's pulse. He was alive–barely. The driver put the man in his own car and drove him to the nearest hospital. Since the man's wallet was gone, the hospital had no idea as to his identity or insurance coverage, so the gay man arranged to be billed himself for the man's care. "Now," said the man who told me the story, "which one of these was the victim's neighbor?"
I heard another story. This story takes place in a quiet church, and two men are praying inside. One, a conservative Christian, begins by thanking God. He thanks God that he is not like the world around him; he protests abortion, tithes weekly, and is faithful to his wife. He casts a quick glance at the other man and thanks God that he is not a Clinton Democrat, robbing the people through taxation. The Clinton Democrat is afraid to even raise his voice or eyes to God. He only murmurs, "God, be merciful to a sinner like me." "I ask you," said the storyteller, "which of these two men went away right with God?"
* * *
Perhaps these parables are a little incendiary. It's intentional. They have to be, because we so easily distort the truth. Even our reading of Scripture is tainted by our fallen nature, and unless the Holy Spirit enlightens us as we read–comparing spiritual things with spiritual–we'll remain blind and deaf to the text.
We always want to tacitly separate ourselves from Scripture's rough criticism. The ancient Israelites, for instance, were a stiff-necked people–a silly, faithless mob. I'm glad we're not like them. See how it works? Even Jesus' parables are victims of this coloring or misinterpretation. We know the "right" answer, and we subconsciously identify ourselves with the person in the parable that we want to be. But what if we allow ourselves to complacently become the exact target Jesus meant to spear? We then miss His whole point and rob His parables of their razor edge. We create a de-clawed Jesus.
Take, for instance, the parable of the Good Samaritan. That's us, right? We're the good Samaritan, not the arrogant scribes and Pharisees. But "Good Samaritan" is now such a cliche that we've forgotten what it would have meant to Jesus' audience. Samaria was a half-Jewish, half-pagan nation resulting from the repopulation of the Northern kingdom after the war with Assyria. The Samaritan religion was a heretical mixture of God's Word and pagan ideas. No respectable evangelical minister would have had anything to do with it. And yet in Christ's story, the orthodox preachers pass by on the other side, and the heretic does what God requires. "The Good Samaritan" wasn't a heartwarming tale; it was a slap in the face to the religious establishment of Jesus' day. It would be like saying that a homosexual did the right thing, and two straight Christians failed.
Or consider the two men in the temple. We automatically recoil from the Pharisee; we're the humble publican. But if we as evangelical, Reformed people become puffed up at our "savedness," distance ourselves from "them" on the "outside," and equate politics with the Gospel, we become the Pharisees. We're not any better because we're saved; it's simply a testament to God's mercy that He saves and preserves us in spite of our thick heads.
Calvinists have a special temptation: We believe that God chose us by free grace before the foundation of the world. So that makes us better than the rest, right? How do we fight our own Pharisaical tendencies, instead of just pointing out the problems of others? For instance, finding Christians who look down on gays is easy. Finding one who treats them as human beings and neighbors who need to be loved and given the Gospel is harder. According to Jesus, we're all sexual sinners (Matthew 5), so we need salvation just as desperately. Also, getting caught up in left-wing/right-wing politics is easy. Keeping Christ central is harder. Being saved by all five solas of the Reformation doesn't mean jack squat if we're proud of ourselves for knowing them.
But one more temptation is ready to seduce those of us who get the message and strive to root out the Pharisee inside us. Are we better than other conservative evangelical Christians or fundamentalists who don't get it? Are we a better, more humble, more relevant breed of Christian?
Two men were praying in the temple. . . .
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by Chris Alexion, Copyright February 13, 2008, all rights reserved.
Just as Paul's opening comments are pregnant with theological life, his conclusion can't help but carry deep truths. This last section, a kind of addendum to the earlier three-part structure, offers Paul's closing words to the Ephesian church. Finally, says the apostle, be strong in the Lord, and in His might. Why? Because the Christian life is a war.
In the first place, then, whom do we fight? The picture is intimidating. Paul describes terrible, powerful enemies: "principalities, powers," "rulers of the darkness of this age," "hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places." The ESV is particularly descriptive: "For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places."
Paul asserts that the primary warfare in the Christian life is non-physical. We do not wrestle against flesh and blood. One of the devil's greatest victories has been his ability to turn mankind against itself. Nation against nation. Race against race. Cain against Abel. Politicians thrive on this kind of animosity, pitting us against the West, or against the
All this human infighting–what Douglas Jones would call misplaced antithesis–stems from a basic misunderstanding of our real battle, which began in Genesis. After Adam and Eve fell, God said, "I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her Seed; He shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise His heel" (Gen. 3:15).
So how do we fight this war in which we find ourselves entrenched? Paul tells us in verse 14. "Stand therefore, having girded your waist with truth, having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and having shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace; above all taking the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked one."
No Marine general would think of sending men into
Paul opens the letter thanking a sovereign God for the salvation of His church. Christ's righteousness, which comes to sinners through faith, is the only solution for the sin described in chapter two. Christian peace leads the discussion in chapter four, and Paul makes it clear that this peace or unity must be based on truth.
I grew up largely in Charismatic churches, and one strength of the Charismatics is that they don't sweep spiritual warfare under the rug–they acknowledge that demonic forces really do try to influence human events. Yet I grew up thinking of spiritual warfare in terms of loud prayer sessions (sometimes addressed to God in unknown tongues, or sometimes addressed to the devil himself in the form of "rebukes"). Spiritual warfare became a flashy prime-time affair; I never knew much about the dogged, daily struggle against the world, the flesh, and the devil in my own mind and heart. "But come by this Sunday evening for our special Spiritual Warfare service." It reminds me of a Christian comic book I saw at one point. The superheroes, instead of Batman or Spidey, were angels and archangels, and the villains were demons. While of course we don't want to deny the reality of the war between good and evil, isn't all this kind of missing something?
Reformed Christians, on the other hand, emphasize the intellectual part of spiritual warfare. And Paul certainly does lay stress on renewing our mind (Romans 12:1-2), as well as the importance of taking thoughts and arguments captive to Christ: "For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war according to the flesh. For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds, casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God…" (2 Corinthians 10:3-5). Yet over-intellectualizing this war is as bad as sensationalizing. Certainly the mind has its role; part of spiritual warfare deals with apologetics–with defending our faith against secular critiques. But Peter saw our warfare as more than this when he rebuked Ananias and Saphira (who were moved by satanic power to lie to God) in the book of Acts. Jesus knew it when he rebuked Peter, who was influenced by Satan himself to try to stop Jesus from going to the cross.
Perhaps the best way to summarize the Christian warfare is to use Paul's own words from Ephesians. Here's the ESV: "Take…the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, praying at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication. To that end keep alert with all perseverance, making supplication for all the saints…" (6:17-18).
We're not stuck on defense. Though weak in our own strength, we have a sharp sword that allows even mortals like us to take a swing at the evil one. I'm reminded of the story of David fleeing from King Saul (1 Samuel 21). David has no weapon, and asks the priest if he happens to have a sword nearby. The priest answers that they have no sword except the one David had taken earlier from the dead Goliath. They keep this sword back behind the ephod, wrapped in a cloth. David says, "There is none like that; give it to me."
The book of Hebrews describes the Word of God as a double-edged sword, alive and deadly. Keeping the passage from Ephesians in mind, we could think of one edge as Scripture and the other edge as prayer. The two go together. How many times have you been weaker, more vulnerable to temptation, because you've neglected the Word and prayer? I've lost track of my own failures. But when I do study the Word, when I do pray ("pray at all times…with all prayer," says Paul, using repetition to make us get it), especially when I pray for others ("making supplication for all the saints"), I'm stronger. I have a sword to thrust with.
It's important to remember one thing in closing. While spiritual warfare is real, and we play a real role, we will destroy ourselves if we trust our own strength. The psalms in particular drive this point home: "The king is not saved by his great army; a warrior is not delivered by his great strength" (Psalm 33:16). "If it had not been the Lord who was on our side–let Israel now say–if it had not been the Lord who was on our side…then the flood would have swept us away; the torrent would have gone over us" (Psalm 124:1-4).
Christians must fight, but the real warrior is Christ, and the real victory is already His. In one sense, an important sense, the battle is already over. That's why
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by Chris Alexion, Copyright February 12, 2008, all rights reserved.
Paul ended the last portion of his letter with a doxology (a brief exclamation of praise to God) and an amen. It's as though he's pausing for breath for the first time since he began. Chapters 1-3 could almost be considered as one long, rambling introduction–and it's humbling that Paul's intro contains more theological meat than many evangelical books and sermons today.
Paul sees it as simple: There's one God, one faith, and one baptism; therefore, the church should strive to be one, rather than fractured and disjointed. You can't build a temple if the stones will only stick together in small groups and cliques. They all need to be joined together, and the mortar Paul proposes to use is love.
I have a feeling Paul would lose patience with many of us conservative evangelicals, who will split a church because the pastor didn't come out strongly enough against supralapsarianism. But true Christian unity isn't a union in which anything goes, or in which doctrine doesn't matter. Unity must be a truthful unity, founded on the core beliefs of the saints and apostles, with Jesus Himself as the chief cornerstone. Consider how verses 14-16 bring in the importance of sound doctrine without de-emphasizing the importance of love. Unity, for Paul, means neither splitting churches over minor issues nor drifting aimlessly in the postmodern tide pool.
When Paul moves on to speak about personal life (
Paul then touches on family life (
The final aspect of this section (and really the last words before Paul's conclusion) deals with what we'd call work life (6:5-6:9). Yet Paul isn't actually speaking to managers and employees; he's speaking to masters and slaves. Obviously this isn't the place for a full-blown discussion of slavery–and even the term slavery is too ambiguous. Are we talking about Hebrew slavery, allowed and regulated by the law of Moses? Are we talking about Greek slavery, which often involved immense education? Roman slavery? Nineteenth-century racist slavery? The current form of slavery we call corrections or the penal system?
We can learn from Paul's other letters that slavery isn't ideal, and if his readers had the opportunity to gain their freedom, it was a good thing. Yet Paul never endorses a violent overthrow of the current Greco-Roman system, encouraging his readers instead to work within their current circumstances. And what Paul says here can be applied to contemporary job life as well; we all have "masters," though they tend to be corporate monoliths instead of Greek landowners. Paul is telling us to do our jobs as if we were doing them to Christ, not with mere "eyeservice, as men-pleasers." Similarly, those in authority should reject "threatening," remembering that they too have a Boss, and He rules heaven and earth. Imagine how a simple application of these verses could reshape our culture. Imagine that Christians were known at work, not as holier-than-thou coworkers with evangelistic one-liners, but as hard-working, selfless people with a secret motivation that make those around them curious to know more.
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