by Anonymous Logician, Copyright April 25, 2006, all rights reserved. 915 views
Let me begin by emphatically, pointedly, unhesitatingly–and any any other adverb that will do the trick–stating that I believe in the importance of theology. Doctrine matters, and if that issue is under debate, I'll throw in all my white chips, as well as most of my reds and blues. If you still don't believe me, go to Ideas and Paradigms and see how I interact with theological modernism.
That said, I also need to shine a light on the corollary of this truth. If your algebra teacher stood up and explained to you that 2x-3y, you'd be waiting for the other half of the equation. Similarly, sound doctrine requires that we get the whole biblical picture. And this means grasping the importance of charity and a little theological humility.
This point has grown on me over the past two years or so. I've long been interested in theology; it's almost a sort of hobby. But I was shocked to discover that I'd gradually begun thinking of people as the aggregate of the doctrines they believed. If their beliefs were close enough to mine, they were allies. If not, they were targets for conversion, bulls-eyes to be skewered by my theological javelin. But then a mad and marvelous proposition began to dawn on me–these people, were, after all, people.
Now by people I don't mean allies, opponents, or co-belligerents. Rather, the madcap suggestion burning in my brain hinted that these folks were more like men, human beings, walking and breathing images of God. In the case of fellow Christians, they were His adopted children. Hum, says I, there might be something in that.
This increasingly-liberal tendency of mine especially grew during my time at the Air-Land Emergency Resource Team. I stood at the end of a ten-week boot camp with seven squadmates and fifty-some unit mates, only a small number of which agreed with me theologically. Heck, many of them never considered the myriad issues we Reformed eggheads used to debate after church. And some even differed on the issue of courtship, I noted with some horror.
But horror gave way to a growing gratitude for who these guys were as men. These were the guys with whom I'd run, swum, hiked, done PT, and endured Saturday Inspection. These guys had helped me when I'd needed it, and I'd learned to help out where I was able. As my time at ALERT continued, the friendships forged in Basic Training grew and broadened. And now I sat wondering how it is that my fellow eggheads didn't see what I did.
After graduation, I discovered that the elders at my church had beaten me to the punch. Doctrinal firmness is necessary, they said, and spineless ecumenism is a danger. But we hardcore Reformed types need to be warned of other dangers. If the highway already has a bunch of signs pointing out the sharp curves, we don't need more truckloads of the yellow and black things. What we need is a warning about the falling rocks, the rocks here being a good symbol for the uncharitable nitpicking that often disrupts biblical unity. The psalmist says this unity is like precious ointment running down Aaron's beard. But we want to bottle the ointment and sell it "for the ministry."
Fixing the problem requires a change in perspective, or, if you like, in attitude. We may hear a brother or sister say something with which we disagree. When this happens, and it will, we don't have to wrestle Elijah's mantle of rebuke away from him, then turn in triumphant authority to educate the little sucker. We might, instead, take the opportunity to grow in patience and respect, or even–here's a good one–to learn something new.
In other words, doctrinal tension isn't always about the other guy. We need to consider the delicate question of whether such offenses really signal a problem with those around us. If someone goes around complaining that it's too light, too dark, too loud, or too quiet, and all this nonsense is giving him a headache, the problem might not be with the world around him.
It may simply be that his hat's too tight.