The Nature of True Religion, no. 3

Part one
Part two

John Cotton: Union with Christ and the Spirit’s Divine Light

John Cotton, the teaching elder in Boston’s First Church, was the sole theological mind (until John Davenport’s arrival in New England) to whom the Antinomians claimed allegiance. However, he was not antinomian himself; rather, his theological viewpoints were misunderstood and misrepresented by both friends and enemies so that they became caricatured. His theological statements on the issue of the believer’s assurance of salvation revealed that he was Christocentric; his emphasis was on union with Christ as the first basis of assurance. Next, he emphasized a testamental view of the federal theology, placing great emphasis upon the “absolute” promises, almost to the denigrating of “conditional” promises. Finally, he did have a place for Christian practice in assurance of faith; however, works were assigned a confirmatory, or secondary, role in the assurance of a believer.

At the height of the Antinomian Controversy, in response to the “Elder’s Reply,” a short response to his answers of sixteen doctrinal questions posed by the New England clergy, Cotton issued a lengthy rebuttal, now called “Mr. Cotton’s Rejoynder.” One historian called his tract “the most important exposition of Cotton’s theology at the time of the Controversy.” In it, he developed union with Christ as the first basis of assurance by stating that all the promises of justification and sanctification are made directly to Christ; saints participate in these promises only as they are united to Christ: “Indeed all the promises are made first and imediately to Christ, and by right of our union with him they come to be communicated to us in a way of faith and Sanctification.”

For Cotton, this was the difference between the Mosaic Law (which he identified with the Covenant of Works) and the Gospel (which he called the Covenant of Grace). In the Law, “the promise is made to the Condition or qualification of the creature.” If there was perfect obedience to the Law, satisfying the divine demand, then the individual could claim the promise of God. However, in the Gospel, “the promise is made to Christ, so that give me Christ and I claime my right to the promise and to all the comforts and blessings thereof.” Therefore, the promises of the Gospel were truly gracious “because all the promises are given to Christ, and all the conditions fulfilled in Christ, and the revealing of both is by the revealing of Christ given of grace freely to the Soul.” Gospel promises form the first and primary basis of the individual’s assurance of salvation. Since these promises belonged to Christ first and to the believer as she was in union with Christ, he taught that the believer should attempt to discern whether or not she was actually united to Christ. If there was union with Christ, then the conditional promises, such as faith or obedience, belonged automatically to that individual by virtue of union.

The entire discussion of conditional promises pointed to a second facet of Cotton’s understanding of the nature of true religion. That related to the entire milieu of covenant, or federal, theology. While some historians, led by Perry Miller, have presented a Puritan New England that was univocal in its development of covenant theology, recent studies have suggested a multivocal, or at least a bivocal, aspect to the theological discussion. The lines were generally drawn between those who emphasized the conditional promises of the covenant (the Intellectual Fathers) and those who clung to the absolute promises (the Spiritual Brothers).

Cotton stood in the theological tradition that emphasized the absolute promises of the covenant. He viewed salvation in terms of a testamental bequest, in which Christ as testator died, securing the benefits of God for his passive benefactors. Because salvation is “a free gift and confirmed by the death of the giver, it is more properly called a testament, not a covenant." Since salvation (or in the terms of the debate, justification) was a free gift, granted by the one who died to secure it, the receiver was completely passive upon reception. “Before regeneration we are not active at all,” he claimed, “no, nor in proxima potentia passive, to receive help from God to do it. But after Regeneration Acti agimus.”

For Cotton, the covenantal promises were absolute, ones only God in Christ can fulfill. God made these absolute promises to Christ, just as he made conditional promises in the New Covenant to Christ. Since all these promises were made to Christ, then it was incumbent on Christ to fulfill them; and because Christ did in fact fulfill these promises, only by virtue of union with him could the believer partake of them. He believed that union with Christ was required in order for human beings to gain salvific blessings. Not even assurance of the blessings of Christ’s grace could be “challenged” from God, except on the basis of union with Christ. Therefore, it was incumbent upon Christians ascertain that they are in fact united with Christ and then “plead [that] assured union” with Christ. Unless one had this prior, this first, assurance of union, no other evidence or sign, whether it be sanctification, works, or prayers, would be able to satisfy the anxious mind.

Although Cotton claimed that union with Christ was the basis of true religion, he left room for Christian practice, albeit in a secondary role. In answering the elders’ claim that he held “that we can see neither Sanctification nor faith no nor Justification, before the witness of the Spirit; but all at once by it,” he summarized his position on the role of Christian practice in the evidencing of salvation:

When the Spirit of God doth shed abroad his light into the Soul and giveth him a clear sight of his estate in a free promise of grace in Christ, such an one clearly discerneth both his Justification and his Sanctification the one of them giving good evidence to the other, the blood to the water and the water to the blood and the Spirit to them both, 1 John 5.6, 8. And thus in evidencing his Justification by his Sanctification he doth not build his justification upon his Sanctification nor hereby go in a Covenant of Works nor go aside to it.

Cotton related Chrsitian practice to justification in two ways. First, he argued that the Spirit’s regenerating action occurred before practice, using the striking image of divine light. The Spirit opened “the eyes of the understanding” so that the individual apprehended “the mysteries of Gods kingdome” through a new understanding of “the Scriptures, and works of God in us.” Cotton held that “only by Spiritual light and by Spiritual understanding and by comparing Spirituall things with Spirituall things” could the believer understand the spiritual truth contained in the Gospel. The light that the Spirit gave to the soul was called “a gracious sight of him Christ] wrought by the Spirit of Grace” which caused the soul “to mourn after Christ or for him.” This gracious sight was given as the Spirit breathed into the Word of God giving it “Divine force” and making it “a divine testimony.” In this manner, “the same word that calleth them to Christ, giveth them in a renewed measure his Spirit of faith, by which they do come to Christ, and do drink in the satisfaction of their Souls in the full Assurance of his grace and righteousness freely given to them of God.” Thus, the condition to right appropriation of works’ evidence was fulfilled in the “divine and supernatural light” of the Spirit.

Second, Cotton believed that works provided evidence to assure the soul. However, it was only in the context of this new spiritual sight that sanctification could be discerned correctly. For within this context, the believer understood that she did not perform these works in her own strength and power, and in this manner evidenced salvation. Rather, the Spirit “himself [who] setteth faith awork and stirreth it up to look forth to Christ and to wait on him, who being waited on, quickeneth by his Spirit all our gifts in his name to bring forth fruits of righteousnes unto God.” The indwelling spirit of Christ was “the root of this tree”; by the “power of the Spirit” the tree bore fruit in active holiness. When the elders accused Cotton of denigrating works of sanctification, such as prayer, he replied, “My meaning therefore was not to beat men off the use of holy duties or from seeking the face of God and sight of Justification by Christ in the use of them, it being part of that way wherein himself hath appointed us to seek him in Christ.”

Cotton saw two potential dangers that could spring from the use of works in assurance of faith, dangers he sought to safeguard against by emphasizing the Spirit’s prior work. The first danger was that works had no promised blessing; rather, promised blessings belonged solely to Christ and to believers by virtue of union with Christ. The second danger was the abuse of works as an evidence of salvation. Cotton feared that the believer could become complacent in her Christian practice. He observed that “such an use of them [works] whereby I either seek to attaine right of the promised blessing by doing the duty which the promise calleth for, or else do satisfie myself in the comforts and enlargements I find in the duties” was not simply an use, but an abuse of sanctifying works. Christian practice should be done in a disinterested manner, not out of desired benefit, but rather for the glory of Christ.

He was also concerned that works might become the sole evidence for salvation. In responding to the elders, he claimed that “if a man neither give nor can give any other ground (as having indeed no other ground to give) of his justification but only the evidence of his Sanctification...their [sic] faith is not builded nor grounded at all upon the righteousness of Christ nor upon the free promise of grace wherein that righteousness is applied to us, but only upon their works.” To Cotton, practice must match up with a profession of spiritual life in the soul. Practice alone was a relation that was “either counterfeit or very suspicious” and much more likely “to be legal than Evangelical.”

It appears that there were several connections between Cotton and Edwards’ later development in Affections. Although Edwards does not quote from Cotton at all, ideas held by Cotton are represented in Affections, through the mediation of theologians such as Richard Sibbes and John Calvin. There was a parallel between Cotton's “light” and Edwards’ “new sense” (which Edwards represented elsewhere as a “divine and supernatural light immediately imparted to the soul by God”). There was also a parallel in the linking of divine light and practice. However, Cotton’s connection with Edwards was overshadowed by the fact that his opponent, Shepard, was quoted extensively by the Northampton divine while he was not quoted at all.

The Nature of True Religion, no. 2

Part one

The American Puritan Context: The Antinomian Controversy

In order to understand the American Puritan context for Edwards' Affections, it is imperative to gain a complete and full understanding of the historical and theological issues in play during the Antinomian Controversy. The word antinomian literally meant “against law” and the position described the exaltation of internal and subjective elements of Christianity, particularly the inner “witness of the Spirit,” over external elements, such as obedience to the moral law.

This position first appeared in the American colonies around the time of Anne Hutchinson’s immigration in May 1634. By November 1634, her husband, William Hutchinson, was elected deputy from Boston to the Massachusetts General Court. Anne occupied herself in visiting neighbors, particularly during times of childbirth. Soon she began to hold meetings in her home for the purpose of discussing the previous Sunday’s sermon. In her opinion, many ministers preached a “legal” religion, because they argued for a necessary connection between sanctification and justification, between a believer’s works and salvation.

As a result of these deviant opinions, some area ministers wondered if John Cotton, teacher at Boston’s First Church, had anything to do with the spreading “heresy.” On 25 October 1636 the ministers of the Massachusetts Bay met with Cotton, Hutchinson, and her brother-in-law, John Wheelwright. John Winthrop reported that

Mr. Cotton was present and gave satisfaction to them, so as he agreed with them in the point of sanctification, and so did Mr. Wheelwright; so as they all did hold that sanctification did help to evidence justification. The same he had delivered plainly in public, divers times; but for the indwelling of the person of the Holy Ghost, he held that still, as some others of the ministers did, but no union with person of the Holy Ghost, (as Mrs. Hutchinson and others did,) so as to amount to a personal union.

The New England clergy believed that the situation was under control; on the key point of sanctification evidencing justification, Cotton was in agreement with them. However, the Hutchinsonians were not quieted; in December, 1636 another meeting was held with the ministers of New England. At this meeting, Cotton received a list of sixteen questions to answer in writing to the satisfaction of the ministers. His answers engered several exchanges, as the keepers f orthodoxy sought to pin him down theologically.

On 17 January 1637 John Wheelwright preached the fast-day sermon. Wheelwright, described by a contemporary as “a man of bold and stiff conceit of his own worth and light,” preached what this observer deemed “a seditious sermon.” Warning his hearers of the dangers of falling into a “covenant of works” by linking evidences of salvation too closely to salvation itself, Wheelwright’s sermon created a firestorm. He was called before the court, “and his sermon being produced, he justified it, and confessed he did mean all that walk in such a way...After much debate, the court adjudged him guilty of sedition, and also of contempt, for that the court had appointed the fast as a means of reconciliation of differences, etc., and he purposely set himself to kindle and increase them.” Though Wheelwright was convicted of sedition, the court deferred his sentencing in order to allow him to repent. He did not and was banished from the colony.

After a riotous election time, during which Henry Vane, a Hutchinson supporter, was voted out of the governor’s office and replaced by John Winthrop, all of New England gathered at the end of August, 1637, for a general synod, the first in New England’s brief history. The New England elders listed eighty-two errors of the Antinomian faction, but only five points stood in the way of a full agreement between Cotton and the other ministers. After a series of negotiations, the number was reduced to three; Cotton then agreed on those three points and a reconciliation was effected.

However, there was no reconciliation available for Anne Hutchinson and her followers. In November 1637, Anne Hutchinson was placed on trial for countenancing those who were seditious and rebellious against the authorities. During the trial she appeared to hold her own, until she claimed that she had immediate revelations from God’s Spirit. This became the charge against the Hutchinsonians; Winthrop said as much: “We have been hearkening about the trial of this thing and now the mercy of God by a providence hath answered our desires and made her lay open herself and the ground of all these disturbances to be by revelations...The groundwork of her revelations is the immediate revelation of the spirit and not by the ministry of the word.” Hutchinson and her followers were banished from the Massachusetts Bay Colony and left to help establish Rhode Island.

From this historical survey of the Antinomian Controversy, it appears that one key figure was John Cotton. This Antinomian teaching developed in his church and he was charged with maintaining these teachings “too obscurely.” At the trial of Anne Hutchinson, it seemed at times that Cotton was on trial rather than Hutchinson; though he agreed with his clergy brothers in principle, forced to go through a public purgatory.

The other representative theological mind in the debate was Thomas Shepard, minister at Cambridge. In June 1636, Shepard began preaching a series of sermons, eventually published as The Parable of the Ten Virgins. The preface reported that those messages sought to combat the “leaven of Antinomian and Familistical opinions [which were] stirring in the country,” which were being “spread elsewhere by the new lights of these times.” Not only did Shepard preach against Cotton and the Hutchinsonians, but he also engaged in correspondence with Cotton, seeking to understand his views. As a result, investigation of Cotton and Shepard’s thought on the nature of true religion is vital to understand the later development of Edwards.

The Nature of True Religion, no. 1

[note: This was an essay that I presented in several venues before finally publishing a version of it in All for Jesus: A Celebration of the 50th Anniversary of Covenant Theological Seminary, ed. Robert Peterson and Sean Michael Lucas (Ross-shire, UK: Christian Focus, 2006), 117-36.]

Introduction

Charles Chauncy, the stout Old Light polemicist, responding to the apology for the Great Awakening set forth by Jonathan Edwards, opened his Seasonable Thoughts on the State of Religion in New England with a thirty page historical preface, referring to the “antinomians, familists and libertines, who infected these churches, above a hundred years ago.” Why did Chauncy review an event that occurred a hundred years ago? Aside from the fact that Chauncy attempted to implement the effective debate technique of “guilt by association,” the charge he raised, that “the like spirit and errors, prevailing now as they did then,” provided a clue to the larger American Puritan context in which the battle over the Great Awakening’s meaning took place.

This battle for the Great Awakening’s meaning, the determination whether or not it was a “work of God,” focused on two questions. The first question was, “Are you ‘saved’?” This was the question of the “third person” view, how one person perceived another’s spiritual state. Around this question revolved the propriety of simply asking this question, particularly of ministers, decrying those who did not have an “experimental Christ.” The second question was, “Am I ‘saved’?” This was the question of the “first-person,” of introspection. It focused the individual upon her own salvation, the assurance of her own faith. How these two questions were answered and the evidence used to support the answers determined whether one stood with the Old Lights or the New.

Even more, Chauncy’s reference pointed up the fact that New England divines had debated questions related to salvation and assurance for over a hundred years. With their emphasis on “experimental” religion, the Puritans were well-known for their writings in the area of casuistry, or cases of conscience, where they sought to discern pastorally whether one had experience salvation. It was fitting that the last great representative of the Puritan mind, Jonathan Edwards, struggled to determine for himself and for other New Lights what true religion was, and how it could be found in oneself and in others. The crown jewel of Edwards’ thought on this issue was his book Religious Affections (1746).

Many historians, led by Perry Miller, misread Religious Affections by forcing it into the context of the eighteenth century empricism of John Locke and Isaac Newton and by claiming that the Affections represented Edwards’ contribution to the psychology of religion and to the modern American “mind.” However, I would suggest that Locke and Newton are the wrong intellectual context for Affections. To interpret Affections solely in terms of Lockean empiricism is to interpret Edwards’ argument wrongly. The proper intellectual context for Affections was not Lockean, but Puritan, specifically American Puritanism. Therefore, I argue that Jonathan Edwards’ Religious Affections must be interpreted in its American Puritan context.

In order to recognize the proper context for Affections, we must return to Charles Chauncy and his historical preface. Chauncy tried to connect Edwards with the Antinomians who captured the attention of the Massachusetts Bay Colony from 1636 to 1638. This specific historical context held incredible sway in New England; from that point on, by the very mention of “antinomianism,” one minister could blacklist another, sullying his reputation with the extremism associated with Anne Hutchinson.

Moreover, Chauncy’s reference also revivifed the theological fisures first brought to light by the Antinomian Controversy. As historian Janice Knight demonstrated, the Antinomian Controversy was a fissure in the Puritan coalition at the Massachusetts Bay Colony. This coalition was made up of the “Intellectual Fathers” on one side; their party included John Winthrop, Thomas Shepard, Peter Bulkeley, and Thomas Hooker. The Intellectual Fathers stood, according to Knight, in the line of William Ames; they, in particular, “insisted on the usefulness of Christian works as an evidence of salvation.” In the Antinomian Controversy, their champion was Shepard, who from his Newtown (later renamed Cambridge) parish preached a series of sermons over four years entitled The Parable of the Ten Virgins, in which he sought to refute the claims of the opposition.

That opposing party, whom Knight dubbed “Spiritual Brothers,” were in the intellectual line of Richard Sibbes and John Preston (and they would claim, John Calvin) and included John Cotton, John Wheelwright, and Henry Vane. This party “presented a vibrant alternative within the mainstream of Puritan religious culture”; and in the Antinomian Controversy, the Spiritual Brothers, led by Cotton, believed that “the transformation of the soul was neither incremental nor dependent on exercises of spiritual discipline. In this piety there are no steps to the altar.”

The coalition that had been maintained between the Spiritual Brothers and the Intellectual Fathers was shattered with the arrival of Anne Hutchinson. The crisis which resulted shook New England to its very core. The tradition that became the dominant theological position, both in Boston and in the history that followed, emphasized the primacy of sanctification in assurance. However, significantly, though Cotton agreed to keep the peace, he did not change his position; he maintained that assurance must come first without any evidence of sanctification, leading Shepard to fume, “Mr. Cotton repents not, but is hid only...He doth stiffly hold the revelation of our good estate still, without any sight of word or work.”

Further, the political aspects of the theological debate—both in 1636 and 1742—should not be missed. As historian Louise Breen recently argued, the Antinomian Controversy of 1636 was about politics and economics as much as theology. The Antinomian party, coalescing around the leadership of Henry Vane, challenged the standing political authority of John Winthrop and other “original” Massachuesetts Bay founders. Importantly, ministers, such as John Wheelwright, were not charged with heresy alone; they were also charged with sedition, a political charge that struck at the disordering nature of this theological division. The party headed by Winthrop and Thomas Shephard was the party of order as well as orthodoxy.

The situation had changed little by 1742; the danger of disorder in the British colonies brought by the New Lights threatened the disintergration of British culture in the new land. Added to this threat of internal disorder was the threat of the French and Native Americans on the western edge of the Atlantic seaboard, a threat that will be realized in the Seven Years War. By making reference to the Antinomian Controversy and attempting to side the New Lights with the earlier antinomians, Chauncy tried to claim the position of Shepard and Winthrop and to pose as the restorer of order and good sense.

Edwards would not choose between Cotton and Shepard, the Spiritual Brothers and Intellectual Fathers. Rather, in Affections, Edwards held the two Puritan positions in tension, the new sense of the heart and the holy walk of the life. Even though quotations from Shepard account for over half of all the footnotes in Affections, there is clearly a Sibbes-Cotton influence, particularly in the development of Edwards’ new spiritual sense. Though not to be argued in this essay, it could be suggested that after Edwards’ death, the synthesis that he developed fragmented. In response to the Separate Congregationalists, the New Divinity men, Joseph Bellamy, Samuel Hopkins, and Jonathan Edwards, Jr., emphasized the evidentialist stream in the Edwardsean synthesis; their appropriation of Edwards’ dissertation The Nature of True Virtue contributed to his disciples’ sometimes rationalistic neonomianism. In response to the Old Calvinists and the Unitarians, the Revivalists (made up of Separate Congregationalists and Baptists primarily) emphasized the experiential stream in the Edwardsian synthesis; this stream tended to be subjective and somewhat antinomian. Sadly, the synthesis, which Edwards’ struggled to develop, collapsed in the short years after his death.

Reformed Catholicism v. Reformed Catholicity, no. 2

I wanted to engage a little more intentionally with one of the comments to the first post. So that others might track along, I'll reproduce it here:

But the gospel calls us to repentance. That was the "hark!" of Luther's first of his 95 theses, which itself was but a reading of Christ's own call: "Repent." (Matt. 4:17) Certainly, there must be a corporate dimension to this, and our own Presbyterian tradition has given it expression in the phrase semper reformanda. As such, it is quintessentially Presbyterian to "look[] to forge something other than Presbyterianism" if that is what a searching out of ourselves in the light of Scripture leads us to do. I think the main thrust of what you are saying is that we shouldn't become something else or borrow from others just for the sake of it (and I agree -- at least to the same extent that we shouldn't stay the same just for the sake of it), but you don't seem to give much credit to the possibility that those who call themselves Reformed Catholics are seeking to appropriate things from other traditions because a very Presbyterian sola-scriptura study of such things has led them to conclude that those things are biblical and that we are missing out on something without them in our lives.

The things I have come to envy in other traditions are NOT the things they have "invented," but the ways in which they have preserved -- in their doctrines, laws, and liturgies -- biblical religion. I believe Presbyterianism has done this well, and that the biblical, "catholic" faith finds beautiful expression in Presbyterianism. As a college student, I was blown away by how the Presbyterian faith helped me understand myself in light of Scripture, and I'm not sure that I would be here typing this comment if it weren't for the Presbyterians that ministered Jesus's love to me then.

But "Presbyterianism" didn't fall from the sky in 15- or 16-whatever. It was a reformation of the Western Christian tradition. And it is therefore patently un-Presbyterian to deny the Presbyterian-ness of pre-Presbyterian Christianity. For example, is St. Giles Cathedral not Presbyterian because it was built long before John Knox ascended the pulpit there and is named after a medieval recluse who healed a deer? That doesn't mean that everything that happened before the Reformation should be embraced as good (such a sentiment would very much be un-Presbyterian), but the entire history of pre-Reformation Western Christianity is *our* history, warts and all, and the genius of Presbyterianism is not our ability to pretend like that history didn't happen but our own way of sifting it and appropriating it for today. Anglicans, Lutherans, and Roman Catholics also have appropriated it according to their own principles (albeit, in ways that are sometimes so far from Scripture as to be unrecognizable as biblical). No wonder then that those who are trying to reflect on what being Presbyterian means as a matter of historical moment should find it helpful to consider these "high church" traditions rather than Brother Bob's traveling salvation show or other low-church novelties. Yes, high-church churches have their own novelties, but at least they often serve as a window into the past that we as Presbyterians share with them rather than just a purposeful repudiation of the past for the sake of repudiating it.

My point is that I think your understanding of what Reformed Catholicism is all about fails to give sufficient credit to the good faith of those asking questions about what the heck Presbyterianism *is* (well before we move on to how it should even change) and fails to give sufficient weight to the motivating concerns of the questions they are asking, concerns that I think nevertheless resonate in your own longing for place and identity as expressed in this post. So don't ditch Reformed Catholicism quite so eagerly. I think it's more worthwhile than either of us could imagine -- as is Reformed Catholicity.

This is a great comment. I think the writer raises a number of excellent and thoughtful points, with which I'd love to engage.

1. The writer points out that the Reformed and Presbyterian tradition is one that stresses semper reformanda ("always reforming"); as a result, it is quintessentially Presbyterian to look for something other than Presbyterianism. While I'm sympathetic to this point, I wonder whether it claims too much--for if this is the case, then to be most faithful to Presbyterianism, we would not be Presbyterian; and that strikes me as an illogical claim. Even more, it strikes me the writer is putting something at the center of Presbyterianism and so takes it upon himself to define what Presbyterianism is--Presbyterians stand for "always reforming." Instead of the markers I might suggest (sovereignty of God, sola gratia and sola fide in relation to justification and sanctification, covenant and Kingdom, nature of the church and its sacraments, representative polity under Christ the King), the writer puts this point of perpetual reformation at the center.

And so, the question could rightly be asked, is this the case? Is perpetual reformation the center of what it means to be Presbyterian? Even more, does this perpetual reformation led us back to ritual practices or religious beliefs that were rejected by the Reformers themselves? That is, does perpetual reformation mean that we forake the communion of the saints across time by seeing something as biblical that the Reformers rejected themselves?

These are important questions--I would tend to argue that in fact "always reforming" becomes a rubric under which a whole raft of beliefs and practices can be imported into a religious tradition. Still, it is worthwhile to raise whether this motto is truly at the center and whether we should tailor our religious practices accordingly.

2. The writer also observed that perhaps I wasn't crediting the good faith of those who are simply asking the question about what Presbyterianism is. But here the answer seems a little easier--Presbyterianism is a historical entity whose beliefs, practices, and stories can be investigated and measured. I hoped that I got at that in my On Being Presbyterian. Regardless of what one could say about that book, it seems fair to say that it represents what historically can be recognized as Presbyterianism.

And I would agree with the writer that Presbyterianism didn't simply drop from the sky (in fact, I make that point repeatedly in my church history classes). It does experience continuity with what went before. But it also experienced remarkable discontinuity as well, as historian Margo Todd (for example) makes strikingly clear. I think that perhaps our current "high church" interest overstresses continuity with the medieval church over historical discontuinity.

It seems, rather, that the question asked is what Presbyterianism ought to be for this generation. And that is a different question--and that is the one about which I am most worried. For I cherish Presbyterianism, not only as a historical entity but also as it is incarnate in particular situations today. And I worry that as we "add" things to Presbyterianism, borrowed from other traditions under the guise of "Reformed catholicism," we will end up with something that is different from Presbyterianism. It goes back to my question--how much "reform" can a tradition bear before it becomes a different (new) tradition?

3. The commentator, however, seemed to miss my larger point--namely, if we are going to be truly "catholic," then we better start paying attention to worldwide Pentecostalism. As Phillip Jenkins makes clear, global Christianity is overwhelming Pentecostal; and so, if we wanted to be "always Reforming," then perhaps we need to be reforming in the direction of this "new thing" God is doing.

I would assume that most who lean toward "Reformed Catholicism" would reprobate this claim, suggesting that Pentecostalism has too many errors for "Reformed" types to take seriously. But this, to me, seems like a double-standard on their part. How can we pay attention to the ritual practices of Lutheranism, Anglicanism, and Roman Catholicism and not pay attention to the Pentecostals, if we desire to be truly "catholic"? What would it look like if we were to incorporate "world Christianity" into our worship? Pentecostal practices? Would it produce something different from "Presbyterianism"? I think so--which raises the real questions going the other way--how much divergence can a tradition tolerate?

This is where my own notion of "Reformed Catholicity" works better, I think. By working out of our own our own religious identity (our beliefs, practices, and stories), it moves to engage others in charitable and humble conversation and cooperation when possible to live out the primary reality that we both share--we are both clothed with Jesus Christ by faith alone in him. It may be that we will learn some things about our own tradition through the engagement; it may be that we will contribute something to others. However, catholicity and catholicism represent two different stances; one speaks of engagement, the other of adoption. I think the our Reformed faith, grand as it is, requires the former, but not the latter.

Reprocessing bad process

The title of this post is one of my favorite sayings, drawn from the Intersect forum that we run here at the Seminary led by Bob Burns and Tim Habershon. Basically, the point of it is that when we engage in bad process, we need to go back and reprocess it--apologize, deal with it, and try to make it right.

As readers of this blog know, I have generally avoided comment on the current goings-on in the PCA under the heading, "Federal Vision." Part of that is because for the last year, I've been a member of the GA-appointed study committee studying those issues; I didn't believe it would be right for me to make public comment. Part of the reason is because I've been saddened by the tone of the public debate over the past three years--especially since I've come to the Seminary and learned from my wonderful colleagues how to agree and disagree in a winsome fashion.

But part of the reason is that I've contributed to the bitter tone of the debate. As is known now from this post, I wrote some things before I came to the Seminary, while I was still an assistant pastor in Louisville, Kentucky, that may have said a number of right things but was utterly wrong in tone and attitude. Shortly after I wrote the two reviews of Leithart and Wilson, I took my first blog down because I concluded that it was extremely unhelpful; I had hoped by doing so it was out of the public realm; and, concluding that blogging doesn't accomplish much, I didn't start blogging again for 18 months.

However, more than unhelpful, the way I said what I said was wrong--while I disagree with them in a number of respects, Peter Leithart and Doug Wilson are brothers in Christ; that was what the GA report said and that is what I believe. As brothers, they ought not be treated in a way that disrespects them as persons or pastors, even when I or others may disagree with their views. And so, I publicly apologize for the tone of those two reviews as well as the satirical poem that Mark Horne posted without attributing to me.

I hope by reprocessing my own bad process from 2004, we can move beyond personalities and, especially my own public failings. I still aspire to the things that I talk about on this blog: gracious and winsome dealing with others, even when we might disagree. May God grant us all grace to live by the Spirit and so know the love and joy and peace which the Spirit brings.

Reformed Catholicism v. Reformed Catholicity, no. 1

I have a confession to make: I like the Mercersburg theologians, too. That may sound strange coming from someone who spends his time thinking and writing about 19th and 20th century southern Presbyterians, but while I was at seminary, I spent a great deal of time reading John Williamson Nevin and Phillip Schaff. And the reason I did was because I was attracted to their vision of "reformed catholicism."

After all, I was raised in a church context that started Plymouth Brethren, moved to a Bible church, and then ended up Independent Baptist (and other variations from there). Particularly for the Brethren and for non-denominational Bible church types, there is an underlying desire for Christians to lay aside their "distinctiveness" in order to be "mere Christians" around the common table of the Lord. The problem was that by not having a creed, there was an unwritten creed of which folks inevitably ran afoul--dispensational premillennialism; separatism; legalism.

By the time I got to seminary, I longed for something that emphasized the larger unity of Christ's church on the one hand (in ways similar to my upbringing) while making explicit our creedal and confessional commitments. That was the major reason I found Nevin such invigorating reading--staunchly Reformed and yet desirous to explore the larger "catholic" reality of the church. Over time I was able to read Nevin both sympathetically and critically--sympathetic to his vision, critical of the intellectual and ecclesial means by which he tried to accomplish it. Especially important in this regard was paying attention to his context and not being tempted to divorce him from it.

And yet, I've never truly given up on the ideas on catholicity which he articulated. For example, one of my first full length essays in the WTJ was on "J. Gresham Machen, Ned B. Stonehouse, and the Quandary of Reformed Ecumencity": how do Reformed churches affirm their own doctrinal commitments on the one hand while working together with other Reformed and non-Reformed churches? While I wasn't fully satisfied with the answers that some gave (esp. Van Til), I felt the pressure--from my past and hopes for the future--to explore these issues. And even after I became Presbyterian, I never saw myself or acted in ways that were "sectarian."

I say all that to set forth my bona fides on this issue. Because at the end off the day, I worry that what I mean by "Reformed Catholicism" and what others may mean represent two different things.

What I mean probably would be better covered by the other label: Reformed Catholicity. That is, from the profound embrace and understanding of our own unique Presbyterian identity, we engage other Gospel-oriented traditions with charity and respect, hoping that we may be mutually encouraged (Romans 1:12) as a result of the exchange.

What I fear that others mean by this label: from the discomfort with and lack of understanding of our own unique Presbyterian identity, we adopt beliefs and practices from other Christian traditions (including, especially, Roman Catholicism) in ways that transform Presbyterianism into something that looks a whole lot like Anglicanism, Lutheranism, or Roman Catholicism.

I'll be quite candid--I don't want to mess with the boundaries what we have typically understood (and what I have tried to represent in On Being Presbyterian) as "plain ol' Presbyterianism." And in saying that, I recognize that this Presbyterian identity needs to be incarnated within our own, unique, contemporary cultural systems, which may cause our beliefs and practices to look different from the 17th or 19th centuries (in the same way that these beliefs and practices will look differently in Japan as opposed to the US). Still, if Reformed Catholicism means that we are drawing beliefs and practices from other, "higher church" traditions to meld with our own, then ultimately we are looking to forge something other than Presbyterianism.

Along that line, it is striking that those who promote "Reformed Catholicism" are only looking to the "high church" or mainline American Protestant traditions to demonstrate their catholicity. And yet, the fastest growing form of Christianity is actually Pentecostalism--for example, there are over 220 million Assemblies of God adherents worldwide. What does Reformed Catholicism look like in the face of global Pentecostalism? It doesn't appear that advocates are interested discussing that question.

And yet, I think the pose of "Reformed Catholicity" actually helps us to do so--because it starts with understanding, affirming, and embracing our own religious identity (our beliefs, practices, and stories). And then, from that starting place of self-understanding, it moves to engage others not to adapt and adopt the best of their tradition nor to paternalistically impart our greater "wisdom." Rather, I seek to keep the main thing the main thing--seeing the radical Gospel orientation and common faith in Jesus, I engage in charitable and humble conversation and cooperation when possible to live out the primary reality that we both share--we are both clothed with Jesus Christ by faith alone in him.

Thus, perhaps we would be better served to think more intentionally about what we mean by "catholicism" in the language we use. If we mean simply a reformed version of Roman Catholicism, we don't need to seek that because it already exists--it is called Anglicanism. But if we mean an affirmation of our common union in Jesus with others who do not share our Presbyterian and Reformed identity and of our desire to dialogue with them with charity and great respect, then perhaps we should think about "Reformed Catholicity" instead.

And it may be that it is in this way, out of our own sense of who we are as Presbyterians, that we are "catholics" after all.

A moment of insanity

I've been wrestling with insanity for a little while now. Frustrated by my lifestyle--long hours at the office leaving no time for exercise or play; lunch appointments that often featured hamburgers and french fries--I had been toying with the idea of buying a bike and taking up cycling.

Last night, in a moment of true insanity, I broke down and went in whole hog (as it were): a Trek FX 7.5. I told the guy that was helping me that I felt like I had been dating the idea of doing this and now I was marrying it--might as well spend a ridiculous amount of money to make the commitment stick!

In order to follow through with my commitment (and knowing that my wife was watching me closely), I got up this morning and was out the door at 6:30a, riding my new bike over toward the Katy Trail IN THE RAIN! My plan was to ratchet up my riding, similar to begin to train for a marathon--three days a week (Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday); the weekdays, starting with 30 minutes of hard riding and Saturday, 60 minutes of more leisurely, distance riding.

The problem is that right near my house, on the way to the trail, is a wicked big hill. It wasn't too bad going to the trail; I had enough energy to conquer it. But on the way back, after riding 6-7 miles in 30 minutes, trying to make it back up the hill about killed me. I had to get off the bike and walk it the last part; and when I got off the bike, my legs wobbled. I collapsed on our family room floor and sucked down three glasses of water.

But I'm committed; I've spent too much money to be otherwise. And so, on Saturday morning, at 7am, you can find me riding my bike toward the City of St. Charles. It just goes to prove that a little learning can make one quite mad.

Back in the saddle

Sorry that I've not posted in two weeks. It has been a bit busy--presbytery, trip to Savannah and Augusta, Georgia (with some time on Tybee Island and our friend, Brannon Bowman and a wonderful tour of Independent Presbyterian Church from our new friend, Ron Parrish), board meeting, and a trip to Kansas City (enjoying time with a new friend, Jim Baxter). But the semester is winding down and so hopefully I'll be able to post more frequently in the days ahead.

Meredith Kline dies

From Christian Observer:

It is with great sadness and heavy heart that we say goodbye to Dr. Meredith G. Kline, who passed away on Friday night, April 13, 2007. Dr. Kline greatly influenced me personally through his writings, which constantly led me back to our precious Savior, Jesus Christ. Yet, even in the midst of the sadness at our loss, there is also rejoicing that Meredith has now been joined with the crucified and risen Lamb of God in Heaven. Heaven was one of the major themes in Meredith's writings and it is a great comfort to us all that what was once his by faith is now his by sight. May our dear brother now rest from his labors in his sabbath rest in Christ as he has already entered glory through the first resurrection and as he awaits with anticipation the even more glorious second resurrection to come. For over half a century, Dr. Meredith G. Kline, an ordained minister in the Orthodox Presbyterian Church, served as a professor of Old Testament at Westminster Theological Seminary (in Philadelphia), Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, and Westminster Seminary California. He received his B.D. and Th.M. degrees from Westminster Theological Seminary (Philadelphia) and his Ph.D. degree in Assyriology and Egyptology from Dropsie College.

A New Troelstchian Typology?

Ernest Troelstch, in his classic book The Social Teaching of Christian Churches (1912), suggested a basic typology that has framed the way many religion scholars view the development of Christian churches. Troelstch argued that at their most radical, Christians tend to group themselves together in sects. These serve as antithetical groupings that stand against established churches, challenging these churches in order to bring about reform. Over time, however, these sects become more regularized, loose some of their radical nature, become institutionalzied, and finally end up as established churches themselves.

The most obvious example of this process in American religious history is the Methodists. Starting as a sect within the Anglican Church, Methodism had a radical edge to it, trying to bring about a holiness reform within the structures of Anglicanism. When that was no longer possible, they set up their own structures and eventually became the largest Protestant denomination during the 19th century. Another, late 19th century example is the Christian and Missionary Alliance, which banded together in a loose network around A. B. Simpson's "four-fold" Gospel.

I wonder, though, if a new typology is "emerging"--instead of sects, I wonder if the new grouping is one called "network." At the beginning, these networks feel free and somewhat radical, people who gather across denominational (or non-denominational) boundaries in order to form like-minded partnerships for mission. However, over time as these networks formalized beliefs, practices, and stories, they take on identities that foster denomination-like existences.

One example of this might be the Willow Creek Association. Shaped by the ministry philosophy of Bill Hybels, the Willow Creek Association serves as a network of churches that share denomination-like beliefs, practices, and stories, all of which cohere around Hybels own successful ministry. Another example might be the Calvary Chapel network (which according to the March 2007 Christianity Today is experiencing a great deal of difficulty). These networks are denomination-like, but they experience a great deal of difficulty when the original charismatic figure leaves. They tend to lose purpose, fail to transition generationally, and ultimately do not sustain themselves.

Some of our current generation of seminarians seem to prefer to think about joining "networks" instead of "denominations." The line of conversation often goes something like, "Well, all denominations do is fight over doctrine; I'm about mission. The way to foster mission is to bring like-minded people together; but in my denomination, there are extreme ____ [fill in the blank] who prevent mission from happening. Hence, I should join a 'network' out of a position of independency in order to pursue mission."

The problem comes from the fact that the networks do not inculcate an identity that shapes the group, its purpose, or its dynamics. For example, there are often no real accountability structures in networks, no doctrinal standards that have stood the test of time (or have been developed by and subscribed to by the group itself), no stories of long faithful pastors, missionaries, or church planters. Instead, what ties these networks together are common practices (contemporary worship music, aggressive evangelism and discipleship, small group ministries) and some common doctrines (often doctrines of grace). But there doesn't appear to be a binding identity for the network itself, other than it stands against "the denomination" or some other structure.

In this way, perhaps these networks play the role of Troelstch's "sects" in his typology. If so, then they will either become new denominations themselves or dissolve after the original founders/visionaries pass from the scene. And if that is the case, perhaps it might be better to find a "denomination" of which to be a part, with all of its flaws and infighting and imperfections, but also with all of its common stories, practices, and beliefs. In this way, one might find an identity not only for oneself and the emerging culture, but for one's children, grandchildren, and generations afterward.

Carl Trueman...

...on conspiracy theories. Brilliant, once again.

Missouri Baptists, Culture War, and the Gospel

There was a very interesting article on the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch this morning, titled omniously, "Missouri's most powerful Baptist takes on the 'emerging church'." In some ways, it was a follow-up to an earlier article that the P-D had run on The Journey, a very successful Acts 29 network church in our city that was (unfortunately) titled "The Bible and Beer" (that article had highlighted the church's "Theology on Tap" conversation held at Schafly's Brewery).

The article this morning focused on Roger Moran, one of the leaders of SBC conservatives here in this state. And admist some of the silliness, there were some very interesting quotes that moved beyond the "issue" to the real issues.

First, it appears that Moran lumps together "emerging" churches such as The Journey with the SBC moderates that he defeated earlier. But the reason for doing this was that these emerging churches are places "where you can drink beer in the bar, you can talk about rock 'n' roll, you can watch R-rated movies on film night." In Moran's mind, these were the moral excesses of the SBC progressives in the 1980s (and when I was in Louisville, stories of SBTS keggers were legendary and probably a little overblown); these cultural and moral markers that characterized the progressives are the same as the emerging church; hence, the Acts 29 network must be moderate.

But this line of reasoning is an uneasy fit, even for Moran. Though he doesn't acknowledge it in the P-D article, there are major theological differences between SBC progressives and the Acts 29 folks like the leaders of The Journey. Chief among them is that the Acts 29 network actually believes the Gospel (in its classic and Calvinistic formulations), holds to the inerrancy of Scripture, and is passionate about evangelism and discipleship. As a result, the identification of the emerging church leaders and SBC "moderates" is an uneasy one at best.

Even more striking, Moran identifies the nature of the church (and its Christianity) based on external practices--drinking, rock music, and movies--that were the bellweather issues for Baptist conservatives of the 1970s and 1980s. And yet, those issues don't seem to resonate as much as they used to do. In fact, many younger evangelical Christians view those issues as matters of indifference compared to the "weighter" matters of love, justice, and mercy to the poor or the need for sustainable care for the creation. While Moran's issues may have "worked" during the early days of the SBC conservative resurgence, they may not work as well now--because they seem to be culturally as opposed to biblically derived.

Second, I thought it was interesting how Bill Leonard, a Baptist scholar, characterized the state of the current SBC: "The Southern Baptist Convention is growing increasingly terrified that they've spent all this time recreating the denomination in this (conservative) image, and now nobody cares. Young seminarians are challenging them on issues and saying, 'Your vision of reality is not ours.'" It does seem that the Gen X generation that is moving into pastoral leadership--both in the SBC and in my own denomination--struggles with viewing the church in the same terms as some leaders might.

For example, if the church (or a particular denomination) is meant to stand for "conservative evangelicalism" and that means standing for certain political or cultural positions, or standing for those positions in a harsh or insensitive manner, then the "emerging" generation will have none of it. As Darrin Patrick, the pastor of The Journey, put it in the article, "When you're stricter than God about what he commands and permits, younger pastors are not going to play ball. They're not going to take one for the denomination" (emphasis mine). I actually think this stance of "not taking one for the denomination" could be a good thing--if it forces church leaders to reorient themselves to Gospel priorities and attitudes.

And yet, to forsake denominations for "networks" doesn't necessarily solve the problem. Because there will be times when the "network" will prove to move in directions that feel denomination-like and could illegitimately bind the conscience as well. Thus, the goal is not necessarily to cop the attitude that "if you don't play ball the way I want you to, I'm taking my ball and going home" or to independency or whatever. The goal is biblical reformation of church mission and structures so that the church to which we belong evidences to a greater degree the reign of God.

And so, the article provide a great deal of food for thought--about the Gospel, the nature of the church, and the future of evangelical Christianity.

Indicatives, Imperatives, and Grace

I'm passionately committed to what we often call the "grace distinctives." I think what we most often mean when we talk about the "grace distinctive" is best summed up in the phrase (was it from Ridderbos? Vos?) that the "indicatives come before imperatives and the order cannot be reversed."

The phrase sums up a lot of biblical truth. The "indicative" is what is true about us by virtue of what Jesus has done for us. Just like an indicative statement often has the word "is" in it ("Sean is a guy"; "Sean is married to Sara"; etc.), so an indicative statement theologically stress what Sean is by virute of God's unmerited, undeserved favor: Sean is united to Christ; Sean is justified, sanctified, adopted, glorified; Sean is hid with God in Christ, etc. These things are true no matter what--not because of my performance, but because of what Jesus has done in my place in God's sight; and they are received by faith alone.

So, indicatives come first--if you will, they are identity statements. But that doesn't mean that there are no imperatives. If indiciatives tell me who I am in Jesus, imperatives tell me what I must do: put to do death my sin; season your conversation with gracious words; flee immorality; keep my body under. The Bible and especially the NT is full of imperatives--I don't do these things in order to be saved or to please God per se (God is already pleased with me because he sees me in Jesus), but I do these things in the same way that a child does things their parents say: because I am God's child through Jesus, because of who I am, I live in certain ways.

If you put the imperatives first, what happens? Mainline Protestant moralism. The fancy historical category that Nancy Ammerman once used was "Golden Rule Christians." Christianity devolves done to "do unto others what you'd have them to do you" and this is the way to heaven. It is the obey part of "trust and obey."

Yet if you put the indicative first and forget the imperatives, what happens? Licentiousness or antinomianism, no doubt. But even worse, a loose, lifeless spirituality--a loss of repentance, a failure to recognize my own continuing sinfulness, and a concomitant tendency to become bored with the Gospel; a loss of holiness, or even a longing for it, a failure to put sin to death and the practices of the "old man."

Biblical Christianity, the gracious Christianity to which I aspire and to which I witness, stresses both the indicative and the imperative, in the proper order. Because God in Jesus by the Spirit pursued me, wooed me, and captured my heart and granted all the benefits of the Gospel to me, I am called now to love him, live for him, pray to him, fear him, speak for him, put my beloved sins to death for him, and even need be die for him.

Only such a Christianity truly gracious, because only such a Christian recognizes and lives out the costly nature of that grace.

Dungy and La Russa

Followers of this blog know that I cheer for the Indianapolis Colts and the St. Louis Cardinals, world champions in their respective sports. But I have different takes on their leaders, Tony Dungy and Tony La Russa. While Dungy is a Christian man who realizes that winning a championship doesn't make him a better person, La Russa is incredibly driven and not notably religious.

This past week, both were in the news for distinctly different reasons. Dungy garnered headlines (and time on my favorite ESPN show, PTI) for "embracing" a proposed ban on same-sex marriage in the state of Indiana. In using his celebrity to support biblically-consistent positions in the public sphere, Dungy continues to make good his claim that it was far more important to him to demonstrate that one could be a Christian and a coach at the same time.

La Russa, on the other hand, received headlines for his DUI pick-up in Jupiter, Flordia, sleeping at stop light (actually midway through an intersection) on the way home from a night out. Whether this indicates a deeper problem for the Cardinals skipper is not clear, although it certainly doesn't help his image.

While the character of the players (and managers) of various sports teams doesn't affect my support for them, still it is a good thing to be able to point my sons to a man like Dungy, to show them that life itself doesn't require one to be a hard-driver, to sacrifice family and faith, in order to be successful. And, frankly, it is a good thing to be able to point to La Russa, for an example of a man who probably drives too hard, who by his own admission doesn't have his wife live with him in St. Louis during the season because it is too hard on their marriage, and who doesn't seem to have any faith perspective.

At the end of the day, all of these public figures (and even ministers themselves) are role models. The question is whether the roles they play are for good or ill. We can be thankful for men like Tony Dungy, who plays his role for the good of the Kingdom.

Big Country, Big Church

It has been an interesting week for me. I started out Monday at 6am, driving to the St. Louis airport. I flew to Chicago, waited for my connection for three plus hours, flew to Colubmia, SC, and drove to Clemson, SC. Got up Tuesday morning first thing, drove to Augusta, GA, drove back to Columbia, flew to Washington-Dulles, and then home. Got up this morning, worked for a few hours, drove back to the airport, flew to Denver (where I am writing this), waiting to fly to Vancouver, British Columbia. On Saturday, I'll make the return trip via Denver to home.

I couldn't help but think about how big our country is. Especially flying into Denver, looking at the Rockies, realizing that just 36 hours ago I was driving through the pine forests of McCormick, South Carolina. It makes you wonder how we can speak in any meaningful way about what "Americans" think, believe, feel. Even if you could get the opinions of 300 million people, still the land itself, the geography, is so big, expansive, and different. How do you get your mind around all this?

As I was thinking about this, I couldn't help but think about the church along similar lines. Perhaps the thoughts were spurred on by reading Richard Mouw's Calvinism in the Las Vegas Airport. I love reading Mouw, not only because he is brilliant, but also because he is so irenic. I aspire for that; often fall short. And while one particular chapter in the book made me nervous (those who have read it can probably guess which chapter that was), still it was a good two hour read (the length of the flight from STL to Denver).

Anyway, if you apply the imagery of America's geographical immensity to the church, I think some helpful thoughts could result. For example, it would make us much more humble about our little corner of it. When I'm in St. Louis, the Arch seems so big; the new Busch Stadium so large; Forest Park so expansive. But then you see the Rockies or the Big Sky country of the Plains--and you realize, you know, maybe St. Louis isn't so big after all. Maybe the differences between the Plains, Kentucky, the southern shores, and other locales actually pictures a larger diversity in God's own mind. And maybe, just maybe, the Church is big enough for a diversity of opinion.

The real question, of course, is how far to push diversity, how much change occurs before meaningful fellowship around a common creed, worship, and polity ceases. Too much diversity within a given tradition and it ceases to represent that particular tradition and becomes, in fact, something new. Yet, while we may not want too much diversity within particular denominational groups (and perhaps those who desire diversity may actually desire a different denomination where their views are actually the majority), that doesn't mean that everyone must walk in lockstep with us.

Mouw has a great picture of this drawn from Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451; those who have read the book probably remember it. He pictures the various religious communities as "book readers" who preserve certain "books" or perspectives (or identities). He imagines himself saying, "Hi, I'm the Canons of Dordt." I guess I would like to be known as the one who says, "Hi, I'm What is Presbyterianism (a little pamphlet by Charles Hodge, for those who don't know)." But that doesn't mean that the library (to change the image) isn't big enough for a range of different books; nor does it mean that every book has to be the same.

Don't know if these ramblings make sense...but they occurred to me sitting here in Denver.

Ridderbos dies

Rev. Dr. Herman Ridderbos, one of the foremost developers of the redemptive-historical approach to Biblical theology, a hallmark of Westminster Theological Seminary, died 8 March, having celebrated his 98th birthday on 13 March. Among his more widely distributed writings were “Redemptive History and the New Testament Scriptures,” “Paul and Jesus,” and “Paul: An Outline of His Theology.” Reportedly Ned Stonehouse once said this of Ridderbos: “Wherever the Dutch language is read Professor Herman Ridderbos is recognized as an outstanding New Testament scholar and theologian . . .”

[HT: Jack Collins]

Conferences and the Church

Last year, Carl Trueman published a very funny and yet very serious post on the Reformation21 blog, raising questions about the role of conferences in the lives of Christians. While it may have been a little "dangerous" raising these questions on the blog for the Alliance of Confessing Evangelicals, around the time of their sponsored PCRT, still the points Trueman raised are valid and need to be considered more thoughtfully and thoroughly.

One of the realities of evangelical Protestant life has been the multiplication of conferences; these conferences tend to represent particular market niches within the Reformed and evangelical world--the Gospel Coalition; Augusta Conference; Twin Lakes; Ligonier; Shepherds Conference; Resurgence; Together for the Gospel; PCRT; Desiring God; Banner of Truth (those are the ones that I came up with from the top of my head). As such, these conferences bring together the like-minded to hear solid preaching that ultimately encourages and reinforces particular aspirations, beliefs, practices, and stories--in other words, these conferences serve an important purpose in identity formation.

I think we've seen this most clearly in the recent debates over the Federal Vision--regardless of where one falls on those issues, it cannot be denied that the Biblical Horizon and Auburn Avenue conferences played a large role in forging a particular way of looking at the world for those who participated and adhere to their proposals--and this, I believe, speaks to issues of identity. It is the same way for frustrated boomers in the PCA, who have met in an invitation-only group for years, and now for frustrated Gen X-ers, who are doing the same. Bringing together like-minded individuals to conference on issues of concern is a long-standing way of forging identity.

On the surface, there is nothing "wrong" with conferences; I attend them as well. And yet, ultimately, these conferences are not "the Church"; and because this is the case, conferences may actually be fostering the division in the church that so many X-ers decry and yet may be unwittingly perpetuating. This is the case for the very reason that these conferences bring together the like-minded, the already-convinced, the insiders. They set the like-minded against the others--whether it is a "Reformed" doctrine conference against all the loosy-goosy Arminians or a non-denominational pastors conference that sets people against all the amillennialists.

And yet the Church is bigger than that--in the church, you have to learn how to work together with those with whom you agree and with those with whom you disagree. In the church, you serve on committees with those who trust the Church and the work of the Spirit through her and with those who distrust the Church and believe that it tends to abuse of authority. In the church, you worship with the high-church, the blended, the contemporary, the traditional, the low-church, the charismatic (and this is just the PCA) and somehow you have to see them all as brothers and sisters in Christ. In the church, you have to work to protect and negotiate the interests of builders, boomers, X-ers, Millennials, Y-ers; it's not possible simply to serve one group. In the church, you must be patient, you must believe all things, you must bear all things, even the thorns of ministry--because in the church, you truly learn to love as you love those with whom you have so little in common.

As we have our identities formed by our lives together as the Church, as opposed to issue-identity conferences, we truly image forth Christ's own body--where heads, hands, feet, eyes, and everyone else are vitally necessary. We learn to value those remarkably different from us, who see issues different us, who value worship different from us. We learn to live through the polity of our church, which best expresses the unity and diversity of the church. And we learn to confess that the "one, holy, catholic, apostolic church," even as represented by this little Presbyterian denomination, is a little bit bigger and messier that we knew--and that's a good thing.

King of Gunsmoke

My youngest son, who is 3, has a fixation on western shows and particularly, guns in western shows (actually, he likes guns in any form or fashion, which other parents tell me is normal; since we don't have any guns in the house and I have a semi-pacifist stance on the personal use of force anyway, his fixation is a little unusual). His current favorite show (aside from The Andy Griffith Show) is Gunsmoke. He likes it so much that it shows up in unusual ways. The other day, he was playing with his older brother; he used his lower, royal voice to declare, "Bow down, Andrew, and I'll make you the King of Gunsmoke!"

The Spirituality of the Church

One of the interesting conversations going on in blogosphere is over a issue that I've spent a great deal of time, pastorally and academicially--"the spirituality of the church." I think this is an important conversation, because it gets to all sorts of very important issues for Presbyterians: the "power" or "authority" of the church; the freedom of the conscience; the relationship between "church" and "state"; etc.

That being said, it does strike me that in some quarters, there is a tendency to a "spirituality" doctrine that is far beyond what is necessary to protect the church's spiritual nature as well as beyond what Presbyterian forefathers believed. This view seems to be (my summary) that the church, especially in its ministerial and declarative functions, has no authority or power granted to it by the resurrected and ascended Christ to teach on moral matters that may be issues under consideration in the broader public realm. This would be evidenced in comments that the church should not preach or teach on issues related to poverty, systemic injustice, or racism because those are "public" issues.

[The more telling comment is that we shouldn't preach or teach on these issues because these were the concerns of the "Social Gospel," Presbyterian progressives in the old PCUS, or political liberals of the 1950s and 1960s. Such reminds me of a comment by L. Nelson Bell, founder of the Southern Presbyterian Journal, who once observed, “We resent this further intrusion of Church leaders into the realm of international polices for three reasons. First, they are not competent in that particular field. Second, they have no right to use the prestige of the Church in this matter. Third, we think their advice is dead wrong.” For Bell, the point was really the issue: he simply believed that progressive leaders were “dead wrong." But instead of making the case, leaders like Bell would simply appeal to the "spirituality of the church."]

I think this position is far beyond what 19th century southern Presbyterian leaders, for example, would have recognized. Thornwell and Dabney, among others, commonly made the distinction between taking a particular policy position or advocating a particular political solution as "the church" on the one hand and instructing members on the moral duties required of them as individual Christian citizens on the other. That is why you can find sermons from Thornwell on the "duties of masters and slaves" or from Dabney on "temperance"; both were moral issues that were also political issues and as such required the pulpit to open God's Word on those topics.

The issues under consideration today--poverty, racial and social injustice, AIDS, peace, women's roles in church and society--are both difficult and challenging issues that individual Christians face. While the spiritual nature of the church would prohibit binding the consciences of God's people on particular policies or approaches to deal with these issues, it does not prohibit a ministry of God's Word to deal with the moral requirements involved with them. And while we would not want to have a ministry that demands that Christians support debt relief for Africa, we do want a ministry that raises the point of how God cares (and by extension, how God's people must care) for the poor and forsaken in every culture, American or African.

By overextending the logic of the spiritual nature of the church, perhaps our ministers might fail to declare "the whole counsel of God," which cares not only for the glorious doctrines of our faith but also cares for the grim and desititute of our world--both of which are Gospel concerns. These are things concerning which ministerial power should declare God's Word.

Monk and Mallet

My dear friend, Steve Nichols, whom I have known longer than anyone other than my wife and parents, has just written a wonderful introduction called, The Reformation: How a Monk and a Mallet Changed the World. You can find out more about this book on this very cool website.

Life in the Corporate World

Globalizing Theology, No. 1

A number of us at the seminary are reading a new book, edited by Craig Ott and Harold Netland, called Globalizing Theology. Meant as a festschrift for Paul Hiebert, the eminent missiologist who has taught for a generation at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, the book actually serves as a thought-provoking collection of essays, meant to prod theological educators into thinking about what it means to do theology in and for a "global" church.

After all, if God's mission is the transformation of his world by his people bringing his Gospel to all the nations, then that means we cannot allow our understanding of God to be boxed into our regional or national cultural systems. Through intentional ways, we must be in conversation with the church in other places and circumstances in order to discover our cultural blind spots and to gain wisdom and insight from other parts of Christ's church.

This represents a series of questions about which I've been thinking alot recently, both because we are in the midst of our self-study process and "globalization" is a major theme for our professional accreditors (the Association of Theological Schools) and because we are also beginning a new round of strategic planning. And so, these questions: What is God calling this little Presbyterian seminary to be and to do for the world's church? How can this be accomplish simply by paying attention to the internationals whom God has brought to St. Louis (which serves as a relocation center for internationals seeking asylum in the United States)? Even more, how would taking our "kingdom perspective" core value seriously lead to a transformation, or at least an augumentation, of the seminary's mission?

I don't know all the answers, although I think I sense some of the possible trajectories. But above all, it strikes me that if institutions like ours are going to be useful for the world-wide church, we need to take more seriously than we ever have that theological education must be for the whole church and must reflect the sense that God's mission in this world is for everyone from everywhere. What role a seminary like ours should play in this is open for question and dreaming.

Carl Trueman Strikes Again

As readers of this blog know, I greatly admire Carl Trueman's insight into things cultural and historical. This analysis of postmodernity is one of his best bits of work.

The Pistol

Since we had a snow day yesterday, I was able to finish Mark Kriegel's Pistol: The Life of Pete Maravich. For someone who knew more about Pistol Pete by reputation than personal experience (I didn't start paying attention to the NBA until 1981 when the Houston Rockets made it to the NBA finals; Pete had retired the year before), I found the book to be a useful introduction to one of the most prolific college scorers in the history of basketball.

But Kriegel's story was much more--it was really about the difficult relationship between Pete and his father, Press. The father had groomed Pete to be the first million dollar basketball player; through the intense practice (Homework Basketball) to the intense criticism and perfectionism, Press shaped Pete's world. This shaping, however, was not positive--rather, it taught Pete that he could never measure up to Press's exacting standards and hence, was not worthwhile.

The result was a pattern of destructive behavior, centering mainly on fast women, fast cars, and booze. But it also resulted in Pete struggling to find something or someone outside of himself that would "take him" away (including UFOs--he actually wrote "take me" as a message to UFOs on the roof of his Atlanta condo). His behavior become increasingly destructive, extreme or bizarre and centered on crazy fads until he finally retired in 1980.

Then, in a life without basketball, Pete was left to review all his "failures," the games where he could have been "perfect," the destructive alcohol abuse, the relationship with his father. At the end a long, dark night, Pete prayed for God to save him--and God did. Everyone testified that Pete's life radically changed: for the first time in his life, he seemed happy and at peace. And though it seemed like Christianity might be just another extreme fad, Pete's faith commitment "stuck" and led to his father and wife both professing faith in Jesus. He poured himself into Bible study and other spiritual disciplines and shared his faith constantly.

That part of the story made me nearly cry several times--this insecure boy-man who was transformed by a security found in Christ. And because this story was written by a sports biography who had no real interest in "faith," but great interest in his subject, I believe this story was worth reading and sharing with others. It also led me to find other sites dedicated to Pete Maravich: two of the better ones include the official Pistol Pete site and a YouTube site that a very cool 6 minute video of Pete highlights.

Further Odds and Ends

1. I find that I hardly have any time to write posts. I was actually prolific on Friday because I was sitting at a conference; I'm terribly fidgety at conferences and so it seemed a good time to write. Please don't give up on me; I'm still posting two or so times a week--it is just that the volume and velocity of my position makes it hard to breathe sometimes.

2. Of course, you who read this blog probably realize that the Big Game turned out like I hoped it would (for those of you who don't, I am a big Colts fan). For someone who predicted that Peyton would never win the Big Game and who whined that all his sports teams were cursed by his support, the past four months or so have been very, very good to my teams.

3. Two books that I recently bought, very different in character: Pistol: The Life of Pete Maravich by Mark Kriegel and On Prayer: Conversation with God by John Calvin with introductory essay by I. John Hesselink. I'll probably read the book on Pistol Pete first.

4. In heavy rotation in my F-150's CD player, The Beatles' Love. I've been very pleased with the way Giles Martin has brought these tracks (which are older than I am! I was born after the Beatles broke up...) into the postmodern age. They sound like they were recorded yesterday (hmmm, that would make a good title for a song..."Yesterday"). My favorite Beatles' song is still "Revolution."

The Banality of Mainline American Protestants

I am sitting right now at a meeting of Seminary administrators, listening to a very prominent evangelism professor who teaches at an East Coast mainline Protestant seminary. I was familiar with his work before, but listening to his "semiotic" analysis of American culture, I can say with some certainity that if this is what attracts mainstream Protestants, then that branch of Protestantism is hopelessly banal.

While he said nothing false, he also said nothing new. He told 35 academic deans that American culture is characterized by postmodernity, post-Christendom, and post-scale (under this point, he also listed posthuman, post-"cold," and post-"round"). Whew. You don't say. I had never heard about this before; you mean that I have to put my 8-tracks away??

Again, everything he said is amply declared in the literature (philosophical, theological, historical, sociological, and political literature). But that is just the point--he said everything in such a "Gee Whiz" tone of voice, it made me wonder whether and why most people who hear him talk find him "innovative." The only answer that I can come up with is that mainstream Protestantism is so far behind the curve that they seize onto this man's work as "cutting-edge."

And that can only mean that mainline Protestantism is hopelessly banal.

Faithful Witness

This interview with Albert Mohler, president of The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, is an excellent, winsome relation of the doctrines of grace to his recent illness. It represents faithful witness of the best kind.

The upcoming game

As long-time readers of this blog realize, I'm a pretty big Indianapolis Colts fan. Actually, I am a pretty big Peyton Manning fan and get the rest of the Colts as a bonus. When Peyton threw the pick-six in the AFC Championship Game a few days ago, I was so frustrated with him that I took of my jersey, threw it in the closet, and played a game with my kids. But after our game was over, I went back down stairs and turned the game on again, found my jersey and hung it up again. I always come back...

But, like Peyton, I'm try to keep even-keeled about that upcoming game, the pretty big one with the Roman numerals after it. Trying to enjoy the journey more and hope, just hope, that they are able to beat those folks from up I-65. Even though the Colts are a big favorite (still a touchdown), I've groused in my heart all week since I got my Sports Illustrated in the mail--they put Peyton on the cover and you know what that means. The week Jeff Garcia was on the cover, Eagles lost; the week Drew Brees was on the cover, Saints lost; the week Peyton is on...

All Colts fans everywhere wonder, Why didn't they put Rex Grossman on the cover??

Anyway, I thought this ESPN piece on Peyton was excellent and I'm sure that there are other good things being written. But I'm not reading a lot of them; I've got my game face on, saying the Peyton mantra, "It's all about enjoying journey..." And hopefully, by 10pm on Sunday night, it will be a celebration for the second Lucas-cheered team to win the world championship in their sport.

The curse is over; long live the Colts!

InterVarsity Press

In the aftermath of a busy week, the Lord graciously had our youngest sleep for a couple hours while my wife went to work out at the YMCA and my other three kids played in our basement. That allowed me to lay in bed and finish reading Heart. Soul. Mind. Strength.: An Anecedotal History of InterVarsity Press, 1947-2007.

I've been involved with the Christian publishing industry for a good chunk of my life--first as a Christian bookstore employee (at the long-defunct Sonrise Shoppe in Fairfax, Virginia, and Ark and Dove in Alexandria, Virginia), then as a academic book buyer (at Westminster Seminary Campus Bookstore and LifeWay Campus Stores), and now as an author. Because of this involvement, I've always been fascinated with the publishing process and especially with the acquisition part of the business (though my wife would say that I'm simply fascinated with books, period).

For someone like me, then, this book was simply a wonderfully breezy, insightful and honest inside look at one of the more important Christian publishing companies in the country. I was particularly impressed by the ways that the IVCF's approach to ministry initially influenced IVP's publishing program. I also enjoyed the way the authors described the transition from "family business" to "corporate business" that IVP has gone through over the past 15 years; it was an interesting reflection on the maturation of Christian publishers and publishing.

All in all, a book that at first glance might seem a little dry was actually a fast-paced and entertaining look at one of the more important Christian publishers in the country. Highly recommended, especially for lazy Saturday afternoons!

Elizabeth Fox-Genovese

I was saddened to see the news in First Things that Elizabeth Fox-Genovese, the prominent historian of the American South and opponent of modern radical feminism, passed away on January 2, 2007. Though she had long battled illness, I still grieve for Gene, her husband and fellow historian. One small gladness is that they were able to see their lifetime project, The Mind of the Master Class, into print before she died; even more gladness can be found in her profession of faith in Jesus as a faithful Savior.

More Odds and Ends

1. We finally have power again. Monday night, after we had lined up alternative sleeping arrangements, it came back on. I never realized how dependent I was upon electricity. It made me vow that the next house I buy would have multiple fire places so that there would be an alternative heating source (our last house in Kentucky had two fireplaces; the next house will as well).

2. In December, I had written this post about Harvard's curriculum review and their exclusion of a required religion course. The story has been picked up by MSNBC/Newsweek.

3. My friend, Aaron Messner, has accepted the position of college chaplain at Covenant College. Aaron is one of a rising generation of solid, expositional preachers; he has ministered for the past four plus years at Tenth Presbyterian Church. This is a great choice for a strategic position.

4. This was a very thought-provoking post by my colleague, Anthony Bradley. Even more interesting has been the discussion. I think at least part of the answer to the issues that Anthony and the blog commentators raise can be found in the fact that “theological” ideas work within cultural systems, in which other intellectual commitments, social and economic practices, education, gender, class identifications, and narratives work together either to support or subvert those theological ideas. Hence, it is not merely theology versus culture (and hence, a matter of clearing up cultural blind spots); rather, theological commitments always incarnate themselves within cultural systems, and hence will be partially worked out (i.e. with blind spots).

I think this is the only way to move toward a nuance explanation of the failures of conservative Protestants in the American South in the 19th and 20th centuries (or Dutch Reformed in South Africa during the same period; or Kuyper defending those Dutch Reformed “folk”; or Jonathan Edwards owning slaves; or mainline Protestants current failure on abortion; or whomever). It allows us to view the past with a critical eye, and to trace the way theological commitments were compromised and contradicted, but not completely jettison everything the past has to teach us (as some of the commentators on this post seem to desire). As I have suggested elsewhere, "Dabney [and others like him] should be remembered because the past is the parent of the present, because many of the public stances of evangelicals either fail to maintain the spiritual nature of the church or fail to provide room for humility and self-criticism, and because recognizing Dabney's failures can help point evangelicals in a different direction to 'a more excellent way.'" Sometimes historical failures can teach us far more because they force us to look at ourselves far more self-critically and ultimately to look to Jesus.

5. I'm sure glad these guys held on last night. I don't think anyway expecting them to start the Big Ten season 4-1.

6. I've been disappointed in the way the Pacers have played, and I wish they didn't have to give up Harrington in this deal. But anything to get rid of Stephen Jackson is a good trade.

7. The other night I finished Wendell Berry's new novel, Andy Catlett: Early Travels. I hope to have a review sometime soon. Along this line, this coming Sunday, I am slated to teach in adult Sunday school on the way that Berry's work can help us think about God, creation, and community at Covenant Presbyterian Church.

Odds and Ends

1. We've been without power since early Saturday morning because of the most recent ice storm. Thankfully, the rest of the storm was a mostly non-event; however, it doesn't really explan why Ameren has been so slow restoring the power to my zip code and especially to the homes in my neighborhood, which all have underground lines. In fact, the houses in the next development, that have regular suspended lines (and had several lines down) got their power back last night! Go figure.

2. While I'm thankful that my Indianapolis Colts won, I'm not thankful at all that their eternal nemesis, the New England Pats, won too. At least Sunday's game will be at the RCA Dome, where the Colts are 9-0 this season; it'll make their defense a little faster. And at least Bob Sanders is back and the Colts have begun to play run defense. Still, it is hard to be confident in the light of Tom Brady's amazing comeback last night.

3. Another Saturday event in which we participated was the St. Louis Cardinals Winter Warm-up. Never was an event so appropriately named, with our home's indoor temp hovering around 50 degrees. I took my five-year old son with me and we saw all kinds of Cards stuff; we were also the closest we've ever been to El Hombre. Bought the two things for which I've long pined: a baseball signed by Scott Rolen and a 1958 card signed by Stan Musial. Both go in my baseball "shrine" in my office here at the Seminary.

4. One of the better pieces of news from one of the college football teams I follow is this.

5. Though I wasn't a big fan of the Kelvin Sampson hiring, I have to admit these guys are playing hard defense and move around a lot better on offense than during the Mike Davis era.

Mark McGwire and the Hypocrisy of the Media

Here in St. Louis, for the past week, all that has been talked about on the local sports radio is Mark McGwire's status in the Hall of Fame balloting, which is to be announced today. In the local newspaper, a poll of eligible BBWAA voters suggests that less than 20% will vote for Big Mac. And a local columnist wrote with incredible venom about McGwire, saying at the end of his piece, "In my mind, Mark McGwire is a drug cheat whose greatest baseball moments were fueled by the tip of a steroid-filled syringe."

Now, all of that may be true--because baseball did not have steroid testing during the McGwire era, it is hard to say whether he was a "drug cheat." The only supplement that we know he took, andro, was legal at the time (though it is no longer). And McGwire's lack of forthrightness at the Congressional hearings in March 2005 certainly didn't help his cause.

Still, the hypocrisy of all of this becomes incredibly obvious when compared to the case of San Diego Chargers' football star, linebacker Shawn Merriman. For example, Peter King of Sports Illustrated, whom I enjoy reading, voted for Merriman for his All-Pro team, writing, "Merriman? Len Pasquarelli echoed what I think about this the other day on ESPN radio. In football, when we deliberate for the Hall of Fame, we do not take off-field stuff into account. (Or at least we're told not to.) And Merriman was good enough in 12 games to be, in my mind, one of football's two best outside linebackers."

Now remember, Merriman only played 12 games this season, because he tested positive for a known steroid; he is a convicted "drug cheat." And yet, not only is there no outrage, but he was voted to the All-Pro team. And when Jason Taylor, defensive end for the Miami Dolphins, had the temerity to suggest that Merriman shouldn't be eligible for postseason honors (such as the Pro Bowl or Defensive Player of the Year) because he was suspended for 'roids, he was nominated on the Mike and Mike Show for their "just shut up" award.

I can't help but think this is hypocrisy on a large scale--honoring a convicted 'roid user while hammering someone with no evidence of cheating--but the question I am really interested in is, "How do we account for the differences in reaction to McGwire and Merriman?" Is it because of the mythic status of baseball? Is it because McGwire's chase of Maris caused cynical sportswriters to become starry-eyed romantics and so "fooled" them? Is it because everyone simply assumes that football is a dirty game and that it doesn't matter?

Even more, I wonder about what this says about American attitudes about "character" and "integrity." While McGwire has been ridiculed, even though nothing has been proven about his alleged drug use (notice, I'm not saying that he didn't use 'roids--he may have--but only that it has not been proven nor are there any strong links, as there are with Barry Bonds), Merriman is honored--and yet Merriman is the one whose character and integrity are (or should be) in question. Even more, Merriman has flaunted all this, sending Taylor a Merriman "fan pack," with tee-shirt and DVD! What does this say about the ways we look at integrity in public characters, whether sports heroes, politicians, or ministers?