A Lover of Wisdom

My philosophy professor died yesterday.  

He was the first Christian intellectual I had ever met, and as I think about him now, I can't imagine what my faith in Christ would have been like without him.  

He taught me how to love God with all of my mind.  

He inspired me to embrace questions as a gift from God.

He showed me what it looks like to consider an opposing idea with charity and grace.

He modeled for me the relentless pursuit of the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

He was such a kind mind, such a noble man, such a humble man--helping me see that "becoming" a Christian requires a lifetime of devotion to God.

He was my first college professor.

I was a first-generation college student.  I had no one in my family to tell me what college was like.  So, when I walked into my very first college class--"Introduction to Philosophy"by Dr. Dan Cochran--I had no idea what to expect.  

The class met in the basement of an old church building.  About twenty students were packed into the little room, old desk chairs lined up facing the teacher's desk at the front of the classroom, a small rectangular window letting in a little light, the boiler in the back corner hissing and sputtering.  

Then he entered the room.  After offering a brief introduction of himself and the requirements of the course, he stepped in front of the little desk, lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a pensive look and a big smile on his face, he looked down at us (his little group of bright-eyed freshman), knowing he was about to take us on an unforgettable journey, and said slowly, deliberately, "What . . . is . . . real?"

Metaphysics.  I had never heard the term before.  But, the way he puzzled over the question, making us think through the reality of all things--is it what we experience or what we think?--I walked away from my first college lecture with my head buzzing. It was such a heady experience.  Walking back to the dorm, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour, I must have had a big grin on my face as I muttered to myself, "This is college."

He led me to the well of wisdom, offered me a drink, and I've thirsted for The Truth ever since.  And for that, I shall be eternally grateful.

"Ho!  Every one who thirsts, come to the waters; and you who have no money come, buy and eat."

Academic Orphan

A couple of years ago during the national gathering of "The Society of Biblical Literature," my friends and I were having dinner when I mused:  "Southwestern doesn't have a reception for us.  Have you ever wondered why?  Duke, Harvard, Princeton, Fuller--they all have receptions for their alumni, wanting to celebrate their achievements, to stay connected.  That's not the case for us."  Then one of my friends (he teaches at a Baptist university and has written several "best sellers" in biblical studies) said, "You're right.  I never thought of that before."  To which I replied, "you'd think that they would want to celebrate your success, make it evident to everyone how proud they are of you and the rest of us.  But they don't.  It's as if we are academic orphans."

That observation has become evermore evident to me as my alma mater, Southwest Baptist University, is about to be taken over by forces within the Missouri Baptist Convention.  If the convention goes their way in a few weeks, new board members will bring a majority vote to implement their agenda:  to turn SBU into something it's never been--a fundamentalist/calvinistic college.

It's an odd thing to me:  the Baptist institutions of higher education that produced me back then find me undesirable today.  What my professors taught me--the value of higher education I received from them--is now considered a threat to theological education.  It just feels so strange.  These "mothering institutions" that had such a profound impact on me--the way I read the Scriptures, fostering my desire to obey Christ and serve His Church, helping me sort out what it means to make a difference for the kingdom of God--they don't want to have anything to do with "their children" born at a certain time.  I entered their doors in 1975, left their buildings eleven years later (BA, Mdiv, PhD), ready to embrace the calling of God on my life, believing I had received the best education Baptist money can buy.  

I believe I have fulfilled that calling as a pastor and a professor.  And, I thank God that I have found a place to serve Him with a loving Baptist congregation who takes seriously their calling to be the Body of Christ.  But, when I think about where I came from, the college and seminary that birthed me, I have this strange feeling that I don't belong.  There will be no homecomings.  I have no place to rest my "theological" head.  I have no alma mater, no "mother" who will always root for me, will say she is proud of me, will claim, "he's mine."

It's a hard thing to admit, but it's finally dawning on me:  I'm an academic orphan without a home.

Young Calvinists are leaving the Church and I think I know why

They were stuck in the Romans 7 loop.

Lately, I've had several conversations with a variety of people who are concerned about calvinists who have left the faith.  How could someone who so staunchly defended the gospel turn their back on their election?  Of course, there are also young wesleyans, baptists, and pentecostals who have walked away from the church.  But, since I've returned to the pastorate, I can't count the number of times different people have asked me about their friends (and some well-known Christian "celebrities")--the "young, restless, and reformed" who are de-converting.  These one-time staunch calvinists don't believe anymore.  Why?  There are several reasons.  But, I'm seeing a trend in evangelical churches that I think contributes to the problem:  we promote the Romans 7 loop.  It goes like this.

You're a horrible sinner.  Your righteousness is like filthy rags.  You can do no good.  The very thing you want to do, you don't.  And, the very thing you don't want to do, you do.  You're hopelessly caught in the vortex of sin.  But, God sent his Son to pay for your sin.  What you couldn't do for yourself, Jesus did.  He died on the cross for you.  So, praise him for his sacrifice.  Thank him for saving you from your sins.  You are no longer under condemnation.  You have been set free.

The worshipper leaves church with gratitude for Christ's cross.  She relishes the feeling of finding cleansing once again.  He lingers in the presence of a worship experience that feels like water to his thirsty soul.  But, the spiritual high doesn't last long.  The week brings several occasions for worldly passions, lustful behavior, secret sins.  But, good news!  He can return Sunday to hear "the gospel" once again; she can sing the songs that remind her that, 

"You're a horrible sinner.  Your righteousness is like filthy rags.  You can do no good.  The very thing you want to do, you don't.  And, the very thing you don't want to do, you do.  You're hopelessly caught in the vortex of sin.  But, God sent his Son to pay for your sin.  What you couldn't do for yourself, Jesus did.  He died on the cross for you.  So, praise him for his sacrifice.  Thank him for saving you from your sins.  You are no longer under condemnation.  You have been set free."

And nothing ever changes.  

If you dare to suggest that there must be more to the Christian life, some pious watchdogs may accuse you of perverting the gospel.  (To them, protecting the Romans 7 loop is defending the gospel.)  And so, after a while, some evangelicals get tired of the ferris wheel and jump off.  They're sick of the ups and downs, tired of repeating the same old story.  They've been told so often that they're "lousy sinners," they decide to live up to the self-proclaimed prophecy.

It's so sad and so unnecessary.

How do we break the vicious cycle?  

Here's a good place to start:  read the verses after Romans 8:3.  The "good news" is so much more than the Romans 7 loop.

Manly Strength

At first I thought it was a joke.

I received an invitation to attend a "Stronger Men" conference at a church in another state, where the Friday night entertainment will be a professional boxing match.

"Surely this can't be right," I mumbled to myself.  "Maybe I've misunderstood."  I checked the flyer they had sent in the mail.  I recognized the featured guest speaker--a famous retired professional boxer.  "Maybe they covered the brochure with pictures of professional boxing because of him."  But, as I read the details, it soon dawned on me that, yes, the highlight of the weekend--right there in the church building?--they're going to sponsor a professional boxing match.  At that moment, my imagination got the best of me, envisioning two fighters going at each other, blood splattered all over the ring, men roaring with approval as they take in the testosterone-driven spectacle, with Jesus standing in the corner saying to no one in particular, "So, this is what it's come to."

I have to tell you I'm sick and tired of this nonsense, where churches are trying to feed the worldly, macho-man narrative that's supposed to help salve our male insecurities.  Jesus--the true man--has shown us a better way.

The world says, "a real man beats up his opponents."  Jesus told his disciples, "Turn the other cheek."

The world says, "a strong man believes in vigilante justice."  Jesus taught his disciples, "Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

The world says, "a man's strength is muscular."  Jesus told Paul, "Power is perfectly revealed in weakness."

The world says, "boast in your strength."  Paul said he'd rather boast in his weakness because of the cross of Jesus--where the weakness of God is stronger than any man.

Indeed, it takes a really strong man and woman to pick up a cross and follow Jesus--something the world will never understand.