One, simple observation

I am amazed how quickly Christians sacrifice the gospel on the altar of their particular political ideology(ies). And, to make matters worse, we don't even realize when we do it.

God help us.

Resurrection Faith

The resurrection of Christ is an unstoppable work of God in the life of every believer. In spite of life’s disappointments—regardless of how things appear—Paul was convinced that God would finish what He started: “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ” (Phil. 1:6). For just as believers experience the death of Christ and are buried with him through baptism, we are also destined to share in his resurrection. But, it isn’t simply a matter of our body—suffering from the effects of sin—being restored, reclaimed, remade after death. As far as Paul was concerned, God had already begun to raise the dead when any person turns to Christ in faith. It was God’s design from the beginning not only to raise a worn-out body from the dead, but also to raise a broken heart from the dead, to raise a contrite spirit from the dead, to raise a corrupt mind from the dead, to raise a troubled soul from the dead. When it comes to Christ’s resurrection, nothing is left behind. When old things pass away, everything becomes new. On the last day, the resurrection will be obvious. Until then, we simply have to wait for time to catch up with the reality of what God has already done through Christ in us. Indeed, if the resurrection of Christ teaches us anything it’s this: death’s days are numbered—it’s only a matter of time till everyone sees the resurrection reign of Christ.

Foolish Generosity (more from my work on Paul's Spirituality)


Paul believed the church was home, where no one operated with a sense of entitlement and everyone knew they were needed. Paul believed his converts were family, where every member worked for the good of everyone and no one could afford to be selfish. That’s why he chose to “work with his own hands.” Although he was entitled to receive pay for preaching the gospel, he set aside the privilege so he wouldn’t be a burden to the Thessalonians (2 Thess. 3:8-9). Even while Paul was in Thessalonica, he accepted financial support from the Philippians (Phil. 4: 15-16; evidently, Paul didn’t find enough work in Thessalonica to support himself, even though he worked “night and day,” 2 Thess. 3:8). So, the Philippians—Christians of some means—sent money while he was laboring in Thessalonica. Evidently, the Thessalonian believers were poor and relied upon each other for economic support. In fact, Paul described the Macedonians (the province that included Philippi and Thessalonica) as churches that had endured a “severe ordeal of affliction” and gave to the relief offering in spite of their “extreme poverty” (2 Cor. 8:2). Obviously the Philippians were not the impoverished ones; when the Thessalonians were persecuted by their neighbors, it must have included economic reprisals (1 Thess. 2:14; 3:3-7). Ostracized by their community, the Thessalonians looked to each other for food, work, help, and support—they were family. To refuse to work would mean that others would have to work harder to supply bread for the family. Therefore, by refusing to exercise his rights, Paul modeled what church family is supposed to look like: a group of selfless people who put everyone’s interest above their own, just like Christ. It’s no wonder hospitality thrived in an environment like that; and it’s no wonder early Christians were so vulnerable in their generosity. They worked hard and gave much. It would be easy to take advantage of a group like that.

I wish the church today had the same reputation: a group so generous it would be easy to take advantage of us. But, I don’t see that happening for several reasons. We don’t rely upon each other like the church in Paul’s day. That’s because we’re convinced what happened in the early church should never be repeated (Acts 4:32-37). The Acts experiment only created needy people; selling possessions to help others didn’t last long. Isn’t that why Paul had to collect a relief offering in the first place? Second, we believe in self-sufficiency. We’ve been taught the only person you can count on is yourself. To rely upon others for personal resources is failure. Being needy is foolish. But Paul saw the church as a family of needy people, which is why he believed it would take every single one of us to make it through life together—something I learned in the middle of an ice storm. We’ve also lost the first gift of the church: hospitality. The earliest church was “forced” to discover the power of hospitality because they met for worship in homes. “Welcome to church” was the same as “welcome to our family.” But in our day hospitality is something you pay for; those who own hotels are said to be in the “hospitality business” (I owe this insight to Jan Peterson). We’ve limited hospitality to welcoming visitors to our worship services with a smile and a handshake—anything more you have to pay for. Finally, our sense of entitlement steals away any chance for us to be foolishly generous. We are entitled to the money we earn. So, only those who are entitled to our help receive it. How soon we forget that most jobs require able-bodied persons, there are no guarantees to good health, and no one owns their daily bread—all are gifts from a very generous God—something we call “grace.” Indeed, if the power to work is a gift from God, how much more the fruit of our labor?

Focus on which family?

Everyone knows you shouldn’t take marital advice from a single man. But it is an undeniable fact that both the founder of our faith and the apostle to the Gentiles were single men. And, to make matters worse, Jesus had some pretty harsh things to say about family relations (Lu. 9:57-62; 12:51-53; 14:26). In a radical departure from the norms of his day (where family identity meant everything), Jesus redefined his earthly family in light of his kingdom mission: “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it” (8:21). His behavior proved he meant it; he treated his disciples more like brothers than his own family. Paul certainly believed the same. He acted like his converts were his family; he was especially fond of using familial terms to describe their relationship (“Though you might have ten thousand guardians in Christ, you do not have many fathers. Indeed, in Christ Jesus I became your father through the gospel. I appeal to you, then, be imitators of me,” 1 Cor. 4:15-16). So, when Paul gave advice to his converts about marriage, he thought he was acting like their family father, arranging marriages (or discouraging them) for their own good—being completely devoted to Christ. Marriage that compromised such devotion would be nothing but trouble, “and I would spare you that” (7:28). One more reason why he sent his “son” Timothy to remind his Corinthian children of “his ways” in Christ, “as I teach them everywhere in every church” (4:17).

But what would Paul say to us, two thousand years later? Would he give us the same advice? Some might say, “absolutely, because the American family has become an idol in the church,” and in certain respects, I can see why. We know families have been in crisis for quite some time: Christian marriages end in divorce about the same rate as the national average. One can draw the startling inference that our faith makes no difference when it comes to husbands and wives living together (or could it be Paul was right? Perhaps these Christian couples should have remained single). This led some, especially in the evangelical world, to “focus on the family,” to save the institution from adversarial forces, making it our number one priority. Parachurch ministries were launched, political alliances were formed, enemies were targeted, problems were addressed, and resources were gathered to preserve family values. Marquis issues (abortion, euthanasia, ERA, teenage pregnancy, public versus private education, school curricula, gay marriage) came and went in order to rally the troops during the battle to protect the family. Other countermeasures were installed to make sure the church was doing everything it could to make Christian marriages strong: pre-marital counseling, pre-school programs, parenting classes, marriage seminars, men’s ministries, women’s ministries. The implication was unmistakable: the American family was under assault and we should do whatever it takes to save this sacred institution. But, in our attempts to make Christian families ideal, we forgot our most important obligation: devotion to Christ (not the family) is what makes a man or a woman a Christian.

Artists make me think about the Holy Spirit

More and more I've come to love artists--not just for their craft, but for their heart. Whether visual or literary, musical or pictorial, artists help me see the work of God in ways I could never get from academia. To be sure, most people already know this; I admit that I'm a slow learner.

There can be no creativity without God--the Master Creator. The evil one has created nothing. He will never create anything (and I think that drives him mad). But we, made in God's image, create. What a generous God we worship.

Why would He share such power with us? Why would the Holy Spirit inspire such beauty? Why did Jesus prefer fiction? Because He is God. He can't help it. He is beauty. He is creativity. He is the story. Creation reveals the glory of God. We are the creative work of God so that we can do the creative work of God. Receiving and giving. Being and becoming. Art and artist.

I am overwhelmed by the sheer joy of art because God is.

The Sermon in the Valley (aka the Sermon on the Mount upside down)

Last Sunday I broke from conventional wisdom and preached an "anti-sermon." I took Jeff Foxworthy's bit ("you may be a redneck if . . .") and used it to recover the provocation of Jesus' famous Sermon in Matthew 5-7. (BTW, have you noticed Foxworthy's audience is composed primarily of rednecks laughing at each other?). What most people miss (especially at the end) is that the entire sermon was directed against the scribes and the Pharisees. So, I went through the sermon--hitting the highlights (an impossible task!)--and tried to turn Jesus' teaching upside down, rendering the following monologue (a few examples):

You might be a Pharisee if you believe people get what they deserve.

You might be a Pharisee if you believe the world would be a better place if everyone kept the ten commandments (or especially if you believe it's your job to enforce the decalogue).

You might be a Pharisee if you believe God hates your political enemies as much as you do.

You might be a Pharisee if you're convinced people love to hear you pray.

You might be a Pharisee if you ask God, "why me?" when bad things happen to you.

You might be a Pharisee if you believe you're on the "straight on narrow."

Before I ended the sermon by following Jesus' lead (there are two paths, two choices: either you enter the broad way that many righteous people find [Pharisaism] or the narrow path which is the Jesus way [mercy!]), I asked the congregation to add to the list. Here are a few zingers they offered:

You might be a Pharisee if you think God cares what you think.

You might be a Pharisee if you believe your denomination is theologically correct.

The anti-sermon seemed to inspire the congregation more than I anticipated. It's the most fun I've had preaching a sermon in a long time. And, I didn't like it at all--left me very conflicted.

Jesus' Sermon on the Mount was more provocative than I expected.

Church as Family (another excerpt)

Paul never talked about his immediate family in his letters. As far as we can tell, he never mentioned his parents, or his brothers or sisters if he had them; he never referred to his grandparents, aunts, uncles, nephews, or nieces. That is startling to me. That’s because, like all of us, I can’t help but talk about my family. They come up in daily conversation all the time. Much to their chagrin, they even pop up in my sermons and writing (most of the time, I get their prior approval; but sometimes I’m inspired, in the moment, I can’t help it). On the other hand, I rarely talk about our church. And predictably, when I do, it normally has something to do with what’s happening on Sundays—the worship service, different programs, Sunday school classes, musical events. I never think about what my church is doing on Monday, or Tuesday, or any other day of the week (unless there is a special activity). In other words, I see the world through the eyes of my family—“wonder how the day is going for Sheri”—and church is ancillary to my life, something that supports my life, my family. And, many churches gladly assume this assigned role; they even market themselves as “family friendly.”

Paul would have us view things the other way around. To him church is family, a people that consumes our daily thoughts and conversations. What if we saw the world like he did? What if we acted as if church were family? What if talked about members as if they were our brothers and sisters? What if the welfare of the church were the most important concern in our lives—more than our work, more than our friends, more than our spouses or children or parents? In other words, what if we were to imitate Paul? What would that look like today? Some of us might be tempted to dismiss the idea as “cultic.” But, then again, if church is supposed to be more than a time and a place, then what are we supposed to do? If church is our family, how should that affect our every-day lives? If Paul, the apostle to Gentiles, is our father in the faith, then how should we behave as his children?

Baptism as burial (excerpts from my work on Paul's Spirituality)

For some reason, Paul thought baptism was a way of participating in the burial of Christ (Ro. 6:4; Col. 2:12). That idea is found nowhere else in the New Testament. Of course, almost all of the other writers mention baptism—Luke, Peter, John, Matthew, even the author of Hebrews. And, in most places baptism is referenced as a given, as if readers didn’t need a description of the practice or its significance. Indeed, we are left to infer the logistics (who? where? what? when? how?) and theology (why?) of the ritual. And, when it comes to Paul, things get more complicated. That’s because Paul used baptism—with all of its vagaries and mystifying qualities—in order to make a point about something else. In fact, in every case but one (Ro. 6:1-4), Paul referred to baptism when he was trying to get his converts to learn how to get along with each other (Gal 3:28; 1 Cor. 1:13-17; 12:13; 15:29; Col. 2:12; Eph. 4:5). In other words, Paul never tried to put on paper his theology of baptism; he never felt obliged to explain it. And yet, baptism was a very important touchstone for Paul—especially when he wanted to remind his converts of what they had already committed themselves to from the beginning.

If a man like Paul died in the big city he had to rely upon friends to make sure he received an honorable burial (cf. Matt. 27:57-60). That’s because most merchants and craftsmen who worked in the city left their hometowns in order to ply their trade (notice how often we hear of Paul’s associates in one city, then the next, e.g., Prisca and Aquila lived and worked in Ephesus, Corinth, and Rome). In fact, in most cities there were burial clubs, a volunteer society of poor working class members who promised to bury their dead friends with honors, even holding memorial services on the birthday of the deceased. Sometimes they would gather at the tomb of their dead friend to share a drink or even a memorial meal. To the Corinthians, Galatians, Colossians and Romans, the church probably sounded like another burial society, what with all of its talk about members being buried with Christ and sharing table in memorial. In fact, within a century early Christians began the practice of being buried together in shared tombs—having “died in Christ” they were therefore “buried with Christ.” Or, it could also be that to some of Paul’s contemporaries, baptism may have resembled certain pagan rituals that were performed in order to insure safe passage in the afterlife for the deceased. Some scholars suggest such influences from their religious past may explain the bizarre Corinthian practice of baptizing for the dead (1 Cor. 15:29). In that case, Paul’s converts had simply misunderstood the significance of the ritual, i.e., even though baptism was a rite of passage from death to life, Paul was talking about a different kind of death and life at a different time. Indeed, according to Paul, buried with Christ through baptism pictured both the death and new life of the convert in Christ before the grave. Some of the Corinthians thought they could help their friends after the grave by being baptized for them (like the Mormons do). But, when it came to his Corinthian converts, what concerned Paul more than the misapplied ritual was their confusion over what they died to and who they were to live for when they were buried with Christ.

Paul often used the rite of baptism to explain how the rights of an individual are sacrificed for the welfare of the church. We often speak of Christ’s death and resurrection as a theological starting place for understanding our spirituality. Indeed, most books on Paul’s spirituality skip over the significance of being buried with Christ. That’s because we tend to emphasize our personal experience as the locus of spiritual formation. So, individual preferences end up governing spiritual development. I determine what is vital and what is harmful; my experiences govern what is useful and what is irrelevant. In such an individualistic pursuit, church becomes a place (not a people!) where my spiritual palate is satisfied, where I get what I think I need to grow spiritually. Thus, my experience of the Spirit is determined by my choices, my desires, my expectations, my efforts. I really don’t need anyone else (especially if they try to tell me what to do—as if I don’t know what’s best for me). If a church doesn’t give me what I think I need, I’ll find another that will. But Paul would have us consider the implications of Christ’s burial through baptism as the initiatory experience of the Spirit-led life—something that must be developed within the community of faith. We received the Spirit from others, so we can’t walk in the Spirit alone. Indeed, Paul was convinced that none of us can be Christians by ourselves.

Movies as Scripture

As some of you know, I've taught a course the last few years called, "The Bible and American Culture." We spend time reading cultural "texts" (movies, plays, songs, novels) to see how scripture functions as both a protagonist (informing culture) and antagonist (how cultural texts interpret scripture). Recently, my wife and I led a marriage retreat for our church where I tried to apply an abbreviated form of this "hermeneutic" to analyze different relationships in television and the movies: marriage, family (including in-laws!), and friendships. This was not your usual marriage retreat--what with all the "fill-in-the-blank" workbooks and nice, easy lessons to learn. Instead, we had open-ended discussions about how cultural texts operate with embedded scripts, teaching us how we're supposed to relate to each other.

One of the most common scripts that we talked about was the "domestication of the male/girl power" text that seems to run through nearly every sitcom and romantic comedy film. The "strong, leading man" model that dominated films a generation ago has been replaced by the "I'm-a-man-but-I-can't-figure-out-my-life-without-a-woman" hero that is ubiquitous. Of course, the presumption is that a "real" man wouldn't choose to marry a woman simply because he wanted to. He must be schmoozed, coaxed, lured by the irresistible wiles of womanhood. What I found fascinating in our discussions was how many women were vociferous in their opposition to the new hollywood stereotype. It wasn't the men in the crowd who rose up and said, "what a bunch of hooey." (And, what does that reveal?) Instead, it was the women who piped up and said, "No thanks!" As a matter of fact, one distraught mother said, "I hope my daughters can learn to respect men in spite of what they see on film or on tv."

It makes one wonder: what is a respectable man?

Modern Religion

My wife tivoed the closing ceremony of the Vancouver Games, wanting me to see the comedic routine accompanying the presentation of the Olympic torch (it was funny). But, what caught my attention was the ritual celebration that officially closes the winter games for 2010. I said offhandedly, "A visitor from the first-century Mediterranean world would see this and ask, 'What god are you worshiping?'"

Indeed, the celebration had all the necessary parts: the fiery altar in the center, the priests serving, the celebrants parading, songs lifted in praise to the Spirit of the Olympics, the stadium filled with joyous revelers. Talk of sacrifice and the offering of much money would convince any first-century visitor that this god was worthy of veneration.

What's fascinating to me is how many of us would never describe these athletic games in religious terms. In fact, it would be downright offensive to most of us to suggest that all of this was nothing more than a modern form of idolatry. Perhaps it would take a visitor from the first-century to point out the obvious.

The Problem with Law (more from my work on Paul's Spirituality)

“There is a path to freedom. Its milestones are: obedience, honesty, cleanliness, sobriety, hard work, discipline, sacrifice, truthfulness, love of your homeland.” Words to live by. Some might even say, words to die by. The first time I read them, I was struck by the strength of these words, the soundness of these words, the rightness of these words. “Many people might find their life’s purpose in this creed,” I muttered to myself. “You could build a nation on these ideals then teach citizens to defend them at all costs.” Then I thought of how many people died under the banner of these words.

In fact, that’s exactly what happened to thousands of people—they died with these words hanging over their heads. That’s because this saying was painted on the roof of the long, narrow maintenance building at the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau. Every sighted prisoner saw it as they entered the building—the beginning of horrors of what we call the holocaust. The maintenance building housed the Schubraum (literally, “shoving room”), where new prisoners were stripped of their clothes and dignity, where humans were treated like animals prepared for torture and slaughter. The victims were Jews, German priests, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and homosexuals. The Nazis rounded up these “misfits” and imprisoned them in their concentration camps all over Germany in order to clean up the neighborhood and reorient these prisoners to the “proper” way of life. What happened behind those prison walls is well-known. The atrocities suffered by Jews, priests, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and homosexuals at the hands of their tormentors were hell on earth. What I couldn’t understand, as I stood there one summer day in front of the maintenance building at this notorious concentration camp, was how the men who did such horrible things could believe they were living up to this creed. Why not be honest, tell the truth? The sign should have read: “Obey or not: we will kill you anyway.” Instead, these murderers acted like they were doing something noble, something virtuous, something lawful—the sign proved it. How could words that sound so right lead men to do so wrong?

It must have seemed like a cruel joke to the prisoners inside. The ultimate “bait-and-switch.” The big lie. “Work hard and you will find freedom.” Instead, what these prisoners were forced to do was not “work,” and the end for most of them was not “freedom.” Even the entrance to the camp—a gate through which every prisoner passed—had iron bars bent to shape the words, “Arbeit macht frei” (“Work makes freedom”). Such words may have made sense when they entered the prison. Yet, viewed from inside the concentration camp, the words must have appeared completely backwards—figuratively and literally. No matter how hard the prisoners tried, regardless of how much they obeyed their taskmasters, all they got was more slavery, more abuse, more death. Inside the prison, “work makes freedom” makes no sense at all, no matter how many times you read the sign.

How do we explain the atrocities that took place behind these prison walls? The starvation, the torture, the sadistic experiments, the barbaric treatment. How could one human being treat another with such hatred, such heartless cruelty, such hellish intention? Evil. We blame evil. We blame sinister forces. We blame the devil. But, Paul wouldn’t. Paul didn’t blame the horrendous evil of sinful man on Satan—especially when he considered his own horrible past. A onetime persecutor, Paul never said, “The devil made me do it.” He never shifted the blame of his sinful behavior to the evil one. Rather, when dealing with the unrelenting power of sin, Paul blamed two agents. First of all, sin resides in the flesh—the baser appetites of humanity. For Paul the root of the problem of human sin is the flesh. And yet, as pervasive as Paul’s talk is about the flesh, he will not attribute the cause of all sin to human selfishness. The flesh has a partner in crime, a co-conspirator. As a divine agent of such great potential, many have been fooled by its universal appeal. It is a power that was supposed to make things better but actually made things worse. Rather than curb sin, it increases it. Instead of taming the flesh, it provokes it. Paul saw the law as the main instigator, a manipulated tool, the provocateur of human sin. In fact, Paul goes so far as to suggest that “apart from the law sin lies dead” (Rom. 7:8). That which was supposed to be the solution turned out to be the problem.

The Dark Side of Christmas

This is a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths, and lying in a manger.” We’ve heard Luke’s story so often, we don’t see how sad it is. In fact, it’s the sad parts of the Christmas story that we try to hide, shielding our eyes from the unpleasant realities of Jesus’ birth. Instead, Christmas cards render idyllic portraits that are far removed from the biblical story: landscape scenes of cabins covered with snow, horse-drawn sleighs, animals frolicking in the snow—not only reindeer, but also chipmunks, raccoons, cardinals, and cute gray mice. Even when we consider the biblical narrative, we prefer to see the birth of Jesus as a quaint, country story about sheep and shepherds, peace and goodwill, angelic hosts and a guiding star. Actually, Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth is a very dark story. A Palestinian census meant Roman taxes. Caesar’s pax Romana cost money, and poor imperial subjects were going to foot the bill whether they liked it or not. The fact that Joseph couldn’t find shelter for Mary in his hometown reveals that no family would take him in due to the shameful circumstances of their predicament. What Luke doesn’t tell us is what he assumed we would already know: Joseph was shunned by his family when he came home with a pregnant fiancé. Neither a guestroom nor a public house was made available to the dishonorable couple. Probably born in a cave, Jesus would be cradled by a feeding trough. In Luke’s version there are no magi, no gifts of gold, frankencise, or myrrh. No midwife. No family celebration. All alone, in the middle of the night, Joseph and Mary welcomed a baby boy into the world. This is a dark story, indeed.

Piercing the darkness of Bethlehem was the angelic announcement of Messiah’s birth. Humble circumstances give way to dramatic events that break through the narrative with divine force. Luke employs powerful poetry to deliver a theme that will dominate his gospel: heaven crashes into earth and only the lowly see. The angel seemed to bring good news tailored for dirty shepherd boys. “For today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this is your sign: you will find a baby wrapped in strips of cloth, lying in a feeding trough.” All newborns were wrapped in strips of cloth, mummified to keep them warm. There was nothing significant about that. The special sign for shepherds was that they would find their Messiah in a feeding trough. There is something very appealing about shepherds gathered around a manger to see the Messiah that was born for them, as if they were tending the Lamb of God.

“Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart.” Jesus probably grew up hearing stories about his birthday. Traveling for a census, angels visiting shepherds, and good news found in a manger—bending toward nostalgia, the blending of common details and extraordinary events made the story of Jesus’ birth evermore endearing to poor people who counted on the mercy of God. Listening to his family relive the circumstances of his birth, Jesus knew what he was born for. Redeemed by poor parents with a turtledove instead of a lamb, Jesus was destined to be good news for those who have nothing. He knew he was heaven’s gift of the poor to the poor. The lowly are exalted, the humble honored because the Messiah was born in David’s hometown to poor pilgrims from Nazareth. It makes perfect sense: as David’s heir, Israel’s king should be visited by shepherd boys. “He was one of us,” the shepherds could say. He was born for them. That’s why their story wouldn’t be told with descriptions of royal palaces and rich furnishings. Instead, Jesus came into the world under conditions that only a shepherd could appreciate. Indeed, we all know that good tidings of great joy comes to all people because the gospel came first to boys who tended sheep and found their Messiah in a feeding trough.

He became one of us.

Idolatry (more from my work on Paul's Spirituality)

The gifts of God are like prickly pears: if you don’t handle them with care, you’ll get hurt. That’s the way it is with all things sacred. In fact, the Scriptures are constantly filled with warnings about taking the sacred for granted, purposing the divine for common utility. Abuse godly power and you do little more than set yourself up for abuse. The people of Paul’s day knew this better than we do. They set up “taboos” to make sure divine gifts were employed with humility rather than arrogance. Sharing power with the Almighty was an ominous thing. With the greatest good comes the greatest risk. And, of all the gifts God shared with humanity, “creator” was one of the riskiest. The power and the glory of sex are rife with godly potential and devastating effect. God seemed to pour much glory into humans acting like creators. Psychologists know this; they try to help patients with the emotional baggage carried due to bad relationships. Preachers know this; they sound the sirens of moral decay in our society as evidenced by domestic abuse in their congregations. Poets know this; they persist in writing about unrequited love between men and women—a seemingly vain pursuit that nearly always ends badly. Even people who don’t believe in God know this. We all know this. Much seems to be at stake when man and woman copulate. From the time we were old enough to laugh at dirty ditties scribbled on bathroom walls, we’ve known that sex carries a powerful punch. It’s no wonder the west is obsessed with sex; even our best minds can’t sort out what it means. To me, this makes Paul’s warnings even more poignant. “For even though they knew God, they did not give glory to Him as God, or give thanks; but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened” (1:21). It’s that one line that keeps turning over in my head as I think about how we abuse the gift of our made-in-the-image-of-God sexuality: “their foolish heart was darkened.”

Without God, sex becomes a cipher—an empty and selfish pursuit. Degrading passions harden depraved minds. Rather than generate life that glorifies God, self-fulfillment inexorably leads to degenerate (as in, “the opposite of generating life”) behavior. When sex is an idol, all we want to do is please ourselves. Indeed, the way Paul sees it, this unquenchable thirst for sexual fulfillment without God is a result of God “handing them over to the desires of their darkened heart.” The imagery is graphic. “Handing them over” was a term often used to describe imprisonment. In fact, Paul talks about sexual vices as if these fleshly impulses were a prison, with God “handing them” over to the jailer. Imprisoned by their own cravings, they are chained to their baser appetites—a foolish, wasteful life. Finding sexual pleasure is their supreme quest. Sex becomes their raison d’etre, their only purpose, the only thing they think about. Sex becomes their god.

Is there any doubt that sex is an American idol? Sexual attraction and sexual fulfillment are the twin themes of our culture, embedded in nearly everything we see and hear. It seems we bow in submission to Aphrodite every time we turn on the television or read an advertisement or listen to music. Shielding our eyes and plugging our ears doesn’t seem to be a reasonable option (the Amish might say different; withdrawing from society has some advantages—but even Amish communities have to deal with fleshly desires). So, what’s a Christian to do? How do we deny ourselves in the land of plenty? It’s no wonder a few years ago, during an open forum on our campus (we were discussing the impact of American culture on Christian spirituality), a student said bluntly: “Pornography is main stream. Saying, ‘I won’t look at it’ is naïve. Today, it’s not a matter of ‘if.’ It’s a matter of ‘how often.’” The silence in the room spoke volumes. None of the three-hundred plus students in attendance felt obliged to offer a rebuttal. Consuming pornography was taken as a fait accompli. Sex is everywhere.

The Corinthians could have said the same thing, “it’s not a matter of ‘if’ but ‘how often.’” Roman bath houses were filled with murals of hetero- and homo-erotic scenes. One couldn’t take a bath without taking in all the pornographic imagery. Sex trafficking was heavy in this Roman town, too. Depending upon a man’s income or status, sex was readily available—and socially acceptable—via brothels, sex slaves, courtiers at public banquets, or priests and priestess serving in the temples of fertility gods and goddesses. Sex was everywhere. So, what was a Corinthian Christ-follower to do? Paul’s response was simply, “Flee fornication!” Advice that must have sounded a bit naïve to the Corinthians.