On a cold February day in Scotland, I read these words on a simple plaque: "George Wishart, 1513-1546 . . . The lettering G W on the roadway marks the spot where he died." Falling snow obscured the "GW" from my sight and veiled the distant outline of St. Andrews castle. On the roadway, Wishart was burned at the stake for preaching the gospel. Within the walls of the castle reformer John Knox preached the same gospel before being enslaved for 18 months on a French galley. Shivering slightly, I wondered: What would these men have to say to me and to my generation of ministers?

A moment of self-disclosure: I'm a young pastor, 29 years old, with only six years of ministry experience and a lot to learn. I see my ministry as a part of a larger work of God taking place across multiple generations, a work represented in part by The Gospel Coalition, Together for the Gospel, and the churches and church planting networks involved in the "gospel resurgence." It is an exciting time to serve God's church and watch God at work. But the experience of standing on that snowy road, drinking in the history of St. Andrews, was a healthy reminder that we are not pioneers in gospel ministry. The unquenchable light of the gospel, though it may ebb and flicker, never goes out, nor has it ever lacked preachers to tend it.

Wishart and Knox present a challenge to our generation of ministers: learn from this rich heritage of gospel ministry. The good deposit we have received has been passed along for centuries, and we do well to gaze often down the chain of runners. While we long to participate in God's work in our generation, we must not model ourselves only after men of our own times. Doing so will give us a diminished vision for faithful ministry.

This is not merely a plea to read theology from previous eras. Yes, we may love Luther, Edwards, and Warfield's theological insights, but whom do we seek to imitate in our ministry? Who are our pastoral heroes? If the men we follow come from the same generation and pastor similar churches, we have a problem. Faithful gospel ministry cannot be confined within one generation and one subset of evangelical culture. Pioneers, by definition, are people with no past to learn from—they're the first ones here. But we are not pioneers.

Let me suggest two ways my generation of pastors and preachers would do well to learn from our heritage.

Study Older Preachers

In our day of podcasts and internet streaming, each of us is only a few clicks away from hearing outstanding sermons from multiple preachers. In many ways this is a tremendous blessing, but there's also a danger. If we all listen to the same voices—even gifted, gospel-loving voices—we'll all repeat the same mistakes. No one hears his own accent. It takes an outside ear to tell us we're pronouncing "tomato" funny. Our generation of preachers, even as we strive to be faithful to the text, will inevitably have an "accent"—emphases and phrases and values unconsciously adopted. It is impossible for us to entirely escape this tendency. But it is dangerous to be unaware of it. If we blithely assume that every previous generation has seen the gospel exactly as we do, our children and grandchildren will inherit a truncated version of the gospel.

So let us listen to the sermons of the men God is raising up in our generation. But let us also listen to gospel heralds from other times and places. Take advantage of the tremendous resource of the Martyn Lloyd-Jones sermon library. Read sermons from other centuries and remember that these words were once preached by real men to real congregations of struggling saints and sinners. Sit down for coffee with a preacher who has labored in the pulpit for decades and learn from him. It's one thing to preach a good sermon at a conference; it's another to preach many sermons, good and bad, over many years to the same congregation. Let us learn from those men what it takes to remain in the pulpit for a lifetime and value that feat more than the number of downloads a single sermon receives.

Study Older Pastors

The previous point was specifically about sermons and preachers. Here I'm referring simply more broadly to the lives of pastors. Some jobs are new arrivals; you won't find 200-year-old books on network administration. But pastoring is not a 21st-century development, and our generation is not the only one to write books on church life, the call to ministry, counseling, or any other form of pastoral "shop talk." There's something bracing about reading Horatius Bonar exhorting his fellow Scottish pastors in Words to Winners of Souls or Charles Bridges diagnosing the causes of "ministerial inefficiency" in The Christian Ministry. They assume things we forget. They take for granted aspects of pastoral character from which we excuse ourselves. We would do well to listen to their assumptions.

So let us devour every form of pastoral literature we can find. Read the Puritans on preaching and soul care. Read letters of spiritual counsel from men like John Newton. Read the biographies of our pastoral forefathers, and especially read the biographies they wrote about each other. Wisdom is learning to assess challenges in the context of centuries, not moments; pastoral wisdom is learning to see the challenges our churches face in light of the generations who have served Christ's church before us instead of our own limited experience. Reading about their lives will give us this kind of wisdom.

We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. If we will listen to their voices, they will challenge us, exhort us to faithfulness, encourage us to stay the course, and remind us that they experienced the same kind of trials we experience. May our generation of pastors be deeply marked by the lessons the centuries will teach us. Because brothers, we are not pioneers.

For the inaugural article in our new series "Big Questions," The Gospel Coalition asked four Christian historians, "After AD 70, what day most changed the course of Christian history?"

Robert Louis Wilken is William R. Kenan professor emeritus of the history of Christianity at the University of Virginia. His most recent book is The First Thousand Years: A Global History of Christianity.

A good case can be made for the Muslim invasion of the Middle East in mid-seventh century, let us say AD 650. No event during the first millennium was more unexpected, more calamitous, and more consequential for Christianity than the rise of Islam. Few irruptions in history have transformed societies so completely and irrevocably as did the conquest and expansion of the Arabs in the seventh century. And none came with greater swiftness. Within a decade three major cities in the Byzantine Christian Empire—Damascus in 635, Jerusalem in 638, and Alexandria in 641—fell to the invaders. Most of the territories that were Christian in the year 700 are now Muslim. Nothing similar has happened to Islam. Christianity seems like a rain shower that soaks the earth and then moves on, whereas Islam appears more like a great lake that constantly overflows its banks to inundate new territory.

George Marsden is professor emeritus in history at the University of Notre Dame and the author of Jonathan Edwards: A Life.

I think it has to be the day that Constantine was converted to Christianity. That had huge effects both for good and for ill ever after.

Philip Jenkins is the distinguished professor of history and co-director for the program on historical studies of religion for the Institute for Studies of Religion at Baylor University. He is the author of of The Lost History of Christianity: The Thousand-Year Golden Age of the Church in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia—and How It Died.

I would choose May 29, 1453, known throughout the Eastern churches as "the day the world ended." Although the Byzantine Empire by that point was a pale shadow of its former self, it was still a ghostly shadow of the Roman Empire, and the seat of the Orthodox Church that once dwarfed the Catholics in power and prestige. On that day, though, the Roman capital of Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Turks, beginning a period of long centuries when most Eastern Christians would survive under the grudging tolerance of Islamic rule. The event may be symbolic, but it still marks a decisive turning point in Christian history.

Thomas S. Kidd is professor of history at Baylor University. He is writing a biography of George Whitefield and previously published The Great Awakening: The Roots of Evangelical Christianity in Colonial America.

On October 19, 1740, the First Great Awakening's most compelling preacher, George Whitefield, spoke at the church of the Great Awakening's most compelling theologian, Jonathan Edwards. This moment signaled the beginning of evangelicalism, the most dynamic movement in modern Christian history. Although Edwards and Whitefield did not always see eye-to-eye, they represented two aspects of evangelicalism at its best.

Edwards was the brilliant pastor of Northampton, Massachusetts, whose writings on doctrine and revival are some of the most rigorous the church has ever seen. Whitefield took the gospel to the ends of the earth (which, for this English itinerant, meant America), generating unprecedented excitement through impassioned oratory and skillful use of media. While Edwards represented the evangelical mind, and Whitefield embodied evangelical action, both still appreciated the other's strength. Edwards itinerated, too, and oversaw two major revivals at his church, while Whitefield strongly promoted Calvinist doctrine and risked permanent schism with his Methodist ally John Wesley because of it.

Whitefield and Edwards seemed to sense the significance of the moment: the normally stoic Edwards wept through much of Whitefield's sermon. Edwards thought the Whitefield's revivals might herald "the dawning of a day of God's might, power, and glorious grace."

What question should we ask next? Send your suggestions to me at joe.carter@thegospelcoalition.org.

One of the most common claims by some critics of the New Testament canon is that apocryphal writings, particularly Gospels, were as common and widely used as the NT writings. Helmut Koester is a good example of this trend. He laments the fact that the terms "apocryphal" and "canonical" are even used by modern scholars because they reflect, according to him, "prejudices of long standing" against the authenticity of these apocryphal texts. [1] Koester then argues, "If one considers the earliest period of the tradition, several apocryphal gospels are as well attested as those which later received canonical status." [2] William Petersen offers a similar approach when he says that apocryphal gospels were so popular that they "were breeding like rabbits." [3]

But is it really true that apocryphal gospels were as popular and widespread as the canonical Gospels? Were they really on equal footing? Three pieces of evidence suggest otherwise.

Extant manuscripts. The physical remains of writings can give us an indication of their relative popularity. Such remains can tell us which books were used, read, and copied. When we examine the physical remains of Christian texts from the earliest centuries (second and third), we quickly discover that the New Testament writings were far and away the most popular. Currently we have more than 60 extant manuscripts (in whole or in part) of the New Testament from this time period, with most of our copies coming from Matthew, John, Luke, Acts, Romans, Hebrews, and Revelation. The Gospel of John proves to be the most popular of all with 18 manuscripts, a number of which derive from the second century (e.g., P52, P90, P66, P75). Matthew is not far behind with 12 manuscripts; and some of these also have been dated to the second century (e.g., P64-67, P77, P103, P104).

During the same time period, the second and third centuries, we possess approximately 17 manuscripts of apocryphal writings such as the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Mary, the Gospel of Peter, the Protevangelium of James, and more. The Gospel of Thomas has the most manuscripts of all, with just three.

The implications of this numerical disparity have not been missed by modern scholars. Larry Hurtado argues that the low numbers of apocryphal manuscripts "do not justify any notion that these writings were particularly favored" and that whatever circles used these writings "were likely a clear minority among Christians of the second and third centuries." [4]  Similarly, C. H. Roberts observes, "Once the evidence of the papyri is available, indisputably Gnostic texts are conspicuous by their rarity." [5] Scott Charlesworth agrees: "If the 'heterodox' were in the majority for so long, the non-canonical gospels should have been preserved in greater numbers in Egypt." [6]

Frequency of citation. While scholars typically focus on whether apocryphal books are cited, they have not paid sufficient attention to how often they are cited in comparison to the canonical writings. When those data are considered, the disparity between apocryphal and canonical writings becomes even more evident.

Take, for example, Clement of Alexandria, often mentioned as an early church father who prefers canonical and apocryphal writings equally. However, when the frequency of citations is considered, this claim proves to be unfounded—Clement vastly prefers the New Testament books to the apocryphal literature or other Christian writings. J. A. Brooks has observed that Clement cites the canonical books "about 16 times more often than apocryphal and patristic writings." [7] This disparity is thrown into sharper relief when we consider just the four Gospels. According to the work of Bernard Mutschler, Clement references Matthew 757 times, Luke 402 times, John 331 times, and Mark 182 times. [8] Comparatively, Clement cites apocryphal gospels only 16 times. [9] Apparently, Clement was not in doubt about which books he regarded as canonical.

Manner of citation. If indeed apocryphal writings were valued equally with canonical writings, we would expect such a fact to be reflected in the way these books are cited. Do the early church fathers cite apocryphal writings as Scripture? Rarely. In a few instances, it seems that books like the Shepherd of Hermas or the Epistle of Barnabas were regarded as having a scriptural status. But this was a small minority view. When we examine which books early Christians were not simply using but books they actually regarded as Scripture, then the canonical books are far and away the most popular. This is confirmed by the fact that there was a "core" canon of books in place by the middle of the second century.

Additionally, a number of these apocryphal writings were expressly condemned by the earliest Christians. Take, for example, the oft-discussed Gospel of Thomas. This book is never mentioned in any early canonical list, not found in any of our New Testament manuscript collections, never figured prominently in canonical discussions, and often was condemned outright by a variety of church fathers. [10] Thus, if Thomas was a widely read and widely received account, then it has left little historical evidence of that fact.

Everybody loves a good conspiracy theory. It would certainly be far more entertaining if someone could show that apocryphal books were really the Scripture of the early church and that they have been suppressed by the political machinations of the later church (i.e., Constantine). But the truth is far less sensational. While apocryphal books were given some scriptural status from time to time, the overwhelming majority of early Christians preferred the books that are now in our New Testament canon. Thus, we are reminded again that the church did not arbitrarily "create" the canon in the fourth or fifth century. Rather the affirmations of the later church simply reflected what had already been the case for many, many years.

* * * * * * * * * *

[1] H. Koester, "Apocryphal and Canonical Gospels," Harvard Theological Review 73 (1980): 106.

[2] Koester, "Apocryphal and Canonical Gospels," 107.

[3] W. L. Petersen, "The Diatesseron and the Fourfold Gospel," in The Earliest Gospels (ed. C. Horton; London and New York: T&T Clark International, 2004), 51.

[4] Larry Hurtado, The Earliest Christian Artifacts, 21-22.

[5] C. H. Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief, 52.

[6] Scott Charlesworth, "Indicators of "Catholicity" in Early Gospel Manuscripts," in The Early Text of the New Testament (ed. C. E. Hill and M. J. Kruger; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).

[7] J. A. Brooks, "Clement of Alexandria," 48.

[8] Bernard Mutschler, Irenäus als johanneischer Theologe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 101.

[9]  Brooks, "Clement of Alexandria," 44.

[10] E.g., Hippolytus, Ref. 5.7.20; Origen, Hom. Luc. 1; Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.25.6.

* * * * * * * * * *

Michael J. Kruger will participate in one of two dinner panels hosted by our The Gospel Coalition 2013 National Conference's Premier Sponsor, Reformed Theological Seminary, next month in Orlando. The topic of the panel will be "Having Confidence in the Scriptures." Kruger—from RTS Charlotte—will be joined on the panel by John Currid, Bruce Baugus, Chuck Hill, and Justin Taylor (moderator). Here is a brief description of what you can expect on Monday, April 8, at 5:30 p.m.:

Even as they affirm the inspiration, inerrancy, and infallibility of God's Word, Christians sometimes struggle to have confidence in the Scriptures. The Bible is attacked from outside the church and often minimized within the church. This panel will strengthen our confidence in the truthfulness and trustworthiness of the Scriptures, both Old and New Testaments.

Preaching Christ in the Old Testament has become a topic of great interest among evangelical preachers today. While this is by no means a new issue, our desire to faithfully proclaim the whole counsel of God in a gospel-centered or Christ-centered way has led to a growing renewal in understanding how we can rightly "find" Christ in the Old Testament. Almost without exception, those who teach and write on preaching Christ from the Old Testament emphatically reject the use of allegory in preaching from the Old Testament (see for example, Edmund Clowney, Preaching Christ from All of Scripture, and Sidney Greidanus, Preaching Christ from the Old Testament, Preaching Christ from Genesis, and Preaching Christ from Ecclesiastes).

The question needs to be raised, however, whether the stigma associated with allegory and the outright rejection of preaching allegorically from the Old Testament should be maintained. Clowney notes that many preachers warned about preaching allegorically have also shied away from identifying people, places, events, or themes in the Old Testament as types (Preaching Christ from All of Scripture, 31). The history of biblical interpretation sheds some helpful light on this question. In particular, because the Reformation had such a significant effect on how we read and preach the Bible today, it is worth considering whether John Calvin and his contemporaries would have share the same reluctance to preach allegory from the Old Testament.

Different Understanding

First, it is important to recognize that the most common understanding of "allegory" today differs from the way the reformers—and their predecessors—understood it. Most of us likely assume that allegory allows preachers to make the text say whatever they want. We understand allegory to be an arbitrary metaphor that finds a symbolic meaning of some spiritual truth in certain features of a biblical passage without any regard for the context or meaning of that passage.

To distinguish from symbolic meanings that are in the Old Testament, it has become common to use the term "typology" to refer to representations based on a historical reality that anticipate another future historical reality. The straightforward differentiation between these terms, however, originated in the 20th century as an aspect of the modern interest in the historical concerns of biblical interpretation. (See, for example, Aubrey Spears, "Preaching the Old Testament" in Hearing the Old Testament, 396. For a helpful summary and critique of the agenda behind these kinds of claims, see J. Todd Billings, The Word of God for the People of God, 149-194.) This simple distinction between allegory, which ignores history, and typology, which is based on history, is currently being challenged, particularly because interpreters throughout history did not refer to "allegories" or "types" in this way.

Until recently, it was widely accepted that in the fourth century two "schools of exegesis" established two different approaches to interpreting the Bible. The Alexandrians, such as Origen, Clement, and Cyril, favored the use of allegorical interpretation. The Antiochenes, such as Diodore, Theodore Mopsuestia, and Chrysostom, rejected allegory and favored literal and historical interpretation. The stated contrast between these two traditions then provided the basis for assessing the Reformation as characterized by "the widespread rejection of allegory . . . that represented a kind of return to the hermeneutical principles of the Antiochene school" (Al Wolters, "The History of Old Testament Interpretation: An Anecdotal Survey" in Hearing the Old Testament, 33.)

Blurry Boundaries

However, this portrayal is oversimplified. The boundaries between these two traditions are much blurrier. Both traditions had similar training for how to interpret the Bible. Both employed allegorical methods. And the later exegetical tradition incorporated elements and interpretations from interpreters of both these traditions. As a result, the reformers' primary reaction against allegory, was its abuse—not its existence.

The changes in biblical interpretation during the Reformation were part of a gradual shift toward a stronger emphasis on the literal sense of Scripture that had already begun as early as the 13th century. During the Middle Ages, the primary approach to interpreting the Bible was the "fourfold sense" of Scripture. The fourfold approach sought to find multiple meanings in each text. This approach was often summarized by a poetic verse, "The letter teaches what happened, allegory what you should believe, the moral what you should do, anagogy to what you should aim" (Henri de Lubac, Medieval Exegesis: The Four Senses of Scripture).

In theory, though not always in practice, the three spiritual senses were to be built on the literal sense. However, as the reformers pointed out, many in the exegetical tradition had departed from the genuine sense of Scripture by inventing all kinds of allegories that obscured the literal sense. It was this abuse of allegories (as well as the abuse of the other spiritual senses) that they rejected, and not simply the use of allegory itself.

The reformers certainly did not disallow the practice of discerning "what you should believe" from Old Testament passages. Rather they retained the components of the fourfold sense by relocating them within a more expansive understanding of the literal sense that contained a message concerning what Christians should believe, do, and hope. Sometimes they connected the teaching of the Old Testament to the teaching of the New Testament by allegory. But they did not assume that allegory had to be disconnected from the literal or historical sense. That was in fact what they abhorred about the way it had been used.

Calvin and other Reformed interpreters allowed for and approved of allegorical interpretations, but only if they were simple, useful for instruction, and consistent with the New Testament (For further analysis of Calvin's approach to allegorical interpretation, see John L. Thompson, "Calvin as Biblical Interpreter," in The Cambridge Companion to John Calvin, ed. Donald K. McKim, 67-70; Raymond Blacketer, The School of God: Pedagogy and Rhetoric in Calvin's Interpretation of Deuteronomy, 220-232, 269; T.H. L. Parker, Calvin's Old Testament Commentaries, 70-82; David L. Puckett, John Calvin's Exegesis of the Old Testament, 105-113; Sujin Pak, The Judaizing Calvin: Sixteenth-Century Debates over the Messianic Psalms, 77-101.) Calvin's use of allegory was more limited than most of his predecessors, as well as his use of typology. He rarely labeled his interpretations as allegory, but instead referred to them using rhetorical categories or calling them analogies, metaphors, and applications. However, he did not entirely reject allegory as one way of teaching what Christians ought to believe from the Old Testament.

A few examples from Calvin's comments on Genesis reveal ways he taught the Old Testament that many preachers today would hesitate to follow because they might get chastised for preaching allegorically. Calvin actually affirmed "Ambrose's allegory" that just as Jacob received the blessing because the odor of his older brother's clothes pleased his father, so also Christians are blessed when we receive from Christ, our older brother, "the robe of righteousness, which by its odor procures [our heavenly Father's] favor" (John Calvin, Genesis: The Crossway Classic Commentaries, 239). He identified that "Jacob at that time represented the person of Christ" because Christ was figuratively speaking in his body when God promised that all nations would be blessed in him (Genesis, 250). He taught that the angel who wrestled with Jacob "must be understood to refer to Christ . . . because he has been and is the perpetual mediator" (Genesis, 360). And Calvin affirmed that "in the person of Joseph, a living image of Christ is presented" (Genesis, 296). These are just a few cases where Calvin offered symbolic interpretations not explicitly identified in the New Testament or connected to historical matters. Calvin and other Reformed interpreters used several methods to connect Old Testament texts to the larger divine context in order to explain how they pointed to Christ and his church. Sometimes they made these connections by teaching that the words further symbolized a greater truth.

Renewed Way

So what would Calvin say to preachers today? On the one hand, Calvin thought it was frivolous and often unnecessary or unfruitful to look for allegories. He stressed the simple sense of Scripture, which allegories could too easily distort. He felt that allegories had often been used as a shortcut to Christ that didn't take the original message seriously enough.

Yet on the other hand, he did not entirely reject allegories when they could be used appropriately. If we insist on defining "allegory" as arbitrary and disconnected from history, then of course, Calvin would rightly reject that kind of preaching. But if we acknowledge that "allegory" is a way to perceive symbolic representations of "what you should believe" beyond the surface level, then we may be able to connect appropriate features in an Old Testament passage with a greater truth revealed in Christ.

In fact, good preaching mandates that we do more than simply recount a historical sense of text, but rather we must also proclaim how this particular word from God teaches us what to believe, what it calls us to do, and where we should place our hope. The real issue—both today and in Calvin's time—is that we avoid arbitrary and completely subjective readings of the text. But rather than following a modern redefinition of "allegory" that makes it pejorative and forces us to rule out the practice altogether, perhaps we need to refine our approach to allow for identifying simple, useful, and suitable representations in the text that symbolically point to a greater truth.

Even as cautious as Calvin was in his limited use of allegory, he still wanted interpreters and preachers to recognize all the elements in God's unfolding story that point us to Christ. The reformers' call to correct the abuses of allegory still resounds today, but perhaps we need to hear it again in a renewed way.

The life and ministry of John Calvin provides insight into a range of ministry related issues—from biblical exegesis to training pastors to the effect of preaching upon civil government. But what, if anything, does Calvin teach us about ministry among Roman Catholics? It turns out that he teaches us a valuable lesson.

Contrary to those who would portray Calvin as a clerical despot, bent on micro-managing religious practice in his Genevan fiefdom, there is instead much evidence demonstrating his concern for the outward thrust of evangelism. Through each successive edition of his Institutes, for example, he retained his dedication to the French king. Some believe that this signified Calvin's commitment to nurturing the Protestant church in France, a movement for which he equipped pastors and missionaries. Whether it was in forming the Geneva Academy in 1559 (to train church leaders), his tireless routine of writing letters of encouragement to oppressed Huguenots, or in caring for refugees who had escaped the fires of persecution, the centrifugal impulse of Calvin's Christianity moved beyond the borders of Geneva and into the world.

It is interesting to notice how Calvin's missional outlook informed his approach to ministry among Roman Catholics, something with which he had much experience (given his time period when virtually everyone was from a "Romanist" background). Michael A. Mullett, in the recent update of his book John Calvin, stresses this point with regard to the standards and protocols that Calvin implemented for the church in Geneva: "we should try to understand the importance [Calvin] placed on the educational function of the liturgy," he writes, "deliberately using it to instruct a population of ex-Catholics in Protestant ways" (101). Through such instruction, Calvin sought to guide newcomers from patterns of superstition into a biblically chaste religion.

We observe Calvin's intentionality in his comments about Lent, for example. In the Institutes 4.12.19-21, the French reformer enumerates reasons for taking "precaution lest any superstition creep in, as has previously happened to the great harm of the church." He first quotes Joel 2:13 in opposition to religious hypocrisy. Second, citing Augustine, he cautions readers to avoid Lenten fasts as a work of merit. He then goes on to tackle the problems of legalism and spiritual pride. In all of this exhortation, Calvin is helping ex-Catholics evaluate familiar traditions in the light of Scripture. While recognizing a proper observance of Lent--one that flows from a heart of gratitude—he opposes superstitious distortions. By way of conclusion, Calvin writes:

Wicked laws were passed which bind consciences with deadly chains. The eating of meat was forbidden, as if it would defile a man. Sacrilegious opinions were piled upon one another, until the depth of all errors was reached. And not to overlook any depravity, they began, with a completely absurd pretense of abstinence, to mock God.

Reason for the Rhetoric

It is easy to make direct application from Calvin's polemic, especially when it involves a similar liturgical phenomenon such as Lent. The case of Lent is particularly interesting because, as in Calvin's period, some today may display penitent works for reasons of superstition or merit-seeking. Is such an error any less grievous now than it was then, and, if not, shouldn't we address it with the same degree of candor? I would say yes to the first question and probably not to the second. Let me explain.

With regard to our rhetorical engagement with Catholics, we must recognize that we live in a different time period from Calvin's. In the 21st century we don't link Christian faith to physical violence. However, it was far different for the 16th and 17th centuries when religious solidarity and national destiny went hand-in-hand. In such a society, the idea of religious pluralism was new and frightening. With what church does one identify? Even saying it this way is misleading. There was hardly a pluralistic choice. When Luther published his Appeal to the German Nobility, for instance, he was not proposing an alternative option. It was, for him, a necessary replacement of an apostate church institution. In addition to generating profound existential angst among rank and file Christians, such transition created a social and political revolution, which the wars of religion vividly remind us.    

In this setting, words were employed to heighten concern, awaken emotions, and motivate action. In this clash of competing worldviews, where the stakes were life and death, rhetorical conventions permitted and even promoted an aggressive confrontation aimed at demeaning opponents. In this polemical universe, you could not punch below the belt, because there was no belt marking off acceptable and unacceptable blows. My friend Jason illustrated this point during seminary. The consummate Calvinist, Jason once mentioned nonchalantly to our classmate Linford, a beloved Mennonite friend: "If we were living 500 years ago, I'd be drowning you about now." The strength of their friendship allowed for such a bizarre statement. Perhaps the most bizarre part, however, was its truth.

Outreach in Our Day

With regard to polemics, we live in a new day. The influence of Christian virtue on verbal etiquette has delivered us from the violent vituperations of yesteryear. In other words, we can disagree with charity. This is not to say that the Reformation is therefore over. Far from it. The same fundamental issues of difference that separated Catholics and Protestants in the 16th century largely exist today. But instead of drowning or impaling our Catholic conversation partners, we may now enjoy a cup of coffee with them at Starbucks, pray for their families, and cherish them as friends.

This sort of humility doesn't mean that we have compromised our conviction of what constitutes truth any more than being meek suggests that we lack strength. Jesus was all powerful, and yet he humbled himself to the point of death, even death on a cross (Phil 2:1-11). Only after reaching informed convictions, having taken time to listen, learn, and think, do we possess the requisite courage to relate to others in a vulnerable, humble way. Conversely, when we attack the jugular of the one who disagrees with us, we demonstrate our insecurity. Once again, Jesus is our example. Although God, Jesus did not exploit his deity, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant (Phil 2:6-7).

So what is the lesson that Calvin teaches us about ministry to Catholics? It starts with understanding the religious assumptions of those Catholics whom we serve. With such a perspective, Calvin initiated a process that called superstition into question in favor of biblical faith and practice. Whether in evangelism or in catechizing members at Saint-Pierre Cathedral, Calvin's "Reformed" vision consisted of just that: reforming religion in the light of Scripture. The same opportunity is before us. By asking informed questions of our Catholic friends, questions that reveal the limitations (or outright error) of sacred tradition, we can serve a process of reflection in which biblical truth comes into sharper focus and eventually dominates life.

Typically, evangelicals are shy about Lent. The 40 days prior to Easter—Sundays excepted—are known popularly as a season for giving up chocolate or other extras in order to show God how much we love him. With such impoverished notions, it is no wonder that Lent has fallen on hard times.

So should evangelicals bother with Lent?

Whatever the popular conceptions, the season can encourage gospel-centered piety. But, before considering Lent's value, let's briefly discuss the benefits of the church calendar, in general.

Some evangelical traditions reject the notion of the church calendar wholesale, believing that the Lord's Day is the only God-given measure of time for the church. Some Puritans discarded all special holidays on this principle. But, no matter our efforts, we organize our lives according to some seasonal calendar that's not prescribed by God (semesters, financial quarters, and months, for example).

Recognizing this, the church's liturgical calendar seeks to order time around the major events of our redemption in Christ. During these seasons, we encourage certain theological emphases, spiritual practices, and corresponding emotions to instruct and train the church in godliness. Of course, the calendar does not limit the celebration of a truth or the experience of a particular emotion to one season or day. For instance, observing Easter Sunday as a joyous and festive holy day does not deny that every Lord's Day celebrates Jesus' resurrection. Rather, a joyous Easter Sunday anchors and gives shape to all other Sundays throughout the year. So it is with the liturgical calendar.

Five Benefits

That said, let's explore five benefits to observing Lent.

1. Lent affords us the opportunity to search the depths of our sin and experience the heights of God's love.

With Good Friday approaching, visions of Jesus' gruesome death remind us of the dreadful reality of sin. Here, our individual and corporate brokenness is on display as the Lord of glory dies under the weight of our just judgment, inspiring personal introspection. Though self-examination can turn into narcissistic navel gazing, such abuses should not foreclose on a godly form of self-examination that encourages humility, repentance, and dependence on Christ.

But for such introspection to remain healthy, we must hold together two realities that converge at the cross—our corruption and God's grace. If we divorce the two, then our hearts will either swell with pride and self-righteousness, losing touch with our sinfulness, or sink into anxious despair and uncertainty, failing to grapple with mercy.

Confident of God's grace in Jesus Christ, we are free to probe the inner recesses of our hearts, unearthing sin's pollution. God's grace liberates us to explore our soul, facing its filth, rather than suppressing or succumbing to its contents. With David, we are free to pray,

Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting! (Ps. 139:23-24)

Searching us, God discovers nothing unknown to him (Ps 139:1-3), but discloses the secrets of our hearts, allowing us to know ourselves. Under his tender scrutiny, God exposes, not to shame, but to heal. Thus, turning inward, we are led upward to find consolation, hope, and transformation through Jesus Christ. Certainly, such piety isn't the exclusive property of any church season, but Lent provides a unique setting for this self-examination.

2. Lent affords us an opportunity to probe the sincerity of our discipleship.

Jesus bore the cross for us, accomplishing our salvation, yet he also bestows a cross on us (Mt. 10:38-39; Lk. 9:23). Following him, Jesus guarantees unspeakable comforts and uncertainties (Jn. 16:32-33). Frequently, these uncertainties test the genuineness of our discipleship. Consider the following examples from Jesus' ministry.   

In Matthew 8:18-22, two people approach Jesus, proclaiming their desire to follow him. One, a scribe, offers his undying devotion saying, "Teacher, I will follow you wherever you go." Jesus responds by instructing the scribe about the rigors of following him, explaining that foxes and birds enjoy more comfort than he does. Perceiving selfish ambition, Jesus reminds the scribe that following him is not a means for advancing in the world, but rather involves forsaking it. We don't know how this scribe responded to the challenge, but Jesus leaves us with the question, "Will we follow him when it is inconvenient or only when comfortable and to our advantage?"

The second, a disciple, requests to attend his father's funeral before going on with Jesus. Jesus takes the opportunity to reveal the disciple's heart, unveiling his ultimate affections. He says, "Follow me, and leave the dead to bury their own dead." Remember, Jesus warns us that we cannot love father and mother, or anything else, above him (Mt. 10:37). Obviously, Jesus does not forbid loving our parents or attending their funerals, but he does insist on being first in our hearts. Jesus is not a commitment among other commitments, but rather the commitment of our lives. Therefore, as Augustine points out, we must take care to order our loves properly, ensuring that our affections are set on Christ and not another.

In this way, Lent provides opportunity to question and examine ourselves, exploring the integrity of our discipleship.

3. Lent provides us an opportunity to reflect on our mortality.

Pursuing eternal youth, our culture seems to live in the denial of death. But ignoring death does not erase its impartiality—everyone who draws a first breath will take a last one. It is a certainty we can't escape (Heb. 9:27). Fortunately, death is not the last word. For all who belong to Christ, there is a promise stronger than death—we will die, but Jesus will return to raise our bodies, wiping the tears from our eyes and making all things new (1 Cor. 15:12-28; Rev. 21:1-8).

The most difficult moment I face each year, as an Anglican pastor, is to apply the ashes, in the sign of a cross, to the foreheads of my wife and children on Ash Wednesday. It is an intimate and haunting moment. Echoing the words of Genesis 3:19, I say, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." It is jarring. Every year, I cry.

Yet the ashes are applied in the shape of Jesus' cross—the only means for escaping the dust of death. When God raised Jesus, he raided death, destroying its power. Jesus' resurrection marks the death of death and welcomes us into a living hope (1 Pt. 1:3). This is our consolation and joy in the midst of our mortality.

Lent provides an unmistakable opportunity for disciplined reflection on this neglected certainty and God's radical solution.

4. Lent gives us the opportunity to move towards our neighbor in charity.

Long misunderstood as a form of works-righteousness, Lenten fasting is not about scoring points with God, but rather emphasizes simplicity for the sake of others. By temporarily carving away some comforts or conveniences, good gifts from God himself, we hope to de-clutter our hectic lives, allowing us to focus. Simple living allows us to reserve time for others while also serving to curb our expenses. It is fitting to allocate these savings, along with other gifts, for charitable purposes, especially directing those funds to the poor and marginalized.  

So search your heart and go simple. Consider fasting from types of food, technology, and/or sources of entertainment. Live frugally, and do so for the sake of charity. Find a cause, or better yet a person, and give sacrificially. And, in so doing, may you know the joy of Jesus who gave himself fully to us.

5. Lent prepares us to celebrate the wonder and promise of Jesus' resurrection on Easter Sunday.

Here, Jesus trampled down sin and death, defeating the Devil (Heb. 2:14-15). After a season of depravation, highlighting the grim reality of our broken creation, Jesus' resurrection floods our grief with life and light. In other words, Lent prepares us to join the disciples in their joy and bewilderment on that strange morning long ago (Mt. 28:8; Mk. 16:8; Lk. 24:12). Our Easter worship is a dress rehearsal for our Lord Jesus' return when he comes to unite heaven and earth, making all things new (Eph. 1:10; Rev. 21:1-8).

And so, I invite you to a holy Lent. Take up the opportunity to dwell upon the grief of our broken world, the sin within your heart, and the deep love of God that exceeds these realities. Reflecting on the hospitality of God, consider the needs of your neighbor, especially those without life's basic needs. And, most importantly, in the gritty details of Lent, don't forget—Easter is coming!

The story of St. Vincent de Paul, a Roman Catholic church in Louisville, Kentucky, is like many others in our age of changing religious and economic dynamics. Cornerstone laid in 1878. Slowly abandoned as the neighborhood deteriorated into one of the most dangerous in the United States. Finally sold. But here the story takes an unexpected turn, because the building has recently enjoyed a $4 million makeover from a young, vibrant, and growing congregation.

Sojourn Community Church began meeting in an arts center in Louisville's Germantown neighborhood before it purchased St. Vincent de Paul a few years back from the local archdiocese. The upgrades signal a multifaceted effort by Sojourn to trust God for spiritual and economic renewal in this inner city neighborhood. In fact, Sojourn is one of several prominent churches across the country undertaking multimillion-dollar renovation projects to breathe new life into historic churches or other structures, instead of building a contemporary big-box.

Sojourn's Midtown campus meets this summer in the new facility for the first time.

"I think it's a wonderful thing to kind of reclaim, restore, and renew a place," said Daniel Montgomery, Sojourn's lead and founding pastor. "I think it's a picture of the gospel as well that Christ is making all things new, but at the same time I think people love contemporary. Are people attracted to old? Yes. Are people attracted to the contemporary? Yes. We want to make it really clear that we are not the first to step into the scene. We are just one of many in this larger story."

Montgomery said Protestants often have a low view of church buildings. That has changed over the past decade, as many churches grow to appreciate the role of art and beauty. For better or for worse, a space can shape a person or a person can shape the space, he said.

"I think a lot of it is platonic dualism between sacred and secular," he said. "We make false dichotomies where the scriptures don't actually have these dichotomies."

When Sojourn began looking for a new facility a few years back, it wanted to remain rooted in the same inner city neighborhood. But finding a building was difficult until the local archdiocese put St. Vincent de Paul up for sale for $500,000. The church celebrated its first post-renovation service in late August. Within months of purchasing the building, Sojourn received a $2 million gift toward the project.

"It really was a confluence of factors," Montgomery said of the decision to purchase the aged building. "It was timing in our history, proximity in our current location. It was definitely the beauty of space. I remember being in seminary 13 or 14 years ago and they said: write down your ideal worship experience. I remember writing down walking into a cathedral where there is solid expositional preaching. It's very surreal to me, looking at dreams that were on my heart years ago that came together."

Tool, Not a Goal

Churches in Seattle, Kansas City, and St. Louis have also recently completed or are working on renovation projects. Mars Hill Church in Seattle celebrated a grand opening last Sunday as one campus officially moved from the city's Belltown neighborhood into one of the city's oldest church buildings, First United Methodist Church. The facility, where several of Seattle's founding families once worshiped, was nearly demolished years ago until the Washington Supreme Court decided in favor of a lawsuit to keep it standing. It was eventually sold to Seattle developer Kevin Daniels for $32 million.

The congregation gathers at the Mars Hill Church downtown campus on Christas Eve. 

A couple years ago, Mars Hill began looking at moving closer to the heart of downtown and approached Daniels about First United Methodist, according to Tim Gaydos, Mars Hill's lead pastor of the downtown location. At first, Daniels wasn't interested in selling the property, but after many conversations with Gaydos about his vision for Mars Hill's role in area, he agreed to lease with the possibility of purchasing.

"We developed a great foundation in Belltown and saw Belltown really flourish through the ministry of our people," Gaydos said. "Now that will continue, and we can replicate that in many other neighborhoods in central city. I'm pretty excited about it."

A 2008 survey by LifeWay Research found that "unchurched adults"---those who hadn't attended a church, mosque, or synagogue in the past six months other than for holidays or events---are more turned off to utilitarian buildings. More Americans prefer a medieval cathedral to a contemporary church building. Ed Stetzer, president of LifeWay Research, at the time said the findings surprised him, but suggested the look of a Gothic cathedral was more likely to connect visitors with the past.

"A church building is a tool and not a goal," Stetzer told me. "When choosing a tool, you need the right one for the right job. As such, I'd be discerning in what kind of church will help advance the mission of the church in the community. For many churches, they've found older mainline church buildings to be such a tool---connecting them with the community, its history, and even with a sense that the (big-C) Church did not start when theirs did."

David Gobel, an architectural history professor at Savannah College of Art and Design, says churches---like civic or commercial institutions---are "building public statements about their identity" when they build a building.

"According to John Calvin, the chief principle governing public worship is decorum, a concept that describes how we are to behave, dress, and, I would add, build," Gobel wrote in 2011. "Decorum is a general principle that encompasses propriety, gracefulness, dignity and, yes, beauty. Indeed, these are the qualities that should be sought in church architecture. The dignity, decorum, and beauty that we seek in designing places for public worship should extend to the external witness of the church."

Ultimate Beauty

Redeemer Fellowship in Kansas City is still in the process of a project in the city's Westport neighborhood. The church moved into the building when it began in 2009 and is now in the middle of a capital campaign. The plan is to go beyond the $1 million deferred maintenance needed in the beginning and to raise another $2 million to renovate the sanctuary and other areas.

Historically, evangelical churches in Kansas City have left the urban core and moved to suburbs, according to Redeemer's sexton, Joshua Murray. But Redeemer wanted to plant in the city center to see the whole city renewed.

"One of the core values of our church is beauty, and the sanctuary is certainly beautiful," he said. "It's an ancient structure with high-level craftsmanship, which we think is beautiful. The rest of the building is pretty utilitarian, pretty plain, and built with a different ideal. We believe the structure should be beautiful, so we're not only going trying to help it function better, but it also reflects the beauty we see in the gospel."

Conversation about beauty often becomes a conversation about worship, according to Andy Bean, head of Redeemer's strategy and implementation. He said the church's passion for space is built from a desire to point to the ultimate display of beauty.

"Because that's the thing about a building, or work of art, or even a sunset in the mountain," Bean said. "You can engage beautiful objects or spaces, but they don't ultimately satisfy your longing to encounter beauty. Beauty is designed to point to something beyond itself, and in that sense our passion for space is born out of a desire to have every aspect of someone's experience with Redeemer point them to Jesus, as the one who is sufficiently and ultimately beautiful."

No two men more extensively shaped life in Alabama during the 20th century. But Alabama didn't choose Martin Luther King Jr. Or at least not so many did---that honor belongs solely to those who called King to lead Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery and those who followed him through the gauntlet of firehoses, dogs, and billy clubs on the streets of Birmingham in 1963. But Alabama chose George Corley Wallace Jr.---not everyone, of course, but enough to elect him governor in 1962. When term limits prevented him from seeking re-election in 1966, his wife, Lurleen,was elected. When she died unexpectedly in office, Alabamians re-elected her husband in 1970. Not even the assassin's bullets on the presidential campaign trail could keep Wallace down, and he served one final term as governor of Alabama from 1983 to 1987.

Fifty years ago, Wallace gave Alabama what we wanted: a full-throated, no-compromise defense of segregation between whites and blacks. King and his allies may have won the Montgomery bus boycott in the courts in 1956, but eight years later Wallace still won in the court of public opinion. He stood in Montgomery on January 14, 1963, and took the oath of office where Jefferson Davis once shouldered his duties as the first and only president of the Confederate States of America.

It is very appropriate that from this cradle of the Confederacy, this very heart of the great Anglo-Saxon Southland, that today we sound the drum for freedom as have our generations of forebears before us time and again down through history. Let us rise to the call for freedom-loving blood that is in us and send our answer to the tyranny that clanks its chains upon the South. In the name of the greatest people that have ever trod this earth, I draw the line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.

Wallace knew this line would invite boisterous applause in Montgomery. But he did not know this line would be a relic of history by the end of 1963. Forever didn't even last one year.

Stain of Segregation

No one will fault you, Christian, for being discouraged by trends in Western culture. You may feel like religious freedom has been trampled under the feet of tyranny. You may feel like biblical values have been lost forever. You may wonder how any culture devoted to individualism, consumerism, and relativism can long endure. But know this lesson from Scripture and history: no injustice survives the purifying fires of God forever.

Today it looks like marriage has been lost. Already crippled by divorce and cohabitation, marriage has been twisted beyond recognition by gay rights. We fear that now, tomorrow, and forever Christian voices will be silenced either by force or by social intimidation. We wonder how we became the enemy when we only want what's best for our neighbors. And we cannot foresee how this trend might reverse. Then again, neither could African Americans trapped in decades of Jim Crow oppression foresee how God would bring a sudden end to segregation during Wallace's tenure.

When King began leading freedom marches in Alabama's largest city, Birmingham, it appeared more likely that his career would end in failure and irrelevance than in a national holiday. Writing from Birmingham Jail to fellow clergymen in April 1963, King believed against evidence that history would tell a different story than his momentary troubles suggested.

One day the South will recognize its real heroes. . . . One day the South will know that when these disinherited children of God sat down at lunch counters, they were in reality standing up for what is best in the American dream and for the most sacred values in our Judeo-Christian heritage, thereby bringing our nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the founding fathers.

Both sides read the same Bible and prayed to the same God. Both sides asked God to defeat the other. But God could not answer the prayers of both sides in the way they hoped. God had his own purposes. In this appointed time of 1963, God willed to remove the stain of segregation. For "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether" (Psalm 19:9, KJV). And God had decided to use the weak to shame the strong.

King's decision to march children through the streets of public safety commissioner Bull Connor's Birmingham reflected less of his organizational genius and more of his desperation. He had already gone to jail. He had pleaded for moderate white clergymen to join the cause. But so far King had little to show for the hardship. The great industrial city might never change, and "Birmingham's past would be his future, in which case he was finished," Pulitzer Prize-winning historian Taylor Branch observed.

Turning Point

The turning point came on Friday, May 3, 1963. More than 1,000 young people crammed inside Sixteenth Street Baptist Church and slowly emerged with the goal of marching through Birmingham's segregated downtown business district. Aiming to keep them away, Bull Connor's fire department unleashed water from monitor guns that could strip bark from trees 100 feet away. Almost all of the crowd fled for cover. Branch recounts:

Then the firemen advanced toward the holdouts, pounding them with water at close range. The holdouts sat down on the sidewalk to stabilize themselves. It was a moment of baptism for the civil rights movement, and Birmingham's last effort to wash away the stain of dissent against segregation.

The effect was immediate, though not in the way Connor, Wallace, and other defenders of segregation had hoped. Black businessmen, once fearful of pushing desegregation too quickly, joined King's cause when they saw little black girls tumbling down the street. Newspaper readers across the nation recoiled at the image of a white policeman unleashing a dog to bite the abdomen of a smartly dressed young black boy from a wealthy family. Nor could President John F. Kennedy, thus far ambivalent about civil rights, any longer ignore the television images putting a lie to democratic ideals at the height of the Cold War. One month later, after Wallace stood in the schoolhouse door to prevent black students from enrolling at the University of Alabama, Kennedy addressed the nation and proposed the Civil Rights Act. Passed in 1964 after Kennedy's death, this sweeping legislation, among many other provisions, barred cities like Birmingham and states like Alabama from enforcing segregation between races.

Nothing Impossible

We who call Alabama's largest city home live in full knowledge of our national reputation. In the Heart of Dixie, we're more likely to be remembered for Wallace's vow than for King's letter. The church where I belong meets in the education building constructed by the late Connor's church. I drive through his old neighborhood every Sunday afternoon and evening. As the great Southern writer William Faulkner once quipped, "The past is never dead. It's not even past."

No one knows better than us how much more we need to grow in grace and understanding toward one another across ethnic lines. We've solved government segregation but not poverty, not racism, not violence. But even as we wonder how God might intervene to do justice with these supposedly intractable problems, we remember 50 years ago when Wallace made a promise God would not allow him to keep. We remember King's civil rights movement, which battled Wallace with an impregnable combination of conviction, courage, compassion, and cooperation. And we take heart, because nothing will be impossible with God (Luke 1:37).

There is one thing on which many Christians today agree--we need genuine revival. Faced with rising violence, economic recession, and a growing sense of despair, we recognize that our fundamental challenge is not political or social; it is spiritual. And because such challenges require divine insight and strength, we can benefit from reviewing the landscape of Christian history to learn from previous generations. Of the many persons and movements one might consider, Charles Haddon Spurgeon is especially instructive since his legacy demonstrates precisely what is most needed today.

When the 19-year-old Spurgeon received a call to the New Park Street Church in April 1854, the church was fledgling and less than healthy; but within ten months the congregation grew to such a size that it was forced to move to Exeter Hall. Before long even Exeter Hall was inadequate, which caused another move, this time to Surrey Gardens Music Hall, where Spurgeon preached to more than 9,000 men and women each Sunday. The ministry continued to flourish, so much that on October 7, 1857, the Prince of Preachers addressed a record crowd of 23,654 in the famous Crystal Palace. Something extraordinary was happening.

More than Talent

It was March 1861 when Spurgeon's congregation finally moved to the Metropolitan Tabernacle, where he would preach the next 31 years and personally see more than 14,000 men and women profess faith in Christ. While there, he started an orphanage, the Pastor's College, and eventually produced an avalanche of published sermons that would circle the globe. Such fruitfulness naturally raises the question: "Why did God use C. H. Spurgeon in such a profound way?"

The exceptional nature of Charles Spurgeon's gifts is undeniable (as his sermons demonstrate). However, in response to this question, Spurgeon provides a different answer:

If we had the Spirit sealing our ministry with power, it would signify very little about talent. Men might be poor and uneducated, their words might be broken and ungrammatical; but if the might of the Spirit attended them, the humblest evangelist would be more successful than the most learned divine, or the most eloquent of preachers.

After reading this quote, I imagined Spurgeon mounting the Metropolitan's pulpit, where he customarily repeated to himself, "I believe in the Holy Spirit. I believe in the Holy Spirit. I believe. . . ." Such has been my own practice over the last decade of preaching, following Spurgeon's example (the only part of Spurgeon that I can effectively emulate). Herein is a lesson. Mental strength and eloquence of speech (for those of you who possess them) may gather large crowds and earn you recognition, but only the power of the Spirit can reach into a human soul to bring transformation. And this, my friends, is what our nation and world needs the most: genuine gospel transformation.

The Reality of Revival

Spurgeon's ministry was devoted to revival; he would settle for nothing less. In his own words, "Death and condemnation to a church that is not yearning after the Spirit, and crying and groaning until the Spirit has wrought mightily in their midst." In order for this to happen, however, Spurgeon realized that the Spirit needed to first engage his own soul. Therefore, in his sermon titled "My Prayer," he remarks:

The prayer before us, "Quicken Thou me in Thy way," deals with the believer's frequent need. . . . You yourselves know, in your own souls, that your spirit is most apt to become sluggish and that you have need frequently to put up this prayer, "Quicken Thou me." If there is a prayer in the book which well becomes my lips, it is just this.

After first seeking personal renewal of God's Spirit, Spurgeon then prayed for his church. In a message titled "One Antidote for Many Ills," he says:

This morning's sermon, then, will be especially addressed to my own church, on the absolute necessity of true religion in our midst, and of revival from all apathy and indifference. We may ask God for multitudes of other things, but amongst them all, let this be our chief prayer: "Lord, revive us; Lord, revive us!"

Examples of this sort of prayer are numerous. The point is simple: pursuing revival was a priority for Spurgeon. And what was the outcome of his request? During the years when Spurgeon prayed, Protestant churches in London enjoyed a 60 percent increase in attendance, exceeding the population growth of the city. At the samt time the Spirit moved powerfully in America, especially in the winter of 1857 and 1858 through the noontime prayer meetings of Fulton Street in Brooklyn, New York. As both sides of the Atlantic welcomed waves of revival, Spurgeon noted in 1859, "At this time, the converts are more numerous than heretofore, and the zeal of the church groweth exceedingly."

Revival in Our Day

As our friends, coworkers, neighbors, and loved ones descend into deeper levels of despair, the church is poised to direct the world's attention to the gospel of Christ in whom we find the light of spiritual revival. Here is how Spurgeon articulated the vision:

We must confess that, just now, we have not the outpouring of the Holy Spirit that we could wish. . . . We seek not for extraordinary excitements, those spurious attendants of genuine revivals, but we do seek for the pouring out of the Spirit of God. . . . The Spirit is blowing upon our churches now with his genial breath, but it is a soft evening gale. Oh, that there would come a rushing mighty wind, that should carry everything before it! This is the lack of the times, the great want of our country. May this come as a blessing from the Most High!

The revival that Spurgeon describes may very well be on our horizon, unobservable to the naked eye; but through the eyes of faith, against the backdrop of ages past, we may see enough of its glow to believe that it exists. Whether it remains off in the distance, or if it should come near, time will tell. In the meantime, why would we not give ourselves to prayer and proclamation in the hope of seeing genuine revival in our day?

So long as some Christians have called themselves Calvinists, other Christians have probably alleged that Calvinists care little about evangelism, missions, and church planting. The critique isn't new. But only recently have we learned the extent of the zeal and effectiveness of the early reformers in evangelism, missions, and church planting. Elias Medeiros, Harriet Barbour professor of missions at Reformed Theological Seminary in Jackson, Mississippi, will lead a workshop on The Reformer's Commitment to the Propagation of the Gospel to All Nations at TGC's National Conference in April, likely presenting this wider understanding.

But in this short article, I want to give a small taste of John Calvin's missionary and church planting zeal in particular. If you want to get a sense of Calvin's theology of missions and activity, you can read Calvin's sermon on 2 Timothy 1:8-9, "The Call to Witness," Herman J. Selderhuis's John Calvin: A Pilgrim's Life, and Frank James III's series of lectures, The Calvin I Never Knew. From these works, I have compiled several fascinating, surprising, and convicting facts about the missionary and church planting movement John Calvin launched in France and throughout Europe.

Calvin, Equipper and Sender of Missionaries

In the 1550s the population of Geneva doubled as refugees, many of them from France, poured in. Many of them sat under Calvin's preaching five times each week.

They heard sermons like this one on 2 Timothy 1:8-9, where he said:

If the gospel be not preached, Jesus Christ is, as it were, buried. Therefore, let us stand as witnesses, and do him this honor, when we see all the world so far out of the way; and remain steadfast in this wholesome doctrine. . . . Let us here observe that St. Paul condemns our unthankfulness, if we be so unfaithful to God, as not to bear witness of his gospel; seeing he hath called us to it.

Something happened to a number of these French refugees. As they listened to Calvin's preaching their hearts were stirred for their homeland. Many of them yearned to go back to France and preach the gospel. Calvin agreed to commission some of them to return but wanted to train them first. "A good missionary is a good theologian," he told them.

He trained them to preach, taught them theology, and assessed their moral character, making sure they were qualified to be ministers of the gospel.

Calvin, Missionary Correspondent

But he didn't just train them, give them money, and send them off. Even after he sent them, he corresponded with them frequently. We have thousands of letters back and forth between the missionaries and Calvin. They weren't just magnets on a refrigerator, Frank James notes. They were his brothers in Christ. When troubles came, they asked Calvin, "What should we do next?"

James reminds pastors, "You need to keep in close contact with your missionaries. You'll be a good Calvinist if you do."

Calvin, Leading Church Planter in Europe

By 1555, Calvin and his Geneva supporters had planted five churches in France. Four years later, they had planted 100 churches in France. By 1562, Calvin's Geneva, with the help of some of their sister cities, had planted more than 2,000 churches in France. Calvin was the leading church planter in Europe. He led the way in every part of the process: he trained, assessed, sent, counseled, corresponded with, and prayed for the missionaries and church planters he sent.

Pete Wilcox, writing in a doctrinal dissertation cited by James, concluded that in the last 10 years of Calvin's life, missions was his absolute preoccupation.

One French church in Bergerac exulted to Calvin:

There is, by the grace of God, a movement in our region that the devil is already driven out for the most part and we are able to provide ministers for ourselves [churches were now able to start planting their own churches in the region]. Day to day, we are growing and God has caused his work to bear such fruit that on sermons on Sunday, there are between 4,000-5,000 people at worship.

Another letter from Montpellier rejoiced, "Our church, thanks to the Lord, has so grown and so continues to grow every day that we are obliged to preach three sermons on Sundays to a total of five- to six-thousand people." A pastor in Toulouse wrote to the Genevan Consistory,"Our church has grown to the astonishing number of about eight- to nine-thousand souls."

Calvin and Geneva sent missionaries not only to France but also to Italy, the Netherlands, Hungary, Poland, and the free Imperial city-states in the Rhineland. We even know of two missionaries sent from Geneva in 1557 to Brazil. "Missions was not a 'section' of his systematic theology," Keith Coleman says, "it was central to what he was trying to accomplish in his ministry."

Church planting and missions aren't a byproduct of the young Reformed resurgence of the last decade but something embedded in the Reformation's God-centered commitment to advancing the gospel.