A few things that might interest you….

Stephen Nichols made me laugh this morning.

Time asks the question: “Can Megachurches Bridge the Racial Divide?”

Michael Patton is asking: “Can Homosexuals Be Christians?”  His answer may surprise you.

I am a Calvinist.  I love the glorious truths of God revealed in His word.  I praise God for His mighty works in creation, redemption, and providence.  I live, I trust, for the glory of God in all things.

I am a Pharisee.  I shouldn’t be.  How can anyone claiming to be a Calvinist living for the glory of God also be a peevish, joyless, and fearful little Pharisee?  It’s a shame.  But I’m a Calvinist and I’m a Pharisee.

Narrowness for the letter and not the spirit, suspicion of joy, and fear are not the only things that make it possible for me to be a Calvinist and a Pharisee.  There is a fourth reason why these two things blend together more often than they should, and why they blend together in my heart.  Anger.

I’m an angry man.  I don’t want to project on anyone else.  This is about my heart.  But I think there’s a lot of anger among us “Reformed” types.  So much so, some of us–let me just say I–need to be sent to reform school.  No I don’t mean Westminster or some place in Scotland.  I mean we need to be sent to a school that helps us deal with our anger, that makes us “positive members of society.”  We need help.  I need help with my anger.

You don’t believe it?  I have one word for you.  “Blogs.”  That’s exhibit A for the rampant anger in Reformed circles.  What a naked display of raw and random anger splattered across the virtual world landing on anyone with a keypad.

I’ve had my part in that.  Oh, you couldn’t tell?  Or only occasionally?  You see, really, more problematic than the displays on blogs is the respectable anger I nurse.  I’m not given to loud outbursts.  If that happens, we’re at Defcon 1.  We don’t go there.  We try never to use the red phone.

But beneath the poker face lives a small volcano regularly seeping lava over the lip of its opening.  That’s in the heart.  While on the outside… the slightly reserved and seemingly dispassionate face of the Pharisee.

Anger comes in many colors.  There is red magma of violent outburst.  As I said, that’s not my style as a Pharisee.  Resentment is a kind of anger.  It’s the warm orange anger that comes from the blend of disappointment, self-righteousness, and entitlement.  The anger of stinging words wrapped in religious jargon.  There is the parakeet yellow of angry backbiting and gossip, tale bearing and kindling strife.  James tells us this is murderous.  There is the green of jealousy and evil eyes.  There is also the swooshing blue of those who run when angry.  That’s the flight response.  There is the indigo of depression, which is sometimes a symptom of deeper anger.  Next is the violet of grudges and “silent treatments.”  Then there is the icy white of “cold war” anger.  Violet is close to “cold war,” except “cold war” arms itself for more serious retaliation.  I’m a good Pharisee.  I think I hang out somewhere between violet and orange, silent anger and resentment with occasional depressive moods.  Any of these sound familiar?

Of course, resentments and silent treatments are the preferred combination because it maintains the semblance of respectability.  I am, after all, a Pharisee.  I’m wearing expensive robes, long tassels, wide phylacteries, and I sit in the best seat in the house, where I may be seen.

I know there is such a thing as righteous indignation.  I know we’re to be angry and not sin, neither let the sun set on our wrath.  But the Pharisee that I am has lost count of the sunsets.  And isn’t there a difference between righteous indignation and being indignant because our “rights” have been trampled?  Too often, I don’t always see that difference.  That’s what makes me a Pharisee.  That’s what makes me angry.

As a Pharisee, I know it’s not polite to talk about anger.  Even now, there’s the sense that admitting anger is unpleasant.  Respectable people don’t get angry.  They’re cucumber cool, calm, and collected.  But Pharisee-ism is about wearing masks that hide inner realities.  It’s about pretension and show, being seen and applauded by men.  There’s no way to stroke that beast without becoming victim to it.  The voice in my head screams, Don’t tell on us!  Don’t remove the mask! But the High and Lofty One says, “I live in a high and holy place, but also with him who is contrite and lowly in spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive the heart of the contrite” (Is. 57:15).

If the truth were told, I’ve been angry for a long time.  I’ve been angry about a lot of things and angry about nothing in particular.  I grew up in an angry-sounding house.  With eight children, somebody somewhere was always angry.  I was angry when my father left the family.  I was angry when arrested as a teenager.  I was angry with “friends” who distanced themselves after my arrest.  I’ve been angry about all the “racial” mistreatment I’ve experienced.  Then I was angry that so many people denied it.  I was angry as a Muslim.  I played basketball angry–but we called it “intensity.”  I’ve been influenced at points in my life by angry men, some of them prominent political and historical figures. Worked for a while in state government, where many of the longest-serving people were simply masters of anger.  That patient, slow boil, I’ll-out-live-and-out-scheme-you-because-I’m-a-civil-servant-and-you-can’t-fire-me anger.

Would you be surprised if I told you that somewhere along the way, Anger became a companion?  Not the kind I’d walk with in public.  Most of the public can’t handle angry black men.  I’m angry about that, too.  Instead, Anger became a secret confidant.  The friend I’d call up when threatened.  The friend most ready to reassure me when I felt inadequate or insecure.  The friend that kept others at a distance or bullied them into submission.  A body guard of sorts.  I could control Anger; summon him at will.  I could justify Anger.  Someone did this or someone did that.  This was threatened or that injustice committed.  Something had to be done.  I had to strike back.  Pharisee.

There is such a thing as righteous indignation.  Absolutely.  We must oppose injustice, of course, because God uses means.  Pharisee.

God uses means, not mean people.

God is sovereign.  He even uses mean people.  Of course he does.  Pharisee.

But is that justification for your anger?  The anger of man does not work the righteousness of God.

You can control your anger.  Everyone gets angry.  ‘Tis true.  Pharisee.

Wouldn’t it be more godly to conquer your anger rather than coddle it?

I’m aware of the conquering presence of God’s Spirit in my life.  When the Lord saved me, one of the things He graciously did was rid me of so much anger.  He freed me from so much bitterness and even hatred.  It’s one Ebenezer I raise in remembrance of God’s gracious redemption.  Yet, sanctification is progressive.  He’s still working.  And the Pharisee is kicking and screaming, “Leave me this little anger!  Let me hold onto this grudge, this charge, this resentment!”  Old friends tend to stick around the longest.  They’re often the most difficult to ditch.

But I’m reminded of another Calvinist Pharisee (speaking anachronistically, of course) who did battle with his Pharisaical anger.  He writes to me: “In this [new birth, coming salvation] you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials.  These have come so that your faith–of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire–may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed” (1 Pet. 1:6-7).  What is greater than the trials of this Pharisee’s anger?  The glories and power of my God’s salvation.

Oh Lord whose anger is holy and righteous, make us more aware of and dependent upon the great power of your salvation.  Nail afresh the sin of my anger to the cross of your wrath, that I might be freed from its power, pull, and guilt.  We need Thee every hour.  Amen.

Bob Kellemen at RPM Ministries offers a gracious review of Glory Road: The Journeys of Ten African-Americans into Reformed Christianity.  Kellemen is a good student of African-American theology and church history and offers a warm critique of Glory Road.

For my part, I think Glory Road could be one of the most important, helpful, and encouraging books published in the last ten years on African-American Christianity.  I think its warmth, humor, honesty, and theological integrity

could be a winsome tool in capturing the hearts of many people who have not come to know the wonderful truths and history of the Reformed tradition.  If you haven’t read this book, rush out and make it a stocking stuffer or New Year’s read.  It’ll reward you.

HT: Phoenix Preacher

I am a Calvinist. And I am a Pharisee. This shouldn’t be the case, but it is. Admitting you have a problem is the first step in getting better.

Last time I tried to reflect on how a certain “bent” toward precision, accuracy, concern for detail seems to blend together with the rich exacting resources of Reformed theology and history to make Pharisees of those who lose sight of the object of our attention and affection: Jesus. If you care more about “getting it right” than you care about “getting close to Jesus,” then you’ll drift toward the Pharisees. You’ll swallow a camel and strain a gnat.

But let me not project onto you the things that happen in my heart and head. I am bent toward all those things, and I lose sight of Jesus too often and for too long.

I’m a Pharisee. And I’m a Calvinist. And I’m told and believe those two things don’t belong together. But why do they so often come together, like a dark prize hidden in the Cracker Jacks of the faith?

Here’s the second reason I’m a Pharisee and Calvinist, or, another reason why those two things happen together far more often than they should. The Pharisee and the Calvinist are both suspicious.

Now I’m suspicious of a lot of things, but I’ll just mention one. I’m suspicious of joy. Yep. Now, not my joy. That’s another problem.

No. Like a good Pharisee, other people’s joy makes me nervous. Not all people. Just those people who don’t express their joy the precise way I think they should. You see, without the “appropriate bounds” their joy just may make them careless, lead them to error, hurt the church and cause of Christ. Their joy is combustible; it’s dangerous. It’s enthusiasm and flights of fancy that need to ballast of sobriety and sound theology.

You see, that bent toward intellectual and precise things, that concern to “get it right,” sometimes leads us to suspect and question mirth, lightness, or merriment because those emotions appear too close to “trivial” for the Pharisee. If I’m serious about the truth, how can I be joyful?

I say to myself, perhaps you say to yourself, not out loud, of course: “All these happy people–happy about everything but the Truth, giving themselves to their happy little pursuits, singing loudly and clapping their hands, enthusiastic about everything–can’t be trusted. They are to be suspected. They’re to be watched carefully and ‘taught’.”

I know. I know. Teaching is good. Teaching is essential. Teaching guides the emotions. Teaching is commanded. Pharisee.

Didn’t Jesus warn us of the Pharisee’s teaching? For good reason. I wonder if for some of us “teaching” is simply another word for “behavioral modification,” for “rehabilitation,” for “re-education,” for “concentration camp.” People must be “taught”–by which we mean made to see everything just as I do. Pharisee.

I am a Calvinist, and I am a Pharisee. I’ve been “taught”. Sometimes “taught” right out of joy.

Don’t get me wrong. I know that joy may be expressed in all kinds of ways. I know the strong, silent type doesn’t express his/her joy like the naturally outward and gregarious type. And I know that joy itself has many flavors–jubilant, quiet, solemn, tearful, and so on. But Pharisees like me only trust the quiet, solemn types. If joy gets too loud, it needs to be silenced. Pharisees like it quiet.

But then there is my good friend, C.J. Ah… there’s “Reformed” spelled “p-a-r-t-y!” I love that brother! He dots all my “i’s” and crosses all my “t’s”. So, his joy is okay. Cool, even. But he is an exception, of course, because I’m a Pharisee.

Also there is my good friend, Mark. If you think C.J. is the life of the party and Mark is a sour puss, you don’t know Mark. About as silly, giddy, happy, optimistic, bright and joyful a man as you’ll ever meet. Don’t let the “SBC” or “Calvinist” labels fool you. Those labels are like the FBI warnings on your rented video or the “do not remove” tags on your mattress. Mark is a big… excuse me, slim ball of joyful energy. His love for the truth, like C.J., and Al and Lig’ and Piper and R.C. and so many others, leads them to joy! Have you ever heard these men laugh? It’s rowdy! They’re serious men. And (I almost wrote “But”; you see the problem?) they’re joyful men.

But not me. Not the Pharisee.

When did I become suspicious of joy? I mean joy is what the angels announce for crying out loud! (Luke 2:10)

Some of my oldest friends, going back to high school and college, would describe me as “silly.” I know. I know. What happened to that guy?

Well, he got saved and he started with joy; then he turned into a Pharisee.

Now, I’ve always been serious. Really. Always. Ask my mom. She still tells family and friends about how my friends used to come over to play, and rather than play with them, I’d connect the Atari (now that’s ol’ school) to the TV and then go into my room and read. From my early teens, I’ve been the family counselor. I’m an old soul, born with a veil over his face (little family superstition, there), and serious.

But I used to be fairly joyful, too. I think. Maybe. You see… I can’t remember. Perhaps you’re like me. It’s been so long since you’ve had a sustained life of joy, you can’t remember the last time you were joyful. As a disposition not an episode. Do you remember? Having a joyful disposition for a long time?

Maybe you’re a Pharisee, or a Pharisee in the making. Stop before it goes too far. Get happy. Now don’t get serious about joy. Just get joyful. Or else you’ll be a Pharisee. Like me.

The Pharisee lacks joy because he lacks Jesus. I don’t mean Pharisees like me aren’t Christians. I am I trust. I mean “the kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field” (Matt. 13:44). There’s something implicit in this parable that if not made explicit leaves room for my inner Pharisee. What do you suppose the man did after he bought the field? The Pharisee doesn’t go on to imagine the answer. The joyful do. In his joy the man sold all and purchase the field so that he might possess and enjoy the Treasure therein. We may lack Jesus by not enjoying Jesus, by not coming into His presence where there is fullness of joy and pleasure forevermore.

The Calvinist knows this. The Pharisee forgets this. Feed the Calvinist and strangle the Pharisee.

There once was a Calvinist (speaking anachronistically, of course), who was not himself a Pharisee but dealt with them a lot. He prayed for joy–my joy and yours. Here’s how He prayed, “I am coming to you [the Father] now, but I say these things while I am still in the world, so that they may have the full measure of my joy within them” (John 17:13). Let that sit with you. The Savior prayed for what the Calvinist Pharisee needs: the full measure of His joy.

Dear Sovereign Lord, the Joy of the world, let us know you, and thereby grant our heavy hearts liberating joy.

I’m a Pharisee. And I’m a Calvinist.

Those things should not go together. But they do in far too many instances. The Calvinist should be the last to become a Pharisee. Our theology should keep us humble. Or, so we’re told.

But I’m a Pharisee. And I’m a Calvinist. Which means I’m a bad Calvinist.

Here’s the first reason I’m a Pharisee and Calvinist, or, one reason why those two things happen together far more often than they should. The Pharisee and the Calvinist are both exacting persons. They care about precision, about “getting things right.” They care about the letter because each believes getting the letter correct is important. And it is.

So, there is this “bent” toward intellectual things. There is this tendency to live in our heads. And when that meets with a theological tradition as rich and robust as the Reformed tradition, sparks fly–in our heads. Add to that a pinch of argumentative spirit and out comes the Pharisee.

But you know what’s lost? The spirit, or the Spirit. Sometimes both. The letter kills. That’s what happens with us Calvinist Pharisees.

In my particular case, the letter became pretty important once I realized I had spent a few years of my life giving praise to an idol. Once I realized I had believed a lie and bowed to a god who was not God, well getting things correct theologically became desperately important. Who wants to “get it wrong” in the things of God? I certainly didn’t any longer.

I didn’t know it, but I began the Christian life with this impulse that could either help me grow in the grace and knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ, and/or push me into peevish, narrow, gnat straining regard for “getting it right.” I’ve experienced both in my Christian life. The difference is made by where you’re aiming: those who aim at knowing Jesus escape so much pharisee-ism; those that aim at “getting it right” become so much more Pharisaical.

Perhaps you’re like me. You’ve had some experience that’s left you zealous for getting it right. You love the Book in part because you love parsing things, dissecting them, weighing them, identifying what is wanting, tossing the chaff and holding onto the wheat. There’s a joy that comes from discovery–and refutation. Soon, you’re proud you’re not “one of those publicans” that explains the Trinity in loose language, that balks at giving various views of the atonement, that’s read the latest book from one of “those authors.” “Lord,” you pray, “I work to get it right. I avoid mistakes. I protect your word. I’m not like those who ‘happily’ accept ‘weak’ doctrine.”

Pharisee.

Truthfully, it isn’t our theology that keeps us from the self-righteousness of the Pharisee. Our theology, and the smugness of “Reformed” correctness, are part of the problem. Oh, I don’t mean we have aberrant ideas mingled with our theological outlook. We’d never have that. I mean all this heady truth barely lights our hearts. Our theology becomes the handmaid of our pride and our empty orthodoxy. Our fine theological theorems too seldom ignite liberty, joy, love, or anything else that accompanies the Spirit. Honestly, how often does your theology leave you with Jesus?

I know. The Lord reveals Himself in and by the word. The Spirit and the word belong together. Pharisee.

Do you remember that time when you were free? No, I mean happily care-free in your walk with the Lord. When there was lightness to everything?

Do you remember when you could share with others something God was teaching you, perhaps with imprecise language and a lot of enthusiasm, without first hesitating to make sure you were saying it “correctly”? Perhaps you were too liberal in assigning your enthusiasm or ideas to God, but you were happily excited about the possibility that indeed God had done something in you, for you, through you. Do you remember that?

I do. It was before I was self-consciously “Reformed.” I didn’t have a label then, other than “Christian” or “Baptist.” Even those I held lightly. I was label-less, free. And I felt free. I did dumb stuff. I said dumber stuff. But people knew what I meant. Then I discovered what I meant, and knowing what I meant seemed to replace experiencing what I meant.

Now, “experience” is a bad word. Pharisee.

Yep. That’s me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a “Calvinist” because what we popularly call “Calvinism” or “Reformed Theology” looks a whole lot like what I understand from the Bible. I think that’s what the Bible teaches, and that’s what I believe. So, I’m comfortable with the label–if we have to use one. I’m just not comfortable with the self-righteousness I see all too often in my heart and life. I’m sure I was self-righteous before; after all, I was an adherent of the world’s largest works-based religion. Pride and self-justification have always been there. Yep. Certified Pharisee here.

But here’s the bottom line: As long as my inclination toward detail ends with “getting it right” and not with getting more of Jesus, I’m going to be a Pharisee. Our theology doesn’t keep us humble. Jesus keeps us humble. I think there are a lot of Calvinist Pharisees out there, like me, who push deeper into the theology trusting the next truth to abase them before God. But we keep getting “puffed up” instead. Why? We settle for knowing more rather than knowing Jesus. We don’t stop to sit at Christ’s feet, to adore Him, to commune with God the Spirit. Far too often, that’s not the goal we have in mind.

My grandmother couldn’t cite you two theological terms if you paid her. She probably never heard of the theological “giants” of church history, and certainly never read them. You know what she did? She “had a little talk with Jesus, told Him all about her troubles. He would hear her faintest cry, and answer by and by.” With all her “little talks with Jesus,” she had infinitely more than I’ve gotten from my books. She walked with the Lord about like Enoch.

I know. Books are not the enemy. Books are our friends. Communing with the saints is important. That’s how we get it right and avoid mistakes. I know. I know. Pharisee.

There was another “Calvinist” (speaking anachronistically, of course) who won his bout with his inner Pharisee. He wrote: “I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord” (Phil. 3:8). I want to be more like that brother–gripped by the greatness of knowing Jesus.

Lord, let us know you and cease the pretension of Pharisees.

“A ministry that is all prophetic all the time will wear down a congregation. It will eventually defeat a congregation. A ministry that is all sympathetic all the time will coddle the congregation straight into the deadly pastures of unwarranted self-assurance and the false pastures of self-security. A pastor who would be a theologian knows when and how to be both convicting prophet and comforting good shepherd.”

–Stephen J. Nichols, “Proclaiming the Image: Theology and Preaching,” Gheens Lectures at Southern Seminary

Which was your pastor today?

Related Posts:
The Pastor’s Heart and Sermon Applications
South Africa, AIDS, the Social Gospel, and the Gospel

Vincent Bacote, Associate Professor of Theology at Wheaton College, has published a kind and helpful critique of The Decline of African American Theology. Bacote’s review is an example of the kind of charitable discussion, disagreement, and nuancing that I hoped the rather blunt critique in The Decline would be met with. So, it was a joy to read even as the author being critiqued. Thank you, brother Bacoste.

Bacote thinks that the “postmodern” era that concludes each chapter needed definition earlier in the book. I agree. Fair critique.

He also thought very important historical figures were so lightly treated as to appear insignificant in the story line. The omission of some figures is owing more to the book’s methodology than to oversight or cherry-picking. Because I wanted to work with original sources, persons in their own words, certain historically key figures were omitted. To my knowledge, for example, almost nothing of Richard Allen’s preaching ministry survives to be examined. He was committed to extemporaneous preaching, which means the founder of the first African-American denomination may be studied as a historical and sociological figure, but not very well studied as a theological figure. We await someone like Bishop D.A. Payne before we’re able to look closely at an AME leader’s theological positions. So, this is a weakness in the work but also a legacy of the history. A more complete tome might include more fragmentary comments from such figures.

Only two points in Bacote’s critique missed the mark, in my opinion. First, I don’t think it’s accurate to say that I “chose to forgo any engagement with the major African American denominations. How can one assess African American theology without making much reference to the Church of God in Christ, the National Baptist Convention, the African Methodist Episcopal (A.M.E.) Church, and many others?” The book engages with Elias Camp Morris, the first president of the National Baptist Convention, who left a fair collection of sermons and addresses. Also, I’ve already mentioned the book’s coverage of Bishop D.A. Payne of the A.M.E. Church. Payne is prominent in a number of chapters, and is arguably the denomination’s first reformer exercising considerable theological influence on that group.

If I were to write a revision of The Decline at some point, I would like to spend more time thinking about Mason and others from the C.O.G.I.C tradition. As Bacoste points out, it would be helpful to not leave the reader thinking Pentecostal and Charismatic are one flat movement. Featuring Azusa Street and William Seymour so prominently inadvertently creates that impression, but it’s not what I hold.

Secondly, Bacote finds it “dubious” that I would suggest a regulative principle for worship as part of how the decline might be reversed. Practically, every Christian body that takes the Bible seriously has at least some form of “regulative principle” in play. In some way or another, the Bible serves as rule for faith and conduct, even if there is variety in how the rule plays out or gets defined. That seems inescapable to me. Yet, I don’t want folks to think that the book reduces church reform to an application of the regulative principle. Certainly much more than a regulative principle is needed, and I hope The Decline offers some suggestions to that end.

I’m thankful for Bacote’s review. Read The Decline and read his review. May a thousand conversations bloom.

Related posts:
Why Write “The Decline of African American Theology”?
The Legacy of the African American Church: Faith
The Legacy of the African American Church: Justice
Can the Predominantly African American Church Be Reformed?

Seven quick reasons:

1. I’m not so sure that the “new Calvinism” is all that “new.” This post is helpful in explaining why.

2. The potential for making biblical truth a fad seems quite high. All fads die. If the resurgence of robust biblical theology rides an emotional crest until that superficial, emotional wave dies, so too will interest in robust biblical truth. We’re all familiar enough with church history to have seen this several times over.

3. The media attention forces some superficial attempts at self-definition, and the inevitable result are “camps” of Reformed types. Add a little carnality, and then you’ll hear folks saying they’re of Paul, or Appolos, or Peter, or Dever, or C.J., or MacArthur, or Driscoll, or the really, really Reformed, etc when those men weren’t even looking for groupies. We need a strong confessional center with the charity that celebrates secondary and tertiary distinctives. Which is why I am so encouraged by this group and the work of these friends and this growing fellowship.

4. Not only are there “camps” within Reformed circles, but it also prompts some unhealthy Reformed/non-Reformed tensions. The potential for playa hatin’ is great. Well-informed leaders inside the SBC have been dealing with this enough over recent years, I think. Do we want the attention of secular news outlets stirring the cauldron of Christian disunity? We ought to be wary of such a potential outcome.

5. Goal displacement. Put simply: so much of the talk about the “new Calvinism” “winning the culture” ends up taking too many eyes off the cross, off the gospel, off the local church, off the great commission, and off the great commandment. Not all such talk does this, but enough does. And that’s bad.

6. False views of success. How many of us would have thought Calvinism was changing the world before this article? I suspect many of us Reformed types would feel beleagured and embattled, not victorious, etc. Now we have a news magazine ranking the work of God as #3 in the world. Is that success? Do we want to define success by media spots? I’m sure we don’t. So we probably ought not put too much stock and spill too much ink over this.

7. Do most people even know what Calvinism is? Do we want a brief news blurb to be their introduction, especially given the remarkably high likelihood of misunderstanding and fear? Gotta be a better way than a #3 ranking on a list of things changing the world right now.

Is the “new Calvinism” and its spread a cause for rejoicing? I think so. But there are also some pitfalls that come with loving the applause of men.

Yesterday we posted part 1 of a quote from J.I. Packer’s Evangelism and the Sovereignty of God, in which Packer helps us see that in giving God thanks for their salvation many folks think of conversion like Calvinists even if that is not their conscious creed, so to speak. Today’s quote provides the second reason Packer thinks many folks may be “Calvinists” and not know it.