While there are times we as Christians must speak out, there is never a time we can speak to a fellow Christian or about a fellow Christian in a way that fails to reflect the love of our common Savior.

It’s not a memory I’m proud of, but every now and again I feel the need to revisit it. I guess if Peter could tell the tale of betraying Jesus—after all, how else would the biblical writers have known the fine details?—, I can tell my tale of failing to be like Jesus. I can tell it for my ongoing benefit and hopefully for yours.
While a right acknowledgement and right assessment of my youth should have constrained me, a total failure to acknowledge and assess my youth empowered me.
It goes back to my early days of blogging, back in the days when I was a lot younger than I am right now. But even though I was a lot younger, I was a lot more self-assured. It’s funny how that happens, isn’t it? I still maintained too much of the arrogance of youth. Foolishness and the pride that goes with it are closely associated with youth and I may as well have been the poster child. While a right acknowledgement and right assessment of my youth should have constrained me, a total failure to acknowledge and assess my youth empowered me. And in my arrogance I launched a broadside against a good man.
I was a man with little life experience, he was a man with substantial life experience. I was a man with no formal theological education, he was a man with a great deal of formal theological education including several advanced degrees. I was a man with few accomplishments, he was a man with many accomplishments. I was a man marked by little godliness, he was a man marked by much more godliness. But when I detected an area of doctrine in which he and I disagreed, I went on the offensive. I wasn’t vicious, but I also wasn’t gentle. I wasn’t savage, but I also wasn’t humble. I used my blog and social media to go after him over a lesser doctrine, a disputable matter. I was interested in defending truth, but not interested in speaking that truth with love.
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Written by R. Scott Pace and Jim Shaddix |
Tuesday, January 16, 2024
Leadership is not an end in and of itself; it naturally implies a destination. It’s kind of like application and illustration in a sermon—these elements serve as means to other ends. We don’t just do application in our sermons; we apply something. We use application to demonstrate how the truth is to be lived out. We don’t just put illustrations in our sermons as rhetorical eye (or ear) candy; we put them in to illustrate something. We use them to either help us explain or apply the truth of the text. Neither application nor illustration stands alone in the sermon. We use them to accomplish greater purposes. Christian leadership is often misunderstood in a similar way. It is not a stand-alone quality or characteristic in a pastor’s life and ministry; it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Rather, it always involves a destination—we don’t just lead, we lead somewhere. 

The Pastor’s Motive Is the Master
The reason many pastors fail at being leaders is that they want to be leaders. While that may sound strange, we must understand that leadership is not the ultimate goal or standard of success when it comes to gospel ministry. The plethora of books, conferences, seminars, and courses on the subject of leadership feeds a misguided passion in many pastors simply because the world has touted it as a quality and skill of the highest order that’s worthy of our greatest effort. Gospel leadership, however, is quite different. The Bible is clear that the way to be a good leader is not by developing skills to influence people and command organizations. Rather, the way to be a good leader is to be a good servant (Matt. 20:25–28; Mark 9:35).
Living according to this curious economy of leadership doesn’t start with a focus on serving others—it begins with serving the Master who established that economy, the Lord Jesus Christ. The apostle Paul expects that his young protégé desires to be such a servant: “If you put these things before the brothers, you will be a good servant of Christ Jesus” (1 Tim. 4:6). Here, being a servant isn’t described with the term that emphasizes submission and subjection as a slave (doulos), but the one used more generally for someone who serves another in some useful way (diakonos; see 1 Cor. 4:1–2; 2 Cor. 3:6; 6:4). Paul assumes that Timothy aspires to such a role in his relationship with Jesus. Thus, it must be the motive of every pastor not first to be a leader of people, but to be a useful servant of the Master. Leading people well will follow serving Jesus well.
But how does a pastor offer such useful service to our Lord? Though there are numerous ways this work plays out in gospel ministry, Paul lays out specific qualifications for being a “good servant” of the Master. And this is where pastoral leadership and biblical exposition begin to intersect in this passage. He first says that such servanthood will be realized “if you put these things before the brothers” (1 Tim. 4:6). Paul uses the term “these things” eight times in this letter to summarize the practical and doctrinal issues he’s been addressing, things like prayer, modesty, authority and submission, qualifications of pastors and deacons, and destructive legalism.
Like Timothy, every pastor must lead his people to believe rightly and live obediently when it comes to all the aforementioned issues and more. That begins with “put[ting them] before” the congregation through preaching and teaching. The language Paul uses here conveys the idea of gentle persuasion through humble reminders—the pastor lovingly explains and applies God’s word to his people so that they think rightly and live accordingly. Like a waiter, we serve our people nourishing meals; like a jeweler, we display before them treasured gems.1 We are good servants of our Master if we lead well by preaching well.
Not only is the pastor a good servant when he preaches well but he preaches well because he learns well. Paul says Timothy’s service for Christ and leadership of God’s people intersect in his preaching ministry because he’s been “trained in the words of the faith and of the good doctrine that [he has] followed” (1 Tim. 4:6). The idea of being trained is a metaphor for nurturing and tutoring children. Paul’s use of the present participle suggests that his concern is for Timothy to continue feeding himself spiritually so that he can be a good servant of Jesus by training his congregation in the faith.2
So often we hear of pastors who neglect the study of God’s word because of the many other pastoral responsibilities that demand their leadership.
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Written by Samuel G. Parkison |
Monday, November 22, 2021
The person of Christ is no less than his human nature. That human who lived and died and rose and ascended and will one day return really is Christ, the Second Person of the Trinity. He is human, yes, and he is infinitely more. His person is truly human in nature, but his person is not circumscribed by his human nature. Christ exceeds. This is why you should feel absolutely no embarrassment or shame in reading through the gospels while worshiping Jesus Christ, the man—son of Mary, brother to James, cousin to John, eater of fish, drinker of wine. The man who said things and felt things and did things with his hands. You should feel absolutely no embarrassment about longing to hug his resurrected body with your resurrected body—and feel no embarrassment about longing for the day when you can look into his human eyes and say “thank you,” and to watch his human lips curl into a human smile.

In the incarnation, God reveals his Triune beauty for us in language we can understand. He communicates his astonishing beauty with human language, and with skin and bones, and he does this for our benefit. He does this for our worship. I have devoted a rather significant portion of my life considering this idea of Christ revealing divine beauty for our benefit, but for all my attempts to articulate it, nothing I’ve ever written or said holds a candle to this paragraph from fourth century church father, Athanasius:
For since human beings, having rejected the contemplation of God and as though sunk in an abyss with their eyes held downwards, seeking God in creation and things perceptible, setting up for themselves mortal humans and demons as gods, for this reason the lover of human beings and the common Savior of all, takes to himself a body and dwells as human among humans and draws to himself the perceptible senses of all human beings, so that those who think that God is in things corporeal might, from what the Lord wrought through the actions of the body, know the truth and through him might consider the Father.[1]
What exactly is he saying? He’s saying that God, recognizing our inability to lift our gaze up from the created order to heaven, came down from heaven to the created order to stand at our eye level. He’s saying, “Since human beings couldn’t seem to stop worshiping creation instead of the Creator, the Creator became a creature to accommodate their limitations!” This is what I do when I need to get my son’s attention while he is preoccupied with making a mess all over the floor: I drop down to the ground. I stoop to bring myself to his eye level.
That’s what God does for us in the incarnation: he stoops and makes himself available. In this way, he becomes intelligible enough for us to worship him. We can identify this human being—Jesus Christ, the most beautiful human being ever to exist—as the central object of our worship and offer all of our praise to him without the fear of dishonoring God precisely because he is no mere human: he himself is God. He has become man in order to accommodate our limitations in worship. We couldn’t reach up onto the top shelf to get God, so God places himself on the bottom shelf—right within our reach—in the person of Jesus Christ, the carpenter from Nazareth.
“Without Ceasing to Be God”
It is precisely at this point, however, that many well-meaning evangelicals go astray. For they often miss the very central point that while, in the incarnation, God the Son brings himself down to the bottom shelf in one sense, there is another sense in which he stays right where he is. Every Christian agrees that the incarnation—with its doctrinal emphasis on Christ’s two natures, one human and one divine, united in one person—is one of Christianity’s central mysteries. But often, this mystery is neglected for the sake of rhetorical convenience. “Christ was so generous he left behind his divine attributes,” is how this point typically appears. And to be fair, it sounds attractive on the surface. Isn’t this how Christ “sympathizes with our weaknesses” (cf., Heb. 4:15)? Doesn’t he sympathize with our weakness by giving up his divine strength? As shocking as it may sound, I want to say no.
Some might object to a very important section of Scripture that appears to make the very point I intend to reject, however. This passage is Philippians 2:4-8, which says, among other things, that Christ, “though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking on the form of a servant, being born in likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” There you have it! What else could his “self-emptying” mean but a relinquishing of his divine attributes or divine prerogatives? But the issue is not as simple as that. For one thing, the central phrase of this passage does not provide its own direct object. Christ “empties himself” … of what? To assume that the answer to this question is, “his divine attributes,” or “his divine prerogatives,” is a bridge too far. The passage simply doesn’t make that point. Instead, we see a grammatical tangle, that very intentionally keeps Christ “in the form of God”—wherein he “did not need to grasp for equality with God” because he already had it—and yet, while being in the form of God, he “self-empties.” Paul is very careful with his language precisely to bring us to the very limitations of language itself. Again, we would expect this verb “self-empties” to have a direct object explicitly stated. Instead, we have to look for the direct object from within the context, and the direct object turns out to be a grammatical paradox—which is fitting, given how mysterious the incarnation is. Christ empties himself, not by giving anything up, but specifically by “taking on the form of a servant.” The way Christ “empties himself” is not actually by emptying—how our self-emptying would necessarily work—rather, Christ “empties himself” precisely by adding to himself a human nature: his “self-emptying” is a subtraction by addition!
So, no, Philippians 2:4-8 (and other similar passages) do not teach us that Christ leaves his divine attributes behind when he assumes a human nature. But we can and must reject such a notion not only because it isn’t taught in Scripture, but also because it contradicts important doctrines that are taught in Scripture. Let me conclude this section with two reasons for rejecting the idea that Christ gave up any part of his divine nature or glory in the incarnation.
Chalcedon and the Gospel
First, to say that Christ “gives up his divinity” or “gives up his divine attributes” (or even some of them) in the incarnation is to misunderstand the hypostatic union (i.e., the doctrine that describes how the divine nature and human nature are united in the Person, Jesus Christ). The fifth-century statement on Christology from Chalcedon emphasizes the hypostatic union by describing how Christ is “truly God and truly man.” It goes on to say that Christ is “consubstantial with us according to manhood,” and “begotten before all ages of the Father according to the Godhead.”
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