Written by Aaron L. Garriott |
Tuesday, July 16, 2024
Underneath Paul’s theology of the body is the reality that human beings are both material and immaterial, and these two are inseparable. Soul piety leads to bodily piety because, in God’s design, the body and soul are inseparably linked. If the body is merely a neutral (or evil) capsule for the soul, then we are left with a piety that discounts the holiness of the body, a false piety that can produce one of two common errors. The first error is what Paul seems to address in Colossians 2, where we rob the body of all earthly pleasures, for such pleasures can only ever be evil. If it feels good, it’s bad. The second error is what Paul seems to address in 1 Corinthians 6, where we indulge every bodily passion, for what we do with our bodies has no real impact on our souls. If it feels good, it’s good.

Made in the image of God, humans are different from other creatures. We are not merely spirits like the angels. And we are not merely bodies like the animals. Rather, we are both body and spirit that were created good. This is clear from the very beginning of the Bible.
In the time of the early church, however, conceptions of what it means to be human were heavily influenced by Platonic philosophies of matter and spirit, the uncle of one of the earliest and most dangerous heresies in the early church: gnosticism. Gnostic dogma includes the dualistic idea that the material is bad and the immaterial is good. Salvation for the gnostic, therefore, means liberating the spirit from its prison—the body—through the acquisition of secret knowledge and purity in spirit. Although this may sound like archaic philosophy, gnosticism has proved to be a chronic malady for the church. Indeed, the Western church has long been plagued by Gnostic tendencies. Neo-gnosticism made a vigorous resurgence in the rationalism of the nineteenth century. Simply put, whenever the spiritual realm is pitted against the physical realm, a sort of neo-gnosticism emerges. When care for the soul neglects the body, a gnostic asceticism is at play (see James 2:16). Such asceticism, as Paul tells the Colossian church, has an appearance of piety but is of no real value (Col. 2:20–23; see also Heb. 9:10).
In light of Paul’s later words that “bodily training is of some value, [while] godliness is of value in every way” (1 Tim. 4:8), some get the impression that he has a low view of the body. What matters is the spirit, not the body. To be sure, Paul is adamantly opposed to mere externalism (e.g., 1 Tim. 6:6–10; see also 1 Peter 3:3–4). But he’s not positing a dichotomy between body and spirit; rather, he’s using athletic imagery to show that godliness in all of life is of comprehensive, eternal value. Further, a robust Pauline theology of the body will take into account all of Scripture, including Paul’s forceful dictum in 1 Corinthians 6 that the Christian’s body is holy.
Paul says that we are to glorify God in our bodies (v. 20) for two reasons. First, our bodies are members of the Lord Jesus Christ (v. 15). Second, our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit (v. 19). Contra gnostic conceptions of the body, there could hardly be a greater degree of holiness assigned to our bodies or a greater responsibility to keep our bodies blameless (1 Thess. 5:23). Notice the Trinitarian dimension of our bodily holiness: we are to use our bodies as instruments of righteousness for God, by virtue of our bodily union with Christ and by the residential indwelling of the Holy Spirit.
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Written by Aaron L. Garriott |
Wednesday, April 17, 2024
As Christians living in an age of instant gratification, we will no doubt succumb to the pleasures of Egypt from time to time. But more importantly, the Christian knows that nothing in this age can bring ultimate gratification. For that, we seek the city that is to come (Hebrews 13:14).

Time seemed to move at half-speed while I was sitting in the hospital waiting room. My wife’s surgery to remove her cancer was scheduled to be one hour. Three, four, five hours went by. The surgeon came to assure me that although the cancer was worse than the biopsy had shown, he was still actively working on removing all that he could. So I waited.
Friends and family sent text messages from hours away that were delivered instantly. In between my prayers, I ordered a burger on my phone for prompt delivery. I searched on Google for “complications with cancer surgery” and immediately had thousands of answers at my fingertips. On the one hand, I was in control of a lot. I could have a burger prepared and delivered to me within the hour. I could have an Amazon package on my doorstep the next day. I could speak to friends hundreds of miles away in live time. I could FaceTime my children. Yet I was in control of so little. I was at the mercy of the surgeon’s skilled hand. I was waiting to see my beloved wife and waiting for the doctor to report whether the cancer would take her. I was waiting on the Lord and, perhaps more importantly, with the Lord. Finally, eight hours in, the surgeon came to tell me that she was successfully out of surgery.
That lengthy day demonstrated my aversion to waiting and the plethora of gadgets and apps I had that could help curb that aversion. We’ve been conditioned to assume that waiting is something to be avoided at all costs. We are the generation of Disney FastPasses, direct flights, eBay bidding, television streaming, quick bites, and free two-day shipping. Certain occasions in life, however, remind us that we have no choice but to wait. We might be able to gratify certain desires here and now, such as ordering dinner, but the ultimate things in life require waiting, and often for lengthy periods. Because we’ve been accustomed to having answers to our inquiries with the simple click of a button or tap on a screen, we can fall victim to the illusion of control. In short, modern technology has habituated us to expect to get what we want, how and when we want it. And we want it now.
One may wonder whether our aversion to waiting is any greater than that of previous generations. It’s a fair question, for God’s people have always faced difficulties in waiting on the Lord and in not growing impatient as they expect Him to intervene for their good and His glory. The iPhone didn’t create impatience, but it has profoundly reshaped and conditioned our expectations. In particular, the modern era of digital technology has strengthened our expectations for instant gratification of our desires and, conversely, instant relief of our pain and suffering. If I’m hungry, I can order a cheeseburger. If my back hurts, I can order relief meds. Sinful patterns are often born out of inordinate desires and quick fixes, such as that of the young man who, rather than actively waiting for a godly spouse, finds a cheap imitation on a screen. But not all time-saving conveniences are inherently bad. Modern technology can enhance efficiency, save lives, enrich fellowship, and more. Yet if we’re not careful, digital technologies can infect the soil of our minds in such a way that stunts the growth of godly patience. We can become like Esau, who considered his birthright worthless compared to the immediate need to satiate his hunger (Gen. 25:32: “What use is a birthright to me?”). Whether the “technology” is a bowl of stew or an iPad, the “Buy It Now” option in all of life may give us the illusion of control and rob us of the opportunity to wait in fellowship with God and with His people.
For me, as a waiting-averse person dwelling in an age of instant gratification, is there any hope? Cultivating a spirit of waiting (Rom. 8:23) in an age of immediacy is an upstream voyage. Nonetheless, the Spirit of sanctification who indwells us (v. 9) is not inhibited by our tech-induced hyperactivity. Let’s consider three ways to better pursue faith-waiting in an age that considers waiting an impediment.
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Written by Aaron L. Garriott |
Sunday, April 17, 2022
Music is undeniably an effective means of administering balm to the soul. When the Word of God is set to a beautiful melody, the music can stir within us a zeal and hope that nothing else can. Music is, as Abraham Kuyper wrote, a “means for bringing a worshiper’s soul out of the ordinary and the mechanical into passion and activity.” Additionally, praising the Lord in song displays and fortifies Christian unity, as members of one body unite with one voice. 

It was 374, and the Roman city of Milan was riotous. The bishop had just died, and there was a deep divide between the Arians (who taught that Jesus is less than God) and the Trinitarians (who taught that Jesus is God). Which one would the next bishop be? Shouting and sparring in the cathedral, the people grew increasingly belligerent. Ambrose the governor walked in, and a peaceful silence immediately descended. Suddenly, a child yelled, “Ambrose for bishop!” Only days later, Ambrose commenced his pastoral duties as bishop of Milan. Much to the consternation of the Arians, Ambrose staunchly defended the Trinitarian orthodoxy set down in the Council of Nicaea fifty years before.

The Arian-Trinitarian battles continued. The mother of Emperor Valentinian II, Justina, was an Arian. The empress demanded that Ambrose give one of the basilicas to the Arians. Ambrose refused, prompting Justina to send soldiers to take it by force. Ambrose summoned the parishioners to the basilica to hold their ground. The parishioners—among whom was Monica, the mother of Augustine—fasted, prayed, and sang. Barricaded inside the basilica, Ambrose fortified the souls of his people by teaching them hymnody. Arians advanced their teaching by singing; now, at the behest of Ambrose, the Trinitarians set biblical theology to melody, and it reinvigorated their zeal. They sang antiphonally (i.e., back-and-forth, as in the chorus of “It Is Well with My Soul”), emphatically, and prayerfully. You can almost hear the reverberation off the stone colonnades as these Milanian Christians sing: “O thou true Sun, on us thy glance let fall in royal radiance; the Spirit’s sanctifying beam upon our earthly senses stream” (“O Splendor of God’s Glory Bright”). Justina eventually backed off. Arianism was held at bay by truth well sung.
Not without reason has singing played a major role in the life of the church throughout its history. The catholic (i.e., universal) church has long understood singing psalms and hymns as a form of liturgical battle cry and a biblically sanctioned pedagogical device. And yet the church of today has drifted from this practice, largely because it has missed these reasons for singing. In a word, we typically don’t sing because we have a low view of singing. We might think that singing is for those artsy folks who can read music, and so some of us end up merely mouthing the words rather than singing. Generally, it has been us men who have become particularly proficient at this practice, and admittedly, many of the church’s modern songs appeal to a more feminine demographic.

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The book of Esther is the only book in the Bible that does not include any direct reference to God at all.
Many have found this fact about the book of Esther troubling—it’s like reading an autobiography of Winston Churchill with no mention of Churchill. What are we to make of the fact that God is “missing in action” from Esther? Some thinkers have convincingly argued that the author’s intent is to deliver a message through the overt silence with regard to God. The omission is glaring—too glaring to understand it as a literary mistake; rather, the omission is the message. The author portrays God’s presence by not mentioning the presence of God at all.1 In other words, it’s the silence that proves His presence; the lack of theology is in fact the theology. In this way, the book of Esther teaches an important lesson for Christians today. In fact, rather than being a neglected book, Esther should be a significant part of our biblical diet.
The reason for this has to do with how our experience relates to biblical narratives. Our everyday lives coalesce with the Esther narrative more than with the Exodus, Joshua, or Kings narratives. Not many of us have witnessed miraculous deliverance (Ex. 7–12) or attesting signs (Ex. 4:1–9). We’ve never witnessed manna falling from the clouds (Ex. 16) or the walls of a fortress collapse upon God’s enemies (Josh. 6). We’ve never gazed on a vast body of water dividing at the seafloor (Ex. 14) or witnessed a three-year drought miraculously ended following a soaking-wet altar being consumed by fire (1 Kings 18:20–40). No, the ebb and flow of our lives is more akin to that of life in Persia during the time of Esther—daily activities, coincidences, mundane events, misfortunes, mistakes—normal, everyday life where the overt presence of God is all but undetectable. We, like the exiled Jews who remained after King Cyrus’ decree (Ezra 1:1–4), sojourn through life with the silent presence of God—entirely dependent on His written Word for guidance (see Neh. 7–10, 13).
Sovereignty and Providence
Among other things, the change in the means by which God exercises His sovereignty can be accounted for by the distinction between sovereignty and providence—an important distinction to maintain. Sovereignty describes the attribute of God wherein He is in authority over all things. Providence describes the way in which God works out His will in history. To put it simply, sovereignty refers to His attribute—something He is—while providence refers to His action—something He does. Providence, then, stems from His sovereignty; only the Sovereign can exercise providence. The Westminster Shorter Catechism identifies God’s works of providence as “His most holy, wise, and powerful preserving and governing all His creatures, and all their actions” (WSC 11). He governs all—His creatures and their actions. Nothing is outside His rule, and nothing happens without His governance.
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