Written by Samuel G. Parkison |
Tuesday, April 11, 2023
God’s Wisdom, by the power of his Spirit, makes us like himself. The Triune God shapes us into the image of true Wisdom. To be brought into Christ, then, is to be brought into Wisdom. And to become more like Christ (to become who we are—the journey of sanctification in the Christian life) is to become wise.

Woe to you, O land, when your king is a child, and your princes feast in the morning! Happy are you, O land, when your king is the son of the nobility, and your princes feast at the proper time, for strength, and not for drunkenness! Through sloth the roof sinks in, and through indolence the house leaks. Bread is made for laughter, and wine gladdens life, and money answers everything. Even in your thoughts, do not curse the king, nor in your bedroom curse the rich, for a bird of the air will carry your voice, or some winged creature tell the matter.(Ecclesiastes 10:16-20)
This chapter ends with further wisdom regarding kings and their influence on a land. A foolish king is a disaster for the land, and a wise king is a great blessing to the land. The higher the authority, the higher the stakes. Foolishness and sin have ripple effects for everyone, of course, but the greater the authority, the further the ripple effects extend. So, a child who acts sinfully effects the home. But not as severely as when a mother acts sinfully. And whether he realizes it or not, a husband and father’s sinfulness have a far greater impact on the home than anyone else. Likewise, when a member of the church breaks his marriage vows, the whole body is affected. But not nearly as affected as when a pastor breaks his marriage vows.
When a king is a fool, it is disastrous for the whole land, because his influence stretches far. But when the king is wise, it blesses the whole land for the exact same reason. We should also note folly and wisdom here is all about fittingness. This puts us squarely within the conversation of natural theology. God has created the world and we must live in it. There is a nature to everything—including wine, laughter, money, and authority. It is unnatural—unfitting, foolish—for a king to feast and drink in the morning in a spirit of pure indulgence; to be lazy, ignoble and childish. But it is natural—fitting, wise—for a king to conduct himself with nobility and hard-working diligence; to drink and feast at the right time. Since wisdom begins with a fear of the Lord, it knows that God has created everything in its proper place, and to try to impose our own wishes on nature is folly. The best kind of authority recognizes that it is under authority.
One of the best illustrations of this kind of kingly authority is the example of King Lune in Lewis’s Narnia classic, The Horse and His Boy. In this story, King Lune finds his long-lost son, Cor, who is heir to his throne. Cor also has a brother, named Corin, and he would rather Corin be king. But the wisdom King Lune demonstrates how authority doesn’t change nature—it doesn’t buck against natural hierarchies or roles of responsibility—but rather harmonizes with it:
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Written by Samuel G. Parkison |
Thursday, April 6, 2023
As a rule of thumb, if you are not sure if a conversation is verging into gossip, err on the side of caution and assume it is, and then be the awkward person and confess and steer the conversation away. Turn the lights on. Pump the breaks. “I’m sorry for any way I’ve fed into this, but it seems like our conversation is verging into gossip and I think we should stop talking about it.”

It is no secret that Ecclesiastes occupies a place in the biblical genre group we call wisdom literature. So, in some sense, we know what to do with this book. We go to it in order to find wisdom. But this does not mean that its instructions are straightforward. Often, it takes wisdom to get the wisdom contained in Ecclesiastes.
One of my favorite chapters in this book (and one which encapsulates this enigmatic nature of its wisdom) is chapter 10. In it we see that one of the key distinctions between worldly wisdom and heavenly wisdom comes down to this central concept: pride vs. humility. This distinction is hinted at all throughout the Proverbs when we learn how the “fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” The one who fears the Lord does not fear others. The one who worships the Lord does not worship the praise of others, the strength of arms, or the prestige of wisdom, wealth, and pleasure. The one who fears the Lord isn’t frantically acting out of a reactionary and prideful sense of self-advancement or self-protection. The one who fears the Lord is content with being forgotten by man, so long as he is remembered by God. The path out of folly and into wisdom, then, is a true and God-given humility. Solomon illustrates this in Ecclesiastes both positively, and negatively. That is, not only does he commend humble wisdom, he also calls attention to the tragedy of prideful folly.
The Self-Destruction of Foolish Actions
“He who digs a pit will fall into it, and a serpent will bite him who breaks through a wall. He who quarries stones is hurt by them, and he who splits logs is endangered by them. If the iron is blunt, and one does not sharpen the edge, he must use more strength, but wisdom helps one to succeed. If the serpent bites before it is charmed, there is no advantage to the charmer” (Ecclesiastes 10:8-11)
Here, Solomon paints a vivid picture of the self-destructive nature of folly. Picture the stubborn and prideful person who despises instruction and recklessly acts to his own hurt. This is the person who digs a pit carelessly, for someone else, and then falls into it himself (a favorite illustration for Solomon). This is the guy doing demolition on a snake-infested wall heedless of the words of caution given by the owner. This is the guy who recklessly quarries stones and splits logs without using the proper protection or protocol. This is the guy who is working away with all his might, trying to cut down a tree with a dull axe, unwilling to heed the counsel of another who instructs him to sharpen the blade first. He can’t be bothered with the counsel of others because he is so pridefully self-assured that he knows what he’s doing.
We can certainly think of other examples. One classic example used to be the husband who refused to ask for directions. And while GPS and smartphones have rendered this particular illustration irrelevant, the problem of folly is not resolved by technology. How many relational bridges have been burned because men and women are too pridefully stubborn to humble themselves and apologize? Think of the husband who refuses to call the electrician because he’s so confident he can fix the problem himself. Think of the wife who stubbornly refuses to heed the counsel of her husband on how to discipline the kids because she is so confident she knows what’s right. Think of the child who refuses to let his mom show him how to tie his shoe, tries to do it himself, and trips a few minutes later. The thing we really need to recognize here is that this kind of stubborn pride is not a personality quirk. It is folly.
And this is as good a place as any to remind my fellow parents of this central responsibility: we are to discipline and disciple the folly out of our children. They are born fools, and we are called to make them wise. The two-year-old’s inability to say “sorry” (or its equivalent) and practice self-control may not seem so bad right now, but when he’s a thirty-two-year-old, it can wreck a home and destroy lives.
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Written by Samuel G. Parkison |
Tuesday, January 31, 2023
The apostle Paul instructs the Thessalonians to “stand firm and hold to the traditions that you were taught by us, either by our spoken word or by our letter” (2 Thessalonians 2:15). God’s affirmation of man-wrought traditional formulations is made even more clear when the Scripture on occasion picks up such formulations and codifies them as inerrant, inspired, and authoritative divine revelation.

Recently I was paid one of the best compliments I could hope to receive. A colleague told me, “Sam, I know that you are a systematic theologian, but when I think of you, I think: historical theology guy.” This interaction summarizes in a nutshell the kind of systematic theologian I hope to be: one who is richly historical. Commendable, I think, is a deep and abiding suspicion of theological novelty. This disposition of mine translates, in part, into a love of—and vocal self-conscious identification with—creeds and confessions. Probably the most important (and needed) of my creedal commitments is my adherence to the Nicene Creed. My students will not be surprised to know this about me, since we open all of our classes by corporately confessing the creed aloud. So deep is my appreciation for this creed that I commend its vocal and consistent corporate confession not only in the classroom, but in the weekly worship assembly of the local church. I did not always give this commendation, however, on account of a difficulty I had with squaring the practice with another deep conviction I have regarding the Regulative Principle of corporate worship. It took me a while to wrestle with this issue, and while I did, I searched to little avail for resources that addressed the specific question: is the corporate recitation of creeds in weekly worship at odds with the regulative principle? Having arrived at an answer I am satisfied with at the personal level, I have decided to summarize the answer for others who may be in a similar place to the one in which I found myself—this is the article I wish I had read.
What is the Regulative Principle?
We begin with definitions. What exactly is the regulative principle? The first thing we have to say about the regulative principle is that it is, in fact, a principle. Therefore, I do not take it to be a strict prescription in a thoroughly fine-tuned sense. While many may argue for exclusive psalm-singing or a capella or a specific order of service, I do not think you can get that much specificity out of this idea. The regulative principle is the idea that in principle, our corporate worship is regulated by the word of God. This regulative principle is often contrasted with what we might call the normative principle, which also looks to God’s word for instruction, but in a manner that differs from the regulative principle. Where the regulative principle looks to God’s word to receive instructions on the only things to include in corporate worship, the normative principle looks to God’s word to see if a worship practice is consistent or at odds with the Scriptures. The regulative principle uses Scripture in a more prescriptive manner, whereas the normative principle uses Scripture in a more prohibitive manner (whatever Scripture prohibits, normative principle churches stay away from). Underneath the regulative principle is the conviction that God has never left his people without instruction for how they ought to worship him. The people of God have never had to guess what God wants in worship. So, what does this mean for local church weekly worship?
When it comes to the New Testament Church, his word commands Christians to (1) read the Scriptures publicly (1 Timothy 4:13), (2) teach/preach the Scriptures (1 Timothy 4:13; 2 Timothy 4:1-2), (3) pray (1 Timothy 2:1; Acts 2:42; 4:23-31), (4) sing (Colossians 3:12-17), and (5) practice the ordinances of baptism and communion (Matthew 28:19; Acts 2:38; 1 Corinthians 11:23-34). The regulative principle is the commitment to build the corporate worship service around—and only around—those five elements. This rationale assumes that if God desired for our corporate worship to include anything else, he would have said as much in his word. Theologically, the regulative principle seems to follow directly from Christ’s lordship of his Church (he sets the agenda), the sufficiency of Scripture (the word of God is capable to do the work of God among the people of God—an innovative posture seems to imply that we could improve upon what God has expressly told us to do), and the fact that God is not indifferent about how he is worshipped (as Nadab and Abihu can testify [Leviticus 10]). So, when asked the question, “Can we go beyond what Scripture commands in our corporate worship?” I respond with, “Why on earth would we want to?”
Additionally, the regulative principle strikes an important chord in the heart of pastoral ministry. Whatever a local church does in worship that local church’s pastors bind the consciences of her members to practice. That is no small thing. When a church gathers, she gathers as a single body to worship her King. The weekly gathering is not an expression of individual and autonomous self-expression, which means if a church includes an element in its corporate worship that is not expressed in Scripture (i.e., baby dedications, movie clips in the sermon, interpretive dance routines, special songs, etc.), the conscientious member who objects cannot simply opt out on the personal level. He is there as a participant of what the church is doing. The pastors have essentially already declared, “This is our corporate expression of worship.” This is a weighty reality, and so the regulative principle is a way of protecting not only the theological integrity of a church’s worship, but also the consciences of a church’s members and pastors. Pastors should not be afraid to bind the conscience of their members (to say, “you must do this thing”), but they should be downright terrified to go beyond the bounds of Scripture in their conscience-binding prescriptions.
You are, I trust, beginning to see the potential tension this principle creates with the notion of corporately confessing an extra-biblical statement like the Nicene Creed. Is this something pastors really have the jurisdiction to do? Can they bind the conscience of their members to say, “This is how our church will worship—by confessing our faith in the God expressed in these doctrinal formulations?” I think the answer is yes, but it is an answer that will require a bit of work.
At the very least there is a historical and circumstantial argument to be made here. The regulative principle was first articulated and defended formally by the reformers and their subsequent heirs, which is why it is a staple in the Reformed tradition. Yet, these articulators and defenders of the regulative principle almost uniformly endorsed and practiced the corporate confession of creeds in their worship gatherings. By all appearances, they simply took for granted that confessing the creeds in worship is consonant with the regulative principle. It does not seem as though they even agonized over the question. So, historically, and circumstantially, I think we are safe to conclude that corporate confession of creeds is not at odds with the regulative principle; but how and why this is the case needs some elaboration.
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Written by Samuel G. Parkison |
Wednesday, November 2, 2022
Christ came to you at your lowest and he positively transformed you from an enemy to a friend. The Father’s overflowing, gushing love for you he displayed when he sent his Son to win your reconciliation with his life, and purchase your reconciliation with his death—all while you were breathing out venom and hatred and rebellion towards him. That is news good enough to put undue shame to shame.

Shame is a popular word today. Sometimes preachers like to substitute the word “sin” for “shame,” as if the antithesis to a whole and fulfilled life is a life free of shame. In this respect, such pastors do not sharply contrast with the rest of our world. If our culture is anything, it is on a mission to rid ourselves of shame. Of course, if you think the antithesis to a whole and fulfilled life is shame, this will shape how you go about seeking wholeness and fulfillment (and not at all in a good way). If shame is the primary problem, shamelessness is the solution. This is why our world is intent on ridding ourselves of all absolute standards of morality. The sexual revolution is nothing if not a grand attempt to whistle in the dark and wish our consciousness away. If shame often comes from the transgression of sin, there is nothing to do but rule sit out as a category. There are no taboos anymore. If someone else’s sexual sin causes you to have a reaction of disgust, we are told, that says more about you than it does them. There is no accident to the fact that the phrase “you do you” is often coupled with the phrase “no shame.” We vehemently hate the shame that accompanies knowledge of moral transgression, so we erase the idea of moral transgression. There is no nature nor command behind sexuality—it is what I want it to be.
Christians should steer clear of this kind of wholesale antipathy for shame. Shame is not our sworn enemy. Sometimes shame is useful. Some sins should cause us to have reactions of disgust! The Scriptures often appeal to shame at various points. Much of the time, shame is an indication of a conscience that still functions properly. It is often the rightful corresponding emotion to shameful acts.

Bad Shame
Having said that, undue shame is a horrible thing. Shame that persists wrongly is not good. This would include, for example, shame for a sin that was committed against you. Victims often feel shame for sins that their oppressors should feel shame for. In such situations, shame is doubly perverted; where it should be absent in the psyche of the victim, it is overactive, and where it should be present with a vengeance in the psyche of the oppressor, it is altogether absent.
Another kind of undue shame is that kind that hangs onto sins that have been truly confessed, repented of, and forgiven by Christ. This kind of shame, while it may feel pious, is actually dishonoring to Christ. It cheapens his blood and essentially says that Christ’s atonement is not sufficient—it needs to be supplemented with wallowing shame. So, the opposite of shame is not shamelessness; the opposite of shame is a humble gratitude for forgiveness. Now, it’s easy for me to say that in the abstract—“let go of the shame for the sins that Christ has atoned for and cleansed you of”—but practically, this is easier said than done.
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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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