Part 15 Episode 90 When it comes to our salvation, what is the significance of the titles “Son of God” and “Son of Man”? In this episode of Light + Truth, John Piper opens John 1:43–51 and explains what’s in those two great names.

Over three hundred years ago, Blaise Pascal observed, “All of the unhappiness of men arises from one single fact, that they cannot stay quietly in their own chamber” (Pensées, 39). Pascal attributes this inability to our love of endless amusement, which distracts us from our doubts, worries, and discontent. And so, for most people, “The pleasure of solitude is a thing incomprehensible” (40). Now, even if Pascal overplayed his hand, the point he makes echoes the value that Scripture places on silence.

Isaiah records one of God’s invitations to be quiet: “Thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, ‘In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength’” (Isaiah 30:15). God invites his people to be quiet and connects that quietness to strength, rest, and finding our home in him. On the other hand, Isaiah warns, “The wicked are like the tossing sea; for it cannot be quiet, and its waters toss up mire and dirt” (Isaiah 57:20). The wicked rage like an ocean in a storm, unable to be still.

Therefore, those who want to avoid the unhappiness that Pascal describes and pursue the stable satisfaction that God promises learn to practice the habit of quiet.

Quiet Soul, Quiet Mouth

What is quietness, according to God? First, biblical quietness is not simply a lack of noise. External silence is often part of the habit of quiet, but true quietness goes much deeper. Biblical quietness refers primarily to a quiet demeanor or quiet heart — a restful silence of soul — because often a noisy mouth is the overflow of a noisy heart.

Thus, Proverbs says the wise man both restrains his words and quiets his soul (Proverbs 17:27; 29:11), his outward silence matching his inward peace. But the fool is loud and restless, a lover of noise (Proverbs 7:11; 9:13). Moreover, because we are body-soul creatures, what we do externally affects us internally and vice versa. So, the habit of quiet involves cultivating inner quietness by creating rhythms of outer quietness.

Second, biblical quietness does not negate the need to speak. Scripture places a high premium on well-timed words (Proverbs 25:11). There is a time to be zealous. There is a time to speak with unction and conviction. There is a time to herald from the mountaintops. There is a time to declare, “Thus says the Lord!” And there is “a time to keep silence” (Ecclesiastes 3:7).

Our Default Volume: Loud

The need for quiet is not new to the modern age. Man’s default volume has always been loud. Four hundred years before Jesus, Plato lamented that most people live “a distracted existence” led in circles by the songs and sounds of society (The Republic, 164). And earlier still, David expressed the need for silence by saying, “I have calmed and quieted my soul . . . like a weaned child is my soul within me” (Psalm 131:2).

Distraction, from within and without, is not novel, but modernity has amped up the volume. We live in a society that often hates quiet, one in which the loudest hearts are awarded the largest platforms. We are besieged by the newest news, harried by busyness, drowning in noise, endlessly accompanied by devices of endless distraction. And even if much of the content we consume is good, it is always on. Too often, we know neither inner nor outer quiet.

Yet wise men have always celebrated silence. Some 150 years ago, Charles Spurgeon said, “Quietude, which some men cannot abide because it reveals their inward poverty, is as a palace of cedar to the wise, for along its hallowed courts the King in his beauty deigns to walk” (Lectures to My Students, 64). Indeed, the King did hallow those halls. King Jesus created rhythms of quiet during his time on earth. It was his custom to create space to be alone with his Father (Luke 22:39).

How will we hear birdsong, that symphony of the Father’s care for creation, if we are never quiet? How can we attend to God’s still, small voice whispering wisdom in his word if our hearts never stop murmuring? We have a great need for silence.

Call to the Deeps

Imagine life as an ocean. Waves constantly toss the surface of that sea and assault the shore — waves of sound, waves of worry, waves of work and entertainment, waves of deadlines and events, waves of stubborn children and sinful parents. Waves, waves, waves. And yet, peace is never far off. Even the mightiest waves that march across the face of the ocean cannot disturb the water 150 feet below the surface. Peace ever reigns in the deeps. And it is to those deeps God calls us through the habit of quiet.

Spurgeon enjoyed those depths. He knew from habitual experience the “pleasure of solitude” that Pascal speaks of. In one of his lectures to aspiring pastors, Spurgeon delivers this perennial advice:

I am persuaded that . . . most of us think too much of speech [and action], which after all is but the shell of thought. Quiet contemplation, still worship, unuttered rapture, these are mine when my best jewels are before me. Brethren, rob not your heart of the deep sea joys; miss not the far-down life, by for ever babbling among the broken shells and foaming surges of the shore. (Lectures to My Students, 64)

We are often blown and tossed by waves, beaten and battered by the pounding breakers of life, because we fail to dive below the surface with God. We rob our hearts of deep delights because we never stop babbling.

Yet for Spurgeon, the speech and action that we spend so much time thinking about flower from the leaf mold of a quiet heart. And the rewards of that quietness are unfathomable, in the fullest sense of that word — inexpressible rapture, awestruck worship, treasure to contemplate, the far-down life. Oh, and deep-sea joys! Surely this is enough to motivate Christian Hedonists to be still before the Lord. Indeed, God is magnified when we are silently satisfied in him.

Handful of Quietness

Seeing how high the stakes are, the question naturally arises, “How do I practice the discipline of silence?” How do we seize what Ecclesiastes calls “a handful of quietness” (Ecclesiastes 4:6)? Whole Christian traditions have been devoted to nurturing a life of calm contemplation. But I will simply offer two suggestions.

First, sometime this week, set aside fifteen minutes to create external quiet in order to cultivate internal quiet. Pascal’s advice to stay quietly in your own chamber is a good place to start, but inner rooms don’t have a monopoly on silence. I recommend taking a walk in the woods. Few places resonate more with God’s presence and songs of silent praise. Or get up early enough to watch the sunrise. Quiet abounds when most people sleep. Or if all else fails, don some noise-canceling headphones. Whatever you have to do, create spaces and rhythms of stillness.

Second, practice the discipline of silence on Sunday morning. This may sound paradoxical, but remember the primary goal is a still heart, not a lack of sound. How often do you sit in a worship service with a heart closer to Plato’s “distracted existence” than David’s weaned and quieted soul (Psalm 131:2)? Don’t miss the far-down life enjoyed in Christian community by harboring a babbling heart. Instead, let your worship overflow from satisfied silence before God (Isaiah 14:7). Sing loud from a quiet heart. As your pastor heralds the word of God, calm your soul and put away your phone. Don’t be distracted by lunch plans or tomorrow’s work or endless waves of worry. Be quiet to enjoy the deeps.

Perhaps Pascal did not overstate his case. We do forfeit much happiness when we refuse to practice the habit of quiet. After all, our Lord bids us, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). And when we do so, he will quiet us with his unfathomable love (Zephaniah 3:17).

Most of us who read C.S. Lewis’s stories for children growing up developed a secret wish to somehow get into Narnia. If we ever came across a wardrobe, we opened it, just in case it might lead to a snowy wood with a lamppost. We thought, “Wouldn’t it be amazing to actually walk there?”

That feeling of expectation and hope is one we all feel. We feel it about many things when we are children. “Won’t it be amazing when I can drive a car?” “Won’t it be amazing when I go off to college?” And the longings continue into adulthood. “Won’t it be amazing to be married?” “Won’t it be amazing to have children?” “Won’t it be amazing to move to that city, or be a part of that church, or have that opportunity?” We feel it about family vacations and promotions at work and a thousand other hopes. We imagine ourselves in some future desirable circumstances and think, Won’t it be great when . . .

“Our future joy is more a function of our present character and godliness than our future circumstances.”

Such feelings are, of course, often good and fitting. Frequently, the opportunities before us are genuinely desirable and exciting. We often find ourselves standing on the threshold of a wardrobe, with the dim light of a lamppost up ahead. One of the key lessons that Lewis wants to teach us in Narnia, however, is that our future joy is a function more of our present character and godliness than our future circumstances. We must keep in mind the example of Edmund Pevensie.

Miserable in Narnia?

Edmund’s initial experience in Narnia was not a happy one. Upon entry, he immediately meets the White Witch. He eats her enchanted food. He goes over to her side.

When he enters the second time with his siblings, he accidentally lets slip that he had been there before, thus revealing that he lied to the others (at Lucy’s expense). Peter sharply rebukes him, and Edmund responds with deep bitterness, saying to himself, “I’ll pay you all out for this, you pack of stuck-up, self-satisfied prigs” (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, 135). No sorrow for his sin; just a hardening of his heart and a deepening malice toward his siblings.

You’ll remember his reaction the first time he hears the name of Aslan. Mr. Beaver leans in and says, “Aslan is on the move” (146). Peter feels brave and adventurous. Susan feels as if a delicious smell has just gone past her. Lucy has the feeling we all have when we wake up and realize it’s the first day of summer vacation. But what about Edmund? The mention of Aslan gives him a “mysterious and horrible feeling” (151). And so, he leaves his family and betrays them to the White Witch, deceiving himself into believing that she will make him king and he’ll have his vengeance on Peter. To cap it off, he ends up whipped and tied to a tree with the Witch’s knife at his throat.

So then, Edmund’s story chastens our sense of expectation. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could get into Narnia?” Maybe not.

Sowing Our Future Selves

Edmund’s story is more than simply a series of unfortunate events. The tragedy that befalls him is the result of the kind of person he is. And he was already becoming that kind of person on this side of the wardrobe. Before he ever entered Narnia, Edmund was spiteful and beastly to younger children, disrespectful to his older siblings, cruel to his sister, and insincere in his apologies.

In itself, entering Narnia did nothing to change that. He simply continued down the path of cruelty, bitterness, and misery. And this is Lewis’s point: we are always becoming who we will be. We are always sowing the seeds of our future selves. Right this minute, we are headed somewhere, and sooner or later, we will arrive. The decisions we make today will inevitably shape the person we are tomorrow.

Elsewhere, Lewis puts it this way:

Every time you make a choice you are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something a little different from what it was before. And taking your life as a whole, with all your innumerable choices, all your life long you are slowly turning this central thing either into a heavenly creature or into a hellish creature: either into a creature that is in harmony with God, and with other creatures, and with itself, or else into one that is in a state of war and hatred with God, and with its fellow-creatures, and with itself. To be the one kind of creature is heaven: that is, it is joy and peace and knowledge and power. To be the other means madness, horror, idiocy, rage, impotence, and eternal loneliness. Each of us at each moment is progressing to the one state or the other. (Mere Christianity, 90)

This means that, when we look to the future, we can ask ourselves some probing questions about the present. Where am I compromising? Am I nursing small grievances, the kind that grow and fester into hatred of those closest to me? Do I treat those around me with respect and kindness, or do I love to show off my own perceived superiority? When I wrong someone, do I repent thoroughly, seek forgiveness sincerely, make restitution quickly, and then move on properly? And what about our lives in the digital age and what I do on and with my screens? What am I clicking on and searching for? On what content do I push play (and ask for more)? How am I being shaped by and through technology and my devices?

“We are always becoming who we will be. We are always sowing the seeds of our future selves.”

Given the present trajectory of my life, what would happen if I should find myself stumbling through the wardrobe into Narnia? Would I be likely to meet a faun who becomes a friend, or a Witch who seeks to steal, kill, and destroy me? Given the kind of person that I am right now becoming, what would be my reaction if I heard Aslan’s name for the first time?

Growing Weary in Good

This lesson, of course, is not original to Lewis. Two thousand years earlier, the apostle Paul says the same:

Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap. For the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit reap eternal life. And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:7–9)

Don’t be deceived. We all are tempted to believe that we can sow seeds of sin, and still reap a harvest of blessing, that we can sow envy and strife and worldliness and laziness and lust and pride, and still reap a harvest of joy and life and fruitful relationships. But God is not mocked. So, we must take care how we sow. We must sow to the Spirit now, in the present, using our God-given and grace-empowered hearts and minds to love him and our neighbor.

What’s more, we must not grow weary in doing good. And let’s be honest, it’s easy to grow weary in doing good. The natural bent of our fallen nature is very Edmund-like. To persist in showing kindness, to persevere in love to God and neighbor when we are tired and spent and stressed, is not easy. Our flesh is weak. Over time, even the most willing spirits can lapse and leak.

And so, we labor in our sowing today. We cultivate faith in Christ, obedience to God, and love for others today, right now, in this very moment. We plant the seeds of our future joy in the Spirit’s soil, trusting that God is faithful and the harvest will be glorious.

Reaping What He Sowed

The path of obedience is rarely easy. And more importantly, as Lewis shows us in the story of Edmund, failure does not have to be the end of the story. Sowing leads to reaping, but the good news of the gospel is that Jesus reaps what we have sown. Failures can be forgiven, and traitors can be redeemed.

So, as you stand on the threshold of whatever wardrobe God has set before you, remember that the world will conspire to draw you aside with its false promises and Turkish Delight. But Jesus is real, his blood is potent, and he is with you and for you. Seek him above all else, sow to his Spirit now, and trust that in due season his Father will bring forth the harvest.

When did you first become acquainted with your finitude?

To some, that may seem like a funny question. When was I not acquainted with finitude? For as long as you remember, you’ve been confronted with the limits you face in the mirror. Sometimes, it may even feel like the mirror has come to life and follows you, carrying your flaws and failures wherever you go. There’s a friend who sticks closer than a brother, and finitude draws closer still.

Where shall I go from my limits?     Or where shall I flee from my weakness?If I work diligently into the night, you are there!     If I wake early before the others, you are there!If I give all I have, and do all I can, and make every possible effort,     even there you find me.

Finitude, of course, touches a dozen different nerves. You may get tired more quickly than others, and end most days worrying about what didn’t get done. You may have a hard time falling asleep, or staying asleep. Or if there’s an opportunity to get sick, your body seems to seize it. Maybe you’ve battled chronic illness or persistent pain over years or decades. Or you’re called to some difficult relationship that always seems to demand more than you can give. It’s part of the mystery and brilliance of humanity — these creatures that can harness electricity, transplant a heart, and visit the moon, and yet still need naps and sick days.

Whatever limits you, you can probably walk outside and see something of yourself in those tiny green blades beneath your feet:

As for man, his days are like grass;     he flourishes like a flower of the field;for the wind passes over it, and it is gone,     and its place knows it no more. (Psalm 103:15–16)

If you follow this grassy trail through Scripture, you realize that our finitude isn’t the accident it often seems to be (or at least feels like in the moment). If you can believe it, it’s actually a feature.

“Humans are finite to maximize, not minimize, what humans are made to be and do.”

Notice, even before the fall (before our need for redemption), God made us unavoidably limited. And now after the fall, he uses our finitude to draw us back to him. From the beginning, humans are finite to maximize, not minimize, what humans are made to be and do. To be fully human requires feeling and embracing the limits of being human. Even glorified humans living with God in the new heavens and new earth will still be finite — free from sin and pain and sorrow, but not without the limits of a body.

We know our finiteness is intentional and purposeful, because God brings it up again and again in the Bible. As he does, he often reaches for grass (which, remember, he himself sovereignly sketched and planted).

All flesh is grass,     and all its beauty is like the flower of the field.The grass withers, the flower fades     when the breath of the Lord blows on it;     surely the people are grass. (Isaiah 40:6–7)

As I write, our yard’s been without rain for several weeks. Despite some real (modest) effort, I’m watching the withering in real time the brief and fragile life of my poor lawn. And I’m learning about myself. All flesh is grass, even mine, and my short spring and summer will soon fall into winter.

But grass isn’t the only window we have into finitude. Even in Psalm 103, God gives us another metaphor for our limitations: “He knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust” (Psalm 103:14). Man was formed from dust, and we must all return to dust, and in between, we are small, brief, and brittle, like dust. Dust from dust to dust.

By the sweat of your face     you shall eat bread,till you return to the ground,     for out of it you were taken;for you are dust,     and to dust you shall return. (Genesis 3:19; see Ecclesiastes 3:20)

Like grass, like dust, like a single drip of water: “Behold, the nations are like a drop from a bucket, and are accounted as the dust on the scales” (Isaiah 40:15). We were meant to feel this way, like a 5-foot 9-inch blade of grass, like a 195-pound shadow. If you feel the discomfort of finitude, you’re not alone and you’re not crazy. You’re human.

Prayers of Finitude

The more I walk through the field of Psalm 103 in particular — “As for man, his days are like grass” — the more I realize that finitude weaves its way through the whole psalm. These have been some of my favorite verses to pray in all the Bible:

Bless the Lord, O my soul,     and all that is within me,     bless his holy name!Bless the Lord, O my soul,     and forget not all his benefits,who forgives all your iniquity,     who heals all your diseases,who redeems your life from the pit,     who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy,who satisfies you with good     so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s. (Psalm 103:1–5)

I’ve long loved these verses for rehearsing the height and width and depth of God’s power and love, but I’ve recently learned to appreciate them even more for being prayers of vulnerability and finitude. These are the prayers of people acquainted with sickness (“who heals all your diseases”), of people in desperate situations (“who redeems your life from the pit”), of people wrestling with weakness (who renews your youth), of people weighed down by sin (“who forgives all your iniquity”), and in the next verse, of people who’ve been wronged and wounded (who “works righteousness and justice for all who are oppressed”).

“Finitude exists to lead us to Infinitude.”

In just a handful of lines, we can each find someone who relates to our finitude. We can find a cry for whatever fragile moments we experience. We also find a God ready to meet and bless us in our particular limits and weaknesses.

Where Finitude Takes Us

If we let it, finitude really will help us live happier, more fully human lives, but only if we see through the grass, the dust, the shadow, the drip. Follow Psalm 103 through the field: “As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. But . . .” Now we’ll learn where the good path of finitude finally leads. All of our weakness, sickness, frustration, disappointment has been leading us to and through this sentence:

But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him,     and his righteousness to children’s children,to those who keep his covenant     and remember to do his commandments.The Lord has established his throne in the heavens,     and his kingdom rules over all. (Psalm 103:17–19)

Finitude exists to lead us to Infinitude. God never grows weak or tired. He never needs help. He never sins. He never feels stuck or desperate. He never needs to sleep in or take a nap. Unlike us, he’s not like grass. If all the nations are a drop in the bucket, his kingdom is an ocean.

So, as we come up against our limits again and again, when we feel our dust-ness more acutely again today, or tomorrow, or sometime next year, we’re meant to see and feel his limitlessness. There’s no ceiling to his ability, no reins on his power, no vulnerability in his plan, no exhausting his mercy. The grassiness of our short, complicated, confusing, often discouraging lives should lead us to his iron throne of love. Every limit and weakness that sets us apart from God can help us savor more of him.

He Knows Our Frame

Being himself infinite, you might think God would have a hard time relating to finite creatures like us, but he doesn’t. In his infinitude, he finds the heart to father the weak and flawed, to love us as if we were his own children. He loves us more than an earthly father could (Luke 11:13).

As a father shows compassion to his children,     so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.For he knows our frame;     he remembers that we are dust. (Psalm 103:13–14)

We know our frame, and we grumble and despair. God knows our frame (even more than we know ourselves), and yet instead of complaining about us or rejecting us, he draws close to strengthen and help us. In Christ, his power is made perfect in our weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). He approaches our frailty with the heart of a devoted father, not of a ruthless manager. If we fear and follow him, the limits we’re tempted to despise about ourselves stir and inflame the coals of his compassion.

And he not only knows our frame, but sent his Son to bear our frame. Our God is the only God ever conceived who can sympathize with finitude. Jesus lived a short, physically demanding, relationally trying, temptation-battling life. He slept and got sick. He even died. And then he rose to give your grass-like life a throne-like weight and glory.

So, if you feel a little like grass, let those sharp green blades point you up and away from your frustrations and insecurities to the God who knows your finitude, planned your finitude, lived your finitude, and now redeems your finitude.

Standing before the Roman proconsul, Polycarp knew the end was near. The skilled Roman official methodically questioned him and repeatedly demanded that Polycarp worship a pagan image. Each time he refused. The bloodthirsty crowd filling the amphitheater jeered the Christian bishop. Changing tactics, the proconsul encouraged Polycarp to persuade the people. Polycarp felt no compulsion to defend himself before such a hostile crowd. To the proconsul, however, Polycarp responded differently. “We have been taught,” he said (alluding to Romans 13:1), “to pay proper respect to rulers and authorities appointed by God, as long as it does us no harm.”1 While Polycarp held fast to his convictions, the words of the apostle compelled him to respect those in political authority.

This episode, recounted in the early Christian text The Martyrdom of Polycarp, captures the dramatic social pressures the early church endured. In some ways, the episode also reminds us of some of the pressures Christians face today. In his work The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self, Carl Trueman diagnoses the ills that afflict our society, and observes the resonances between the ancient and postmodern worlds. “The second­-century world is, in a sense, our world,” he writes.2 In spite of all our seeming progress, are we returning to the days when pagans wielded social and political power against the church?

Wisdom from the Fathers

If our modern world resembles the ancient one, perhaps we could glean some wisdom from the ways the early church navigated these murky waters. As Polycarp testifies, the Scriptures were essential to the early Christian apologetic. Passages such as Romans 13:1 and Matthew 22:21, alongside the examples of Old Testament figures such as Joseph and Daniel, guided the church’s vision for engaging the unbelieving world.

Of all the texts used by these early Christians, 1 Peter 2:16–17 clusters key themes of their public and political theologies. “Live as people who are free,” Peter writes, “not using your freedom as a cover-up for evil, but living as servants of God. Honor everyone. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the emperor.” Peter knew the faithful were suffering under the weight of societal pressures, but he still admonishes them to “live as people who are free.” While freedom certainly entails release from bondage to sin and death, it also means freedom from the fear of any social or political power. There is no sense of retreat or capitulation in Peter’s words. He expects that the church will embed itself in the fabric of its social context and live freely “as servants of God.”

“Cultural engagement begins with the fear of God.”

The joy of living freely, Peter continues, is found in a fourfold sense of Christian obedience: fear God, honor the emperor, love the church, honor all people. In four short phrases, Peter compresses a vision for engaging society that reverberates through the writings of the early church as they navigated a pagan world.

FEAR GOD

As an aspect of Christian wisdom, cultural engagement begins with the fear of God.3 I take this as a general phrase describing a firm conviction in the nature and work of God and the wisdom of God required for Christian living (see Proverbs 1:7; 9:10; Psalm 111:10). The early Christians formulated these convictions in a doctrinal summary, often called the “rule of faith,” that they confessed at baptism. Once they emerged from the baptismal waters, the rule of faith described the theological framework that guided their spiritual lives.

Irenaeus of Lyons, for example, begins his summary of the rule by saying, “God, the Father, not made, not material, invisible; one God, the Creator of all things: this is the first point of our faith.”4 The second and third points confess Christ and the Holy Spirit, a developed Trinitarian vision of God. This doctrinal summary informed every feature of their doctrine and practice, and fortified a theological and moral dividing line from the inherited cultural ideologies.

This means that the first step of Christian engagement is discipleship. The church’s necessary focus is on training members, helping them to cultivate a sincere commitment to Christ and Christian doctrine. Only when they deeply imbibed the church’s faith could early Christians defend against intellectual challenges, endure social pressures, and even face martyrdom. Eventually their commitment to the teachings of the Scriptures prevailed. The early church succeeded, first and foremost, because the “central doctrines of Christianity prompted and sustained attractive, liberating, and effective social relations and organizations.”5

HONOR THE EMPEROR

While the fear of the Lord was the first step, the early church affirmed the proper place of political power. Just as Peter encourages the faithful to “honor the emperor,” the early church respected those in political authority, even when they oppressed the church (see Romans 13:1–7; Proverbs 24:21).

Early Christian theologians well knew that political power was meant to curb sin and establish order, even though it could be abused. Alluding to Romans 13:4–6 and related passages, Irenaeus observes that “earthly rule” has been “appointed by God for the benefit of nations, and not by the devil, who is never at rest at all, nay, who does not love to see even nations conducting themselves after a quiet manner.”6 Not all civil leaders are virtuous and, in the Lord’s providence, people experience different types of political governance. Some rulers “are given for the correction and the benefit of their subjects, and for the preservation of justice; but others, for the purposes of fear and punishment and rebuke.”7

Based on the doctrine of divine providence and transcendence, Tertullian made the bold claim that the emperor “is more ours than yours [the pagans], for our God has appointed him.”8 He also claimed that Christians pray for political stability, saying, “For all our emperors we offer prayer. We pray for life prolonged; for security to the empire; for protection to the imperial house; for brave armies, a faithful senate, a virtuous people, the world at rest.”9 Though not afraid to criticize the emperor (or any other political figure) for neglecting his duties, Christians respected the place of civil authority.

LOVE THE BROTHERHOOD

Not only did early Christians fear God and honor the emperor, but they also loved the church (Romans 12:10; Hebrews 13:1). Christians in the ancient world, as today, recognized that laws and political structures cannot make people truly virtuous; that remains the work of the Spirit in the church. Political structures can help facilitate that work and provide environments that promote virtuous living. But politics will not save us or make us holy.

“Laws and political structures cannot make people virtuous; that remains the work of the Spirit in the church.”

While the church — either in the ancient world or today — is not perfect, early Christians argued that “what the soul is to the body, Christians are to the world.”10 Even though the people of God are persecuted, ironically the Christians “hold the world together.”11 The early Christian community did not see the church as just another voluntary organization or social gathering but as the locus of God’s redemptive activity. From their vantage point, God is at work in the church, and the nations enjoy the blessings. The Christians, the early apologist Aristides writes,

love one another, and from widows they do not turn away their esteem; and they deliver the orphan from him who treats him harshly. And he, who has, gives to him who has not, without boasting. And when they see a stranger, they take him in to their homes and rejoice over him as a very brother.12

The love among the church is a living testimony of the potential for human flourishing found in the gospel.

HONOR EVERYONE

Finally, while the early church feared God, honored the emperor, and loved the church, they also recognized that Scripture called them to honor all people (Romans 13:7; 1 Peter 2:17). Christians “are distinguished from other men neither by country, nor language, nor the customs which they observe,” writes the author of the Epistle of Diognetus.13 Instead, “following the customs of the natives in respect to clothing, food, and the rest of their ordinary conduct, they display to us their wonderful and confessedly striking method of life.”14 Early Christians affirmed that all people are created in the image of God and worthy of respect, regardless of social standing. “We are the same to emperors as to our ordinary neighbors,” Tertullian writes.15

The early church pursued holiness and modesty, and in so doing hoped to persuade some. Justin Martyr, reflecting on the way the gospel transformed lives, writes that Christians “pray for our enemies, and endeavor to persuade those who hate us unjustly to live conformably to the good precepts of Christ, to the end that they may become partakers with us of the same joyful hope of a reward from God the ruler of all.”16 Now with renewed vigor and resourcefulness, we need people of faith living with this kind of vision for society: the living testimony of a faithful, virtuous, loving community that honors all people.

We Have Been Here Before

We could say much more about the wisdom of the early Christian approach to living in an unbelieving world. The words of 1 Peter 2:17 and the example of the early church provide a helpful framework to begin thinking through this complex topic. In one sense, the example of the early church may be comforting. We have been here before. The church has survived and even thrived in times like these.

But then again, these days are different. Modern paganism (in the words of T.S. Eliot) is still intermingled with the vestiges of a Christian past. Our social and religious institutions, organizations, and traditions are in transition, tangled in the messiness of losing the Christian mores that informed them. By looking to the early church, we see a vison that resonates with Peter’s exhortation. It begins with fearing God, honoring the emperor, loving the church, and honoring all people. Like Polycarp before the proconsul and the jeering crowd, it won’t convince everyone. Nevertheless, like Polycarp, we walk in faith, and live as people who are free.

Audio Transcript

Welcome to the Ask Pastor John podcast, especially if this is your first time here — welcome. I’m Tony, the host, and I pitch questions to longtime pastor and author John Piper. That’s his name. We talk about life’s most challenging questions, and what the Bible has to say about those challenging questions. Maybe you just happened to see this episode online, or maybe someone sent you this link, a friend or someone. Welcome.

We do all this by taking questions from our audience, and today’s question comes from a listener named Rebecca. “Hello, Pastor John, and thank you for this podcast. It has blessed me, guided me, and strengthened my faith over the years. My question for you is this: How would you explain your experience of joy in God to a curious, unchurched non-Christian? Where would you begin? And how would you do it with language a non-Christian could easily follow?”

Okay, let’s do it this way: I’ll write a short letter to an imaginary unbeliever named Michael, who has almost no experience of church or religious language, and who has asked me this very question, to tell him what it means when I say, “I experience joy in God.” Here we go.

Dear Michael,

You asked me what I mean when I say, “I experience joy in God.” Thanks for asking. There are not many things, Michael, that I enjoy talking about more than what I value, what I treasure, most. You already know that my experience of God is based on the Bible. I believe it is the word of God. I believe that if you read it, especially its portrayal of Jesus, you can hear the ring of truth, the self-authenticating reality of God breaking through. So, the first thing to say is that when the Bible talks about our relationship with God, it rings with the language of pleasure.

In other words, I’m not just responding to the Bible with my own peculiar personality. No, I’ve been told by the Bible, by God himself through the Bible, that I should experience God as my pleasure. It’s what God demands, not just what I desire. God’s word is lavish with pleasure language. So, let me give you some examples so you can get the feel of what I mean. You can ask me sometime later, and I’ll show you these places actually in the Bible itself so you can read them for yourself. I think that would be helpful.

Psalm 16:11: “In your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”
Psalm 90:14: “Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.”
Psalm 37:4: “Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.”
Psalm 32:11: “Be glad in the Lord.”
Psalm 19:10: “More to be desired are they [your words, O Lord] than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey and drippings of the honeycomb.”
Isaiah 52:7: “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news . . . of happiness.”
Philippians 4:11, 13: “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content . . . through [Christ] who strengthens me.”
Philippians 4:4, just a little earlier in the chapter: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.”
Isaiah 26:3: “You keep him in perfect peace . . . because he trusts in you.”
Psalm 4:7: “You have put more joy in my heart than they have when their grain and wine abound.”
Psalm 63:1–3: “My soul thirsts for you . . . because your steadfast love is better than life.”

That’s for starters, Michael, scraping the surface of the Bible. Peace, rejoicing, contentment, happiness, gladness, delight, satisfaction, pleasures — all of it sweeter than honey, all of it better than wine, all of it better than life itself, as full as it can be, as long as it can be.

Now the question is, How do I experience God that way? How does John Piper do that? And the first thing to say is that God himself has taken out of the way the greatest obstacle to my happiness — namely, my ugly, God-belittling sin, and his just and holy wrath and fury against it. He sent his Son Jesus Christ into the world to die in my place. The Bible says that he became a curse for me. He condemned my sin in the death of his own Son. And he did this for absolutely everyone, indiscriminately, who would believe in him.

So, when I receive Jesus Christ — when I take him, welcome him, embrace him as my Savior and my Lord and the treasure of my life — God sees me as united to Jesus, so that his death counts as my punishment, and his righteousness counts as my right standing before God. So, now there’s no condemnation for me. I’m forgiven for everything. No guilt, no punishment, no hell, no fear; accepted, adopted, loved, befriended, embraced — as a father running out to welcome a long-lost son.

That’s the beginning. That’s the foundation, Michael, of all my joy. Everything great and beautiful and valuable and desirable and satisfying in God is no longer dangerous for me. It’s like a mountain range of endless discovery of more and more beauty, where I will never fall off a ledge and die, but go further up and further in forever and ever, because God is infinite and I’m not.

Michael, every day I read my Bible, and in the Bible, God himself, through the words that he inspired, speaks to me — and I speak back to him. This is a real conversation. I don’t hear voices; I read his inspired word addressed to his people, to me. I hear the voice of God in his precious word, and it is sweeter than honey. That’s what the Bible calls fellowship with God. And every day, as we enjoy this fellowship, he shows me glimpses of his greatness and his beauty and his worth: the very things that I was made for. I was made to see and enjoy God in his greatness, his beauty, his worth.

And you know this is true, Michael — you know this. You were made to see and enjoy greatness and beauty and worth and love. Everybody was. God is the sum of all greatness, and all beauty, and all value and worth, and all love. And he lets us enjoy him through his word, and through his world, which also reveals his beauty and greatness. And when I face the ugliness and the sin and the suffering and the disasters of the world, he reminds me of spectacular promises that I will one day be with him — free from all pain, all sin, all depression, all discouragement, all anxieties — in a brand new, magnificent body.

And with that hope, which he renews every day in me through his word, he gives me strength to go out into the world and to try to be useful to people by doing good and pointing people to everlasting satisfaction in him (which is what I’m doing right now, I hope). And even though I’m not perfect, Michael — you know that pretty well — he helps me do that, and he forgives me for my failures, my shortcomings. And at the end of the day, my conscience is clean. Oh, the sweetness and joy of a clear conscience. My conscience is clean because there has been some measure of obedience. And because of his precious, precious forgiveness through Jesus, I can lay my head down at night on a pillow with peace and joy.

You know that’s what I want for you, Michael. That’s why I’m writing this letter, and I’m happy to talk anytime you want to take it further.

Your friend,John

His condemnation on judgment day will punctuate the unhappiest story ever told. Never will a smile so drain of its color; never will hope shatter from such heights; never will victory retreat so ruthlessly; never will hell devour a victim so dejected and amazed as when the Almost Christian is led away to the lake of fire.

The Almost Christian. He was almost saved. He almost escaped the wrath of God. He almost found joy forevermore in the God who was almost his God. Almost.

On that Day, he might expect angels to receive him with song, his works to prove themselves gold, his Master to declare, “Well done, good and faithful servant” (Matthew 25:23). He may have closed his eyes serenely in death, thinking himself a saint. This is the most miserable creature in hell, one who was always approaching, but never crossed over, the asymptote of everlasting life.

We want to look away. This bird twitches before us on the pavement, wings broken, reaching its pitiful talons in vain toward the heavenly branch it shall never reach. It flew so high once — yet fell.

“You have here one of the saddest considerations imaginable presented to you,” Matthew Mead (1630–1699) writes, “and that is how far it is possible a man may go in a profession of religion and yet, after all, fall short of salvation; how far he may run and yet not so run as to obtain” (The Almost Christian Discovered, xiv).

To such considerations we turn. We don’t incline to, but we must. We walk a dangerous road if we never inquire into our account, never check our foundations, never ask, “Lord, is it I?” Many, Jesus teaches, will enter the final Day thinking themselves saved without so being (Matthew 7:21–23; Luke 13:24). I do not wish for you or me to be among them.

Collage of Almost Christians

To show how near the forgery comes, to warn us from building our houses upon sand, to burst false hopes or biased examinations, let us look carefully at a few pictures of the Almost Christian to see what, on their own, are no sure signs of salvation.

1. Obeying God: Rich Young Ruler

He said to him, “Teacher, all these I have kept from my youth.” (Mark 10:20)

Observe this young rich ruler, this seeker of eternal life. “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” he asks (Mark 10:17). In response, Jesus first corrects his view of goodness, and then reiterates the commandments the young Jewish man knew by heart: “Do not murder, Do not commit adultery, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Do not defraud, Honor your father and mother” (Mark 10:19). Notice his reply: “Teacher, all these I have kept from my youth.”

If we take him at his word, this man not only obeyed God, but as Mead observes, he obeyed universally and constantly. First, he obeyed: “Teacher, all these I have kept.” Second, he obeyed universally: “Teacher, all these I have kept.” And third, he obeyed constantly: “Teacher, all these I have kept from my youth.”

Let’s assume he did. If so, then his was no partway obedience, no pick-and-choose submission, no seasonal or spasmodic soldiery. He received God’s word and set his will to obey it. “Now would you not think this a good man?” Mead asks. “Alas, how few go thus far! And yet, as far as he went, he went not far enough. He was almost, and yet but almost a Christian” (10).

While obedience to Christ is essential evidence of saving faith (James 2:17), external conformity alone is no sure sign. This man, invited to follow Eternal Life himself, turned from Christ and his promises of heavenly treasure out of love for this present world and his stuff (Mark 10:21–22).

2. Blessing Others: Judas

“The eye sees not itself, but by reflection, by some other things,” stated Brutus to Cassius (Julius Caesar, 1.2.58–59). And so, with regard to our salvation, we may think we cannot see our assurance properly but by our reflection in the eyes and lives of others. Have I benefitted others’ souls? Have I blessed my wife and children concerning heavenly things? Have any profited from my life or ministry?

Yet rickety is this bridge of spiritual service if we think to rest our weight on it. Consider Judas. One of the twelve, a disciple, a preacher — and also a devil, an almost Christian. The logic seems naked enough.

Now a man may edify another by his gifts and yet be unedified himself. He may be profitable to another and yet unprofitable to himself. The raven was an unclean bird. God made use of her to feed Elijah. Though she was not good meat, yet it was good meat she brought. A lame man may, with his crutch, point you to the right way and yet not be able to walk in it himself. (19)

I shudder to think of the missionaries, pastors, spiritual mentors who live as drowning men, helping others grip the heavenly shore they themselves will never reach.

3. Desiring Salvation: Five Foolish Virgins

The foolish said to the wise, “Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.” (Matthew 25:8)

Jewish weddings could last all day. After an initial ceremony filled with dancing and mirth at the bride’s home, the wedding party would return to the groom’s home for the wedding proper and feast to follow. This usually occurred at night (ESV Expository Commentary, 374–75). The virgins of the parable wait to light the procession for the wedding party and the bridegroom. Five are wise, bringing a good amount of oil; five others are foolish, not ensuring they have enough. As the bridegroom delays, they all sleep, but then awake at midnight to the cry, “Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him” (Matthew 25:6).

Panicked, the foolish virgins beg the wise, “Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out” (Matthew 25:8). Mead observes,

They sought for true grace. Now, do not we say that the desires of grace are grace? And so they are, if true and timely, if sound and seasonable. Why, here is a desire of grace in these virgins, “Give us of your oil.” It was a desire of true grace, but it was not a true desire of grace. (11)

When refused, the virgins rush to purchase more, arriving at the groom’s house only to be greeted by a locked door.

You see how far these virgins go in a profession of Jesus Christ, and how long they continue in it even till the bridegroom came; they go to the very door of heaven and there, like the Sodomites, perish with their hands upon the very threshold of glory. They were almost Christians, and yet but almost; almost saved, and yet they perished. (12)

Desiring salvation, while a good sign, is no surety of possessing salvation. Many want to be saved — believe themselves saved — wait with true Christians for Christ, trim their lamps, ready (in some measure) for the bridegroom, and yet shall perish on the wrong side of heaven’s door.

4. Joy in Everyday Religion: Israel

They seek me daily and delight to know my ways, as if they were a nation that did righteousness and did not forsake the judgment of their God . . . they delight to draw near to God. (Isaiah 58:2)

Some of us may rest our assurance upon our feelings during religious exercises. Why would I read the Bible and pray and go to church — and generally enjoy it all so much — if I were not really a Christian? God’s word to the people of Israel proves this sign fallible.

This Old Testament people sought him, even daily, through their rituals, and even delighted in so doing. They drew near with a pep in their step and a song on their lips. When the ill report came of their spiritual activity, they asked the Lord, “Why have we fasted, and you see it not? Why have we humbled ourselves, and you take no knowledge of it?” (Isaiah 58:3). In the end, the fair scent of their spiritual habits could not mask the stench of their deep unbelief, injustice, and hypocrisy.

Am I His?

’Tis a point I long to know,Oft it causes anxious thought;Do I love the Lord, or no?Am I his, or am I not?—John Newton, “’Tis a Point I Long to Know”

Sounding the trumpet, as I have only begun to do here, is difficult. Many of us resonate with John Newton’s verse above, and I have not left us with many sure signs of salvation in this article. We have but looked at four positive signs — obedience, profiting others spiritually, desiring salvation, and drawing near to God with joy — and noticed them not to be decisive signs of salvation by themselves.

With Mead, my design

is not to make sad the souls of those whom Christ will not have made sad. I would bring water not to quench the flax that is smoking, but to put out that false fire that is of the sinner’s own kindling lest, walking all his days by the light thereof, he shall at last lie down in sorrows. (8)

None of us should go forth to death with unexamined hopes. To do so is both unsafe and unscriptural. “Examine yourselves,” Paul enjoins the Corinthians, “to see whether you are in the faith. Test yourselves. Or do you not realize this about yourselves, that Jesus Christ is in you? — unless indeed you fail to meet the test!” (2 Corinthians 13:5).

“It is the greatest business of this life to not settle for being an Almost and I Think So Christian.”

And how can we not, with so many eyes of Almost Christians staring back at us from the holy book? We read of Cain’s offering rejected, Esau’s birthright refused, and Israel’s passing through the Red Sea, surviving behind the red door, yet dying in unbelief. We read of disciples forsaking Christ by the thousands after a single meal, brothers forsaking Paul for the pleasures of the world. We hear of some that were enlightened, participated in the heavenly gift, shared in the Holy Spirit, tasted the goodness of the word and the powers of the age to come, and yet voyaged below in the end (Hebrews 6:4–6).

We read of an elder brother left outside the party, of soils that grow a plant for a time, guests inside the banquet hall without wedding garments, houses built upon sand. We read of Demas and Balaam; King Agrippa and Festus. We read of the earliest churches claiming the name of life when dead, assuming themselves rich and without spiritual need when they were poor, blind, and pitiable. And we hear an army of Almost Christians on the final Day when “many,” assured of their heavenly claim, are left to stammer, “Lord, Lord, did we not . . .” (Matthew 7:22–23). Many go to judgment feasting on vague hopes and strong delusions. Many go so far and no further.

A Complete Christ

A final word to those who read this and get stirred into a frenzy of activity while losing focus on Christ. On the one hand, necessary exhortations exist for us: Throw off every weight and sin; cast yourselves daily upon his mercy; take heed to how you live, what you love, and how you walk. Examine yourselves to make sure you are his; make every effort to make your calling and election sure; work out your salvation with fear and trembling. Yet at the same time, we must not run so as to forget Christ or his and the Father’s towering love for us displayed in the gospel.

How can you cultivate Christ in yourself? “This is how you must cultivate Christ in yourself,” Martin Luther replies:

Faith must spring up and flow from the blood and wounds and death of Christ. If you see in these that God is so kindly disposed toward you that he even gives his own Son for you, then your heart in turn must grow sweet and disposed toward God. . . . We never read that the Holy Spirit was given anybody because he had performed some works, but always when men have heard the gospel of Christ and the mercy of God. (Why the Reformation Still Matters, 77)

It is the greatest business of this life to not settle for being an Almost or an I Think So Christian, but to be an Actual Christian, born again of the Spirit. But hear the actual Christian declare, “The life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Galatians 2:20). To bask in his love grows us tall in Christian maturity and assurance. True faith knows Christ not as an almost Savior who almost atoned for almost all our sins; a Shepherd who almost leads us home and gives us his Spirit to almost complete the work he started in us. True Christians, through true faith, soak in the true love of the true God shown perfectly in the true and finished work of the true and glorious Christ.

Let no one despise you for your youth, but set the believers an example in . . . love. (1 Timothy 4:12)

Setting an example is a powerful and essential part of pastoral leadership. A strong line of reasoning in preaching, even a soundly biblical argument, might fail to persuade. But a personal example of Christlikeness, especially what Francis Schaeffer called “the beauty of human relationships,” is unanswerable (Two Contents, Two Realities, 141). Beauty can be martyred, but it cannot be denied, and it will rise again.

A young pastor can and must deeply resolve to love everyone in his church and outside his church with Christlike love. He can and must set the believers an example by his gracious, patient, gentle, forgiving, pain-tolerant love. But without the beauty of love, any pastor, however orthodox, becomes a living denial of Christ. To quote Schaeffer again, “There is nothing more ugly than an orthodoxy without understanding or without compassion” (The God Who Is There, 34). Schaeffer was even more blunt: “I’ll tell you something else, orthodoxy without compassion stinks to God” (Death in the City, 1968, 123).

Pastoral ministry is not a career track, not a job, not a gig. It is a sacred calling from above. And the pastoral calling is basically twofold: to preach Christ and to embody Christ. The former is a matter of declaring the truth, the latter of demonstrating the truth. And how can we truly declare the truth without also demonstrating it? If we pastors do not set an example in love, we unsay by our lives what we say by our doctrine. Such an anti-example betrays the gospel. And that horrible betrayal is not a remotely hypothetical possibility. That betrayal of the gospel is common.

We pastors need not be perfect. All of us have many shortcomings. But still, following God’s call, we pastors must accept, deeply accept, that we have signed up for sacrifice. It’s how we set an example of love.

Our Sacred Calling

The apostle John says, “In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him” (1 John 4:9). Jesus died that we would live. That is how love thinks, how love behaves — paying a price, that others might enter into the life that is truly life. So, Bonhoeffer was right: “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die” (The Cost of Discipleship, 89).

Recently I was in conversation with a friend who serves in a church-planting network. He told me that one of the questions he hears, as men consider that call, is whether they might have to exceed a forty-hour workweek. I was astounded, as was my friend. Limit ourselves to a forty-hour week? Love doesn’t think that way. Love does whatever it takes for others to live. Should a pastor attend to his family at home too? Of course. But a self-protective minimalism is not love.

“Pastoral ministry is not a career track, not a job, not a gig. It is a sacred calling from above.”

When the apostle Paul was describing the great heart of God for us, he had to strain at the leash of language to say it. He speaks, for example, of “the riches of his grace, which he lavished upon us” (Ephesians 1:7–8). If God loves us richly and lavishly, then his pastors cannot love with a guarded heart that holds back. We pastors have the privilege of hurling ourselves, by faith in God, into the depths of his love for people. Then we find out along the way what it will cost us. And we’re fine with that, because we will also see how wonderfully people will come alive — even through us, flawed as we are.

Beauty Through Sacrifice

I remember my final Sunday as pastor at Immanuel Church Nashville in 2019. Jani and I were sitting in the front row, waiting for the service to begin. The band was playing a pre-service number. I forget what it was, but it was a bluesy, rocky something, to the glory of Christ, and utterly delightful. Then my peripheral vision noticed movement off to my left. I looked. And there, about fifty feet away, was a young mom in the church, no longer sitting but standing and moving and even dancing. She wasn’t making a spectacle of herself. There was no hint of self-display. She was just too happy to sit still. And Jani and I knew that dear lady. We knew she didn’t live a charmed life. But there she was, her heart moved by the music and lifted up to the Lord, dancing.

The sight of her joy was so beautiful, I choked up. And in that moment, I knew and felt that all the pain and heartache and sheer hard work we went through to establish Immanuel Church as a gift to our city — it was all worth it. Why? Because it funneled down to one final moment in 2019 when a young mom was enjoying the felt presence of the living Christ so wonderfully she had to get up and dance. In that sacred moment, our sacrifices no longer felt sacrificial. We were too happy to care about all that.

Love and Its Opposite

I wish I could say I always feel that way. But I don’t. Many times, I have to grab myself by the scruff of the neck and say, “Ray Ortlund, you’re going to go do the right thing, and you’re going to like it!” I expect you understand. And here is a line of thought I use as a diagnostic, a way of helping myself realign with Jesus, even in the moment. It’s these two opposites: what a loving pastor is not, and what a loving pastor is.

What a loving pastor is not: He is not out for himself. He does not perceive other people through a lens of cost-benefit calculation. He does not treat others as props on the stage of his grandiose drama. He does not make people into stepping stones on his upward path to ministerial stardom, a big platform, epic book sales, and invitations to speak at big-deal events. He does not curve reality back in on himself, his own advantage, his own importance. He is not self-referential in how he navigates reality. In fact, a selfish mentality is repugnant to a loving pastor.

“If we pastors do not set an example in love, we unsay by our lives what we say by our doctrine.”

What a loving pastor is: He is a man for others. He sets a cheerful “for you” tone as the culture of his church. He feels a gentle fierceness that people will not walk out of church on a Sunday without feeling seen, understood, valued. He is willing to lose, but he is determined to protect others. He will explain himself, but he will not fight for himself. He gives his all, and he enjoys doing so, because the people he serves matter that much to him. If he feels successful, it’s because more and more people are coming alive to Jesus. And he marvels that the Lord has given him such a glorious privilege.

Love Has a Future

As you set the believers an example in love, sadly, some might not see the beauty of it. They might even dislike you for it. Your selfless love might stand as a living reproach to their own selfishness and worldliness. In their eyes, your love might be made into your crime. They might even throw you out. But it is better to fail by doing what is right than to succeed by doing what is wrong, better to fail in the Spirit than to succeed in the flesh. Such a failure still contributes to the great battle being fought in the heavenlies in your generation.

But most people who claim Christ are reasonable. They will rejoice to receive your ministry, and they will join you in your spirit of Christlike love. Even if it does end badly, “they will know that a prophet has been among them” (Ezekiel 33:33). And the resurrection of Jesus proves this promise: “There is a future for the man of peace” (Psalm 37:37).

“Now it happened that as he was praying alone, the disciples were with him” (Luke 9:18). At first, this verse might seem confusing. Jesus was praying alone. But his disciples were with him. So, was he alone? Or wasn’t he? The mom in me can’t help but chuckle.

All it takes is changing the pronouns to convert this verse into a familiar scenario for those with small children. “Now it happened that as she was praying alone, her disciples were with her.” Maybe tapping her on the shoulder, prying her hands off her eyes, asking for something to eat, or actually nursing at that moment. So, is she alone? Or isn’t she?

Like Jesus, moms are rarely without their disciples. And though they cannot say, as Jesus could, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:9), moms are constantly teaching their children about their heavenly Father, whether they realize it or not.

Disciples with Little Disciples

When the laundry pile is high, the refrigerator stock low, the beds unmade, and a Bible nowhere to be found, mothers may feel like the least likely candidates for the post of theological student, let alone teacher. But the truth is, Christian moms are both.

From the moment they wake up in the morning to the moment they go to bed, a Christian mom is living based on an idea of who she is and for whom she was made. She is a disciple of Jesus and she belongs to God. How she does what she does — how she speaks, how she responds, how she comforts, how she disciplines, how she eats, drinks, works, and rests — in everything she is teaching her children something about her heavenly Father. All day long (and sometimes all night!), her disciples are with her.

Moms don’t just have disciples. Moms are disciples. And part of discipleship is learning to speak well about God in all we say and do. The atheist and the astrologist each say something about God. Pastors and parents do as well. What we may not realize as moms is that theology is not optional. It’s unavoidable. We already have theology. The question, then, is whether our theology is good theology.

What is good theology? Good theology knows and speaks the truth about God — what he is like and what he is doing in the world through Jesus Christ. In Knowing God, J.I. Packer says that good theology leads us to know God, not just to know about him. Good theology leads to doxology — delighted worship that works itself out in our daily lives.

“Good theology gives us direction for our everyday life. It is not irrelevant or out of reach.”

If this feels like an intimidating task, you are in good company. After speaking at length about God, Job ends with his hand over his mouth, saying, “I will proceed no further” (Job 40:4–5). In his Confessions, Augustine says, “After saying all that, what have we said, my God, my life, my holy sweetness? What does anyone who speaks of you really say?” (1.4.4). The posture of all sound theology is humility, because to speak anything about God is dangerous. Blasphemy is a real possibility. What gives a mom hope that she can speak rightly about God at all?

Mothering Blindfolded

We would never be able to speak rightly about God through our words and actions, if God himself had not first spoken to us. But he has! Hebrews 1:1–2 says,

Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed the heir of all things, through whom also he created the world.

God the Father has spoken to us in the Son, in the gospel, and in his written word. The Son has sent us the Spirit to guide us “into all the truth” (John 16:13). Christian mom, do you know who made the world? Do you know why the world is full of evil and suffering? Do you know humanity’s biggest problem? Do you know the only one who can save us? You know more theology than you may realize.
Our theology reveals how well we do — or do not — understand the story that we are in. It is as practical as the script and character descriptions in a play. Or a good map on a hiking trip. Or a light in a dark room. Good theology gives us direction for our everyday life. It is not irrelevant or out of reach.

“Disregard the study of God,” Packer writes, “and you sentence yourself to stumble and blunder through life blindfolded, as it were, with no sense of direction and no understanding of what surrounds you. This way you can waste your life and lose your soul” (Knowing God, 19). Good theology, however, opens our eyes to the glory of God in all things, including our calling as a mom.

Holding Class in the Kitchen

As mothers, we speak of God when we fill our children’s bottomless bellies. How do we respond when our children are hungry, again? Sometimes it feels like feeding is all we do! Surely we were made for something more glorious than life as a short-order cook for picky toddlers and teenagers?

And yet Jesus says, “The bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh” (John 6:51). He didn’t just break the bread. He is the bread. He is the one who taught us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread” (Matthew 6:11). In gladly feeding our children each day, we are teaching them about their heavenly Father, who cares for their most basic needs. In giving of ourselves to feed our children, we’re living as disciples of Jesus, who gave his body for the life of the world.

We speak of God when we train our children. Does our average day feel eerily similar to a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip? Does the creative sin of our little disciples astound us? Can it send us into another episode of “little sinners in the hands of an angry mom,” as we add our sin to theirs?

In a fallen world, sin is not surprising. But grace is. What an immense grace that a momma’s calm heart in a tense moment teaches her children true things about their heavenly Father, that he “is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” (2 Peter 3:9). When we ask forgiveness of our children, they learn to confess to the One who “is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9).

“As mothers, we will speak of God truly to our children only if we truly know him ourselves.”

We also speak of God in our suffering. Scripture teaches us that suffering can make or break our faith. Like a sound sailing vessel in a wild storm, sound theology keeps our faith from floundering in the ups and downs of motherhood. When our little ones suffer bumps and bruises, nights of illness or long-term diagnoses, our comfort and care as mothers teaches them about Jesus, who entered our suffering in order to bring “many sons to glory” (Hebrews 2:10).

Our hope in God’s promise of redemption teaches our children that God is good. He turns suffering into glory. “After you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you” (1 Peter 5:10). Our perseverance through trials big and small tells our children that the resurrection is real.

As mothers, we will speak of God truly to our children only if we truly know him ourselves. To glorify God by enjoying him forever, we need to know our God. So, we heed the prophet’s charge: “Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord” (Hosea 6:3). Many moms, however, feel hard-pressed just to get diapers changed and dinner on the table. Asking them to press on into the task of good theology may feel like Pharaoh telling the Israelites to make bricks without providing the straw.

Remember, theology is not optional. If we don’t intentionally speak the truth about God, we will say something false. We will make God in our own image and in the image of the surrounding culture. And our disciples will be with us. So, how can a busy, weary mom press on to know the Lord? It may be as simple as asking a question and repeating the answer.

GOOD QUESTIONS

“Do you feel the world is broken?” “We do!” So, speak the opening lines from Andrew Peterson’s song “Is He Worthy?” The church has been teaching theology to God’s people in this question-and-answer format from the earliest days. The Heidelberg Catechism (1563) begins,

Q. What is your only comfort in life and in death?

A. That I am not my own, but belong — body and soul, in life and in death — to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ.

He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has set me free from the tyranny of the devil. He also watches over me in such a way that not a hair can fall from my head without the will of my Father in heaven; in fact, all things must work together for my salvation.

Because I belong to him, Christ, by his Holy Spirit, assures me of eternal life and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready from now on to live for him.

Regular meditation on that one question would make any Christian mom a deeper, happier theologian. The Protestant catechisms have been a theological guide to the church for hundreds of years. By working through one question a week, how might our theology take root and blossom?

GREAT BOOKS

For those who are willing to commit more time, I recommend making it a goal to work through at least one theological book a year. Knowing God by J.I. Packer, The Knowledge of the Holy by A.W. Tozer, and The Deep Things of God by Fred Sanders are excellent options.

LOCAL CHURCH

A resource even more ancient than catechisms is the gathering of the local church. As Hebrews 10:23–25 exhorts us, “Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering . . . not neglecting to meet together . . .” By gathering weekly with the body of Christ to praise God, pray, and hear God’s word proclaimed, we not only hold fast to the truth ourselves, but teach our children to do the same.

WORD AND PRAYER

One final resource available to every mom may be the most underrated, perhaps because it seems the most mundane: God’s word and prayer. Theologian Michael Allen remarks, “Theology should not claim to improve upon Scripture and prayer. Its task is to help return the reader to those primary languages with greater attentiveness and understanding.”

Just like our “ordinary” lives as moms are full of more glory than we see at first glance, so the regular rhythms of Bible reading and prayer are the glorious languages of knowing God. Before we fit anything else into our day, let’s fit in the Bible and prayer. Let our little ones see us regularly looking to God’s word. Let our speaking be guided by God’s voice in Scripture. When we kneel to pray alone, may our disciples be with us, and by God’s grace, may they come to know our heavenly Father as he truly is.

Audio Transcript

Good Monday. Today’s question on the table asks why God chose the foolish things of the world and not the wise and powerful. Why not use the wealthiest innovators, the smartest geniuses, the most articulate orators, the world’s greatest athletes and most recognizable movie stars to spread his gospel around the world? Why does God prefer to choose and use the weak in his mission?

The question comes from a podcast listener by the name of Euclid, who lives in the Philippines. “Hello, Pastor John. I have given my life to the Great Commission and desire to share the gospel to all nations. In 1 Corinthians 1:27, it says that ‘God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong.’ Here’s my question. Why didn’t God save all the worldly-wise to proclaim the gospel to the whole world? Wouldn’t that have made a faster and greater impact in world evangelization than simply choosing a bunch of foolish people to do his work?”

Well, praise God that he chooses and uses foolish people.

The first answer I’d say is that the impact of all those wise people — all those smart people, those intellectual people, those gifted people — might have been faster and might have been outwardly greater, but it wouldn’t have been Christianity. If the Son of God had come into the world as a warrior or a philosopher to impact the world with his power and his intelligence, the impact would have been quicker and more outwardly impressive, but it wouldn’t have been Christianity.

Centrality of the Cross

We can hardly overestimate the importance of the decision God made in heaven — indeed, before the foundation of the world — that he would redeem and define a people through the weakest and most despicable death imaginable: the slaughtering by crucifixion of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. It was a scandal, a stumbling block, an absolute foolishness, a shame, an utter indignity, and that is how we are saved. That is how the gospel triumphs.

The entire first three chapters of Paul’s letter to the Corinthians are written to clarify for them — and for us — that Christianity will not be defined by or spread by the excellence of human oratory or the impressiveness of human intellect. Those two focuses were the pride in Corinth: the great oratory and the great intellect. And evidently the Corinthian church was quite enamored by these things. They were boasting by saying, “I follow Paul,” or “I follow Apollos,” or “I follow Cephas” (1 Corinthians 1:12).

They were finding borrowed boasting, borrowed celebrity, borrowed praise by lining up behind the teacher that they thought would be superior in oratory or intellect. Paul devoted three chapters to showing why this is not the meaning of Christianity, nor is it the way forward for Christianity.

Problem with Human Wisdom

When Paul heard that they were saying, “I follow Paul” (1 Corinthians 1:12), he cried out, “Was Paul crucified for you?” (1 Corinthians 1:13). He couldn’t believe that they were turning the message of Christ crucified into a matter of boasting in his skills. Then three verses later, he says, “Christ . . . [sent] me . . . to preach the gospel, and not with words of eloquent wisdom, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power” (1 Corinthians 1:17).

Those were the two issues: human eloquence and human intellect. Oratory, erudition, cleverness with words, sharpness of brainpower — these were the great focuses of admiration and pride in Corinth. Paul said, in effect, “Oratory and intellect might get bigger crowds, might get bigger acclaim, might have a quicker impact on the public, but it wouldn’t be Christianity.” It would, in fact, be a denial of Christ and an emptying of the cross, because the cross of Christ means the end of boasting in human achievements.

“God’s wisdom decided that human wisdom would not be the way of salvation.”

It means the replacing of that kind of boasting with Christ-exalting, childlike trust in a Redeemer because of how desperately needy and sinful we are. The cross of Christ isn’t just Christ’s death. It’s our death. I am crucified with Christ, crucified to the self-salvation and self-exaltation of pride. Then in 1 Corinthians 1:18, Paul says, “The word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

God’s Wisdom

Three verses later, in that amazing verse, he tells us why human wisdom, human intellect, reason, and what we are by nature alone cannot find ultimate wisdom in God or salvation. Here’s what he says: “For since, in the wisdom of God [that’s the key phrase], the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe” (1 Corinthians 1:21).

God’s wisdom decided that human wisdom would not be the way of salvation. Rather, faith in divine foolishness would be the way of salvation. “For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men” (1 Corinthians 1:25). The point to emphasize for our friend Euclid in the Philippines is that it never looks like that.

The foolishness of God is wiser than men, but it doesn’t look like it. It looks like foolishness. The weakness of God is stronger than men, but it doesn’t look like it. It looks like weakness. That’s Christianity. This is the way the gospel advances in the world. Paul says it again in 1 Corinthians 2:1: “I, when I came to you, brothers, did not come . . . with lofty speech or wisdom.” There it is again: lofty speech, skillful, impressive Greek eloquence or wisdom, or philosophical impressiveness.

God’s Gospel Strategy

“Why, Paul?” That’s what Euclid is asking. “Why not use lofty speech and human intellect?” First Corinthians 2:5 gives the answer: “So that your faith might not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God.” Now, Euclid began by quoting 1 Corinthians 1:27 and asking, “Why didn’t God save all the worldly-wise to proclaim the gospel to the whole world? Wouldn’t that have made a faster and greater impact in world evangelization?”

So, let’s end where Euclid began, because that paragraph gives two clear answers to the question, “Why wouldn’t God do it that way?” Here’s what he says:

Consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are. (1 Corinthians 1:26–28)

“God’s aim in world evangelization is to put an end to human pride, and to make Jesus the focus of all human praise.”

Here’s his first answer: “so that no human being might boast in the presence of God” (1 Corinthians 1:29). And then he continues: “And because of him [because of God] you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, righteousness and sanctification and redemption.” And here’s the second answer: “so that, as it is written, ‘Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord’” (1 Corinthians 1:30–31).

So, why not spread the gospel among the nations faster and with greater impact through wise, powerful, noble-born people? Two answers:

so that no human might boast in the presence of God
so that those who boast would boast only in the Lord

God’s aim in world evangelization is to put an end to human pride, and to make Jesus the focus of all human praise. His ways are not our ways. We just need to settle it. His ways are not our ways. Christ crucified defines everything.