Our great hope is certain; Christ will return to set the world to rights, such that there will be no more suffering. Our great joy is ever at hand; this same Christ offers to walk the path of suffering with us in the here-and-now, empathizing and fighting on our behalf.

During the last three years, I was engaged in the fight of my life—concerning depression—and I failed in significant ways. I had endured an extended depressive episode earlier in life, but in retrospect, had not learned the lessons from that episode that I should have learned. Thus, in my more recent episode, I was not prepared.
As I have noted in other places, my latest depressive episode (“On Not Wanting to Live but Not Wanting to Die”) involved some complicating factors some of which I could not control (PTSD) and some of which I should have (alcohol abuse, disconnection from God, and relationships with family and friends). In the face of those complicating factors, God offered to me all of the resources I needed to respond properly spiritually. And yet, in significant ways, increasingly over the two-year period, I did not.
In the hopes that a brief chronicle of my own failures might help other depressed persons in the midst of their own struggles, I will: (1) set the stage by explaining the greatest challenge I faced and how I failed to meet the challenge; and subsequently (2) provide three suggestions that might help other depressed persons meet their challenges better than I did.
An Indomitable Opponent
During my most recent depressive episode, I faced my long-time opponent in a way I had never experienced. During the course of my life, he had stalked me and taken advantage of my weaknesses. I thought I had seen all of his weapons and was relatively unafraid of his tactics. But I was wrong, fatally wrong, to underestimate him.
Today, I realize to a much fuller extent what Scripture means when it declares that the Evil One is like a predator lying await in the tall grass, ready to pounce (1 Pet 5:8). He is never more in pursuit than when we are wounded and suffering. That is because he knows that a Christian’s experience of suffering is the single greatest opportunity for him or her to declare that Christ is a greater treasure than any other thing that life could give or that suffering could take away.
The Evil One is not only like a patient and powerful predator, but also like a con man. He masquerades as somebody good (2 Cor 11:14). He is the most cunning liar the world has ever known (Jn 8:44). His lies have many variations—white lies, big lies, rationalizations, exaggerations, minimizing, changing the topic, etc. But his lies always have one theme: God cannot be trusted and he cannot deliver on his promises.
Thus, given the formidable nature of my foe—the world’s greatest predator and conman whose intent is to murder—I failed precisely because I resorted increasingly to my own means. In the face of difficult challenges, and without my prayers being answered the way I demanded, I slowly and unconsciously gave up the fight. I lived as if I did not trust God and as if he could not or would not deliver on his promises.
Instead, I should have wielded the weapons at my disposal—weapons given by God and detailed in Scripture. Among those weapons that I did not wield sufficiently or well are three: Remembrance, Daily Ritual, and Perseverance.
The Weapon of Remembrance
As a depressed person, I allowed myself to forget many truths about the God I serve and the world in which I live because I allowed depression to “curve me” in on myself. Yet, everywhere in Scripture, God instructs his people to remember his mighty acts, his unsurpassable love, his impeccable wisdom, and his longsuffering patience. If we will remember God’s deeds of the past, we will be better prepared when trials arise. This command to “remember” is inescapably connected to another oft-repeated divine instruction: Listen to the word of the Lord. Indeed, one of the most significant ways to remember God’s goodness is to attend to the story of God told in Scripture.
How does this help us during trials and temptation? Consider an analogy:
Theologian N.T. Wright is famous for suggesting that the Christian mission can be compared to a theater improvisation. Suppose a lost Shakespearean play were to be unearthed, containing a five-act structure but missing the fifth act. In this hypothetical scenario, the first four acts provide well-defined movements, rich character development, and a clear narrative trajectory.
Thus, with the fifth act lost, how can the play be staged in a theater? It would seem inappropriate to write a definitive fifth act that would freeze the play into a form that Shakespeare might not have intended or could have written more superbly. Instead, it seems more appropriate to give the key parts of the play to highly-trained, deeply-committed, and well-seasoned Shakespearian actors, who could immerse themselves in the first four acts of the play and then—to the best of their abilities—work out a fifth act for themselves.
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Written by David E. Briones |
Saturday, March 9, 2024
The whole point of 2 Corinthians 8–9 is to galvanize the Corinthians to contribute to the collection. So how does Paul do it? He gives them the gospel. He gives them Christ—grace Himself (see Titus 2:11, 13), who “loved [us] and gave himself for [us]” (Gal. 2:20)—and anticipates the gospel’s powerfully transforming their apathy, greed, and self-preservation and advancing through their faith and their love for the saints (2 Cor. 8:7–8). 

Jesus gathered his disciples on a mountain in Galilee and gave them the Great Commission (Matt. 28:16–20). They were to carry the light of the gospel throughout a sinfully dark world and call unbelievers to repentance and faith. But Christians often forget that this same gospel also advances within the church, and it does so through the care that we show for those of the household of faith: “So then, as we have opportunity, let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith” (Gal. 6:10, emphasis added). But what is the connection between the gospel of grace and the Christian obligation to care for others in the church? The best answer comes from considering the Jerusalem Collection.

The Jerusalem Collection was a focal point in the Apostle Paul’s ministry. He mentions it several times in his letters (Rom. 15:25–29; 1 Cor. 16:1–4; 2 Cor. 8–9; Gal. 2:10), and it involved the act of collecting money and resources from predominantly gentile churches to give to the poor saints in Jerusalem. At first glance, the collection appears to be a socially mundane act in the early church. But in reality, it was deeply theological and profoundly gospel-oriented. Everything in Paul’s life and ministry, from his leatherworking trade to his preaching ministry to the Jerusalem Collection, was undergirded by a robust theology rooted in the gospel of Jesus Christ. Two facts about the Jerusalem Collection confirm this.
First, the collection was a concrete manifestation of the mystery of the gospel. The “mystery,” according to Ephesians 3:6, is that “the Gentiles are fellow heirs, members of the same body, and partakers of the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel” (emphasis added). A common faith in the gospel of Christ makes Jews and gentiles one “in Christ” (Gal. 3:28; see also Col. 3:11). What better way to exemplify this union than by caring for one another as a single household?
Second, the collection was a concrete manifestation of grace. We see this in 2 Corinthians 8–9. The only other place where Paul mentions grace more than in these two chapters is Romans 5. (That’s saying something!) Yet what he’s saying often gets lost in translation.

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Written by Matthew S. Miller |
Tuesday, May 31, 2022
We have not yet deprived liberalism of one of its most effective criticisms—namely, that conservative Christianity tends to focus on personal salvation and doctrinal precision to the unnecessary exclusion of concern for the poor and the problems of the world.

As a formal movement embedded in mainline seminaries and denominations, American Protestant liberalism has been on the retreat for the better part of two generations now. Outflanked by more progressive strands of liberation and postmodern theologies on the one side and a resurging conservative Christian orthodoxy on the other, liberalism’s once commanding public voice has been reduced to a pleading whimper. Protestant mainline denominations, once the mainstay of American religion, have seen their numbers steadily plummet. As of 2017, “self-described mainline Protestants composed just 10% of the American public,” a statistic further diminished by the fact that of these, “barely a quarter actually attended church.”[1] By such measures, liberalism appears to be dead, or nearly so. But is it?
If we equate liberalism with its institutional form – the kind that took up residence at Harvard in the nineteenth-century, put forward nationally renowned theologians who labored to make Christianity credible to the modern world, published leading journals and Sunday School curricula shaping the thought life of a generation, and was heralded by celebrated pastors like Fosdick – then the bell tolled for liberalism long ago. In his massive trilogy tracing the history of American liberal theology, Gary Dorrien relays the accepted narrative: “In the nineteenth century it took root and flowered; in the early twentieth century it became the founding idea of a new theological establishment; in the 1930s it was marginalized by neo-orthodox theology; in the 1960s it was rejected by liberation theology; by the 1970s it was often taken for dead.”[2]
We would be mistaken, however, to equate liberalism exclusively with its established, institutional form, just as we would be mistaken to equate Gnosticism singularly with the official movement of self-styled Gnostics that early Christianity defeated. Though the published works of gnostic theologians were entirely lost long ago, the impulse of their thought has persisted to the present day (as Phillip Lee and others have demonstrated).[3] In the same way, liberalism in its institutional form has suffered an outward defeat, but that does not mean liberalism itself has been vanquished.
The heart of liberalism has proven to be not its institutions, but its ideological core. That core was clearly identified by J. Gresham Machen in Christianity and Liberalism, in which Machen pointed to liberalism’s (1) naturalistic approach to religion, (2) appeal to human experience (and ultimately individual experience) as a final authority, and (3) exclusively imperatival message. On this last count, liberalism jettisons the grand “indicative” of the Gospel – that is, the announcement of the great things God has done in Christ for sinners (think Romans 1-8 or Ephesians 1-3) – and is thus left to traffic exclusively in commands and aspirations (imperatives). In one of his most profound statements, Machen announces, “Here is found the most fundamental difference between liberalism and Christianity—liberalism is altogether in the imperative mood, while Christianity begins with a triumphant indicative; liberalism appeals to man’s will, while Christianity announces, first, a gracious act of God.”[4]
What happens when we look for liberalism’s ideological core of naturalism, the authority of experience, and the imperatival mood? We find that liberalism has outlived the decline of its institutional citadels. Notre Dame sociologists Christian Smith and Patricia Snell write, “[A] historical nemesis of evangelicalism, liberal Protestantism can afford to be losing its organizational battles now precisely because long ago it effectively won the bigger, more important struggle over culture.”[5] Put another way, if institutional liberalism is effectively dead, ideological liberalism is more alive than it has ever been. Where do we find it?
The Ideological Core of Liberalism in Liberation Theologies
As a formal school of thought, liberal theology took a back seat to a host of liberation theologies arising with Latin American and black liberation theologies in the 1960s and, in the decades that followed, with feminist and gay rights liberation theologies, among others. In one sense, the projects of liberal theology and liberation theology are quite different. Liberal theology privileges the voices of the scientific and cultural elite in its aim of making the Christian faith more credible to the modern world. Liberation theology, on the other hand, privileges the voices of the marginalized and oppressed (it often maintains that “the cry of the oppressed is the voice of God”) with the aim of raising select themes of the Christian faith in protest against the modern world. That is why liberation theologies position themselves as a rejection of liberalism.
But beneath these above-ground differences, liberation theologies borrow and build upon liberalism’s substructure. Both liberalism and liberation theology see men and societies as facing their problems without the help of heaven—everything is interpreted and remedied naturalistically, within what philosopher Charles Taylors would call the “immanent frame.” Moreover, both place the seat of authority in human experience. Harold O. J. Brown, former professor at RTS-Charlotte, emphasized the underlying connection: “Because this standard [of liberation theology] is drawn from human feelings and experience—although limited to those of a particular group or class—liberation theology also resembles classic Protestant liberalism after Schleiermacher: it has made human feelings and human sensitivity a source of divine revelation that can be placed alongside Scripture.”[6] Finally, both sound their messages entirely in the imperative mood, whether that is the call of liberalism to “end war and poverty,” or the call of liberation theology to “resist oppressive power structures.” If Machen had lived to critique liberation theology, he would only have needed to add an appendix to Christianity and Liberalism rather than write a new book.
The Ideological Core of Liberalism in Progressive Christianity
Second, the core features of liberalism abide in the many leading voices of self-styled “progressive Christianity.” Granted, the term “progressive Christianity” is quite vague. Some define it as liberal Christianity that adopts certain insights and accents of liberation theology. Others find that progressive Christianity is a large umbrella term under which self-identified Christians who prefer egalitarian approaches to marriage and ministry and who support the LGBTQ+ movement can publicly identify (often without having to do the hard work of examining whether these commitments are actually compatible with their other theological positions).[7] Progressive Christianity lacks the established tradition and formidable theological giants that liberal theology in the first half of the twentieth century boasted—liberal theology was a disciplined school of thought, while progressive Christianity consists mostly of a patchwork of blogs, social media influencers, and authors of easy-read books (think Rob Bell). Roger Olson’s observation that progressive Christianity is a kind of “halfway house” between fundamentalism and liberalism seems apt: “Some get stuck there, but some move on to the ‘left’ into liberal Christianity without understanding that tradition.”[8]
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