A thorough commitment to evangelical and Reformed theology was everything needed in times past to move Christians to compassion and care for the neediest members of fallen humanity. All the resources for a vibrant social ministry are found in the Reformed tradition. But more importantly, they’re found in the Scriptures themselves, which summon Christians to love their neighbors (Mark 12:31), to do good to all (Gal. 6:10), and to be a people zealous for good works (Titus 2:14).

In conservative evangelical circles, “social ministry” can sometimes sound like a four-letter word. Some view Christian activism and ministries of mercy among the poor as an impulse of theological liberalism. This isn’t altogether surprising, as theological liberals often promote social activism as part of the church’s primary purpose in the world. So when one finds a group of Christians passionate about social justice, helping the poor, and feeding the hungry, some may assume they must be theologically liberal or, at least, acting out the instincts of liberalism.
It’s worth noting that political and economic developments, especially in the 20th century, caused a net deflation in the value of Christian social ministry, as many advanced Western countries launched government-subsidized welfare programs to care for their neediest citizens. What some had once understood to be the responsibility of churches and charitable organizations (often founded by conservative evangelicals) was, by the early to mid-20th century, increasingly seen as the responsibility of the wider body politic, mediated through local and national taxation.
It’s at least plausible, then, that the twin developments of the rise of theological liberalism on the one hand and state subsidies on the other sapped conservative evangelicalism of what had been its characteristic zeal for mercy ministry.
Nonetheless, Charles Spurgeon should challenge us in this regard. If his social concern seems unusual today, perhaps it says more about us than about him.
Charles Spurgeon, Liberal?
Though “the Prince of Preachers” by no means championed a social gospel, he oversaw dozens of benevolent ministries in the heart of 19th-century London—organizing free schools for destitute children, advocating for American slaves, and caring for orphans and widows. But was Spurgeon’s social concern an evangelical anomaly, deviating from the Calvinistic tradition in which he was raised? 
Such a question betrays a contemporary consciousness shaped more by modern cultural debates than a serious reflection on the heritage of the Reformed and evangelical traditions. To properly understand Spurgeon’s commitment to social ministry, we must realize he saw care and concern for the needy as springing forth from his understanding of the Bible—as well as from the body of doctrine he’d received from his theological forebears. Without question, Spurgeon saw himself as living out the consistent social implications of Reformed and evangelical theology.
When one studies how many Protestants, beginning in the 16th century, prioritized care for the poor and needy, Spurgeon begins to look more like the norm. Meanwhile, many evangelicals today who are suspicious of social concern appear more like a departure from their historical and theological heritage.
Reformed Benevolence
Consider the Belgic Confession (1561), which requires that churches be properly ordered, in part, “so that also the poor and all the afflicted may be helped and comforted according to their need.” Or the Thirty-nine Articles of the Anglican Church (1571): “Every man ought, of such things as he possesseth, liberally to give alms to the poor, according to his ability.” Or the Second Helvetic Confession (1566): ministers should “commend the necessity of the poor to the church,” and the church should use its resources “especially for the succor and relief of the poor.” Or the Heidelberg Catechism’s (1563) question: “What is God’s will for you in the fourth commandment?” The answer in part is “to bring Christian offerings for the poor.”
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Written by C. R. Carmichael |
Friday, June 16, 2023
What the Virtuals (which include technocrats and all varieties of trans-ideologues) fail to realize, however, is that God has created a world that has been perfectly constructed to give mankind every opportunity to thrive. Even with the devastating introduction of sin and death through Adam, the world is still fundamentally an environment where men and women can “be fruitful and multiply” for the glory of God if they choose to live for that righteous purpose and submit to His will.

For thousands of years, the bulk of humanity has joined together to search for an understanding of the physical world around them in order to thrive and find their righteous purpose under God. But lately this pursuit has been abandoned by many who feel it is better to find refuge in an alternate reality that primarily serves the will of the Self. To do so not only involves the creation of an artificial environment to their liking but necessitates the destruction of any opposing elements that might threaten its existence, including God Himself.
This kind of willful rebellion against our Creator is not new, of course, but it has been emboldened in recent years by our advancing science and technology which has given us the potent tools in which to create alternate realities on a scale that has never before been seen. With the power of artificial intelligence and digital control over every stream of information, the minds of the unwitting masses are in danger of being systematically brainwashed to accept the creation of a new world without God.
Thus, as we witness the technological rise of the Digital realm over and above the Analog world, we find that this latest attack against God and His creation has resulted in the manifestation of a great societal divide between two opposing parties, which journalist N.S. Lyons has dubbed, “the Physicals and the Virtuals.”
The “Physicals” Versus the “Virtuals”
Generally speaking, the Physicals are the salt-of-the-earth folks often found in the “working” class who joyfully engage their minds and hands in the real, physical world as carpenters, farmers, mechanics and the like. Though they may find happy occupation in the white collar sector, their overriding desire is to find purpose and fulfillment in their active interaction with God’s physical creation.
The Virtuals, on the other hand, are the “thinking” class and ruling elites who wish to remove themselves from the messiness of the natural world and have dedicated themselves to the task of building ideological “safe zones” and acquiring the informational control of the world’s financial systems, science, technology, academia, media, and so forth.
With this control of information, therefore, the Virtuals stand to be the gods of the Digital realm, or as Lyons rightly frames it from a spiritual perspective, our “priestly class, and the keepers of the Gnosis” who primarily sit in front of their screens in a digitized temple of power dispensing or censoring information as they see fit. Though they appear to be progressive, their ownership of data and knowledge actually thwarts any real moral enlightenment or cultural progress when they suppress raw truth that might bring critical pushback against their godless, dehumanizing agenda and thus undermine their position of power (Romans 1:18).
In his book The Revolt of the Elites, Christopher Lasch brings incredible insight into why these Virtuals (or who he calls the “thinking classes”) are so intent on building up the Digital as a better, more satisfying world in which they alone can prosper while enslaving the rest of us:
The thinking classes are fatally removed from the physical side of life… They live in a world of abstractions and images, a simulated world that consists of computerized models of reality — “hyperreality,” as it’s been called — as distinguished from the palatable, immediate, physical reality inhabited by ordinary men and women.
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As with so many of our favorite hymns, “The Love of God” was born in adversity. Frederick Lehman (1868–1953), who wrote the hymn with his daughter, had experienced the failure of his once-profitable business, which left him packing crates of oranges and lemons in Pasadena, California, to make ends meet. Again and again throughout history, deep and enduring trials seem to have a strange and beautiful way of swelling the waves of worship.

You have multiplied, O Lord my God, your wondrous deeds and your thoughts toward us; none can compare with you! I will proclaim and tell of them, yet they are more than can be told. (Psalm 40:5)
As with so many of our favorite hymns, “The Love of God” was born in adversity. Frederick Lehman (1868–1953), who wrote the hymn with his daughter, had experienced the failure of his once-profitable business, which left him packing crates of oranges and lemons in Pasadena, California, to make ends meet. Again and again throughout history, deep and enduring trials seem to have a strange and beautiful way of swelling the waves of worship.
Perhaps the most memorable lines in the hymn, however, were not Lehman’s, but words someone had found scribbled on the walls of an insane asylum a couple hundred years earlier, words that had been passed along to Lehman and held profound meaning for him.
Could we with ink the ocean fill,And were the skies of parchment made;Were every tree on earth a quill,And every man a scribe by trade;To write the love of God aboveWould drain the ocean dry,Nor could the scroll contain the whole,Though stretched from sky to sky.
The lyrics, it turns out, were a translation of an old Aramaic poem (now almost a thousand years old). And while no one knows the name of the insane asylum patient, the circumstances of his suffering, or how he came across the poem, the lines sparkle with surprising clarity, hope, and, well, sanity. A kind of spiritual sanity that often eludes us.
More Than Can Be Told
That Lehman treasured the lyrics is hardly surprising. Living just a handful of miles from the Pacific Ocean, he would have known, with acute awareness, the roaring vastness of the sea, the tall and swaying elegance of palm trees, and the bursts and hues of California sunsets. Day by day, he held the brilliant orangeness of its oranges and smelled the lively tartness of its lemons. The ocean, the trees, the sky, the earth were enormous and familiar friends of his — and yet each so small next to the love he had come to know in Christ.
When Lehman looked at the sky, he saw a hint of something wider still.
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