The Christian is engaged in a three-front war. The Bible, replete with martial language, bears this out. The great evil trinity against which we fight is the world, the flesh, and the devil. In our day, sadly, we have made friends with the world, and we have reduced our flesh down to a few psychological crossed wires. We have lost sight of these two battlefields, I would suggest, precisely because we have lost sight of the third, and therefore have lost the battle. In other words, we miss that we are at war with the world and our flesh because the devil has defeated us in battle— such that we have forgotten that he exists.
C.S. Lewis, in the preface to his great work The Screwtape Letters, posits this nugget of wisdom: “There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them. They themselves are equally pleased by both errors, and hail a materialist or a magician with the same delight.” As wise as Lewis and this particular quote may be, I do have a little bit of a quibble. No doubt the devil is able to accomplish a great deal of mischief among those who see him as some sort of evil god, those with a morbid interest in him and his minions. That’s where they can cause some mischief. That said, I would suggest that he is able to cause far greater damage among those who give him no thought at all. That is to say, both the materialist and the magician are bad, but the materialist is worse.
We have pretty much the same problem within the Christian subculture, and for much the same reasons. On one side of the spectrum is the extreme wing of the charismatic movement. Some of these folks claim to see a demon behind every bush. They don’t catch colds; they are under attack by the sniffle demon. They don’t have wandering eyes, but are at war with the lust demon. I’m afraid that often those in this camp are looking for demons behind every bush, because they can prove quite useful for excusing our sin — as Flip Wilson used to say, “The Devil made me do it.”
This, however, is not the danger we face in Reformed circles. We tend to be on the opposite side of the spectrum. Unlike the true materialist, we do indeed believe in the demonic realm. I mean, we read our Bibles, and the Bible, after all, talks about such things. But we tend to believe that demons exited the human stage at the same time that miracles ceased. Demons exist, we are willing to confess, but they have been sitting on the celestial sidelines since the apostolic age. What drives this perspective, I’m afraid, is less a careful exegetical study of the matter, and more an embracing of the modernist worldview. We look down our noses at our brothers who pay attention to the spiritual realm not because we find such to be unbiblical, but because we find it unsophisticated. We think Martin Luther’s habit of shouting at the devil, of throwing his inkwell at him, is a sign that Martin was on the psychological brink, when perhaps we ought instead to conclude that he exhibited here the same wisdom that led him to declare, “Here I stand!” It may be that Luther mined the truth that our God is a mighty fortress from the same source where he discerned that this world is with devils filled, namely, the Bible.
That we rarely give the devil a thought, let alone his due, ought to confirm for us this important spiritual reality — that the devil is sitting on our shoulder, whispering folly into our ears. He is active not only in the dark corners of Africa, but in the dark corners of our hearts and minds. If we would seek first the kingdom of God, we will have to come to grips with the reality that the devil is trying to stop us.
His forces, we ought also to remember, are not only arrayed in the political and cultural battlefields. He does not have his hand in the Democratic National Committee only, nor does he work his magic only in Hollywood. He is also about the business of growing in us his diabolical fruit. He is at work when we are filled with envy, malice, fear, selfishness. He is waging war when he encourages us to spend our energies not pursuing the kingdom, but pursuing personal peace and affluence. He is practicing his dark magic when he encourages us to defend not the honor of Christ, but our own reputation and dignity. The war between the seed and the serpent is the same thing as our war with the world, the flesh, and the Devil. May God give us the grace to win great victories in the little battles we fight each day. May He grant us the eyes to see the epoch-changing battles in our very ordinary lives.
“Theological liberalism no longer announces itself with old men in big steeples but disguises itself in young men in skinny jeans and glasses”
I tweeted the above some time ago. From all appearances, based on the responses I received, theological liberals were not offended. Old men were not offended. Big steeples were not offended. Young men in skinny jeans and glasses were offended. It was not, of course, my intention to put down either skinny jeans or glasses. The issue I am trying to address isn’t the nature of the disguise, but the existence of the disguise.
I have been blessed to live through the great migration out of the mainline churches. There was a time when the majority of professing believers worshiped in local bodies where the pastor did not believe that Jesus was raised from the dead. There was a time when the majority of seminary students were taught by professors who did not believe that Jesus was born of a virgin. Those seminaries and churches are moribund. In my lifetime the numbers, the vitality, the strength has shifted to evangelical churches. And so I face the temptation to think that the battle is over, to dance as we sing, “Ding, dong, the witch is dead.”
The devil, however, is not only crafty, but persistent. Craftiness and persistence join hands as I am coming to understand that reports of the death of theological liberalism are greatly exaggerated. Theological liberalism has learned how to hide, how to disguise itself. We once knew how to recognize it. Typically we’d find it in old, ornate church buildings. Typically we’d find it in old, established denominations. Typically we’d find it in old, respectable men.
These, of course, still do exist. Though the pews tend to be empty, the pulpits, sustained by bequests of the departed faithful, remain full. But more often liberalism in our day tends to be nuanced. Instead of angry denunciations of the unrespectable fundamentals we now have gentle, alternative narratives. Instead of vituperations against our obstinate know-nothingism we receive invitations to join the young, the uncertain and the post-evangelical.
For all the differences, however, what matters is the same- unbelief posing as belief. In both instances the Word of God is something we judge, rather than something we are judged by. In both instances, preaching flows out of the imagination of the preacher, rather than the unshakable, uncouth, unpopular Word. In both instances we are invited to belong to an exclusive club with all its rights and privileges. All we have to do is sell our souls. Gentle accommodation and embracing of the wisdom of the world is more alluring, more dangerous and therefore more wicked than angry accommodation.
The solution to either betrayal is the trustworthiness of our Lord. We must learn to love to tell that old, old story. We need to confess that Jesus, born of the Virgin Mary, came to save sinners, that there is no other name under heaven by which a man must be saved, that He came not to abolish the law but to fulfill it, that He suffered the wrath of the Father that was due to us, and that all those who will not repent and turn to Him will suffer the wrath of the Father for eternity. We need, in short, to continue that fight which began in Eden, and which will end when He returns again to judge the quick and the dead. We must fight for, and through the gospel of our Lord.
Several of my real sins, often liberally mixed with unreal sins, are available for your reading pleasure through the help of Google. Sadly, as effective as Google and sundry attack bloggers are, they have missed too many of my sins. Thus I have determined to go public, in the hopes that the furor will die down before I run for President in 2024. Be prepared to be shocked.
1. I was, as a boy, a habitual player of that ghastly game, “Smear the Queer.” This is a game where a group of children all seek to tackle the one child with the football. I not only played this game, but did so brazenly and openly.
2. I wore blackface. Granted, it was for a part in our Christmas play Amahl and the Night Visitors. I was one of the Wise Men. And I was only doing what I was told. I was seven years old at the time. But I should have known better.
3. I love eating dim sum. You probably don’t know what that is. Good for you. I am left to confess the shame of my cultural appropriation. In my defense, I can’t stand tacos, so I have that going for me.
4. I have eaten meat. And while we’re being honest, I will likely do it again. Most of the time I don’t even try to resist, nor do I feel bad about it.
5. Several of my favorite football players when I was a boy played for the Washington NFL team. I didn’t even have the sense to be embarrassed for cheering those men on. The shame makes my face turn red.
6. I still embrace the same view of marriage that that wicked, regressive, patriarchal monster Hillary Clinton held twenty years ago.
7. I love Chik-Fil-A’s sandwiches, and even more, their fries.
8. I once called a visually challenged friend, in a fit of rage, “Four eyes.”
9. Up until I was seven or eight years old I didn’t believe in the holocaust. Granted, it was only because I had never heard of it. But still, I should have known.
10. I had a time in my life when I was under the spell of homophobia, when my mother warned me, a little boy, about strange men in bathrooms.
Look away from me. I’m hideous.
Jesus, we ought to remember, was betrayed twice by His disciples. While the betrayal of Judas carried Jesus inexorably toward His passion, the betrayal of Peter was of the same dark hue. Both pushed Jesus away as the other, both left Him to the accusations of others. And, it should not be forgotten, both responded to their betrayal of our Lord with sorrow. Two duplicitous, disloyal cowards. Two grievous sins. Two hearts weighed down with despair. But there the paths diverge.
Judas, in his anguish, took his own life. Peter, in his anguish, turned to the One he had betrayed, to the One who gives life. Judas’ sorrow led him further from his only hope. Peter’s sorrow led him toward his only hope. Which, in the end, is how we tell the difference between the accusations of the devil and the conviction of the Holy Spirit. Godly sorrow drives us into the arms of Christ.
The irony is that godly repentance can sometimes tempt others to doubt the genuineness of our repentance. We make the mistake of thinking that the sign of the authenticity of one’s repentance is to continue in despair. But when we come to Christ in our repentance we remember the joy of our salvation. We enter into the forgiveness He has won for us. We move from mourning to dancing. Wearing a long face is all too easy. It looks pious on us. But the impiety is the implicit unbelief in the power of the gospel.
Jesus came to save sinners, of which I am the chief. Now I can respond to this truth in one of two ways. I can zero in on the conclusion in such a way as to deny the beginning. I am a sinner, the very chief of sinners. But that makes me the very object of Christ’s saving work. My joy is not that I am a sinner, but that I am forgiven. To require that I carry with me a hangdog expression, that I walk through my days like a dejected Charlie Brown is to deny that Jesus saved me, that He has covered my sins, even the ones others, including the devil, love to throw up in my face.
When the devil accuses his goal is less to get us to recognize our sin (what good could that do him?) but rather to encourage us to doubt His grace. He shows us our sins and asks, “How could God possibly love you when you do these things, when you are this thing?” The right answer isn’t, “I’m better than you say” but “How could God? Because Jesus suffered the wrath of God due for my sins. My Father not only forgives me, but loves me. He not only loves me but has adopted me. And He has promised that He will never let me go.” When the Spirit convicts His goal is to get us to recognize our sin precisely so we will better grasp His grace. He invites us to come to the Father for forgiveness and peace. The devil leads us into the valley of darkness, the Spirit leads us into the mountain of light, and grace.
