
This week’s all new podcast features more of Lisa’s God honoring poetry, nuance on honoring military authority and more. Check it out, a true bounty of tasty podcast goodness.

This week’s all new podcast features more of Lisa’s God honoring poetry, nuance on honoring military authority and more. Check it out, a true bounty of tasty podcast goodness.

I love Twitter. (And refuse to call it X). When I first heard about it I confess I was conflicted. The social commentator in me was appalled. My inner Neil Postman took the curmudgeon approach, bemoaning the dumbing down of our discourse to 140 characters. Has our attention span really dropped this far? The poet and the economist inside me, however, formed a strange alliance in embracing Twitter, the economist loving the streamlined nature, the poet adoring the challenge of cramming as much wonder, as many surprising moments of epiphany wrapped in beauty into 140 characters as possible. I almost begrudged the shift to 280 characters.
As a theologian my job involves making distinctions, often ones so subtle they are hard to see. Precision and nuance chisel the outcome of that trade. On Twitter all of these hats I wear often clash. The use of the most potent poetic image may mean, from time to time, that qualifiers are left off. On the other hand, using the qualifiers not only clouds the beauty of the image, but puts you over the character count.
Consider this glorious truth- Jesus changes everything. I admit that with the exception of Jesus, the words themselves are not startling. They’re pedestrian even. But the thought is supposed to be shocking. Everything? All of us face the temptation to divide our lives into the sacred and the secular, the holy and the mundane. Jesus is given charge over our prayers, our eternities, our deepest selves. But isn’t a peanut butter sandwich just a peanut butter sandwich? Isn’t such the same for the most devout believer and the most wretched and lost soul? No, it’s not.
The peanut butter sandwich is to the believer not just bread and peanut butter, but the answer to our prayer that He would give us this day our daily bread. It is a fulfillment of the dominion mandate, to rule over the creation. It is a foretaste of heaven, manna from on high. It is an occasion for worship, a gift, like all gifts through which we behold the glory of the Giver. Jesus changes everything.
Except, of course, that He doesn’t. It’s just not strictly true that Jesus changes everything. What we miss in such pithy shorthand is another sublime reality- that the God of heaven and earth, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, has never changed, will never change. Insofar as the Godhead is a thing (and more theological nuance could argue that while real, the Godhead is not, strictly speaking, a thing) it is one thing that stays the same.
Contra Einstein, the speed of light is not that fixed point by which all else is relativized, an ontological North Star, but God is. There is no shadow of turning in Him. He is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. The Westminster Shorter Catechism describes the living God to us as a spirit, infinite, and eternal before adding this fourth attribute- unchangeable.
I, along with the whole of the created order, depend upon Jesus, the Alpha and the Omega. He is about the business of bringing all things under subjection- in less poetic language, changing everything, from Twitter to peanut butter sandwiches. But, to His everlasting glory He does not and will not change. Consider this piece then a footnote, the fine print. Jesus changes everything. Except Jesus.

We will not meet for our weekly Monday night Bible study this evening.
We’d love to have you with us next Monday, in person if possible. Invite your friends. Our study considers God’s call that we be as children.

First, because we are so awful to people. We are so awful to people because we are awful people. Technology does not create fresh wickedness in us. It can, however, invite our wickedness out to play. Social media that seems to encourage the worst in us.
Some suggest that it is the social distance. We say things about and to others that we would never say about and to their faces. Shame often serves as a blessing when we are actually in the presence of others. This is one reason why pornography consumption has skyrocketed since the advent of the internet. Now you can get to it without having to look in the face of the clerk who knows how you’ll be using it.
Some suggest that it is the lack of non-verbal communication that would otherwise help to soften our discourse. Emojis are not up to the task of filling in that gap. In addition, when you are limited to 280 characters it’s tough to wrap your criticism in encouraging words. That in turn can create a response not smothered in grace and the flame war begins.
Some suggest the issue is the ease of reply. When I was a younger man and I got angry with someone and wanted to communicate it to them I had to first find paper and a pen. I had to write. Then I had to find an envelope, a stamp, and the address to which to send it. By then my jets had usually cooled. Now we can send off our thoughts before they’re even formulated.
While these suggestions have something to do with the problem, they miss what may be the most important point. Social media, in contrast to email or discussion boards, come equipped with voting mechanisms. Shares, likes, re-tweets all feed us where we are often most hungry, in the ego. Every post transforms into a referendum not just on the issue we post about but on us.
It’s not enough that I tell those closest to me about my disappointment with someone. Now I have to tell the whole world. It’s not enough that I tell the whole world about my disappointment with someone. I have to get them to share my disappointment. Which means I have to paint that someone not just as someone who let me down, but as someone the whole world needs to be warned about. I have to make this person out as a monster so your need to virtue-signal meshes with my need for social media approval. Soon enough I see myself as the heroic crusader against this movement, that person, or this other sin.
Here’s the tweet-sized version. We’re awful to each other on social media because we’re awful. We’re awful because we’re prideful, and, like our first parents, are not satisfied in Him. The solution is humility and rejoicing in all that we have in Christ. Moral indignation, more often than not, is just the veneer under which we try to hide our pride. But it always shines right through.

I pursued a graduate degree at Ole Miss and taught two classes of Freshman English each semester. The two intersected when I took a graduate class on teaching the freshman class. The popular pop guru gave fresh nuggets of his wisdom. He taught us not to make comments in red ink because it damaged the students’ self-esteem. He told us to encourage collaborative processes, though I can’t recall why. And he instructed us that when it came to interpreting the writings of others, a key component in the class as a whole, there was no right or wrong answer.
Makes sense, doesn’t it? If I find in this story of Saul Bellow’s a metaphor for the industrial revolution, and you find in the same story a clever modernization of Chaucer’s Abbott’s Tale, who is to say who is right? Which is the question I raised in the class I was taking. “If,” I asked, “there is no right and wrong answer, “on what basis are we handing out grades?” My professor, who apparently never read Animal Farm, without a hint of irony replied, “There is no correct answer, but some are more correct than others.”
Hermeneutics, outside the Christian world, has now sunk this low. Deconstructionism suggests we rightly understand a text only insofar as we condemn the politically incorrect notions of the author. While leftist, mean-spirited, and silly, at least it had the courtesy of treating the text with some respect. To tear the text to shreds one had to at least recognize it as a text, and to find handles in it. Even this process, however, has proven far too difficult and demanding for our day.
Deconstructionism has slowly been pushed out to make way for sundry forms post-modern theories wherein the text, before it is ripped to shreds, is robbed of the dignity of being a text. It has become for us a mere mirror. We deny that there is any meaning inherent in the text, seeing it as a blank sheet. Meaning comes from the reader rather than the writer. Thus, one of my professors giddily explained to us neophytes- “A laundry list is as much literature as Shakespeare.”
Wow. I’m afraid I didn’t have the courage to ask him these two questions- first, why do we then have to read Shakespeare? It’s a great deal more work than reading laundry lists, or comic books, or Danielle Steel novels. And second, how do you sleep at night knowing you have given your life to the study of laundry lists? I know the professor’s life has a great deal going for it, but is it worth it if none of it means a thing?
These theories, by their own admission, do not actually help us to understand the texts we are reading. This hermeneutic is not helpful if our goal is to understand what we read. They instead serve another purpose that apparently is more important to us- they focus our attention on ourselves. They serve our narcissism.
How cool is this, that in our Melville seminar we actually get to take turns talking about ourselves? Who cares what Melville thought? What I think is far more important. My knowledge does not increase, but my ego does. My understanding does not grow, but my self-importance does. My mind is not expanded, but my appetite for self-indulgence is. And all I have to give up is the notion that there really is something out there to know.
We have this kind of nonsense in the world because we first studied and read our Bibles in the same way. Christians treat the Bible, a mirror showing us our sin, as a mirror whereby we see our own wisdom. We open God’s Word to find out what it “means to us.” We use it to justify our own weaknesses and sins. We then encourage each other to do the same when we gather together. We sit in our Bible study circle and ask each other, “What does this text mean to you?” with soothing tones that communicate that of course there is no wrong answer.
This is one reason the First Corollary to the RC Sproul Jr. Principle of Hermeneutics (whenever you see someone in the Bible doing something really stupid, do not say to yourself, ‘How can they be so stupid?’ Instead say to yourself, ‘How am I just as stupid?’) is so important. The corollary goes like this- when you want to know who you are in any given Bible story, you are the sinner. If there is more than one sinner in the story, you are both.
If we are going to be thinking about ourselves when reading the Bible, or any text, let’s think about the kinds of people we are. Let’s be eager to see our sins, rather than to justify them.

Experience is overrated. We often learn its lessons too late. Though once it has aged it can pack a punch. My father, about the time I entered into junior high school, impressed upon me the lesson experience taught him too late, but in time for me. As was his wont, he playfully prefaced his counsel with pomposity.
“Son,” he said, “I am about to present to you what I call ‘Patriarchal Principle Number One.”
“OK,” I replied with a smile. “What is Patriarchal Principle Number One?”
“You don’t have to live in a garbage can to know it stinks.”
While I still fear its import didn’t warrant a number one ranking among all possible patriarchal principles, it was most assuredly wisdom. It pushes back against the common “wisdom” that says, “I’ll try anything once.” Really? Anything? One thing I’ll never try is moving into a garbage can. I know of a guy that did so, but he never seemed happy about it. Come to think of it, he was always a grouch. It stinks in there.
God has designed His world so that we can benefit from the experience of others. We are given warnings from those in authority over us. When we can trust them, rather than insisting only our own experience can teach us, we can avoid a whole world of hurt.
There is no authority over us with deeper knowledge, who is more trustworthy than God Himself. The trouble is that we don’t trust Him. Like our first parents we tend to think God’s law, His instruction on how to live life, is a test for us. He wants our loyalty. He’s done so much for us, and so He asks us to set aside sundry pleasures to demonstrate our gratitude.
Were God to do such, we’d have no room to complain. But that is not the nature of His law. His law is not a burden but a gift. Obedience is not a sacrifice but an invitation to joy. He knows. He always knows. Every sin, no matter how small, at its root says to the loving God either, “You are stingy” or “You are wrong” before it says, “You don’t get to decide.” And then, every time, every single time, despite a lifetime of experience of the very same thing, we stub our toe. We burn our hand on the stove. We stick our fork in the socket.
The experience I need to learn from, more than any other, is not the destruction that flows from my sins, but the grace that flows from His blood. The joy of His forgiveness, the removal of the stone of guilt from my back, the welcoming arms of my heavenly Father, these are ever present realities that I too often lose sight of. Yet they are the very font of my own well-being.
God is good, gracious and kind to all His own. He pours out blessing on us unendingly. Alleluia.

We must see our good deeds as the filthy rags they are.
It is easy enough to laugh at the folly of Tetzel. The crass salesman of indulgences that played such a vital role in the Reformation is something of a stock character- Elmer Gantry, a carnival barker and a traveling salesman all in one. We pride ourselves in our sophistication, thinking ourselves above being snookered like those rubes who wrote checks to get their lost loved ones out of purgatory more quickly. No, we pay for our own souls with our own good deeds.
Of course we confess with our lips that we are justified by faith alone. But in the dark recesses of our hearts we still tend to think He is pleased with us because we’re such fine fellows. We would never, like the Pharisee in Jesus’ story, boast in our tithing or our fasting. No, we boast in our giving and our feeding others. We boast of our theological acumen and our moral superiority. We boast of our ideological lineage and our signed copies of the books of the finest scholars. If you think you have no such boast, congratulations- you boast in your humility.
The Bible says our works are rubbish (Philippians 3: 8-9) and filthy rags (Isaiah 64:6). The trouble is, we already know that, and still don’t believe that. We are double minded, confessing what the Bible says while believing the lies our deceiving hearts tell us. Paul calls on us to throw our righteousness overboard that we might have the righteousness that comes by faith. He tells us this, I suspect, because we are prone to not do so.
How then do we get this biblical truth from our minds to our hearts? First, we stop boasting. When we find ourselves, whether speaking to others or to ourselves, cataloguing our great deeds, we should bring these verses to mind, realize that we while we think we’re showing off our trophies we’re actually airing our dirty laundry, perhaps we will stop. Perhaps we will blush.
Second, we will devote our minds to contemplating the perfection of Jesus. In John 13 we know Jesus is about to begin His passion. He is moments away from the greatest hardship any human has ever faced. And that, He determines, because of His love for the disciples, is the perfect time for Him to wash their feet, the perfect time to pray for them, the perfect time to give them a lesson in love. Somehow, in the face of that, that time I did my daily devotions 272 days in a row seems plenty small.
Third, we own His righteousness. The more we are persuaded that we are beloved of the Father the less likely we are to think we’re bringing something to the table. The more fully we grasp the riches that are already ours in Christ Jesus the less likely we are to break open our piggy bank of rags and rubbish.
Last, we repent. We repent for both our best works and for believing our best works are anything other than rags and rubbish. And we believe the gospel, and rejoice.

We continue our weekly Monday night Bible study. We begin at 7:00. Local guests are invited for dinner at 6:15.
We air the study on Facebook Live (RC-Lisa Sproul). Within a day or two we post the video of the study right here for those who would like to watch on their own schedule.
We’d love to have you with us, in person if possible. Invite your friends. Our study considers God’s call that we be as children. Tonight- Trust