“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.
Tonight we continue our look at the monumental, towering book of Romans. All are welcome to our home at 7 est, or you may join us for dinner at 6:15. We will also stream the study at Facebook, RC-Lisa Sproul. We hope you’ll join us.
How can we tell the difference between the accusations of the devil, and the conviction of the Holy Spirit?
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.
One of the troubles with trouble is that it can encourage us toward selfishness. When things are going well for us, it is rather easy to feel magnanimous. When challenges come our way, however, suddenly we feel entitled to be focused on ourselves.
Not so with Jesus. It is more than shocking that the Lord of glory would, as He did in John 13, take on the form of the lowliest servant and wash the feet of His disciples. What makes it all the more potent is that He did this on the night in which He was betrayed. Jesus was within a day of facing not just Roman crucifixion, the most gruesome death one could imagine, but facing the full wrath and fury of His Father poured out on Him. Yet His immediate concern was not this grave challenge before Him but that He might teach one more lesson to His disciples. A few chapters later, His prayers were focused on two things — that God would be glorified in what was about to take place and that God would bless these same disciples. Jesus was thinking of others. In the face of His passion, His passion was those whom He loved.
Compassion, rightly understood, means entering into the passion, or suffering, of others. It means setting aside our own concerns, our own fears, our own needs, and not just supplying but feeling the needs of those around us. This, ironically, happens not when we have all that we need. It happens instead when we come to understand that we have nothing and that we need nothing. Compassion flows not out of the well satisfied but from those who have not. There is, in turn, only one way to do this — to die to self. When my aspirations, my hopes and dreams, my wants are crucified, I enter into liberty. I am free to take up the concerns of others. A dead man has no need to protect his comfort. He has no need to protect his wealth. He has no need at all to protect his reputation. Perhaps Janis Joplin had it right: freedom may just be another word for “nothing left to lose.”
The Serpent is more crafty than any of the beasts of the field. His passion is to build up in us misguided passions. Jesus hungered and thirsted after the will of the Father, yet the will of the Devil is that we would hunger and thirst. He delights to fill us with needs, whereas our Father delights to fill our needs. Jesus spoke to this in the Sermon on the Mount. He encourages us: “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” (Matt. 6:25–26).
We can die to ourselves not because we are so worthless, but because He has ascribed worth to us. The One who gave us our value, who values us, is the same One who meets all of our needs. We who were dead, He has made alive — and He keeps us alive. He meets our needs daily, such that the last thing we need to worry about is our needs. Now we are free to show forth His compassion because we are indeed filled. We lose our cares when we remember we are dead. We care for others out of our fullness because He has made us alive.
Our passion, then, ought to be that we would identify with our Lord. We enter into His passion as we put to death all our selfish concerns and fears. When we take on the form of servants and wash the feet of our brothers, we become one with Him in dying to self. But we likewise are called to enter into His resurrection — even His ascension. He has, in Him, made us alive. When He walked out into the garden from His tomb, the Firstborn of the new creation, He blazed the trail where we now walk. When He ascended to the right hand of the Father, He took us with Him. He has, in Him, made us kings and queens, seated in thrones of glory in the heavenly places. He has made us joint heirs with Him, such that we inherit the whole of the world. We have nothing, and so have nothing to lose. We have everything, and so have everything to give.
When we live with Him, when we seek to live like Him, then we are seeking first the kingdom of God. When we put our desires to death, we are seeking first His righteousness. And when we feast before Him, we feast because all these things have been added to us.
He has given us one holy passion. He has given us His own passion. He has called us to identify with Him, and, in so doing, we identify with His body, the church. Love your brother. Walk with him. Mourn with him when he mourns. Rejoice with him when he rejoices. And in both instances, know that your Father in heaven mourns and rejoices with you.
As Floyd the Barber used to say that Calvin Coolidge used to say, “Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” On the other hand, everybody talks about growing old, and everybody vainly tries to do something about it. We live in a culture that is obsessed with youth. Our heroes are athletes who are all stalked by age, whose time in the 40 yard dash is unbeatable. They are movie stars who learn that the more lines they have on their faces the fewer lines they’ll have in their movies. Like our heroes, we spend fortunes trying to hold on to our youth. Alas, it is quicksilver.
The Bible takes a more nuanced perspective. It acknowledges that there are good things that come along with youth. It affirms the blessings of vigor, the strength of strength. These kinds of blessings diminish over time, as a general rule. We grow weary faster. Pain becomes a frequent guest that overstays its welcome. Soft chairs, no matter how comfortable, become quicksand. Memory becomes increasingly fickle and flighty.
The nuance, however, comes in that the Bible acknowledges also the blessings of aging. Aging isn’t merely the diminishment of various gifts of God, but the exchanging of some gifts for other gifts, each perfect in its time. The Bible affirms that age has a common fellow-traveler in wisdom. And wisdom, we learn as we grow older, is really, really good. Something we’re supposed to cherish, pursue, hold on to. Wisdom, we’re told, is even greater than gold. Walking alongside the wisdom that tends to walk alongside aging is respect. While our broader culture in embracing youth has a concomitant rejection of the honor that comes with the hoary head, such should not be the case among believers.
It’s all too easy for us to think the grass is greener on the other side. As young people we long to be taken seriously, to have our ideas valued. We buck against the notion that we are little more than pack mules. As older people we long to have the energy to be pack mules, to be seen as virile. We give our “organ recitals” wherein when we meet together we list all our aches and pains.
The greater biblical truth is this- every day we grow closer to both goods. That is, there is coming a day when I will not only have no sickness, but no pain. I will have a body that isn’t merely disease resistant but incorruptible. There is, in turn, coming a day when every bit of folly I retain will be cut off. My tongue will speak nothing but wisdom. And every day that passes brings me, us, one day closer to those sureties. Every day, every age is a good one when we are under the care of the Ancient of Days. Every day and every age then is a good one to give thanks.
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.
