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 spiritual warfare 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 with the apostles. 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.
Of course you do. We all do. Many years ago I read an advice column wherein the writer was wrestling with some twenty year old sin he had committed. He was considering confessing to his wife what he had done, until Abby or Ann argued otherwise. She said that confessing would only add hardship to the one confessed to, that it was in fact a selfish move by the man to unburden. I got her point, and in fact bought her point at the time. Not so now.
When we wrong someone we have an obligation to seek the forgiveness of that person. Not necessarily to secure it, but to seek it. That can’t be done if we keep our wrongdoing a secret. By all means we must confess to our heavenly Father for everything we do wrong to anyone bearing His image we do wrong to Him. And failing to seek the forgiveness of that image bearer is akin to failing to seek forgiveness from Him.
Abby’s or Ann’s calculus was profoundly pragmatic. And as always happens when we do such calculus, she got it wrong. We don’t decide what to say on the basis of what we think will happen, but on the basis of what God says. He says in James 5:6 that we are to confess our sins to one another. This isn’t a call for the Roman confessional. This isn’t even a call to accountability groups. It’s a call to confess to those we have wronged.
Neither, however, is this a call to confess to all those who believe they have been wronged. While we ought to be swift to confess, and not feel the need to calculate our exact level of guilt before confessing, we ought not feel the need to repent to those we haven’t wronged. There is this notion out there that when people face the public that they not only have a responsibility to publicly repent of private sins but have the responsibility to do it over and over with each new person they “meet” in public.
Several of my sins are widely known within the evangelical church. They were real sins for which I needed to repent. I repented to my family, my church, my co-workers and openly acknowledged my sins before the public. I didn’t, however, seek the forgiveness of the “public” as I did not sin against them. That doesn’t, sadly, keep many from taking up an offense against me, from publicly accusing me of not being repentant, from throwing what I’ve already been forgiven of in my face. For that they need to publicly repent and privately to me as well.
The great thing about repentance on the horizontal plane is that it creates opportunity for forgiveness on the horizontal plane. Such blesses both the forgiving and the forgiven, and brings glory to the God who specializes in forgiveness. Confession doesn’t make you guilty again. Neither does it do away with your sin. Jesus did that, which is why we can know that if we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness (James 1:9).
I’m on a diet. Oops. I’m not on a diet. I’m on a lifestyle change. This has led me to become acquainted with any number of new friends on my plate. I had, until now, heard of vegetables, but had never met any — or at least not any I’d like to invite over for dinner. The more surprising guest at my table, however, has been guilt. Before I went on this lifestyle change, I ate what I wanted. I knew I wasn’t as healthy as I would like to be, but I also took the view that whatever changes needed to be made wouldn’t be made on what I eat. I love food like some people love their pets.
My lifestyle change has changed my lifestyle. Now I have to find foods I like that won’t cause me to overspend my “points.” A nice bowl of ice cream or a hot plate of French fries is the equivalent of blowing the paycheck at the racetrack. When I eat well, I enjoy better-fitting clothes, compliments on my slimmer self, more energy, better sleep. When I eat poorly, I lose all those benefits and gain both pounds and guilt.
What, then, is the proper motive? Some gurus remind us that we cannot change until we want the change for ourselves. Others encourage a kind of pragmatic calculus, saying that what drives us is net gains in the things we want and net losses in the things we don’t want. Still others encourage us to look outside ourselves, to do well for the sake of those whom we love.
God, from a certain perspective, isn’t terribly particular with respect to our motives. Inside the church there are those who argue that the right and heroic thing to do is the right and heroic thing because it is right and heroic. Spiritual maturity is measured on the Stoic scale. Others suggest that our driving goal must be simply — and alone — to please God. Still others, crasser still, take the view that we should do right in order to do well, that good things happen to those who do good. The thing is that the Bible presents all three motives before us.
Consider Moses’ parting sermon. Deuteronomy ends less with a long catalog of the grace of God in the lives of His people and more with a series of promised blessings and cursings. Moses, speaking the very words of God, is impenitently and flamboyantly crass — obey God and He will bless you in the city. He will bless you in the country. He’ll bless you when you are young and when you are old. He will, if you obey, bless your flocks, your household, your kneading bowl, and your wok. Your goldfish will have baby goldfish that all make the honor roll. Disobey God, on the other hand, and there is no end to how badly things will go. Your cell phone won’t work when your car breaks down in the middle of the traffic jam on your way to see that important client who holds your company’s future in his angry hands.
Jesus, on the other hand, from time to time seems to pick up on the Stoic theme. He reminds us that those who follow after Him must be prepared to pick up the cross. We have to consider the cost. We must deny ourselves. Later on, however, He reminds us that He came to give life abundant, that He is the Good Shepherd. As for His example, Jesus seemed driven by, more than anything else, a desire to delight His Father. He glorified the Father who was glorified in Him.
Is it possible that all these motives have their place? When Jesus commanded that we seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, He told us more which direction to go and less what fuel to use to get there. That said, one motive should have no place with us — guilt. As we seek to grow in our obedience to His law, we must always do so mindful that we fail, mindful that Jesus alone succeeded, and mindful that He succeeded for us. God is through being angry with you. His wrath is gone forever, as far from you as the east is from the west. Fearing His anger, then, won’t be much of a goad toward the good.
Indeed, seeking to keep God’s law in order to keep at bay His wrath is evidence that we are indeed under the law and under His wrath. It is seeking the kingdom of God and our righteousness. Those foolish enough to go this way will spend eternity weeping and gnashing their teeth. Using God’s law to escape His wrath is like using His grace to escape His law — foolish, destructive, and counter-productive. This is how the Gentiles live.
Trust in Him because He commands it and, as Lord of heaven and earth, He is due our fealty and allegiance. Trust in Him because He delights when you do so. Even the angels in heaven rejoice. Trust in Him because at His right hand are pleasures forevermore. Trust in Him because He is altogether trustworthy. And all these things will be added unto you.
It is not all that uncommon for some blogger, podcaster or other user of social media to go through some kind of media fast, only to come back and report to us his experience. Here’s another. My “fast” was not, on its face, all that challenging. I simply made the decision that for Sunday my phone would be only that, a phone. I kept it within earshot should anyone call, but did not carry it about with me. What, I wondered, would happen to my state of mind, if I didn’t have my phone by my side, if I couldn’t check social media or even the news?
My state of mind was at one and the same time at peace and agitated. It was at peace because of what I wasn’t reading. It was agitated as I was going through withdrawal. Which made me think my brief fast was a good thing. The day after I used my phone to navigate me to a meeting. I used it to do a Sudoku or two. I used it to read up on the Steeler’s draft picks. In other words, I went back to my normal habits. I haven’t reached any grand conclusions. I’m not advocating that anyone follow my lead. I’m not hanging up my blog or my podcast.
I will, however, likely do Dumb Phone Sunday next Sunday. I will likely take up and re-read, as I did last Sunday, more of CS Lewis wonderful collection of essays, God in the Dock. I will likely reach the same level of peace and a lower level of agitation. Perhaps in a few weeks I may move to Dumb Phone Weekends. And who knows what from there?
When I was a younger man I saw any questioning of the goodness of any technology as inherently leftist, an assault on the blessings of liberty. As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to understand that sometimes in our liberty we allow technology to diminish our liberty. It’s true enough that as a technology the smart phone is morally neutral. How it is used is what matters. One of the ways it is often used, however, is as a ball and chain we put on ourselves. One way to test if we’ve fallen into that trap is to disconnect for a time. Paul reminds us both of the moral neutrality of many things, and the danger of being ensnared, “All things are lawful for me, but all things are not helpful. All things are lawful for me, but I will not be brought under the power of any” (I Cor. 6:12).
The Lord came to set us free. Those He frees are free indeed.
“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.
