Raising Purity Now Available

My book is now available online. The publisher has put together a nice little Raising Purity website--you can check out sample pages, back cover, etc. And, of course, buy a copy.

The work is titled Raising Purity: Fashioning the Image of God in the Heart of Your Child. The book highlights the typological relationship between sexuality and the gospel, with a specific application toward the subject of sexual purity. My aim is to help parents think through the discipleship they bring to their children in this area. It's more theological than your average book on sexual purity, but I think we managed to keep it readable, and even light at times.

It was written largely during my tenure as a youth pastor in Fremont, NE, and was primarily intended for the families in my local church. I had largely laid it aside, until Bill Edmondson of Ryver Media took an interest in it. Bill and his team have done a great job with the design and production of the book. While it's not likely to make the New York times best seller's list, it's still nice to have a royalty contract, and to see my book in print. Below are a few of the back cover recommendations:

“I’m delighted my friend Gerald wrote this book. After reading Raising Purity, you’ll be equipped and motivated to lead your children into the joy of a clean and holy life. And it may just help you as well!”
Joe Stowell, Teaching Pastor, Harvest Bible Chapel in Rolling Meadows, Illinois

“Hiestand’s book is unique, biblical, and paradigm shifting. It’s the most important book I’ve read on this subject—a must read for parents.”
David Cleland, Sr. High Pastor, Arlington Heights Evangelical Free Church in Arlington Heights, Illinois

"This is the best book I’ve read on the subject of sexual purity. I strongly recommend it to parents and pastors.”
James Nolan, Director of Student Ministries, Fremont Evangelical Free Church in Fremont, Nebraska

“There is much godly wisdom in this book. I heartily recommend it.”
David W. Jones, Academic Dean, Harvest School of Ministry in Elgin, Illinois

Update: So I was talking to my publisher--who is also an IT guru--and he mentioned how search engines work. The more that people link to your site using a certain phrase, the higher your site's search engine ranking will be for that phrase. So for instance, if were to link the phrase raising pure children, or purity, or sexual purity to my book's website, this would help increase the site's ranking in these categories. Well look at that, I just did. Shameless, I know.

On the Regneration of All Things

“Truly I say to you, that you who have followed Me, in the regeneration when the Son of Man will sit on His glorious throne, you also shall sit upon twelve thrones . . .” Mathew 19:28

“In the regeneration”—what did Christ mean? The Greek word paliggenesia—translated regeneration—carries with it the idea of “renewal,” and “rebirth.” The word is used only two times in all of Scripture; once in Titus 3:5 to speak of the renewal of individual Christians, and here in Matthew 19:28 to speak of the renewal of all creation. When the Son of Man comes and takes up his glorious throne it will be, Jesus says, the “rebirth” of all things. It is not insignificant that Jesus uses this word to describe the eternal state.

For reasons many and varied, Christians have often been led to believe that God’s plan is the ultimate destruction of the cosmos. Creation is spent and wasted, we are told; it will be dissolved and we will be whisked away to a celestial home beyond the bounds of earth. And though not often stated, we are often left with the impression our time in eternity will be spent in some sort of celestial, disembodied existence—floating through walls, not needing food or water. Not breathing air. But not so.

As Joe pointed out in his sermon a few weeks ago, John’s vision in Revelation 21:1-6 reveals a glimpse of a “new heavens” and a “new earth.” This is the paliggenesia—the regeneration—of which Christ spoke. The Scriptures tell us this world, like us, will be born again. The coming of the Son of Man is not the destruction of our home, but it’s healing. Indeed all of creation groans in anticipation of the Son’s return and subsequent glory (Romans 8:22-23). It too longs to be set free from decay. From this text—along with similar ones in 2 Peter and Isaiah—we see that God’s intent all along has been to redeem creation, not dissolve it. He intends to fix this word—infuse it with new life (indeed the divine life of the Second Adam) and give it back to us restored, remade, young again and fresh.

Heaven is a place of rest; the earth is a place of resurrection. God has created us as humans, with human desires and longings. He has made us for the earth, and the earth for us. It is here we will smell again the freshness of spring, hear once more the sound of the wind through the trees, and see as if for the first time, every time, the beauty of a sunrise. And it is here on this earth we will be raised again from the dust; and it is here we will be reunited with loved ones past and present. And the greatest blessing of this “heaven on earth” will be the unveiled presence of our God. It is this final hope that gives birth to all others. Every desire we have, the desire to love and to be loved, the desire for significance, purpose, glory, comfort—every desire—is met in Him.

Too often we think of the Son’s return as the interruption of all our earthly hopes and dreams. But such thoughts reflect a skewed notion of God’s plan. Christ’s return is not the interruption of our earthly desires; it is the consummation of our earthly desires—perhaps not in the way we imagine, but truly nonetheless. Christ is forever the Lord of both heaven and earth. Anchored in this truth, may we have the faith to believe His coming is the realization of every dream—both heavenly and earthly.

On the Fall of America

“Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be famines and earthquakes in various places. All these are the beginning of birth pains. . . Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold, but he who stands firm to the end will be saved.” Matthew 24:7, 12-13

In 390 A.D., after nearly 400 years of uninterrupted Roman stability, the Gauls sacked the city of Rome. Though the Romans regained control of their capital, the beginning of the end for the Roman Empire was in sight. Rome would be sacked twice more, leading to the eventual collapse of the Empire in 476 A.D.

Kingdoms come and kingdoms go. Some slide gradually into obscurity; others are decimated in a moment through the cataclysm of war. I love our country and hope the best for us, but it occurs to me that we live in tenuous times. At the risk of being morbid, imagine for a moment the following scenario: Terrorists detonate a nuclear device in Washington D.C., following with threats of subsequent detonations in other major U.S. cities. While the governors scramble to form a provisional government, mass exodus from major metropolitan areas ensues. Looting is rampant and martial law is enacted. Inflation, unemployment and bankruptcy cripple our economy. Healthcare services and public utilities are knocked offline. The world’s markets, all tied to the American dollar, plunge, setting off worldwide recession. Syria and Iran—supported by Russia—attack Israel, resulting in a full scale war in the Middle East. North Korea, invades South Korea, China invades Taiwan, and other smaller countries seize upon our moment of weakness to take a far more aggressive, even military stance, against American interests. In a moment, the American dream is undone.

Whether such things will happen to our country, God only knows. I pray not. But we do know this: Jesus warns us that the world is destined for dire times; when the end comes, it will be marked by natural disasters and global war. An important issue facing American Christians, therefore, is the extent to which we are prepared for such calamity. Has our faith become too wed to American national stability? What if we woke up tomorrow faced with the realization that our way of life had forever come to an end. No early retirement, no extended vacations; no new homes or cars, no college education for our children; no guarantees of public health services, or even basic necessities such as food, shelter and clothing. While we face the prospect of personal loss everyday, there is something more ultimate about the threat of national ruin. One can rebuild the American dream from the ashes of a personal tragedy, but one cannot do so in the face of a cultural collapse. Do we have a form of Christianity able to withstand such upheaval?

Perhaps drastic questions such as these seem too far removed to be taken seriously. Yet it must be observed that many Christian face just such a scenario. There are portions of Africa where entire national infrastructures have collapsed. Violence, displacement, hunger, death, and disease have become a way of life. Such hardship serves as a reminder to us that, whether through personal disaster or corporate ruin, it’s a small step between comfort and calamity.

I think about such things in relation to my children. What will America—what will the world—look like in thirty years? We must teach our children to invest themselves in the one Kingdom destined to endure beyond the unmaking of the world, and to thrive independent of the realization of the American dream. But first, we must learn to do so ourselves.

“Only one life will soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.”

On Asking God for Things

(First things first. As you will observe, the moniker for these not so weekly devotionals has been appropriately changed. In vain have I tried to produce a “weekly” fodder. Rather than promising and not delivering, I have adjusted my promise to something more manageable. From now on you must content yourself with the “occasional” fodder. How occasional, you ask? As occasional as I can muster. And now to the fodder at hand . . .)

“We pray most earnestly night and day that we may see you face to face and supply what is lacking in your faith.” 1 Thessalonians 3:10

I’ve been thinking quite a bit about petitionary prayer. By “petitionary” prayer I mean the kind of prayer in which we ask God for things (to be distinguished from devotional praying, wherein we worship, confess our sins, or just simply commune with God). And as I’ve introspectively observed my own petitionary prayer life, I’ve arrived at two conclusions.

Prayer Accomplishes Nothing
The first is that praying doesn’t change anything. Somehow I’ve been operating with the subtle yet mistaken impression that petitionary prayer is a means of bringing about a desired end. And while it is certainly true that prayer is appropriately directed toward this goal, I’ve needed to be reminded that it is God—not my prayers—that change things. Prayer is powerful and effective (James 5:17) only in as much as it moves the will of a God who is himself powerful and effective. He is the acting agent; prayer is simply asking him to act.

When my child asks me for a snack, the fact that he ends up with one is ultimately dependent upon my choice, not his prayer. The mere fact that he is “praying” to me should make this plain. How mistaken he would be if he began to think that his act of asking was itself the means by which he received a snack, as though his speech-act bypassed my will and brought about a snack quite independent of me. Or imagine my son being denied a snack after asking politely and thinking that the rejection was due to his “asking ability.” Rubbish. But somehow I had let this thinking slip into my prayer life. You can tell when this has happened because you begin to get preoccupied with the act of prayer itself; specifically the manner in which you pray—as though you were reciting an incantation that had to be said just so in order to bring about the desired result. This unhealthy perspective can also be seen when we begin to wonder why our prayers aren’t “working”—as though the hang-up is related to our expertise in praying rather than the will of the One we are praying to. Petionionary prayer is nothing more than asking God for things. We needn’t complicate it by becoming focused on our act of praying.

Ask God for Things You Actually Want
The second thing I’ve observed about petitionary prayer is closely related to the first; it is futile to ask God for things that you don’t really care about. Praying for something because I ought to, rather than because I want to, is probably about as inspiring to God as it is to me. Of course, as Christians who know we should be asking for God’s help, we are often tempted to view petitionary prayer as a spiritual “discipline;” something we are to do whether we feel like it or not. That might be true of devotional prayer, but it’s not true of petitionary prayer. Praying for something must be connected to actually desiring the thing prayer for. Again, imagine my son sitting me down out of a sense of duty and asking me to help him fix his bike, all the while not caring one whit about his bike, nor even caring if I helped him. Such an entreaty would do little to move my heart. In fact, such an entreaty isn’t even an entreaty at all; it’s just speaking a bunch of words we don’t really mean. How many of our prayers are like this?

I’m no disparager of the prayer list; but I’ve begun to wonder how much of my prayer life is hemmed in by a list that requires me to pray for things that aren’t pressing on my heart that day. A prayer list can be a helpful way of reminding us feeble minded humans about the things that concern us, but when it pushes us to ask for things that we don’t really want, it serves no real purpose. Nothing is more uninspiring to my prayer life than trying to pray through a list of peoples and things that I don’t have any particular concern for that day. So inauthentic. Perhaps it would be better for us to scan our prayer list each day before we pray and see what jumps out at us, followed by a time of reflection in which we jot down anything else that comes to mind. Similar perhaps to how a husband and wife might set aside an evening to talk about their marriage, but first write down all the things they want to make sure they discuss.

But this raises another point. Sometimes there are things we should care about that we don’t care about. Maybe part of our petitionary prayer life needs to be asking God to give us a heart for the things that we should be seeking his help for. And that’s not a bad place to start.

On Spiritual Disciplines

“This is eternal life, that they know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent.” John 17:3

I used to think that the spiritual disciplines were little different than their physical counterparts. Run a mile, loose a pound; say a prayer, overcome a sin. But these two types of disciplines—bodily and spiritual—are not equivalents. The first produces results in direct correspondence to strictly natural, non-relational laws of science. But the latter disciplines are ultra-relational, require heart involvement, and do not operate according to fixed laws.

For instance, if you do enough pushups you will get stronger. If you run enough miles you will loose weight. Regardless of your attitude or motivation, the laws of physics and chemistry necessitate a corresponding result. But the spiritual disciplines require more than rote obedience to a set of proscribed actions. Simply reading your bible won’t make you godly. The mere motion of fasting won’t increase your hunger for God. The spiritual disciplines necessarily deal with—and therefore must engage—the heart. Fasting is nothing more than skipping a meal if it is not a born out of deep longing to be filled with God.

And the differences between the bodily and spiritual disciplines reach even farther. Physical health is non-relational and can be accomplished via the physical disciplines quite independent of any relationship. But spiritual health is defined in direct relation to one’s communion with God, and thus the spiritual disciplines are relational endeavors—attempts to connect with Another. The fruit of the Spirit that defines spiritual health (i.e., love, joy, peace, patience, etc.) is a reflection of the divine life in us and with us, and therefore speaks to our intimate union with God. Spiritual health, unlike physical health, is not some abstract moral or spiritual quality of the soul—it is a measure of one’s relational intimacy with God. Spirituality devoid of relationship is bare moralism.

And finally, unlike the bodily disciplines, which require only one acting agent who willfully engages in a given discipline (e.g., Joe doing pushups), the spiritual disciplines require the involvement of a second acting agent—God. This distinction is crucial. Contrary to what many think, the spiritual disciplines are not God’s divinely appointed exercise program by which we sanctify ourselves. Rather the spiritual disciplines are trenches that God would have us carve out in the dry places of our soul while we wait for his rain to fall. But the pouring out of his grace remains his sovereign choice. He is not a cosmic gumball machine into which we drop our quarters of bible reading, prayer, and fasting. Ultimately, if God does not bless our spiritual disciplines with his presence and grace, our efforts are in vain. He honors our desire to know him, but only in his time and his way. Failure to understand this can quickly result in either prideful legalism or spiritual despair.

Social Justice and "Sticking It to the Man"

Sheldon Vanauken's book, A Severe Mercy, is a profound true story of love and loss. Vanauken and his wife were personal friends of C. S. Lewis, and the influence is noticeable throughout the book. The book has virtually nothing to do with social justice, except what is quoted below, but I found Vanauken's comments interesting. He writes,

I was one of those caught up in the mood and action of the 1960s, especially the Peace Movement. Christ, I thought, would surely have me oppose what appeared an unjust war. But the Movement, whatever its ideals, did a good deal of hating. And Christ, gradually, was pushed to the rear: Movement goals, not God, became first, in fact--not only for me but for other Christians involved, including priests. I now think that making God secondary (which in the end is to make Him nothing) is, quite simply, the mortal danger in social action, especially in view of the marked intimation of virtue--even arrogant virtue--that often perilously accompany it. . . . Hating the opppresors of my neighbour isn't perhaps quite what Christ had in mind (234-35).

I've often thought along similar lines. Social justice is good and necessary for Christians to engage in. But the occasional motivation check is vital. Are we motivated by a love for Christ, or by our own sense of disenfranchised bitterness? Too often those we purport to serve end up being little more than a means by which we can "stick it to the Man."

On Dealing with Sin

“Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.” James 5:16

I had surgery last week. Not a big deal, really, and everything turned out fine. But the whole procedure was a bit more than I had anticipated. I had a small lump just underneath the skin, parallel to my spine. Rarely cancerous the doctor said, but given its location, it warranted removal. I had undergone a similar surgery a number of years ago, painless and easy. A quick trip to the doctor’s office—a little cut and a little stitch—and fifteen minutes later I was on my way. I expected more of the same.

Boy was I in for a surprise.

My first clue should have been that the “procedure” was scheduled at the hospital. Curious, I thought; wonder why we’re doing this at the hospital? But it wasn’t until the nurse handed me the dreaded robe that it began to dawn on me that I was in for it. You know the robe—ugly green with a full slit down the back. I hate those robes. And the stockings. And the hair net. She cheerily told me to strip myself of all dignity and drew the curtain shut behind her. I stared at the garments in my hand. What was going on here? In my judgment, I didn’t see a need to remove anything more than my shirt. I contemplated protesting, but knew that resistance was futile. With bitter resignation I donned the garments. Things only got worse.

After sitting in abject humiliation for an hour, my doctor showed up with two—count ‘em two—attending nurses. I was brought into a full operating room complete with massive overhead lights and whirring machines. Perhaps the ultimate nadir of the morning came when one of the nurses helped me onto the table. Don’t use your imagination. The pulse monitor was attached to my finger, the blood pressure gauge was wrapped around my arm, and I was covered head to toe in a surgical sheet (not shoulders to toe, mind you, but head to toe.) This last bit was a mixed bag. On one hand, it was nice to have the additional coverage. But on the other hand, it added to the stress of the moment. I was a pariah, isolated in my own little cocoon with nothing to do but listen to the whirring machines and the beeping of my (now elevated) heart rate.

“This is a bit more of a procedure than I had anticipated,” I said from underneath the sheet. “Oh yes,” the nurse replied. “Everyone thinks so.”

And so it is with sin.

Entrenched sin can only be taken care of with a full surgical team. Dignity must be laid aside; others must be allowed into your shame. There can be no self-surgery with such sin—no way around the humiliation of exposing yourself to others in a less than flattering way. We cannot have both dignity and repentance; both self-respect and freedom. Would you be released from the burden of sin? Then you must lose your pride and submit yourself to the divine surgery, knowing that the attending nurses in God’s operating room will be—quite awkwardly—your brothers and sisters in the Lord. It’s uncomfortable, humiliating, and the only way.

Getting rid of sin often turns out to be a bit more of a procedure than we had thought. But the other option is not much of an option.

On Living and Dying

“For man does not know his time. . .” Ecclesiastes 9:12

A year and half ago a friend of mine was diagnosed with cancer. He was young—only forty-five at the time, and the father of two little children. This past Monday I attended his memorial service.

I’ve been fighting a cough for a couple of months now. It seems that every year around this time my allergies flare up and I get a nagging cough that just won’t go away. This year however, it’s lasted longer than normal. So after too many nights of keeping my wife awake, I finally broke down and went to the doctor. He poked around my throat, asked a bunch of questions, and then told me it was probably allergies. He wrote out a prescription for allergy medication and then told me that if the cough didn’t go away soon, I should get a chest x-ray. Not that he thought I needed one he said, but just in case. He said didn’t want to be sued if I ended up having lung cancer. Lung cancer. Well thanks for putting the thought in my head.

That night while getting ready for bed I realized that the doctor’s off-hand remark, coupled with my friend’s recent passing, had stuck with me more than I realized. In the back of my mind were subtle thoughts of “What’s to keep me from getting cancer? It happened to Dave. He had little kids. I have little kids. Why shouldn’t it happen to me too?” The unconscious—now conscious—thought of death hung over me like a cloud. And then it occurred to me: the curse of death has hung over my life from the moment I was born. It hangs over all of us, all the time. There is never a moment that we live that we are not one step away from eternity. For the most part we can ignore it—push it back into the shadows and pretend it’s not there. But it is there. Some of us see it coming, like a telegraphed punch. But for others, death takes us unaware, suddenly, and too often unprepared. Either way, the reaper’s hand comes for us all. We live under the curse of our first father, and though we insolate ourselves from its reality, the fact that our lives grow ever shorter is a truth that we cannot, in the end, ignore. Nor I think, should we.

At nine-teen years of age, the great North American theologian Jonathan Edwards penned a number of resolutions by which he sought to govern his life. Two in particular stand out:

6. Resolved, to live with all my might, while I do live.

9. Resolved, to think much on all occasions of my own dying, and of the common circumstances which attend death.

Edwards understood two important truths. First, he understood that we must not let our fear of death prevent us from living. Christ has come to vanquish death. We bear now in these jars of clay the first fruits of his resurrection—his very Spirit. We are more than conquerors and have the hope that these mortal tents will be swallowed up by immortality. Christ has broken the back of death, and will one day finish off what remains of its sting. We need no longer fear death as the ultimate end. Even in the face of death we have a future and a hope.

Yet Edwards understood an equally important truth. The sting of death has not yet been fully removed. Redemption has not yet completed its work. Death remains for each of us the last great hurdle of our journey. While we need not fixate on our pending death to the point that it paralyzes us in the present, we must reckon with its reality and order our lives accordingly. We will not get endless chances to make things right. We will not have unending opportunities to be what God has called us to be. We get one pass at life in this age. As it is written, “It is appointed only once for man to die, and after that, judgment.”

Some of us can become too preoccupied with our death. Most of us don’t think often enough about it. How long do I have? How long do you have? Only God knows. May we live with all our might while we do live, so that we will be prepared for death on the day it comes.

On the Bane of Blessing, and Wartime

“Instruct those who are rich in this present world not to be conceited or to fix their hope on the uncertainty of riches, but on God . . .” 2 Timothy 6:17

“Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all I have commanded you. . . ” Matthew 28:19-20

Over the last few years I’ve become profoundly aware of the great material blessings I possess; not simply in comparison with the other peoples of my time, but in comparison to the whole sweep of human history. Just think of it—we in 21st century America possess creature comforts simply undreamed of throughout the vast majority of human history: indoor plumbing, refrigeration, a furnace, electricity, air conditioning (in my car!), vaccines, beds that don’t have bugs, dentists, glasses/contacts—the list could go on. No other culture—either past or present—enjoys the same level of physical prosperity that we possess. The reality is stunning. Even the modest among us have creature comforts that far exceed history’s greatest emperors and kings. We live in a wonderland.

But it has also struck me just how precarious a position our privileged souls are in. Physical prosperity is both a blessing and a bane. The blessings of it are obvious; the bane more insidious. Our material comforts make it so easy for us to forget that we live in wartime—that a battle is raging for the soul of the earth. God forgive us that we should sit out the battle like Hobbits in the Shire (to steal a Tolkien analogy), lost in a vain obsession with our creature comforts while the great spiritual battles of our time rage on. God forgive us that we would allow our preoccupation with the American dream to distract us from the mission that has been set before us—the mission of making disciples of all the nations. Our fleeting moments on this earth represent our one great chance to throw ourselves into an eternal cause. This chance will not come again.

Eternity will look back upon our time—upon our age—and judge us in relation to our participation in the great mission of Christ. Will heaven sing songs of our victory and conquest? Of how we threw off the chains of ease, picked up our swords and gave our sweat and blood for the cause of Christ? Or will they sing songs of lament for how we slept through the war, drunk on the things of this world, preoccupied with our toys, our 3 weeks vacation, early retirement, and bigger houses?

Possessing wealth is not a sin. Enjoying wealth is not a sin. The Bible makes that clear. The desire for comfort is God-given. Our race was made to be kings and queens on the earth (and will be one day again). But the wealth of this fallen age has great potential to shipwreck our faith. We need not fear persecution (at present); but we need fear our prosperity. Material blessings can lead to a slow death, a quiet slide into a material fatness that leaves us devoid of spiritual vigor and life. Wealth is crouching at our door. Its desire is to have us, but we must master it. And there is no better way to master wealth than to spend it on the cause of Christ. I enjoy a nice meal out now and again, and I have a few hobbies that require a bit of money. But it is my prayer—my aim in this life—to take the great weapon of wealth that our enemy wields so skillfully against us and use it to strike against his kingdom. The cause of Christ does not hinge on the American dollar, but the Great Commission does require money. We Americans have it. Let’s not waste too much of it on silly, earthly things. We are in a war.

On Fulfillment

“And this is eternal life, that they know you the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.” John 17:3

There is a strain in Christianity today that places a premium on fulfillment. Yet I am uneasy about the inward-curved bent that has overtaken much of our Christian notions of fulfillment, turning us away from God as the chief object of our joy, and turning us toward ourselves. We mistakenly think that the pathway to happiness lies in getting in touch with ourselves. “How does this make me feel?” “What unique qualities make me special?” “What plans does God have for my life?” And of course, we ask such questions under the guise of Christianity—after all, doesn’t God want us to be happy? But getting in touch with one’s self, while not without merit, is not the final means of fulfillment. A preoccupation with how we feel about our lives, about our potential, can lead to a subversive form of self idolatry. The pathway to fulfillment is not through self-fulfillment, but through God-fulfillment. God is not primarily interested in us getting to know ourselves—we are dead-end streets. He is far more interested in us getting to know Him. And He calls us to Himself because He loves us; because He knows that the knowledge of Him is the only means to lasting happiness.

The propensity to self-obsess is pervasive in the church. Groping blindly within ourselves, we vainly search for something—anything—within us that will satisfy the sense of discontentment that we feel. And when we hear that God’s presence in our lives leads to happiness (as indeed it does), we wrongly assume that God’s primary function in our lives is to help us navigate the labyrinths of our own souls. Not so. Knowing ourselves gets us only ourselves—our finite, broken, and inward-curved selves. But knowing God gets us an experience of the infinite, whole, and self-giving God. God did not send Jesus to help us know ourselves, He sent Jesus to help us know Him.

And we must remember that God does not call us to know Him because He is needy of us. He has been ever and eternally satisfied in His Trinitarian relationships (God forbid that we should ever think He created us because He was lonely). Rather He calls us to know Him as an expression of His infinite bounty. Thus the creature’s path to happiness is not the same as that of the Creator’s. God finds legitimate pleasure in self-absorption, for He is the fount of all goodness—the infinite source of all delights. Where else would an infinite God look to find infinite satisfaction than to Himself? Yet we finite creatures are quite another story. We are not self-satisfying. We are by nature limited (and by sin fallen) and destined to find satisfaction outside of ourselves. Where else should a finite creature look for infinite satisfaction than to God Himself? He is the source of all satisfaction, all comfort and all joy, both for Himself and for us.

God will not be the means to our self-fulfillment, unless He is first the object of our self-fulfillment. And once He has become the object of our self-fulfillment, we will find that He is the sole means as well. There is no other means to God than God Himself. Are you dissatisfied with life? Seek not a deeper knowledge of yourself. Seek instead a deeper knowledge of your God.

On Being Known

“Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.” Proverbs 14:10

“. . . then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12

While visiting with friends this past week, our four year old offered to pray for the meal. As is the case with all small children, his prayer was uniquely precious. It touched upon the cross, sin, resurrection, thankfulness for the meal, and ended with his own particular idiom of “thanks for everything you got.” When he finished, we broke out in pleased laughter. It appeared to me however, that Jake didn’t quite understand our laughter. I praised him briefly while at the table, but on the way home I thought it might be good to affirm him once again. I’m glad I did. When I mentioned his prayer, he said quietly, “I was sad after I prayed because everyone was laughing.” Ouch. Jill and I explained that we were laughing because we were so happy about what a good job he did—similar to how he laughs when he is excited about the thought of doing something fun. This logic seemed to dispel the dark clouds and all was well. Apostasy averted.

It struck me however, how lonely that must have felt for him. As an adult, I have a rich context of relationships in which I can share my thoughts and feelings. But Jake’s world is so small, and his network of relationships does not extend much beyond Jill and I. We are the ones he confides in, the ones he tells his secrets to, and the ones he shares his hurt with. At a mere four years old, his self identity is still strongly tied to his family identity. Our world is his world. But in that moment at the table I saw him withdraw into himself, confused and hurt by what was happening and uncertain of how to process it. What’s more, Jill and I were viewed as culprits. We were the only world he knew, yet it no longer seemed prudent to merge his world with our own. He carried the burden alone and did not share his hurt with us. And while the issue at hand was easily corrected, I realized afresh how lonely life can be inside one’s own mind.

Each of us longs to be known—to have someone outside of us know us in the deepest way and embrace us as we are. And well we should. We were made by God to be creatures of community, to know and to be known, to love and to be loved. But the ravages of sin have not been without effect. There are things that we each experience, both joys and pains, that no one—not even our spouses or our closest friends—can fully understand. The deepest part of who we are is trapped inside, the limitations of human frailty and fear making it ours alone. And though we seek to fill the consequent emptiness with fragile human relationships (sometimes illicitly), or to dull the loneliness through materialism or pleasure (always vainly), there is no finite reality that is capable of plumbing the depths of our souls or assuaging the sense of disconnection that we feel. No one shares our world in the fullest sense. No one can. If we allow ourselves to embrace it, the reality of the fallen human condition is one of disconnected aloneness.

Yet the reality of the fallen human condition is not the reality of the risen Christian condition. Jesus promised us before He left that He would not leave us alone. And indeed He has not. He has come to us through His Spirit. In Christ, God draws near to us and fills our lives with His infinite presence. Every hope, every thought, every fear, every joy, every sin, every triumph, every last twist and turn of our soul is intimately known. Truly He knows us more intimately than we know ourselves. And even while we wait—with a certain appropriate loneliness—for Christ to come again, He waits with us. He is present with us even in the spiritual loneliness created by his absence.

I am profoundly grateful for the presence of God in my life. He is for me a constant presence—a never ceasing companion and a self-identifying reality. I draw my identity from who He is and what He thinks of me. My world is His world. Voltaire once remarked, “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.” How true. Humans cannot live as they were meant to live while remaining trapped within the caverns of their own minds, each carrying alone the weight of their own souls. We need to be known in our deepest secrets, our darkest fears and our most desperate hopes. In Christ we are known.

Do not withdraw into a solitary world of your own making. Share your lives with others as you are able. But when others cannot enter into your world, do not carry your burdens alone. God is ever-present.

Thoughts on 1 Peter 3:7 and the "Weaker" Vessel

“Likewise, husbands, live with your wives in an understanding way, showing honor to the woman as the weaker vessel, since they are heirs with you of the grace of life, so that your prayers may not be hindered.” 1 Peter 3:7

In my estimation, marginalization and oppression can ultimately be traced to a combination of sin and raw physical power. White Europeans oppressed Native Americans both because they wanted to, and because they could (they had greater physical superiority through weaponry and numbers). We in the United States enslaved Africans for the same reason. It is latent within the fallen psyche for the greater to oppress the weaker. Simply put, to the strong goes the spoils.

In my mind, this same dialect between physical power and oppression applies to the relationship between the sexes. In 1 Peter 3:7, Peter refers to the woman as the “weaker” vessel. It seems evident that the weakness Peter has in mind is physical (as opposed to moral, intellectual, or spiritual weakness). It is because of this weakness that women so often suffer under the hands of men. And I am not referring simply to physical suffering. Historically speaking, virtually every culture has marginalized women. At a root level, it is because men are physically stronger than women that women are marginalized. If women possessed the same physical power as men, oppression and marginalization would be not take place. Of course, the relationship between physical power and oppression is masked in our civilized, Christian/post-Christian, law-abiding culture. But the privileged status of women within our culture is only there because of the thin veneer of civilization that masks and restrains the Beelzebub that lies beneath the male psyche. It is in fact, only in a civilized culture that protects the equality of women with the use of force that we can even have a discussion about the equality of men and women. So what are we to make of the inherent physical inequality that exists between men and women? Should we be for it or against it?

Lest we suppose that the greater physical strength of the man is a product of the fall, it seems evident that the vulnerability of the woman is part of God’s original design. Too often the complementarian/egalitarian debate gets lost in a discussion about what should be, rather than embracing what is. Peter is not saying that women should be vulnerable before men; he is saying that they are. There is nothing that we can do to change this reality. I often get the sense when interacting with egalitarians that they resent the vulnerability of the woman before the man. For many egalitarians, equality of power is the ultimate goal. As long as the woman is vulnerable before the man, the egalitarian goal has not been realized. Complete independence from the dominance of men is what this form of egalitarianism seeks. But God does not desire the woman to be independent from the man (or man from the woman). He detests the abuse of power to be sure, but the imbalance of physical power is by his design. I fear that many egalitarians are balking at an inevitable God-ordained inequality, when what they should be fighting against is the abuse of this inequality.

In light of such chronic abuse, one appropriately wonders why God created women with an inherent physical weakness that so easily translates into marginalization. Why make one sex vulnerable before the other? I think that there is no way of satisfactorily answering this question—or the questions regarding “gender roles”—without considering the typological relationship that exists between human gender and the divine anti-type. God created the woman to be vulnerable and dependent upon the man as a reflection of the Church’s vulnerability and dependence upon Christ. It should not be our goal to help women be less vulnerable before men—which is physically impossible anyway—but rather to work toward the realization of the image of Christ’s self-sacrificial relationship to the Church.

Women by their very nature will always be vulnerable before men. The call of Christ is not to pursue an ill-fated attempt to abolish this vulnerability, but rather to protect and honor women in the midst of it . The man is to use his God-given strength for the exaltation and honoring of the woman. This is the way of Christ, who used his greater power for the exaltation and honoring of his beloved.

Sensible Christianity

"If in this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied. If the dead are not raised, 'Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.'" 1 Corinthians 15:19, 32

I don’t know about you, but I grow weary of “sensible Christianity”—the kind of Christianity that nestles too snuggly with the American dream. I want the kind of faith that doesn’t make sense to those who don’t know Christ. I want to live the kind of life that makes people pause in wonder, maybe even shake their heads. I want the kind of life that causes people to furrow their brow and talk behind my back.

In 1 Corinthians 15:19 Paul states that without the resurrection, we Christians are to be the most pitied of all men. Why? Because Paul assumes that we Christians are laying down our present lives for the sake of a future one with Christ. He assumes that our faith is presently costing us worldly wealth, status, pleasures and ease. He assumes that we are no longer living in the patterns of this world and that our lives have taken a radical turn toward an unseen reality. Does he assume too much of us?

The call of Christ is intense—a complete dying of self and a relentless devotion to others. Laying aside the earthly ambitions of wealth, prestige, pleasure and above all—comfort—Christ calls us to store up our treasures in heaven and to seek first his Father’s righteousness. Such a pursuit will appear to be utter foolishness to those who understand neither the nearness of the coming Kingdom nor its rewards. To the natural man, this world and its pleasures are the end game. And thus to the natural man, the Christian’s denial of self and worldly comfort is absolute absurdity.

So how absurd are our lives? How much have we gambled on the idea that Christ lives and is coming again? If it wouldn’t cost us dearly to be wrong, then perhaps our lives are just a bit too sensible. Our American culture (particularly our suburban culture) is full of mediocre Christians who very “sensibly” fritter away their lives chasing after the things of this world. May that not be true of us.

I don’t think I’m quite where I want to be yet—closer than I was a year ago perhaps, but still not all the way there. So if you pray for me, I’ll pray for you. Maybe together we can all move a few steps closer to insanity.

On God's Presence

"And Moses said to the Lord, 'If your presence will not go with me, do not bring us up from here.'" Exodus 33:15

As the people of Israel left the bondage of Egypt their constant rebellion stretched the patience of God to the breaking point. Even He who is “slow to anger” has His limits. The golden calf was that limit. Picture this: Moses is on the mount of God receiving the covenant that is to govern the future nation of Israel. Meanwhile, the people are at the foot of the mountain breaking the very covenant that Moses is receiving. The private session between God and Moses is cut short. “Go down,” says the Lord, “for your people, whom you brought up out of the land of Egypt, have corrupted themselves. Now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them.” Moses falls to his knees and begs God to stay His wrath. God relents and Moses rushes down the mountain. The people are in utter chaos. Amidst the rioting Moses cries out “Who is on the Lord’s side?” The sons of Levi respond to his summons. “Put your sword on your side,” Moses quickly commands them. “Each of you go to and fro from gate to gate throughout the camp, and kill his brother and his companion and his neighbor."

Wow—now that’s church discipline. But the story continues. After the swords of the Levites have brought the people under control, a new problem arises. God informs Moses that He will no longer travel with the people. No longer will He be their pillar of cloud by day or their pillar of fire by night. The people are too stiff-necked and too prone to evoking His wrath. “I will send an angel before you,” the Lord says. “He will drive out the people of the land. Go up to your land flowing with milk and honey; but I will not go with you lest I consume you on the way.”

What is Moses’ response? What would have been your response? Perhaps I would have been a bit weary of arbitrating between a holy God and a sinful people. Maybe I would have said to myself, “Perhaps that’s best. Both sides could use a little space. And after all, we’ll still get the protection of God through the presence of the angel. We’ll still inherit the land. Yep—a little distance is what we need.” But that’s not Moses response. In fact, Moses describes this word from the Lord as “disastrous.” Disastrous? What’s so disastrous about it?

For Moses, no greater tragedy could befall the people of God than the loss of God’s presence. No angel from heaven could suffice as a substitute. In the end, Moses longs for the presence of God more than he longs for the provision of God. It’s not enough that the people will be cared for. It’s not enough that they will enter the land. It’s not enough that the inhabitants of the land will be driven out before them. Without God’s presence, nothing is ever enough. Moses longs to see God’s face, not just trace His hand. In fact, Moses so longs for the Lord to remain among the people that he is willing to undergo the cost that they will inevitably have to pay—their death. God’s threat was not in vain. For Moses’ sake He remained among them and the people were—just as God promised—“laid low” in the desert. Not one of them—save Joshua and Caleb—entered the land. Even Moses died in the desert. But for Moses, no price was too high, no sacrifice too great. “Show me you glory!” was the cry of his heart. Even at the expense of his life. No matter the cost. No matter the loss.

What is it that we long for in this journey of life? Are we content with the mere provision of God—His blessing upon our homes, our jobs, our churches, our play time? Or do we desire more than the gifts of His hand? Do we long for the presence of God more than the provision of God? Do we desire it even when His presence threatens to negate our experience of His provision? Moses was not content with the mere blessing of the Lord. Are we?

On Voting

"But if you do what is evil, be afraid; for [the government] does not bear the sword for nothing; for it is a minister of God, an avenger who brings wrath upon the one who practices evil." Romans 13:4

"But I say to you, do not resist him who is evil; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn to him the other also." Matthew 5:39

It seems that the Church, like a drunkard on a horse (to steal an analogy from Martin Luther), has a tendency towards extremes, falling off the truth toward one side or the other. It doesn’t really matter which way we tip because either way we’re hitting the ground. And as we approach another year at the polls, I’ve been thinking about the way American democracy places us in an even more precarious position.

As Christians, we are called to follow the path of mercy—the path of forgiveness, grace, acceptance and love. When wronged we are to turn the other cheek (Matthew 5:39). We are not to seek after our own justice but rather to do good to those who persecute us (Romans 12:19-20). We are not called to shout down the world, but to bless it and transform it through the love of Christ. The duty of the government on the other hand, is not one of mercy and grace, but rather to serve as “an avenger who brings wrath upon the one who practices evil” (Romans 13:4). The job of the government is to right the wrongs, to punish the wicked, and to be exacting in dispensing justice. So where the Christian life is to be characterized by mercy and grace, the sword of Cesar is to be rightly characterized by justice and wrath against the evil doer. And herein lies the rub, for in this democracy in which we live, we are citizens who have been called upon by our country to exercise a certain amount of judicial authority through the votes we cast. So when we go to the polls as citizens we are to ask our government to dispense justice against the evil doer, but when we go to our neighbor as Christians, we are to bring only mercy and grace.

The tension of these legitimate and competing agendas has a tendency to drive a wedge between each. If not careful, we can wrongly carry the Christian mandate of charity and tolerance into our political/social agendas, or conversely we can mistakenly carry the government’s rightful orientation toward justice into our churches. This wedge is seen perhaps most clearly in the issue of homosexuality. Christians who lean toward the left often do a fantastic job of demonstrating Christ’s love and compassion to homosexuals, but often wrongly expect the government to establish policies in kind. And Christians on the right correctly ask the government to give no legitimacy to this community, but too often forget the Church’s mandate of love and tolerance toward sinners. As God-honoring servants of Cesar, we must, as it is within our power, establish policies of justice and truth without regard to mercy. We cannot allow the Christian mandate of tolerance and charity to stand in the way of our government’s biblical mandate of justice. But conversely, as God-honoring servants of Christ we must not allow the governmental mandate of wrath to seep into our Christian community. Though we may rightly ask the government to condemn the wrong doer, our churches must be the safest places that the repentant sinner can find.

Most Christian citizens throughout Christian history have never been placed in such a position. Paul and Peter were not asked to set the policies of the Roman Empire. Not bearing responsibility to wield Cesar’s sword, they wielded only the message of the cross. But in this democracy, this America in which we live, Christian citizens are called to wield both. As we do so, let us do our best to render unto Cesar the justice that belongs to Cesar, to the Church the mercy that belongs to the Church, and all things unto God.

On Fasting

"Do not deprive one another, except perhaps by agreement for a limited time, that you may devote yourselves to prayer." 1 Corinthians 7:5

For many of us, the “Break the Fast” dinners that took place this summer were a new—and perhaps uncomfortable—experience. Fasting is simply not something that our North American evangelical culture routinely engages in. Consequently, while we recognize its place within Scripture, we often find ourselves unable to makes sense of why we are called to do it. Are we trying to impress God? Restrain the flesh? Focus our thoughts? In as much as the mandate to “fast and pray” is a biblical one, I offer the following thoughts.

Fasting in Scripture is typically associated with great need. We fast because we have a desperate desire to hear from God in this matter, at this time. It is the natural expression of our soul-hunger for God. We fast because our circumstances, whether personal or corporate, have grown beyond us. We fast because we need the grace of God to shower upon us in fresh new ways.

It seems to me that fasting is not a direct means of igniting spiritual hunger, but rather of paving the way for, and preserving, an already present spiritual hunger. Fasting is a form of preparation, an intentional cleansing of all distractions that would come between the believer and the God whom he desperately seeks to lay hold of. It is David laying aside Saul’s armor in preparation for the giant. It is Elijah girding his loins before his desert flight. It is the man rushing into a room with the long sought treasure map and, with the sweep of his arm, clearing the table in order that he might make undistracted use of the map. We fast because we want nothing—not even food—to distract us from our desperate desire to encounter God. It is the same logic found in 1 Corinthians 7:5, where Paul talks about a husband and wife fasting from sex in order to focus on prayer. Sex, like food, is a good thing. But there are times when that which is good must be laid aside to seek after that which is best. And so we fast because we deeply desire to lay hold of God and because we want nothing to dull this desire.

In many ways, fasting—whether it be from food or sex—is a form of mourning; a refusal to go on with “life as usual.” Like the bereaved lover who does not desire to be comforted, so too we fast because we do not want our earnestness to hear from God lessened by a numbing slide back into normalcy. Fasting sanctifies our desire and serves as a constant reminder that things are not right—that we must hear from God in this matter, at this time. When we have arrived in such a state of mind, eating becomes a sacrilege, a profaning of a holy moment—like boisterous laughing at a funeral. To eat is to squelch the soul-hunger, and desecrates our profound sense of holy dissatisfaction. We fast because we have arrived at that particular place where nothing but a fresh encounter with God will suffice; a place where must see the hand of God move. We fast because the status quo is no longer acceptable.

The convicting thing then, is not that we fast so little. It’s that we feel so little need to fast.

So let’s all pray together that God would spark in us a hunger for more of Christ. And let us fast together that nothing would stand in the way of us realizing this desire.