Living in the Regenesis

Mary didn’t know it, but deep inside her teenage body God created a remarkably sacred space. All of God’s creation is remarkably sacred, of course, but this was an exceptional phenomenon. “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you," the angel announced. "So the baby to be born will be holy, and he will be called the Son of God” (Luke 1:35). A medieval hymn called this critical moment in history “the pregnancy of salvation.” A young girl carrying the Son of God in her womb. The Savior of humanity in her care. The eternal plan enclosed in flesh. The angel’s announcement was a stunning turn of events.

God had been in no hurry. All of heaven must have anticipated the incarnation and the remarkable unfolding of the redemption plan, this critical hinge point in history. But God would not rush it. For centuries, millennia, long eras of frustration and futility, the world carried on in the pain of its brokenness, assuming the brokenness was normal but longing for something more. Paul wrote that all creation groaned in increasing intensity, as if it were in the pains of childbirth, for a revelation of who God really is (Rom. 8:22). But few people would have identified those pains for what they were. The human heart grows accustomed to the dull ache of a long wait.

In retrospect, God is a master of timing. In the moment, he seems to take an excruciatingly long time to work out his plan or fulfill a promise. We wait and wait, and assure ourselves he is never late, though sometimes he really is, at least by the measure of our timelines. But looking back after the fact, his timing usually makes sense. He knows how to build up to a moment and deliver when conditions are ripe. He is a masterful orchestrator of the divine plan.

So God sent Jesus when the right time came—or, as some translations say, capturing the image of a pregnant anticipation, in “the fullness of time” (Gal. 4:4)—after centuries of prophetic hints and in the midst of one nation’s political and religious angst. Some people doubted a deliverer would ever come; others searched the scriptures and speculated about God’s plans for his people. But even in a season of expectation, hardly anyone recognized him as “the one” until he surprised them with his wisdom, power, and love. 

A Medieval English carol marveled at the convergence of heaven and earth within Mary's womb. "For in this rose conteinèd was heaven and earth in litel space" ("There Is No Rose," ca. 1400s). This baby would be fully human, able to hunger, thirst, cry, sweat, bleed, and die. He would also be fully divine, perfectly in sync with the Father and invincible even in death. We can hardly grasp this convergence—our minds gravitate toward one or the other, the human or divine—but in this case, deity and humanity really did unite. The infinite, majestic God clothed himself in the vulnerability of an embryo in a teenage mother. 

It had to be this way. Humanity’s stock was thoroughly infected and unable to recover the image of God we were created with. There had to be a regenesis—in us, but from beyond us. The incarnation of Jesus in the womb of a human being was just the beginning of the new creation. The intersection of human and divine would last more than a moment and even more than a lifetime. This was the seed of something big.

The biblical story tells us that we were originally created in God’s image. Obviously, we haven’t lived up to that image perfectly; it was shattered when we fell, and though we retain its essence, it comes out distorted in all of us. The incarnation is a stunning reversal of that trend. The exact image of God was born through a fallen human being. The regenesis has begun. Restoration is possible. We now have the power, through his Spirit, to grow back into the original divine image and carry it into the world around us. Heaven and earth not only met miraculously long ago in Mary and in the Son she bore; they now meet miraculously, in remarkably sacred space, in us.

Adapted from The Wonder of Advent Devotional: Experiencing the Love and Glory of the Christmas Season, Tyndale House Publishers, © 2017 by Chris Tiegreen.

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Why They Set an Important Precedent

In 1621, pilgrims at Plymouth celebrated a feast after their first harvest in the New World. It lasted three days and was attended by more than 50 pilgrims and even more native Americans, many of whom had given food to the pilgrims during the first winter. 

We call that harvest celebration our “First Thanksgiving” because, being pilgrims, they were accustomed to giving thanks for just about everything, and this first harvest was a big deal. 

But there had already been other thanksgivings in North America—the Spaniards in what is now Texas in 1541; French colonists in the 1560s near Jacksonville, Fla.; and English colonists in Virginia several times in the early 1600s. 

Now we look back to that New England celebration as the “first,” perhaps because a couple of years afterward, it was ordered by Governor Bradford, and therefore became an official civic event.

Some presidents (like George Washington) promoted the holiday; others (like Thomas Jefferson) ignored it. Many years later, in the midst of civil war, Abraham Lincoln declared a national day of thanks to be celebrated on the last Thursday in November. Ever since, it has been federal holiday.

A Harmless ‘Offense’

Thanksgiving throughout American history has implied giving thanks to someone, presumably God. In the earlier years, that was assumed to be the Judeo-Christian God, even among those who didn’t put much stock in Judeo-Christian traditions and beliefs. 

Today, even the implication that we have set aside a day to give thanks to this unnamed someone is offensive to some. (Then again, almost everything is offensive to somebody for some reason.) So we make the holiday generic, encouraging people just to enjoy the time off and, if they are so inclined, to thank somebody for something.

I have no problem living in a multicultural, secularized society where people feel the need to tiptoe around the apparently offensive idea that some people honor a deity who, from a secular point of view, may or may not actually exist. In fact, it’s kind of fascinating to watch. 

But I also think Thanksgiving—a day we set aside for many of us to acknowledge unapologetically that we are not self-made people and have been given good things by God—is healthy for us individually and as a nation.

It does not imply an idealized past in which pilgrims and native Americans all got along nicely. (Pilgrims and the Wampanoag did have a harmonious relationship for a time, and the feast was probably very friendly, even if mainly diplomatic and fraught with language issues. But disease and conflict certainly followed in future years and generations. As much as we love the idealized picture, we all understand that deeply flawed human beings were involved.)

It does not imply any religious ideas forced on unwilling people. (No one has to give thanks. People who claim no faith ought not be offended by those who do. Many other countries base their holidays on a religion that has greatly influenced their cultures, and no one seems to get bent out of shape over it.)

It does, however, acknowledge that many of us hold values that have been profoundly shaped by faith; that we are dependent on provisions and a Provider; and that we live under a sovereign hand that is higher than our elected leaders.

It’s Good for Us

I think that’s important. In fact, I think giving thanks is good for a lot of reasons:

• People who frequently and consistently give thanks are statistically less depressed.

• Giving thanks positively changes how our brains work (see #4 in the linked article). 

• Giving thanks results in better overall mental and physical health.

• Expressing gratitude to other people improves relationships, especially our marriages.

• And, for those of us who anchor ourselves in biblical truth, giving thanks to God acknowledges our relationship with him (1 Chron. 16:34; Psalm 28:7); brings peace to our hearts (Col. 3:15-17); stirs up our faith and creates the right condition for prayer (Phil. 4:6-7); puts our relationships in context (1 Cor. 1:4); and opens our hearts to even more of God’s blessings (1 Tim. 4:4-5). 

That’s a lot of benefit for a practice that is fun and encouraging to do anyway. There’s no downside to giving thanks. You can read even more perspectives and testimonies of the wide range of benefits of giving thanks here. 

So give thanks this week—and every week—with all your heart. Express your gratitude to God and those around you. Find something every moment of every day to be thankful for. It’s like watering your surroundings with streams of life. 

Lots of good things will grow in and around a grateful heart.

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The Rapid Decline of Generous Hearts

I read an article online a few days ago and saw a word I’ve seen far too often lately: heresy. 

It came from a large ministry accusing another large ministry of being non-Christian, even demonic. It was a respected leader who was so viscerally agenda-driven that his very selective use of scripture to support his point was almost laughable. Yet quite a few people take this kind of accusation seriously.

I know both groups and ministries in question, and both are solidly Christian. They have very different practices and perspectives, but they all love the Lord and are bearing fruit in truth. Though I see a little Pharisaism from one of the camps, no heresy is happening in either of them. 

The “heresy” label has become very popular lately, both among the self-appointed watchdogs of our faith and ministry leaders with actual influence. And it tends to be thrown in many different directions.

It pops up on social media, it’s in book reviews, and it comes up in casual conversation. It applies to whole movements, minor publications, and even video clips or lines of songs that are purposely interpreted in the most unflattering ways possible. 

I’ve even been called a heretic online for things I’ve written in my books—just a couple times, but enough to make me roll my eyes—even though I’m unassailably, middle-of-the-road orthodox on the core beliefs of our faith. 

And that’s the problem. Some people have applied the term heresy to issues that are not at all the core beliefs of our faith. Somewhere along the way, “I disagree with you” turned into “You’re a heretic,” even on relatively minor issues. Their narrow focus has made minor issues look major.

A Brief Lesson in Heresy

In the formative years (centuries) of Christian orthodoxy, leaders of the church held councils to debate and decide controversial doctrinal issues. The council in Jerusalem in Acts 15 was the first.

The first Council of Nicea in 321 was a big one; so was the Council of Chalcedon in 451. They were among seven widely accepted “ecumenical” councils (meaning they applied to the whole church, not just east or west) and are still often referred to today.

The issues decided by these councils (and, to be fair, many lower-profile debates) usually centered on the nature of a Trinitarian God (including the nature of Jesus) and the authority of scripture. In Acts 15 and later in the Protestant Reformation, the nature of salvation by grace through faith took center stage. 

That means that for centuries, “heresy” generally applied to people or groups who fundamentally disagreed with established orthodox positions on (1) the nature of God as Trinity, (2) the authority of scripture (with much latitude for how to interpret it), and (3) the means of salvation. Hundreds of variations within these broad categories were considered within the realm of orthodoxy. Only the major contradictions to them—blatant denials of established orthodox doctrines on major issues—were considered heretical.

These would include the idea of Jesus being just a man or just a spirit, salvation coming through rebirth into other lives or escape from an evil material realm, and that sort of thing. Some heresies were more subtle, but they still had to violate the big doctrines to be considered heretical. 

With some significant exceptions during the volatile years of the Reformation, differences in practices, how the Holy Spirit works, whether miracles have ceased or not, humanity’s role in the kingdom of God, the forms of worship, and that sort of thing have usually been simply that—differences. 

Now many people have a hard time accepting such differences in matters of faith. They think of “us” and “them,” and only one side can be right. And that, of course, would be “us.” The others are therefore heretics.

Why?

There have been times in history when indiscriminate charges of heresy increased in frequency, but generally the term is reserved for the biggest issues. So why has “heresy” been bandied about so freely in recent years? How did “I disagree with you” become “You’re a heretic” so easily? 

My theory is that an extremely polarized political climate and the anonymity and rudeness of online communications have carried over into our other social interactions, infecting our relationships with other believers. 

Unlike the Bereans who eagerly “examined the scriptures every day to see if what Paul said was true” (Acts 17:11), too many people now flip through the Bible with an agenda to prove someone else’s view is false. It’s not the same thing. At all. 

Here’s my advice: Stop it. 

(My wonderful readers probably don't need this advice, but at this point I’m preaching/venting to the larger Christian world.)

Before you call anyone a heretic, ask if they really, genuinely, blatantly contradict the most fundamental, core issues of our faith—the nature of God (including Jesus), the authority of scripture, and the nature of salvation—or if they just see or do things in ways you aren’t used to.

It might also help to ask if they are really, concretely, demonstrably teaching “another Jesus” or “another salvation” than those allowed by the biblical text, or if they are just emphasizing different verses from yours. 

Every single theological background or denomination, without exception, emphasizes certain verses and minimizes others. When you read the Bible, you read through a certain lens and tend to notice only the things that fit that lens. That’s true for all of us. No one embraces scripture with a perfectly balanced and comprehensive perspective.

The question, then, is whether that “heretic” is just looking through another lens or is being clearly, patently, demonstrably anti-biblical on really big issues. 

Not enough people ask that question today. Many do; I appreciate them and their ability to respect different points of view. But many do not, and their kneejerk accusations of heresy are harming the credibility of the church far more than variations in doctrine and practice do. 

In fact, as important as doctrine can be, Jesus was quite clear that we will be known by our love, not by our doctrine. 

For those wanting to root out destructive tendencies in the church, that’s a great place to start—and a far bigger issue than the “heresies” many people think they see.

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Our Share in an Extraordinary Calling

I’ve always loved reading biographies of great people of faith, missionaries who boldly took the gospel to the far reaches of the world, selfless servants who prayed with power and met the needs of the people around them. I used to see myself following similar paths and bearing similar fruit. I longed for a life of impact.

But there was a problem: I grew up with severe social anxiety. 

That’s the term for it now, but it’s not what people called it in my growing-up years. I think the official term for it then was something like, “What’s wrong with that boy?” I was the kid who never talked to anybody unless spoken to first, and even then discovered so many ways to mangle a conversation that most people eventually figured it was best to leave well enough alone.

I got better. It took about 30 years, but today I can comfortably initiate all kinds of conversations and teach and preach in front of large audiences. I do really well when I feel at home in the discourse. 

Still, catch me in an elevator for 30 seconds and I may not come up with something to say. Even if I think of something, it probably won’t come out just right. I'm not skilled at verbal spontaneity (yet).

My point is that even someone like me, stunted social skills and all, has a calling and a commission to influence this world with the message and the character of God’s kingdom. And if someone like me writes a book about being “salt and light” in the world, you can be sure it’s not strictly for the extroverted evangelists among us. It’s much more inclusive.

Extraordinary callings—and I consider every calling to be extraordinary in one way or another—are not just for the people who have amazing biographies written about them. Everyone who follows Jesus has one. 

I do think extroverted evangelists could get a lot out of my new book, The One Year Salt and Light Devotional, but it’s really written for everyone—extroverts, introverts, ambiverts, high-strung, take-charge, type-A personalities, low-key, chill-out personalities, life-of-the-party people, and talk-quietly-in-the-corner people. And even people with social anxieties. 

Protestant evangelistic and mission efforts have historically favored vocal, assertive, outgoing people—not entirely, but to a large degree. Hence their prominence in those biographies I used to read.

Meanwhile, a lot of people who don’t fit that description have wondered where they figure into the Great Commission. The church has preached that there are goers and senders, and we’ve glorified the goers as super-spiritual. And as important as sending is—vital, in fact—Jesus calls everyone to follow him somewhere. Salt and light are not for select corners of the world. 

Being salt and light is not so much about how to work the gospel into conversations (although there’s certainly a place for that) as it is about demonstrating the nature of God, changing the environment around you, becoming a vessel for the blessings of the kingdom, and cultivating the conditions for people to encounter God—perhaps in you and through you, or perhaps simply because you prayed or pointed them in the right direction. 

It’s not a matter of talking about salt and light nearly as much as actually being salt and light. It’s a lifestyle that forgoes condemning and criticizing the world and chooses to bless it instead. It recognizes the importance of demonstrating God’s favor to people before they come to faith rather than withholding it until they do. It majors on love, joy, peace, and grace in addition to truth. In other words, it’s about being like Jesus.

That’s something everybody can do. In fact, it’s something every believer is commissioned to do in one way or another. 

History has not always honored the diversity of our personalities as an ideal. God does. Preachers have talked a lot about every-member evangelism or marketplace ministry, but they haven’t always provided many models or practical advice for it. Jesus does. Most of us simply need to know how to be like Jesus in ways that profoundly shape our world.

That’s what this book is about. If you’ve longed to make a difference, get a copy. Expand your vision beyond the typical advice we often hear, and pray the prayers suggested each day. I strongly suspect you’ll see your world—and yourself—begin to change.

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The Ever-Translating God

Using various texts from scripture’s original languages, the translator set about to update older versions of the Bible to be more readable. He was brave to do so; traditionalists have a way of making change costly.

It took years, and not many people knew it at the time, but it was a monumental event in the history of the church when the first books of this new translation, the four gospels, were made public. 

Some welcomed the translator’s work; many did not. And the resisters consistently expressed one major complaint: the translation seemed less dignified than the versions they were used to.

The translator above is Jerome, who was commissioned by the bishop of Rome in the 380s to produce a new Latin translation—the version that later came to be known as the Vulgate. It took years for this newfangled translation to catch on. It was readable, to be sure. It just didn’t sound ‘biblical.’

Today, of course, Jerome’s Vulgate is the most archaic-sounding Bible we can imagine. But when Jerome started, it was fresh. It was not the first Latin translation, but it was the first to be so comprehensive, to rely so closely on ancient texts, and to aim for accessibility. But in matters of religion, all new things are suspect. 

It took a while for Jerome’s work to become standard. When did it become the accepted translation? As soon as it began to sound a little archaic. Only then did the religious-minded warm up to it.

Modern translations in the last couple of generations have faced similar challenges. Perhaps they defy tradition. Or maybe they challenge conventional thinking. Or perhaps—and this may strike a nerve—they just don’t sound ‘religious’ enough.

Novelty and spirituality

Some people jump at all novelties. Some have a kneejerk reaction against them. Somewhere in between, most of us approach them with curiosity and caution. 

But in matters of spirituality—not only with biblical translations but with any stream of thought—we tend to be careful. If a translation, an insight, or a movement seems too casual, too contrary to tradition, too trendy, we wonder if it’s legitimate. 

There’s a healthy skepticism in that approach, but also a dangerous resistance. Sometimes, especially when God is moving in unfamiliar ways, our traditionalism causes us to miss out on what he is doing. 

Today, many people cling to the King James Version for its formality and dignity. Some cling to denominational traditions because they were accepted and passed down to us by people we trust. There’s nothing wrong with those mindsets in themselves. Old translations and established practices are valuable.

But when we cling to them at the expense of any new movement of God, we become like the Pharisees who didn’t recognize the work God was doing in front of them. We embrace godliness and miss God.

Religion and relationship

Why do we want the works and words of God to seem archaic to us? Maybe we are so accustomed to the idea of truth being passed down to us from ancient times that it needs to seem . . . well, ancient. 

But like Jerome in the fourth century, we live in a time when many crave relevance, accessibility, or even just the possibility of God being near. 

Recent generations have often framed this craving in terms of the difference between religion and relationship. The religious instinct longs for establishment, tradition, and dignity. Our hearts long for a connection. 

Which does God prefer? I think he’s fine with whatever draws us closer to him—within the context of truth, of course. And he’s not at all fine with those who insist that it has to be their way and not any other.

God’s nature never changes, but his methods hardly ever stay the same. Every prophet’s experience was different. Every miracle of Jesus had a different twist. Every sermon of Paul and Peter fit the circumstances at hand.

God will always resist formulas and insist on a real, dynamic relationship. Sometimes he will lead you in familiar ways. Usually, he will not.

He translated his message through his prophets.

He translated the gospel through his apostles.

He translated himself in his Son.

And he still translates his will, his works, and his ways into the many situations and circumstances we face—if we will listen. Ancient truths, to be sure, but new expressions. 

Always leave your heart open to God’s Word. And when he works it into your heart in new and unexpected ways, go with it. In a multitude of ways, and in many areas of our lives, he is always authoring new translations of old, eternal truths.

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Fuel for Faith and Vision

Emotions have gotten a bad rap. 

In late antiquity, church fathers like Augustine saw them as passions needing to be governed by the mind.

In the Middle Ages, theologians like Thomas Aquinas likewise subordinated them to reason.

In the Reformation, Luther and Calvin acknowledged their value but also recognized their dangers as contradictions to scripture.

In modernity, Christians have generally affirmed them as gifts from God but made them the “caboose” that follows all our other faculties.

No Christian thinker, as far as I know, has rejected emotions. Nearly all have made them peripheral. They are secondary to the other aspects of our soul. 

Emotions and Faith

I’m well aware of the risks of letting emotions take the lead in our lives, but they are still an extremely important part of our relationship with God. (They are actually important in all close relationships. Marriage, for example, even if it doesn’t depend on them, better include them somewhere in the package from time to time.)

And even though faith doesn’t depend on emotions—truth is truth, regardless of how we feel about it—it’s going to affect our feelings.

Think about it: If you are praying in faith for God to do something he has already said is his will—to break through in a certain area of your life, to provide what you need, to open doors to your calling—aren’t you going to attach some feelings to his upcoming answer?

If you really believe he is going to answer, shouldn’t you go ahead and feel happy about that? And if you don’t feel happy about it—if you live in discouragement or worry—then are you really believing he is going to answer?

We all live in a contradiction at times. We “believe” God without expectation of his goodness. We claim to have faith in his answers and get discouraged about the lack of them. Our minds envision one thing while our feelings envision another.

Faith is not based on emotions, of course. But emotions are part of the process of believing.

Resolving the Contradiction

Paul said to be anxious for nothing but instead to make our requests known to God with thanksgiving in our hearts. Then the peace of God would come (Phil. 4:6-7). 

In other words, pray and be thankful—not only for what God has already done but what he is going to do. Get happy about the answer, however it might look. 

If feelings are integral to faith, cultivate them. Go ahead and worship God now. Fill your mouth with gratitude and praise ahead of time. 

You may be astonished at how your mind changes and your faith grows. Worship and gratitude feed faith, and faith generates feelings that reinforce it. The downward cycle of discouragement changes direction, becoming an upward cycle of expectation.

No wonder feelings have gotten such a bad rap over the centuries. Yes, they can be dangerous for souls not anchored in truth. But they can be even more dangerous to the kingdom of darkness when they fuel our vision and faith.

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King James English Is . . . Informal?

I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that when the Bible is translated into a language that distinguishes between a formal and informal “you,” translators have almost always chosen the informal option for God. 

So, for example, biblical prayers speak to God as tu or tú in French, Italian, or Spanish (as opposed to vous, lei, or usted, respectively). It’s the familiar “you,” the one you might use with a friend, a family member, or a child.

I would have expected the opposite—that with all the dignity and formality so often associated with God, and with his sovereignty and majesty always there to overwhelm us if we think about them enough, translators might defer to the exalted language befitting a king. After all, we do call him “Lord.” Shouldn’t our language reflect a little respect?

We see this tension even in scripture. I often juxtapose two pictures of John the disciple—the one where he is leaning against Jesus’ chest at the Last Supper and listening to his whispers, and the other when John has fallen at the feet of the risen Jesus in Revelation. 

Both are true. The Father, Son, and Spirit are both intimately familiar and staggeringly majestic. We can crawl into God’s lap or fall on our faces in awe. 

Even so, translators have almost always chosen the most intimate term in languages that require a choice. 

Except the King James, I’ve thought. The ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ of Shakespearean-era English always brings us back to that dignified stance before the Almighty. They sound so respectful, so formal, so . . . holy.

Imagine my shock, then, when I recently learned how those words were really used.

Our Sovereign Friend

Last month I attended a week-long course at the University of Pennsylvania on the history of how the Bible has been read throughout history, and this question of the formal “you” came up near the end. 

Modern English makes no distinction, of course; “you” means “you” whether you are talking to a child or a president. But when the Authorized Version of the Bible was finished in 1611—what we know of as the “King James Version,” though he didn’t have a whole lot to do with it—English did distinguish between formal and informal second-person addresses. 

And, to my shock, the formal version of “you” in the 1600s was . . . “you.” “Thee” and “thou” were the informal terms—the words you might use with a friend, family member, or child. You could never politely say, “Thou art my king,” for example, because kings were not “thou.” They were “you.”

In fact, if you really wanted to insult someone considered superior in social status, you might "thou" him: “You may think you’re high and mighty, but thou art really beneath me, thou insolent fool.” It was a major old-school insult.

(This was actually the tactic of the Sir Walter Raleigh’s prosecutor, who kept calling him things like “thou viper,” “thou traitor,” and “thou odious fellow” at his trial and refused to respect him with a “you.”)

"Thou" was only offensive when intentionally used out of place. On all other occasions, in ordinary usage, it was simply a way of saying “you” with a very intimate, familiar tone.

So the King James Version, like most other translations, defaults to intimate addresses in prayers and conversations with Jesus. We have come to associate its language with extreme formality, mainly because it is so archaic and has been used for so long in high church settings. But that’s not how it was read way back when.

Lover or King?

This brings us to a pretty significant question about our relationship with God. Is he our Lover or our King? He’s both, of course; this is not meant to be a trick question. (Again, remember John at the Last Supper and John overwhelmed by glory. Both are entirely appropriate.) 

But when you are pushed to default to one or the other—to pick which side of the relationship comes first—is God a dignitary or an intimate? A sovereign or a friend? The exalted King or someone who is right there with you?

You’ve probably picked up on my leanings by now. As much as I love the face-down moments of awe, sometimes I just need to talk. I need to sit next to him, laugh and cry, and hear his whispers. 

And even though it’s highly unlikely I’ll use “thee” or “thou” in a prayer, it will mean something entirely different if I do. It will remind me of how intimate this relationship is meant to be. 

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The Search for Happy Christianity

I was depressed for most of my younger years. 

I’m sure some of that had to do with brain chemistry—depression runs in the family—but, as I’ve learned since then, much of it had to do with being steeped in negative thought patterns. From the people around me and lots of unintentional practice, I learned the strange art of pessimism early on.

And it is an art. A person has to be pretty creative to see the entire range of possibilities in every situation and expect a bad one virtually every time.

At one point in my life, I had thought that solid Christian teaching would help me with that. Unfortunately, Christians have a long history of fueling negative expectations even while claiming strong faith.

For example, centuries of emphasis on penitent attitudes and self-denial have convinced us that serious expressions and subdued expectations are holy—that the biblical instruction to be sober-minded translates into being somber.

We’ve been taught that God will always give us what we need—but only that, and not much more, and certainly not what our hearts actually desire. The Giver of all good things is said to define “good” in ways that make sense in eternity but aren’t very satisfying right now.

We’ve been taught that things are going to get worse and worse in the world until Jesus rescues his people from their futility and snatches them from the gates of hell at the last second.

And we’ve been steeped in a culture of cynicism that assures us that if something is too good to be true, it probably is—even if it’s promised in Scripture. (That one isn’t the church’s fault, necessarily, though many well-meaning Christians have bought into it.)

A Gospel of Relentless Hope

I’ve written quite a bit in my devotional books about how the Bible steers us away from negative thinking—how almost every stern prophecy is lined with promises, for example, or how many psalms begin in crisis but end with promise and celebration. They are virtual case studies in shifting from pessimism to hope.

I’ve also written about Paul’s radical insistence on seeing the bright side in every situation. My favorite examples are in the first chapter of Philippians, where he has three tempting opportunities to get discouraged and instead celebrates his adversity.

As a prisoner, he could easily have wondered what went wrong in his life, gotten discouraged that God seemed to have put him on the shelf, or lamented the injustice of the system. Instead, he was practically giddy over the opportunities he had to share the gospel with guards and palace personnel.

While other preachers were using Paul’s message for self-promotion, he could have blasted their distorted gospel or attacked their self-focused methods (as many are far too fond of doing today). Instead, he was actually happy that the name of Jesus was getting out there.

And in realizing that his imprisonment could actually end in death, he could have lamented missed opportunities and the end of a ministry. Instead, he thought, If I live, I bear more fruit; if I die, I get to be with Jesus. Not sure which is better, but either way, I win!

If today’s church really wants to recover the vibrancy of the early church, this is vital. Christians will need to get used to radical hope and positive thought patterns. We will need to speak the language of hope in every situation.

Your Bible Is Filled with Positive Expectations

It’s true that the gospel goes deeper than positive thinking and that a lot of positivity preachers have abused the message. (I’ve actually been accused of “positive-thinking crap” by a critic or two—to which, coming from my ultra-depressed background, I smile wryly and count it a badge of honor.) 

It makes no sense to criticize “positivity” and then carry a Bible full of it. It also makes no sense to keep claiming faith while talking ourselves out of it at every turn.

Regardless of the distortions out there, the Bible is full of irrepressible hope, huge promises, and against-all-odds victories. And we are told to embrace them with hearts full of anticipation.

We are called to be people of unquenchable hope and expectation—to interpret every situation in light of the good things God is doing in it and to expect our lives to overflow with his goodness.

To do that, we have to overcome centuries of negative patterns in Christendom and perhaps years of them in our own lives. But if we do, we change the world. We reflect the nature of God. And we point toward eternal values that can never be shaken.

Want to discuss the context of Paul’s missionary journeys on site? Come with me next fall, Oct. 4-13, on a trip from Ephesus to Athens. Click the image below or go to www.walkthruthebiblelands.org for more details. 

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It’s Kind of the Same Discussion

Maybe I was naïve back in the day. Perhaps I had unrealistic expectations. But if someone came to my door to talk religion, I’d invite them in.

There were rules, of course. I’d make deal: they would get five minutes to talk without interruption, and then I’d get five minutes to talk without interruption. Sometimes I had to remind them of the second half of that deal.

Once when I was Baptist living in a very Mormon city in Utah, a Jehovah’s Witness came to my door. He talked for his allotted five minutes and very quickly got to his main gripe with mainstream Christianity: the Trinity. 

The Trinity is a mystery, he said, and then pointed out several Bible verses that suggest that it could not possibly be true. Of course, his Bible was translated a little differently from mine and was skewed away from Trinitarian language. But it led to an interesting discussion of theology, linguistics, and passages of scripture that implied three persons of God without denying that only one God exists.

Truth Beyond Understanding

A couple weeks ago we looked briefly at the historical debate about the Trinity, and how the word isn’t in the Bible but the concept certainly is. The nature of the Trinity was a hotly contested issue in the third and fourth centuries (and beyond)—less so for its validity than for its details. 

This was mostly an extra-biblical discussion (Hebrew and Greek scriptures never go into detail about how exactly the Father, Son, and Spirit relate to each other). Human beings have a remarkable desire to develop a systematic theology out of a very unsystematic revelation. 

In any case, the bigger issue regarding the Trinity—and one that I pointed out that day long ago in Utah—is that if we can understand and explain God in detail, then he probably isn’t God. Finite minds can’t comprehend infinite truth. If we expect otherwise, we are bringing God down to our level.

Some may see that as a copout. And it’s true that if we simply chalk everything we don’t understand up to “infinite mystery,” we aren’t really engaging with truth reasonably. There are a lot of things we should actually try to understand rather than accepting them blindly.

But acknowledging the threefold nature of God is not blind acceptance. It’s rooted in experience, in historical encounters with God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit that real people actually had (and still do). They wrote about those encounters in theological terms, and I believe they were guided in their understanding.

But there’s a huge difference between inspiration and omniscience. Biblical writers encountered God in ways that were meaningful to them. They were not given an entire blueprint of his nature. That kind of download would short-circuit a finite brain.

The Religious Argument of Your Life

That gets to the heart of why most of today’s religious debates are unproductive. Skeptics are not asking us for a logical or coherent worldview. We’ve got that, and it isn’t enough for them. They are demanding complete explanations that answer all questions. And we can’t give them that.

That shouldn’t bother us. Again, if a finite mind can fully explain an infinite God, something’s wrong. What we’re explaining isn’t actually God. 

But to a skeptic, our lack of omniscience means we lose the argument. (Of course, skeptics kind of ignore the fact that they don’t have exhaustive explanations that answer all questions either.) If we’re ever going to make any progress or have any influence, we have to change the nature of the debate.

How do we do that? For one thing, we might want to stop trying to explain everything and get comfortable with saying “I don’t know” every once in a while.

But there are some things we do know, and we should be pretty vocal about them. Most of us have experienced enough answers to prayer and divine “coincidences” that they have stopped being coincidences. We have testimonies of divine power and provision. Telling those stories is powerful. 

The skeptic will still demand proof, but even if the only proof we can point to is a radically changed life, that’s still quite a lot—and substantially more than most skeptics can claim.

While many Christians are alarmed at the ever-increasing anti-Christian rhetoric flying around, I’m actually encouraged. The more skeptics desperately try to point out all the ways that nothing has changed in our lives, that we are ignorant and superstitious, and that we are even more flawed than those around us, the more opportunities we have to live in defiance of that unflattering portrait.

We can openly admit our flaws—the gospel exists for very flawed people (i.e., everyone)—but we can also live with radical hope, joy, and love. At times we will have occasion to demonstrate the wisdom and power of God even more directly.

In fact, we can actually prove the difference the gospel has made for us by . . . well, being different. The best way to point to an unexplainable God is by being unexplainable.

Truly, that’s all the proof anyone needs.

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Another Round in the Battle of Values

Another American presidential campaign is about to take shape. Politicians are announcing their candidacies. The rhetoric is starting to ramp up. The posturing has begun. 

I used to get excited about such things. Now I just brace for a long season of negativity, criticism, and hate. And I pray for the healing of millions of distorted, wounded hearts.

One of the reasons I dread the political drama is because it forces most people into black-and-white, cut-and-dried categories. We polarize our society and then villainize everyone at the other pole.

When I talk about political or social issues in casual conversation—which I rarely do, by the way—I often get categorized in surprising ways. People make assumptions about my beliefs based on a single comment, or even on just a willingness to take the other side for the sake of balance.

I’ve been called a right-wing conservative, a left-wing liberal, or (by more theologically focused people) an advocate of the social gospel and a guy who is so heavenly minded he is no earthly good. All because of a single idea that didn’t fit someone’s grid.

Politics vs. beliefs

Since this blog is about Christian history and its relevance for today, I’ll offer a historical example.

In the ancient world, grain shortages could amount to a life-threatening crisis. Generally this was not a problem in Rome; the capital took care of itself (usually with Egyptian grain). But it was a different story in Roman provinces. 

So when a man named Agabus stood up in Antioch and prophesied a widespread famine during the reign of Claudius (Acts 11:28), it was a big deal. 

In most cities and provinces, a wealthy citizen would step forward to be the benefactor in such times, not only feeding the people but also securing prestige, loyalty, and a whole lot of obligations through his generosity. Sometimes a particular office (curator annonae) would be established to oversee local distribution. The entire process was centered on the wealthy and powerful to solve the problem.

So how did the church respond to the prophecy of Agabus? They found a better alternative. They decided that each person—not just the wealthy and powerful, and not under any compulsion—would send assistance to Judea, each according to his own ability (Acts 11:29). They volunteered to take on the responsibility of benefactor. They each became a mini curator annonae.

Try putting that forward as a policy item today and see what happens.

In American politics, our debates about relief for the poor tend to put the responsibility either on government (which has rightly been criticized for being shamefully inefficient) or on private groups and individuals (who then shamefully tend to ignore the problem). Meanwhile, some people actually need help. We are not nearly as inspired as the early church was in finding better alternatives.

But if someone with a biblical value system were to step in and say, “It’s my responsibility, first and foremost, but it’s yours and everyone else’s too,” he or she would likely get stuck with an unflattering political label. Especially if any specific policy suggestions were packaged with the ideal.

So Christians try to wedge biblical values into a system of two parties (more outside the U.S.), neither of which truly expresses biblical values.

The result is a “Christian society” that is really more Republican or Democrat than Christian.

What would that look like?

I would love to see the church return to Christian values that are actually Christian—that reflect a spirit of innovation and biblical responses to society’s needs.

That could take a lot of different shapes, but at the very least it would mean this:

If you truly hold to biblical values, you will not conform to the political system, even though you participate in it. You will understand the difference between being involved and being assimilated.

You will be able to see some policies and principles in each party that you agree with and others that you disagree with, and you will be able to say so without feeling as if you’re betraying a particular party or compromising your beliefs. You will refuse to be pigeonholed into complete identification with either party, and you will not feel compelled to agree with everything one party says or disagree with everything another party says.

As a practical matter, you will probably find that one party is more aligned with your beliefs than the other, and you should support it. But you will not be blind to your own party’s flaws and inconsistencies. And you will have more grace toward those you disagree with, who, in most cases, came about their ideals sincerely, at least at first.

You will pray for your leaders, regardless of what you think of them.

You won’t fall into a “ours can do no wrong!” or a “theirs can do no right!” way of thinking. And you won’t care if people criticize you because you don’t fit their stereotypes. You’ll be free.

Actually, if people have a hard time figuring out where you are politically, take that as a good sign. It means your Christianity cannot be forced to fit the American (or British or Filipino or wherever you live) political system.

It means you follow Jesus more than you follow human personalities. It means you’ve been reading the gospels more than the columnists. And it means you’re a citizen of a much greater kingdom than our political systems offer.

Want to discuss the context of Paul’s missionary journeys on site? Come with me next fall, Oct. 4-13, on a trip from Ephesus to Athens. Click the image below or go to www.walkthruthebiblelands.org for more details. 

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