Cotton Candy or Wine? A Review of Water to Wine

By on Jan 28, 2016

Every year the same book comes out. It tells us to be radical, to get serious about Christianity, to be followers and not fans. It is usually written by a famous evangelical pastor. It usually sells well.   There was a time when I devoured these books. I couldn’t get enough of them. I still think there is some kernel of truth in these books, but I’ve come to realize that I could not get enough of them because they were cotton-candy. They hit the tongue and make grand promises but evaporate before you even have time to chew. So you take bite after bite, book after book, hoping the next bite will finally satisfy, will finally change things. But it won’t. Long term, it produces indigestion.   So if you’re tired of cotton-candy indigestion, tired of sporadic spasms of passion that perpetually and predictably flame out, heed the invitation:   “Ho! Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; And you who have no money come, buy and eat. Come, buy wine and milk Without money and without cost. Why do you spend money for what is not bread, And your wages for what does not satisfy? Listen carefully to me and eat what is good, And delight yourself in abundance.” (Isaiah 55:1-2)   Water to Wine is a splendid book about this—Brian Zahnd’s journey from cotton-candy and watered down grape juice to wine. He took his church with him and it was painful (I’m sure it still is at times), but once you’ve tasted the good stuff, there’s really no going back.   What is the good stuff? Religion. Yep—I know the word has fallen out of favor and there is a whole industry that uses religion as a negative foil to spirituality, and some claim Jesus came to end religion. The point is sometimes taken, but quite often it is little more than a rhetorical smokescreen that leads people down dead-end streets, wanting to follow Jesus but having no clue how to actually do it. In fact, I’d say that pretty well describes many Christians I know—a sincere desire to follow Jesus, but besides reading their Bibles (and the yearly book telling them to get radical), they don’t know what to do about it. Their spirit is willing, but their flesh is weak.   Properly understood, religion is a way of life that orients the soul to God. Spiritual disciplines, sacraments, simple constancy, patience, an ear to the past, an eye to the future—this is religion at its finest and it doesn’t just create mystics; it gathers up orphans and widows (James 1:26-27). I’ve seen so myself.   Evangelical pastors, leaders, and elders should really read this book. It says what you have wondered. For example, “We’re in a situation where it is often very difficult, if not impossible, for a pastor to make spiritual progress while being a pastor.”[1] We don’t have time for spiritual progress because spiritual progress is usually slow, meandering, inefficient—in other words, it is hell to those steeped in the ideology of consumer Christianity. Slow, meandering and inefficient are tough sells. So we pastors get to choose: gain the world or lose your soul. Or better yet, lose your soul while you’re pastoring but work long enough to have a good pension and then venture out in search of your soul when you retire. You’ll have time for a soul then.   There is another way, but it isn’t for wimps. Fine wine isn’t for wimps. It takes patience and discipline. But I think Brian is right:   Water turned to wine The mystery is the time It takes for my own transformation A slow and painful fermentation With a soul like crushed grapes I’m a dusty bottle in God’s cellar But the winemaker knows his craft He makes all things beautiful in their time Hallelujah![2]   The book is a wonderful read, so pick it up and let it ferment. [1] Water to Wine, 181. [2] Ibid.,...

Is Faith Bad for Art? A U2 Case Study

By on Jan 5, 2016

Last year, The New Yorker featured an interesting piece on U2 called “The Church of U2.” It came on the heels of their new album (Songs of Innocence) and is a must read for any fan. It examines U2’s deep but conflicted relationship with Christian faith, suggesting it’s the prime source of their artistic genius.   The article gets particularly interesting toward the end as the writer begins to not so subtly make the case that the quality of U2’s music began to dip when the band matured in their faith:   “U2’s best songs were written during these years—roughly from 1986, when they began recording “The Joshua Tree,” to 1997, the year “Pop” (which is actually very good) was released. But there was a problem: the songs depended for their power on the dramatization of Bono’s ambivalence about God…   U2 have continued to write songs of doubt (“Wake Up Dead Man,” off “Pop,” is especially good). But they are no longer wild, ludic, and unhinged in the way they talk about God. There used to be something improvisational and risky about their spirituality—it seemed as though it might go off the rails, veering into anger or despair. Now, for the most part, they focus on a positive message, expressed directly and without ambiguity…   The story of U2 might be this: having begun as a band that was uncertain about the idea of pursuing a life of faith through music, they have resolved that uncertainty. Their thin ecclesiology has become thick. Today, they are their own faith community; they even have a philanthropic arm, which has improved the lives of millions of people. They know they made the right choice, and they seem happy. Possibly, their growing comfort is bad for their art…”   I gather the author of this piece thinks it novel and even provocative to suggest a “maturing” faith is bad for art, but it strikes me as a terribly predictable proposal. That the best art is born from the cauldron of damnation, despair, and doubt has become a virtual truism in many circles. Great artists live on the edge of death and insanity. The truly great ones kill themselves, or at least try. Such is the price of artistic genius. If you don’t attempt suicide, you need to try harder.   And of course, damnation, despair, and doubt can produce great art, but so can faith, hope, and love. In fact, I’m inclined to say bliss, by its very nature, is teeming with much more creative power than the avant-garde nihilism that animates (or dis-animates) much current art. I, for one, find hopelessness (even assertive hopelessness) numbingly lazy and boring. You can have Deleuze and de Sade. I’ll take Bach and Tolkien. All of which leads me to a song by one of my favorite modern songwriters.   David Ramirez has a deep but conflicted relationship with faith, at least to the degree his lyrics are autobiographical. For my money, his best song is “The Forgiven”, a song that explores the relationship between musician and audience.   They love me for being honest, they love me for being myself But the minute I mention Jesus, they want me to go to hell It’s hard to find a balance, when I don’t believe in one When you mix art with business, you’re just shooting an empty gun   You’re just a songwriter, you ain’t a preacher We came to mourn you, not to look in the mirror Sing about those hard times, sing about those women We love the broken, not the forgiven   These words not only strike me as true, but far truer than truisms about the feral creative powers of doubt and anger. Mature art is not always teetering on the edge of violence and depression, pulsing with the dithyrambic rhythms of despair. Mature art tells the truth, plumbs the depths of hell, descends into the squalor, but it also inspires goodness and beauty. I’m not talking about the saccharine strokes of Thomas Kinkaid. I’m talking about the harrowing of Hades.   None of which is to deny that many prefer brokenness to forgiveness (I would venture that most certainly do), but this is a poor way to evaluate whether or not something is good art. Perhaps our fascination with terminal brokenness is indicative of an impoverished imagination, not the artistic fecundity of despair.   Personally, I think Songs of Innocence is one of U2’s best albums, precisely because they have ventured into the abyss of doubt and come out the other side with faith—not a childish faith, but a childlike faith. Wisdom, says David Bentley Hart, is the recovery of innocence at the end of experience.[1] And by this measure, wisdom dictates good art will not only plunge into brokenness but also push through it into the wild, ludic, and unhinged realm of forgiveness. By this measure, art can have no greater aspiration than faith. [1] David Bentley Hart, The Experience of God,...

Romans 13, N.T. Wright, and a Christian Response to Paris

By on Nov 23, 2015

  A clip is circulating of Robert Jeffress, pastor of FBC Dallas, using Romans 13 to argue that the Christian response to the Paris attacks is “borders and bombs” (see it here). I had a few people ask me about it and it got me curious about Romans 13, so I went back to my trusty New Interpreter’s Bible to see what the trusty N.T. Wright has to say about it. Below is a summary of Wright’s commentary, with a few reflections on them and Jeffress’ comments in light of them.   Wright argues that, despite some understandable arguments to the contrary, Romans 13 is in fact a general statement about ruling authorities. In essence, in this time between the times where God’s new world is on its way but not quite here, government is something God has put in place to preserve some measure of justice and order and to prevent the world from falling into complete anarchy and chaos. To disagree with this general sentiment is to endorse actual anarchy, which, on the whole, is far worse than government, even though government can certainly go horribly wrong.   That said, this is a general statement about governments in general and Paul, obviously, is not writing government a blank check, much less telling Christians they should obey government no matter what. A quick perusal of the book of Acts reveals a very complex relationship between the Christian and “government.” The apostles clearly defy their rulers when their rulers ask them to do something that violates faithfulness to Christ (Acts 4:23-31). Paul harshly condemns the high priest, and while he (kind of) apologizes for speaking so sharply once he is told he is speaking to the high priest, he certainly doesn’t take back the content of his rebuke (Acts 23:1-5).   And this is the tension Paul is negotiating. He has said things (both here in Romans and elsewhere) that subvert the gospel and rule of Rome and Caesar. He has made it clear that Jesus is Lord and Caesar is not. Wright’s proposal is that all of this could have led many Christians into a sort of over-realized eschatological anarchy in which Christians try to overthrow government in the name of Christ. He points to the riots under Claudius and Jewish revolutionaries as examples of actions the early Christians might be tempted to emulate. That, claims Wright, is why Paul is saying this particular thing to these particular people: “Romans 13:1-7 issues commands that are so obvious that they only make sense if there might be some reason in the air not to obey the civic authorities.”[1]   In summary, Romans 13:1-7 is a general statement about the general good of governments, spoken to remind Roman Christians that even in a world where Jesus and not Caesar is Lord, Caesar still has a place: “This is Paul’s basic point—government qua government is intended by God and should in principle command submission from Christian and non-Christian alike.”[2]  So far, so good. Now things get tricky.   In Wright’s mind, Romans 13 is of very little relevance to issues of just war; issues of nations going outside their borders to employ violence in the name of justice: “Romans 13:1-7 is about the running of civic communities, and the duty of Christians toward them. It does not mention or allude to the interactions between difference civic communities or nations. It was because of this that later Christians developed a theory of ‘just war’ to argue at a new level that under certain circumstances it may be right to defend the interests of a nation or community, by force if necessary…”[3]   Simply put, when we ask Just War questions of Paul in Romans 13, we are asking questions Paul might not have the ability to ask. Obviously, the modern notion of the nation/state was simply not something for which Paul had a category.[4]  So while we might well make reasonable arguments for Just War, we cannot use Romans 13 to do it, at least not in simplistic fashion. This seems to be precisely what Jeffress is doing—taking massive hops, skips, and jumps that fail basic principles of exegesis. That or he has worked through it and just fails to show his work.   Another question we wish Paul addressed directly here is what to do when the governing authorities are evil and wicked and clearly violating God’s justice. This question is particularly important for us, living as we are in the blood-stained aftermath of so many totalitarian governments. We, rightfully, cringe at the notion of Nazi Germany being a “servant of God” to whom we should submit.[5] And as our African-American brothers and sisters have pointed out, it is clearly not always the case that rulers are only a cause of fear when you are doing wrong. Sometimes they are a cause of fear if your skin is a certain color.   While Paul fails to directly address this question, we ought not pretend he was naïve to its existence. Paul knew what it was like to suffer before authority wielded in unjust ways; as did Christ. We’re left to speculate, but given the example of Paul and Christ, it seems Christians have strong ground to rebel against the injustices of government, all the way to the point of martyrdom, but not to the point of anarchy (though I’m very open and...

Monergism: Maybe True, Definitely Unnecessary

By on Oct 3, 2015

Monergism (“one work”) is the belief that God works alone in salvation. It’s usually set against synergism, which is the belief that while God alone does everything in working for our salvation, humans must cooperate with grace in some form or fashion (the cooperation itself, of course, possible only because of grace).   Monergism is an integral part of Reformed soteriology, because without it Reformed folks feel humans could boast in their salvation and steal God’s glory—two unpardonable sins. As James Montgomery Boice has said it, those who reject monergism cannot give God alone the glory: “They cannot say ‘to God alone be the glory,’ because they insist on mixing human power or ability with the response to gospel grace.”[1] One gets the sense that for many, monergism is not only true but also necessarily true.   I’ve discussed monergism in other places (in my book in particular), used to affirm it, and I understand how people think the Bible teaches it. I think they’re wrong and find it curious the early Church Fathers didn’t teach, especially it if it was so essential and Paul, allegedly, clearly taught it. As the great Calvinist theologian Loraine Boettner states, with laudable honesty: “The earlier church fathers…taught that salvation was through Christ; yet they assumed that man had full power to accept or reject the gospel…They taught a kind of synergism in which there was co-operation between grace and free will.”[2]   I know of very few historical theologians who would even begin to contest Boettner’s claim (and again, Boettner was a Calvinist), so I think advocates of monergism have a good bit of explaining to do here. But again, in all sincerity, I understand how people think the Bible teaches it.   But what I would like to point out is that you don’t need monergism to prevent human boasting or protect God’s glory. Nope—all you need is a healthy doctrine of creatio ex nihilo (creation from nothing)…or better yet, creatio continua (continuing creation).   From early on,[3] Christianity affirmed God created the universe from nothing and without necessity and that the whole of space-time is dependent, moment by moment, on the superabundant source of being that is God. Existence itself is grace—a gift, unforeseen and unnecessary and gratuitous, given anew in the unfolding of each moment in which there is something instead of nothing:   “It is the condition of absolute contingency that defines creaturely existence. Every finite being is groundless, without any original or ultimate essence in itself, a moment of unoccasioned fortuity, always awakening from nothing…”[4]   “All-that-is and all-that-has-been and, indeed, all-that-will-be is given existence by an Ultimate Reality that is other than what is created.”[5] “The power of life stands outside us and is given to us.”[6]   God doesn’t need creation.   Creation actualizes no latent potential in God.   God, from all eternity, is an infinite, vibrant, dynamic, and endlessly creative triune community of abundance, delight, peace, feasting, revelry, and joy.   As such, all that is exists in an irreducibly gratuitous fashion and creation is an expression of God’s primordial generosity; a generosity Jesus taught us to call love.   Which brings us back to monergism.   I am deeply grateful for the Reformation. Several harmful trajectories had formed and the Reformation was a much-needed corrective to them. But the dogged focus on the inner mechanics of the soteriological mystery set, in my opinion, another harmful trajectory in which the horizons of the gospel were narrowed and monergism started attempting to say what creatio ex nihilo had already said far better; namely, that EVERYTHING is a gift of grace, to be received with open hands and wide-eyed wonder.   Because creatio ex nihilo and creatio continua prevent human boasting and protect God’s glory far more effectively than monergism, accomplishing and exceeding what monergism aspires to with effortless beauty and grace. Because when one realizes every creature—not to mention space-time itself!!!—is sustained, nanosecond by nanosecond, by the wild and unconditioned generosity of God, monergism is simply unnecessary. It might still be true, but it is not necessary. The infinite God, Being behind all being, does not need monergism to protect his glory.   This won’t end any debates on monergism and you can still make a biblical case for it (though I think you can make a better case against it), but perhaps it can halt some of the hand-wringing and help Reformed folks understand why, to a great many of us, monergism is well-intentioned but misguided small potatoes in a universe breathing grace.[7]   [1] Whatever Happened to the Gospel of Grace?, 167. [2] The Reformed Doctrine of Predestination, 365. [3] See Langdon Gilkey’s outstanding Maker of Heaven and Earth for an examination of the historic consensus on creatio ex nihilo. [4] David Bentley Hart, The Beauty of the Infinite, 250. [5] Arthur Peacocke, The Music of Creation, 7. [6] Walter Brueggemann, Genesis, 137. [7] I’m reminded of Kevin DeYoung’s review of my book, wherein he was a bit miffed that I so easily shrugged off the supposed importance of monergism. I can only say that in any theological world where there is a robust doctrine of creatio ex nihilo, monergism simply isn’t essential....

Skeptics Welcome 2: Job Saved My Life

By on Aug 10, 2015

The book of Job saved my life. I’m only half-joking.   As I mentioned previously, I was in college and the bigness of the world came crashing in on me, and through a series of events I still can’t completely explain, my faith just got up and slowly walked out on me. It was as if a fog of doubt and confusion came creeping over me, suffocating my faith little by little. And I went months without going to church, months without uttering a single prayer, months without reading a single word from the Bible…except for Job.   We meet Job in chapter 1 and basically learn that he’s a great guy who’s doing everything right and everything is wonderful in his world. But that all changes when Satan burns Job’s world to the ground. This is Job 1-2. Satan destroys everything Job holds dear—his family, his health, his wealth—and Job response is remarkable and yet, curious. You’ve heard it quoted before, Job 1:21: “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed by the name of the Lord. “ As he watches his life burn to the ground, Job praises God.   Strangely enough, a lot of people tend to stop reading Job at this point, so they think the moral of the story is something like:   “God, sometimes, takes everything from us, but we should praise God anyways, and get over it.”   And that might be the moral of Job if Job stopped at chapter 2—but Job doesn’t stop at chapter 2. In fact, the story of Job has barely even begun at chapter 2—there are 40 more chapters to go. And here’s what happens.   Job gets tired of pretending—he gets tired of pretending that he’s ok, tired of pretending he’s certain God is wonderful, tired of pretending that it’s all good his life has been burned to the ground. Job unleashes and let’s God have it. He barrages God with doubts and accusations and borderline blasphemies. He says stuff like this…   Job 7:11,17-20: “Therefore I will not keep silent—I will speak out of the anguish of my spirit, I will complain in the bitterness of my soul…What is man that you make so much of him, that you give him so much attention, that you examine him every morning and test him every moment? Will you not look away from me for a while and leave me alone so I can swallow my spittle? If I have sinned, what have I done to you, O watcher of men?”   Job 9:16-18,20: “If I summoned God and he answered me, I don’t believe he would listen to my voice. For he crushes me with a storm and multiplies my wounds without cause. He will not let me catch my breath, but fills me with bitterness…though I am innocent, he will declare me guilty.”   So Job is saying stuff like that, and then he’s got these three friends and every time Job speaks and let’s God have it, they say, “Whoa, whoa, whoa…Job…you can’t say that to the big guy. You can’t talk to God like that. You can’t doubt like that. So, you know, just praise God, don’t doubt, and get over it. Quit causing a scene.”   Praise God, don’t doubt, and get over it.   So they go round and round, when finally…God shows up…in a whirlwind. And God puts Job in his place—no doubt about it (38:2-3). But what’s really interesting is what happens next. God turns to Job’s friends—his friends who were telling him to praise God, don’t doubt, and get over it—and this happens:   “It came about after the Lord had spoken these words to Job, that the Lord said to Eliphaz the Temanite, “My wrath is kindled against you and against your two friends, because you have not spoken of Me what is right as My servant Job has. Now therefore, take for yourselves seven bulls and seven rams, and go to My servant Job, and offer up a burnt offering for yourselves, and My servant Job will pray for you. For I will accept him so that I may not do with you according to your folly, because you have not spoken of Me what is right, as My servant Job has.” So Eliphaz the Temanite and Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite went and did as the Lord told them; and the Lord accepted Job.” (Job 42:7-9)   Did you catch that? God says that Job—the guy who has verbally harassed him for 35 chapters with doubts and accusations—has spoken rightly of God. Whereas Job’s friends—who told Job he can’t talk to God like that, who told Job to praise God, don’t doubt, and get over it—have spoken wrongly of God and God’s wrath is kindled against them. What in the world could this mean? How has Job spoken rightly? He’s said all sorts of terrible and wrong things?   Interpreters are often puzzled here, but perhaps Job has spoken rightly (in some measure) in the sense that he had the courage to speak honestly. Job spoke rightly in the sense that he tells God the truth, even when the truth is laced with anger and skepticism. While everybody else is talking about God and insisting Job should just praise God, don’t doubt, and get over it, Job is demanding to talk...

Skeptics Welcome 1: The Times They are a Changin’

By on Aug 3, 2015

For thousands of years we assumed that Earth was the center of the universe. That the sun and moon and stars and whatever else there was out there revolved around the Earth. And that the earth itself was stable and unmoving—completely at rest. After all, it certainly seems that way when you step outside and stare out into the universe.   But now we know that none of this is true. Now we know that well, we’re tiny little ants, who live in a tiny little corner of this huge planet…which is spinning around its axis at a thousand mph…while orbiting the sun at the center of our solar system at 66,000 mph…a solar system which is itself flying around our galaxy at 450,000 mph…which is itself hurling through the universe at a couple million mph! Do you ever trip and fall and don’t know why?   That’s why.   We thought we were the kings of the cosmos, but we’ve discovered we’re more like ants on a rollercoaster. We’ve discovered the universe is a whole lot bigger and we’re a whole lot littler than we ever imagined.   It reminds me of the words of that great prophet, Bob Dylan:   Come gather ’round people Wherever you roam And admit that the waters Around you have grown And accept it that soon You’ll be drenched to the bone If your time to you Is worth savin’ Then you better start swimmin’ Or you’ll sink like a stone For the times they are a-changin’.   Now the times are always a changin’, but it certainly seems to be the case that in the 50 years since Dylan penned these prophetic words, the times have been changing at a rate never before seen in the history of the world. In particular, technology has created, for all intensive purposes, a new world. You click a few buttons and in a few minutes you can learn more about the world than previous generations could have hoped to learn in an entire lifetime.   Think about it. Our ancestors interacted with a small handful of people each day—their family and maybe the family that lives in the cave down the street. But you and I interact with hundreds, if not thousands of people on a daily basis—because of cars and planes and TV and internet, we bump up against people from all over the world all the time.   And as we’ve bumped into all these people from all over the world, we’ve discovered something; namely, that we disagree with each other about an awful lot of stuff—food and clothes and politics and religion. Think about something that you’d be willing to stake your life on; something you believe so deeply that you’d be willing to die for it. Got it? Well no matter what that something is, somebody else is willing to die for their belief that you’re wrong about that.   I was in college when the bigness and diversity of the world came crashing in on me. The claims of science and other religions started ringing in my ears and I realized that there were a lot of voices out there claiming to have the truth. And as all those voices ricocheted around in my head, I got more than a little confused, and for the longest time I just didn’t know what to do with it—the skepticism and the doubts and the questions. Many people are in the same place—on and off the fringes of faith because they just don’t know what to do with their skepticism.   This series is for skeptics, which probably means it’s for all of us. Because most of us have a skeptic down in us, somewhere and sometimes. And so before we go to the Bible to let it show us what to do with our skepticism, we need to talk for a second about what faith isn’t.   Your faith is as strong as you feel certain about it—this is the way many of us have been taught to think about faith.[1]   To have faith is to be certain that what I believe is true. So certainty = strong faith and skepticism = weak faith. And when you think about faith this way, it’s pretty clear what you’re supposed to do with your skepticism: you better pretend it’s not there and push it out of your mind and heart so that you can get back to feeling certain, because that’s what it means to have faith, that’s what God wants from you: certainty.   Now maybe you’ve never had anybody come right out and say that to you, but if you’re anything like me, this is the way you’ve been taught to think about faith. And there are lots of problems with this—two in particular.   #1- You Can’t Be Certain   I can only assume that most of you reading this are human beings. And so, fellow human beings, the first problem with the whole faith = certainty idea is that, well, we’re all human beings…which means we simply cannot be certain about much of anything.[2]   Think about it. We’re painfully finite, limited, fallen creatures who know far less of reality than we could ever even begin to comprehend. We peek at the infinity of the universe through a tiny pinhole, during a very brief space in time. And...