Happy Monday.

My wife, her sister, her sister’s husband, and I were at Hutchmoot this past weekend. As an Enneagram 4w5 who scores quite high in openness to experiences, it was like crack to me. It’s Rivendell transported to 2019 Nashville. Now, I’ve been through too many last nights of camp to be all that sad to let beautiful things like that go. The transitory nature of it is part of its glory. It’s the contrast that gets me.

Because there’s no buffer day for me, I have no time to process all that we experienced. I can’t take some leisure time fill out a notebook with all my thoughts and feelings and reflections. This is a baby step toward that end, but it’s not nearly enough. I have to go to work today.

Most people who attended Hutchmoot have to go to work today. The hard work of teaching and raising children in the home, keeping house, holding down a cubicle, sitting in class, staring at screens- the contrast is jarring.

Yet, as I was talking with the Lord this morning, he spoke to me out of Psalm 104. I like to think of as Wendell Berry’s psalm. It describes the creation and how creatures live out their ordained roles and functions and are sustained by the God of the wild. And two thirds through the poem, God says, “Man goes out to his work and to his labor until the evening” (Ps.104:23).

Before sin shattered and stained everything, work was God’s idea. And putting in a full day of good work (frustrating and tough and draining though it may be) is actually part of the original tapestry. Whether our day job is creative by nature or whether creativity has to grow slowly through spreadsheets like wildflowers through asphalt, we are a part of God’s spinning watercolor called Earth.

He waters the cedars. He feeds the cattle. He sees to it that we have wine, oil, and bread. He gives the lion cubs a meal in the dead of night. And man goes out to his work and to his labor until the evening. Bless the Lord, O my soul.

Hutchmoot and Monday are equally part of God’s calendar. Both are clothed by the Lord with splendor and majesty, even if one dazzles and the other sort of just sits there. Enjoy your Monday and all the hard work that it brings. Revel in the contrast. Tomorrow, we get another Tuesday.

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To Love as Humans Do

Sometimes we think we love too deeply. Billions of hearts are broken and reformed and rebroken every year. The silver screen and mp3 pour out the tears and the tears refill them. There is such much riding on the girl next door, the spouse in your bed, or the friend across the table. We are so desperate for closeness and so tired of loneliness (beggars, all of us) that we make each other the whole world in paraphrase.

“You’re the moon.”

“You are my everything.”

“You have my heart.”

“One soul inhabiting two bodies.”

Deep, thick, resilient love is a wonderful thing. But it can also be the most fragile thing in the world. In my job, I’ve learned that if the roof is too vast, it cannot support itself. It needs to be sustained by structure, by unyielding steel. Otherwise everything will collapse around our ears. And until the end credits roll, what is more unyielding than death?

The bored graves gnaw down every one of our friends. All our loves eventually will blend into the dirt and the dark. And our hearts, worn once on our sleeves and perpetually held by all those irreplaceable people, will fray like flags in a thunderstorm. Who can withstand that weight? What soul can stand up under the immeasurable banner of another human creature’s love? O Lord, what can we do?

An African Wolf of Wall Street was once ambushed by the living-again Lord of his mother’s homespun and simple faith. But before the wolf could live again himself, he lost his beloved friend (Confessions, iv/7-x/14). Augustine had to leave the city to escape his friend’s memories that were attached to the streets. He was afraid of death because to die would be to snuff out all that was left of the departed.

Flipping through the pages, years later, Augustine recognized that he failed to love his deceased friend humanly. He had loved his friend as if he were immortal, as if his shoulders were immovable and the burden of life-giving love as weightless as sunlight. In Rowan Williams’ excellent study on the church father, he discusses that we need to learn how to grow in our capacity to bear loss and absence. That’s what it means to love as humans. We are leaves in autumn and we love each other’s beauty because we know that winter is coming.

“Our great temptation,” Williams says, “Is ‘inhuman’ love, loving the finite for what it cannot be, loving people or things for magical symbiotic relation they have to my sense of myself, my security and self-identity.” Tom Cruise, telling Renée through tears, “You can complete me,” is beautiful, but ultimately an inhuman love. It’s a hope for an eternal autumn without bare branches. Augustine, latching onto his friend and splitting asunder when his friend died, loved outside the bounds of his own creatureliness, his own humanity.

Sometimes we think we love deeply. But perhaps we only love too wildly, like fire spilling out of the fireplace. But when we remember that we are like grass, that we flourish like day lilies, love finds its parameters. And love finds its depth.

Of Banquets and Blowhards

You Are Cordially Invited…

I hate RSVPs. Invitations, as a concept, make me uncomfortable. On the one hand, I don’t like being singled out. I never have enjoyed eyes upon me. And then, there’s the inevitable sting of envy. “Oh, Mary Sue is having her thirtieth baby? Well, that’s great, why won’t she just share!” or “Oh, Bobby Ray is graduating from high school? Why didn’t he ask me if I wanted to graduate from high school, too?” They’re little reminders of what’s not in front of me and that bothers me.

But the worst part about invitations is the decision of whether or not to go. Will I miss out on something else by attending? Or will I miss out on attending because of something else? I might not know anybody at this shindig. I’ll have to buy a gift? Oh, it’s on a Saturday. Yeah, Saturday’s are the days when I don’t leave the premises. Sorry. That’s why, for a certain breed, cancellations are wonderful. Even if you absolutely love the person who invited you out for coffee, if they have to last minute cancel, it’s the temporal equivalent of finding $5 under the couch cushion.

Y/N?

I’ve been spending some time in St. Luke’s Gospel, in chapter fourteen, and I notice that a word keeps popping up. In twenty one verses, it shows up in various forms a total of seven times. My training (and also common sense) immediately tells me that word matters in the text. And it’s the Greek word kaleo ( καλέω ). It’s not quite the same as an RSVP because, in that case, you have the option to attend or not. Kaleo is a summons. There’s authority behind it that qualifies it as a summons. It’s deployment orders for a reservist. It’s an audience with the king. It’s a parent telling the child to come here now. It’s less a suggestion than it is a reality.

It’s translated as “invitation” in most English Bibles, but that’s because Jesus is telling stories about wedding feasts and dinner parties while at a dinner to which he was invited. But in those parables, God is the one behind the invitations. And so, they should be seen more as summons. And one’s response to such invitations isn’t a matter of preference, but of obedience.

I’ve been reading Alan Kreider’s excellent book, The Patient Ferment of the Early Church, and in it, he talks about the types of people that were attracted to Christianity and what that “invitation” to taste the wedding feast looked like in the first handful of centuries after Christ’s ascension. Jesus, in Luke 14, tells those who would host a dinner to invite the poor and the crippled and the sick (v12-14) because that’s what God does (v15-24) when he summons people to the kingdom. The proud and powerful make excuses and dodge the invite (in disobedience and indifference). They bluster and bloviate about why they can’t be there. And the underclasses, instead, get to go to the feast.

Kreider notes that much the same thing actually happened. He notes that Celsus, a great enemy of the faith in the 2nd century, complained about us because the gospel appealed to “wool-workers, cobblers, laundry-workers, and the most illiterate and bucolic yokels.” These were the scum of the earth that brainwashed children and “stupid women” with their doctrine. These were people, in early Greco-Roman culture, who were voiceless. They were the pavement of society. And yet, they were largely the ones that checked “yes, my lord” on the summons.

Just As I Am

They didn’t pretend to be something they were not. Unlike Cinderella, they weren’t magically dressed up in pretentious niceties so that they could appear like they belonged at the party. They come from the highways and byways so that God’s house may be filled. “For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and everyone who humbles himself will be exalted” (Lk.14:11). And the humbled were exalted by being summoned. The expenses of those who were unable to repay were covered. And we can never pay God back for calling us to himself. Instead, we simply offer that same summons to others. And how they respond (exalting themselves or humbling themselves) is between them and the host of the banquet.

“A Tree That Looks at God All Day…”

We have a dozen trees on the property.

It makes us sound like farmers or ranchers to say “on the property,” as if we have a back 40 to clear and plow. Our house is cozy and built in 1954. We mostly own grass. But out of that grass, we have twelve beautiful trees.

I forget who said it, but God didn’t merely make “trees.” He made oaks and maples and aspens and hickories. His artwork is utterly specific. I can’t decide if birds got me into trees or if Tolkien did. It was probably a combination of both.

When I worked as a shelver at a library, I snatched a wonderful book out of a pile that was being phased out of circulation. It’s called The Trees of Missouri by Don Kurz with illustrations by Paul Nelson. The state commissioned it in 2003 and I’ve enjoyed it since around 2012. It’s been a helpful friend to me.

On the east (facing the street), we have three silver maples. Silver maples are my absolute favorite trees. The name is delicious, but it’s actually the shape of the leaf that does me in. I haven’t found another tree that can best it. Silver maples are one of the earliest trees in Missouri to flower. They like the edges of streams, like the little creek on our northern property line. Their “whirlybirds” clog up our gutter, but delight my son to no end. I grew up calling them helicopter seeds.

The elderly silver maple with the ivy shawl is named Gwendolyn. The little one next to her is Jack. And the large fella caddycorner to the silver lady is Sylvester.

And then we have three sugar maples in a line along the south of the house. They are unnamed and untapped. Literally, I have yet to tap them for maple syrup. I bought a syrup kit a few years back, but I’ve yet to be of the right mind when the temperature is just right. It needs to be cool enough in the winter, but above freezing so that the sap will flow well. One of these days…

And then we have the sycamores. There’s a supporting character in the back yard outside of the fence, but he’s mostly just there to drop branches right where I need to mow. Treebeard, however, is the massive sycamore in our backyard. He dominates the landscape. When we bought the house in 2015, I dutifully measured his trunk to determine his age. While I can’t recall the exact number, I know it was only a few years old when our town was founded. By that reckoning, he’s easily over 160 years old.

It startles me, having something so massive and ancient living behind us while we sleep. It’s probably 110-120 feet tall, dwarfing our little cottage. Come winter, the goldfinches will feast on the seeds that Treebeard offers. The Osage Native Americans used sycamore inner-bark to make tea for flu season. As innocent as that makes our Ent sound, I’m still uncomfortably in awe of that enormous organism. I don’t want to even think about how far his fingers extend beneath the gopher-pocked earth.

Huddling awkwardly in the sycamore’s shadow is an eastern red cedar. She’s balding a bit on one side, but the fruit is lovely. Cedar waxwings love them, but I’ve yet to have them visit. Red cedars from the forests in Virginia and Tennessee used to provide us with the nation’s pencils before the incense cedar became the more popular choice. If Treebeard is old, Juniper (that’s her unoriginal name) might be downright antediluvian. Well, not quite. But some eastern red cedars down in the Ozarks have been aged at over 1,000 years. I hope Juniper keeps the faith.

And then there’s Dr. Seuss. He’s our other evergreen. I’m not entirely sure what he is. Possibly a cypress. His top is slumped sideways like a dog that just heard a strange noise. I respect his privacy so I’ll most likely leave him unidentified. He guards the corner of our yard, keeping watch on the two streets that entrap us.

Three silver maples. Three sugar maples. A mysterious conifer. Two sycamores. An eastern red cedar. There’s also a lackluster silver maple up by the south curb. But we don’t talk about him.

Rounding out the dozen is our Rose of Sharon. She’s currently in bloom and it’s incredible. My mom was the first to identify her. I didn’t even know she was there until our first summer here. Hibiscus syriacus is, as her given name suggests, not a Missouri native. Possibly Syrian (more likely Chinese or Indian), she made her debut on American shores around 1600. They don’t often fight the local vegetation except in Castlewood State Park. Don Kurz actually makes a note that it aggressively spread out into that St. Louis park and made it a stronghold for Sharon. That’s her name, by the way. Again, we save our creativity for other things. She holds sway with her purple buds by our overgrown garden.

Sharon.

“Only God can make a tree.”

Will September Ever End?

September is mostly an exercise in patience. It’s a month of waiting. I think of Anne Shirley’s lovely line about a world in which Octobers exists and can’t muster any similar enthusiasm for Septembers. There’s probably only one good song written about September.

But the ninth month has always felt unremarkable and transitional to me. It’s a steppingstone, a “Steptember stone”, worn smooth by the rush of pumpkin spice lattes and bonfires and scarves.

When I was small, it was a month at the hinge of a new school year. I had settled into my classrooms, but who knew what the remainder of the calendar held? Poor grades? Adolescent romances? Musical competitions? Worth the wait? Sometimes.

As a baseball fan, September is the waiting month for post-season. Will my team swoon? What will the Fall Classic look like? Can we hold off our rivals? Or will this month be the final stab in the throat of our playoff hopes? Worth the wait? We’ll see.

In 2013, I asked my girlfriend to marry me. Miraculously, she said “yes.” And then we waited. Six months of dating. Six months of engagement. The waiting is the worst part. But it’s been infinitely worth it.

Yet when it comes to the Church year, the waiting is the best part. That’s what Advent is about. September is good practice for Advent. We’re not quite done with ordinal time, but I can smell the apocalyptic hope wafting down from heaven around this time of year. And Christmas is only one hundred days from now. Worth the wait, I believe.

And when will the leaves turn? September is a waiting game with respect to autumn. On September 23, we begin the long descent into the darker months. The earth’s axis tilts perpendicular to the sun’s rays and the trees blush themselves to death. This, also, is worth the wait.

I wanted to post this sooner, but I had to wait. Enjoy your September while it’s still here. And may it be worth the weight of all thirty worn-out days.

Rood Dreams

The killing tree.

Roman crucifixion was a brutal and barbaric punishment reserved for slaves and thugs. And it is that cross, that holy instrument of torture that was set aside for Christ, for my salvation.

Who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree, that we, being dead to sins, should live unto righteousness: by whose stripes ye were healed” (1 Pet.2:24).

Around 750 A.D., an anonymous poet wrote a piece called The Dream of the Rood. “Rood” is the Old English word for “cross.” It’s a remarkable telling of the crucifixion from the point of view of the rood.

The author highlights the shame and the glory of that killing tree. Jewels and blood adorn it. It was tragedy and triumph all together. Today is what the Lutherans and Anglican call “Holy Cross Day.”

It is the tree of glory on which almighty God suffered for the many sins of mankind and for the old deeds of Adam. There he tasted death, but still the Lord rose again with his might power, to the benefit of men” (lines 68-70, para.10).

Enjoy.

The Exorcist

I remember when I finally saw the classic horror film, The Exorcist. It’s reputation preceded it. I’d seen clips and references for years. But at some point in college, it was on TV and I committed.

I remember laughing a lot. Maybe it was too late at night and I was tired, but I definitely smirked more than the director intended. It just seemed- what’s the word? Campy? Outdated? Hammy? Pea soup and levitating beds.

I was underwhelmed and moved on. But if the themes of that movie is true (the reality of aggressive evil, the vulnerability of humanity, and victory of good), perhaps the shtick of that movie does more than just fail to hold up. There’s a trivialization that comes with it. If all it costs to see a portrayal of spiritual realities is a movie ticket, they’re just another commodity to be consumed or ignored at my convenience.

The ancient Christian Church had an approach to exorcism that I find fascinating and instructive (if we can curb our “chronological snobbery”). The brilliant 2nd century theologian Origen tells a story of what happened once when he was preaching on the call of Hannah (1 Sam.2). A demon-possessed person in the congregation stands up and starts screaming. Origen calmly lead the church in repeating Hannah’s phrase, “My heart exults in the Lord,” until the spirit left this person. As a result, many of the people who had been skeptics were converted. (See Origen, Homilies on Samuel, 1.10.)

What?

What do I make of that in 2019? Is it campy and outdated? Well, certainly, the 2nd century didn’t seem to see spiritual realities as commodities to be bought for the price of admission. Origen knew that this sort of thing just happened. And when the power of God squashed the enemy so visibly, a lot of people were moved to conversion. Origen called them the “traces of that Holy Spirit who appeared in the form of a dove [that] are still preserved among Christians” (Origen, Contra Celsus, 1.46).

In 2nd century Gaul (modern France area), Irenaeus tells us that Christians “in Jesus’ name…drive out devils, so that those who have been thus cleansed from evil spirits frequently both believe and join themselves to the Church.” Tertullian knew this. When demons are exorcised through prayer, it “regularly makes Christians” (Apologies, 23.18). In the early 4th century, Lactantius, writing from the imperial capital of Trier, reported that when people struggling with demonic forces experience or taste the power of Christ, they discover that is more powerful than the evil that oppresses them. As a result, the church was able to “bring a great many people to God, in wonderful fashion” (Divine Institutes, 5.22.24).

I recently began reading Justin Martyr’s first and second apologies from the early 2nd century. He points out four specific sins that he thought he could trace directly to demonic oppression and enslavement: sexual compulsions, the magic arts, the desire to increase wealth/property, and hateful violence. But when Christians prayed for grace, Christ freed those who were enslaved. The pattern seems to hold. When evil was exorcised and the person was freed, they were able to believe the gospel and come to faith in Christ alone.

Exorcism took on an almost formal role in discipleship later on in the 4th and 5th centuries. Before a catechumen (a person who had been learning the faith) was baptized, the exorcist would come alongside this baby believer as the last step before getting triply dunked. And yes, churches had exorcists. Origen, Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian- these fathers all just assumed that any Christian could exorcise demons. By the middle third century (like most things), exorcism had become a specialized skill set in the Church.

On the day of baptism, the bishop himself would come and exorcise the baptismal candidate. This was important for Christians to know who they were renouncing, not just to whom they were pledging allegiance. The Apostolic Tradition (an Egyptian 3rd century book of church order) tells us that the weeks preceding baptism were this constant process of fighting through enslavement to sin and confessing sins in which Christ dominated the “stranger” in the Christian’s life (the Enemy) and the Christian went through a “detox” from the dominant culture (Apostolic Tradition, 20.4).

All that to say, I think we could benefit from seeing the Christian life as something of an exorcism. I’m not saying we fill up our SuperSoakers with holy water and run riot through the streets. But as our struggle is against spiritual wickedness (Eph. 6:12), we need to withhold all opportunities from the devil (Eph. 4:27). I’m suggesting that Christian sanctification could be seen as a gradual and lifelong form of exorcism.

The more we are filled with the Holy Spirit (Eph. 5:18) and resist the devil (James 4:7), the more we draw closer to God in obedience and faith. As we detoxify our souls from the surrounding world (Rom.12:1-2), the Spirit is transforming us more and more into Christ’s likeness. This need not be as visibly dramatic as it was in the early church (and still is in many parts of the Global South). But the daily grind of fighting your sin and mocking the devil is just as dramatic and awful.

It’s part of the greatest story ever told. I bought that ticket. And Christ will see me through past the end credits.

This World is Not (Yet) My Home

I enjoyed the movie, O Brother Where Art Thou, when it came first came out nineteen years ago. I still like it a lot. I’m halfway through the Iliad with the Odyssey next on my list as far as classics go. It was a beautiful blend of old South Americana and mythology. Not to mention, the music was excellent. Alison Krauss is the heartbeat of American music.

But as I’ve read the Bible and read the fathers and Reformed theology, some of the lyrical themes of that wonderful movie’s soundtrack no longer sit right in my craw, beautiful as they are. “I’ll Fly Away.” “The Angel Band.” “I Am Weary (Let Me Rest).” So much of that beautiful soundtrack is dotted with old poems about “going home” and finding final and eternal rest in a heavenly home. That’s appropriate for the movie because it’s loosely based on the Odyssey, a story about a man trying to get back home.

And yet, if we can’t feel at home in this world anymore because we’re just passing through, what good is this world? What real need do we have to care for it if God is going to burn it up (as a certain type of theology promises). I once heard a popular preacher (speaking about global warming), “If you think it’s hot now, wait until Jesus gets a hold of it!” There are few more wicked sentiments I can think of for a man of the cloth to proclaim from a pulpit. It implies that the Creator is somehow chomping at the bit, eager to obliterate everything good that he made that was stained by sin.

And I’ve heard it geared towards teenagers as well. Take this world and give me Jesus. I’m not home yet. This is not where I belong. There could more harmful things to listen to on the radio. But this is just a more modern repacking of “I’ll fly away” and “this world is not my home.”

This is how Greek philosophy got its fingers around the gospel’s throat and never really let go. On the one hand, the Epicureans (“eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die”) saw our bodies as cruise ships to be enjoyed until they shipwreck on the shallow reefs of indulgence. But on the other hand, the one that grabbed onto Christianity, the body was a prison from which the soul needed to escape. That’s what the disciples of Plato believed. Don’t indulge the body. Indulge the mind. Ignore the body. It’s evil and untrustworthy and too much like the animals. What matters is reason (the Logos). Feed the mind with knowledge. If you gain enough knowledge, you feed the soul and the soul is what matters.

Plato said that all the physical things you see are like shadows on a cave wall. There’s a fire behind you, but you can’t see the fire because you’re chained up in the cave and you can only see the shadows on the wall that the fire is casting. According to Plato, all physical reality is made up of shadows. They aren’t important. What really matters is the thing that is casting the shadow- the hidden thing, the thing that you can’t see. That’s what matters. In the words of Master Yoda, “Luminous beings are we. Not this crude matter.”

A good Platonist, Yoda was.

Plato believed that the young should be taught to welcome death, neither to regret nor lament it. Does that sound familiar? I’ve heard and seen too much nonsense about Christian funerals as a flavor of celebration. Grieving with hope gets replaced with the celebration of liberation. Plato believed that death is good, something to be greeted like an old friend. Why? He believed that because he believed death is the moment when the immortal soul is set free from the prison of the physical body.

Plato viewed death as a jailbreak for the soul. Biblical Christianity views death as the last enemy to be destroyed. What happens after death? Well, Plato said that judgment is based upon deeds. The wicked go to hell. But the righteous souls fly away to join the stars. Does that sound familiar? Socrates famously said upon his deathbed that the real “me” was not the corpse he would leave behind, but that which is inside the body before death. He said a human is a “little soul carrying around a corpse.”

Platonists believed that the virtuous joined the stars at death. They became stars. The immortal souls are implanted into human bodies (male, the superior, and female, the inferior) and the main task of the soul is to master the desires and emotions of the body: pleasure, pain, fear, rage, etc. Those who do that well enough go and join the stars.

Some prison breaks involve more pandamonium than others.

And so, if you believe the body is a prison and death is the jailbreak, why would you believe in a reality in which you are reunited with your prison? No prisoner wants to go back to the jail he just escaped. That’s why Plato is not very helpful in understanding the incarnation or the resurrection. Plato would certainly not have wanted to live out eternity in a physical world.

The Stoics, for instance, believed that at the end of the present age, everything would be dissolved by fire, and the whole order of the universe would end. Does that sound familiar? The Greeks didn’t want to live in a physical world. They wanted the physical world to burn so that they could have spiritual bliss.

Looking for truth in Alderaan places.

Epicureans said that death is the end of everything. Yolo. Carpe diem.

Platonists said that death is the beginning of everything. Don’t fear the jailbreak. Be ready to fly away.

If the world is Epicurean, the Church has become Platonic. In the first case, the resurrection is disbelieved as ridiculous. In the second, it is reduced as a irrelevant, a secondary curiosity that simply make our faith distinct. And on both views, this world is not seen as a home. It’s seen as a buffet to be used or an enclosure to be destroyed.

And yet, I understand the impulse to those songs. I understand the homesickness. But that other world for which we are made is a world that will one day come to this world so that “heaven and earth be one.” This world is not yet my home. But it will be. That’s my hope.

Do We Need Rome to Truly Be at Home?

I love my Roman Catholic friends and family deeply and I disagree with them sharply. And I think that’s a classically Protestant stance to take. After preaching a sermon in which I called Roman Catholics “our friends,” a good brother in the church took me aside and mildly rebuked me for that phrase. It might communicate, he told me, that we don’t have many great differences with them, that we’re one big family that occasionally shouts across the room at each other. But again, I think I can hold deep love and sharp disagreement in both hands. And I think I’m well within the Protestant and catholic (“universal”) stream of the Christian faith in doing so.

When you read John Calvin’s Institutes of the Christian Religion, he takes a rather generous approach to Roman Catholics (even if does call the pope “Anti-Christ”). While he wouldn’t go so far as to call the Roman Catholic church an actual “church”, he concedes that there are vestiges of God’s Church that remain in those parishes.

Book IV, chapter two, of the Institutes is one of the clearest and most elegant defenses of the oneness and wholeness of the Church. There are certain Roman Catholic doctrines that I simply cannot hold to (their Mariology comes to mind). But Calvin shows us that the Reformers actually stand rooted in the Great Tradition, and it was Rome that took the wrong turn at Albuquerque. As a result, I don’t feel the need to swim the Tiber and go “home to Rome.” As a Protestant, I never left home.

Nevertheless, Calvin thought that Roman Catholics could very much be true Christians for two reasons. First, he believed Baptism and the Lord’s Supper remain what they are, despite the people administering or receiving them. But secondly, besides the “marriage rings” of the covenant promise we have in the sacraments, his own strong providence keeps his people from completely perishing from Roman Catholicism. When buildings are torn down, the foundation can remain. In the Protestant Reformation, God “allowed a fearful shaking and dismembering to take place.”

So, there are genuine believers in Roman Catholic churches. But Calvin went further than most evangelicals are willing to go today. He thought that there were entire Roman Catholic parishes that were made up of true Christians. Just as in apostate Israel, there were faithful groups of Jews (Israelites from the heart), so in Rome there were true believers, even whole churches. God deposits his covenant people all over the world and in places ruled by other religions. In other words, just as Christ has his elect among the Muslims and the Hindus and the Jews, he has his beloved Church scattered among the Roman Catholic church.

In one word, I call them churches, inasmuch as the Lord there wondrously preserves some remains of his people, though miserably torn and scattered, and inasmuch as some symbols of the church still remain—symbols especially whose efficacy neither the craft of the devil nor human depravity can destroy. But as, on the other hand, those marks to which we ought especially to have respect in this discussion are effaced, I say that the whole body, as well as every single assembly, want the form of a legitimate church” (IV.II.xii.).

So, whereas a devout Roman Catholic might look at me and sadly declare me lost, I would look at a devout Roman Catholic and think, “Yeah, you could be my brother or sister.” So, I have no need to cross over to Rome. I just need to love them and wait for my God to claim his own within Rome.

Calvin knew that he stood in the Great Tradition of the catholic (meaning, universal) Church when he resisted papal authority and conceded salvation to any of God’s elect under that papal authority. And in doing so, Calvin wasn’t in danger of breaking the unity of the Church.

Calvin knew the fathers well, and followed Augustine in saying that Church unity was held together by two chains: agreement in what sound doctrine and brotherly love. As Augustine put it, heretics break the first chain with false doctrine and schismatics (dissenters, stirrers of strife) break the bond of unity, even as they hold the same faith. But the point is that united love must reset upon united faith.

This is right in line with the apostle Paul (Eph.4:5; Phil.2:2,5). Cyprian, the 3rd century bishop of Carthage, put it beautifully:

The church is one, which is spread abroad far and wide into a multitude by an increase of fruitfulness. As there are many rays of the sun, but one light; and many branches of a tree, but one strong trunk grounded in its tenacious root; and since from one spring flow many streams, although a goodly number seem out poured from their bounty and superabundance, still at the source unity abides undivided.…So also the church, bathed in the light of the Lord, extends its rays over the whole earth: yet there is one light diffused everywhere. Nor is the unity of the body severed; it spreads its branches through the whole earth; it pours forth its overflowing streams; yet there is one head and one source.

All members of Christ’s Bride have this connection with each other, whether they were saved by grace in a Protestant church or a Roman Catholic church. So, I don’t need to be a Roman Catholic to be at home in the Church. The Church persists, whether God places her people in Rome or elsewhere.

Light sunlight through a prism, branches from the tree, and like streams from the spring, the one faith of the Church unites us in Christ. And the Church is then able to spread light and fruit and water to those who hunger and thirst in darkness.

“I believe in one holy, catholic, and apostolic Church.”

*Clarification: I believe that salvation is contingent upon repentance. True Christians come to a saving knowledge of Jesus through faith alone by grace alone in Christ alone. Protestantism stands in concord with the early church in proclaiming this.

Looking Differently

Our pastor encouraged us to regularly be in the New Testament book of Philippians. It’s a letter to the church in ancient Philippi from St. Paul, pleading with them to find their joy and unity with each other through the joy and unity they commonly have with Christ Jesus. I got snagged on verse four of chapter two this morning:

Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others” (KJV).

I took some time and cradled that word “look” in my arms for a good while. It’s the Greek word skopeîn (σκοπεῖν) and Paul uses it twice in Philippians. In 3:17, he commands the church to “keep your eyes on those who walk according to the example you have in us” (ESV). In other words, notice carefully what we do, he says, and imitate us. The other use is here in 2:4- “let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others” (ESV).

Yes, we get our English word “scope” from this word, but that doesn’t mean Paul was telling the church to scrutinize the needs of others as under a microscope or get the big picture as with a telescope. As Don Carson has told us, that’s just silly. It’s a root word fallacy. You can’t work backwards from how a word is used today to better understand how its ancestor word was used back then. The two don’t necessarily draw such a straight line.

But we can see in Philippians 2:4 is that the way Paul uses it is in the present tense, in an active voices, to more than one person, and in a participle form (those –ing words). A participle is a verb masquerading as an adjective. All that to say, Paul is encouraging this Christian church to look out for others as an active, ongoing way to live out the fellowship we have with Christ and each other (see Philippians 2:1-3). “For one another” is actually an adjective, suggesting that the way we look carefully should be in an “otherly”, others oriented manner.

How can we be concerned about others in an ongoing default way? Two ideas come to mind. And both of these ideas sting as I think about how I don’t and how I could implement them.

  1. Through love. By learning to take a genuine interest in the day to day living of other people, I become genuinely interested in the people in my day to day life. As Uncle Jack said, “Do not waste time bothering whether you ‘love’ your neighbor; act as if you did, As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love him.”
  2. Through prayer. If the show Cheers taught me anything, it’s that it’s nice to be where everyone knows your name. It’s good to be a regular in some places. If you make someone a regular in your prayers, they soon become a regular in your heart. Prayers for others keep them in front of our eyes.

How can you look differently at those who look differently than you today?