Kevin DeYoung's Blog, page 10

Book Briefs

It has been a long time since I’ve done a Book Briefs blog, and I have a backlog of books to mention. Stay tuned in the next week or so for my Best Books of 2019.

For today, here are more than a dozen books I’ve read (somewhat) recently in several different categories.

Church History

I enjoyed Allan Kreider’s book The Patient Ferment (Baker Academic, 2016) on the rise of Christianity in the Roman Empire. At times I wondered if Kreider’s Anabaptist tradition was leading him to downplay the importance of doctrine. But on the whole the book is a needed corrective and countercultural reminder that the secret of the early church was patience more than strategy.

With everything written on the Puritans, it is still difficult to find a scholarly history of the movement that covers both sides of the Atlantic. Michael Winship’s book Hot Protestants: A History of Puritanism in England and America (Yale, 2018) fills this gap admirably, even if I found the tone a bit snarky at times.

Early Modern History

I’ll be teaching an elective class at RTS next semester on the Enlightenment, and so I’ve been on the lookout for an accessible introductory volume. I’ve opted for Gertrude Himmelfarb’s The Roads to Modernity (Vintage Books, 2004). I appreciate her categories: the British Enlightenment as the sociology of virtue, the French Enlightenment as the ideology of reason, and the American Enlightenment as the politics of liberty.

John Robertson’s The Enlightenment: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2015) is also good, but (surprisingly, given the title) tries to cover more ground than Himmelfarb and presumes more knowledge of Enlightenment figures and texts. Most people believe that human rights came from Enlightenment philosophy.

John Witte Jr provides a well-researched rebuttal to this assumption in The Reformation of Rights (Cambridge University Press, 2007), arguing that the core ideas of human rights and constitutional protections were formulated by Calvinists in the two centuries leading up to the American Revolution.

In a similar vein, Mark David Hall makes a compelling case for the seminal influence of the Bible and the Christian faith in Did America Have a Christian Founding? (Nelson Books, 2019).

Politics and Culture

I spent a good chunk of my free time over the summer reading these next two books. George Will’s The Conservative Sensibility (Hatchette Books, 2019) is a brilliant and flawed book. Will, a Princetonian, argues that the political vision of James Madison in the 18th century was undone in the 20th century by another Princeton graduate, Woodrow Wilson. Even many sympathetic readers, however, will not agree with Will’s insistence that the conservative sensibility does not depend upon religion or a belief in God.

Less philosophical and more journalistic is Tim Alberta’s detailed and even-handed book American Carnage: On the Front Lines of the Republican Civil War and the Rise of President Trump (Harper, 2019). Coming in at more than 600 pages, Alberta’s well-written chronicle requires a high level of interest in the political machinations of the Republican Party from 2008 to 2018. But if that’s your cup of tea, you won’t be able to put the book down.

Mary Eberstadt provides another provocative analysis of our cultural moment in Primal Screams: How the Sexual Revolution Created Identity Politics (Templeton Press, 2019), arguing that more and more people are finding their identity in figurative tribes because they no longer have literal families and communities to give shape and meaning to their lives.

Almost all readers of this blog will have heard something about Critical Race Theory. And yet, most often our knowledge is superficial and second hand. Critical Race Theory: An Introduction (New York University Press, 2017) by Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic is a brief and accessible introduction by two leading proponents of CRT. The gist: “Unlike traditional civil rights discourse, which stresses incrementalism and step-by-step progress, critical race theory questions the very foundations of the liberal order, including equality theory, legal reasoning, Enlightenment rationalism, and neutral principles of constitutional law” (3).

Theology and Ministry

Christians asking the question, “How should I think about politics?” would benefit from Christ and the Kingdoms of Men: Foundations of Political Life (P&R, 2019) by David Innes. While I didn’t agree with everything (e.g., I’m less Kuyperian and see more Christian underpinnings to Enlightenment ideas), this is a thoughtful and useful introduction to the purpose and place of government.

Richard Chin is the national director of the Australian Fellowship of Evangelical Students and a good friend. More importantly, he is careful with the Bible and explains is clearly. His new book, Captivated by Christ: Seeing Jesus Clearly in the Book of Colossians (Matthias Media, 2019), would make an excellent devotional or small group resource.

I’m always looking for books that can help me improve as a preacher. Alex Motyer’s Preaching: Simple Teaching on Simply Preaching (Christian Focus, 2013) is one of those books. Motyer offers lots of practical advice so that even if not everyone can be a good preacher, no one need be a bad preacher (9).

I love the design, look, and feel of Harold Senkbeil’s The Care of Souls: Cultivating a Pastor’s Heart (Lexham Press, 2019). As a longtime Lutheran minister, Senkbeil’s work is, not surprisingly, decidedly Lutheran, with distinctive views on the law, absolution, and baptismal regeneration. And yet, Senkbeil writes with a pastoral wisdom that we need to hear, reminding all of us that to be a minister is to fulfill a holy calling in service of God’s holy people.

Can We Give Thanks for Flawed Heroes?

Christians need heroes.

Yes, I know, Jesus is the ultimate hero. He is the only flawless hero, the only substitute-for-our-sins hero, the only dying and rising hero. But that doesn’t mean Jesus is the only kind of hero.

As Christians, we are right to be inspired by faithful brothers and sisters. Why else were Timothy and Titus supposed to set the believers a good example? Why else do we have the Hall of Faith in Hebrews 11? Why else are we told in Hebrews 13:7 to remember our leaders, to consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith? God says to us, just as he said to the audience in Hebrews: don’t forget your heroes; learn from their example; be like them in all that was good.

But how can we tell which heroes should really be heroes?

We can all agree that every hero, except for Jesus, is flawed. We can also agree that many flawed heroes have elements of their theology, their practice, or their courage that are worth emulating. But beyond those truisms, who gets to be celebrated? Is Martin Luther off limits because of his comments in old age about the Jews? Or Calvin because of Servetus? Or Jonathan Edwards because of slavery? Is Dabney a theologian worth celebrating even if he was a strident racist? Can Martin Luther King Jr. be lauded even if his theology was not evangelical and he repeatedly violated the seventh commandment? Who gets to be the subject of inspiring Christian biographies? Who gets to be assigned in our seminaries? Who gets to have buildings and schools and conferences (and children!) named after them? Who gets to be our homeboys (or homegirls)?

Leaders in Hebrews

One way to answer the question is to look again at Hebrews 13:7, “Remember your leaders, who spoke to you the word of God. Consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith.” To be sure, there are thousands of people, dead and alive, we can learn from in life. You can celebrate the courage of Jackie Robinson, the statesmanship of Winston Churchill, or the magnanimity of Abraham Lincoln without making them patron saints of evangelical Christianity. But when it comes to Christian heroes for a Christian people, Hebrews instructs us to look for three things: they taught the Word faithfully, they lived an exemplary life, and they trusted in the promises of God.

That’s a start in evaluating heroes and potential heroes. We all have failings. We all have areas of our personality and practice that others would do well to avoid. But the “leaders” in Hebrews were, it seems, at least in general terms people worth imitating. We aren’t talking about perfection, but examples. Ask yourself this question: if more people in the church believed what my heroes taught and lived liked my heroes lived, would the church be a healthier, holier place?

Of course, even this question can be answered in a variety of ways, depending on your context and depending on what elements you think are most important in teaching and living an exemplary Christian life. There may be different heroes for different times and different places. But we aren’t left entirely to our own rankings of Really Important virtues and Really Bad vices. Perhaps we can approach some common ground in ruling a Christian hero “in” or “out” by looking at the whole life lived.

Kings in Chronicles

The assessments of the kings of Judah are instructive in this regard. Consider several examples.

Rehoboam: He may have been strong in some respects, but, overall, he did evil and did not seek the Lord (2 Chron. 12:13-14)

Asa: He did what was good and right in the eyes of the Lord (2 Chron. 14:2). Asa was one of Judah’s best kings, even though he was far from flawless. The high places were not taken out of Israel, but the heart of Asa was wholly true all his days (2 Chron. 15:17). Even though Asa finished his reign as a foolish, cruel, proud king, he was still afforded a place of privilege in his death, and they made a great fire in his honor (2 Chron. 16:14).

Jehoshaphat: He was another good king who did what was right in the sight of the Lord. But again, like his father, the high places were not taken away (2 Chron. 20:32-33).

Jehoram: This is as bad as it gets. He did what was evil and died to no one’s regret. He was buried in the city of David, but not in the tombs of the kings (2 Chron. 21:20).

Joash: He did what was right all the days of Jehoiada the priest, but once Jehoiada was gone, Joash turned treacherous. When he died he was buried in the city of David, but not in the tombs of the kings (2 Chron. 24:2, 25).

Hezekiah: He was one of Judah’s best kings, doing what was right in the eyes of Lord (2 Chron. 29:2). Even though his last days were marked with petty pride, he was honored at his death (2 Chron. 32:33).

Manasseh: He was one of the only kings who ended better than he started. He did evil in the sight of the Lord, but in his last days he humbled himself before God (2 Chron. 33:2, 12-13). Nevertheless, he was remembered as an exemplar of evil, a king whose reign was marked by sin and faithlessness (2 Chron. 33:19, 22).

This is a partial list, only seven of the 20 monarchs of the southern kingdom. But the list is enough to reinforce our main point: in determining whether a “leader” is worthy of honor, we must look at the whole life lived. Joash was not a hero in Judah for getting his reign half right. Manasseh’s reign was not salvaged by his final humility, even if spiritually Manasseh was in a much better place by the end of his life. Conversely, Asa was given great honor in his death, even though he stumbled across the finish line. Hezekiah could end up on a T-shirt, Rehoboam not so much.

Heroes in the Church

So what does all this mean for us and our heroes? For starters, we should be honest—candid about the faults of the good guys and forthright about the things the bad guys got right. More than that, the examples in Chronicles suggest that we should distinguish between high places and high-handed sins. At the risk of offending everyone, my conviction is that slavery was a high place for Edwards, while racism was a high-handed sin for Dabney. Slavery hardly played any role—let alone a central role—in Edwards’s thought and ministry. While Dabney’s writings are often infused with racism and animated by a desire to defend slavery. Does that mean we can’t learn from Dabney’s theology? Of course not, but it means that I would not celebrate Dabney, like I would Edwards, as one of the great heroes of the faith.

I realize that a cursory look at Hebrews 13 and at Chronicles will not answer all the thorny questions surrounding our flawed heroes. But at least we can see that the Bible has a category for heroes, and a category for flawed ones at that. May God give us wisdom, humility, and courage to be honest about our high places, while still giving thanks for those—living and dead—whom God would have us honor.

Theological Primer: Impeccability

From time to time I make new entries into this continuing series called “Theological Primer.” The idea is to present big theological concepts in around 500 words (or sometimes, 1,000 words). Today we will look at the doctrine of Christ’s impeccability.

The doctrine of impeccability states that Christ was not only sinless, he was unable to sin (non posse peccare). As the incarnate Son of God, Christ faced real temptations, but these temptations did not arise in Christ due to sinful desires. Christ was not only able to overcome temptation, he was unable to be overcome by it (Shedd, Dogmatic Theology, 569).

Christ’s impeccability has been widely affirmed throughout the history of the church and defended by most of the leading Reformed systematicians. In the last 150 years, however, many theologians have rejected the idea that Christ was unable to sin, arguing instead that peccability is necessary for Christ’s temptations to be genuine and for Christ to sympathize with his people. Surprisingly, even the redoubtable Charles Hodge (1797–1878) denied impeccability (Hodge, Systematic Theology, 2:457), which may be one of the reasons his contemporary W. G. T. Shedd (1820–1894) offered an especially robust defense of the doctrine in his Dogmatic Theology.

In defense of Christ’s impeccability, Shedd makes three broad points.

First, Christ’s impeccability can be deduced from Scripture. If Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever (Heb. 13:8), he must be unchanging in his holiness. A mutable holiness would be inconsistent with the omnipotence of Christ and irreconcilable with the fact that Christ is the author and finisher of our faith (Heb. 12:2). Christ is unlike the first Adam in that he is the fountain of all holiness, and from him can proceed nothing but life and light. If Christ were able to sin, his holiness would, by definition, be open to change—his obedience open to failure—even if Christ proved in the end to be faithful. A peccable Christ is a Savior who can be trusted only in hindsight.

Second, Christ’s impeccability is tied to the constitution of his person. To be sure, Christ was empowered by the Spirit with extraordinary grace, but Christ was not only strengthened to resist temptation, the presence of the divine Logos made it infallibly certain that Christ would resist. We must not think that Christ’s two natures operated independently of each other, as if they were rival parties or two sources of knowing and doing veiled one from the other. Likewise, we must not conceive of the two wills of Christ as antagonists. The finite will invariably and perfectly obeyed the infinite, such that Christ never experienced the flesh lusting against the spirit, and the spirit lusting against the flesh (Gal. 5:17).

But what about Christ’s pain, hunger, sorrow, weakness, and death? How are these possible for the God-man? If we conclude that Christ is impeccable must we also conclude that Christ was unable to suffer? Surely not. Shedd distinguishes between “all the innocent defects and limitations of the finite” and “the culpable defects and limitations” of sinful man. The en-fleshed Son of God was liable to the weaknesses that come from a human body, but without the moral defects—or possibility of moral defect—that come from a human nature.

At the heart of this second point is the Chalcedonian conviction that whatever Christ did, he did as one undivided theanthropic person. Consequently, Shedd argues, Christ’s ability to sin must be measured according to “his mightiest nature.” Just as an iron wire by itself can be bent, but once welded to an iron bar is rendered immoveable, so the God-man Jesus Christ is rendered impeccable by the union of the human and divine natures (Dogmatic Theology, 660-61). In other words, while Christ possessed a peccable human nature, he was an impeccable theanthropic person.

Third, impeccability is consistent with temptation. One of the reasons for the assumption of a human nature by the Logos is so that the Logos might be tempted as a man and be able to sympathize with men (Heb. 2:14-18). If we elevate Christ’s impeccability in a way that casts aside his temptability, we are out of step with Scripture.

And yet, we must not absolutely equate our temptations with Christ’s temptations. The same Greek noun translated “trials” (peirasmois) in James 1:2 is rendered in verb form as tempted (peirazetai) in James 1:14. Some temptations arise from without as trials and sufferings—these Christ constantly endured. But also, temptations that arise from within as sinful desires—these Christ never experienced. When Hebrews 4:15 says Christ was tempted in every respect as we are, yet without sin, we should understand the preposition “without” (choris) as extending both to the outcome of the temptations (unlike us, Christ did not sin) and also to the nature of the temptations (unlike ours, Christ’s temptations were not sinful). In other words, we are tempted by the world, the flesh, and the Devil, while Christ never faced temptation from the flesh. Or as John Owen put it, Christ faced the suffering part of temptation; we also face the sinning part.

Christ’s inability to sin does not make his temptations less genuine. The army that cannot be conquered can still be attacked (Dogmatic Theology, 662). If anything, Christ’s temptations were more intense than ours because he never gave in to them. Our temptations wax and wane as we sometimes withstand them and sometimes succumb to them. But Christ never gave in, and as such the experience of temptation only mounted throughout his life. In this, Christ is able to sympathize with us in our human experience of temptation, even though as the God-man, he was incapable of giving in to these temptations.

Five Questions about Faith and Works

The rediscovery of the doctrine of justification is one of the most important legacies of the Reformation. From Luther to Calvin to later confessional divines, classic Protestants have always insisted that God justifies sinners “not by infusing righteousness into them, but by pardoning their sins, and by accounting and accepting their persons as righteous; not for anything wrought in them, or done by them, but for Christ’s sake alone” (WCF 11.1).

While Reformation doctrine has been emphatic that faith is “the alone instrument of justification,” it has also repeatedly made clear that faith is “not alone in the person justified, but is ever accompanied with all other saving grace” (WCF 11.2).

The relationship between faith and works, between justification and sanctification, has always required careful nuance–whether in polemics with Catholic theologians, or in dialogue with Arminian objections, or in response to later Enlightenment concerns about the nature of true virtue. Thankfully, the Reformed tradition provides the necessary categories and distinctions to help us think through the thorniest problems.

Using Francis Turretin’s Institute of Elenctic Theology as our guide, let’s look at five relevant questions—relevant then and now—which get at the important relationship between faith and works.

First, how does sanctification differ from justification?

In addressing this question, Turretin makes clear that he is not talking about sanctification as a broad term describing the Christian’s position as set apart for God. Rather, he is talking about sanctification in the narrow sense usually assumed by theologians: namely, the renovation of man by which God takes the in-Christ, justified believer and transforms him more and more into the divine image (XVII.i.2-3).

Importantly, Turretin argues that sanctification can be understood “passively,” inasmuch as the transforming work “is wrought by God in us,” and also “actively,” inasmuch as sanctification “ought to be done by us, God performing this work in us and by us” (XVII.i.3). This is a crucial point. Sanctification is not understood correctly if we do not understand that God is doing the work in us, and at the same time we are also working. Any theology that ignores either the active or passive dimension of sanctification is getting it wrong.

Justification and sanctification must not be confused. The most serious, and potentially damning errors, surface when the two are not carefully distinguished.

Turretin explains how justification and sanctification differ.

They differ with regard to their object. Justification is concerned with guilt; sanctification with pollution.
They differ as to their form. Justification is a judicial and forensic act whereby our sins are forgiven and the righteousness of Christ is imputed to us. Sanctification is a moral act whereby righteousness is infused to the believer, and our internal renovation is affected.
They differ as to the recipient subject. In justification, man is given a new objective status based on God’s acquittal. In sanctification, we are subjectively renewed by God.
They differ as to degrees. Justification is given in this life fully, without any possible increase. Sanctification is begun in this life but only made perfect in the next. The declaration of justification is once for all. The inward work of sanctification takes place by degrees.
They differ as to the order. God only sanctifies those who are already reconciled and justified by faith. (XVII.i.10)

There is often discussion about whether sanctification is by faith alone. I’ve argued before that “sanctification by faith alone” is not the best phrase to use, not least of all because it can lead to confusion about the absolutely essential affirmation that “justification is by faith alone.”

There is a sense in which “sanctification by faith alone” can be a true statement. Is sanctification a gift that only comes to those who put their faith in Christ? Yes and amen.

But the “by” in “justification by faith alone” is not the same as the “by” in “sanctification by faith alone.” Both justification and sanctification are by faith, but whereas faith is the instrument through which we receive the righteousness of Christ, faith is the root and principle out of which sanctification grows (XVII.i.19). We say that justification is by faith alone, because we want to safeguard justification from any notion of striving or working. But sanctification explicitly includes these co-operations (XV.v.1-2), making the description of “alone” misleading at best and inaccurate at worst.

Second, can we fulfill the law absolutely in this life?

Of the five questions, this one has been the least controversial in contemporary discussions. Virtually everyone agrees that the “perfection of sanctification” is not possible for fallen human beings on this side of heaven.

Interestingly, though, Turretin thinks certain kinds of perfection are possible. The question about fulfilling the law absolutely is not about the perfection of sincerity (serving God with a whole heart), nor the perfection of parts (being sanctified in body and soul), neither is it about comparative perfection (that some believers would be more advanced than others), nor evangelical perfection (whereby God in paternal forbearance perfects our works with his grace). Turretin affirms “all these species of perfections,” noting that the Bible often speaks of believers being “perfect” and “upright.” In other words, we can be obedient in a real sense.

But the question about fulfilling the law is, for Turretin, a question about legal perfection (XVII.ii.4).

The question returns to this—Can the renewed believer so carry on his own sanctification as to attain perfection (not only as to parts, but also as to degrees); and can he fulfill the law (not only mildly and evangelically, but also strictly and legally) and so copiously satisfy the divine law as to live not only without crime, but also without sin; and the law have nothing which it can accuse and condemn in him, if God should enter into judgment with him? The opponents affirm; we deny. (XVII.ii.7).

That we are unable to fulfill the law absolutely can be seen from several realities taught clearly in Scripture: the remaining corruption of sin in the believer in 1 John 1, the struggle between flesh and the Spirit in Romans 7, the unbearable yoke of the law in Acts 15, the command to pray daily for the remission of sins in the Lord’s Prayer, and the example of the saints throughout the Bible (XVII.ii.10-26). There are many ways in which the Bible does talk about the believer being obedient, righteous, and holy. But we must not understand any of these to imply that we can so fulfill the law that God has nothing properly against us were he to judge strictly and legally.

Third, are good works necessary to salvation?

Turretin begins his discussion of this notoriously difficult question by noting that there are three main views when it comes to the necessity of good works.

Some are like modern Libertines, who make good works arbitrary and indifferent.

Others are like ancient Pharisees, who contend that works are necessary to justification.

In trying to hold the middle ground between these two extremes, Turretin maintains, in keeping with “the opinion of the orthodox,” that good works are necessary but not according to the necessity of merit (XVII.iii.2).

In other words, the question before us is not “whether good works are necessary to effect salvation or to acquire it of right” (we’ll get to that in the fifth question), but whether good works are “required as the means and way for possessing salvation.” It is in this last sense that Turretin affirms the necessity of good works (XVII.iii.3).

According to Turretin, the necessity of good works is proved from: (1) the command of God, (2) the covenant of grace, (3) the gospel, (4) the state of grace, and (5) the blessings of God. In the covenant of grace there are still stipulations and obligations (conditions, if you will). There are duties man owes to God and blessings that are connected to the exercise of these duties, even if—and this is important—God is the one who sees to it that these duties are carried out. Heaven cannot be reached without good works (Heb. 12:14; Rev. 21:27), which is why it is such good news that he who began a good work in us will be faithful to complete it (Phil. 1:6).

To insist on the necessity of good works is not to become a legalist or a neonomian. “Although we acknowledge the necessity of good works against the Epicureans,” Turretin observes, “we do not on this account confound the law and the gospel and interfere with gratuitous justification by faith alone. Good works are required not for living according to the law, but because we live by the gospel; not as the causes on account of which life is given to us, but as effects which testify that life has been given to us” (XVII.iii.15).

This question about the necessity of good works has often perplexed Christians. If, on the one hand, we say no, good works are not necessary, we can hardly make sense of the warnings and moral imperatives of the New Testament. But if we say good works are necessary to salvation, it can sound like we’ve suddenly made heaven the product of our effort and obedience.

But that’s not what Hebrews 12:14 means, nor what Turretin means. Read carefully this paragraph:

Works can be considered in three ways: either with reference to justification or sanctification or glorification. They are related to justification not antecedently, efficiently, and meritoriously, but consequently and declaratively. They are related to sanctification constitutively because they constitute and promote it. They are related to glorification antecedently and ordinatively because they are related to it as the means to the end. (XVII.iii.14)

That’s a mouthful, but really crucial and really wonderful. Good works are inextricably linked to justification, sanctification, and glorification, but they are related in different ways. Good works come after justification as a result and a declaration. Good works are identified with sanctification as its definition and cheerleader. And good works come before glorification as God’s appointed means to a divinely secured end. Or as Turretin later puts it, “grace is glory begun, as glory is grace consummated” (XVII.iii.14).

Fourth, can justified believers do that which is truly good?

Before we answer that question, we need to understand what is required for a work to be truly good. Turretin mentions four things:

that the work be done from the faith of a renewed heart,
that the work be done according to the will of God revealed in his Word,
that the work be done not just externally but internally from the heart, and
that the work be done to the glory of God (XVII.iv.5).

This standard Reformed definition implies that however decent and ethical the works of the non-Christians may be, they are still not truly good in the fullest sense (XVII.iv.6).

Reformed Christians sometimes make the mistake of thinking that if they are to be really Reformed they must utterly denigrate everything they do as Christians. To be sure, as we have seen, we cannot fulfill the law absolutely. Even our best works are full of weakness and imperfection. But here’s where the careful distinctions of scholastic theology are helpful: good works can be truly good without being perfectly good.

The answer to this fourth question is: Yes, believers can do that which is truly good. “We have proved before,” Turretin writes, “that the latter cannot be ascribed to the works of the saints on account of the imperfection of sanctification and the remains of sin. But the former is rightly predicated of them because though they are not as yet perfectly renewed, still they are truly good and unfeignedly renewed” (XVII.iv.9). In other words, there is another category for our good works besides “earning salvation” and “nothing but filthy rags.”

According to Turretin, there are at least three reasons why we must conclude that the works of believers can be truly good.

First, because our good works are performed by a special motion and impulse of the Holy Spirit.

Second, because Scripture repeatedly says that such works please God.

And third, because the saints are promised a reward for their good works.

If, in order to sound extra pious and humble, we insist that our good works are actually nothing of the sort, we end up making too little of the Spirit’s work in our lives and muting dozens of biblical texts. While it may be true that even our best deeds are still sins, in the sense that they are still not perfectly righteous, this does not mean that they cannot also be considered truly good in a different sense.

Our affirmation that all works (even the best) are not free from sin in this life does not destroy the truth of the good works of believers because although we affirm that as to mode they are never performed with that perfection which can sustain the rigid examination of the divine judgment (on account of the imperfection of sanctification), still we maintain that as to the thing they are good works. And if they are called sins, this must be understood accidentally with respect to the mode, not of themselves and in their own nature. (XVII.iv.13)

In other words, the good works of the believers can be truly good works, even if the mode in which they are done is imperfect.

Fifth and finally, do good works merit eternal life?

The first thing to notice about this fifth question is that it’s not the same as the third question. When we hear the two questions as identical, we are bound to answer at least one of them incorrectly. For while good works are necessary to salvation, they do not merit eternal life.

We’re not going to get into the weeds of Roman Catholic theology and talk about merit of congruity and merit of condignity (Turretin rejects both). Let’s stick with the bigger, more relevant question about good works meriting eternal life.

Here again, we need to parse our terms carefully.

The word “merit” is used in two ways: either broadly and improperly; or strictly and properly. Strictly, it denotes that work to which a reward is due from justice on account of its intrinsic value and worth. But it is often used broadly for the consecution of any thing. In this sense, the verb “to merit” is often used by the fathers for “to gain,” “to obtain,” “to attain.” (XVII.v.1)

This is a crucial distinction. Here’s what Turretin is saying in effect: “Look, we have to realize that people use these words in different ways. Technically, merit means someone or something is given its due. In this sense, good works, even of the justified believer, do not merit eternal life. On the other hand, people sometimes use ‘merit’ more loosely, as another way of indicating sequence. So if B follows A, or if A is a condition for B, some people say that A gains, obtains, attains, or even merits B. This is not the best way to describe things, but many people, like the church fathers, mean to communicate nothing more than that eternal life is connected to good works in a necessary chain of events.”

What does it mean for a good work to be meritorious in the strict sense? Turretin mentions five characteristics:

The work be “undue.” That is, we are not merely doing what we owe.
The work must be ours and not owing to the work of another.
The work must be absolutely perfect.
The work is equal to the payment made.
The payment or reward is owed us because of the intrinsic worth of the work. (XVII.v.6)

Clearly, our good works do not meet any of these requirements. Using a strict and proper understanding of “merit,” we must never conclude that our good works merit eternal life. For even our best works are (1) merely what we owe, (2) from God’s grace in us, (3) imperfect, (4) much less than the reward of eternal life, and (5) not worthy in and of themselves.

Good works are necessary to salvation, but not in order to effect salvation or acquire it by right. The necessity is not of causality and efficiency (XVII.iii.3).

In short, while our good works are often praiseworthy in Scripture—pleasing to God and truly good—they do not win for us our heavenly reward. There is a true and necessary connection between good works and final glorification, but the connection is not one of merit.

Reflections from a Lifetime in Ministry

One of the joys of serving at Christ Covenant is laboring beside Bernie Lawrence, our senior associate pastor. Bernie has been serving in various ways at the church since before I was born (as I like to remind him!) and for the last 30 years as a staff member at Christ Covenant. Bernie will be retiring next spring. Recently, he shared with our pastoral interns a smattering of thoughts and reflections on a lifetime in ministry. They are full of wisdom and good biblical sense.

Create a vision for your life and ministry that you can return to over and over again (Acts 13:36; 2 Cor. 12:15; 2 Cor. 11:3).


Resolve to imbibe the Scriptures (Ps. 19, 119). Memorize them and meditate on them, frequently.
Resolve to make prayer a centerpiece of your life and ministry (Ps. 116:1-2). I still think of myself as a novice.
Don’t make the gospel too complex, although it is on some level incomprehensible (2 Cor. 11:3). Think often upon “the simplicity and purity of devotion to Christ.” It will be good for your soul.
Spend yourselves in serving the flock (2 Cor. 12:15; 1 Thess. 2:8). Know them. Love them. Laugh with them. Weep with them. Be there at critical moments such as hospital stays, death, and other distresses.
Make holiness and war with indwelling sin a priority (1 Pet. 1:15-16; 1 John 3:1-3; 1 Tim. 1:5; Titus 1:15). Read and heed John Owens’s Mortification of Sin. “Be killing sin lest it be killing you.”
Given what the Bible teaches about indwelling sin and temptation, be accountable always! (Heb. 3:12-13). Do whatever it takes. Remember Jeremiah 17:9, Galatians 5:17; Romans 7. You never outgrow your need for the gospel. Ministry is littered with former pastors who were unaccountable.
Make repentance from sin like involuntary breathing (Isa. 57:15). Be known by your wife and children as a man who is approachable, teachable, willing to listen and be corrected. Use these four questions on a recurring basis with your wife and children: How have I encouraged you? How have I disappointed you? How should I spend my time differently? How can I help you succeed? Give your children permission to respectfully approach you when they think you are over the top.
Be known as a good listener (James 1:19-20). My wife tells me I have a sign on my back that says, “You can talk to me. I will listen.”
In your pastoral counseling ask lots of open-ended questions (Mark 7:21-23). Connect the dots from the behaviors to the heart. Appropriately sharing your own failures will make you more effective. For better or worse, the power of the family of origin in the life of an adult, even Christians, is breathtaking. Everything changes but the hearts of men. Thus, the gospel is forever relevant.
Develop sympathy and patience for those caught in sin and addiction (Gal. 6:1).
Treat your colleagues with grace. Be lighthearted. Be interested in them. Same with your elders and deacons. Know them and their families. Spend time with them.
Have the backs of your colleagues. Competition/gossip among colleagues is a red flag!
Nourish and cherish your wives (Eph. 5). Court her regularly. Be curious about her. Study her. That is the best thing you can do for your children. My experience with troubled marriages where the wife has not been nourished and cherished reveals that this is a typical sin of omission for husbands. The divorce rates goes up again for empty-nesters.
Do not neglect quantity time with your family thinking quality time is what matters. Your kids are unlikely to see it that way.
You never stop being a parent. That’s the title of a book, but it is true. When your children become adults, you will love them, rejoice with them, and hurt with them as if they were still youngsters. I was surprised to discover that.
Do not make the church your mistress. Learn to say “No” to the good and “Yes” to the best. People do not have an inherent right to know why you can’t meet their expectations about meetings or other events. It is enough to say, “I already have a commitment at that time.”
Two disappearing doctrines: the church and the sinfulness of sin. The evidences of this are everywhere. Recover them. Teach them. Model being a good churchman. Only ordain men who are.
Be reasonably open to intrusions in your busy days. God’s providence doesn’t always cooperate with our busy schedules. Ken Boa has said that the most important appointment you may have in a given day may well not be on your calendar.
Think and live with the concept of life’s “seasons.” Seasons come in many forms: busy seasons, child-rearing seasons, seasons of suffering and distress, seasons of too little sleep, the empty-nest season, and so on. The point is, seasons transition into new seasons. Difficult seasons will usually (not always) transition to better seasons. This is a helpful perspective for persevering in difficult “seasons.” Of course, God governs all seasons of life for our good.
Read good books of all sorts. Ask folks you respect what they are reading. That is an easy way to stay up to date with good reads.
Manage change well when it affects God’s people. Do not surprise them. You will be spared much trouble.
Don’t confuse preference with principle. God’s people often cannot distinguish between the two. An example might be preferences in worship music. Churches have been known to split over preference issues!
Urge people not to speculate into/about what they don’t/can’t know. Human beings seem to be tempted to speculate into a vacuum of information and almost always speculate the worst. This is especially true with speculating about people’s motives. Multiple interpretations of a difficult conversation or disappointment are possible. Urge the judgment of charity be extended rather than just judgment.

Luke: Evangelist to the Rich

I can’t find where (or if) G. K. Chesterton really said it, but I’ve seen it attributed to Chesterton often, and it sure does sound like him:

It may be possible to have a good debate over whether or not Jesus believed in fairies. It is a tantalizing question. Alas, it is impossible to have any sort of debate over whether or not Jesus believed that rich people were in big trouble—there is too much evidence on the subject, and it is overwhelming.

Strikes me as Chestertonian in character. And mostly true. There are big dangers associated with being rich. Jesus makes that point pretty clear. But if there are big dangers for the rich, there are also big opportunities. The New Testament is not anti-rich, but it is emphatically anti-status quo when it comes to the way rich people typically view and use their money.

Anyone who has studied the Gospels knows that Luke’s Gospel uses the harshest language toward the rich and also includes the most about our obligations to the poor. For example, in Luke’s version of the Beatitudes, Jesus not only pronounces a blessing on the poor (Luke 4:20b), he also pronounces curses on the rich. “Woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. Woe to you who are full now, for you shall be hungry” (Luke 4:24-25a).

Of the four Gospel writers Luke has the most to say about wealth and poverty. He chooses his material and organizes it in such a way that his audience would understand that how you handle your money has everything to do with following Jesus.

With this obvious emphasis, it’s easy to make Luke (and the Jesus he writes about) into someone vigorously opposed to rich people. Indeed many Christians look immediately to Luke when they want to say something “prophetic” against materialism or income disparity or the wealth of the Western world. While these “prophetic” words are sometimes necessary, they don’t do justice to Luke’s aims and appeals. We make a profound mistake to see Luke as an evangelist against the rich. He is, more accurately, an evangelist to the rich.

Keeping the Audience and Author in Mind

We must remember two things if we are going to understand Luke’s attitude toward the rich.

First, Luke was almost certainly writing to the rich. Both of his books are addressed to Theophilus (Luke 1:3; Acts 1:1). In his Gospel, Luke gives Theophilus the title “most excellent,” the same honorific given to the Roman magistrates Felix (Acts 23:26) and Festus (Acts 26:25). Most scholars figure that Theophilus was some kind of Roman official, or at least a person of some social standing who was recently converted and in need of firm grounding in the faith.

Second, Luke was most likely relatively well-off himself. This occasional traveler with Paul was known as “the beloved physician” (Col. 4:14), not a meager profession now or then. Moreover, Luke shows evidence in his writing of being well-educated, well-traveled, and well-connected—a cosmopolitan Gentile convert and probably a person of some means.

Luke was not a poor man writing to poor people that together they might denounce the rich. It’s much closer to the truth to say Luke was a rich man writing to another rich man (and people like him) in order to show how the rich could truly follow Jesus.

Evidence to Support a Verdict

This thesis statement may sound strange, even jarring, but when we look closer at Luke’s Gospel and then at Acts we see several instances—unique to Luke—of rich people “getting it” and using their money well. Luke includes much material to warn and rebuke the rich. He also includes a surprising number of examples of wealthy persons who demonstrate genuine discipleship of Christ. A brief survey of the relevant material in Luke-Acts will bear out both these points. Luke, more than any other biblical writer, wants us to see that the rich often get it wrong, but they can also get it right.

Surveying Luke

We read in Mary’s Magnificat about the great reversal that is coming where the poor will be exalted and the rich will be cast down (1:51-53). From the outset of the Gospel, we see that the humble, hungry, and poor are in a position of future blessing, while the proud, exalted, and rich are in danger.

In chapter 3 John the Baptist explains that repentance is directly tied to what you do with your money (3:10-14). Importantly, however, the text never suggests that being a tax collector or a solider made one complicit in an oppressive Roman regime. There was a right way to make money and work for the Romans.

We see Jesus preaching in his hometown of Nazareth in chapter 4. He reads from Isaiah 61 and identifies himself as the Spirit-anointed prophet sent to preach good news to the poor (4:18). In what follows, Jesus gives two examples of the “poor” who received the good news. He mentions the widow of Zarephath (4:25-26), who was materially poor. And then he mentions Naaman the Syrian general (4:27), who was materially rich. Here is our first example of a rich man who “got it”; though he was an elite general, he was humble enough to seek Elisha’s help and dip himself in the Jordan River.

In chapter 5 we see Jesus calling a tax collector named Levi to follow him. And when Levi followed Jesus, he left everything behind and then later threw a great big party in his house with all sorts of tax collectors (5:27-29). Here, then, is another rich man doing the right thing. He left his profession behind (at least for the moment), but he does not seem to have left all his wealth behind.

In chapter 8 we see a number of rich women serving as patrons for Jesus’s ministry and for his disciples (8:2-3). More rich people using their money well.

We meet the Good Samaritan who helps the needy in chapter 10. Here we see negative examples of the societal elite ignoring urgent needs right in front of them.

And in chapter 12 we meet the rich fool who lives for himself and trust in his wealth to save him (12:15, 20-21). If you are a rich man depending on your riches, you are (as the kids would say) not doing it right.

In chapter 14, the kingdom is compared to a wedding feast and then to a great banquet. Austerity and asceticism, while necessary at times, are not pictures of the good life God has waiting for his people.

In chapter 15, we see the prodigal son waste his inheritance on wild living, only to come to his senses when he is poor and destitute. Again, Luke (and Jesus) shows us the danger of wealth and the blessing that can come from being poor. But we also see another example of a wide-hearted rich man, the prodigal’s father who throws caution to the wind and spreads a feast for his long lost son.

In chapter 16 we have an example of a rich man using his wealth wisely and an example of a rich man using his wealth poorly. First we have the parable of the dishonest manager. We sometimes get hung up on the fact that Jesus is using a bad man to be a good example, but the point is clear enough: be shrewd with your money and faithful with your earthly wealth so that you can do strategic heavenly good (16:8-9). Second, we have the story of the rich man and Lazarus. This is the negative example to contrast with the positive example earlier in the chapter. The rich man lived in self-satisfied luxury and ignored the needs right in front of him (16:19-21). He faces unending torment in the flames of judgment.

The book ends with a positive example, as Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the council, “a good and righteous man,” does not consent to the council’s decision and asks Pilate for the body of Jesus (23:50-53). This was just as the prophet Isaiah predicted, that the suffering servant would be buried with a rich man in his death (Isa. 53:9).

So what have we seen in Luke’s Gospel? We’ve seen that the rich face unique dangers. They can be callous toward others, haughty, proud, cheats, swindlers, wrongly confident in themselves, and foolishly trusting in their wealth. If that is your life now, Luke says, you are in for a rude awakening at the end of the age, because everything will be turned upside down. The humble poor will be lifted up, and the arrogant rich will be cast down.

On the other hand, we see how the rich can be faithful with their wealth. They support Jesus and his ministry. They stand up for what is right. They use their money wisely for spiritual gain. The righteous rich in Luke are still rich, but they are also generous, repentant of any wrongs, and faithful to the cause of Christ.

Surveying Acts

In the book of Acts, just as in Luke, we see both kinds of examples. We see rich people at their worst, and we see how rich people can inherit the kingdom of God and live out its values.

Believers in the early church had everything in common (2:44; 4:32). At first glance it can look like the church modeled an early form of communism. Some people have tried to use the text in that way. They see it reminiscent of the Marxist slogan “From each according to his ability; to each according to his need.” In fact, later in Acts 11:29 we read, “So the disciples determined, everyone according to his ability, to send relief to the brothers living in Judea.” But two realities distinguish sharing in the early church from communism.

First, they did not abolish private property (see 4:34, 37; 5:4). People still owned homes (e.g., Lydia, house churches, Mary the mother of John Mark).

Second, The selling and distribution of their possessions was not by force or coercion, but free and voluntary. The church had a wonderful communal spirit, but that is far different from the spirit of state-enforced communism.

The expression “everything in common” was used to describe the radical generosity of the early church. Their pattern is a model for God’s people. The church was fulfilling the ideal of the promised land, in which “there will be no poor among you” (Deut. 15:4). Radical generosity in the church is a sign of the in-breaking of the kingdom. We when share with our brothers and sisters in need, we demonstrate that God’s promised reign and rule is taking root here and now. It’s a little bit of heaven on earth.

In chapter 8 we see Simon trying to buy the power of the Spirit with money (8:14-24). Peter tells him, “May your silver perish with you” (8:20). This is where we get the word simony, which was so prevalent in the Middle Ages; it means the buying of church offices. This is an example of the unrighteous rich.

Dorcas in chapter 9 is the opposite example, as she is said to be full of good works and acts of charity (9:36-37).

Lydia was likely a wealthy woman. She was a seller of purple goods (high-end retail clothing at the time) and had a house in which to host Paul and his companions (16:11-15). This rich person “gets it.”

The next story is of a rich person who doesn’t “get it.” A slave girl was used to make money for her owners by fortune-telling. When Paul delivered her from the spirit that inhabited her, the owners got upset, because their gravy train was about to fall off the tracks. So they used their connections to haul Paul and Silas before the rulers of the city, who then gave the order for them to be beaten with rods (16:16-24). More rich people blinded by their wealth.

In chapter 17 we are told that many leading women of the city believed (17:4, 12). More rich people turning to Christ.

In chapter 19, we see that when many people were converted in Ephesus they began divulging their pagan practices. So they burned their magic books, and the value came out to 50,000 pieces of silver. They renounced their former vocation, and its lucrative practice, in coming to Christ (19:18-19).

Right after this positive example, we have another negative example. Demetrius, a silversmith in Ephesus, was upset that Paul was ruining his business making gods and goddesses (19:24-27). People were so upset that their religious and economic way of life was being threatened that a riot broke out in the city (19:28-29).

Wretched Rich and Righteous Rich

We have seen in Luke-Acts a number of these pairings: rich people making an idol of wealth and rich people demonstrating a transformed attitude toward wealth.

We have the shrewd manager and then the rich man and Lazarus in Luke 16.

We have in Acts 16, the example of Lydia, a rich person who gets it, and then the rich owners of the slave girl, who don’t get it.

And in Acts 19 we see some in Ephesus who give up their magic arts at great financial cost to themselves, and then we see others in Ephesus who cause a riot because they’ve gotten rich from making idols and the gospel is threatening their way of life.

These pairings strongly suggest that Luke was trying to show Theophilus how he, as a rich member of the elite class, could sincerely and obediently follow Christ.

If you aren’t convinced by this thesis, let me go back to two obvious pairings I skipped over. These are the most important Wretched Rich/Righteous Rich pairings in Luke-Acts. We find one in each book.

We meet two of the most famous rich people in the Bible in Luke 18 and 19. First we have the rich ruler who hears what Jesus says about money and becomes sad because he thought he was a good person, until he realized the following Jesus was going to affect his bank account (Luke 18:24-25). For a moment it looks like it’s impossible for a rich man to be saved, but Jesus holds out hope that it’s not (18:26-27). That question—“Then who can be saved” (v. 26)—is answered in the next chapter when we meet Zacchaeus, a rich man who demonstrates his conversion by showing an entirely new attitude toward money (19:8). Zacchaeus didn’t literally give away everything he owned (like Jesus said earlier in verse 22), but Zacchaeus does what the rich ruler does not do. He realizes that following Jesus means repenting of his cheating ways. Zacchaeus does not trade places with the poor, but he turns from his wickedness and turns to Christ with a new heart of obedience and generosity.

The other obvious pairing is in Acts 4 and 5, where we find the deliberate contrast between Barnabas, a rich man who “gets it,” and Ananias and Sapphira as rich people just going through the motions.

Barnabas was a native of Cyprus and a Levite (the prohibition of owning land must have fallen by the wayside). As a Levite, he was likely part of the social elite. As a landowner he was part of the upper crust in Judea. Maybe as few as 5 percent of the Jews owned land. Barnabas sold a field and brought the money to the apostles to distribute. (Interesting that Luke doesn’t mind telling us who gave this gift. Maybe it was already obvious. Or maybe sometimes it’s appropriate to point out examples of giving just like we might point out examples in the area of evangelism or prayer.) Here then was a rich member of the elite who modeled Spirit-prompted generosity.

Then in the next chapter we read of two more rich people, Ananias and Sapphira. They too sold a piece of property and laid the money at the apostles’ feet (5:1-2). But they lied about how much they were giving. They kept some of the proceeds for themselves, which would have been perfectly fine, except that they lied about it so they could look as impressive as Barnabas. God killed them both for their deception (5:5-10).

Over and over, then, Luke is communicating to rich people like Theophilus (and to rich people like many of us): Here’s how you can be rich and absolutely blow it, and here’s how you can be rich and be a model of Christian commitment.

How Can the Rich Enter the Kingdom of Heaven

So how can the rich enter the kingdom of heaven? What does it look like for rich Christians to “get it”? Importantly, “getting it” doesn’t mean to feel constant shame for being rich. It doesn’t mean trading places with the poor. And it doesn’t mean prophetic denunciations of material goods or income disparity.

But it does mean something. A lot, actually. According to Luke-Acts, to be a rich Christian who “gets it” means (at least) these seven things.

We believe. Christ is our everything, our all in all. We cannot serve two masters.
We repent. We turn from any cheating, swindling, or lying, and we make amends with those we have mistreated.
We put Jesus before profit.
We are generous. We give freely to help the poor and to further the cause of the gospel.
We are good stewards. We don’t try to be manipulate our way to God by lying, putting on a show, or trying to accrue power with our wealth. We are always shrewd but never power-hungry.
We do not trust in our money. There is no real security in dollars and cents. The righteous rich do not expect their earthly riches to last. They live for the heavenly riches that do.
We demonstrate humility. We consider everything we have to be a gift from God. We are meek before others and meek before God.

In other words, Luke—that great evangelist to the rich—says exactly what Paul tells Timothy:

As for the rich in this present age, charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly provides us with everything to enjoy. They are to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share, thus storing up treasure for themselves as a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is truly life. (1 Tim. 6:17-19)

Yes, the camel can make it through the eye of the needle. Rich people can be saved and be faithful, rich Christians. It requires a new heart toward God, a new generosity toward people, and a new attitude toward money.

Making Evangelical History

History is more complicated than you might think.

For many people, history is simply an account of what happened in the past. And while history as an academic discipline certainly includes a record of past events, names, dates, and places, history is never as simple as a naked recollection of facts. History is always an interpretive exercise. No historian can (or should try to) repeat every last detail from years gone by. Even fastidious historians must choose to include some information and leave out other information, and even the most even-handed histories will make a case for something from or about the past.

This does not mean we are doomed to historical nihilism. We can know things about the past. There is a history to be known, or at least various histories that can be accurately drawn from the evidence at our disposal. But it does mean that we must think hard not only about our past but also about how we tell the story from our past.

This is especially true for Christians. Our faith instructs us to draw lessons from the past and find inspiration from the past (1 Cor. 10:1-14, Heb. 11). And yet, our faith also teaches us to tell the truth (Ex. 20:16), especially about ourselves (1 John 1:8; Gal. 4:16). We must also remember that all our heroes, except for Jesus, were sinners (1 Kings 8:46).

Which is why history is more complicated than you might think. And why we should welcome the new book by Andrew Atherstone and David Ceri Jones (eds.), Making Evangelical History: Faith, Scholarship and the Evangelical Past (Routledge, 2019). [Full disclosure: A revision of my PhD dissertation is being published in this same Routledge series.] Yes, this is an academic book—and unfortunately it has the price point to match. But if you can get your hands on the book or borrow it from the library (they still exist!), there is much to learn from this volume, not merely about what happened in evangelical history—though that’s hugely important—but about how, as evangelicals, we have told our own history.

History of Evangelical Histories

Making Evangelical History begins with an introduction from Atherstone and Jones before moving into twelve chapters, each of which deals with the complicated story of how evangelicals have told their own history.

Here are the twelve chapters:

John Gillies and the Evangelical Revivals (David Ceri Jones)
Erasmus Middleton’s Biographia Evangelica (Darren Schmidt)
Dissent and Religious Liberty in David Bogue and James Bennett’s History of Dissenters (Robert Strivens)
J. C. Ryle and Evangelical Churchmanship (Andrew Atherstone)
Luke Tyerman and the History of Early Methodism (Martin Wellings)
Geraldine Guinness Taylor and the Histories of the China Inland Mission (Alvyn Austin)
G. R. Balleine and the Evangelical Party (Andrew Atherstone)
Arnold Dallimore: Whitefield’s Champion (Ian Hugh Clary)
Iain H. Murray and the Rise and Fall of British Evangelicalism (David Ceri Jones)
Ogbu Kalu and African Pentecostalism (Richard Burgess)
Timothy L. Smith, George Marsden, David Bebbington, and Anglo-American Evangelicalism (Mark Noll)
Andrew Walls, Brian Stanley, Dana Robert, Mark Noll, and Global Evangelicalism (David Bebbington)

If there is a theme that holds these chapters together it’s the tension between history that inspires the faithful and history that is faithful to the nuances, imperfections, and ambiguities of the past. I don’t believe the editors mean for Christians to choose between spiritual inspiration and intellectual rigor as mutually exclusive priorities, but they do mean to highlight how evangelical histories have typically aimed at the former more than the latter.

Or to put it another way: evangelical histories have often been written deliberately for, and to champion, evangelicalism and evangelical concerns.

Take John Gillies (1712-96), for example, the first biographer of the great preacher George Whitefield. Gillies wrote his history so that believers would be stirred toward revival and moved toward prayer (27). His was a teleological history, with the 18th century serving as an eschatological climax for God’s work in the world (32). No doubt, Gillies relayed an impressive amount of information about Whitefield, but he also had a certain kind of Whitefield he wanted to present. For Gillies, this meant saying little about Whitefield’s unhappy marriage, his Anglicanism, or his Calvinism. Whitefield was portrayed mainly as a revivalist preacher, the quintessential evangelical who had a simple doctrinal core—theologically orthodox but with little interest in confessional boundary markers—and whose life was marked by unceasing activity (40-41). It’s not hard to see how this early depiction of Whitefield helped shape evangelical self-identity in the years to follow.

The chapter on Hudson Taylor is another fascinating example of evangelical history that has sometimes bordered on hagiography. Geraldine Guinness Taylor (1865-1949) was married to Hudson Taylor’s second son, Dr. Howard Taylor, and wrote authoritative volumes on the China Inland Mission (CIM) and on its famous founder. Geraldine’s approach to history was unapologetically devotional. She prayed over every sentence she wrote and hoped for her books to be tools for spiritual edification (123). Her depiction of Hudson Taylor and of the mission were unrelentingly uplifting, to the point that later family members, while not disputing the many beautiful things recalled by Geraldine, questioned if everything was always as beautiful as she remembered it (123). Taylor himself wanted nothing detrimental to be written about the mission and ordered any potentially embarrassing documents to be destroyed (124). Even love letters from Taylor to his wife were edited by Geraldine so as not to offend Victorian sensibilities.

This is not to say that Geraldine’s story was false or made up, only that it was incomplete. Little was done to understand Taylor in his own context or as a man of his own time. Theological divisions and missionary squabbles were glossed over. No mention was made of Taylor’s self-baptism (or of his second baptism after that). The aim of Geraldine’s history was never history per se. Rather, she aimed to promote evangelical devotion, stir up missionary recruits, spur on surrender to Jesus, and stimulate financial support for CIM (143). It wasn’t until the pioneering work of Marsden, Bebbington, Noll, and others later in the 20th century that evangelical history moved away from strictly ecclesiastical aims and began to flourish as an academic discipline unto itself with an eye toward intellectual credibility and sophistication.

Two Approaches

Whether this new direction marks maturation or degradation is still a matter of debate within the evangelical movement. For my part, I agree with Atherstone’s insistence that evangelicals ought to embrace both the “confessional” and “professional” approaches to history (11).

On the one hand, evangelical historians—not to mention pastors, teachers, and lay leaders—should not be embarrassed to draw lessons of condemnation and commendation from history. After all, we see this approach in the Bible. The church needs heroes. The church needs inspiration. So the church needs history. The past belongs to God before it belongs to academic historians.

On the other hand, even inspirational history should be intellectually credible. As Christians, we should always aim to tell the truth, to love our neighbors as ourselves, and to describe our fallen and redeemed heroes as honestly as we can. This means we want to understand the past on its own terms—with all of its glory, all of its failures, and all of its complexities—before we try to make history serve our own ends in the present.

There are strengths and weaknesses of confessional and professional history. Confessional history seeks to build up the church and encourage the cause of the gospel, but, at its worst, it can be overly confident in reading the tea leaves of divine providence and overly simplistic when it comes to contextual analysis. Professional history seeks to further the pursuit of historical knowledge and encourage the cause of intellectually responsible discovery, but, at its worst, it can be overly suspicious of supernatural explanations and overly concerned to play by the rules of dispassionate analysis. I believe both approaches have their place—certainly in separate spheres, but also, for the Christian, with each approach informing the other.

To this end, Making Evangelical History is a stimulating and worthwhile project. To be sure, it is squarely in the field of professional history, but many of the contributors have been open about their own Christian commitments. One doesn’t have to agree with every judgment on every page to conclude that the work as a whole is not only a great example of intellectual rigor but can meaningfully serve the church as well.

You’ll just need a book budget to see for yourself.

The First Sexual Revolution: The Triumph of Christian Morality in the Roman Empire

Kyle Harper’s From Shame to Sin: The Christian Transformation of Sexual Morality in Late Antiquity (Harvard, 2013) is an impressively learned and important book. Still a youngish man (which means younger than me), Harper is already a professor of classics and letters and senior vice president and provost at the University of Oklahoma. As an expert in the history of the late Roman world, Harper explores in this volume how the Christian sexual ethic, so despised and seemingly inconsequential in the first century, came to be codified in law by the sixth century.

Harper does not take sides in this transformation. Indeed, Christians could read the book and conclude, “Look at what good Christianity brought!” while secularists might read the same material and conclude, “Look at all the oppression Christianity wrought!” This is not a book with an agenda (so far as I can tell), other than to show what the transformation of sexual morality entailed and how it happened. Nevertheless, as a Christian, I found the book illuminating, not only for the historical understanding of sexual morality in late antiquity but for the lessons the church in the 21st century might learn from the witness of the church in the first centuries.

The Revolution

Harper’s title is not about the psychologizing of morality from external social judgment to internal angst and disapproval. Rather, the title is about the transformation of an assumed moral system to a radically different moral system—from one that had shame as a social concept to one that had sin as a theological concept.

Here is the transformation in a nutshell:

Sexual morality in the Roman Empire was permissive, based on social status, and sexual desire could be fulfilled in a myriad of ways.

Sexual morality under the triumph of Christianity was austere, based on gender, and sexual desire could be fulfilled in only one way.

Sexual Morality in the Roman Empire

Same-sex relationships were common in the Roman world. What made them acceptable or not was age and status dynamics. One piece of literature tells of travel to the afterlife where the Isle of the Blessed is described as “all the wives are shared in common without jealousy. . . and all the boys submit to their pursuers without resistance” (24). Pederasty was not considered a problem. Neither was sexual fulfillment with slaves. Slaves, prostitutes, and boys were seen as perfectly legitimate outlets for male sexual desire. In an empire of 70 million, between 7 million and 10 million were enslaved. Harper says, “Slaves played something like the part that masturbation has played in most cultures” (27).

Pederasty was common and widely approved by the Romans (with exception of some Stoics). It was not shameful for boys to give themselves to older men, nor was it shameful for older men to pursue boys. What was shameful was for men to play the passive role in a homosexual relationship. They were called effeminate, or she-men, or acting like men during the day and behaving like girls at night. This behavior was severely ridiculed.

At the end of The Ephesian Tale, an older lover “adopts” his young male beloved. It was not a marriage, but Harper says it was a happily-ever-after kind of union. In one of Juvenal’s satires he has a man of wealth given away in marriage to another man. He imagines a day when male-male marriage will take place publicly and be recorded in the official registers of the state.

In other words, there are examples in the Roman world of long-lasting same-sex couples. It’s not that all homosexuality was man-boy love. In fact, there is evidence that some same-sex pairs ritually enacted their own conjugal rights. At the same time, there never was, even in the sexually permissive Roman Empire, any sort of gay marriage with official legal standing. On the whole the Romans did not tolerate homosexuality, at least not for themselves. They were extremely tolerant of Roman men seeking out sexual pleasure from boys, slaves, and prostitutes. They were not at all tolerant of free Roman men being penetrated as the passive actors in same-sex relationships. “The viciousness of mainstream attitudes toward passivity is startling for anyone who approaches the ancient sources with the false anticipation that pre-Christian cultures were somehow reliably more civilized toward sexual minorities” (37).

As for women, they were to be virgins before marriage and loyal and faithful wives within marriage. To pursue any other path meant great shame (or much worse). Adultery was a crime against man. The woman’s chief virtue was pudicitia (modesty). Harper relates that from sexual maturity women wore their hair veiled as a sign of modesty.

Generally, there were laws insisting upon consent, for free women, for both marriage and sex. There were liberal divorce laws, allowing both men and women to unilaterally sue for divorce for almost any cause. We should not think free Roman women were pining for sexual liberation. Woman often promoted the value of modesty as much as anyone else, and they used the ideal of chastity to their advantage.

Prostitution was ubiquitous and uncontroversial. It was seen as a proper outlet for a man’s sexual energy. If a man had sex with prostitutes before marriage, he could still be counted a virgin. If he had sex with prostitutes during marriage, it was not considered adultery. One Christian bishop described Roman sexual policy as “forbidding adulteries, building brothels.”

Prostitution was part of the official, public face of Roman life, not something hidden or in the background. Prostitution was considered a social necessity, an important safety valve. Rome in the fourth century had no fewer than 45 public brothels. It was thought that if you removed prostitutes from civic life, you would overturn the whole social order, and lust would conquer. “The commodification of sex was carried out with all the ruthless efficiency of an industrial operation, the unfree body bearing the pressures of insatiable market demand. In the brothel the prostitute’s body became, little by little, ‘like a corpse’” (49).

Young women reached sexual maturity and were married soon after, while men often waited a considerable time after puberty before marriage. There were two main rules of sexual morality for free Roman men: avoid adultery and avoid being the passive partner in homosexuality. Beyond that, everything was open. The sexual escapades of young men, provided they were not with married women, were almost entirely inconsequential.

Marriage was important in late antiquity. There are even examples of the “sentimental” family. Romans did not usually marry for love, but they did want it to grow into love.

Here, then, was the basic system of sexual morality in the Roman world: “early marriage for women, jealous guarding of honorable female sexuality, an expansive slave system, late marriages for men, and basically relaxed attitudes toward male sexual potential, so long as it was consonant with masculine protocols and social hierarchy. . . . The value of a sexual act derived, first and foremost, from its objective location within a matrix of social relationships” (78).

Sexual Morality in the Christian Empire

The Christian sexual ethic, it should be obvious, was radically different from mainstream Roman culture. Even the more “conservative” Stoics should not be seen as precursors to Christian morality. While some of the language may be the same (e.g., contrary to nature), the ideas, the values, and the reasons for Stoic ethics and Christian ethics were entirely different. As Harper notes, sexual morality quickly came to mark the great divide between Christians and the rest of the world.

Christians inherited from Hellenistic Judaism an expansive category of porneia that made little sense to the Romans. There would no longer be harmless, innocent outlets for male sexual desire outside of marriage. There is simply no avoiding the conclusion that Christianity presented a sexual ethic that was radically new. This was felt poignantly when it came to attitudes toward homosexual behavior. “For the historian, any hermeneutic roundabout that tries to sanitize or soften Paul’s words is liable to obscure the inflection point around which attitudes toward same-sex erotics would be forever altered” (95). This new inflection point was Paul’s overriding sense of gender—rather than age or status—as the chief factor in whether a sexual act was licit or not. Paul’s concern for sexual morality was about males and females, not about men and boys or married women or single or slaves or free.

Harper explains that from Paul onward, Christian sexual morality “collapsed all forms of same-sex contact, whether pederastic or companionate, into one category” (99). “Nature” was seen as that which corresponded to social norms. With Christianity, “nature” would be that which corresponded to a gendered morality of sex. Preachers like Chrysostom condemned same-sex behavior, with no concern for whether it was pederasty, the exploitation of slaves, or more durable same-sex partnerships. Under Justinian we see the criminalization of same-sex behavior, though there is little evidence this was carried out with any kind of intrusive spying upon private life.

Harper argues that Christian sexuality led to a new understanding of the freedom of the will. In Christian morality, humans possessed moral agency over their sexual drive. Even men, it was believed, could exert control over their erotic experiences. No one was simply at the mercy of insatiable appetites and “normal” sexual overflow.

Marriage was critical, of course. Monogamy, Harper argues, was more of a Roman ideal than a Jewish one. A single conjugal unit was considered the norm for free Romans (even if men were allowed all sorts of exceptions that didn’t count against this single unit). Christianity redefined Roman monogamy to eliminate any other kind of sexual experience. Harper says two doctrines emerged as essential to Christian marriage that marked it off from the rest of the Roman world: sexual exclusivity and firm opposition to divorce and remarriage.

Here, then, was the basic system of sexual morality in the Christian age: “virginity was ideal, marriage acceptable, sex beyond marriage sinful, same-sex eros categorically forbidden. . . The most astonishing development of late antiquity is the transformation of a radical sexual ideology, for centuries the possession of a small, strident band of vociferous dissenters, into a culture, a broadly shared public framework of values and meaning” (135).

Winners and Losers

The triumph of the Christian sexual ethic would be unthinkable, except that it actually happened. Aphrodite was slain by the Christians (135). The Christian sexual revolution became codified in law under the reign of Justinian (527-565). Sex between males was a crime, and pederasty was outlawed. Christian laws under Justinian also vigorously opposed coerced prostitution.

Under the new morality, same-sex love, regardless of age, status, or role was strictly forbidden without any qualifications. Sexual behavior went from the background to the foreground of ethical concern. Sexual deviance went from something with social ramifications, to a sin that was grievous in the sight of God and could have eternal ramifications. Marriage, which was always understood in the Roman world as the union between a man and a woman, became the only appropriate outlet for sexual activity. “All the worlds’ diffuse erotic energy was to be cramped into one, frail, sacred union” (161).

If there were “winners” and “losers” in the Christian transformation of sexual morality, you could say that gay men and promiscuous Roman males were the losers, while women, slaves, prostitutes, and young boys were the big winners. “At the beginning of our story,” Harper writes, “the Mediterranean was home to a society where an emperor’s male beloved, victim of an untimely death, would be worshiped around the empire as a god; in this same society, the routine exploitation of slaves and poor women was a foundation of the sexual order. By the end, we are in a world where the emperor will command the gory mutilation of men caught in same-sex affairs, even as he affirmed the moral dignity of women without any civic claim to honor” (18).

Lessons to Be Learned

Harper’s book is a work of academic history. For the most part, he doesn’t comment on the history he presents either to approve it or condemn it. It should go without saying—but I’ll say it anyway—that the first centuries of the church’s history were not necessarily purer or better than subsequent centuries. I trust that few Christians today are pining for Christian Empire, let alone the enforcement of Christian morality by physical mutilation. The lesson for the church today is not to attempt to recreate the church from another age.

And yet, there are lessons to be learned from the transformation of sexual morality in late antiquity. Let me mention three.

First, for most of its early history, the church’s power came through preaching, writing, and through its own rigorous system of membership and discipline. Even when she was ignored, harassed, or outright persecuted, the church still wielded important power simply by consistently preaching the truth, developing an apologetic for the truth, and insisting that its members believed and lived out the truth. You can’t win the larger culture by losing your own.

Second, Christianity went from cult to culture in part because the sexual ethic was considered better and safer and more freeing for more people. Obviously, not everyone found Christian morality to be an improvement on traditional Roman standards. But Christian ethics meant a profoundly improved lot in life for women, children, the enslaved, and the poor. The changes came slowly—over centuries, not over years and decades—but changes did come. Virginity, for example, became a loud advertisement for the Christian religion, and women in particular took notice.

Third, we should expect conflict over sex. If Christians in late antiquity had made peace with the world over sex, Christianity would not have been true to itself. The same can be said today. Profoundly different versions of sexual morality cannot be wished away by civil discourse (though civility is good), nor washed away by theological compromise (that would be bad). “Because the problem of sex is inevitably tied to the problem of Christianity’s relation to the world, it is a tension that will surface during any great readjustment in the relationship between Christianity and the world” (160). In other words, the problem is not going away. Let’s hope the church’s winsome commitment to beauty and truth doesn’t either.

Should Women Preach in Our Churches?

This is not an article about the case for complementarianism instead of egalitarianism. That matters, of course, but this piece is for self-identified complementarians wondering if their theology can allow, or should allow, for women preaching.

Here is the question I want to address:

Is there biblical justification, given basic complementarian convictions, for the practice of women preaching sermons in a Sunday worship service?

Most people reading this column understand the immediate relevance of this question. I’m not going to rehearse the cases where this question has been raised or sift through recent responses online. Instead, I’m going to interact with what I think is the best case, from a complementarian perspective, for allowing women to preach. First, I’ll explain the argument for women preaching as fairly as I can. Then I’ll make a case why the argument—no matter how plausible it may sound at first—fails to convince.

Hearing Her Voice

The best argument I’ve seen for women preaching is by the Australian minister and apologist John Dickson in his book Hearing Her Voice: A Biblical Invitation for Women to Preach (Zondervan, 2014). With affirming blurbs from J. I. Packer, Craig Blomberg, Graham Cole, and Chris Wright, one can see why this has been an influential book. Even if you aren’t familiar with the book, I’m quite certain it’s influenced people you do know. Besides the commendation from well-respected evangelical scholars, Dickson’s book is a model of clarity and accessibility. In a little more than 100 pages, Dickson makes a thoughtful, straightforward case—as one who admits “to being a broad complementarian” (88)—for the legitimacy of women preaching sermons in Sunday services.

Not surprisingly, Dickson focuses on 1 Timothy 2:12. While the application seems obvious to many of us—women aren’t permitted to teach or to exercise authority, so they shouldn’t preach sermons—Dickson argues that we’ve misunderstood what Paul meant by teaching. “Put simply,” Dickson writes, “there are numerous public-speaking ministries mentioned in the New Testament—teaching, exhorting, evangelizing, prophesying, reading, and so on—and Paul restricts just one of them to qualified males: ‘teaching’” (11–12).

At the heart of Dickson’s argument is a simple syllogism, we can summarize like this:

The only thing women can’t do in worship is teach.
For Paul, teaching was a technical and narrowly conceived enterprise that is not the same as our modern sermon.
Therefore, women can speak in almost every way in a church service, including preaching the sermon.

So, if preaching a sermon does not count as teaching, what did Paul mean by teaching? Dickson explains:

1 Timothy 2:12 does not refer to a general type of speaking based on Scripture. Rather, it refers to a specific activity found throughout the pages of the New Testament, namely preserving and laying down the tradition handed on by the apostles. This activity is different from the explanation and application of a Bible passage found in today’s typical expository sermon. (12)

Dickson builds the case for this preliminary conclusion in four parts.

Part One. There are several different kinds of speaking mentioned in the Bible: prophesying, evangelizing, reading, exhorting, teaching, and so on. We know from texts like 1 Corinthians 12:28, 1 Corinthians 14, Romans 12:4–8, and 1 Timothy 4:13 that Paul did not treat these speaking ministries as identical. Only one of these types of speaking—the activity of teaching—is restricted to men (27).

Part Two. In the ancient world, and specifically for Paul, to teach (didasko) was a technical term for passing on a fixed oral tradition (34, 45). Teaching does not refer to expounding or explaining but to transmitting words intact (33). With the close of the biblical canon, there is not the same need for teaching in this technical sense.

Part Three. In the New Testament, teaching never means explaining or applying a biblical passage (50, 54). A teacher was someone who carefully passed down the fixed traditions or the body of apostolic words from their original source to a new community of faith (57, 59, 61). Some contemporary sermons may contain elements of this transmission, but this is not the typical function of weekly exposition (64). What we think of as the sermon is more aptly called exhortation (65).

Part Four. The apostolic deposit is now found in the pages of the New Testament. No individual is charged with preserving and transmitting the fixed oral traditions about Jesus (72, 74). Our preachers may be analogous to ancient teachers, but we do not preserve and transmit the apostolic deposit to the same degree, in the same manner, or with the same authority (73, 75). The typical sermon where a preacher comments on the teaching of the apostles, exhorts us to follow that teaching, and then applies that teaching is not itself teaching. The modern sermon is, depending on your definition, more like prophesying or exhorting, both of which are open to women (75).

From Yes to No

Dickson includes academic footnotes in making his case, as well as caveats and qualifications along the way. But the gist of his argument is arrestingly simple: Teaching is not what we do when we preach a sermon. Only teaching is forbidden to women. Women, therefore, can preach sermons in our churches.

I find Dickson’s thesis unconvincing for two basic reasons. I believe his view of ancient teaching is overly narrow, and his view of contemporary preaching is exceedingly thin. Let me unpack this conclusion by looking at teaching from a variety of angles.

Teaching in the Early Church

The strength of Dickson’s approach is that he rightly points to the different speaking words in the New Testament. True, teaching and exhorting and prophesying and reading are not identical. And yet, his overly technical definition of “teaching” does not fit the evidence, or in some instances even square with basic common sense. If “I do not permit a woman to teach” can mean “I permit a woman to preach because preaching doesn’t involve teaching” we must be employing very restrictive definitions of preaching and teaching.

More to the point, we have to wonder why this highly nuanced reading has been lost on almost every commentator for two millennia. In a revealing endnote on the last page of the book, Dickson acknowledges, “I have no doubt that within time the word ‘teaching’ in the early church came to mean explaining and applying the written words of the New Testament (and entire Bible). That would be an interesting line of research, but I am not sure it would overturn the evidence that in 1 Tim. 2:12 Paul had a different meaning of this important term” (104). That is a telling admission. But it invites the question: “If ‘teaching’ in the ancient world clearly had a narrow meaning of repeating oral traditions, why does no one seem to pick up on this exclusively technical definition?” To be sure, the Bible is our final authority, but when an argument relies so heavily on first-century context, you would expect the earliest centuries of the church to reinforce the argument, not undermine it.

When an argument relies so heavily on first-century context, you would expect the earliest centuries of the church to reinforce the argument, not undermine it.

Take the Didache, for example. This late-first-century document has a lot to say about teachers. They are supposed  to “teach all these things that have just been mentioned” [in the first ten chapters of the book] (11:1). They are to teach what accords with the church order laid out in the Didache (11:2). Importantly, the Didache assumes the existence of traveling teachers, apostles, and prophets, all of whom are said to teach (didaskon) (11:10-11). It is telling that “teaching” is a broad enough term to include what prophets and other speakers do, not to mention the Didache itself.

While “teach” can certainly include passing on oral traditions about Jesus, it cannot be restricted to only this. As Hughes Oliphant Old explains, “the Didache assumes a rather large body of prophets, teachers, bishops, and deacons who devote full time to their preaching and teaching” (The Reading and Preaching of the Scriptures, 1:256). With full-time teachers and “a daily assembly of the saints, at which the Word was preached” it is hard to imagine these various ministers engaged in “teaching” that steadfastly avoided the explanation of all biblical texts.

Of course, the true teachers were passing on the apostolic deposit, but this does not mean they were simply repeating the sayings of Jesus. In the Didache, parents are told to teach (didaxeis) the fear of the Lord to their children (4:9). The author(s) apparently does not think teaching is restricted to a highly technical definition. Nor does he think preaching is little more than a running commentary plus application. “My child, remember night and day the one who preaches God’s word to you, and honor him as though he were the Lord. For wherever the Lord’s nature is preached, there the Lord is” (4:1). According to the Didache, teaching is broader than transmitting oral traditions, and preaching involves more than a few words of exhortation.

Teaching in the Synagogue

One of the key points in Dickson’s argument is that the Pauline conception of teaching is rooted in the practice of the Pharisees, who passed on the oral traditions of their fathers (Mark 7:7). Just as the Pharisees might repeat the sayings of Hillel, so might the New Testament teacher repeat the sayings of Jesus. According to Dickson, the closest parallel to New Testament “teaching” is the passing down of the rabbinical traditions that we find repeated and piled up in the Mishnah (39).

This is an important line of reasoning for Dickson, one he repeats several times (39, 73, 100–2). The problem with the argument is twofold.

First, while the Mishnah collects the sayings of first- and second-century rabbis, these rabbis saw themselves explaining and applying the Torah. In other words, even if the Mishnah is our example of “teaching,” there is no bright line between “oral tradition” and “explaining texts.”

Second, the Jewish synagogue service provides a much better parallel to early Christian worship services than the Mishnah. After all, Paul is talking about corporate worship in 1 Timothy 2. For centuries leading up to the Christian era, the Jews had cultivated the art of preaching and gave it a privileged place in synagogue worship. According to Old, “there was a large core of dedicated men who had given their lives to the study of the Scriptures, and who prepared themselves to preach when the leadership of the synagogue invited them to do so” (The Reading and Preaching of the Scriptures, 1:102). It makes more sense to think Paul had in mind the well-developed tradition of men doing exposition in the Jewish worship service, when he prohibits women from teaching in 1 Timothy 2:12, as opposed to the mere repetition of oral traditions.

Teaching in the Old Testament

What’s more, this synagogue teaching ministry had its roots in the Old Testament. Moses taught (didasko, LXX) the people the statutes and rules of God—repeating them yes, but also explaining and applying them (Deut. 4:1–14). The priests, at least some of them, were to be teaching priests (2 Chr. 15:3), going through the cities of Judah teaching (edidaskon, LXX) people the Book of the Law (2 Chr. 17:9). Ezra set his heart to study the Law of the Lord and to teach (didaskein, LXX) his statutes and rules in Israel (Ezra 7:10). Likewise, Ezra and the Levites read from the Law of God and taught (edidasken, LXX) the people so they could understand the reading (Neh. 8:8).

The practices described in Ezra and Nehemiah give every indication of already being well established. There are texts, there are teachers, there is a congregation. We have in miniature the most essential elements of Jewish synagogue services, and the Christian services that would use synagogue worship as their starting point. It’s hard to imagine Paul meant to communicate, let alone that his audience would understand, that when he spoke of “teaching” he had in mind nothing of the Old Testament or Jewish tradition and was only thinking of Pharisees passing along oral sayings. In each of the Old Testament instances above, the teacher explains a written text. That doesn’t mean didasko must involve exposition, but the burden of proof rests with those who assert that it most certainly does not mean that.

Teaching in the New Testament

I agree with Dickson that the prohibition against women teaching in 1 Timothy 2:12 should not be taken in the broadest sense possible. Paul does not mean to forbid women from ever transmitting knowledge to someone else. He is addressing propriety in worship, not the sort of teaching we find from women to women in Titus 2 or from Priscilla and Aquila to Apollos in Acts 18. But just because we reject the broadest definition of teaching does not mean the only other option is the narrowest definition. Dickson would have us equate “teaching” with passing on oral tradition. That was certainly part of teaching in the apostolic age, but many of the places in the New Testament that speak of the apostolic tradition never mention didasko (1 Cor. 2:2; 3:10; 11:2; 11:23–26; 15:1–11; Gal. 1:6–9; 1 Thess. 4:1–2). The language instead is of receiving, delivering, or passing on.

Crucially, the Sermon on the Mount is labelled as “teaching” (Matt. 7:28–29). According to Dickson, the Sermon on the Mount is “teaching” because Jesus is correcting the tradition of the scribes and handing down his own authoritative traditions. What Jesus is not doing is expositing a text (54). Of course, Dickson is right in what Jesus is doing. He is wrong, however, in asserting what Jesus is not doing. The Sermon on the Mount is filled with Old Testament allusions, parallels, and explanations. One doesn’t have to claim that Jesus is giving a modern sermon as we might. The point is not that “teaching” everywhere in the New Testament means “exposition,” but that the two ideas cannot be neatly separated.

The first-century Jewish understanding of teaching must not be separated from the judicious interpretation of inspired texts.

Jesus was recognized by many as “rabbi,” an informal title meaning “teacher.” As a teacher, Jesus frequently quoted from or explained Old Testament Scripture. In fact, Old argues that Jesus’s teaching in the Temple courts at the end of his ministry was meant to show Jesus as the fulfillment of the rabbinical office. In Matthew 21–23 we see the different schools of the time—Herodians, Pharisees, Sadducees—come to Jesus with their questions about the Law, and Jesus answers them all (1:106). In solving their riddles and stepping out of their traps, Jesus showed himself to be the master teacher, the rabbi of all rabbis. And in this display, he constantly explained and interpreted Scripture. The first-century Jewish understanding of teaching must not be separated from the judicious interpretation of inspired texts, nor can it be restricted to “passing along oral traditions.”

Teaching in the Pastoral Epistles

But what if—despite the Old Testament background and the synagogue background and the use of “teaching” in the Sermon on the Mount and the broader understanding of teacher in the early church—Paul choose to use a very narrow definition of teaching in the pastoral epistles? After surveying all the uses of “teaching” in the Pastoral Epistles, Dickson concludes that “teaching,” as a verb and a noun, refer not to Bible exposition but to apostolic words laid down for the churches (59). Simply put, “teach” does not mean exegete and apply; it means repeat and lay down (64–65). Pauline “teaching” was never (Dickson’s word, my emphasis) exposition in the contemporary sense (74). Whatever else teaching may entail in other places, according to Dickson, for Paul it only meant laying down oral tradition.

Dickson is certainly right that “teaching” in the Pastoral Epistles is about passing on the good deposit of apostolic truth about Jesus. Conservative complementarian scholar Bill Mounce, for example, has no problem affirming that 1 Timothy 2:12 has to do with “the authoritative and public transmission of tradition about Christ and the Scriptures” or that it involves “the preservation and transmission of the Christian tradition” (Pastoral Epistles, 126). But notice that Mounce does not reduce the Christian tradition to oral sayings only, to the exclusion of Scriptural explication. Likewise, the Theological Dictionary of the New Testament argues that didaskein “is closely bound to Scripture even in the NT” (146). Later the TDNT affirms that even in the pastoral epistles “the historical connexion between Scripture and didaskein is still intact” (147).

One does not have to equate didasko with a three-point sermon to see that transmitting the apostolic deposit can scarcely be done apart from biblical references and exposition.

Surely this is right. Are we really to think that when Paul insisted that the elders be apt to teach that this had no reference to handling the Scriptures or rightly dividing the word of truth (2 Tim. 2:15)? Teaching must be broader than passing on oral traditions, for how else could Paul tell the older women “to teach what is good” (kalodidaskalo) to the younger women? Or consider 1 Timothy 4:13, where Paul tells Timothy to devote himself to the public reading of Scripture, to exhortation, and to teaching. Sure, these are not identical tasks, but on Dickson’s interpretation Timothy was to read the Scriptures, exhort from the Scriptures, and then lay down the apostolic deposit without every expounding any of the Scriptures just read.

Similarly, Dickson argues that when Paul says all Scripture is profitable for teaching, he means Timothy would privately read Scripture so that he could be better equipped to publicly pass on the good deposit, but again, without expounding a Bible passage (52–53). If this is correct, then Paul never meant for teachers to explain Bible verses in reproving, correcting, or training either. The Bible may inform these tasks, but it never involves exposition of any kind (57). This strains credulity to the breaking point. Look at the preaching in Acts. There was hardly any handing down of the good deposit that did not also explain the Scriptures. And in 1 Corinthians 15 where Paul is explicitly passing along what he also received the message is not the mere repetition of verbal formulas, but the apostolic tradition that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures and that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures. One does not have to equate didasko with a three-point sermon to see that transmitting the apostolic deposit can scarcely be done apart from biblical references and exposition.

Teaching in Today’s Sermon

If Dickson’s definition of ancient teaching is too narrow, his understanding of contemporary preaching is too impoverished. In Dickson’s telling, the sermon is essentially a running commentary plus application. I confess I have a very different view of what preaching entails, not because preaching is less than exposition and application, but because it is much more. The preacher is a kerux, a herald (2 Tim. 1:11). Of course, we don’t preach with the authority of an apostle, but for those qualified men called to preach they do pass along the apostolic deposit and they ought to preach with authority. Why else would Paul command Timothy—with such dramatic language and with such dire exhortations—to preach the word; to reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with complete patience and teaching (2 Tim. 4:1–2)?

In the end, I believe Dickson’s approach is not only historically and exegetically unconvincing, it is practically unworkable—at least for complementarians. Egalitarians will affirm women preaching for all sorts of reasons. But complementarians who try to thread the needle and argue that “this message on Sunday morning is a sharing not a sermon” or “this woman preaching is under the authority of the session” will find that their arguments for not letting women preach all the time and in any way look exceedingly arbitrary.

The heraldic event—no matter the platform provided by the pastor or the covering given by the elders—cannot be separated from exercising authority and teaching, the two things women are not permitted do in the worship service.

At various points, Dickson admits that some preaching today may involve teaching and that the different kinds of speaking in the New Testament probably overlapped.

“I am not suggesting that these three forms of speech (teaching, prophesying, and exhorting) are strictly separate or that there is no significant overlap of content and function” (24).
“Some contemporary sermons involve something close to authoritatively preserving and laying down the apostolic deposit, but I do not believe this is the typical function of the weekly exposition” (64).
“I have no doubt that Timothy added to these apostolic teachings his own appeals, explanations, and applications, but these are not the constitutive or defining elements of teaching. At that point, Timothy would be moving into what is more appropriately called ‘exhortation’” (65).
“I am not creating a hard distinction between teaching and exhorting, but I am observing that, whereas teaching is principally about laying something down in fixed form, exhorting is principally about urging people to obey and apply God’s truth” (65).
“No doubt there was a degree of teaching going on in exhorting and prophesying, just as there was some exhorting (and maybe prophesying) going on in teaching” (66–67).
“I also think that some transmission of the apostolic deposit still goes on in every decent sermon, in some more than others” (79).

With all these elements of preaching jumbled together, how could Paul have expected Timothy to untangle the ball of yarn and know what he was supposed to not permit women to do? Just as importantly, how are we to discern when a sermon is just exhortation without authority and when it moves into an authoritative transmission of the apostolic deposit? Perhaps it would be better to see “teaching” as more or less what the preacher does on Sunday as opposed to a highly technical term that doesn’t make sense out of the early church, the Jewish synagogue, Jesus’s example, or Paul’s instructions.

The heraldic event—no matter the platform provided by the pastor or the covering given by the elders—cannot be separated from exercising authority and teaching, the two things women are not permitted do in the worship service.

One Question Every Church Planter Should Ask

There are, of course, hundreds of good questions to ask before planting a church. But there is one that is too often and too easily forgotten.

It’s a question that should be asked by every church plant team, every church planter, every sending agency, and every mother church before plans are finalized and the plant is launched.

And it’s a question we can’t answer ourselves. The question must be asked, not of the Bible or in our hearts, but in and among the area into which we are hoping to plant a church.

Here’s the question: “What other gospel work is already going on?”

To be sure, we can answer this question, in part, by doing our own research—googling churches, investigating websites, checking denominational databases. We may be able to discern on our own that there is not another good, gospel church within 10 or 20 or 100 miles of our desired location. Or we may be able to identify a target population that speaks a different language than the other churches in its immediate vicinity. But still, there is no substitute for asking the Christians on the ground what the needs are (or aren’t!).

Recurring Theme

Recently, I received an email about a new church plant in Matthews, North Carolina, right around the corner from Christ Covenant. The first I heard about the plant was in an email sent to one of our pastors (not sure why) explaining what an exciting day this was for the gospel. I never want to be territorial with the saving news of Christ. Matthews is a growing area. There are plenty of non-Christians. Maybe a new church will reach those non-Christians. I can’t say we don’t need another church around the corner. But there are also a lot of churches already in Matthews, and many of them faithfully preach the gospel.

Now maybe the new church wants to establish a type of church they think is lacking in the area (e.g., international, charismatic, Anglican, whatever). I can understand that. I’ve been supportive before of Presbyterians planting confessional Reformed churches where none exists in an area, even if there may be an evangelical Arminian congregation already established. But again, ask first. Not for permission, but simply to hear what churches are already doing. Maybe the plant team would be confirmed in their sense of the need for their particular church. In some cases, though, I wonder if the planter, the plant team, or the sending group might humbly decide, “Our time, money, and effort could be better used somewhere else.”

While in East Lansing, we would see new churches start up every couple years. Again, not a problem. East Lansing, Michigan, needs more gospel people. But there would often be much fanfare in their advertising about how this new church, often sent from another more Christian part of the country, was going to reach the campus for Christ. Great. Michigan State has more than 50,000 students, but they also have Cru, InterVarsity, Navigators, groups for Baptists, groups for minority Christians, local church fellowships, and a host of other on-campus ministries. If a new group came in and ministered to 100 people, they’d hardly make a dent, so the more gospel workers the merrier, so long as the new guys don’t act like (and advertise like) there was no hope for the heathens on campus until they arrived. Be humble and ask.

Not too long ago a church leader from another part of the Western world was (kindly) lamenting to me that an American mission agency was sending in missionaries to plant churches in his city. The man was not opposed to more churches. In fact, he welcomed more Christians and more churches. But he lamented to me that no one asked him, and the well-established denomination he was a part of, what gospel work was already taking place in the city. “They act like we are an unreached people group,” he said, “but we’re not. Talk to us first.”

Similarly, years ago I was in a Middle Eastern country—which likely is classified as unreached—and saw many fine American Christians courageously involved in evangelism and discipleship. There was (and is), however, a small indigenous church already in the country. Again, the leaders lamented that there was little effort to learn what the already-on-the-ground Christians were doing or, in this instance, even to think much about the necessity of the local church.

Not No, But Slow

It’s a problem that repeats itself at home and abroad: Christians boldly launching a new ministry or a new church in a new area without taking time to hear from the Christians already doing ministry in that area. In most cases, I imagine another church or ministry can be justified, because the city is growing and so are the spiritual needs. There are certainly enough lost people to fill all our churches.

But too often there is a sense of independence and triumphalism that does not serve the body of Christ or the cause of the gospel. And in some cases, I fear Christians are dumping their time, talent, and treasure into popular cities that are already well served, when there are rural areas without good churches and billions around the world with no access to Christ.

I hope I’ve made my caveats repetitively clear. I’m all for church planting. Christ Covenant has planted several churches in its history, and we are currently partnering with other churches in our Presbytery to launch a Hispanic church plant in Charlotte. We need strong, healthy churches everywhere in the world. But if and when we enter a new area with the gospel, let’s make sure we slow down enough to talk to the Christians who are already there. We may learn something we didn’t know. And maybe even make a new friend.