Evangelical recovery

Several prominent evangelicals released a statement today called The Evangelical Manifesto. Definitely worth reading.

The statement and its signers seek to define evangelicalism in a way that, after 30+ years of Dobson/Falwell/Robertson holding the megaphone, may sound a lot like someone trying to put new spin on an old idea. But what this manifesto proposes is nothing more (or less) than a return to evangelicalism in its most classical, authentic sense.

This is evangelicalism as John Newton and William Wilberforce knew it.

Not surprisingly, James Dobson declined to sign it, citing a mostly unspecified “myriad of concerns.”

What I love most about this manifesto is its humility. The signers distance themselves from some of the more extreme expressions of evangelicalism in recent history—without becoming strident or self-righteous… or falling into the trap of making little more than a desperate appeal for acceptance.

Here are some of my favorite bits. But really, you should skip this part and download the whole thing…

As followers of “the narrow way,” our concern is not for approval and popular esteem. Nor do we regard it as accurate or faithful to pose as victims, or to protest at discrimination. We certainly do not face persecution like our fellow-believers elsewhere in the world. Too many of the problems we face as Evangelicals in the United States are those of our own making. If we protest, our protest has to begin with ourselves….

As the universal popularity of such hymns and songs as “Amazing Grace” attests, our great hymn writers stand alongside our great theologians, and often our commitment can be seen better in our giving and our caring than in official statements. What we are about is captured not only in books or declarations, but in our care for the poor, the homeless, and the orphaned; our outreach to those in prison; our compassion for the hungry and the victims of disaster; and our fight for justice for those oppressed by such evils as slavery and human trafficking….

Above all else, [evangelicalism] is a commitment and devotion to the person and work of Jesus Christ, his teaching and way of life, and an enduring dedication to his lordship above all other earthly powers, allegiances and loyalties. As such, it should not be limited to tribal or national boundaries, or be confused with, or reduced to political categories such as “conservative” and “liberal”….

First and foremost we Evangelicals are for Someone and for something rather than against anyone or anything. The Gospel of Jesus is the Good News of welcome, forgiveness, grace, and liberation from law and legalism. It is a colossal YES to life and human aspirations, and an emphatic NO only to what contradicts our true destiny as human beings made in the image of God….

We call for an expansion of our concern beyond single-issue politics, such as abortion and marriage, and a fuller recognition of the comprehensive causes and concerns of the Gospel, and of all the human issues that must be engaged in public life. Although we cannot back away from our biblically rooted commitment to the sanctity of every human life, including those unborn, nor can we deny the holiness of marriage as instituted by God between one man and one woman, we must follow the model of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, engaging the global giants of conflict, racism, corruption, poverty, pandemic diseases, illiteracy, ignorance, and spiritual emptiness, by promoting reconciliation, encouraging ethical servant leadership, assisting the poor, caring for the sick, and educating the next generation. We believe it is our calling to be good stewards of all God has entrusted to our care so that it may be passed on to generations yet to be born….

The other error, made by both the religious left and the religious right in recent decades, is to politicize faith, using faith to express essentially political points that have lost touch with biblical truth. That way faith loses its independence, the church becomes “the regime at prayer,” Christians become “useful idiots” for one political party or another, and the Christian faith becomes an ideology in its purest form. Christian beliefs are used as weapons for political interests. Christians from both sides of the political spectrum, left as well as right, have made the mistake of politicizing faith; and it would be no improvement to respond to a weakening of the religious right with a rejuvenation of the religious left. Whichever side it comes from, a politicized faith is faithless, foolish, and disastrous for the church—and disastrous first and foremost for Christian reasons rather than constitutional reasons….

We Evangelicals trace our heritage, not to Constantine, but to the very different stance of Jesus of Nazareth. While some of us are pacifists and others are advocates of just war, we all believe that Jesus’ Good News of justice for the whole world was promoted, not by a conqueror’s power and sword, but by a suffering servant emptied of power and ready to die for the ends he came to achieve. Unlike some other religious believers, we do not see insults and attacks on our faith as “offensive” and “blasphemous” in a manner to be defended by law, but as part of the cost of our discipleship that we are to bear without complaint or victim-playing….

On another note, today’s SojoMail, a weekly update from Sojourners (which included a feature on the Evangelical Manifesto) had what might be one of the more ironic pairing of banner ads I’ve seen…

Awesome. (I know… Rebecca St. James hardly qualifies as “rock star” material, but still… it’s a LITTLE funny…)

Conservative heroism / heroic conservatism

I read about this on the God’s Politics blog this evening…

Michael Gerson is regarded by many as one of the most talented (and controversial) speechwriters today. Having spent five-plus years as the top White House speechwriter, Gerson, a graduate of Wheaton College, is the man responsible for such memorable lines as the poetic “soft bigotry of low expectations” and the infamous “axis of evil.”

Gerson has a new book releasing this month, Heroic Conservatism. I don’t normally write about books I haven’t read yet, but the God’s Politics post got me curious.

According to the Washington Post (where Gerson is now an op-ed columnist), he writes in his book that “traditional conservatism has a piece missing—a piece that is shaped like a conscience.” In his own column, Gerson wrote earlier today that some conservatives are proposing a false choice between big-government liberalism and “freedom, reduced to a single principle of unrestricted economic choice.”

Gerson, an evangelical Christian, believes many of his fellow conservatives are drawing from the well of libertarianism. He proposes that Catholic social thought—which maintains the dignity of every human life, the importance of the family and community, and solidarity with the poor, among other things—would make a better foundation for those whose politics lean toward the right.

(As a side note, one aspect of Catholic social thought that conservatives especially resonate with—the sanctity of life—is also cause for discomfort among some of them. In addition to its opposition to abortion, this tenet of Catholic social thought maintains that war and capital punishment must also be rejected in favor of life.)

Focusing mostly on what Catholic social thought says about the poor, Gerson writes:

The difference between these visions is considerable. Various forms of libertarianism and anti-government conservatism share a belief that justice is defined by the imposition of impartial rules—free markets and the rule of law. If everyone is treated fairly and equally, the state has done its job. But Catholic social thought takes a large step beyond that view. While it affirms the principle of limited government—asserting the existence of a world of families, congregations and community institutions where government should rarely tread—it also asserts that the justice of society is measured by its treatment of the helpless and poor. And this creates a positive obligation to order society in a way that protects and benefits the powerless and suffering.

This obligation to protect has never, in Jewish and Christian teaching, been purely private. Hebrew law made a special provision for the destitute—requiring that a portion of harvested crops be left in the field to be gathered by the poor. The Hebrew prophets raucously confronted the political and economic exploitation of the weak.

Speaking as one who doesn’t feel at home among the labels or parties at either end of the political spectrum, I think both sides of the aisle (and everyone in between) would benefit from more thinking like Gerson’s.

Mark Driscoll and the Reformed-Emergent smackdown, pt. 5

At last, like a bad boxing film series that just goes on and on, we’ve arrived at part 5. (Unlike some boxing films, however, there will be no part 6.)

5. The danger of freezing the Bible

I have no doubt Mark is passionate about the Bible and passionate about Jesus. Describing his own movement near the end of his speech, Mark says:

What tends to be driving this stream is a return to expositional Bible teaching that is theologically motivated and Jesus centered.. The sermons in a lot of these churches…tends to be at least an hour. The repentance of sin and trust in Jesus is continually heralded. The way they distinguish themselves from older Reformed theology is that they’re nice.

Not bad (especially the part about being nice!). But each of us must confront the possibility that sometimes what we are advocating or defending is not the Bible, but our view of the Bible.

For example, one of the reasons Mark criticized Rob Bell is because of Rob’s belief (inspired by William Webb’s book Slaves, Woman & Homosexuals) that we must look for the trajectory of scripture. This view, known as the redemptive movement hermeneutic, teaches that it’s not always enough to look at the words of a single passage of scripture. We need to look at the whole Bible and try to see where God is moving.

Mark claims this interpretive method represents “the pinnacle of academic arrogance” because he says it is based on the assumption “that we are more enlightened and that our culture is more enlightened than Paul or Jesus or Moses.”

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The idea behind the redemptive movement hermeneutic is that God’s plans for humanity often unfold over time—and that sometimes we can discern the trajectory of God’s plan by moving through the scriptures… by asking how they spoke to people way back when and how they speak to us today.

Take slavery. The Bible never prohibits owning another human being, yet virtually every Christian alive today understands slavery to be incompatible with God’s design.

We know it to be true because we recognize the seeds of this idea being planted in Genesis 1, where human beings are created in God’s image. We see glimpses of the trajectory of God’s plan in the Torah, where Israel is held to a comparatively higher standard in its treatment of slaves—even though the Bible still falls short of banning slavery outright.

When Paul shows up, he argues there is no distinction between slave and free, encourages slaves to seek their freedom (without disobeying their masters, however), and even pleads with a slave owner to welcome back his runaway slave as an equal in Christ.

But still… our rejection of slavery as a moral evil is not based on any direct command from scripture, but rather our understanding of the trajectory in which God is moving.

Mark disputes the notion of a trajectory in the Bible—particularly when it comes to the question of a woman’s role in the home and the church. (He actually misquotes scripture at one point, suggesting that the Bible says a man should be “the head of his household.”)

Mark claims the “same argument is being used for homosexuality and all kinds of other things,” even though the whole purpose of Webb’s book is to demonstrate how the redemptive movement hermeneutic takes you one direction on some issues (like slavery and gender equality) and a another direction on some other issues (namely, homosexuality).

The redemptive movement hermeneutic has inspired me to hold a bigger view of the Bible. A Bible-with-a-trajectory-to-it is a more dangerous book because it can make even more demands of me. I have to wrestle with it even more—asking not only, “What are the words saying?” but also, “Where is God moving?”

Contrary to what Mark says people like me believe, I don’t look to my own intellect or the surrounding culture for answers. They are to be found in the revelation of God in scripture and in the person and work of Jesus.

So there you have it. I respect Mark, but I see a few things differently than he does.

I want to be someone who’s not afraid to engage in the big conversation about faith and life and Jesus.

I want to be someone who embraces the best from many different Christian traditions—Reformed, emerging, evangelical, etc. (And that’s just to name some of the traditions we encounter in our Western, predominantly white culture. We shouldn’t stop there. We should explore what Christians in places like Africa and Asia are saying, too.)

I want to be someone who does not misquote or misrepresent those I disagree with. I want to accept and even celebrate the fact that people like Mark—though they have a very different understanding of the Bible—are every bit as devoted to Christ.

I want to be someone who embraces the whole Bible—even when it challenges me to go beyond my own preconceived notions.

Last (to quote Doug Pagitt) I want to be the kind of Christian who refuses to treat those with different perspectives as enemies. I want to be someone who believes that “since I am supposed love my enemy anyway, I might as well get a friend out of it.”

Oh, yeah… and:

Mark Driscoll and the Reformed-Emergent smackdown, pt. 4

Three down, two to go…

Here’s part 4 (or use these links for part 1, part 2, and part 3.)

4. The danger of forgetting the best of your own theology

To me, one of the most interesting comments Mark made is one I mentioned in yesterday’s post: “If you don’t love Jesus, you’re a bad Bible scholar.” Does this mean that Christians shouldn’t listen to anything non-Christians say about the Bible? Coming from someone who embraces a Reformed tradition, this seems almost anti-intellectual.

So does the opposite hold true? If you love Jesus, does that automatically make you a good Bible scholar? What happens when two people who both claim to love Jesus have very different interpretations of the Bible? Should we conclude that one of them (the one whose interpretation conflicts with ours, naturally) must be lying about his or her reverence for God? Does a difference of opinion give us the right to cast doubt on their devotion?

Back to the original question. If someone makes no claim to be a follower of Jesus, does that automatically disqualify them from saying anything useful about the Bible? Should be plug our ears and hum when they speak?

It’s here that I think Mark may have forgotten one of the greatest contributions of the Reformed theology he embraces.

Now I don’t consider myself to be Reformed (not with a capital “r” anyway). I’ve been there before… and moved on. I’m a recovering Calvinist. The more I study the scriptures, the less I’m persuaded by the classical Reformed view of predestination.

However, there’s at least one thing from my experience with Reformed theology that I’ve held onto. To me, this something is arguably one of the key elements of a Reformed worldview: the notion that in a world created by God, we as Christians can celebrate truth wherever we find it because all truth is God’s truth.

This is what common grace is all about. God does not just give good things like sun and rain—or wisdom and knowledge—to the righteous (Matthew 5:45). Which is why it’s so dangerous to say something like, “If you don’t love Jesus, you’re a bad Bible scholar.” Sure—if you don’t believe in the resurrection, I may not take your word for it what happened after the crucifixion, but that doesn’t mean you can’t teach me anything about the life and times of Jesus.

On three different occasions, the apostle Paul quotes pagan sources. He did so in writings that came to be regarded as sacred scripture (Acts 17:28; 1 Corinthians 15:33; Titus 1:12-13). He even refers to a Cretan philosopher as a “prophet.”

Paul was comfortable using the ideas of people who didn’t know or love Jesus to express biblical truth. Why? Because Paul lived with the confidence that all truth is God’s truth—that (to paraphrase Jay Kesler) we can overturn every rock in the pursuit of truth because there’s nothing that’s going to jump out from underneath and eat God.

Maybe reading books by the likes of Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan isn’t necessarily a bad idea after all.

Tomorrow, part 5: the danger of freezing the Bible.

Mark Driscoll and the Reformed-Emergent smackdown, pt. 3

And here’s the third installment of my thoughts on Mark Driscoll’s speech on the emerging church (or you can read part 1 and part 2)…

3. The danger of guilt by association and selective quotation

Toward the end of his speech, Mark had some good things to say about the importance of incarnational ministry. He understands that “the world has changed” and that “the assumptions of modernity no longer hold.” He talked about the need to be about both “God’s Word and God’s world.” On the whole, pretty good stuff.

But as good as Mark’s comments on incarnational ministry, some of his criticisms of the emerging church were equally careless.

At times, he blended a more-or-less accurate assessment of emerging Christianity with something less than the whole enchilada. Like when he said emergents believe in having conversations about what God said—true—as well as whether God meant what he said—not necessarily true. (I’ve linked to it a couple times already, but for a good introduction to the emerging church by someone who understands that it’s not a monolith, go here.)

Another example was when Mark addressed Rob Bell’s comments on the virgin birth in his book Velvet Elvis. According to Mark, Velvet Elvis “actually calls into question the virgin birth of Jesus Christ.” He even characterized Rob as saying, “‘Now I believe in the virgin birth, but I’m just saying we don’t need it.’”

What’s interesting is the way Mark combined direct quotation (reading an excerpt from Velvet Elvis) and loose paraphrase—without telling his listeners which was which. By doing this, Mark misrepresented what Rob actually said. In Velvet Elvis, Rob affirms his belief in the virgin birth as part of the historic Christian faith—one he wants “to pass… on to the next generation.” Rob’s point (at least what I took from it) was that for him, even if the virgin birth were somehow disproved, he would still find Jesus more compelling than anything else out there. That’s not the same as saying, “We don’t need the virgin birth,” or calling it into question.

Elsewhere, Mark criticizes Rob’s use rabbinical sources in his interpretation of the New Testament because, in Mark’s words: “If you don’t love Jesus, you’re a bad Bible scholar.” (Never mind that the oral traditions of rabbis like Hillel and Shammai predate Jesus.)

But the rabbinical sources can help us better understand Jesus because much of what he taught was interacting with other rabbinical interpretations of scripture. Jesus himself, though he lived before the term rabbi evolved into a formal title, followed many of the common practices of rabbis—such as choosing a select group of disciples and teaching in the synagogues. Many of the sayings and even exact phrases Jesus used (such as “binding” and “loosing” in Matthew 16:19) come straight out of the rabbinic tradition.

Here again, Mark builds his case on selective quotation—or more precisely in this case, no actual quotation at all. He says that Rob “holds up rabbinical authority as the key to Bible interpretation and hermeneutics.” In the more than three-and-a-half years I spent at Rob’s church, I don’t remember hearing him claim that rabbinical authority is the key to biblical interpretation. The reality is that Rob, like most good pastors and teachers, uses a number of sources to help him better understand the scriptures.

Elsewhere, Mark goes after Brian McLaren, but his criticism rests largely on Brian’s endorsement of a few books—including one by John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg (who are not evangelicals) and another by Steve Chalke (who is evangelical). Of Crossan, Mark says he “does not give us anything biblical regarding the person and work—including the resurrection—of Jesus.”

I’ve read two of Crossan’s books and one of Chalke’s. I’m smart enough to know I don’t agree with everything they write—particularly Crossan, who doesn’t believe Jesus rose from the dead. But that doesn’t mean they can’t offer some valuable insights that I can benefit from. I’m also smart enough to know that endorsing a book doesn’t necessarily mean you agree with everything that’s in it, either. Listening to people with different perspectives is part of what sharpens us.

Mark—and others—may have legitimate reasons for disagreeing with someone like Brian McLaren. But any case they wish to make would only be stronger if they built it on what the person actually said and not who they’re associated with or which books they read.

Tomorrow, part 4: the danger of forgetting the best of your own theology.

Mark Driscoll and the Reformed-Emergent smackdown, pt. 2

Yesterday, I posted some thoughts on Mark Driscoll’s speech at last month’s Convergent Conference. Plenty of others were blogging about this long before I was. To see what they’re saying about the speech, go here.

Whether or not you agree with Mark, he’s a significant voice in the church, and it’s worth listening to his presentation (if you have time—it’s about 80 minutes long). Click here to download the podcast.

Here’s my second major takeaway from his speechification (go here for part 1)…

2. The danger of being against being known for what you’re against

Mark’s speech began with a few moments of impossible-not-to-admire introspection. Telling his story with refreshing humility, he described a time in his life when he was too “jealous, proud, self-righteous, and mean spirited.” I wish more of us could be this transparent.

Mark went on to say, as he began his critique of the emerging church, “It’s really hard for me. I don’t want to be the man who’s known by what he’s against.”

The next 40 minutes—precisely half of his speech—were spent criticizing three people: Brian McLaren, Doug Pagitt, and Rob Bell. In the case of one of these individuals, Mark openly questioned his devotion to God and called his theological method “frightening.” The word heresy was used in close proximity to these names.

I’ve met these three people before. Shared a meal with a couple of them. One was my teaching pastor for more than three years. I may not agree with every single thing they say, but I have a great deal of admiration for these guys.

Of the three, only one has responded to Mark’s speech. None have gone on the counterattack. And none of them have questioned Mark’s devotion to God.

Maybe, if we want learn how avoid being known for what we’re against, we should look to those on the receiving end of Mark’s criticism.

Tomorrow, part 3: the dangers of guilt by association and selective quotation.

Mark Driscoll and the Reformed-Emergent smackdown, pt. 1

About a month ago, Mark Driscoll (pastor of Seattle’s ginormous megachurch phenomenon otherwise known as Mars Hill—not to be confused with Michigan’s ginormous megachurch phenomenon also known as Mars Hill) spoke at the Convergent Conference, sharing his thoughts on two competing visions of Christianity.

In his speech (click here for the podcast), Mark drew strong battle lines between what he calls the “Revisionists” (i.e. the emerging church) and the “Relevant Reformed” (his group—i.e. the cool Calvinists).

Recently I took a theological worldview survey for the fun of it, and apparently I’ve got a little bit of the both groups me, among other things. (Not to blur the battle lines or anything…) While there are some very real differences between these two perspectives, I’m not sure I buy the idea that they’re mutually exclusive in every way.

Needless to say, there have been lots of reactions to Mark’s speech—some heralding it as a watershed moment marking the beginning of the end for all those emerging types… others questioning the tone and substance of Mark’s presentation… and still others simply, ah, winking at Mark.

Mark Driscoll is an important voice in the church today, so I decided to tune in and see what Mark had to say. And it provoked a number of thoughts/questions/observations. I see at least five dangers in it all, so I think I’ll divide this into five posts. Here’s number one:

1. The danger of conversations and the even greater danger of not having them

There is no single term that can describe the entire emerging church, but I think many would agree that seeing faith as a conversation—that is, a dialogue, a journey, a process of discovery—is one of the emerging church’s major contributions to Christian thought. Even one of its leading critics, D.A. Carson, picked up on this in the title of his book, Becoming Conversant With the Emerging Church.

But Mark seemed to depict conversation as one of the great threats to the church:

What concerns me is what I see in Genesis 3… It shows us where history went askew and we were led by the serpent—which Revelation reveals is Satan our enemy—into error and falling. And that is through a conversation. And the emergent church has positioned itself as a conversation—a conversation about things that God has said. A conversation about whether or not God meant what he said. Of course, I don’t mind a conversation. I have a wife and two daughters—I’ve had them. But when God speaks, we are not to converse. We are to obey.

Now, the notion of faith as a conversation was not invented by the emerging church. It’s an integral part of the biblical story.

What about Abraham, who not only conversed with God, but openly questioned how God could bring about his promised blessings (Genesis 15)? Or what about when Abraham bargained with God over the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 18:16-33)?

What about Moses, who tried (and failed) to converse his way out of leading the Hebrews (Exodus 3-4) and, on another occasion, boldly—and successfully—talked God out of destroying the Israelites in the wilderness (Exodus 32:11-14)?

What about Job, who engaged in such a scandalously frank conversation about God’s justice that his friends rebuked him for it? (In the end, Job’s friends were rebuked by God for questioning Job’s integrity.)

What about the rabbis, who engaged in a never-ending conversation about the Torah, how to interpret it, and which laws were more important—a conversation that Jesus actively participated in?

Conversation is risky—and yes, it can be dangerous. But a conversation about what God said is not necessarily the same as a conversation about whether or not he really meant what he said. After reading the scriptures, some might even say that faith itself is one big conversation; it’s through conversing with the text and each other that God reveals himself to us. God demands our allegiance and obedience, yes—but he also invites us to wrestle with him, like Jacob did.

Tomorrow, part 2: the danger of being against being known for what you’re against…

Does Jesus want a “Christian nation”?

The International Herald-Tribune posted an interesting article on their website yesterday:

The U.S. is not a “Christian nation”

This is no anti-religious article. The writer—Newsweek editor Jon Meacham—doesn’t make the founding fathers out to be irreligious. In fact, he readily acknowledges that many of this country’s architects were deeply committed to their faith.

Meacham does, however, cite some interesting historical facts to support his argument that we are not a Christian nation. For example, when Connecticut ratified the Constitution, some felt there wasn’t enough religious language in it and campaigned to revise this country’s foundational document. Their efforts, however, failed. Meacham also quotes some who opposed the Constitution’s ratification because, in the words of one such critic, “No deity comes down to dictate it.”

Of course, our national liturgy is filled with religious language, and Meacham is not blind to this fact. His argument is not that Christianity has no place in our national story—just that it does not occupy the only place.

But what fascinates me more than Meacham’s historical observations are the theological questions he raises. He reminds us of the profoundly spiritual and political statement Jesus made to Pilate, governor of Judea, shortly before Jesus’ crucifixion: “My kingdom is not of this world.”

Meacham also cites Peter’s speech at Cornelius’ house, given on the occasion the apostle first realized that God does not prefer Jew over non-Jew (or vice versa):

I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts those from every nation who fear him and do what is right.

— Acts 10:34 (TNIV)

For me, all of this raises the question: What would Jesus do with a “Christian nation” anyway? Is it something he even wants?

It seems to me that Jesus did not put his faith in nations to advance the kingdom of God. The notion of spreading the gospel by the sword (which, in the scriptures, is a metaphor for governments) originated with Constantine, not Jesus.

Jesus, it seems, had a better plan.

It hinged upon a group of followers who were not of this world, advancing a kingdom that was not of this world—that is, a kingdom that does not depend on the power of nations or governments or militaries or anything else that denotes power in the minds of most.

Apparently, Jesus was under the impression that small groups of people from every background imaginable could accomplish more simply by loving each other (and their neighbors) than any “Christian nation” ever could.

When we aspire to make this country a “Christian nation,” maybe we’re settling for less than what God wants to offer us.

A theology of patriotism

Today is the Fourth of July.

Which means fireworks and Tchaikovsky. Hot dogs and… more hot dogs. Church sanctuaries draped in red, white and blue.

It’s always that last bit that leaves me feeling a little uneasy this time of year.

On the one hand… there are many things I love about this country—most of all, the fact that it’s my home. Whenever I travel abroad—whether it’s overseas or just over the border to Canada—the return trip always feels appropriately like a homecoming of sorts. It’s like something inside me says, “This is where I belong,” as I wait for the customs official to wave me past the security checkpoint. (It doesn’t even matter that the customs officials I’ve met in other parts of the world are almost always politer than the ones I’ve met in my own country.)

Also, I’m enchanted by the American story, warts and all. I’ve always been a fan of history—an interest faithfully cultivated by my parents. And I think the American Revolutionary War is one of the most fascinating periods in history—one that inspired some of the greatest innovations in government since the Greeks first experimented with democracy.

There were many reasons for the Revolution—some more compelling than others. But ultimately, the quest for independence came down to this: (1) a basic (and well-founded) distrust of monarchy without accountability and (2) a belief that if a parliament in London was to decide how Americans would be taxed, then there ought to be an American voice in that parliament to represent the interests of the American people. In other words, “no taxation without representation,” as the revolutionary motto said.

It was not democracy in the purest sense that the founding fathers championed (even though we toss that word around a lot today). Rather, it was the idea that someone who speaks for and is accountable to the people ought to have a say in the governing of that people—the decisions made, the laws passed, the taxes levied.

But perhaps the greatest moment of the Revolution came after it was over. George Washington, the first great American hero (whose integrity made up for his lack of tactical military skill), was offered the reward customarily given to those who have successfully thrown off the yoke of an oppressor: he was given the chance to rule in place of the oppressor he had defeated. To become the first king of America. To begin a dynasty that might have lasted to this day.

Few in history have been given the chance at absolute (or near absolute) power and managed to decline the offer. (Though one such person can be found in the New Testament.) But at the very moment when General Washington could have become King George the American, he did the unthinkable. He resigned his commission and returned to private life.

Six years later, Washington was elected president; but in this role he once more resisted the temptation of limitless power. Long before there was a law requiring him to do so, Washington stood down after just two terms in office. He set a precedent that all but one of his successors would follow. He laid the foundation for a peaceful transition from one government to the next—a rare blessing in this world of ours, and one that few of us appreciate as much as we should.

Another thing I love about this country: America has often used its power and influence for good—investing in a daring and massive reconstruction effort after World War II, without which Western Europe might still be recovering from the devastation. And in our own time, leading the rich countries of the world in the fight against AIDS in Africa.

In short, there is much to love about this country.

On the other hand… I always feel a deep sense of conflict whenever I see the church wrap itself in the flag or get caught up in a wave of patriotic fervor. The marriage of Christianity and patriotism seems to me anything but a match made in heaven. Whether it’s the televised church service with a massive stars-and-stripes backdrop or the “American Christian” t-shirt I saw in Denver last year, with a cross superimposed onto a flag—I’m not sure that our modern notion of patriotism is compatible with the scriptures.

It’s tempting to think the founding fathers were Bible-believing Christians. It is true that many of them invoked the name of God repeatedly as they made their case for revolution. It’s also true that quite a lot of people in history have used God’s name to sanctify their chosen course of action—sometimes for good and noble purposes, and often for not-so-good-and-noble purposes.

But if we are supposed to be a “Christian nation,” then shouldn’t the Bible be the standard by which we judge our history, including our revolution? If it is, we may find ourselves with something of a dilemma on our hands.

Peter once wrote the following words to persecuted Christians living under the thumb of Nero (or perhaps Domitian), a ruler far more tyrannical than any king of England:

Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us.Submit yourselves for the Lord’s sake to every human authority: whether to the emperor, as the supreme authority, or to governors, who are sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to commend those who do right. For it is God’s will that by doing good you should silence the ignorant talk of the foolish. Live as free people, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as God’s slaves. Show proper respect to everyone, love your fellow believers, fear God, honor the emperor.

—1 Peter 2:12-17 (TNIV)

Jesus, much like the founding fathers, grew up in a land that was ruled by a distant monarch. At home in Galilee, the messiah was surrounded by revolutionary zeal. He spent most of his adult life a few miles from the birthplace of the Jewish Zealot movement—a movement whose tactics were comparable to those of the “Swamp Fox” of American revolutionary lore and even the insurgents who have wreaked so much havoc in Iraq today.

But Jesus categorically, unequivocally resisted and rejected Zealot ideology. In what may have been his most politically charged sermon, Jesus articulated an alternative to the way of the Zealot:

Do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles.

— Matthew 5:39-41 (TNIV)

For himself and for his followers, Jesus took an uncompromising stand against military resistance—even if it’s against the cruelest of tyrants.

What’s more, Jesus practiced what he preached—even (and especially) when it counted most. When Jesus was arrested outside Jerusalem, Peter reacted like a true Zealot: he began swinging his sword. Perhaps he thought this was the moment they’d been waiting for—the moment the revolution would finally begin. (After all, it’s no secret that the disciples consistently failed to grasp the nonviolent nature of Jesus’ movement.) But instead of rallying the disciples to himself, Jesus stunned Peter with this rebuke:

Put your sword back in its place… for all who draw the sword will die by the sword.

— Matthew 26:52 (TNIV)

The fate of anyone who chooses to raise the sword, Jesus taught, is sealed: it is to be cut down by another sword. Military revolution breeds only more military revolution. Insurgency breeds counterinsurgency. Peace—lasting peace, that is—does not come by force. If it did, we would all speak Latin today, for “peace through victory” was the mantra of the greatest empire the world has ever known… yet even Rome ultimately succumbed to someone else’s bloody path to victory.

So… I am grateful for the freedoms that we enjoy in America. I am grateful for the country I live in. I am grateful for leaders of all stripes who, whatever faults and vices they may have, willingly and peacefully hand over power when their term has ended. I am grateful for the many good things this country has done for the world. But I will not glorify the events that are celebrated on this day by baptizing them in a faith which, in reality, teaches a very different response to oppression and injustice.

I am fortunate—and thankful—to live in a country where I can freely pledge my allegiance to Christ without fear of persecution. (And those who characterize the minor hardships faced by Christians in America as persecution insult, albeit inadvertently, the sacrifices made by those in other parts of the world who’ve known what real persecution feels like.) But this freedom I have does not necessarily mean that allegiance to my God and allegiance to my country are perfectly compatible.

So what does all this mean practically? The answer might vary from one person to another. These are not easy issues with black-and-white answers. Some may choose not to join the military, not wanting to bind their conscience to the government and let others decide for them when it’s all right to kill another human being. Others, having searched their conscience, will join the military and do their utmost to serve with honor—out of a desire to do good, not to inflict harm. Both impulses are, I believe, honorable.

The Bible does not encourage military service. To the best of my understanding, the scriptures advocate a nonviolent alternative to the idea of “peace through victory.”

If that’s all the Bible had to say, the answer to this question might be pretty simple. But the fact is, we meet more than one soldier when we read the New Testament (Roman soldiers, no less!), and not one of them was commanded to leave their post in order to follow Jesus. Even though the Roman military was anything but a force for good, Jesus did not make desertion a prerequisite for joining his movement. And neither should we.

Instead—no matter what country we live in, no matter what emblem is stamped on the front of our passports—as members of God’s kingdom, I hope we all learn to be good citizens of whatever earthly kingdom we find ourselves in. I hope we always remember that we can only serve one master, and that loyalty to God always trumps loyalty to country. And I hope we resist the temptation to give simplistic answers (on both sides) when asked what it means to be a good citizen of two kingdoms.

Not of this world…

“My kingdom,” said Jesus, “is not of this world” (John 18:36).

It was good enough for Pilate… so, naturally, it belongs on a T-shirt, like the one I once saw at a Christian retail show.

The question is, do we know what these words mean?

For some, the phrase “not of this world” draws a hard line of separation between the “spiritual” and “secular” worlds. The assumption being that spiritual equals good, while secular equals bad.

A letter from the apostle John (who also recorded Jesus’ “not of this world” comment) is sometimes quoted in support of this idea:

Do not love the world or anything in the world. If you love the world, love for the Father is not in you. For everything in the world—the cravings of sinful people, the lust of their eyes and their boasting about what they have and do—comes not from the Father but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever.
— 1 John 2:15-17 (TNIV)

Along similar lines, some think the phrase “not of this world” indicates a heavenly, eternal life—as distinct from this earthly, temporal life. Which may be why some Christians like to sing, “This world is not my home / I’m just passing through…”

But what if that’s not what “not of this world” means? What if this world is our home and we’re not just passing through?

Come to think of it, “the world” referred to by John has to be something different… unless the psalmist was wrong when he wrote:

The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it…
— Psalm 24:1 (TNIV)

(Incidentally, Paul uses Psalm 24:1 to argue that early Christians were free to eat meat sold at the public market—meat that likely had been sacrificed to a pagan god before being sold to the masses.)

The concept of separating sacred from secular (and spiritual from physical) is not new. During the early days of Christianity, it was called Gnosticism. The New Testament writers and early church fathers rejected this separation as heresy.

But there is an even older idea than Gnosticism; it’s the notion that God made the world good. It is as old as creation itself. In the opening chapter of the Bible, God sees that his creation is “good” not once, but seven times. In the Jewish context, the use of the number seven is anything but arbitrary. The number seven indicates that creation is good in a complete and total sense; it is exactly as God wants it to be. And no amount of sin and darkness can completely erase that kind of good—the kind that comes from an all-powerful, all-loving God.

If this world and everything in it belong to God, like the psalmist believed, then it doesn’t seem right to make a distinction between “sacred” and “secular.” It’s all God’s, so it’s all sacred.

So what does it mean to be “not of this world”?

Let’s go back to the context of John 18:36. What is Jesus talking about? His kingdom. Who is he talking to? Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea. What prompted Jesus to say his kingdom was “not of this world”? Pilate asked him if he considered himself king of the Jews.

What’s more, Jesus went on to say, “If [my kingdom were of this world], my servants would fight to prevent my arrest…” [emphasis added]

For Jesus, the contrast is not between sacred and secular; it’s not between physical and spiritual. It’s between the powerful and the powerless. Between the violent and the nonviolent. Between those who rule at the expense of the poor and those who serve on their behalf. Between those who deify human power (as the Romans did with their emperors) and those who recognize God is the only one with any real power.

What makes Jesus’ kingdom “not of this world” is precisely the fact that his servants will not fight to prevent his arrest. They will not use their power against others; they will not resort to violence. They do not swallow the Roman ideology of “peace through victory” but instead pursue peace through justice, salvation, redemption, and mercy.

When John warns us against the love of the world and all that comes with it—the cravings of sinful people, the lust of their eyes, and boasting about what they have and do—maybe what he’s warning us against is the love of power. The addiction to our own self-importance and our ability to control others.

Maybe, in the end, we are called to love the world—not the world as it is now, but the world as God sees it and means it to be.