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.

we are part of something bigger

This is a picture I took a couple years ago in an olive grove halfway up Mount Carmel in Israel. According to our guide, the trees in this grove are more than two thousand years old.

Notice the newer branches growing out of the stump. It makes me think of the practice of grafting—where a branch from one plant is fused into the trunk of another. I don’t know if that’s what happened to this tree, but the end result is pretty much the same: something new growing out of something old.

Paul uses the grafting analogy in Romans to explain why he brought the gospel to Gentiles and not just Jews:

If some of the branches have been broken off, and you, though a wild olive shoot, have been grafted in among the others and now share in the nourishing sap from the olive root, do not consider yourself to be superior to those other branches. If you do, consider this: you do not support the root, but the root supports you. You will say then, “Branches were broken off so that I could be grafted in.” Granted. But they were broken off because of unbelief, and you stand by faith. Do not be arrogant, but tremble. For if God did not spare the natural branches, he will not spare you either.

—Romans 11:17-21 (TNIV)

This passage is used by lots of people to make a lot of different points. It’s part of a larger section of scripture, Romans 9-11, that many in the Calvinist tradition consider the linchpin of their argument for individual predestination—the belief that only those handpicked by God for eternal life have any real hope of salvation. The rest, are (depending on what kind of Calvinist you are) either predestined to hell or simply passed over. This is what I used to take from this passage. Never mind the fact that Paul is quick to point out that the original branches, which represent ancient Israel, were only broken off because of their “unbelief.”

Among evangelicals, there are at least two major views on the relationship between Christians and Jews—and both camps appeal to Romans 11:17-21 for support. One camp argues there is a clear distinction between Israel and the church. The church, they say, is sort of a parentheses or interlude in the middle of God’s dealings with his chosen people, Israel. This view emerged in more or less its current form back in the 19th century, and it gave rise to Christian Zionism, a unique blend of theology and foreign policy.

The other camp argues that the church has replaced Israel; the church is the new Israel and baptism is the new circumcision (and pork is the new lamb, presumably). Ancient Israel had its chance and blew it, according to this view. And now the distinction of being the “chosen people” has been transferred to this thing called the church.

And of course, there are plenty of nuances to both views and many good efforts to arrive at some sort of middle ground between the two. But in the end, I think both camps miss the point of Romans 11:17-21. Maybe if we pay better attention to the analogy Paul uses, we can avoid making the same mistake.

In horticulture, grafting is done for a number of reasons: to increase fruit yield; to create new, hybrid breeds; to improve plant hardiness; to repair damage… the list goes on. Whatever the reason, grafting is a lot like God’s idea of marriage: two things, previously separate, becoming one.

Saying either that the church is totally separate from ancient Israel or that it has replaced Israel as God’s chosen people both lead to the same conclusion: missing out on a big part of our heritage.

If, on the one hand, we reduce the church to a mere parentheses in between God’s dealings with Israel, then for those of us in the Christian tradition, the Hebrew scriptures are of little use aside from their historical value. And the church—God’s best plan for putting his love on display—will be reduced to a mere historical footnote. We may even forget the redemptive role we have to play in this world and waste our time with lesser things.

On the other hand, if we say that we have replaced God’s formerly chosen people, then like the wild branches in Paul’s analogy, we’re in danger of thinking ourselves superior. We might forget that we’re building on a foundation someone else laid for us. We may end up making the same mistake that some Jews made in Jesus’ day, thinking their lineage gave them an all-access pass to God’s kingdom (Matthew 3:9-10).

The good news of Romans 11:17-21 is that as Christians, the Hebrew tradition is our tradition. Their promised blessings are our promised blessings.

But the even better news of Romans 11 is that God’s economy does not operate according to the principle of the zero-sum game. Just as God always meant to extend his blessing beyond the original “chosen people” (Genesis 12:3), our blessing does not have to come at the expense of theirs (Romans 11:30-32).

There is room in God’s kingdom for all of us.

blessed is this world…

One of the projects I’ve been working on lately has had me spending lots of time in the beatitudes. And I’ve been struck by other-worldly they aren’t:

For the poor: “Theirs is the kingdom of heaven…”

For the meek: “They will inherit the earth…”

And for the persecuted, again for good measure: “Theirs is the kingdom of heaven…”

Luke is even more down-to-earth in his rendition of the beatitudes. “Blessed are you who are poor,” he writes. Not just those who are poor in spirit. And, “Blessed are you who hunger now.”

According to Jesus, the kingdom of heaven is not just a distant promise for the persecuted and the poor. It’s meant to be a present reality, affecting their lives in the here and now.

According to Jesus, the inheritance of the meek is not a pile of heavenly riches. It’s the earth—this world. In Greek, the word for earth is the same as the word for “ground” or even “dirt.”

All of this begs the question: If Jesus meant for the poor, the meek, the hungry, and the persecuted to experience blessing now, exactly how is this supposed to happen? Who will bring for them the kingdom of heaven, the earth, and satisfaction for body and soul?

Maybe it’s our job. Maybe, when we see to it the needs of the poor are met, we bring a little bit of God’s kingdom to earth. Maybe, when we defend the rights of the meek (read: powerless), we carve out a small piece of earth for them. Maybe, when we give food to the hungry, we bring more than just physical sustenance.

Come to think of it, maybe all of the beatitudes have a present (and not just a future) dimension to them. Maybe those who mourn are comforted and the pure in heart see God whenever we live up to our calling to be the hands and feet of Jesus.

To be sure, Jesus at times speaks of “reward in heaven.” But for ancient Jews who, like Jesus, believed in the afterlife, the line between this life and the next was blurry at best. Eternal life was something that began not the moment you died, but the moment you entered into a relationship with God.

The kingdom of heaven is a blessing that lasts for eternity. But according to Jesus, you don’t have to wait till you die to enjoy this blessing—or to share it with others.

some things matter more than others

Flipping through my Bible this afternoon (actually, using an online Bible search tool, but somehow that just doesn’t sound the same), I came across this passage, which I’m sure I’ve read a thousand times before:

Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former.

— Matthew 23:23 (TNIV)

Some translations have it as the “weightier matters of the law.”

In the Hebrew scriptures, there were 613 commands… a lot to keep track of, if you were Jewish. Rabbis spent countless hours debating which laws were more important than others—which laws were “greater” and which were “lesser.” Which were “heavier” and which were “lighter.” After all, a comprehensive list, sorted by order of importance, might come in handy, should you find yourself in a situation where obeying one law requires you to break another.

What should you do, for example (assuming that you’re an observant Jew living in ancient Israel) if someone’s donkey collapses under a heavy load… on a Sabbath? On the one hand, you would be obeying Exodus 23:5 (not to mention Leviticus 19:18) if you lent a hand. On the other hand, by doing so you would violate Exodus 20:8-11. Dilemma.

How do you decide which law to keep and which to violate? Do you go by whichever passage is longer? Whichever has more verses? (Probably not the best method of deciding if you’re an ancient Jew, since your scroll wouldn’t have had verse numbers…)

Do you choose not to help, because the command about not working on the Sabbath was obviously more important, since it made it into the Ten Commandments, while the precise words “love your neighbor” did not?

You could ask some trusted rabbis, but you might not get the same answer twice. The good news is, pretty much everybody agreed that “love the Lord your God” was the greatest command. The bad news is, that’s where the agreement ended.

Some rabbis thought that “you shall have no other gods” was the next greatest command. Others said is was “keep the Sabbath.” Still others nominated “love your neighbor” for the distinction of “number two command in the Bible.”

Jesus weighs into the debate in Matthew 22:37-39, siding squarely with the “love your neighbor” camp—with a twist, of course. He says that the second greatest command in all of scripture is like the first. In other words, you cannot truly love God unless you love your neighbor. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commands, Jesus taught.

Well, that’s nothing new. In fact, I think I’ve blogged about it before. Possibly more than once. (Can you say “one trick pony”?) But slightly less well known is Jesus’ rant in the very next chapter. Jesus works himself into a frenzy, directed at the religious establishment. Seven times he pronounces a “woe” upon them—which the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary says is a word “used to express grief, regret, or distress.” Um, that’s putting it mildly, especially when you read the content of Jesus’ seven woes. Not very nice stuff.

But it’s woe #4 that caught my attention today. The Pharisees and teachers of the law measured out even their tiniest spices to make sure they gave the required ten percent—not an ounce less (and presumably, knowing their hearts, not an ounce more). The problem is, at this point they wiped their hands in satisfaction, thinking they’d done their bit to stay in God’s good books.

Jesus accuses them of getting their priorities out of whack—obsessing with the most obscure minutiae of the law while completely forgetting about the “weightier matters.” And what does Jesus say these weightier matters are?

Justice.

Mercy.

Faithfulness.

In other words, making sure the poor are taken care of matters more than making sure your prayer shawl is on straight. Or, perhaps, making sure we sing the “right” kind of songs (whatever your preference) in church.

In other words, freely extending God’s mercy to everyone we meet (which, according to Scripture, is a nonnegotiable if we hope to enjoy some of that same mercy for ourselves) is more important than making a list of who has and hasn’t got their theology straight and discriminating accordingly.

In other words, spending a lifetime caring for the poor and extending God’s mercy is more important than spending a lifetime playing religious games.

All of scripture matters to God—and the Pharisees were not wrong to make sure their tithes were in order, according to Jesus. But what they were doing was a lot like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.

Some scholars think that Jesus was expounding on Micah 6:8 in this particular rant (leave it to Jesus to always be interacting with the scriptures, even when he’s ripping into someone):

He has shown all you people what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

That’s it. And when it comes right down to it, Micah 6:8 and Matthew 23:23 are just different ways of saying this:

Love your neighbor.

End of story.

doubting Teresa

Ten years after her death, Mother Teresa is on the cover of Time again—this time because it turns out she wrestled with doubt. Not just passing questions in the back of her mind from time to time, but a lingering, maddening inability to sense Christ’s presence almost the entire time she was serving the poor and the dying of Calcutta.

It turns out the woman who demonstrated God’s love for the poor better than anyone in modern history struggled so long—and, for the most part, so unsuccessfully—to feel God’s love herself.

Lord, my God, who am I that you should forsake me? The child of your love—and now become as the most hated one—the one you have thrown away as unwanted—unloved. I call, I cling, I want—and there is no one to answer—no one on whom I can cling—no, no one. Alone… where is my faith? Even deep down right in there is nothing but emptiness and darkness…

For anyone who believes that being a Christian means radiating an inextinguishable sense of confidence and wearing a permanent smile on your face, words like these are difficult to swallow, to say the least.

But I think Mother Teresa’s doubt may be her greatest gift to the church.

As I read the article in Time, I couldn’t help but think about the man in Mark 9 who brings his convulsing son to Jesus—after the disciples are unable to help. Jesus rebukes either the watching crowd or his disciples (or both) for their lack of faith, which was apparently the reason the disciples’ efforts to heal the boy failed.

In response, the boy’s father pleads with Jesus: “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” Jesus picks up on the uncertainty: “‘If you can?’” he says. “Everything is possible for the one who believes.”

The desperate father blurts out, famously, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” What amazes me is that Jesus says nothing about the paradox of belief and unbelief expressed in the same breath. He doesn’t point out the seemingly obvious contradiction in the man’s words. Instead, Jesus seems perfectly satisfied with this response. Without another word, he heals the man’s son.

Apparently Jesus is willing to act on faith, even when it’s mixed with doubt.

Then there’s the time John the Baptist—imprisoned at the very moment God’s kingdom was supposed to be crashing onto the scene—sent his followers to ask Jesus: “Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?”

You can almost hear the frustration—the impertinence—in his demand for answers. It’s as if John says to Jesus, “Look, if you’re the messiah, then start acting like it. Otherwise, quit wasting our time.”

You’d think this kind of doubt wouldn’t sit well with Jesus, especially since he was in the midst of a miraculous free-for-all at the very moment John’s disciples showed up. But Jesus simply instructs them to return to John and tell him what they’ve seen.

No rebuke. No warnings about the dangers of doubt. No list of 88 irrefutable reasons to believe. Just…

The blind see.

The lame walk.

The dead live.

The poor have hope.

According to Jesus, these are the most compelling reasons to believe in a loving God.

The orphaned child who is given a warm, loving home. The vulnerable widow whose rights are defended from those who would take advantage of her. The untouchable leper (or AIDS patient) who is touched with compassion, despite every social taboo against it.

Each of these is more powerful evidence of Christ than the most impressive, well-reasoned argument. Every time someone cares for the poor, they prove Christ real all over again because it is, in fact, Christ they are serving (Matthew 25:31-40).

Those of us who are tempted to believe the gospel can be summed up in a sermon—or that intimacy with God can be achieved through inner spirituality alone—would do well to remember these words from the prophet Isaiah:

Is this not the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not turn away from your own flesh and blood? (Isaiah 58:6-7 TNIV)

The great irony—and blessing—of Mother Teresa’s life was that she experienced her own doubts precisely as she was giving the rest of us the best possible reason to believe in the transforming power of Christ.

The fact that the poor continued to find hope, the untouchables continued to be touched, and the dying continued to be loved even as Mother Teresa quietly confessed to God her own doubts about his love is, to me, the greatest proof that God never stopped loving Teresa or the ones she served. Mother Teresa may not always have been able to see or hear God’s love for herself—but she never stopped radiating it.

Which should make it easier for the rest of us to believe.

serve God, save the planet

I just finished reading a book called Serve God, Save the Planet by J. Matthew Sleeth.

Sleeth is a medical doctor. He had a nice home on the New England coast at one point. According to his publisher’s synopsis, Sleeth was living the American dream…

Until he became convinced that the growing number of chronic illnesses he was treating had something to do with the air people were breathing…

The water they were drinking….

The chemicals their bodies were absorbing from a host of sources…

He came to believe the sharp increase he was seeing in cancer among children and young people might have something to do with the environment we live in and the toxins we’re exposed to.

So, following his grandmother’s axiom that “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” Sleeth made it his life mission to call others to more responsible stewardship of the environment. Before he began preaching to others, though, he and his family took stock of their own lives and reduced their environmental impact wherever and however possible.

This is not your stereotypical environmentalist book. Sleeth is an evangelical in every sense of the word. His main audience is the church. His passion is to demonstrate for those already dedicated to God how environmental stewardship is an essential element of the Christian life.

Serve God, Save the Planet is one of the most important books I’ve read in the past year. I finished it in about a day. Then I immediately started bugging my wife to read it. (Incidentally, she read it about as quickly as I did and liked it just as much.) This is one of those books that inspired us start contemplating the changes we would make to our own lives as a result of reading it.

What I found most intriguing about Sleeth’s book is that it’s not really about the environment. It’s about life in its entirety. Like any good doctor, Sleeth takes a holistic approach to the issue. He does not stop at the symptoms but presses deeper, until he uncovers the root cause of the problem. In this case, the main culprit is consumerism—our insatiable desire for more and more stuff, even (and often) at the expense of those who have little to begin with. That, Sleeth contends, is the root cause of the environmental quandary we now find ourselves in.

Plenty of parents will find themselves nodding in agreement as Sleeth describes the impact of our society’s TV addition, for example—even if their main concern is not the environmental impact of all that television watching. Televisions are, according to Sleeth, the third largest users of electricity in our homes today. So in addition to converting our minds to mush and exploiting our appetite for the latest high-tech gadget/equity loan/sports car/hair replacement therapy, the amount of TV we watch has a direct impact on our environment.

Sleeth does an excellent job deconstructing common evangelical arguments against the prioritization of environmental issues. He does an even better job building a thoroughly biblical case for environmental stewardship and connecting the environment to other issues, like global poverty (more on that in another post soon).

In short, I can’t recommend Serve God, Save the Planet highly enough, and I can’t praise my former employer, Zondervan, highly enough for publishing the paperback edition (which, not incidentally, was published on 100% recycled paper).

I don’t feel like I can do justice to a book this good using my own words, so I thought I would share some of my favorite excerpts , in the hopes that you’ll pick up a copy and read the whole book for yourself…

On the theological significance of our “dominion” over creation (see Genesis 1:28)…

Dominion [or subduing, depending on your translation] comes from a Hebrew term meaning “higher on the root of a plant.” Dominion does not mean ownership or even unrestricted use. Implied in our dominion is our dependency on everything under us. Cut the root out from under a plant and the fruit above it will perish, despite its superior position.

On the relationship between consumerism and environmentalism…

Being pro-stewardship is not a case of valuing forests more than people; rather, it means valuing human possessions less, and God’s world more.

On the mechanistic way we sometimes view God’s creation…

We say that trees exist to make oxygen, or to give shade, or to be made into paper, and we assign them no further mystery. In other words, nature has purpose and value only insofar as it fulfills our material needs. Our worldview is so mechanistic that we ask questions like, “If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make any sound?”The Bible answers this question: If a tree stands in the middle of the forest and is never seen by a human, it has meaning to God. The tree is there to glorify God and to give God pleasure. And yes, if the tree topples over one day, it does make a sound and God hears it. This biblical view is at odds with the industrial worldview, but I find it comforting.

A compelling (and disturbing) example of the relationship between environmental degradation and catastrophic “natural” disasters…

In October 2004, the Indian subcontinent was flooded by a deadly tidal wave. Such events happen and will continue to happen, but one of the reasons for the record number of fatalities in this case was no the wave but the fact that all the mangrove trees along the shoreline, which normally holds back the waves, had been cut down to make way for the white sandy beaches so loved by tourists.

On the relationship between the environment, consumerism, and global poverty (which Sleeth has seen firsthand during medical missionary trips to Central America)…

How does refraining from buying a teak chair for your deck constitute mission work? … Tides of rural farmers in Central America, South America, Africa, and Asia are forced to abandon lands they have worked for generations and flood the cities. They flee the mountains because their homes are being destroyed. As the demand for deck chairs, plywood underlayment, disposable chopsticks, and teak furniture grows, the trees in the third world are cut down. Poor families often do not own the land they have worked. They have no say and make no profit from the cutting of trees. Yet cutting down the forests around them changes their world. The topsoil washes away. The streams dry up. The trees God planted to hold the land in place are gone, so when a hurricane comes, the hillsides simply collapse and wash away.

On the amount we spend on health care each year (largely treating symptoms while ignoring the larger problem, Sleeth argues) and what we get for our investment…

Rounded to the nearest hundred dollar, every man, woman, and child spends $5,000 on health care annually. A woman’s life expectancy in the United States today is seventy-nine years. In comparison, Mexico spends about $500 a person on health care, and a woman’s life expectancy there is seventy-six years. That’s $400,000 in total lifetime expenditures for the American versus $38,000 for the average Mexican woman—a bundle of money for only three more years of life. Compared to a vast portion of the world’s people, Mexico has a posh health-care budget. Virtually no country in all of Africa has a budget of $100 per capita for annual health care. Americans spend more on dog and cat health care than Africans spend on human health care.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Don’t miss this book.