Recent developments on the doctrine of Antichrist

Maybe it's just me, but I never expected that the person making the biggest waves with his idiosyncratic views on the identity of the antichrist would be a homosexual tech billionaire married to another man. Nevertheless, Peter Thiel. I won't try to explain his views: use the interwebs search engine of your choice and you'll know as much as I do. I can't make heads or tails of said doctrine of the antichrist, so I fall back on what is in the original version of Westminster Confession of Faith 25.6.

In these United States, that paragraph was amended by deletion in 1789. Still, I can't help but agree with the deleted phrase, which reads,

[the pope of Rome] is that Antichrist, that man of sin, and son of perdition, that exalteth himself, in the Church, against Christ and all that is called God.

Sadly, many Christians read that statement through the lens of wild speculation fueled by dispensationalist (and tech billionaire) hermeneutics which raged through evangelicalism during the 20th and 21st centuries. Those of us who have heard one too many wild-eyed sermons filled with references to the Middle East are tempted to dismiss the original WCF 25.6 as more of the same, but I think that a grave mistake. Properly understood, it is a claim that the Roman Catholic papacy is a manifestation of the spirit of antichrist, which strikes me as objectively true. At least, it's objectively true if one accepts its doctrine of antichrist, which assumes that the antichrist is to be identified with the man of sin.

In his letters, the Apostle John tells us to beware of antichrists, which denies that Jesus is the Christ (1 John 2:18-22; 4:3; 2 John 7). One wonders how a person who denies Jesus is the Christ could possibly ever be accepted into any Christian Church of any denomination, as they all require assent to the Apostles' Creed ("And I believe in Jesus Christ..."). However, that mystery is cleared up if the antichrist is identified with "the man of sin" in 2 Thessalonians: "the man of lawlessness..., the son of destruction, who ... takes his seat in the temple of God, proclaiming himself to be God" (2 Thessalonians 2:3-4). In other words, as the Westminster Divines seem to have understood it, the spirit of antichrist is to claim for oneself the place in the Church which only Jesus Christ can occupy. The Roman Catholic pope claims to be the head of the Church, taking the place of Christ as his "vicar" (assuming Jesus is not actively ruling his Church, leaving his office empty and needing to be vicariously filled). 

You don't have to agree with the exegesis of the relevant texts, but the original version of WCF 25.6 is clearly not crazy. Its doctrine is simple: to be antichrist is to take the place of Christ by proclaiming oneself the head of the Church. But on that definition, the pope of Rome is fairly obviously only one antichrist of many. 

The spirit of antichrist is in the world whenever a human being is declared or treated as though he were head of the Church.

While no congregation would formally declare that Jesus is not the Christ, more than a few act as though their pastor is the head of their local Church. Many of us have heard (or been told), "If you can't agree with the pastor, you don't belong in this congregation" (or words to that effect). In other words, this congregation belongs to the pastor: he is its head. These organizations may not be as large as the church of Rome, but surely these are also manifestations of the spirit of antichrist.

I suspect the widespread belief that the doctrine of "The Antichrist" is a subset of eschatology proper (that is, the literal last days) has led us to ignore John's warning: "as you have heard that antichrist is coming, so now many antichrists have come" (1 John 2:18). Many antichrists are abroad in our day, just as they were in John's. I think it entirely appropriate to label the pope of Rome as antichrist, and equally appropriate to label at least a few pastors of confessionally presbyterian congregations as antichrist as well.

In other words, let's use Bible words to describe what's going on in our congregations. Having done that, let us respond to what is going on in our congregations as the words of the Bible instruct us.

Grace to you & peace

 Between leaving full-time ministry and moving to another state, I've worshiped at a dozen or more confessionally reformed/presbyterian Churches over the last few years and have been surprised by how few include the apostolic salutation in their liturgies. For those who'd like a reminder, the apostolic salutation is that bit at the beginning of services when the preacher raises his hand in greeting and says something like "Grace to you and peace from God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ." This greeting is modeled after the apostolic practice of beginning their New Testament letters with a salutation on behalf of the God who was inspiring the epistles they were writing.

(The apostolic salutation which is most often used is the one favored by the Apostle Paul, but can have as much variety as does the benediction, or blessing, which concludes the worship service.)

Simple ignorance of the historic practice of the apostolic salutation may explain its absence, but I think another factor could be confusion between it and the call to worship. The call to worship is a sentence (or more) from Scripture which commands the hearers to enter into God's presence and praise him. For those who don't give it too much thought, this divine command may seem interchangeable with a greeting from God.

Of course, even when it's practiced, the apostolic salutation can be confused with the benediction. I have seen it described in a bulletin as "God greets us with a blessing," and many pastors raise both hands when extending it. This is a fairly obvious error, sadly: a statement of greeting is not a blessing unless it contains the word "bless" or some synonym thereof.

Now that I've rather belabored the point and tried the gentle reader's patience, said reader may wonder whether a practice so frequently ignored and so easily confused with other elements of worship really deserves inclusion in every service. It can be supported by any number of arguments, but I am compelled by the nature of the office of Word and sacrament. In 2 Corinthians 5, Paul writes of his pastoral office, which he shares with his coauthor, Timothy, when he writes,

Now all things are of God, who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, that is, that God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not imputing their trespasses to them, and has committed to us the word of reconciliation. Now then, we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God were pleading through us: we implore you on Christ’s behalf, be reconciled to God. (2 Corinthians 5:18-20)

Over the years, I've come increasingly to recognize the extent to which the minister of Word and sacrament is Christ's ambassador, particularly when leading worship. In prayer, he brings the message of the people to their God, and in preaching he brings the words of God to his people. This, quite obviously, is what ambassadors do. Therefore, the apostolic salutation is the ambassador from the Kingdom of God bringing a word of grace and peace from his King to the hostile world to which Christ the King has laid claim.

This brings to the fore another distinction between the benediction and the salutation. The benediction is a proclamation of God's blessing on his people, and therefore should only be pronounced in the context of Christian worship when the people of God are gathered together. The salutation is God's greeting, and as such it may be given to anyone and everyone. In Luke 2, the angelic messengers announced peace to the world in the birth of Jesus Christ; now Christ's ambassadorial messengers bring greetings of grace and peace through Jesus Christ to the entire world.

Whenever I am acting in my capacity as a minister of Word and sacrament, I greet my hearers with grace and peace from God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. After all, I am an ambassador of reconciliation and would be most glad if our encounter led to their embrace of the good news of Jesus Christ and his Cross. I hope all my ambassadorial brethren will likewise return the apostolic salutation to the beginning of every worship service.

Two houses (being the reason I wrote the first & second parts)

 As I wrote previously, the OPC's General Assembly, with its delegated representation, has the structural and institutional weaknesses of the United States Senate: this poses a great danger to the Orthodox Presbyterian Church. Meanwhile, the PCA's General Assembly, which permits (at least nominally) a practically universal membership of all the Church's congregations and teaching elders, has the structural and institutional weaknesses of the United States House of Representatives: this poses a great danger to the Presbyterian Church in America.

Since the United States Congress was deliberately designed so that the weaknesses of each of its two Houses are compensated for by the other House's strengths, and since I have flogged ecumenism whenever and wherever I've been able, one might expect me to facilely suggest the two denominations merge and let their two General Assemblies balance each other out. However, the structure of presbyterian Church government will not allow for this simple solution.

Presbyterian governmental structure, gleaned from Acts 15 and other bits and scraps of relevant Scripture, is rather simple. It calls for a graded, or hierarchical, series of Church courts. A council of ruling and teaching elders governs each level, or manifestation, of the visible Church. (For what I mean by "the visible Church," see Westminster Confession of Faith chapter 25.) In both the OPC and the PCA, a session governs the local congregation, a presbytery governs the several congregations of a designated geographical region (also known as a "Regional Church"), and a general assembly governs the entire denomination. These courts necessarily relate to each other in a hierarchical fashion; to do otherwise would simply not be presbyterian. Therefore, a faithfully presbyterian form of Church government has no room for two Church courts which must cooperate with each other after the manner of the Houses of the United States Congress.

Nonetheless, there's a rather simple way to draw on the institutional strengths of the systems of representation of both the OPC and the PCA. Historically, and in several contemporary cases, presbyterian denominations have had another level of Church court: the synod. The synod is an intermediary court between the presbytery and the general assembly. It functions much as a presbytery does in overseeing the affairs of a designated geographical region within that of the larger denomination. Unlike a presbytery, however, the synod is not a court of original jurisdiction. Local sessions are responsible to oversee (and discipline when necessary) members of the congregation, and presbyteries oversee (and discipline when necessary) ministers of Word and sacrament. (Ministers are members of the regional Church, not the local Church.) Thus, in matters of Church discipline, synods are appellate courts only.

I suggest, then, that both the OPC and the PCA institute synods in their respective communions. These synods could have the universal membership of the PCA's General Assembly: every teaching elder and two (for the sake of argument) ruling elders from every congregation. On the one hand, this would broaden the range of perspectives of those overseeing the work of presbyteries, something the OPC desperately needs. On the other hand, the number of members at any given synod would not be so large as to make genuine debate impossible, which would address the problem of the PCA's General Assembly. 

Under my proposed system, commissioners to the General Assembly would be drawn from presbyteries according to some formula set forth in a Form of Government. This would bypass both the risk of synods bottlenecking representation and the risk of presbyteries favoring only a few particular men as their (virtually) permanent commissioners. This system would allow for easier practical functioning of the General Assembly (due to more manageable numbers) and providing for lighter dockets if more disciplinary cases can be resolved by synodical courts.

Our national government's structure is remarkably robust, designed to restrain untoward ambition and encourage healthy cooperation. Its genius is perhaps best demonstrated by the little-celebrated fact that it has endured despite the often foolish choices of legislator the American people make. While the general structure of presbyterian Church government is dictated by Scripture, presbyterians have a great deal of freedom to order its institutions according to the light of nature and Christian prudence. The institutional designs of the OPC and the PCA emerged at their foundings and were based on assumptions because the founders were focused more on doctrinal problems. Now is an opportune moment to take a deep breath and consider how better to order our two houses.

"two houses" by buckshot.jones is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Two houses (being the second part)

 The United Stated Congress is made up of two houses: the Senate and the House of Representatives. The number of Senators is set by the United States Constitution: at two per state, there are 100. The number of Representatives was set by statute in the early 20th century, when it was realized things were getting out of hand and was accordingly capped far too late at an entirely unwieldy 435 (441 if you include non-voting delegates). 

This vast numerical disparity has led to very different styles of operation. The Senate, due to its relatively small size, gives each member opportunities to speak, debate and serve on important committees even while new to the institution. (In theory, this also allows senators to pursue regional agendas as avidly as ideological ones, but this feature has been waning as the type of candidate elected has tended to be increasingly partisan over the last couple decades.) In the House, seniority is everything and parties strive to maintain strict control over their members. There are just too many Congresspersons running around to let everyone have an equal voice in the chamber's operations.

Each house and its manner of doing business has its own strengths and weaknesses, most of which are dictated by necessity. The particular genius of the bicameral legislature is to ensure that those weaknesses never prove fatal because both houses must agree in order for legislation to pass. This system therefore allows us to benefit from each house's strengths without (necessarily) falling victim to its weaknesses.

This is all fairly elementary stuff that should have been covered in your high school civics class, if American high schools still taught civics. I bring it up not because I think you ignorant (after all, you're a reader of this blog, demonstrating thereby rare taste, refinement, education and, almost certainly, above-average height and physical attractiveness) but because it offers insight into the general assemblies of the Orthodox Presbyterian Church and the Presbyterian Church in America.

The OPC's General Assembly is strictly capped at 155: its debate (supposedly) mirrors that of the U.S. Senate with lengthy speeches and much freedom for individual commissioners to pursue idiosyncratic agendas. Not so the PCA's General Assembly, which may include all teaching elders and two ruling elders from each congregation. (The "may" is emphasized because each commissioner must pay his own way and so it's never been the case that everyone who is eligible to serve at the PCA GA has actually registered to do so.) Given this rule, along with the fact that the PCA is over twelve times the size of the OPC, the PCA's GA is much larger than the OPC's and so tends to mirror many of the operational tendencies of the U.S. House of Representatives: commissioners voting according to group affiliation (however defined), less allowance given to debate, low tolerance for idiosyncratic agendas.

As with the two Houses of the United States Congress, each assembly's approach to its membership, and the concomitant operational style of each, has its own strengths and weaknesses. However, while we hope (often against hope, bitter experience and reason itself) that the weaknesses of each House of Congress will be negated by the strengths of the other, no such hope exists for the two General Assemblies. Because each is the highest court of its respective denomination, the rulings of the one cannot impact the other, and so each General Assembly, and the denomination it serves, may eventually fall victim to its own weaknesses. 

I offer this analysis for two reasons: first, I've not seen anyone else draw this comparison; and second, I have thoughts, to be offered at another time.

His tithes & our offerings

I am not the first to note that the recent pandemic did a number on Churches and their worship services. Much attention has been paid to the problem of getting people back into sanctuaries and rebuilding relationships which became attenuated over months of social isolation. Equally of interest, in my opinion, is how concern about the 'rona impacted liturgical practices themselves. Ushers and greeters stopped shaking hands and passing out bulletins. Bulletins got bulked up with photocopies of songs because hymnals were put away to eliminate a point of contact. In many cases, celebration of the Lord's Supper was either suspended or traditional elements were replaced with itsy-bitsy factory-sealed personal-size portions of saliva-dissolvable styrofoam and purple-dyed sugar water. Passing the offering plate was replaced with exhortations to give online or drop one's tithe in a basket in the back of the auditorium.

Presbyterians understand that the sacraments are a primary means of grace (Shorter Catechism #88 uses "Word, sacrament and prayer" as shorthand for all the means of grace) and so communion has made a comeback right along with the return of "in-person worship" (a redundancy I never thought I'd utter with a straight face). However, passing the plate or bag or upturned baseball cap has not yet returned in many places. I think this is a mistake: the public and corporate offering of gifts is also an important means of grace, and we miss an element of worship when it is absent.

The Orthodox Presbyterian Church had a different iteration of our Directory for Public Worship when I was ordained as a pastor late in the last century; although the wording was different, the point was similar to the current "The bringing of offerings in the public assembly of God’s people on the Lord’s Day is a solemn act of worship to almighty God. The people of God are to set aside to him the firstfruits of their labors; in so doing, they should present themselves with thanksgiving as a living sacrifice to God" (OPC DPW II.B.4.a). When I was reading through the Directory in my early days of my pastorate, I realized that the giving of tithes and offerings fulfills a specific role in the liturgy's structure: it is the congregation's especial opportunity to give thanks. Since that realization, I usually inserted the offering after the confession of sin and declaration of pardon, as thanksgiving to God for Jesus Christ and his gifts is most appropriate at that point in the service. I now feel that a service without an offering lacks this note of thanksgiving.

Yes, one can have a thankful heart even if the liturgy does not include an offering. But by the same token, we always enjoy some sort of fellowship with God in Christ: that does not render unnecessary the Lord's Supper. It's time for sessions to bring back the offering so that we may all, as part of the worship service and with thankful hearts, present to God his tithes and our offerings.

Iconoclasm is a virtue

 I suppose I'm thankful R.R. Reno's essay "Shared Loves and Strong Loyalties" is on the First Things
website. He helpfully clarifies just how I think both he and First Things, under his editorship, have drifted away from waters in which a Protestant can swim. 

Reno argues that the liberal political tradition has enervated our society and we need instead love, and in particular shared loves. Those shared and efficacious loves are inspired by and directed toward the strong gods of justice, nation, family and blood. He concedes that the strong gods are dangerous gods who may become idols, but

Misjudging lesser goods as the highest good (the essence of idolatry) always remains a danger. But the unstated premise behind Return of the Strong Gods [the book to which this essay is a preface] is that life without love is a greater evil than life in which finite loves are made absolute.

To this claim, the Christian might well respond that if both are evil, better to avoid both rather than merely the greater. Apparently anticipating this response, Reno goes on,

Let me issue my own theological warning: Beware iconoclasm. It is a heresy born of the fantasy that we can eliminate the possibility of idolatry by destroying every object of love other than the highest, which is God. 

This, in my view, the natural endpoint both of Reno's way of thinking and of the Roman Catholicism to which he converted some years ago: an obviously Biblical virtue is called a heresy. For what is iconoclasm but the smashing of idols, and what is the smashing of idols but sanctified obedience to the Second Commandment? 

Iconoclasm swept Europe as it entered its Christian Era, and the boldest fathers of presbyterianism, Ulrich Zwingli and John Knox, were iconoclasts in word and deed. As I have argued repeatedly in my own dialogues with Roman Catholics, iconoclasm is necessary to Protestantism. On the other hand, iconolatry and idolatry have overwhelmed Roman Catholicism as, for example, disordered love for glorified saints such as the mother of our Lord has crowded out all-consuming love for her son.

Life without love is evil, and life consumed by disordered love is evil. For love to be rightly ordered, it must be directed toward Jesus Christ. Europe entered its Christian era when the princes became Christian and the Church supplanted empire as the continent's great unifying power. Our culture indeed needs strong love: a love which hates false gods, strong or otherwise, and is monomaniacally preoccupied with the only truly worthy object of all love, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Attack on American Christendom

 The more you agree with someone, the more interesting your disagreements with that person become. Your disagreements are no longer so broad and sweeping that they barely scratch the surface; instead, they are about the innermost nuts and bolts which make the whole thing work.

As a rule, I tend to agree on most things with David French, the lawyer/journalist who writes and podcasts for The Dispatch. His take on constitutional law is close enough to my own Nat Hentoff-inspired strict constructionism that most of the time I can't tell the difference, and I certainly appreciate his membership in the Presbyterian Church in America. But while I'm sure he's a faithful Church member, I suspect (unlike me) he is more evangelical than presbyterian in his sensibilities. This came out in his most recent Sunday edition of The French Press.

Consider his use of Kierkegaard's Attack on Christendom, from which this newsletter's title ("How American Christendom Weakens American Christianity") is drawn. French summarizes Kierkegaard's

categories this way:

Think of the distinctions roughly like this—Christianity is the faith, Christians are believers in the faith, and Christendom is the collective culture and institutions (universities, ministries) of the faith.

Did you notice the missing institution? 

French then quotes Matt McManus's summary of Kierkegaard's argument: "In many ways, it was far better to see Christendom shrunk down to a few genuine believers than to see it ballooned and enforced into a parody of itself." 

Like David French, I haven't read much Kierkegaard since college, and I do not want to treat the entirety of his philosophy dismissively. Nonetheless, ever since college I've found this aspect of Kierkegaard's thought rather adolescent. It seems to assume Christianity can exist outside of an institutional structure. This is both naïve and impossible.

To put the matter simply: how will Christians learn the faith? How will persons learn about the faith in order to become Christians in the first place? The obvious answer is through teachers, evangelists and preachers. But these do not arise of themselves, unbidden. Common sense and bitter experience have taught all of us not to rely on anyone who credentials himself: authority to teach and preach must be legitimized by others. As soon as we bring in legitimation, authority and credentialing, we must have an institution.

To put the matter still more simply: you can't have the faith without an institution to inculcate and propagate it.

French begins with Kierkegaard in order to develop his thesis that the institutions of evangelical Christendom are at odds with Christianity. This is a profoundly true insight; as he writes, "the institutions of Christendom should model the way of the cross if they’re going to preach the way of the cross." Instead, they focus on their own survival even if that survival means crushing reeds and smoldering wicks; the institutions continue even though they can no longer sincerely fulfill the ministry they allegedly exist to carry out.

(French points to Ravi Zacharias Ministries and Camp Kanakuk, but I can't help but think of the Boy Scouts of America. While it's not a Christian organization, it the perfect example of an institution which has abandoned, by admitting girls, the very constituency [boys] which it was formed to serve. Apparently, it's more important for the Boy Scouts of America to continue than for a scouting program for boys to continue.)

By pointing to the way of the Cross, French suggests it would be better for some parachurch ministries to die than to continue as a symbol of Spiritual, physical or sexual abuse. Here again, I cannot agree with David French more. In fact, I'm content to see all the institutions of evangelical Christendom wither away and/or die. That's also where French seems to end up:

As Kierkegaard reminds us, it’s an old crisis. There are times when the great enemy of Christianity is Christendom itself. But Christendom isn’t Christianity. Indeed, the collapse of the institutions of Christendom does not mean the collapse of Christianity. And their collapse may be necessary for people to see through doctrine, through celebrity, and through politics to catch at last a glimpse of the man who is the faith, the man who carried a cross and now commands us to do the same. 

To which I can only respond, "How then shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? And how shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heard? And how shall they hear without a preacher? And how shall they preach unless they are sent?" (Romans 10:14-15) I think David French has forgotten about the institution Christ founded to send preachers.

The problem with American evangelical Christendom is that, with all its ministries bearing the names of their charismatic founders, it is not centered on the one Biblical ministry: the Church. The Church is not one amongst many ministries. She alone is the household of faith and the Kingdom of Christ in this world. And "the Church" is not another generic label for "Christians" or even "Christian ministries." Because the Church has officers and members (Hebrews 13:7, 17), the Church is an institution. 

Yes, the time has come for evangelical Christendom to go the way of the Cross. In its place, Christians need to return to the Church so that they can hear of the man and God who is the faith.

Diotrephesism

When I took ancient Church history in seminary, I had a hard time keeping all the heresies straight. (Not straightening out my own heresies: that's another story.) In historical theology, heresies are not identified by their doctrinal content, but instead by the names of the persons most identified with them. Therefore, instead of modalism (the belief that the three persons of the Trinity are not distinct, but instead are really just one person appearing in three different modes), we have Sabellianism. When I was asked to identify Nestorianism, Manicheanism, Arianism, Montanism, ad infinitism, I had to remember the historical figure, then remember what he taught, and then explain why it was wrong. While I have no problem explaining what's wrong with modalism, I'm not entirely sure what Sabellianism even is.

Since I've learned I can't fight the historical theologians, I've decided to join them and thereby go to my grave satisfied to have made life more difficult for future seminarians. Centuries from now, the twentieth century will be known for Diotrephesism, in recognition of him who desired preeminence and so would not receive the Apostle John (3 John 9). 

In my opinion, at the root of many of the controversies which consume confessional presbyterianism today is the fact that in the 20th-century struggle with liberalism, presbyterians lost their sense of denominational identity along with a grasp on the historical and Biblical reasons for our distinctives. That absence has led to a sort of faddishness, in imitation of the sin of Diotrephes, which emerges in two different ways.

Certain elders (especially teaching elders) do not see themselves as guardians and teachers of the presbyterian tradition. Because many of them came to a reformed understanding of the Christian faith from other traditions, they see themselves as set apart by virtue of study and continue to seek to set themselves further apart by further study. These tend to maintain traditional worship practices, but the liturgy becomes merely a setting in which they can use the sermon to position themselves as experts on all things "reformed." Wishing to be preeminent in the eyes of their peers, they keep up with the latest theological controversies emerging from the seminaries and set these issues before their congregations as though they were as essential as the doctrines on which our Confessions focus. This obsession with “theology,” when it comes over and against a focus on the simple Gospel of the Cross, stokes up much furor on the interwebs and feeds division in the Church.

Others in leadership, who have never been taught why our traditions are our traditions in the first place, worry that presbyterianism is about to become irrelevant. These keep a watchful eye on the latest developments in evangelicalism and seek to imitate them while keeping the preaching Calvinistic. In these circumstances, members are deprived of the riches of our presbyterian inheritance and the blessings of catechetical instruction. As evangelicals drift ever further into worldliness (in all its forms), this group may drift right along with them.

The discerning reader will observe that this faddishness does not necessarily lead to heresy, but it certainly produces division. Athanasius fought the heretic Arius with Biblical doctrine. In imitation of John, the beloved disciple, we must fight Diotrephesism with Biblical charity.

I believe we should respond by learning our confessional standards along with our government, discipline and worship, and the Biblical warrant for them. I believe we should be extremely careful in preparing men for ordained office and not be too hasty to lay on hands (1 Timothy 5:22). I believe we should strive to present and live out presbyterianism for what it is: the most Biblical form of the Church and the one which should most demonstrate to the world the Church as our Lord formed her to be.

Towards a theory of Church names

 I remember the day in seminary when Scott Clark introduced the chapel speaker, a Lutheran pastor whose congregation was called "Beautiful Savior." "Why do the Lutherans have all the good Church names?" Professor Clark asked rhetorically, and I have wondered frequently. Confessionally presbyterian Churches are notorious for pulling from an extremely short list of names. Leaving aside those with geographic or numerical indicators (i.e. "First," "Greater Sandusky"), there's "Covenant," "Faith," "Grace," Trinity" and "Providence." For those hoping to project a softer image, there's "Harvest," "Emmanuel," "Redeemer" or "Hope." Honestly, that's about it. Despite literally years of my campaigning for it, there's still not one "Big Happy Rainbow Church (OPC)."

This relentless monotony makes sense when one considers the place of confessional presbyterianism in the broader ecclesiastical landscape. While that landscape is littered with Lutheran congregations, there's relatively few from the Presbyterian Church in America or one of her sister denominations. When new OP Church plants are launched, an extremely common reason given is that there are no nearby reformed congregations. While a new evangelical Church can just be itself in all its own idiosyncratic glory, any given OPC congregation feels a burden to represent the entirety of the presbyterian and reformed stream of the Protestant Reformation.

This sociological reality prompts a conservative approach to naming. Employing a "traditional" (i.e., "boring") name sends a clear, if unstated, message to the potential visitor: "You can trust us to be safe: nothing too flashy or evangelicalish here! Just good old hymns and reliable Calvinist doctrine!" Even as I've been openly crusading for more interesting names, I am suspicious of the outlier congregations which use them. Before my family recently visited "Means of Grace Church," I couldn't help wondering what they were trying to say and what potential weirdness lay ahead of us. (Thankfully, it was just as boring as any other presbyterian congregation. We all breathed a sigh of relief!)

One obvious solution is to plant so many confessionally presbyterian congregations through vigorous evangelism and discipleship that individual names won't seem so weighty. Unfortunately, that would require leaving the house and talking to people, so it will be a while until we get there. In the meantime, I suggest a new name which should immediately reassure any presbyterian looking for a new Church home: "Boring Conservative Presbyterian Church (OPC)."

Ahab's peace

When he was my pastor, Joseph Pipa would sometimes greet me with "Is that you, oh troubler of Israel?" He meant it (and I took it) as a back-handed compliment, as that is how Israel's king, Ahab, greeted  the prophet Elijah. Especially during seminary, I had a tendency to question everything about presbyterian doctrine and practice, which meant I challenged Dr. Pipa with some frequency. Far from bothering him, I think this rather pleased him. Dr. Pipa was, and remains, supremely confident in the Biblical fidelity of the Southern Presbyterian tradition and so was more than happy to give its answers to a pesky seminarian. He also believed that if the tradition really had a problem, it could be reformed according to Scripture. The system could not be troubled, for even its most serious challenge would merely be an opportunity to reform and improve.

That, of course, was not Ahab's attitude toward Elijah. By the time of 1 Kings 18, Israel had long been suffering the drought Elijah prophesied in 1 Kings 16. Elijah had ruined things for Ahab and Israel, destroying the peace for which any king might hope. We can all imagine Ahab's immense irritation when Elijah replied, "I have not troubled Israel, but you and your father’s house have, in that you have forsaken the commandments of the LORD and have followed the Baals" (1 Kings 18:18). From Ahab's point of view, the problem wasn't Israel's idolatry: it was a prophet who couldn't leave well enough alone and kept ruining his peace of mind.

I've been saddened to realize that Ahab's idea of peace is shared by any number of presbyterian pastors and elders. Take, for example, Jennifer Greenberg's "Open Letter to the OPC." While her account of neglect and indifference in response to her attempts to report physical and sexual abuse was met with sympathetic concern in many circles, reactions in private and on the Twitter and other social media were mixed. I've seen attempts to minimize ("she's exaggerating; she's taking things out of context") and to condemn ("whatever may have happened, she's at fault for airing her concerns in the wrong way and should apologize"). These responses echo those of sessions and presbyteries on other occasions: the problem isn't the abuse which is being reported, but that the report of the abuse troubles the Church's peace.

In other words, too many in presbyterian circles enjoy Ahab's peace and become quite upset when it's disrupted.

I learned a great deal from Dr. Pipa, especially when disagreeing with him. A system which is founded on Scripture and continually strives for greater fidelity to it enjoys a peace which cannot be disrupted by a report that it has failed because such reports indicate that the system is working and can be improved. I think I share Dr. Pipa's confidence in confessional presbyterianism.

I wonder why those who cling to Ahab's peace do not.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons: "Jezebel & Ahab Meeting Elijah in Naboth's Vineyard" by Francis Dicksee

Blame the shepherds

I was ordained and installed as an OPC pastor in 1999. A few years in, I started getting calls from members of other congregations.

I'm not sure why I got these calls, or if it's common for most pastors to get them. (One time, it was because I was serving as moderator of my presbytery.) These members (a few of them ruling elders) were concerned about their pastors' conduct. The issues were varied: the quality and doctrinal soundness of the preaching; a high-handed leadership style; an inability to resolve conflict; dishonesty; general manner of spiritual abuse. In all these cases, the individuals had already spoken to their pastor and/or session, but felt their concerns weren't being addressed. In a few cases, the individuals felt targeted for reprisals. Sometimes they wanted to know what to do; on a couple occasions, they wanted to know whether it would be sinful to transfer to another congregation. 

If I remember correctly, concerns were raised about five or six pastors. Nearly everyone who reached out to me wanted me to take their concerns to the presbytery so it could take action regarding the pastor in question. Each time, I had to tell them that I could not do anything on the basis of one person's report (because, as an individual presbyter, I lack the authority to launch an investigation, especially on the basis of a single testimony) and encouraged them to contact a presbytery officer or  committee directly. To the best of my knowledge, no one ever did and they all eventually left their congregations. I found this frustrating, if for no other reason than that if their allegations were correct, other members would also suffer under these pastors.

Through these years, I also got calls from ministers in other OPC presbyteries about pastors in my presbytery. (Again, I'm not sure why they reached out to me in particular.) Once it was about a distressing visit to a worship service while in the area on vacation, another was because of controversial comments made on the interwebs and podcasts. The bad manners and lack of common decency of one man in my presbytery were frequently commented on throughout the denomination: an older minister once advised me, "You'll have to forgive him; that's just the way he is." In most of these cases, I was asked, "Is your presbytery doing anything about him?" In each case, I asked the minister to communicate his concerns in writing to the session of the pastor in question and/or to the presbytery so that these bodies would not be asked to rely on a second-hand account from me. To the best of my knowledge, no one ever did.

In the Venn diagram of the fellow presbyters in question, the two circles overlap considerably but not entirely. What unites them completely, of course, is the unwillingness of those who called me to take formal action, and this I blame on the OPC presbyters. Presbyters, especially ministers of Word and sacrament, are far better-equipped than ordinary Church members to raise concerns in the Church courts and get inquiries begun. Members, especially those who have suffered under spiritual abuse, are naturally timid around those with greater expertise and often feel that their voices will not be heard. Before they speak up, they need to see that allegations of abuse are taken seriously by those with authority and that presbyteries will respond wisely and justly to them.

If presbyters will not act to protect the sheep of other congregations, we should not be surprised when those sheep act to protect themselves without taking necessary and appropriate action regarding shepherds who do not conduct themselves in a manner worthy of their office. Don't blame the sheep for not reporting abuse: blame the shepherds.

The heart is deceitful above all things

A couple years ago, my presbytery was debating whether to proceed with the trial of a minister who had been charged with what amounted to tax fraud. (In presbyterianism, Church courts also function as judicial courts in which allegations of sin are tried in order to determine whether Church discipline is necessary.) For at least a few men, it seemed that before they could weigh the evidence, they first had to grapple with whether it was possible for the accused to commit such a sin. In fact, another pastor made a speech stating, "We all know in our hearts that [X] couldn't do this thing."

This episode is now being writ large for the entire Orthodox Presbyterian Church because of Jennifer Greenberg's recent "An Open Letter to the Orthodox Presbyterian Church Regarding Abuse." Amongst other things, Mrs. Greenberg explains how she was abused by her father and (as a teenager) propositioned by an OPC minister. In this letter, her concern is less with the abuse itself and more with how her reports of it to pastors were met with inaction, excuses or milquetoast attempts at sympathy. There were no (to the best of her knowledge) reports to civil authorities or initiations of Church discipline. She finds this grievously offensive.

In the OPC as a denomination, it seems her officers and members are wondering to themselves (and out loud to others) whether such behavior and inaction is possible amongst our elders and presbyteries. I don't know whether anything Mrs. Greenberg has written is entirely accurate, since I've only read her side of the story. But I have been a minister of Word and sacrament in the OPC for twenty years, and I know from experience that everything she has written is entirely plausible: this is the denomination I have come to know reasonably well.

I hope those who interact with Jennifer Greenberg's blog won't get hung up on whether or not such things as she reports can happen. I don't know my own heart or the heart of any other person, but I do know the heart is wicked and deceitful and capable of all things (Jeremiah 17:9-10). What she reports could very well occur in the OPC: for those of us who are this denomination's officers, it is for us to determine what exactly occurred, what redress is necessary, and how to do much better in the future.

I know that anyone, even another pastor in my presbytery, is capable of great sin. Every presbyterian should not only confess the same, but act accordingly.

An example of the wrong question

Now I commend you because you remember me in everything and maintain the traditions even as I delivered them to you. But I want you to understand that the head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife is her husband, and the head of Christ is God. Every man who prays or prophesies with his head covered dishonors his head, but every wife who prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head, since it is the same as if her head were shaven. For if a wife will not cover her head, then she should cut her hair short. But since it is disgraceful for a wife to cut off her hair or shave her head, let her cover her head. For a man ought not to cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God, but woman is the glory of man. For man was not made from woman, but woman from man. Neither was man created for woman, but woman for man. That is why a wife ought to have a symbol of authority on her head, because of the angels. Nevertheless, in the Lord woman is not independent of man nor man of woman; for as woman was made from man, so man is now born of woman. And all things are from God. Judge for yourselves: is it proper for a wife to pray to God with her head uncovered? Does not nature itself teach you that if a man wears long hair it is a disgrace for him, but if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For her hair is given to her for a covering. If anyone is inclined to be contentious, we have no such practice, nor do the churches of God. (1 Corinthians 11:2-16, ESV)

In my travels through presbyterian and reformed Churches, the question almost everyone asks about this text is, "Should women wear head coverings in worship?" Of course, this is the entirely wrong question to ask about one of the Bible's most important texts for gender relationships. (I'm not kidding: I put it right up there with Genesis 1, 2 and 3.) Since you asked so nicely, I'll explain why it's the wrong question.

An opening note: it's not clear whether the "head covering" in 1 Corinthians 11:2-16 is the woman's hair, a piece of cloth, or some other type of headgear (such as a lovely Easter bonnet, about which I could write a sonnet). It's even less clear whether this injunction applies to all women or only those of the married variety. These issues get even murkier in the original Greek (which is the case more often than you may think). However, that's not really much of a problem in practice, as we shall see.

Paul tells us the woman is to cover her hair while praying and prophesying, which are both speech acts. This is peculiar because later in the same letter he tells us that women are to remain silent in the Churches (1 Corinthians 14:33-34). Here we have a conundrum: why would the Apostle tell women how they should dress when they are doing something he has barred them from doing? Not to put too fine a point on it, he might as well require men to wear neckties when visiting bordellos.

In the broader context of 1 Corinthians, Paul identifies prophecy as a speech act directly inspired by the Holy Spirit, without any mediation by the speaker him/herself: that is, the speaker opens her/his mouth and out come the Spirit's (not his/her) words (1 Corinthians 14:1-5). The Spirit may also give prayer in this manner (1 Corinthians 14:14-17). Thus, when he joins "praying and prophesying" (1 Corinthians 11:4-5), he has in mind these sorts of unmediated, Spirit-gifted speech acts.

These were different in nature from the teaching (learning's necessary companion) Paul has in mind in 1 Corinthians 14:33-34. Teaching is the result of study and preparation: while Christian teaching assumes the Spirit's illumination of the Bible, the teacher's words are chosen and formulated into speech by the teacher her/himself. Paul can forbid women to teach at the same time he expects the Spirit to speak through them because the two speech acts are very different in origin and performance.

This means that the head covering regulations Paul sets out in 1 Corinthians 11 apply only in worship contexts in which one expects the Holy Spirit to start speaking through male and female Christians without warning or preparation. Since we live in a time during which the Spirit does not act in this way, we (and by "we," I really mean "Christian women") don't need to ask, "Should women wear head coverings in worship?" The point is moot.

[The above argument assumes the cessationist view of confessional presbyterianism. For brevity's sake, I will not attempt to defend that position here. I realize this may limit my audience to presbyterians, but I can live with that.]

It seems to me there's a hermeneutical problem which has led many to miss the obvious point that 1 Corinthians 11's discussion of head coverings is irrelevant to the contemporary Church: we often go to the Bible to find rules. For the serious Christian, it's awfully difficult to find a rule in the New Testament and not attempt to implement it. In this case, that rules-oriented hermeneutic (philosophy of interpretation) has led many to miss Paul's much more interesting teaching on gender relations and the questions it raises.

You're probably asking the wrong questions

While I was quietly minding my own business, controversy about Christian gender roles and relationships began heating up and, if the social medias are any indication, has reached a rapid boil. I am old enough to remember when the term "complementarian" was created in order to put a warm and gentle face on what was widely considered an outdated and sexist (even if Biblical) understanding of the husband-wife relationship. Now it appears "complementarian" has become a synonym for "male chauvinist pig-dog" and is indistinguishable from the irredeemable "patriarch."

(By the way, this is why I never label myself with terms created by evangelicalism or the broader culture. Their meanings tend to drift without warning while the phrase "Westminster Standards" remains entirely stable, and "presbyterian" mostly so.)

As I've tried to get up to speed on why so many pairs of undies are bunching up, I've been surprised to see that discussions are centered around the same old Biblical texts such as Genesis 3:16, 1 Timothy 2 -3 and Ephesians 5. Some might think me cocky, but I honestly believe there's not much more to be discovered in these texts: they say what they say and have been pretty well exegeted; while some misogynist wingnuts may apply them improperly, the spiritually and mentally stable know how to answer those misapplications.

To be clear, I'm surprised not because a goodly number of Christian folk are generally dissatisfied with common understandings and applications of Biblical principles of gender and role relationships. With them, I feel very strongly that something is missing. What surprises me is that so many are asking the same old questions and expecting different answers.

To be even more clear, I don't have answers. But I do have questions, questions which I am shocked to find that very few are asking but which are manifestly apparent from even the most cursory reading of 1 Corinthians 11.

Core Christianity

Core Christianity: Finding Yourself in God’s Story, by Michael Horton. Zondervan, 2016. Paperback, 192 pages, list price $14.99.

“The purpose of [Core Christianity] is to help you understand the reason for your hope as a Christian…” (p. 14). Thus, Michael Horton’s purpose is not to introduce Christian doctrine to the uninstructed, but rather to correct and expand the understanding of Scripture of Christians who have been poorly instructed. One might then hope this book would suit the instructional goals of our congregations.

Horton presents “…the Christian faith in terms of four Ds: drama, doctrine, doxology, and discipleship.” Core Christianity’s especial strength is emphasizing the history of redemption  (Horton’s “drama”) and the believer’s place in it (especially in chapters 5-10). From God’s saving work in Christ, and its revelation in Scripture, flow doctrine, the Christian’s response in faith and worship, and a life of obedience to God’s commandments. The first four chapters lay groundwork by explaining (in order) the Incarnation, the Trinity, God, and Scripture. 

For the most part, Horton writes clearly and for a Christian audience weary of doctrinally weak evangelicalism. (I lost track of the disparaging references to “your best life now.”)  Throughout, he attempts to show how many popular Christian conceptions are in error, although not always successfully (as in his chapter on the Trinity). For someone who has not yet thought through these issues, Core Christianity is sure to be a gentle and helpful corrective.

Although he leads his readers out of the wilderness of evangelicalism, he doesn’t quite bring them into the promised land of presbyterian faith and practice. He describes Church courts (p. 78), but neglects to point out that they are found in reformed and presbyterian communions. While he teaches the necessity of Church membership (pp. 140-43), the book ends not with recommendations of faithful Churches, but an invitation to join “The Campaign for Core Christianity” by visiting a website.

That website contains Bible studies and other resources, most of which are made freely available to those who register (which, yes, I did, because I forswear no inconvenience in my commitment to producing a thorough review) and are based on this book. In substance, I couldn’t find much difference between “The Campaign for Core Christianity” and the Gospel Coalition. If the latter encourages evangelicals toward a reformedish doctrinal consensus which can be affirmed by conservative baptists and presbyterians alike, the former points them toward a reformationish consensus agreeable to the confessional traditions of Anglicanism, Lutheranism,  Reformed, and presbyterianism (as evidenced by the denominational affiliations of its Pastors Advisory Council).

In my opinion, that’s a vast improvement over the doctrinal mushiness of evangelicalism, but is still a far cry from the clarity and helpfulness of the Westminster Standards. For example, Horton begins chapter 5 with an illustration of the suffering illness brought into the world by the Fall, but then describes the effects of Adam’s transgression purely in terms of sin. He never explains, as both the Shorter and Larger Catechisms do, that “[t]he Fall brought mankind into an estate of sin and misery” (WSC 17, emphasis added). Sadly, this omission leaves God open to the accusation, made by a grieving parent on page 81, that he made “a messed-up world” full of the misery which causes young children to die.

Members of the OPC who are encouraging friends to more deeply explore Biblical doctrine might like to give them a copy of Core Christianity. Sessions of the OPC would better serve their members by teaching them through our Shorter Catechism.

Why the OPC?

He's not the first prominent pastor in the Orthodox Presbyterian Church to commit suicide, and I suspect he won't be the last. I know of another during the 20th century, and wouldn't be surprised to learn there were still more. Of course, suicide is rarely mentioned in obituaries, which made the e-mail we received on Thursday all the more surprising. Unlike that previous case (or cases), the family clearly decided to announce the cause of death: "[he] took his own life at the age of 67 after a lengthy struggle with depression." Strangely, I can't decide what to make of their decision.

I don't know whether it's the most prominent, but MakeItOK.org is representative of current voices insisting that the best way to remove the stigma on mental illness is to talk about it; or, more precisely, for those who experience mental illness to make their struggles known. Just as cancer is no longer considered a character defect, depression and suicidality might be accepted as amongst the common risks of living in a fallen world. In that hope, I decided to come out about my own struggles, with decidedly mixed results.

On the one hand, a fair number of people reached out in sympathy. On the other, some used my admission to attack both me and my assurance of salvation. Saddest, I think, was another OPC pastor with a history of depression who tried to reach out with encouragement while warning that discussing my mental condition would make it nearly impossible for me to receive another call; indeed, he said he wouldn't recommend a pastoral candidate with depression to any session. I pray for him.

It's possible yesterday's sobering news will make sessions and presbyteries realize the severity and ubiquity of depression amongst pastors. I have three colleagues with whom I've openly discussed our suicidal thoughts, and I think it's only been three because most are afraid to make themselves vulnerable. Congregations and presbyteries are some of the harshest, judgmental and most unforgiving groups I've ever encountered: to show them weakness is to risk an abbreviated career. Maybe congregations and presbyteries will become more solicitous of pastors' mental health, but I think it more likely that ministers who struggle will now be thought of as even greater liabilities. What session wants to deal with a sudden pulpit vacancy?

This week's shocking suicide was accompanied by the surprising death of David Haney (by heart attack), the moderator of our most recent General Assembly and, more importantly, one of the few truly good guys working at the OPC's denominational level. I say that not to diminish others but to praise Dave, who worked for decades as the OPC's finances guy and always extended himself to help and serve others (and bought me a couple beers that one time). Of late, he led a successful effort to create a denominational Committee on Ministerial Care which consolidated all the OPC had been doing, across its sundry committees, to look after pastors. You couldn't talk to Dave without seeing his heart and recognizing his earnest desire for the OPC to do better by its pastors.

Dave's death makes this week's suicide all the more sobering. He could have provided the leadership to help us all not only mourn, but also to work towards a better future in which pastors are not alienated from their congregations and presbyteries by a reasonable fear of victimization for the crime of being a fallen human being. I can't think of anyone with the standing, courage or vision to succeed him.

Over the last couple years, I've had occasion to become more disillusioned than ever with the OPC. This week's deaths have underscored that for me. If our Church can't provide Spiritual care for all its members, then I'm not sure there's a good answer to "Why the OPC?"

"Churches," not "Church"

I direct your attention to the Washington Post article, "The sin of silence: the epidemic of denial about sexual abuse in the evangelical church," not so we may discuss its subject, but instead so that we may discuss the way in which it discusses its subject. To wit: is there such thing as an "evangelical church" which exists in the manner that headline implies it exists? 

As author Joshua Pease writes, "Without a centralized theological body, evangelical policies and cultures vary radically…." Precisely so. There is no evangelical Church: there are only evangelical Churches.

Evangelicalism is a diverse social, theological and ecclesiological phenomenon: it includes a wide range of types of Church government, from congregational to presbyterian to episcopal. The very fact that it encompasses nearly every sort of Church government imaginable means there is not, nor can ever be, an evangelical "Church" in a manner comparable to the "Roman Catholic Church." While the "Church of Rome" itself contains a surprisingly diverse portfolio of theological views and its governing structures are somewhat more complex and sophisticated than most Protestants grasp, it is nonetheless a defined body with a clear hierarchical authority structure, and therefore one may reasonably ask, "Is there an epidemic of denial about sexual abuse in the Roman Catholic Church?" Bishops may or may not enforce discipline, cardinals may or may not pressure the pontiff to enact and enforce clear policies, but whatever may occur we know who is in charge and who to hold accountable. We (or at least the media and Roman Catholics) may be able to determine who to call in order both to get answers and to get something done.

Not so amongst evangelical Churches. One congregation has excellent accountability structures, while another has none whatsoever; these contrasts are found even between Churches which are nominally part of the same "network" (ex. Acts 29) or "convention" (ex. the Southern Baptists). As Pease writes, 

Diagnosing the scope of the problem isn’t easy, because there’s no hard data. …The problem in collecting data stems, in part, from the loose or nonexistent hierarchy in evangelicalism.

I'm not picking on Pease because I'm a pedant (or at least, not only because I'm a pedant), but because the headline of his article (which he may not have written himself) is only the latest example of a chronic problem to cross my transom. Particularly when discussing perceived problems within evangelical congregations, writers and speakers will refer broadly to "the evangelical Church" or "the Reformed Church," and ask why "the evangelical Church" or "the Reformed Church" doesn't do something about "x." The answer is not, as seems often to be assumed, that "the evangelical Church" is indifferent; it is that there is no evangelical Church. Accordingly, it is impossible to reform, or even change, the evangelical Church.

Next week the 85th General Assembly of my communion, the Orthodox Presbyterian Church, is to meet on the campus of Wheaton College, that famed evangelical redoubt. As a Church, the OPC can make changes (to Church government, for example) which affect every member congregation because the OPC is a Church (singular) which operates under a unified system of government. If the OPC suffers an epidemic of denial about sexual abuse (and it's not my purpose here to suggest it does), then our system of government offers genuine hope that something can be done about it.

I sympathize with those who wish to reform the evangelical Church, with regard to sexual abuse or anything else. As my own professional vocation has been, in part, to play the role of reformer in a small way, I know what the struggle is like. I have had the advantage, however, of working within clearly defined government structures as I have pursued my reform agenda. Those who wish to reform the evangelical Church would do well to recognize there are only evangelical Churches, and to ask whether the absence of a defined hierarchical government is not itself a part of the problem they seek to redress and reform.

Thoughts on conversionism

There are a couple unhelpful ways of thinking, or even errors, common amongst American evangelicals which presbyterians would do well to avoid.

First is an overemphasis on a conversion experience. Several people in the Bible clearly have a conversion experience (such as the Philippian jailer), by which I mean that at one time they were not Christians, and then became Christians. However, that’s certainly not the case with everyone in the Bible, not even in the New Testament. (Timothy seems just such an example.) Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with having a conversion experience. It should be equally obvious that there’s nothing wrong with not having a conversion experience. Unfortunately, overemphasis on the importance of a conversion experience has led some to question whether they truly have been saved, and that should not be. As I remember someone telling me sometime ago, “It doesn’t matter when you became a Christian; all that matters is whether you’re trusting in Christ rignt now!”

Secondly, some appear to think that genuine Christians do not sin, or at least do not commit particularly unpleasant sins. That may not be their doctrine, but that is their assumption when they question whether a particularly heinous sinner (or just someone who one finds unpleasant) is "really a Christian." The Bible does not teach us to think or talk this way. Peter confessed Jesus as the Christ, and then committed what was probably the worst sin of his life: denying Jesus during his trial. The simple truth is that Christians are perfectly capable of not acting very Christian, but that, by itself, is not evidence they are not converted. Faith in Christ is the only thing that makes one a Christian.

I think of chapter 18.4 of our Confession of Faith: “True believers may have the assurance of their salvation divers ways shaken, diminished, and intermitted; as, by negligence in preserving of it, by falling into some special sin which wounds the conscience and grieves the Spirit; by some sudden or vehement temptation, by God's withdrawing the light of His countenance, and suffering even such as fear Him to walk in darkness and to have no light: yet are they never so utterly destitute of that seed of God, and life of faith, that love of Christ and the brethren, that sincerity of heart, and conscience of duty, out of which, by the operation of the Spirit, this assurance may, in due time, be revived; and by the which, in the meantime, they are supported from utter despair."

A related thought has occurred to me as I’ve thought about my own life. There was a period of time when I did not act like a Christian, and claimed not to believe in God. But I was baptized as an infant, and certainly did believe in God before that time. I wandered in sin, but then again professed saving faith. If I were to say I did was not really a Christian prior to that spiritual renewal, what would that say about God? That would seem to imply that he was not part of my life at all before that time, that his Spirit had done no work in my baptism despite my childhood faith, and that he did not seek after me as a shepherd after a lost sheep. It would seem to imply that I was saved because I chose to believe again, not because the Lord was more faithful to my baptism than was I. In other words, to deny that I was a Christian for some portion of my life seems to me to detract from the magnitude of the Lord’s grace in my life, and therefore to take away some of the glory which is rightfully his.

When the English Fall

When the English Fall by David Williams. Chapel Hill: Algonquin Books, 2017.

Whilst a university student, I sojourned amongst the Anabaptists (mostly Mennonites, but definitely not universally Mennonite) of Virginia's northern Shenandoah Valley. I think it was my junior year that my best friend and I attended a Church whose only apparent Mennonite distinctive was that a few of the older women wore the token doily on their heads; I don't think there were even any black bumpers in the parking lot. No buggies, either, although getting stuck behind a horse and buggy on Rockingham County's winding roads was just the price of leaving Harrisonburg. I never did become an Anabaptist, but I got a sense of what they're all about.

As a presbyterian, there are few commonalities between my tradition and Anabaptism, at least with regard to surface features. Beneath that, however, both our traditions agree that discipleship is a serious matter which one ought to expect to have serious consequences for the way one lives. That belief is at the heart of When the English Fall and its fictional narrator, Jacob, a member of an Amish district in Pennsylvania. The Amish have pretty well worked out their path of discipleship, but their patterns of life are challenged and tested when civilization collapses.

In Williams's version, the dystopian tipping point comes when some freak atmospheric event acts as a massive electromagnetic pulse, effectively putting an end to all electricity and machinery. The plain folk, of course, are perfectly capable of getting by without those things which make modern civilization possible. For Jacob and his community, physical survival is never in question. Instead, their central concern is whether their culture and path of discipleship can survive in a world in which, like it or not, they are irretrievably entangled.

It's refreshing to read a novel in which prayer is a central feature. It's challenging to ask how committed one is, in practice, to following Jesus.