Yet one of the more perplexing (one could even say frustrating) elements of the letter is that there is almost no hint as to who wrote it. The author never names themselves in the letter. There seem to be very few fingerprints on it from the person who came from it. Furthermore, nobody outside of the letter seemed to know precisely who wrote it—even in the early church. As the early church thinker Origen would jokingly proclaim: “Only God knows who wrote Hebrews.”

As the class debates who could have written Hebrews, important questions arise about whether the letter’s anonymity diminishes its message. Over the years, some students have believed that the author’s anonymity makes it harder to believe. In other words: if we don’t know who wrote it, can we really trust it?

I ask my students to consider another angle on the anonymity of the letter to the Hebrews. Rather than the anonymity of the letter being a bug, what if it’s a feature of the writing? That is, what if its anonymity is as inspired as the message it bears? What if the author wanted to hide their identity for a reason?

Nobody would dare do that today. We are a culture of people who love to get credit for the work we do. Our intellectual property laws give witness to this obsession. We love for our ideas, our language, and our thoughts to not only be ours but also to be recognized as ours. It brings us great joy to be known the world over for our brilliance, ingenuity, and thoughtfulness.

Every once in a while, someone will share an idea they heard that has transformed their life. With excitement, they will beam as they share this new piece of information with me that has turned their world upside down. There have been many occasions when the very thing they shared with me was something they got from me. That is, often, the very spot of determining my own spiritual formation at a given moment. Because if I need to ensure that they got that idea from me, then I can be assured that I’ve been caught up in the culture of credit takers. But, then again, if I can find pleasure in simply being the medium God anonymously uses without frenetically needing to be given credit, then I’m probably experiencing some great growth in my walk with Christ.

I remember a story the famed preacher Will Willimon once told while at Duke Seminary. A student approached him and thanked him for preaching a sermon that literally saved his life. He went on to explain that he was experiencing suicidality—and the sermon he’d preached gave him hope to live. Willimon knew there was a problem. He hadn’t preached the sermon that saved his life. And he knew it. One of his colleagues, Dr. Thomas Long, had been the one who preached the message that saved a life. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t take your life,” Willimon told the student, “and I’m sure Dr. Long would be thrilled.”1

That’s a preacher who has been formed through the work of the humility of Christ. The truth remains: God loves using anonymous sources. In fact, he relishes the moments in our lives where he gets to use us to accomplish his purposes in the world without us feeling like we have to be given credit for being used. I suspect it is true that one of the most evident signs that God loves partnering with us in ministry is when our collaborative work gets entirely forgotten because of the work God is doing with us.

It’s when we demand credit for his miraculous power that things get fishy.

God wants to use us. But it is hard to do that if we demand glory. To be deeply formed by God is to be open to the great and mysterious possibility that God wants to shape and mold and heal the world through our lives and love and, in one fell swoop, refuse to let us get the credit for it. That isn’t mean. That is God protecting us. Because if we spent our lives getting all the credit we deserve, we’d probably start worshiping ourselves.

It is perplexing that Hebrews does not tell us who wrote the letter. We have no clue. Origen was right: only God knows. But what if that is not evidence of why we should not be able to trust the letter, but instead evidence of a deeply formed writer behind it who was unmotivated to get credit for it? I’ll be honest: had I written Hebrews, I’d have taken lots of credit. But whoever did, didn’t. They didn’t have to. Because part of being a well-formed person is being someone who can offer the world the inspired writing of their hand, rather than demanding that history know who the medium was.

That, friends, makes the letter all the more believable.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! Also, consider studying theology with me at Bushnell University in our Master of Theology and Culture program.

No doubt, part of this is about human nature. We are imitating creatures. We need someone to follow. Of course, much of our lives is merely following in the footsteps of someone else. But what happens to the person who did not have a safe attachment to a mother, father, or caregiver who showed them a faithful path forward through the difficult minutiae of life? Often, the lack of such modeled pathways can make it seem as though every step one takes is into entirely exotic and new ground. Because we have never seen someone do something, we are always the first to jump.

The first story in Mark’s Gospel is about John the Baptist. Jesus’s cousin has been recognized as a local revivalist. People from all over—from the “whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem”—were coming out into the wilderness to meet him, confess their sins, and be baptized (Mk. 1:4–5). This was a move of God. But the way that Mark sets up Jesus’ baptism is interesting. It is only after this revival has started and people are coming out to John that Jesus himself comes out.

This is an odd introduction to Jesus. The first image we get of Jesus is not of someone personally starting a revival. No. The first image we have of Jesus is of one joining a revival already underway by the Jordan River. In fact, we later learn that many of the first disciples of Jesus were first disciples of John the Baptist (Jn. 1:35–42).

Jesus enters the scene after John the Baptist. In fact, John the Baptist would later acknowledge that the “one who comes after me” will have a different ministry altogether. John baptized people with water. But Jesus would baptize with the Holy Spirit (Mt. 3:11; Mk. 1:7–8; Lk. 3:16).

Still, Jesus came after. After. That word has always stood out. After? Of course, Jesus Christ is the second person of the Trinity. He existed before all of creation. He told people, “Very truly I tell you,” Jesus answered, “before Abraham was born, I am!” (Jn. 8:58). He came from the Father’s glory, and he would return to the Father’s glory (Jn. 16:28; 17:5). How, then, is it possible that the eternal second person of the Trinity could come after John the Baptist?

This is the incarnation—the true mystery of the eternal God coming to be a true human, finite human being. And it says something powerful to us about the unimaginable humility of this God. There is a sense of pride in being the first to do something. Humans love to be first and ahead. We get to hang our hats on having broken new ground, on having done something nobody else has done, on being the pioneer. We are a culture of pioneers. But a culture of pioneers gives rise to a culture of pride and self-aggrandizement.

Isn’t it at least interesting that, in his humility, Christ is willing to come and be a part of a revival of which he was not the perceived pioneer? Jesus is willing to come and take part in something that God the Father was doing, but he had not taken leadership of. The book of Hebrews will call Jesus the “pioneer” of our faith and salvation (Heb. 2:10; 12:2). But this is clearly a different kind of pioneer. This is a pioneer who will lead us humbly into our salvation.

In short, Christ was willing to follow his cousin’s leading into the waters of baptism.

Could that kind of humility be any louder or clearer?

“The way God often tests our faith,” R.T. Kendall once wrote, “is to bring us to places where there is no known precedent. We all feel rather safe with a precedent to lean on.”1 God will often put us in places where we don’t know what to do. And he sometimes wishes that we be placed in scenarios and situations where no human—caregiver, parent, friend, community—can show us the way forward. God puts us in spaces with no precedent to see what we will do. Not to be mean. But to examine our hearts.

Jesus is the only human in history who had to walk through the experience of being God in human flesh. Nobody could show him how to do this. This is God experiencing what it is like to be human. God had never done this before. There was no precedent. And through his trials, he would be revealed to the whole world as who he actually was: the Son of God.

Look at those places in your life where you simply don’t know what to do because nobody has shown you the precedent you are supposed to follow. Acknowledge the anxiety and fear that it brings up. Then, take a deep breath. You are experiencing something sacred—a moment of trust. God has offered this to you. And he will do something mighty in you through it.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! Also, consider studying theology with me at Bushnell University in our Master of Theology and Culture program.

I put the word “success” in quotes because what God thinks of as success and what we think of as “success” tend to be wildly far apart. Success, in God’s kingdom, is a life of worship of God, of total abandonment to the ways of the Spirit, of submitted love for brother and sister, of kindness, mercy, truth, honesty, and detachment from sin and addiction. But in Satan’s kingdom, of course, success looks very, very different.

In Satan’s kingdom, we are always haunted by the belief that we are behind.

History has set the table for this mischievous belief. In the last one hundred years or so (particularly since the Industrial Revolution), Christian theologians have routinely published books that have sought to reckon with one of the major changes the revolution brought: mostly, the revolution of time. Since the 1700s, the concept of time has been reframed around a purely mathematical understanding of time. Time is no longer God’s intention or moment for something. Time is the round device on the wall which slowly hums the seconds, minutes, and hours.

Time is a clock in our world.

But time is different to God.

One of these theologians, Robert Banks, wrote a prophetic little book in 1983 called The Tyranny of Time. He argued that not only was the Western concept of time (hours, minutes, and seconds) completely out of step with the biblical vision of time, but that it is also inherently harmful to the human person. Because we seek to squeeze as much activity and accomplishment out of every last drop of a day, we end up damaging our bodies, souls, emotions, and relationships. Banks was not arguing for laziness. In fact, he says that the Christian gospel comes to free us from both enslavement to inactivity and hyperproductivity. He writes:

A genuinely Christian perspective endorses neither a laid-back outlook nor a fast pace, developing instead a measure of each in a fully integrated life. It idolises neither spontaneity nor organisation, but allows room for expression of both when appropriate. It frees us from our enslavement to the clock, but does not ignore the need to sensibly measure time. It encourages a freer, more flexible approach to life, but not at the expense of inner consistency or public relevance.1

Banks, among others, would say that a Christian concept of time must entail a ruthless commitment to seeking, at every moment of our lives, to attune ourselves to what God is doing. This requires prayer, attentiveness, and flexibility. This doesn’t mean we don’t show up to work on time. Of course we do. But it does mean that, in seeking to live in a world of clocks, we constantly seek to discern the divinely orchestrated purpose of the moment in which we find ourselves.

I find this pattern in Scripture, where there is a persistent and strong critique of human efforts to get ahead of Jesus. Paul warns against jumping ahead of Christ. As The Message paraphrases 1 Cor. 4:5, “So don’t get ahead of the Master and jump to conclusions with your judgments before all the evidence is in. When he comes, he will bring out in the open and place in evidence all kinds of things we never even dreamed of—inner motives and purposes and prayers.” John the apostle warns people about “running ahead” and “not continuing in the teaching of Christ.” (2 Jn. 1:9) If we do run ahead, he warns, we do not run ahead with God. Paul’s entire theological method is based on “not going beyond what is written.” (1 Cor. 4:6) Jesus even warned Peter to “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns.” (Mt. 16:23)

These, I believe, are stern warnings about Satan’s method, ways, and kingdom. He always wants to get ahead of what God is doing.

A friend said to me this week that he always “feels behind.” He is constantly living in the shadow of others, of what he could be doing, and of what he should be doing. But doesn’t that whole attitude—which we all have from time to time—carry the unmistakable scent of a kingdom that is not God’s? Indeed, when we are in Christ, we do not need to live our lives based on what the clock may say about us.

When we are in Christ, we are never behind.

The Christian life is different. Someone recently told me that when they would walk with Dallas Willard, the great writer on spiritual formation, he would always walk with his hands behind his back. They asked him why. He responded, “You’ll never see someone run with their hands behind their back.” It was his prophetic way of strolling through—not rushing through—life. I’ve been trying it. It works. And it is true. It is really hard to rush with your hands behind your back.

Kingdom people live like they’re always on time.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! Also, consider studying theology with me at Bushnell University in our Master of Theology and Culture program.

Lord, have mercy.

Something is different after these years. Something has changed between us. The truthful fact is that I’m just not as funny as I used to be. Over these two decades, I’ve used all my best material. She’s heard it all. And there is basically little left that has yet to be shared. Not only are all my jokes unimaginably familiar, so too are my stories and anecdotes. On the rare occasion that I share something she hasn’t heard before, she will blurt out loud and say, “Well, that’s new information!” Then we both realize we’ve stumbled upon some obscure footnote in my story that has yet to be explored. Other than that, there’s just so little new information to be shared.

What if a mark of intimacy is having few new things to talk about?

And not just in our relationships with other people—but also in our relationship with God. There is a theme in both as of late in my life. Once a month, I meet with my spiritual director, Morris. During our session, we spend time reflecting on what God is doing in my life. He usually begins with some sort of prayer or reflection or thought, followed by a time of silence, and then he invites me to share. We just finished our tenth year of spiritual direction together. And while I’ve learned so much, one thing rises to the surface as of late: there’s no new information. Not only have I shared nearly every area of my life of faith and sin, but I also have little new to bring to the table. More recently, I’ve not even known what to share. So, more than anything, we tend to talk about the same old things we’ve been discussing for a decade. He promises me this is a sign of healthy spiritual direction.

Again, no new information. Just the same old conversations—again and again and again. In fact, I can’t help but wonder if most of the spiritual life is simply coming back faithfully, time and again, to the same old stuff we’ve already brought to God a thousand times before. I think we see this pattern in Scripture. While the exact number of psalms written by David is unknown, among those attributed to him, one issue comes up over and over again: fear and anxiety about his enemies. David regularly brings to God prayers about his enemies: how they are “surrounding” him (Ps. 3; 17), the false accusations they bring against him (Ps. 7; 27; 35), how they slander him (Ps. 31), how they have betrayed him (Ps. 41), and how he is being chased by Saul (Ps. 54–59).

What does this tell us? It tells us that one of the most recurring conversations David had with God was about his fear, anxiety, and concern over the enemies he knew were after him. Again, and again, and again. In fact, there are many things David never brings up before God in the Psalms. But his enemies are not one of them. And that is because David, like each of us, had spiritual concerns and struggles that were unique and personal to him. Those struggles and sins he spent his life facing were perfectly fitted to his life and to who he was. Which can make things complicated. I often find myself envying the struggles other people have. I wish I had theirs. And that they had to experience mine for a day.

The truth remains that many of the most intimate relationships in our lives (with God and others) are structured by the same conversations we have over and over again. I can’t recount the number of times Quinn and I have had to (once again) have conversations about particular needs that we both have and need to express. Or certain boundaries that (once again) need to be clarified between me and my son. In fact, I might even be comfortable saying that those conversations tend to be the very place where intimacy is most deeply forged. I used to think that the need to have those conversations was a sign that something was wrong. But lately, I’ve come to believe it is a sign of intimacy and trust. That we keep having these conversations is a sign we keep coming back to the relationship.

We can even let our most vexing sins be the place we encounter God. Ignatius of Loyola (1491–1556) was a Christian leader who developed what came to be called the daily Examen as a way of cultivating spiritual growth every day in the life of the Christian. In his Spiritual Exercises, Ignatius addresses what have been called “besetting sins.” These are the sins that each of us has that are so ingrained in our stories, hearts, habits, and lives that we cannot seem to shake them. Ignatius developed a system whereby the Christian was to reflect multiple times each day on that sin—when it happened, where it happened, and what led to it. He even developed a small register in which the participant would record a check mark each time and place they stumbled.1

In the Examen, allowing those daily struggles with sin to be the place where we come back to God is the very place where we grow. But don’t just pay attention for the sake of shaming yourself or feeling horrible about yourself. Notice your besetting sins as a way of observing where God is doing some of the most important work he desires to do in your life.

Keep Paul’s words in mind when he speaks about the “thorn in his flesh” that he has asked the Lord to take away, but the Lord has not. Three times he asks (2 Cor. 12:7-8). And the result, he says, is that it is teaching him not to become “conceited” (v. 7). Like David, like me, and perhaps like you, Paul knew what it was like to play out the same script time and time again with God. But it was there that he found the very place where God wanted to meet him.

When you really love someone, at some point, you run out of new things to say. There’s just no new information. And that is okay. Because intimacy isn’t built on a steady stream of new information. Intimacy is forged by being together—and that togetherness is sometimes made possible by those same old, frustrating conversations that never seem to come to a conclusion.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! Also, consider studying theology with me at Bushnell University in our Master of Theology and Culture program.

“Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array. By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.” (Gen. 2:1-3)

This past Sunday, I had one of the oddest experiences I’ve ever had as a pastor. As I began preaching my prepared sermon on the Christian call to be ministers in their everyday lives, I began the morning by sharing that I’d enjoyed the previous week’s vacation. As the words came out of my mouth that I’d taken a week to rest, I found myself feeling an odd sense of shame and vulnerability as I stood before our congregation.

You may ask: What would make a pastor feel uncomfortable sharing that he had been enjoying some rest?

Leaders are often ashamed to share that they’ve rested. Over the years, I’ve come to find that pastors in particular—and in general, just about any person with power—can feel a disturbing sense of awkwardness self-disclosing their rest with the people they lead. One of their greatest fears, it seems, is that sharing that they’ve been resting will lead others to believe they haven’t been working very hard. This fear of not being perceived as busy is a crippling reality for many leaders. To say nothing of the fact that we are often told that we should lead through perception. That is, if people think their pastor is busy, they will think they need to be busy as well. We know that people are shaped by what they see their leader do.

So, in an effort to grow the organization and keep people working, the leader ends up overworking (or at least cosplaying overwork) so the ship can keep running with dutiful followers in tow.

In his famous treatise on the imagery of the Temple and the Tabernacle, G.K. Beale brilliantly shows that all the divine space language in the Old Testament (of Temple and Tabernacle) ultimately consists of little streams that lead upriver to the person of Jesus in the New Testament. Eden leads to the Tabernacle, which leads to the Temple, which leads to Christ. The throughline is quite beautiful—and visible for any reader of Scripture. The lover of the Bible would benefit greatly from his work in The Temple and the Church’s Mission.1

It is Beale’s section on Sabbath rest that is most enlivening. What Beale masterfully reveals is the significance of God resting on the seventh day in light of ancient Near Eastern culture. Often, in ancient religious literature, the deity of a given cult would rest after finishing the construction of their temple. That is, they would complete their work and then enter that temple by ruling and reigning. What Beale shows is twofold. First, in light of these other accounts, the Bible casts creation itself as God’s first Temple. Second, when God rests in Eden, it is not so much his entering into inactivity as it is his entering into his full rule and reign over creation. In other words, God “rules” by “resting.”2

Indeed, God did rest on the seventh day. The work was done. That is, he stopped, enjoyed, and celebrated all that he had made alongside the humans and all of creation. But here is the most interesting aspect of this. In the first two chapters of Scripture, God issues a number of explicit commands to the first human beings. In total, I’ve isolated the following commands:

• Be fruitful and multiply (Gen. 1:28)

• Fill the earth (v. 28)

• Subdue the earth (v. 28)

• Rule over the fish and the birds and the living creatures (v. 28)

• Eat the plants God provided (v. 29)

• Work the garden (2:15)

• Take care of the garden (v. 25)

• Not eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil (v. 16-17)

So, in total, God gives humans eight explicit, verbal commands in Genesis 1–2. Yet, when we come to the section on the Sabbath at the beginning of Genesis 2, we find it is the one command humans are to follow that is never stated outright in the creation account. That is, God rests. And through resting, God invites all of creation to do the same with him. Again, God never verbally commands the Sabbath in the creation story. All he does is enter his rest—and by doing so, invite us into his rest.

In all my years working with people in positions of leadership and authority, I’ve consistently found that the invitation to rest is particularly important for those in power. Why? If the person with power—the one who calls the shots and determines how things will be—does not rest, they will never give that rest to the people they are called to serve. What I mean is this: a Pharaoh can never lead an organization or a people into the Promised Land. They can’t.

We lead out of who we are and what we are doing.

A person in power can command people to rest as long as they want. But none of it matters if they themselves are not doing what God did: modeling it. We lead others out of who we are, not out of what we say. Which is why I find it significant that God never commands the Sabbath in the creation account. The humans get to see (personally, in the flesh, there, in real time) God rest. They aren’t told to rest. Some things—Sabbath being one of them—are apparently learned by watching the One with power model it for all of creation.

The truth is: if I choose to come into the office on my day off, I’m doing great violence to others by teaching them the wrong picture of what Sabbath rest looks like. What I do in my rest as a person with power sets the tone and template for everyone else. But when I model well the rhythm of stopping to be with God, with myself, with my family, with those I love, and with creation, I’m showing people what life is meant to be like.

Take a cue from watching God. He rules by resting. Whether you believe it or not, you become the most transformative leader when you choose to show the people around you that you are not well-adjusted to a sick society. Telling people that they need to rest isn’t always the best approach.

Because more often than not, they need to see it.

I shouldn’t be ashamed to rest. Nor should you. Nor should anyone. As my friend Matthew Sleeth says, there’s a reason that you’ll never hear someone being described as working like the Messiah. People only ever work like the devil. True power, then, is the power to rest with God and invite others into it.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! Also, consider studying theology with me at Bushnell University in our Master of Theology and Culture program.

The theme of Taken has been well played. The story goes: because the people who should be able to bring justice are unable (or unwilling) to use their power, someone else has to take that role upon themselves. Countless movies and works of literature have followed this same trope—that of justice being taken “into one’s own hands” because someone else could not.

Of course, this trope taps into a very important theological theme that Scripture often addresses: justice must be done by someone. Someone must do good, make right what is evil, and undo the evil that has been done. Someone must pay for evil. Our need for justice is so ingrained in our deepest selves that we almost forget that it may have been put there by someone. Humans are creatures that long for justice. And that desire for justice is anything but accidental.

And as Mills’ character teaches us in Taken, if those with authority and power do not enact the righteous justice that they have the power to do, then someone else will have to fill the vacuum. Consider how this principle shapes many of the relational dynamics in our world. When a child comes home and tells their parents how a bully has once again wronged them—and the parent does not listen—the child is put in the excruciating position of having to stand up for themselves or take matters into their own hands. When a pastor does not take their stand against injustice or abuse in a church system, the lonely congregant is left to stand in the gap. When those in authority do not use their authority for good, others are left to fill the void.

How does seeing God as a God of justice help us in this? Scripture often connects God’s justice to how we live out our lives. In the New Testament, Paul writes to a church in Rome that has, no doubt, experienced all the pains that come with living under the evil thumb of a corrupt and backward empire. To them, Paul writes:

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. (Rom. 12:17-19)

You will notice that in the middle of this passage, Paul quotes Deuteronomy 32:35—that Old Testament promise in which God declares he will use his authority to bring about all righteousness and all justice. This principle of God’s final vengeance undergirds much of Paul’s theology around forgiveness, mercy, and love. Interestingly, in the same letter in which God is said to repay evil, the church is repeatedly commanded to be loving, merciful, and relentlessly kind (Rom. 12:9-10; 12:14-21; 13:8-10; 14:13-15; 15:1-7). God will repay. Scripture says that vengeance is the Lord’s. It is his prerogative.

This truth is critical: God has a monopoly on all final justice.

Years ago, the Croatian theologian Miroslav Volf wrote one of the most important theological treatises on forgiveness and mercy in light of the genocide in his country. The book was entitled Exclusion and Embrace. Volf argues persuasively that Christians can be merciful, loving, kind, and nonviolent because God is a God of justice who will right all wrongs in the end. Because God has total authority in final judgment, including the reality of hell and who will go there, we are assured that God will do what only God can do. Volf reverses what far too many Christians have come to believe: that because God is violent, we have permission to be violent. This is a profoundly dangerous misunderstanding. Instead, it is because God is just and has the total right to vengeance that we don’t have to be vengeful. In other words, because God will enact all ultimate justice, we are freed from having to take final justice into our own hands.1

From a Christian perspectivThere is no such thing as the doing of human justice without a broader vision of God’s justice. Justice must be done. If it isn’t, we will be left believing we have to do it ourselves. It is perplexing and mysterious, but it is actually the Christian belief in wrath, hell, final judgment, and the reconciliation of all things that gives us the strength to live lovingly and mercifully in a bloody world of injustice today. It would seem, then, that forgetting and ignoring doctrines such as God’s wrath can actually become the basis for our feeling that we must enact final justice in the present. We need God to take justice into his hands. If he doesn’t, we feel the need to take it into our own hands. In short, it is our belief in final judgment, heaven, hell, and the separation of the sheep and the goats that gives us the freedom not to take matters into our own hands.

This is why Volf contends that a lack of trust and belief in God can actually end up “secretly nourishing violence.”2

Does this mean we do not pursue justice? Of course, we pursue justice. We are commanded by God to “act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God” (Mic. 6:8). But, in light of Romans 13, whatever justice we may enact here and now is always a preliminary, imperfect justice. It is never the final word and must never be treated as such. Whatever justice we do in the present must be done open-handedly and with the knowledge that it is unfinished. Again, we are called to “act justly.” But we must be humble enough to remember that when a sinner seeks to walk out justice, they do so with a limp of injustice. Crooked beings can never make things perfectly straight. Only God’s perfect justice can and will be final and complete.

To “not take revenge,” as Paul commands, does not diminish God’s wrath. Quite the opposite. It depends on it. When you know and trust that every and all evil done under the sun—the evil done to you and the evil you have done—will be resolved by a God of just justice, it utterly transforms the way you live in the here and now.

“It is mine to avenge,” says the Lord, “I will repay.”

Thank God.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

Born a Hebrew slave, Moses would soon be adopted into Pharaoh’s family after being placed in a little handmade boat on the Nile River. From his earliest years, he seems to have been a man who embodied an existence that was torn between knowing his identity as a Hebrew while also living his life within the family of the very Egyptian regime that was oppressing his people. Every day, Moses must have awakened feeling a little uncomfortable living in his skin. While he enjoyed the palace, his people were being enslaved outside the gates.

Until he snaps. One day, Moses observed an Egyptian enslaver beating one of his own people—a Hebrew slave. Moses kills the man and immediately hides him in the sand. The very next day, he observes two of his fellow Hebrews fighting one another. When he confronts them, they speak words that, as Edmund Clowney once said, would change his life forever—“instantly and utterly.”1 They simply say to Moses: “Who made you ruler and judge over us? Are you thinking of killing me as you killed the Egyptian?” (Ex. 2:14)

Moses had been found out. One day, he was taking the life of another. Next, he was holding a moral judgment over his brothers that he himself had not been heeded.

His life would never be the same.

He knew he needed to run. His immediate decision is to flee into the mountains of Midian, where he would live for the next forty years. There, he would spend his time knowing that (were he to be found) the regime would likely end his life. That dual life he once led could only last so long. Moses could not be a Hebrew and an Egyptian forever. He could not be a murderer and a circuit court judge at the same time. Moses needed to experience integration—of becoming one person. And he would. It is in the mountains of Midian that Moses becomes a single, unified, integrated person devoted to a life living with God.

Isn’t that often how it works?

As we walk with God long enough, there will come moments when we begin to become keenly aware of the places in our lives where we are not integrated and whole. Our public witness and our private lives are shown to be out of harmony with one another. The morals we espouse are revealed to be entirely disconnected from the ones we live. The person we are on Sunday morning is not even close to the person we are on Friday night. We could go on. It is in those moments of life, when the mirror of the Holy Spirit is held up before us, that we get to see on full display how we have become people of divided selves.

Waking up to our own duplicity is one of the most crucial experiences for a person who wants to walk with God. Often in these moments, we do what Moses did: we run. We run from others. We run from the church. We run from ourselves. It is natural to see our “clothing stained by sin” (Jude 23) and want to run as far away from it as possible. These moments feel like we are running from ourselves. But in that running, we are often setting ourselves up to encounter a new experience with God that we perhaps did not think could happen. It is as Moses wakes up—and runs—from his own duality and duplicity that he encounters the burning bush.

Oddly, that is often where we see God the most clearly: on the run from our false selves.

I once taught a graduate seminar for a group of pastors. In the class was a young man who had been high up in a church where a scandal had broken out. As news began to emerge publicly about some of the sins of the head pastor—and the elders who covered them up—he began to realize how he had contributed to the problem. He had not been the one who had done the evil deed, but he had quietly protected the one who had done evil from being exposed and held accountable.

The experience broke him.

He realized he could no longer continue. The dual role of trying to be a faithful follower of Jesus while enabling a broken system that was protecting evil was unsustainable. So he did one of the hardest things of his life: he left his job. He went into Midian. And started to take stock of how he had been part of the problem. And it was there that he encountered Jesus in a way he could never have imagined. While the debris from that season of his life is still scattered along the road of his life, he does not regret for one moment choosing integrity and wholeness over a job.

Christ blesses the moments in our lives when we refuse the dual nature—when we choose to be people of character, integrity, and Christlikeness over duplicity and double-mindedness. This does not always mean that we leave. That’s not the point. There are times when the right thing to do is stay, help clean up the mess, and face the consequences. We can choose to become whole people right where we are, just as we can out in Midian. But the crisis Moses faced is one many (if not all) of us will face. Will we continue being two people? Or, will we become one?

In the ancient church, the church Father Clement wrote a letter known as 1 Clement. In it, he writes:

The Father, who is merciful in all things, and ready to do good, has compassion on those who fear him, and gently and lovingly bestows his favors on those who draw near to him with singleness of mind. Therefore, let us not be double-minded, nor let our soul indulge in false ideas about his excellent and glorious gifts.

This was the invitation to an early church that was facing the very things Moses faced. Would the people of Jesus have a double allegiance to both Rome and Jesus? Or would they be single of heart, single of intent, and single of desire? The call, as ancient as dirt, for the people of God is to lean over the course of their lives toward being integrated, whole, and single of heart for God and his way.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

“Jesus turned and said to them, ‘Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children.’” (Lk. 23:28)

The student sitting in front of me showed something unusual in their expression. As they shared the tragic story of abuse they had endured years earlier at the hands of a family member, they spoke almost dispassionately—without emotion, nearly numb—as they described what had happened. I found myself confused and unsure how to respond. What was clearly a story of profound pain was being carried by someone who seemed unable to feel in a way that matched the depth of that pain.

At the time, I did not yet have the language to describe what was happening. The student was experiencing what mental health professionals call “dissociation.” In this particular case—and it can manifest differently in different situations—the emotional pain connected to the trauma seemed to have been shut off or held at a distance. Recognizing my own limitations (I’m no therapist or mental health professional), I still found myself longing to see this beloved image-bearer of God become free to feel what rightly belonged to the pain they had experienced. It was right and holy for them to feel what they needed to feel.

Pain, as a theme, often comes up for me. In my earlier years, some of the impressions I received were that pain was all bad and was a mark of a world of sin. But I’ve come to be quite skeptical of this animosity toward pain. For instance, if pain were never to be a part of God’s original design, then we should ask ourselves why God would have created us with a nervous system with the ability to sense and feel pain. Are we to believe that God gave us the nervous system knowing that pain would come after the fall in Genesis 3? Or, that we grew a nervous system after Genesis 3 because of the pain we experienced? It turns out the nervous system was given to us by a good God who understands what we need.

These are very interesting questions.

I’ve come to believe that pain can be a profound gift from God. Indeed, if Adam or Eve in the Garden of Eden, before the serpent interaction, had stubbed their toes, their God-given nervous system would have sent those signals to the brain, letting them know they were hurt. The pain from a stubbed toe is not the result of the fall. It is the result of living in a good garden with trees that can bruise your toes.

Not all pain is the result of sin. Trauma, on the other hand, is. And our indifference to seeing how the two are not the same is dangerous for our theology. The fact that the human eye can produce tears of sadness is not a post-Genesis 3 development. God made humans with nervous systems and tear ducts for a reason. Pain is the body’s way of communicating something about reality to us that we need to hear for our own well-being and survival.

I remember reading a book years ago by a doctor named Dr. Paul Brand, called The Gift of Pain.1 Brand had spent years working among leper colonies. He pointed out that when someone contracts leprosy, it often impairs the ability of the nervous system to respond to pain. It turns out that the inability to feel pain can be very dangerous. The leper may very well put their hand over a fire and have no idea they are burning it off. In this instance, pain is the body’s way of protecting itself. This kind of pain is, indeed, a gift that can save a limb or a life.

And it is a gift to us in times of sadness. Scripture repeatedly commands us to grieve, lament, and weep (Eccl. 3:4; Rom. 12:15; Jas. 4:9). God desires that we feel pain when the moment requires it. In some mysterious way, the journey through pain is itself part of how we walk through the valley. Sitting with my student, I was struck by how often Christian culture unintentionally suppresses people’s pain by quickly reminding them to trust God, believe that resurrection is possible, and hold on to hope for the future. All of those things are true. But God never intended such truths to become ways of avoiding what our bodies and souls genuinely need to feel.

In fact, I wonder if part of becoming a Christian is learning how to feel pain again. What if the holy journey involves giving ourselves the space and permission to experience what God designed our nervous systems to do for us? David could say in the Psalms, “My tears have been my food” (Ps. 42:3). Why could he say that? Because the pain he experienced was, in some mysterious and providential way, nourishing him at the deepest level of his being.

We are starving because we are never allowing ourselves to feel pain.

How fascinating it is that Jesus so often heals lepers in the Gospels (Mt. 8:1–4; Mk. 1:40–42; Lk. 17:11–19). He probably heals more lepers than anyone else. In doing so, he touches and restores people whose bodies had, in many cases, lost the capacity to feel pain. When Jesus healed a leper, he was not merely repairing damaged flesh. He was also restoring the capacity to feel again. Healing, it seems, includes restoring our God-given ability to experience the full depth of the pain that life can bring. What a severe mercy that is. God heals us not so that we never feel pain again, but so that we can truly feel once more.

As I sat with my student in a number of sessions, I began to do the only thing that I felt like I could to help: I started showing them that I was in pain because of their story. When they couldn’t cry, I needed to cry for them. When they couldn’t be angry, I needed to get angry for them. When they couldn’t point the finger, I needed to point the finger for them. It was only in seeing my pain for them that they could have pain for themselves. When we don’t have the capacity to feel pain, we often need someone else to show it to us, to reveal that we are, indeed, worth the pain. My student needed someone to feel for them when they couldn’t. We all need this from time to time.

It is sacred to feel pain.

But it’s even holier to have a God who feels it for you when you can’t.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

He gives a warning about what he calls “theological puberty.”

What is that? Thielicke says that there is a season in a young theologian’s life when they begin to study matters that their life or maturity can not fully carry. Imagine the twenty-three-year-old wrestling with the intricate and puzzling nature of the Triune God long before having to navigate the ordinary challenges of learning how to mow the lawn, change a baby’s diaper, or make a mortgage payment. It’s during this period, Thielicke contends, that there can exist what he calls a “hiatus between the arena of the young theologian’s actual spiritual growth.” In other words, the person may possess knowledge that their character and life experience have not yet matured enough to sustain or appreciate.

To be clear, it’s not that theological puberty is bad. Far from it. Just as in real life, of course, one must pass through adolescence in order to enter adulthood. So too in theological adolescence. Still, the German theologian felt it important to caution the person whose theological knowledge was outpacing a life and maturity that lagged behind. Such a person may speak too loudly or with too much confidence, even though their life doesn’t live up to it.

In the information-obsessed world, how often do we make the dangerous choice of privileging intellect and knowledge over discipleship and formation?

Too often, he thought.

As German theologians often do, Thielicke puts it in very striking terms: “The study of theology often produces overgrown youths whose internal organs have not correspondingly developed. This is a characteristic of adolescence. There is actually something like theological puberty. Every teacher knows that this is a matter of signs of natural growth over which there is no need to become excited.” Thielicke would go on to compare the know-it-all youthful theologian to a country boy wearing breeches far too large for his body.

Sometimes, he suggests, what’s needed is time for the body to catch up with the clothes.

This is an important caution to the young theologian. But it is also an important reminder to the seasoned one. For the more mature, there is a profound danger in giving too much power, influence, and platform to someone who has not had a life to contain their theological wisdom. Far from being cynical, the seminary professor concludes his warning by explaining why there is real danger in a young person speaking eloquently about theology before their life has matured enough to sustain it:

For the reasons I have mentioned, I do not tolerate sermons by first-semester young theological students swaddled in their gowns. One ought to be able to keep still. During the period when the voice is changing we do not sing, and during this formative period in the life of the theological student he does not preach.1

Of course, in his own way, Thielicke is channeling much of Paul’s wisdom in the New Testament. Look, for example, at Paul’s teaching on eldership in the pastoral epistles. In 1 Tim. 3:1–7, Paul lays out several key characteristics and qualities that an elder in the church should embody: hospitality, sobriety, faithfulness in marriage, self-control, and the ability to teach, among others. Yet one particular instruction in this list always seems to stand out every time it is revisited:

He must not be a recent convert, or he may become conceited and fall under the same judgment as the devil. (v. 6)

Why would Paul offer this command? It is interesting to note that in the other elder list Paul writes to Titus, who was serving the church in Crete, he omits this particular qualification (Tit. 1:5–9). Many New Testament scholars suggest that this is because the church on the island of Crete consisted largely of new believers who had only recently come to faith. There were no other people to choose for eldership besides younger converts. Paul, then, appears to make an accommodation for elders based on the church in Crete’s contextual needs and relative youthfulness. Wherever possible, Paul is saying, be careful about putting too much pressure on the theological adolescent.

Still, Paul thinks it is important and worthwhile—where appropriate—to keep recently converted Christians from positions of power. For what reasons? Because they are prone to being “conceited” otherwise.

Now that I’m sauntering my way into midlife, I find myself tempted to want to win the praise of the young by offering my universal affirmation and praise. But I don’t serve them well by doing this. Affirmation, I’ve found, can often serve as a subtle power grab. Instead, I serve the young by listening and challenging; by being present and cautious; by calling and lovingly critiquing; by inviting without infatuation; by believing in what God is doing in them without forcing it. And when I heap on too much praise, I end up paving the path toward a life of conceit.

As Thielicke commends, there is exceeding wisdom in “keep[ing] still” during this period of theological pubescence. And I dare to wonder if that is true for all spiritual adolescence. Of letting those years be marked by taking in all God has and growing in character and discipleship.

This gives our bodies time to start filling into our theological clothing.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

Have no fear of sudden disaster

or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked,

for the Lord will be at your side

and will keep your foot from being snared. (Prov. 3:25-26)

I’ve only been fired once.

Here’s the story. I was sixteen years old and worked about ten to fifteen hours a week at the local Dairy Queen. On most evenings during the closing shift, I was left running between the drive-through and the kitchen to cover the needs before closing down for the night. Which was when it happened. This was the point in the day when my friends from school would come through the drive-through to sneak in a hello or just make fun of me for working at Dairy Queen (I had great friends!). One Friday night, however, as my friends drove through, I made the ill-fated decision that would change my life forever.

I gave away some free French fries.

The next day, a Saturday, one of my co-workers—who also happened to be my supervisor—took a friend and me out for late-night burgers at a local restaurant following our shift. After talking and laughing for several hours, he suddenly grew serious and said he had something to tell me. I had been fired. I had been caught stealing French fries. And the manager told him to bear the bad news.

The fact that the only place I have ever been fired from was a Dairy Queen over the admittedly consequential matter of French fries is, no doubt, somewhat comical. I agree. But something from that experience left me shaken. After years of reflection, I realized it left me with the suspicion that when people wanted to spend time with me—even casually—they might really be preparing to tell me something bad. The effects of that turn of events, no kidding, continue to this day.

I am terrified of sudden disaster.

I see it, for instance, in my relationships with people as a pastor. In many conversations, I find myself waiting for the shoe to drop. It is like there is this voice at the back of my head that I’m going to get some horrible news as we meet over coffee. And when a conversation ends without it happening, it feels like no small relief. My experience with being fired from Dairy Queen left me with the lingering sense that sudden disaster is probably always just around the corner.

In short, the shoe always feels like it is about to drop.

The phrase “the other shoe is about to drop” has an interesting history in English. It first began appearing in literature around the turn of the twentieth century and is believed to have emerged from life in crowded urban apartment buildings. People living below the upstairs tenants became accustomed to hearing the loud thuds that came at the end of a workday. The expression referred to the moment after one heavy shoe had already hit the floor. Everyone knew the second shoe would soon follow. The phrase came to symbolize the expectation that another disturbance—or another problem—was inevitably on its way.

Sudden disaster does happen. Scripture never promises us a life free from the consequences of living in a world marred by sin, evil, and profound disappointment. Life confronts us with the unexpected death, the terrifying diagnosis, the job loss we never saw coming, or the breakup we never imagined would happen. These realities cannot be avoided. But what can be confronted is the fear that accompanies them. Sudden disaster may come, but it must not become the thing that controls our lives.

The word “suddenly” is a powerful one in the story of the Bible. Consider, for example, the book of Job. Job is the story of a man who famously loses everything. At the center of his suffering is the repeated sense that these disasters came without warning—suddenly. A wind suddenly brings destruction that kills his children (Jb. 1:19), his friend Eliphaz speaks of how disaster falls suddenly on the wicked (Jb. 5:3), and Job himself laments that “when a scourge brings sudden death” it comes without warning (Jb. 9:23). Job was a man deeply acquainted with the suddenness of disaster.

But miracles can also happen suddenly. It is no accident that Luke uses the word “suddenly” to describe the coming of the Holy Spirit upon the early church in Acts 2. In fact, Luke uses suddenness as a recurring theme in describing the work of the Spirit among the earliest Christians: the Spirit falls at Pentecost “suddenly” (Ac. 2:2), Saul turns to God “suddenly” (Ac. 9:3), Peter is released from prison “suddenly” (Ac. 12:7), and Paul and Silas are freed from prison when an earthquake suddenly shakes the foundations of the jail (Ac. 16:26). A number of New Testament scholars have wondered over the years whether Luke is intentionally inverting the story of Job. Just as disaster came suddenly in Job, so now the power and wind of the Spirit arrive suddenly.

What strikes me is how often I fear the suddenness of disaster while rarely holding the same expectation for the suddenness of the Spirit’s work in my life.

Maybe you are like me: you have experienced life as a constant fear that, around every corner, another shoe is about to drop. Which is why the wisdom of Proverbs is so important: “Have no fear of sudden disaster...for the Lord will be at your side and will keep your foot from being snared” (Prov. 3:25–26). The author of Proverbs is no prosperity teacher. He never promises that disaster will not come. But he warns us not to surrender to the fear that it will.

And, moreover, maybe you are like me, that our bodies remember those experiences so intimately that they shape our expectations of the day. Oh, the body—it’s a minor prophet, isn’t it? It speaks so truthfully to us and wants to protect us from the heartache that it once incurred.

But in this instance, the body’s memory can be very inhibiting, keeping us from being liberated to live a life of abundant trust and hopefulness. Yes, every moment may have another shoe to drop.

It may also offer the Spirit the opportunity to perform his greatest miracles.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

The story of Sisyphus, as bleakly depressing as it is, mirrors the experience many of us face each morning. We set out to become different—to change, to become someone new—only to discover, time and again, that we wake up in the same old body, in the same bed, living the same life. We dream of a day when we can finally stop pushing the rock up the hill. And then we are reminded, yet again, that the rock and the hill are our lives.

The greatest lie many of us come to believe is one we carry somewhere in the grey matter in our heads: I can’t change.

Scripture repeatedly tells stories of people who begin well but end poorly. To name a few: Solomon begins by crying out to God for wisdom, only to finish his life marked by greed, political alliances, and what appears to be sexual excess (1 Kgs. 3–11); Saul begins humbly, small in his own eyes, but ends in paranoia, fear, and self-absorption (1 Sam. 9–31); and Judas begins by faithfully following Jesus, only to betray him (Mt. 10; Jn. 13; Mt. 27). There are many such stories of a slow and steady decline from light into darkness.

But Scripture also gives us the story of Manasseh. Manasseh was the king of Judah who reigned for fifty-five years. His early years, we are told, were marked by “doing evil in the eyes of the Lord” (2 Chr. 33:2). He built altars to foreign gods, worshiped the starry hosts, erected pagan altars in the temple, and even sacrificed children. But when the Assyrians came, they devastated Jerusalem and carried Manasseh into exile. Something changed, however. After he was returned to Jerusalem as a vassal king, the final years of his life were marked by repentance. He tore down false altars, restored true worship, and put an end to the evil practices he had embraced. Scripture says that he “humbled himself” (2 Chr. 33:12, 19). He began horribly but ended well.

What the story of Manasseh shows us—unlike so many stories we encounter in the world—is a life marked by increasing holiness and deeper submission to God as death draws near. It is the same pattern we see in Peter. In his restoration conversation with Jesus, Jesus tells Peter:

Feed my sheep. Very truly I tell you, when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.” Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God. Then he said to him, “Follow me!” (Jn. 21:18-19)

It is that line—“when you are old, you will stretch out your hands”—that strikes home. Peter’s younger years were marked by freedom, self-determination, and self-direction. But now Jesus tells him that he is moving toward the opposite. He is being led into a cruciform life, shaped not by his own desires but by God’s desires.

Henri Nouwen famously called this “downward mobility.” When we speak of the American Dream, we are often describing a vision of life in which everything moves up and to the right—expanding, advancing, flourishing like a rising stock market. But Peter’s future would not look like that. Nor will the lives of those who follow the way of Jesus. As we grow in Christlikeness, the path increasingly becomes an inversion of the American Dream. Nouwen writes:

We are taught to conceive of development in terms of an ongoing increase in human potential. Growing up means becoming healthier, stronger, more intelligent, more mature, and more productive. Consequently, we hide those who do not affirm this myth of progress, such as the elderly, prisoners, and those with mental disabilities. In our society, we consider the upward move the obvious one while treating the poor cases who cannot keep up as sad misfits, people who have deviated from the normal line of progress.1

Downward mobility—Jesus-style—is the slow way toward holiness that comes from embracing a life of holy limitation. And that is something we see, even if only faintly, in the life of Manasseh. Perhaps this reflection dates the author, but the older I get, the more I find myself tempted to protect an existence that is always moving up and to the right. I think that is the flesh at work. But I find myself asking God to teach me what it means to enter more deeply into the freedom that comes from submission to him, rather than the kind of freedom that comes from surrendering to my fickle desires.

Sisyphus is the work of the flesh. Submission is the freedom of obedience. And learning to let go of one and cling mercilessly to the other is the work of the Spirit. Here’s to embracing downward mobility.

For those who believe the lie of their own unchangeability: tell that to Manasseh or Peter.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

But to receive this power, they must wait. Luke picks up this theme at the end of his Gospel and at the beginning of his history of the church in Acts. At the end of Luke’s Gospel, Jesus instructs the disciples to “stay in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high” (Lk. 24:49). Then, in the opening chapter of his twofold account, Luke tells us that Jesus explicitly commands his disciples to “wait” (Gr. perimenein) in Jerusalem and not leave until the Holy Spirit comes upon them at Pentecost (Ac. 1:4–5). Staying and waiting are part of the preparation. By ending his Gospel and beginning his history with the dual repetition of “stay” and “wait,” Luke is highlighting in clear terms the agenda of the Kingdom of God: Holy Spirit empowerment demands intentional patience and waiting. Waiting isn’t passive.

Waiting is active preparation.

There must have been a reason. Any reasonable person may wonder why Jesus did not immediately send the disciples the empowering presence of the Spirit after the ascension and before Pentecost. Why linger? That is exactly the season we are in. We are in the season of the Christian calendar called Eastertide. This season represents the period between the resurrection of Christ and the day when the Father and the Son send the power of the Holy Spirit upon the church (Ac. 1:3–5; Ac. 2:1–4). Eastertide is the holy season of waiting. Not just sitting around waiting. But anticipatory waiting. A waiting that’s built on a promise. It is a time in which we prepare ourselves for the coming power. And we do not get to rush it. We must learn to sit within it.

Waiting, as we all know, has become akin to a cuss word in our modern, digital landscape. We have no time to wait. It’s one of the features of life that we are doing almost everything in our power to avoid. If a show takes more than three seconds to load, we refresh (or move to another site). We can have a pizza or a book delivered within moments of ordering. Our phones now seem to anticipate what we want before we even ask—almost as if we are being watched. And all of this, over time, bit by bit, is forming a community of people who have little patience for the in-between and the waiting. Our technological lives are now seeping into our spiritual lives. And the results are doing great damage to our inner lives with God.

Over time, we come to expect from God what we’ve experienced from Amazon Prime.

This has disastrous effects on our spiritual lives. In the fast-paced immediacy of the digital world, our inner lives soon become colonized by the expectant demands of immediacy. Which means that as we patiently ask God to speak, fervently seek his direction, and slowly long for his revelation, we can begin to expect God to act the way our phones do. And if he doesn’t act that way, we start wondering if we no longer have spiritual wi-fi. The problem is this: God does not seem to act as quickly as our phones do. Or, perhaps better, God refuses to act as our phones do. Why? Because God loves us more than our phones ever could. In fact, our phones are merely extensions of our desires. They do not love us. They are simply technological means of turning inward, ways of loving the self. They are the engine of the self-centered being.

God, however, truly loves us and knows that waiting accomplishes something. The Western, digital mindset almost universally treats waiting as passivity—even as failure. Yet this runs against nearly everything we learn about Eastertide. To wait is to place our trust in a promise. Or, so argued Henri Nouwen:

People who wait have received a promise that allows them to wait. They have received something that is at work in them, like a seed that has started to grow. This is very important. We can only really wait if what we are waiting for has already begun for us. So waiting is never a movement from nothing to something. It is always a movement from something to something more.1

That last line hits. In waiting, we don’t go from nothing to something. No. We go from something to something more. Because waiting is something. Nouwen was right. Waiting is not passivity or weakness or failure. Waiting is courage, trust, and a steadfast belief that what God has promised is true and trustworthy. We can only wait if we have confidence in the one for whom we are waiting. Waiting people—those who trust in what lies ahead—are a people marked by power and courage.

What do you wait for?

It is no mistake that the singular greatest transfer of power in human history—of God bestowing his Spirit on his people at Pentecost—is marked by a season of waiting. Waiting forms character. And people with power and no character do the greatest damage. We know these people. We see these people all the time. We are these people. Be careful of those who want the power but aren’t willing to wait for it. The waiting is God’s way of preparing the very kinds of people who have been made ready to receive this power. Thank God we have to wait for the Spirit at Eastertide. If we are given this heavenly power without having been formed in the character of God, then we will start usurping that power for ourselves rather than in service to the Father and his Christ.

What’s just as important as courageously waiting is examining our inner lives and asking whether we have placed our trust in something untrue. When we wait for what has not been promised, we risk falling into the pit of resentment and hopelessness. Trusting in God is not enough; we must be clear about what we are trusting God for. It is the “for” that matters, because we sometimes place our trust in things God has never promised, thereby setting ourselves up for heartbreak. Waiting gives us time to sift through the true and false expectations within.

But when we do have the promises of God, we can learn to wait. Tenacious waiting—that’s what I like to call it. Waiting is not weakness or foolishness, as our digital world would have us believe. It is not a bug; rather, it is a feature of the spiritual life. To wait on what God has promised is to choose trust and the fear of God at the very core of our being. The Spirit was promised.

And the Spirit will come to those who have waited.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

Part of the discussion that follows centers on whether we should assume that every act of love or generosity—sharing a meal, offering conversation, giving attention—must be accompanied by a verbal explanation of the gospel. Some students argue that if you are going to “show” the gospel, you must also “tell” it. Others suggest that the priority lies in “telling,” while “showing” is secondary.

In response, we tend to agree that in most instances where the gospel has real transformative power in a person’s life, both elements are present. We are called to embody the way of Jesus and the message of his gospel in our lives. At the same time, we must also speak it. If it is never voiced, it is never truly proclaimed.

“Show and tell” was not just an exercise for elementary school—it remains the way the church both displays and declares the gospel to the world.

In more ways than one, though, Jesus often shows us a form of radical love that busts all of our bubbles. As readers of the Gospels quickly discover, Jesus is often portrayed as giving generously to people without immediately prompting them to respond. We see this in the feeding of the five thousand (Mt. 14:13–21; Mk. 6:30–44; Lk. 9:10–17; Jn. 6:1–14). In this account, found in all four Gospels, Jesus provides food for a massive crowd. They eat, are satisfied, and even have leftovers. Similarly, in the story of the man born blind (Jn. 9:1–7), Jesus encounters a man who has lived his entire life without sight. Spitting on the ground—an evocative echo of God forming Adam from the dust—Jesus heals him and restores his vision.

In both cases, as in so many Gospel narratives, Jesus is not reported to have explicitly called for a response. To be sure, he may have invited some to follow him or to participate in his Kingdom work. Yet it is striking—and, I would suggest, instructive—that the Gospel writers do not emphasize any immediate call to action or response.

In short, Jesus appears comfortable offering indiscriminate acts of kindness without demanding anything in return.

In that evangelism class, our discussions often move to examining the darker motives that can shape our missional efforts. We talk about how easily we can take satisfaction in seeing someone become a Christian—or even in simply having the opportunity to share the gospel—because it makes us feel as though we are truly doing Kingdom work. At times, the people who come to faith can become, in subtle ways, notches on the belt of our Christian success. Worse still, our ability to win arguments for Jesus can become little more than a way to reinforce our own sense of righteousness or superiority.

Not that sharing the faith means that these darker motives are at play. But they very often are. True love, as seen in the way of Jesus, doesn’t need an ego stroke. The way of Jesus shows us that there is a place in our lives to simply be kind, merciful, and generous toward others, simply because that is upright in itself. Yes, it is critical that we share the gospel with people when the right, Spirit-born opportunity arises. Yes, it is essential to Christian faithfulness that we embody the ways of Jesus to open opportunities to share the gospel. But Jesus also shows us that sometimes doing kindness for and to people is the Kingdom way—full stop.

The Christian is to be like Dwight Schrute in the episode of The Office when Michael fires him. Soon, everything in the office space starts falling apart. Plants start dying. Order disappears. Supplies are not supplied. Security lapses. Maintenance is not being kept up. Michael simply had no clue about the kindness Dwight regularly brought unawares to the office and his co-workers. So, there it is: our evangelism scheme. Be okay being like Dwight Schrute and just doing good for those around you every day, whether they see it or not.

And regularly be content not being seen for it.

Or demanding anything in return.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

There’s a pricetag to this. Our frenetic pace—which shapes our dietary habits—is causing significant damage to our lives. We don’t linger over long conversations when we share good meals. We eat our fast food on the go. And we lose touch with the appreciation for the food in front of us. When we slow down our eating, we tend to feel fuller and more satiated after we finish. We tend to eat much less because it is over a longer period of time. And we tend to have better digestion, to say nothing of increasing our gratitude for the things God is giving us.

Empire does fast food.

The Kingdom of God does slow food.

This explains why my therapist will almost always require that I drink a cup of hot tea when we start a session. There is some scientific basis for the tea. When we’re in a hyper state of anxiety or fear (or in fight or flight), our body’s digestion slows down (I’m told) and can even come to a halt. The simple act of drinking some tea, chewing a mint, or eating a small snack is considered a “grounding technique” and helps connect us to our bodies when we are dysregulated. As silly as it may sound, slowing down to eat or have a cool drink with a friend in times of distress can actually help bring us back to earth and our bodies.

One of the more consistent descriptions I’ve noticed in the Gospels of Jesus is how often he is portrayed as “reclining” at a table with others. While he is at Matthew’s house, Jesus “reclines” and shares a meal with others (Mt. 9:10). Not just once, but twice, Luke records that Jesus visits a Pharisees house to “recline” and spends an evening meal over great theological discussion (Lk. 7:36-37; 11:37). To say nothing of his willingness to take his time on the way to the cross to stop for a meal at the “Last Supper.” (Mt 26:20; Mk 14:18; Lk 22:14; Jn 13:23, 25) Jesus did not merely come to love and die for the world on the cross—he also came to slow down and eat with human beings. The incarnation is in the cross and in the slowing down of a good meal. In fact, the only meal in which Jesus is described as eating on the go is with the express intent of provoking the theological ire of the Pharisees over eating some grain on the sabbath day (Mt 12:1; Mk 2:23; Lk 6:1).

Maybe this is why Jesus was always eating with his anxious disciples. The God of the universe, it turns out, knows more about our bodies and nervous system than we do. What if all these meals were Jesus grounding those around him? The eating habits of Jesus depict a Messiah who, though having a full travel itinerary and a world-transforming mission, took time to slow down and eat with real people.

While we do not know what every meal Jesus ate would have looked like, we can be edified to see that he chose to model a life of intentionally slowing down to enjoy meals, good stories, and shared experiences. It is no small thing to need to die for the world that it might be free of sin. But it is even greater when you recognize that the ministry of Jesus to the cross is paved with story after story of dining room scenes and experiences.

What are we to do with this? I know, for me, two things stand out. First, it is striking that Jesus did not see his eventual call to die on the cross as some excuse to avoid the social necessities of the world he came to save. He will die on the cross for the world. But, before that, they would dine. And, with that, how often do we use our busyness and importance in life as a trump card to get to say no to the simple acts of love that life in the Kingdom should necessitate? And, second, how Jesus actually appears to enjoy being with people. He isn’t too busy for them. He isn’t too predisposed to see them and share a meal with them. And he seems to truly understand that all humans share a common experience—the need to eat.

I recently heard Christian neuroscientist Curt Thompson suggest that we would be wise to give ourselves 30 minutes for each meal. He argues that the simple habit of doing this has profound physical and relational benefits—to say nothing of spiritual benefits. That is a big ask. But one that I suspect would have a profound impact on our lives were we to try it out. Not only should we see eating as a grounding technique, but it is also what grounds us as human beings. Of the first two commandments given by God in the Bible, we must remember that one of them is that they are “free to eat from any tree in the garden...[except] the tree of knowledge of good and evil.” (Gen. 2:16-17) Eating is as core to human experience as anything else. And to rush through our eating is to rob us of part of what makes us human beings.

The incarnation reveals that God is more willing to lower himself to becoming truly human than humans are. Too often, we are caught busily trying to become gods.

As a practice, consider the following five habits that not only ground you in your body, but also ground you in the life and practice of Jesus Christ:

1. Eat with others. Or, as that once famous book said, “Never eat alone.” Of course, eating in solitude is fine and important. But seek not to make it the default eating experience.

2. Put down the screens. Yes, let that cell phone be put aside. Why? When you are distracted, you don’t actually have the ability to fully taste the food you have been given by God. Remember, God gave you taste buds for a reason.

3. Eat at a sabbath pace. For a week, try giving 30 minutes to each meal. Warning: it will be hard. But the difficulty will be instructive and will likely show you how often you spend as little time as possible on the joy of ingestion.

4. Have spiritual conversations. The last meal Jesus shared with his disciples before his death on a cross is the very model for this thing. Jesus ends his earthly ministry with a meal (the last supper) and begins his new-creation, resurrection ministry with a meal by the sea (the first breakfast). In each of these, Jesus talked about deeply spiritual matters with his spiritual friends.

5. Chew more. Little more can be said. Don’t make your stomach do all the work. Chew more and save your intestines all the effort.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

Matthew not only describes these two geological earthquakes, but he also uses an interesting play on words to show that it was not just the land that trembled that day. Standing outside the tomb were some Roman soldiers. As the angel comes to move the stone, we are told, the guards who stand by “shake” and “become like dead men.” (v. 4) Matthew doesn’t miss a point, and makes a subtle but important connection between these two events. The “earthquake” (sizemos megas) shakes, and then the guards (e-size-thēsan) shake in direct response. This truly is a seismic event that shakes both creation and humanity. This is, as Fredrick Dale Bruner has written, both an earthquake and a manquake.

What are these two earthquakes all about?

We are likely to view earthquakes in a particularly negative light. Generally, we tend to see earthquakes as merely destructive events. And they certainly can be. Earthquakes damage our cities, our homes, cause deaths, and can leave us trembling with fear. I vividly remember being woken up at 5 am for the Spring Break quake here in the Willamette Valley in 1993. I was a tween and had never experienced an earthquake. I woke and thought that a bomb had gone off. It was terrifying—even though the quake was only 5.6 on the Richter Scale. But it was still scary enough to terrify this teenager.

Experience often tells us that earthquakes are mostly destructive. But I wonder if there is another side to the earthquakes on that Easter weekend in Matthew’s gospel. I’m told that if one were to attend a Taylor Swift concert, the music and dancing are so loud and palpable that they could be mistaken for a minor earthquake. They are called Swiftquakes—and have even been shown to do some damage to the surrounding infrastructure. Now, I don’t want to date myself here. It says a great deal about a person when their favorite bands start playing in casinos. So, having never been to a Taylor Swift concert, I can only bear witness to my own concertgoings. Having attended not too few Dave Matthews or The Decemberists concerts over the years, among some older bands I wish not to name here, I’d equally have been shaken to my very core at some of these events.

Not all earthquakes are destructive—some quakes are what happens when there is a party.

Why would Matthew portray two earthquakes before us on Friday and Sunday? Because creation is partying, celebrating, finding its fulfillment in the coming of the resurrected Son of God. As the Flemish priest Cornelius à Lapide once wrote: “The earth, which trembled with sorrow at the Death of Christ, is now leaping for joy at His glorious resurrection.” These earthquakes may very well be destructive. They certainly are powerful enough to reveal that the living outside the tomb are but dead people—and the dead Man inside is now alive. There is a great shaking happening. But these earthquakes are what happens when all of creation parties at the news that the Son of God has been revealed as the one who conquers death.

But these two earthquakes aren’t the only upheavals in this liturgical season. If we continue in the story of the New Testament, we find that forty days after Jesus’ resurrection, he ascends to the Father. Not long after, the disciples are gathered in an upper room in prayer on the day of Pentecost. There, we read Luke’s account: “Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting.” (Ac. 2:2) The world shakes, again! This time, the focus is on the coming power of the Holy Spirit, who will dwell in the disciples of Christ.

Pentecost is the aftershock of Good Friday and Easter. And we are in that time in between. We are waiting, we are longing, we are hoping, for that future shaking that will shake our hearts alive with the Holy Spirit.

This is the liturgical season called Eastertide—the fifty days after the resurrection before Pentecost. And it feels, perhaps more than ever, that we are in a time of great waiting. We see so much evil, so much sin, so much hopelessness, so much depravity, all the time, that it almost feels like the tide of evil is winning. But it isn’t. It is almost always when you are waiting that you feel like you are ceding territory for evil. But you aren’t. Waiting is God’s way of preparing us to receive victory in the way of love, patience, and forbearance.

Not surprisingly, mind you, that the apocalyptic vision of John in Revelation describes at least six different earthquakes (Rev. 6:12; 8:5; 11:13; 11:19; 16:18; 16:20). It seems that what started with the death of the Son of God will move right through his resurrection on Easter Sunday and empowerment of his people on Pentecost—only to culminate in his return in the eschaton. The shaking has begun. And it won’t stop until Christ comes and makes this earth his footstool once again. Indeed, as it’s been said, Good Friday inaugurates the beginning of the end.

Be ready, church. Another quake, indeed, is coming very soon.

Now is the time to wait.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

How do we respond when we have fallen? With an almost iron-clad predictability, there is a set list of self-accusations that we seem prone to oppress ourselves with:

I’m clearly not a Christian.

I’m at this point in my Christian walk, and I have not pushed past this thing yet—what a profound failure I am.

Everyone else is progressing in their walk with Christ, while I am here struggling with this stupid thing.

God isn’t doing anything within me like he is in everyone else.

My faith is clearly not working; why do I continue?

How does one proceed? Do we believe these lines of thought?

One of the more prominent themes of Jesus’ ministry that may address this question is that our Savior is rarely depicted as having the same emotional response as those around him to a given scenario. We see this on Palm Sunday as we celebrate what has been called the “triumphal entry.” As Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey for his soon-to-be crucifixion, the crowds come out of the city to throw their cloaks before him, singing praises as he approaches. Luke, however, notes something that the other biographers of Jesus overlook: as he enters the holy city, Jesus weeps. Only Luke records this and his ensuing teaching:

As Jesus approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it and said, “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace—but now it is hidden from your eyes. The days will come upon you when your enemies will build an embankment against you and encircle you and hem you in on every side. They will dash you to the ground, you and the children within your walls. They will not leave one stone on another, because you did not recognize the time of God’s coming to you.” (Lk. 19:41-44; NIV)

The contrast between the crowd’s emotional state and Jesus’s is instructive. The crowds are cheering him on with praise and exaltation and a hero’s welcome: “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord” and “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest.” (v. 38) However, while the crowds sing their praises, Jesus responds by weeping. He knows, in his heart of hearts, that the crowds don’t see what he can see—the future pain and suffering that is set before them and himself. As Jesus rides into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, he meets their saccharine cries of praise with deep, guttural, authentic tears. He meets their cheers with tears.

This should be set in the context of the last time Jesus was reported to be in Jerusalem or the surrounding area. The last time Jesus had been in these same locations was when he traveled to nearby Bethany after hearing that his friend Lazarus was sick and nearing his death in John 11. When Jesus arrived, John tells us he was met with weeping, sadness, and even anger that he hadn’t come sooner. Lazarus, the reader is told, has just died. Jesus will weep, too. (Jn. 11:19) But, weeping is not the conclusion to that story. Here, Jesus came near a city and a family in deep grief, only to bring the joys of resurrection power. Jesus meets their sadness not with happiness but with resurrection. I’m convinced that these two stories—the Lazarus and the triumphal entry stories—must be read side-by-side.

In the Lazarus story, Jesus enters a city in tears to bring joy.

But in the triumphal entry, Jesus enters a joyful city, bringing tears.

What is to be learned from this? Well, Jesus doesn’t always feel what we feel. He is, as the psychologists would put it, emotionally differentiated from those around him. He isn’t enmeshed or co-dependent with humanity. Unlike so many of us, Jesus does not bend his emotions, thoughts, or sense of self to his context or environment. Jesus consistently ministered, as John Wimber would put it, in the “opposite spirit.” He brings to us the very thing we often don’t feel or see. He brings to us the thing that we lack at the present moment. What we lack is found in him.

When we face those times in our lives when we are brokenhearted or destroyed over what we’ve done to ourselves and others with our blatant and blaring sin, we may be prone to think that he thinks about us the way that we think about ourselves. But there’s a good reason to believe, from the precious Jesus story, that our working assumptions about Jesus are often faulty. Even in our sin, Jesus is up to things we can’t see and don’t even believe. In many Christian traditions, we near that time when the Exsultet will be read on the vigil of Easter. It beautifully proclaims:

O wonder, of your humble care for us!

O love, O charity beyond all telling,

to ransom a slave, you gave away your Son!

O truly necessary sin of Adam,

destroyed completely by the Death of Christ!

O happy fault

that earned so great, so glorious a Redeemer!

What does that mean, the “necessary sin of Adam”? Throughout Christian history, this line has often been read to mean that we had to sin in order to fully experience the life and love of Jesus Christ. Julian of Norwich (1342-1416) liked to say that our sin was “necessary” because it would be the very place where we are bound to experience most deeply the saving work of his love and mercy. That we had to sin to know the depth of his love. Our sin, she would believe, becomes the place where we experience his love in the most real and transformative way.1

So, in a way, all our faults, all our sins, and all our infidelities are what the Exsultet should consider our “happy faults.” Not that our sins should ever be celebrated or sought after or affirmed. Instead, we should meet our sins with the deepest joy in Christ, who desires to forgive and heal us in that very lowly place. This very idea is at the heart of the famous letter that Martin Luther wrote to his friend Philip Melanchthon on August 1, 1521, where he penned one of his most famous sentences: Pecca fortiter, sed fortius fide et gaude in Christo. Roughly translated, it means, “Sin boldly, but believe and rejoice in Christ even more boldly.” Luther isn’t saying we should sin; he’s saying that when we do, we should do it boldly, knowing that Christ came to bring his joy and love to overcome those sins.

So how do we respond to the debris around us from our own sin? As we enter Holy Week, it is likely that you have stumbled your way into some sin or infidelity or addiction pattern—because you are (shocking, I know) a sinner. What will you do in response to them? Perhaps you have believed those deceptions from that ancient snake that you are not loved, or aren’t even a Christian, or that you have failed because you haven’t grown past that sin by this age, or that everyone else is doing great except you, or that God is doing nothing for you, or that you should quit. If so, friend, see Christ once again ride into the story of your life bearing something you don’t currently have. He comes to your rightful grief, and he laughs, he smiles, he embraces, and he hugs.

As Luther would often say: God isn’t hostile to sinners—no, he is hostile to unbelievers. It is Christ’s finished work on the cross, and your faith in it, that gets to have the final say over all things.

Your happy faults do not.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

“Whoever is not against us is for us.” (Mk. 9:40)

“Whoever is not with me is against me.” (Mt. 12:30)1

In 1909, renowned Christian essayist G.K. Chesterton wrote a response to a piece by one Rev. Mr. Roberts entitled “Jesus or Christ?” in the Hibbert Journal. While the details of the article Chesterton was responding to aren’t immediately clear, his rebuttal is passionate and acerbic. Chesterton vehemently goes toe-to-toe with Mr. Roberts’s apparent suggestion that the Jesus of history (the historical Jewish peasant who lived two thousand years ago) was vastly different from the Christ of the church (who was supposedly invented by his followers in the years after Jesus’s death). Chesterton stood his ground, dismissing any attempt one may make in separating the Jesus of history from the Christ of theology as being as absurd as saying that Napoleon was smart while Bonaparte was stupid. Just as Napoleon couldn’t be divorced from Bonaparte, Chesterton brilliantly argued, neither could Jesus be separated from Christ. The historical Jesus and the Christ who is God were to be understood as one and the same.

Among other things, Chesterton was arguing for a sophisticated, wise, and nuanced reading of the Bible. What I often find in modern Bible readers today is a near inability to live with the tension the biblical text often brings. It is assumed, all too often, that those places in the Bible that seem to be saying different things are almost immediately assumed to be contradictions or errors. Take, for example, the two texts listed at the top of this article about being for or against Jesus. Or, when Jesus tells his disciples that they should sell their possessions to buy a sword (Lk. 22:36) and then tells Peter to put away his sword because those who “live by the sword will die by the sword.” (Mt. 26:52) The Scriptures are full of moments like these where Jesus offers claims and counterclaims that appear to the natural eye to be either mistakes, contradictions, or outright deception. But what if the problem isn’t the Bible?

What if the problem is our frail, human inability to appreciate the complexity of reality?

To genuinely engage with the story of the Bible, it is critical that we learn to work backwards from what seems reasonable. Too often, we are prone to believe that the biblical text is credible only if we have come to understand or agree with it. What we have to learn to do is come at it differently. We must come assuming it is true. We must first accept it as it is—as truth and reality—and then work backwards from there. Reading Scripture correctly requires us to reverse-engineer our understanding of reality to what is revealed in Scripture. We don’t start by assuming our experience of reality is true and that the Bible must fit into that; rather, we begin with the assumption that everything in Scripture is true and trustworthy, and we learn to adjust our view of the world around it. When this becomes the paradigm, the Bible never contradicts itself. Instead, it is our understanding and our world that is shown to be full of contradictions.

This is where Chesterton was so brilliant. The problem, he argues, is not Jesus, his teachings, or the whole of Scripture. The issue is our tendency to limit God with our finite imaginations and minds. That is, we tend to love and accept God only in places where we feel we can understand him. Rather than seeing the teachings of the Bible as portals through which we can reach and begin to touch reality, we see them as statements of limitation. If I pointed to a little shiny device on a table and told you that the device could save your life and kill you at the same time, our minds see a contradiction. Rather than those descriptions as both being true at the same time. Indeed, a scalpel, sitting on that table, could cut and kill; and it could cut to save a life at the same time. To say it could kill and bring life is not a contradiction. It is the use of language to describe complex, dynamic reality.

At the end of his article, Chesterton would write that he believed that if we were to meet Jesus today, we would be constantly put off by weird and wild statements that we could not understand because of our finite capacity for thought and imagination:

I think Jesus would seem to us to contradict himself, because looking down on life like a map, he would see a connection between things which to us are disconnected. I think he would always ring true to our own sense of right, but ring (so to speak) too loud and too clear. He would be too good, but never too bad for us. I think he would be blamed as a hard prophet for dragging down the haughty, and blamed also as a weak sentimentalist for loving the things that cling in corners, children or beggars.2

Don’t miss Chesterton’s thinking in all its glory. Jesus wouldn’t actually contradict himself. He would seem to contradict himself in our eyes because he has a vantage point of the world that we can’t ever have. We can’t see everything Jesus sees. No human has a God’s-eye view. Chesterton’s essay insists that we must approach Jesus with the assumption that he is far beyond our thinking and capacity to know. If we start any other way in our relationship with Jesus—or with the written word he has given us—we set ourselves up for profound frustration and difficulty. When we choose to let Scripture’s dynamic description of reality take shape in our souls, it does a work in us, preparing us to accept Christ for who he is in his dynamic nature. When Scripture does its work on and in us, we don’t have to limit him to being either Jesus or Christ. We can accept him for who he is: Jesus Christ.

Are there times to put away the sword? Yes!

Are there times to buy one? Yes!

Is Jesus Christ human? Yes!

Is he divine? Yes!

Does God love from all eternity? Yes!

Will God soon judge the world? Yes!

We could continue. In short, the natural mind, by itself, without the ongoing work of the Spirit of God, simply cannot receive as fully the dynamic reality of the nature of God and the world he created. In fact, what the world would so ignorantly call a “contradiction” may very well be what the New Testament would call a “mystery.” As I’ve heard it said, Scripture will never lead us to a contradiction. But it will always lead us to paradoxes and mysteries—each of which is never devoid of meaning and purpose. Scripture is what it is for a reason.

One can only wonder what a lifetime of learning to love and live within these paradoxes and mysteries might do to a person. Then again, perhaps these mysteries prepare us for something.

It’s almost as if the mystery of Scripture prepares us to be face-to-face with the very God who has inspired them.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

Every year, Jesus’ parents went to Jerusalem for the Festival of the Passover. When he was twelve years old, they went up to the festival, according to the custom. After the festival was over, while his parents were returning home, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but they were unaware of it. Thinking he was in their company, they traveled on for a day. Then they began looking for him among their relatives and friends. When they did not find him, they went back to Jerusalem to look for him. After three days, they found him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers. (Lk. 2:41-47; NIV)

The story we read in Luke is one of the few accounts we have of Jesus’ childhood or teenage years. The specific story involves Jesus’ earthly guardians—Mary and Joseph—going to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover. They return with what can be assumed to be a caravan of pilgrim Jews traveling together for safety, but they fail to realize that their teenage Jesus is not with them. Essentially, they have, for all practical purposes, lost track of God.

Comical as it may be, the detail of Jesus being lost by his parents adds to the likelihood that the account is authentic. Most likely, this story was passed along to the disciples by Mary herself after the death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus because it seems to look back over his life with a knowledge from the future. In short, the fact that Mary would have passed this story along speaks to her own willingness to throw herself under the bus for having missed Jesus for this three-day period. This story is not flattering to the earthly caretakers of Jesus, who would have been the very ones to disseminate it and let it become known for posterity. They apparently felt secure enough to let this story get out.

Furthermore, when reading ancient records of hero figures, childhood stories are always exaggerated infatuations—highlighting tales of young heroes as victors and conquerors. What’s notable is that none of the gospels in Scripture record a single miracle from Jesus’ childhood. In other words, the gospels refuse to embellish Jesus’ childhood stories for a power play. Jesus, the Son of God, experienced a childhood of remarkable obscurity and silence. And shows the model for what all children need: a space in the quiet to discover their true identity.

What do we learn from this account? There are many lessons. As I’ve reflected on this story over the years, I’ve kept coming back to the phrase “thinking he was in their company.” (v. 44) What Luke is showing us is that as Joseph, Mary, and the traveling caravan left Jerusalem, they assumed Jesus was with them. Instead of confirming his presence, they traveled a full day believing he was with them. But he was not. By assuming his presence, they lost it.

How often do we do this? There is a great trap many people familiar with Jesus can fall into: assuming his presence without actually contending for it. In a very real way, of course, every human being can assume that God is present to us. The great incarnation—the story of “God with us”—is the eternal proclamation that God is with us all in love, mercy, and care at all moments of every day. But there is another side that can catch us unawares. Sometimes, we live our lives going through the motions, working, traveling, doing the things of life, and fail to do the work of ensuring that we are indeed going with God.

Of course, we all lose Jesus from time to time. And there is wisdom in what Mary and Joseph did in response. First, they asked the people who knew what Jesus looked like. That is, they went to the community of Jesus to find Jesus (kind of like what we do when we go to church!). Second, they returned to the last place they had seen him (which we often need to do to root ourselves in earlier moments of revelation). Third, they keep looking until they find him (and model for us the long-suffering approach to faith we all must have). But, fourth, and most importantly, they find Jesus because they want to find Jesus.

“God loves being investigated by humans,” once wrote the great Orthodox thinker Maximus the Confessor. There’s a little lesson to be learned from the ancient words of Jeremiah, who speaks for God: “You seek me and find me when you search for me with your entire heart.” (Jer. 29:13) Indeed, we will. Just like the women did on the morning of Easter, when they came to the tomb, hoping to find their Savior. Turns out, as we read about the teenage story of Jesus, it won’t be the last time in his life that he goes missing for three days before being found by his seekers again.

We all have available to us God’s love, mercy, and presence in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. But be very cautious of what even the caretakers of Jesus would remind you: don’t assume where you are going is where he is going. Be intentional in your pursuit of Jesus, so that you go with him. Even if you don’t know where he is, it is your desire to want to find him that can be counted as the path of discipleship.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

“Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished. Therefore, anyone who sets aside one of the least of these commands and teaches others accordingly will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. For I tell you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law, you will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Mt. 5:17-20)

Let’s be honest: wisely navigating the relationship between the Old Testament and what Christ came to accomplish during his life can be tricky business. I’ve long observed that Christian readers (like my students) of the Old Testament can often feel perplexed, frustrated, or even annoyed as they try to make sense of what is (or is not) binding on them as new covenant Christians. While the difficulties with this question are anything but new, they expose a gnawing frustration that sometimes never gets resolved for many followers of Jesus.

Thanks be to God that Jesus addresses this question directly in the Sermon on the Mount. As we read this short yet jam-packed paragraph from Jesus’ teaching ministry, we gain a front-row view of how he believed the Old Testament and his ministry worked together.

What do we learn?

Jesus is the Lord of his word

We immediately see that Jesus contrasts those who “set aside...and teach” with those who “practice and teach.” On the one hand, there were apparently individuals who already believed that this new movement Jesus was establishing served as a permission structure to “set aside” the Law and the Prophets (the Old Testament). History would tell us that in the early church, some—such as Marcion—wrongly contended that the Old Testament was rendered defunct and irrelevant by what Jesus accomplished. But what’s most interesting about Jesus’ teaching here is that there may already have been individuals who appeared to have adopted this mindset while Jesus was alive.

Jesus categorically denies such claims. In his The Cost of Discipleship, Dietrich Bonhoeffer argued that what Jesus was doing here in this passage is double-critiquing what he called the “twin errors” of both the disciples and the Pharisees. On one hand, Bonhoeffer argued, there were disciples who believed that Jesus could be (and even should be) conceived as the one who came to undo the Old Testament. But this was equally as dangerous as what the Pharisees sought to do, equating God himself with the commands that he had given, Bonhoeffer argued. This led to the popular view that God’s commands stood above God himself. The disciples, then, wanted God without the law. The Pharisees wanted the law but not God. As Bonhoeffer would write:

It was the error of Israel to put the law in God’s place, to make the law their God and their God a law. The disciples were confronted with the opposite danger of denying the law its divinity altogether and divorcing God from his law. Both errors lead to the same result. By confounding God and the law, the Jews were trying to use the law to exploit the Law-giver: He was swallowed up in the law, and therefore no longer its Lord.1

In part, Bonhoeffer names the perennial problem many Christians face today who get themselves into the habit of seeing Scripture as being over God, as though he has painted himself into a divine corner. God speaks. But, we must remember that he is the Lord of his word and the Lord of its intent, meaning, and purpose. We can’t ever use his word against him. And he is the ultimate judge of what it means. When we revere the word over God, we end up doing just what was done to Jesus—we reject him when he actually comes to be with us in the flesh. This is how it could ever come to be that the theologians would crucify Jesus.

Jesus is how Christians read the Old Testament

Jesus expressly states that he has not come to abolish the Old Testament. In fact, he would later claim that the entire Old Testament was expressly about him. Speaking to the Emmaus road disciples after the resurrection, Luke records that he told them: “And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself.” (Lk. 24:27) This reveals something critical: Jesus had a Christocentric (Christ-centered) view of the Old Testament. The Law and the Prophets were all about him. Thus, it would seem, it is read best through him.

Have you ever watched a 3D movie without the 3D glasses? The experience isn’t really what it should be, is it? You can follow the story, sure, but you miss out on the experience of how it was intended to be watched. Reading the Old Testament apart from Christ as the lens is like watching a 3D movie without 3D glasses. You can see the story—just not in the multidimensionality it was meant to be experienced. It is almost as though the Old Testament could not be seen in its full light without the coming of Christ in the flesh. The incarnation is God delivering us the much-needed glasses.

In fact, I side with many New Testament scholars (such as D.A. Carson) who believe that when Jesus says “anyone who sets aside any of these commands” (v. 19), he is directly referring to his own commands. That is, Jesus is instructing his disciples that his own commands ruled them all and fulfilled all others. Others have even pointed out that when Jesus gives the disciples the Great Commission, he tells his disciples to go into the world and spread the things “I have commanded you to do” (Mt. 28:20). All this “command” language is Jesus setting himself up as the final arbiter of understanding how the Bible (Old Testament included) is to be obeyed. Obedience to the commands of Christ, then, becomes the fulfillment of the anticipated life that the Old Testament yearned for people to have.

In other words, to understand the Old Testament, we must stand under the commands of Jesus at all costs.

Jesus has the final say

Imagine a parable. An older man is believed to have gone missing and died, and the will he had written has been found by his family. The family painstakingly tries to enact every last wish he laid out. But, there are just some wishes in the will that made no sense to those who knew the man. What do they do with a will that leaves questions? Then, there’s a surprise: the man is found alive, having gone on a long journey only to return. Is the man’s will still in effect? Sure! The will he’d written reflects his heart. The will isn’t abolished. In fact, it will be fulfilled by the man being present. Why? Because when the man who wrote the will is in the room, he will only clarify what he wanted more fully. The only way to fully understand the will is to have the writer help you read it.

The same is true for reading the Old Testament. “All authority in heaven and earth has been given to me,” (Mt. 28:18), Jesus would tell his disciples before the ascension. Not the disciples. Not the church. Not the church creedal statements. Not our arguments. Not our feelings or emotions. Christ has all final authority over all things. And this includes how we read, live, and practice what is taught in the Old Testament.

Jesus shows himself to be the one with the final say over all things. By saying that he came to ‘fulfill’ the Old Testament, Jesus does two things. First, he shows that he is the only perfect human being who could actually live up to God’s standards. No other human could do this. And, secondly, that he has full authority over those standards and how they are to be lived. His very person is the final authority. The final say is always, always, always Jesus Christ. Jesus is the Lord of the Old Testament.

This, of course, does not mean that the red letters are more important than the black letters of Scripture. To make such an argument that they are pitting Scripture against Scripture, and God against his word—an untenable way of reading the Bible. No. Rather, the red letters are how we read the black letters. And they help illuminate them for us so that we can live and embody them the way they were intended. Not one of those black words is abolished or undone. Rather, it is made clear by the life of Jesus Christ. God’s word is true, trustworthy, and to be listened to. It is never wrong. It is often misused, misunderstood, and wrongly applied, for sure. But Christ came to make this right to show us the right way to read.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.

“The Spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God. For who knows a person’s thoughts except their own spirit within them? In the same way, no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. What we have received is not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may understand what God has freely given us. This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, explaining spiritual realities with Spirit-taught words.” (1 Cor. 2:11-13)

One of the greater challenges a Christian who has been on the sanctification journey for some time faces is the danger of believing that their repentance of the big sins almost seems to permit the little sins. This is that point in the Christian journey when we no longer commit the obvious sins of adultery, murder, theft, or outright lying. And praise God, we’ve made it this far. But in taking stock of our having overcome the ‘big sins,’ we too soon become extraordinarily blind to the quiet, hidden, and unseen sins of the human heart that few can notice. Once the big sins have been tackled, we can easily make room for the blind celebration of the little sins.

In the 18th century, an Anglican minister named John Newton underwent a miraculous conversion. He had been a slave trader, but he encountered Jesus Christ—an experience that left him a changed man. He became a minister and would famously write “Amazing Grace.” One of his most important contributions to Christian formation and theology was his letters. Newton wrote hundreds of letters to fellow ministers and Christians about the life of following Jesus.

One of these letters was called “Blemishes in Christian Character.” He writes about the very problem we have named—quiet sins committed that go undetected or unseen because they are not obvious to the self or to others. What we may call “foibles” (as he calls them) may very well be the mischievous heart just hiding its sinful desires beneath little, seemingly forgivable sins.

Newton offered several clever Latin names to these individuals with particular reference to their quiet malady:

Austerus is the Christian who has made great progress in their Christian life but remains crude, mean, and ungracious, rarely offering words of generosity and love.

Infitialis was the person who had been deeply formed and marked by a seemingly indelible character, yet perpetually negative and cynical. They could never embrace hope and had a nagging suspicion that nothing would work out well.

Pulsus was a Christian of hurried spirit and impulsive impatience. They spoke without restraint and offered immediate criticism, necessitating constant apologies for a tongue gone wild.

Querulus cultivated strong, impassioned beliefs and passions. But their passions led to rash opinions about all things. They did not know how to listen to others and were never known to be teachable. They were never wrong.

Subjectio was known for being full of love for God. But in their love, they often twisted, ever so slightly, the truth. Life always had its little spin. Underneath was a desire for self-promotion and the win.

Potestas was accomplished. But his desire to be accomplished created an endless need to lord it over every situation they found themselves in. Nothing could be left to chance. And so it led to a deep distrust of others who could not achieve the desired outcome.

Fragilis is the Christian who embodied a friendly spirit. But they are so sensitive that their emotions are constantly taking major hits. Nobody around them can ever speak to them honestly without fearing they will crumble under the weight of critique.

Curiosus is a social person. But in their drive to be social, they can’t help but be over-curious about the negative things people around them have done. They are also not people who can hold confidences. They are good at gossip at their very core.

Volatilis loves to make themselves available to serve others. But they can’t be relied upon for the life of them. They are constantly late, do too much, and cannot do their work well.1

This is where the life of the Spirit of God is so important to our formation. While Scripture can clearly name and expose areas of sin in our lives, it is the quiet, persistent voice of the Holy Spirit that can expose the things in our lives that are not overt and clear. The Spirit searches even the “hidden things” of a person’s heart.

Character, it has been said, is who you are when nobody is looking. But the truth is that character is who we are when we are willing to listen to the Spirit who is looking over and around us throughout our lives. The Spirit is always looking. And helping us see that which perhaps no human eye can see. As you can, make room for the piercing words of Scripture in your life. But also make room for the Spirit in the void—where maybe Scripture doesn’t even speak. As you do, may you find the comforting rod of the presence of the Spirit of God.

Thanks, as always, for being a supporter and reader of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Instagram and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book, entitled Slow Theology: Eight Practices for Resilient Faith in a Turbulent World. See below! And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.