Dan Olinger

"If the Bible is true, then none of our fears are legitimate, none of our frustrations are permanent, and none of our opposition is significant."

Dan Olinger

Chair, Division of Biblical Studies & Theology,

Bob Jones University

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Archives for January 2024

On Being an Ambassador, Part 3: Drawing the Line

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Part 1: Cultural Diversity | Part 2: Walking the Tightrope

I think it’s worth looking more closely at where we draw the line between what cultural practices we accept and what we reject—in short, where we draw the line.

What makes a given culture’s norms and practices unacceptable? In a well-known passage, the Apostle John writes,

15 Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. 16 For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. 17 And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever (1J 2.15-17).

We are not to love “the world” or “the things that are in the world.” Now, we know that’s not an absolute statement; we’re told to love our neighbors, as well as our wives and children, and the last time I checked, they all resided on Planet Earth. John gives us some insight into what he means in the next sentence; he lists three things that characterize the world’s thinking and values, things that are at odds with the way God looks at things (what we often call a “biblical worldview”):

  • The lust of the flesh
  • The lust of the eyes
  • The pride of life

As we think about these three things, we realize that they indeed characterize the thinking of the world we live in and in which we are ambassadors for Christ:

  • Our culture is devoted to satisfying our physical desires. Because our culture is deeply pornogrified, we tend to think of “the lust of the flesh” as sexual lust, and it does include that, but it’s not limited to that. We want food; we want sleep; we want freedom from pain. And if you’ll think about it, you’ll realize that all these physical desires come from God; Adam and Eve ate fruit—and enjoyed it, and were given free rein to eat from all the trees but one—before they fell into sin. I would suggest that “the lust of the flesh” is the desire to use God’s gifts in ways that he has not intended—and thus to worship the gift rather than the giver. A healthy appetite becomes gluttony; a need for rest becomes laziness; a desire for freedom from pain, which is a God-given sign that we’re using our bodies in destructive ways, leads to drug addiction, which is simply our continuing to abuse the body further.
  • Our culture wants what it sees—material possessions of all kinds, from houses to vehicles to baubles to toys, both men’s and boys’. Gotta have it. I’ll be happy with just one more thing. And as we all know, the stuff eventually loses its shine and we’re driven to move on. Once again, in most of these cases the thing itself can well be a gift from a good and generous God, until we move our affections from God to the stuff.
  • There’s discussion about what “the pride of life” is. Some think it’s the desire for admiration or popularity; others think it’s the desire for experiences, such as exotic travel or extreme sports. Again, the issue is whether we live for the experience, which is temporal, or for the Creator, who is eternal.

As we represent Christ in our culture or in a foreign one, we must live in a way that declares our priorities clearly. When the culture advocates lust of the flesh, we can’t trim our message to appease the libertines. When the culture lives on greed, we can’t cater to it with some sort of Christianized prosperity theology. When the culture worships political power, we can’t simply champion the candidate most likely to give us a piece of that action, even if he’s a narcissist.

We are representing someone else. That’s a higher mission.

Photo by Carlos Magno on Unsplash

Part 4: Seeing the Long View

On Being an Ambassador, Part 2: Walking the Tightrope

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Part 1: Cultural Diversity

As Christians, we get our instruction from the Scripture. We find there early examples of how Christians crossed cultural boundaries in taking the gospel to ends of their world. One instructive example is the preaching of the Apostle Paul. Since God called him to be the apostle to the Gentiles, we should expect that he would deal with widely diverse cultures—and he does.

On his first journey he travels to central Turkey, beginning at Antioch in the region of Pisidia. He begins by connecting with the people with whom he’s most familiar: on the Sabbath, he goes to the Jewish synagogue (Ac 13.14). Since he’s a rabbi, and even trained at the feet of the highly respected Rabban Gamaliel, the local Jewish community initially welcomes him and gives him a platform to speak. He addresses them at some length (Ac 13.16-41), repeatedly referencing the Jewish Scriptures and demonstrating that Jesus of Nazareth is the promised Messiah. This message would be of considerable interest to his Jewish audience and would stimulate interest in further discussion (Ac 13.42).

A few years later he arrives in Athens. Paul visits the synagogue there (Ac 17.17) but does not confine his outreach to that. He wanders the streets of the city and sees a statue “to the unknown God” (Ac 17.23). He immediately recognizes a point of cultural contact: Paul’s God can be known, because he has revealed himself in Creation as well as in the Hebrew Scriptures. In his discussions with the Gentile Athenians, several hearers seek to learn more, so they take him to a part of the city where people can deliver public speeches to passersby (Ac 17.19-21), and he offers to introduce the hearers to this “unknown God” (Ac 17.22-31).

This speech is very different from the one in the synagogue. He doesn’t cite the Hebrew Scriptures even once, presumably because this audience wouldn’t have the foggiest notion what he’s talking about. He doesn’t claim that Jesus is the Messiah, because, again, that is a meaningless term to the Athenians.

Instead he quotes their poets—Epimenides of Crete (“in him we live and move and have our being,” Ac 17.28a) and Aratus (“we are his offspring,” Ac 17.28b). (Apparently, Paul has read these poets enough to be able to cite them extemporaneously.) I find it interesting that both of these poets are describing Zeus—but Paul deftly redirects to the one true God.

So far these approaches are entirely different. But at the end Paul preaches essentially the same message: the resurrected Christ and the need for repentance (Ac 17.30-31). And in both environments he faces both scoffers and those who want to hear more.

Paul’s example leads us to believe that cultural adaptation is appropriate; ambassadors should be effective at communicating to a culture unlike their own. Yet the ambassador must not misrepresent his king; he must deliver the message that the king wants delivered, without distortion.

I’ve written an earlier series on the fact that some doctrines are more important than others; there are certain specified “fundamentals of the faith” on which we must not yield and for which we must do battle if they are under attack. An ambassador is not going to water down these essential doctrines or try to present them disarmingly.

But there are also many teachings, some of which we hold strongly and dearly, on which we must allow one another freedom, and over which we must not fight. I would suggest, for example, that while I’ll die on the hill of the deity of Christ and salvation by grace through faith, I must not fight with brothers who disagree with me on mode of baptism, or church government, or eschatological system.

A wise ambassador is going to pick his battles. He’s going to seek to bridge the cultural gaps as winsomely and effectively as possible while still delivering the king’s message accurately.

There are things about the gospel that are offensive to every culture, and we cannot and should not seek to avoid or disarm those offenses.

But we don’t always need to sacrifice our effectiveness in order to tell the truth. Christ’s great commission can indeed be obeyed and accomplished.

Photo by Carlos Magno on Unsplash

Part 3: Drawing the Line | Part 4: Seeing the Long View

On Being an Ambassador, Part 1: Cultural Diversity

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This week my pastor pointed us to 2 Corinthians 5, where Paul tells Christians that we are appointed as “ambassadors for Christ” (2Co 5.20) tasked with the responsibility to represent the King (Ps 2.6-9) by taking the gospel to the ends of the earth—as he commanded us just before he returned to his Father (Mt 28.19-20).

Most of us realize that we aren’t doing a very good job of that; we’re reticent to share the gospel, most often because of cultural pressure, and when we do, we often end up arguing rather than graciously and lovingly persuading. Sure, Jesus overturned tables in the Temple, but he didn’t treat everybody, or even most people, that way.

So representing the King is going to involve stewardship, careful thought about how we go about taking the good news to the whole planet. There’s been a lot written about evangelism, missiology, acculturation, and the other issues involved in a global outreach, and there have been plenty of examples, positive and negative, of attempts to carry it out.

I’d like to share a few thoughts on a biblical basis for proceeding, and point out a few questions that we all ought to consider as we do so.

To begin with, the globe displays a lot of cultural differences. Many Americans, isolated as we are by oceans on both sides, haven’t traveled at all internationally, and many more have cross-cultural experiences that are fairly limited—a quick foray from San Diego into Tijuana, perhaps, or from Detroit over the river into Windsor, or maybe even a cruise to the Bahamas. I realized years ago that one of the best ways to combat your cultural misconceptions is to travel—and when you do, ask questions, listen to the answers, and resist jumping to conclusions.

People are different, and thus cultures are as well.

Why?

Because we’re created by God, who is, well, creative. We see diversity and contrast all throughout Creation, from trees to birds to butterflies to rocks to weather patterns. And people. God doesn’t want us all to be alike.

And so we do things differently. I’ve noted before that in some cultures people are unapologetically late to church, because they stopped to talk to someone they passed along the road, and it’s just not polite to dismiss others with a wave of the hand and a verbal “Gotta get to church”—although that’s fine here in the good old US of A. And how in China, you can’t eat everything on your plate, because that makes the host think he didn’t give you enough.

And in many, maybe most, cases, these differences have no moral weight; they’re simply different ways of doing things.

But we also know that Creation is fallen, and humanity is broken, and we often choose to conduct ourselves badly. Sometimes entire cultures call good evil and evil good. The early Christians famously refused to participate in the civil religion by calling Caesar “Lord”; and they denounced the common practice of exposing unwanted babies and allowing them to die. In fact, they rescued these babies and raised them as Christians, thereby turning an evil practice into a source of both civil and religious good.

As ambassadors, then, we need to navigate the realities of cultural difference, speaking and living in a way that communicates clearly, winsomely, and effectively to people who are different from us, while being wise enough to reject cultural practices that are broken and thus evil.

That’s a tricky business; there are lots of things to consider, and the decisions aren’t always clear-cut.

I intend to take several posts to lay a foundation for making such decisions and to think through some of the issues involved.

See you next time.

Photo by Carlos Magno on Unsplash

Part 2: Walking the Tightrope | Part 3: Drawing the Line | Part 4: Seeing the Long View

Continuous Improvement, Part 2: Inch by Inch

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Part 1: No Fear

Deming’s fourteen principles included a second one that has greatly influenced my thinking: being satisfied with slow, iterative change, so long as it is constant because it is built into the system. That, too, reflects something in God’s relationship with us.

During Jesus’ earthly ministry, he has three years to save the world. We would certainly feel a lot of pressure in that situation. And that pressure would be compounded if we had to set up a system that would perpetuate itself for thousands of years—particularly if we found that our disciples unanimously and continuously Just Didn’t Get It.

A remarkable thing about Jesus’ ministry is that he never seems to be in a hurry. As he’s traveling through Galilee, he sees a funeral and stops to raise the lone widow’s only son back to life again (Lk 7.11-17). As he’s walking to a village to heal Jairus’s daughter (Lk 8.41-42), he pauses and asks, “Who touched me?” (Lk 8.45). And he takes time to talk to the woman, to comfort and encourage her. Though he sometimes expresses frustration over the thickheadedness of his disciples, he doesn’t fire them and look for someone else. At the end of his earthly ministry, though they are still essentially numbskulls, he instructs them patiently and at length about what’s coming next and what their responsibilities will be.

A little improvement here, a little improvement there. That’s good. We’re moving in the right direction.

It should be no surprise, then, that he works with us in the same way. At our conversion, a lot happens from the divine side, but we’re still just babies, dependent on constant care, feeding on milk and not solid food (He 5.12; 1P 2.2). Yet God has committed himself to us for the long term, uniting our efforts with his in the lifelong process called sanctification (Php 2.12-13). With our active participation, he begins to conform us to the character of his Son, a process that will take our entire lifetimes, even with the Spirit’s empowerment. And even at the end, we still won’t be there, and God will have to take us the rest of the way to perfect Christ-likeness—and he certainly will (1J 3.2).

He knows, of course, that all along that lifelong pathway we’ll stumble, sometimes from weakness, sometimes from inattention, sometimes from sheer bone-headedness. Even Paul didn’t do any better than that (Ro 7.14-25).

But our Father is utterly committed to our long-term reclamation, and he is in this with us for the long haul. He knows our dusty frame (Ps 103.14), and he knows that we’re going to progress in tiny steps, and that sometimes we’ll take steps backward. Though we are frustrated by the fickleness of our love for God and by the consequent inconsistency of our spiritual growth, he is not.

Why not?

Because God’s plans are never frustrated.

And because he loves us.

We’re going to get there, by God’s grace and with his empowerment. You can take that to the bank.

So, every day, we seek continuous improvement. As my pastor said recently, we just take the next step. What that next step is, is different for each of us, but by God’s grace we can see that far, and we can take the step in confidence that he will empower it.

I hope you don’t take this brief series to imply that God is following Deming’s fourteen principles; God is what he is timelessly, and Deming, through common grace, is following God’s principles rather than vice versa.

It shouldn’t surprise us that God is the perfect Father, the perfect Master, the perfect Director and Accomplisher of his good and eternal plans—that he has delivered us from all fear and empowered us to become like Christ, no matter how long it takes or how slow and inconsistent the process.

Take the next step, with confidence.

Photo by carlos aranda on Unsplash

Continuous Improvement, Part 1: No Fear

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Thirty years or so ago, when I was working for BJU Press, my boss assigned me the task of researching what was then commonly called “Japanese-style management,” to see whether we could apply some of its principles to our production processes. For several years the Japanese car companies had been cleaning the clocks of the American manufacturers, and companies of all kinds were beginning to take notice.

So I did some research. Interestingly, the Japanese companies were following the advice of an American statistician named W. Edwards Deming, who argued that companies, particularly in manufacturing, should evaluate their processes statistically and make changes to their processes that were called for by the hard numbers, rather than just acting on hunches. Deming composed a list of fourteen principles to guide company management in this process of continuous improvement.

I was particularly influenced by two of these principles. The first was the absolute necessity of removing fear from the workplace. Every employee must consider himself an equal member of the team, whose input is valued. (In many cases, the line worker’s input is more valuable than the boss’s, because he’s closer to the details of the process and more likely to see where the problems lie.)

The second was the idea of continuous improvement. A company often tries to roll out a new process or organization or morale campaign, with lots of horn-blowing and pom-pom shaking and fancy new slogans, but nothing about the process and the team dynamics really changes; it’s all just pomp and circumstance. Work harder! Try more! Rah rah rah!

Deming says you can’t become a perfect organization just like that. There’s no program or reorganization that is the magic solution to your problems. Instead, you must empower everybody in the organization to notice imperfections and to speak up about them. In the case of the Japanese automakers, they empowered every worker on the assembly line to pull the chain and stop the line if he saw a problem. Yes, it costs money to stop the line; but if you see a problem, stop the line.

Because management has removed fear from the workplace (see previous principle), the employee knows he won’t get cut off at the knees when he notices and immediately reports a problem.

And quality goes up, just a little bit.

And day after day, it goes up just a little bit more.

These days that approach to management is called continuous improvement, or total quality management.

And it works.

It’s interesting to me that God’s treatment of his people reflects both of these principles.

First, God removes fear from the relationship. He does this in a couple of ways. First, he begins the relationship by assuring the believer that although he was angry at his sin before salvation, that is no longer true. He is propitiated: the enmity has been removed, and he will never be angry at the believer again.

A friend of mine, a pastor, heard me say that in class once and challenged me on that. Isn’t God angry at us when we sin? Doesn’t he chastise his people (He 12.5-9)? Yes, he chastises us, but as a perfect father, out of restorative and corrective love, not out of anger. Christ’s sacrifice propitiated the Father, and he is no longer angry. For him to become angry at us, I would suggest, would devalue the sacrifice of his Son. Was Christ’s work effective, or not? Has he propitiated the Father, or not? I said to my friend, there are Christological implications in seeing the Father as ever angry at his children.

A lot of Christians continue to live under the fear of their Father. They know that their sin continues, despite all their efforts to eradicate it. Paul admits this of himself (Ro 7.14-24). But Paul ends that confession with a shout of triumph:

I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. … There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit (Ro 7.25a, 8.1).

And he has already said, “We have peace with God” (Ro 5.1).

The second way he has removed fear is by assuring us of a good, and eternal, outcome. We will persevere (Jn 10.27-29); God’s enemies will be defeated (Re 20.10); and we will have abundant life eternally (Re 21.1-7), as well as in the present (Jn 10.10). Confidence, like love, casts out fear.

We’ll address the second principle next time.

Photo by carlos aranda on Unsplash

Part 2: Inch by Inch

A Little Story about Worship

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Since my previous post was about the congregational singing part of worship, I’d like to share a little story about another part of worship—the offering.

The first time I took a team of students on a short-term mission trip to Africa, we spent the first 6 weeks in the Kenyan bush, east of Nairobi, in a village called Isovya. We spent a Sunday or two working with a little Presbyterian church there, and on other Sundays various subgroups traveled farther out into the bush (if such a thing were possible) to preach, teach, and provide music in other churches.

The churches were typically mud brick, with a metal or thatched roof, a dirt floor, backless benches, and no glass in the windows. The people would trickle in, and when enough were there, the service would start.

The singing was always energetic; I hold a special place in my heart for the a capella (with maybe a plastic jug as a drum) singing out there in the bush. There is a tonal quality to it that I haven’t found anywhere else in the world.

Then there would be preaching, with an interpreter if called for. One of those Sundays I preached in one of those churches. The congregation was responsive, and the whole service was a delight.

After the preaching they would have the offering. Now, sometimes they would get a few coins, but in many churches there are a good many members who don’t have any money to give. So they bring what they have. Bench by bench, they come forward and place their offering—some fruit, some grain, maybe a pair of sandals crafted from worn-out tires (or tyres, as they would spell it there). This time there were even a couple of live chickens.

Now, as a practical matter, the church can’t really use any of these items, so they do the practical African thing: they hold an auction, and the members who do have some money bid on the items until they’re all auctioned off. That bid money then becomes the offering.

At this service there was a small plastic bag of cowpeas. The bidding commenced, and the bids kept coming. I noticed that an old man, sitting in what American Southerners would call the “Amen Corner,” kept bidding. He really wanted those cowpeas.

He persisted, and he succeeded. The cowpeas were his.

He rose stiffly from his bench, walked slowly to the table, picked up the bag, and then continued walking, up the steps to the platform where I was sitting. And he presented the cowpeas to me.

I was stunned.

My immediate reflex was to decline the offer; he needed the cowpeas far more than I did. But this was an offering, a gift to God, whom that man saw me as representing. The worst thing I could possibly do in that moment would be to reject his gift.

So I bowed slightly, looked him the eye, and told him “Thank you” in Kikamba, the local tribal language.

What a profoundly moving experience.

I later learned that he was an elder in the church. We took the cowpeas back to Isovya and gave them to a Kamba family there in the village.

Worship is a profound thing. God’s people bring what they have, and they offer it to God, who has need of nothing, who is in no way enriched by what they give, but who nonetheless “seeks such to worship him,” according to the Son (Jn 4.23). And that worship, in spirit and in truth, causes the Father to rejoice, and supplies the needs of his people, and gives the givers the opportunity to see God supply their needs and bring them peace.

Different people groups worship in different ways, demonstrating the richness and diversity of God’s creative and providential work, but in every place, in every time, that worship demonstrates God’s goodness in multiple ways.

On Congregational Singing As a Team Sport

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There’s been a lot of writing—and arguing—about worship, especially over how it ought to be done. I’m not going to rehash the existing hash, which is now solidly stuck to the bottom of the pan. But I did have a thought recently about the specific area of congregational singing.

As a prefatory note, I’ll observe that many these days seem to think “worship” and “congregational singing” are exact synonyms. I would suggest that worship is much broader than congregational singing; I think the whole Sunday gathering is worship—if it’s done with the right attitude—and that in fact our whole regenerate lifetimes should be worship. The word means, after all, ascribing value, “worthship” (what the Hebrews called chabod [“glory”], or “weight”), to God.

But that’s another post. Here I’d like to address just a part of that, the congregational singing.

To begin with, it’s worth noting that if the singing is part of worship, then it is an offering to God. While worship is a joyous thing, bringing delight to those offering it, the worshipers are not the audience; they are the worshipers. As such, they should be focused primarily on bring delight to God; their delight will certainly follow, but it is a side effect, not a goal.

That principle has a good many ramifications, of course. Most obviously, we should offer God what he wants, not necessarily what we want. That’s the thinking behind the Presbyterians’ “regulative principle”—the idea that we should offer in worship only what the Bible specifically commands. Even those who don’t follow the practice should be able to agree that its underlying principle—offering God what he wants—is indisputable.

Of course, the “worship wars” were all about arguing over how we can know what kind of music God likes, and that degenerated into pretty much everybody taking his toys and going home.

But to my point. When we sing as a congregation, we are offering a sacrifice of praise to God. We need to make it the very best offering we can. And I would suggest that we need everybody on board for that to happen. That means that even those who can’t sing well need to contribute. The offering is from everyone.

I’ve never been much of a singer; I was in my high school’s chorale, since I could hit the notes, but I never had any tonal quality. It’s a mystery to me where vibrato comes from, and my abuse of my speaking voice is the stuff of vocal coaches’ nightmares. As I’ve grown older, the tonal quality has stayed flat, the likelihood of my hitting the correct note has decreased, and the breath support is pretty much nonexistent.

So should I just mouth the words and let the singers make the offering?

I don’t think so. (Though if enough of my fellow church members say otherwise, I’ll respect their judgment.) I’m not singing for my own enjoyment, or to impress my fellow pewsitters.

I’m singing to God. He knows what my voice is capable of, and he wants to hear from me.

So I sing.

Anybody who’s been on an athletic team knows what’s going on here. We all—together—do the best we can, and we are brought together by our joint participation.

And God is praised.

Our own enjoyment, as I’ve said, is a side effect, not a goal, but by God’s grace we do reap enjoyment from our team effort. We are delighted as individuals, and we are drawn together as teammates.

Every Sunday, when we gather, we thrive by singing our praise to God—together—and by uniting our hearts in worship. It’s no surprise, then, that one day, in a perfect world, we will gather, from every kingdom, tribe, tongue, and nation, and sing our praise to the Lamb with one voice.

Until then, let us praise him. Together.

Photo by David Beale on Unsplash

On Reading The Message

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For many years I’ve made a practice of reading through the Bible in a year. I also like to read as many different versions as possible, for reasons I detail in the link in the previous sentence.

This past year I read through Eugene Peterson’s The Message, which I’d never read before. Since I usually prefer to read versions at the formal end of the spectrum, this choice was unusual for me; Peterson famously sought to make The Message speak in everyday, even casual language. I suppose we could argue over whether this work is a dynamic translation or a paraphrase, but it’s definitely “looser” than the versions I usually read.

A blog post is not the place for a detailed formal book review, but I noticed something in reading this translation that I hadn’t anticipated, something that I suspect would logically affect other similar versions as well.

I was struck from the outset at the general uniformity of style. In most formal Bible translations—indeed, in most literature, period—you get stylistic variations from genre to genre. Narrative is straightforward, descriptive, matter-of-fact. Poetry is much more stylized and terse, denser in meaning and implication. Legal documents are rigidly formal and plain. Speeches are often flowery.

Further, within narrative, different characters have different ways of speaking. Their personalities and character qualities show up in their speech. You learn about the characters from the form of their words as well as their content.

In The Message, a lot of that—maybe most of it—disappears. Abraham sounds like Moses sounds like David sounds like Peter sounds like Paul. Even God talks the same way as everybody else. That’s most evident in dialogue, but it carries over into the prophetic and epistolary literature as well.

When a translation preserves those stylistic differences, you can tell the difference between Peter, the impetuous fisherman, and Paul, the highly trained rabbi from Hellenistic Tarsus. You can tell the difference between Ezra, the ready scribe in the Law of Moses, and Amos, the shepherd from Tekoa. And the more slowly and attentively you read, the more you notice, the more there is to savor.

Now, I think plastering over those stylistic differences lowers the literary quality of the work, and it renders it more difficult for us readers to pick up on the subtleties that were designed into the stylistic variations among the genres and the characters in the Scripture.

That said, I’m a firm believer in making the Scripture accessible to the ploughboy, and if losing those stylistic subtleties were the price of making the Word comprehensible to readers of a given educational or socioeconomic stratum, that’s a price I’d be willing to pay, every time.

But I don’t think that price is necessary. I wish Peterson’s eminently understandable text preserved more of those subtleties.

As I’ve said, I suspect that this is a characteristic of all paraphrases, and likely of translations of the more dynamic sort—those closest to paraphrases. The literary style becomes the style of the translator / paraphraser.

That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t read these works, of course; as one of my college Bible professors commented, the power of the Word of God is not limited by the imperfections of its translators. We ought to read every Bible we can get our hands on. I’ve learned some things from Peterson, as has everyone who has read from The Message.

But works like this should most certainly not be the only Bible translation you read.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

On New Year’s Day

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Certain topics typically come up at this time of year. Most common, I suppose, is that of resolutions. People post their resolutions, usually for a couple of reasons: either to hold themselves accountable or to suggest behaviors that their friends might consider.

Sometimes people show their character inclinations by letting the topic devolve into controversy: why my resolution is better than yours, or why the whole idea of resolutions is defective, for this reason or that.

I suppose the most mentioned defect is that so many people resolve to get in better physical shape, and they show up at the gym, crowding out the regulars and often entertaining them by demonstrating that they have no idea how to use the equipment. The regulars, in response, try to calm themselves by remembering that these folks will be here for just a few days before they go back to their couch-potato ways. Happens every year, and we just have to deal with it.

A topic I’ve seen more often this year is a denigration of the whole idea of calendar: why should the year start on January 1? Most of our measuring units for time (years, months, days) are based on cosmic cycles—the week being the notable exception.

[ Sidebar: That’s odd. I wonder why every culture has a 7-day week, when there’s no cosmic cycle to motivate it? That uniformity is … puzzling. ;-) ]

In the case of the year, there’s nothing evidently special about the earth’s orbital position on January 1; why start the year there? Other cultures start the year at other times. The Chinese New Year is on February 10 this year; as I understand it, it’s an anticipation of spring, the resurgence of life.

Hebrew culture has 2 New Year’s Days (well, actually, 4, but the Hebrew Bible, what we call the Old Testament, mentions just 2). The civil New Year, Rosh Hashanah (literally “head of the year”), comes in the autumn, on Tishri 1, which this year will begin on October 2 at sunset. This is associated with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, when in ancient Israel the high priest would enter the Holy of Holies to sprinkle atoning blood on the Mercy Seat, the lid of the Ark of the Covenant. It is the holiest day of the year.

The religious New Year begins in the spring, at Passover, on Nisan 1, which this year will begin at sunset on April 22. When Israel left captivity in Egypt, God judged the Egyptians by the death of their firstborn, but “passed over” those who in faith had marked their door frames with the blood of a sacrificial lamb. At that time God said that this would be “the beginning of months to you” (Ex 12.2). Christians will note that Jesus was crucified on Passover.

I would think that would get confusing, having 2 New Years, but the ancient Hebrews, and the modern Jews, seem to handle it just fine.

The arguments will go on. Why should our culture consider one day more of a “New Year’s Day” than any other? Why have one at all?

Both secular and Christian thinkers applaud thoughtful living. Socrates said that “the unexamined life is not worth living,” and Paul admonishes his Ephesian readers to “walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise” (Ep 5.15). We ought to examine our values, our priorities, and our consequent words and actions every day; many Christians choose to spend time in the Scriptures and in prayer daily, and many of those choose the morning, to give the day a thoughtful, evaluative start. I’ve found that to be greatly helpful, as have others.

But similarly, it makes sense to recognize the cycles of our life with times of introspection. That’s something that seems fitting to lots of people. There’s certainly no harm in stopping to think once in a while, despite the ridicule of pedantic cynics over calendrical minutiae.

So feel free to go with January 1, or some other date, chosen randomly or otherwise, and pause for evaluation, contemplation, reprioritization.

Do well, and do good.

Happy New Year.

Photo by Jeremy Perkins on Unsplash