Dan Olinger

On Frustration, Part 2

October 18, 2018 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

In my previous post I noted that the Bible says, to the surprise of many, that life is frustrating—and it means it.

And that raises a question: why is it frustrating? And what’s the answer—how do we handle the frustration?

As I noted last time, a good many Christians are surprised that Ecclesiastes means what it says—that all is vanity (emptiness) and vexation of spirit, or chasing the wind (frustrating).

But if you’ll think about it, my surprised Christian friend, you’ll realize that there was no reason to be surprised at all.

The Bible tells a story—one story, a true story, that explains everything we know and a lot of things we don’t.

It begins with God, all-powerful, all-wise, relational (“let us …”) and loving, creating a perfect universe, with little to no apparent effort but with great care and attention to detail, and placing in that world two humans, who we are told are in his image. And he offers them a relationship with himself.

But they reject that priceless offer and go their own way, bringing ruin not only to their souls but to their bodies, and indeed to all the created order.

So here we are, in the image of God, and in a world that we broke. What would someone in the image of God think about that?

The first thing we’re told about God is that he is a creator. He can envision things that don’t yet exist, and he can bring them into being. And we find that we can do the same thing—oh, not ex nihilo, of course, but artists envision products and bring them into existence all the time. And all of us—even the non-artists—can envision the way things ought to be, and we can recognize all the ways they’re broken. Nothing works as it should. Not relationships, families, communities, nations. Not even the DMV.

Now what do you think would be the expected response of someone in the image of God to all that brokenness?

So why are we surprised that life is frustrating—or that the Scripture, revealed to us by the God of truth, would come right out and say so?

Of course it’s frustrating.

But the Scripture doesn’t end with Genesis 3. The story of Scripture is the story of God graciously, patiently, and sovereignly fixing what we broke, including us ourselves. He’s taking a long time to do that—not because he needs a lot of time to fix the colossal mess we’ve created (he made the whole universe in six days, you know), but because sovereign people never have to be in hurry. If you see someone who’s in a hurry, you’re seeing someone whose life is out of control at that moment. God never experiences that. So he’s not in a hurry.

And in time, his time, his good and perfect time, he will make all things new, and that new heaven and earth will last forever, infinitely longer than this little bubble we call our earthly lives.

Let me illustrate.

Suppose someone with more money than brains decides that the school where I teach really needs a fleet of Ferraris for its Public Safety Department. So he buys us half a dozen.

Do you know what the speed limit is on our campus?

20 mph.

In front of the Child Development Center, 10 mph.

Now, how do you suppose the Ferraris feel about the prospect of going 20 mph for the next hundred thousand miles?

Ferraris weren’t made to go 20 mph. They were made to go 220 mph. They’re going to be really frustrated at good old BJU.

And here’s the point.

You’re a Ferrari. Not because you’re all that—this isn’t at all about your self-esteem—but because you’re in the image of God, who is all that.

Right now you’re in a 20-mph world. And it’s frustrating. It’s supposed to be.

You’re not made for this world. You’re made for the next.

And one day, in time, his time, his good and perfect time, your Creator is going to take you out onto a highway that was made for speed, and he’s going to give you the throttle and “see what this baby can do.”

And in that day you’ll go really, really fast, and you’ll bring a delighted smile to his face.

So how do you handle frustration?

You take it as a gift from a gracious God, a reminder that you are made not for this world, but for an unbroken one—one that will last for all time and beyond.

That’s going to be just awesome.

Photo by mwangi gatheca on Unsplash

On Frustration, Part 1

October 15, 2018 by Dan Olinger 4 Comments

There’s a refrain in the Bible that puzzles, even troubles some people.

Not me. I like it a lot.

It’s in Ecclesiastes.

It occurs first in chapter 1, where Solomon writes, “All is vanity and vexation of spirit” (Eccl 1.14). It occurs again in the same chapter (Eccl 1.17), 4 times in chapter 2, 3 times in chapter 4, and once in chapter 6, for a total of 10 times in the book.

If God says something 10 times, I guess he really, really means it, huh?

“Vanity,” as you probably know, means “emptiness,” “worthlessness,” “meaninglessness.” And “vexation of spirit,” well, I guess we all know what that means, don’t we?

Actually, it can mean a couple of things. So far I’ve been quoting the KJV, whose phrasing is well familiar to us all. Perhaps you’ve noticed that most of the modern versions state it quite differently—

“chasing after the wind” (NIV)
“grasping for the wind” (NKJV)
“pursuit of the wind” (HCSB)
“striving after wind” (ESV, NASB)
“trying to catch the wind” (GWN)

Several different ways of saying essentially the same thing.

You may know that in both Hebrew (OT) and Greek (NT), the word for “spirit” is the same as the word for “wind” or “breath.” Hence the two distinct ideas in these translations. Is Solomon saying that life is vexing to the spirit, or that it’s like chasing the wind?

As is often the case in Scripture, when a passage is genuinely ambiguous, the difference turns out to be not much. Trying to catch the wind is vexing to the spirit, isn’t it? There was even a popular song more than 50 years ago comparing the frustration of unrequited love to trying to catch the wind. We know the feeling.

So Solomon says that life is like that. It’s vexing. It’s constantly just outside our grasp.

In other words, it’s frustrating.

Some people are really troubled that the Bible would say a thing like that. Sounds pretty negative. Almost nihilistic.

That can’t be true, can it?

Over the years some Bible interpreters have suggested that Ecclesiastes must not be inspired—at least, not in the way the rest of the Bible is. God wouldn’t say something this negative.

Maybe Ecclesiastes is just God’s (accurate) record of man’s (inaccurate) thinking “under the sun.” Yeah, that’s it.

I beg to differ.

There’s nothing in the text of Ecclesiastes that gives us the idea that we’re not supposed to take it seriously.

In fact, it starts pretty much exactly like Proverbs, and nobody says that Proverbs is just Solomon’s nihilistic ramblings.

Ecclesiastes 1:1—“The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.”
Proverbs 1.1—“The proverbs of Solomon the son of David, king of Israel.”

And the conclusion of Ecclesiastes—“Fear God, and keep his commandments” (Eccl 12.13)—is eminently biblical.

So why are we questioning the applicability of Ecclesiastes? Because it has hard verses in it?

What kind of a nutty hermeneutic is that?

So I think Ecclesiastes is just as much the word of God as Proverbs, or John, or Romans. Yes, that means that there are difficult interpretational questions in it. So be it.

So.

God says that my life, and your life, is really frustrating.

That’s not a hard verse. We already know it’s true. Frankly, it’s nice to hear God himself say it.

Life’s not frustrating for God, of course; he’s sovereign and omnipotent, and his will is always done.

But it’s frustrating for us.

Yes, it is.

Next time, we’ll talk about why it’s frustrating, and what we ought to do about it.

Part 2

Photo by mwangi gatheca on Unsplash

On the Unpardonable Sin

October 11, 2018 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Recently Tim Challies posted some thoughts on the question of the unpardonable sin. I’d like to extend his remarks a bit.

Most Christians have read the passages that raise this question. The unbelieving Pharisees, trying desperately to discount the power of Jesus’ miracles, have accused him of casting out demons by the power of Satan (Mt 12.22-32; Mk 3.22-30; Lk 12.8-10). Jesus responds by saying,

Every sin and blasphemy will be forgiven people, but the blasphemy against the Spirit will not be forgiven. ³²And whoever speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but whoever speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this age or in the age to come (Mt 12.31-32).

So what’s he talking about?

The first thing I notice is that when you look at the commentaries, they don’t seem to know—at least, not with any certainty. There are several interpretations:

Taking the context very narrowly, Jesus is simply saying that if you lived at the time of Jesus, and you ascribed his miracles to demonic power, then you wouldn’t be forgiven. So this is a sin that nobody today can commit, because Jesus is no longer walking around on earth doing miracles.
A variation on that view is that you can still commit that sin today; if you say that Christ did his miracles by the power of Satan, then you’ve committed the unpardonable sin. This view, or the previous one, appears to be the position that Challies takes in his post.
Some suggest that the unpardonable sin is hardening one’s heart to the degree that the Spirit’s convicting call is no longer heard. This, it is suggested, is where the Pharisees now found themselves. So the problem is not so much a particular sin, but the persistence in sin that hardens the heart over time, making the sinner, in effect, spiritually deaf.
Others say that the unpardonable sin is effectively your last one; it is dying without having repented. In this view, everyone in hell has committed the unpardonable sin.

Well, this is a conundrum. We’re not even sure what it is.

I’ll tell you what it isn’t.

It isn’t that God has designated a certain sin as unforgiveable, and boy, you’d better not commit that one, and by the way, when I tell you about it, I’m going to make the definition of the sin really unclear, just to keep you on your toes.

That view seems to me to be blasphemous.

Here’s what we do know.

We do know that God delights in repentance and never turns any repentant sinner away, no matter what he’s done.
We do know that conviction of sin, and sorrow for sin, are works of the Holy Spirit, and those works are not frustrated.

So if you’re worried that you might have committed the unforgiveable sin, stop the fear and the hesitation and run to the Father, whose arms are open wide to welcome you into his family and to his dinner table. There is forgiveness for all who come. There has been forgiveness for even me. There is certainly forgiveness for you.

But here’s what else we know.

We know that if you harden your heart against the gentle pleading of the Spirit, the day will come when time runs out. It may be at the end of a long period of terminal illness, during which you have plenty of time to think about what’s ahead. Or it may come in an instant, with a vise-grip pain in your chest, or a flash of light in your brain, or the sudden sound of a horn and a screech of tires on pavement.

And when time runs out, there will be no repenting then.

It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment (Heb 9.27).

So enough of idle speculation about this or that obscure passage. Why test the limits, when repentance—hearing the convicting voice of the Spirit—is the obvious solution to the great problem of sin?

Why play such a deadly game?

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

On Sin: Sometimes, It IS a Sin to Be Tempted.

October 8, 2018 by Dan Olinger 3 Comments

Part 1 Part 2

“It’s not a sin to be tempted; it’s only a sin if you give in to the temptation.”

This is one of those axioms of the Christian faith, one of those fundamental propositions that everybody says, and we all accept, first, because it makes so much sense, and second, because it makes us feel a lot better, and we need all the feeling better we can get.

Pretty much everybody teaches this principle as axiomatic. Roman Catholics do. People in the Church of Christ do. Mark Driscoll does. Rick Warren does. Pretty much every conservative evangelical church does.

But is it true?

Well, it must be true, right? If everybody says so. And if being tempted is sinful, we’re all toast, right? What chance do we have?

I’d like to suggest that The Axiom is overly simplistic—that the biblical view of temptation is slightly more complex than we’re seeing.

Here’s why.

The key biblical principle underlying The Axiom is that Jesus was tempted, and he never sinned. Since the Scripture says that directly (Heb 4.15), it is of course true.

So it is possible to be tempted without sin. But the question for us is deeper than that. Is there no temptation that is sinful in itself? Is it only entertaining or acting on the temptation that places us in a position of sin? Is no temptation sinful?

The Bible has a lot to say about the nature and sources of temptation. Paul writes that in our lives before regeneration, we found ourselves following “the course of this world, … the prince of the power of the air, … in the passions of our flesh” (Eph 2.2-3). From there Christian theologians, beginning apparently with Peter Abelard, standardized the sources of temptation as “the world, the flesh, and the devil.”

Which of these served as the source of Jesus’ temptation? Well, in the most famous temptation event—we assume that there may well have been others—his temptation came directly from the devil (Mat 4.1ff; Lk 4.1ff). It’s important to note that these temptations originated outside of him; they were imposed on him from an outside source.

The flesh, of course, is internal to us. And John tells us that the world brings to us “the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life” (1Jn 2.16)—which sounds as though it’s at least partially internal to us as well. Did Jesus face the temptation of the flesh? Or the world, in John’s sense of “the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life”? We have to rule both of those out, given that Jesus, conceived without sin by the Holy Spirit (Mat 1.20; Lk 1.35), did not have a fallen, sinful nature.

But what about us? Do any of our temptations come from within us? Do we ever tempt ourselves? We certainly feel as though we do, and James seals that suspicion by telling us that “each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire” (Jam 1.14).

I would suggest that temptation is sinful when it starts within you. It’s sinful when you do it to yourself.

And we’ve all had that experience.

There’s a part of us that rises up in rebellion against our good and kind Creator, casts aside his laws and his desires, and seeks to go our own way.

And that, my friend, is blameworthy. It’s culpable. It’s sinful.

Whether you act on those desires or not.

Now, how are we inclined to respond to that?

If I’ve already sinned in being tempted, then I might just as well go ahead and do it. Phooey.

Not so, for two reasons.

First, there are practical consequences in pursuing sinful actions, consequences that limit our future choices and which we ought to avoid.

But much more importantly, we’re God’s children; he is our father; and we ought not do those things. That is reason enough.

But all of this is overshadowed and overwhelmed by a great and glorious truth.

All your sin is obliterated. Nuked. Gone. All of it.

Grace, mercy, and peace to you.

Part 4

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

On Sin: I’m Guilty of Adam’s Sin? How Is That Fair?

October 4, 2018 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

Part 1

In my last post, on the way to making another point, I briefly mentioned the biblical truth of original sin.

In its simplest terms, original sin is the sinful guilt that you came into the world with. Babies are born guilty. Specifically, they’re born guilty of Adam’s sin.

Babies? Really? But they’re so … cute, with their little round bottoms and their little pearly toes and their gas-induced smiles. We paint cherubs as babies just because they’re so, um, cute, and innocent, and stuff.

What do you have against babies, anyway? What are you, some kind of monster?

I can assure you that I like babies as much as the next guy. I worked with my wife in the church nursery for more than 20 years. And for what it’s worth, I learned there that I like my own babies better than other people’s, but I still like them a lot.

But like it or not, the Bible teaches that all of us, at birth, bear the guilt of Adam’s sin (Rom 5.12). We’re not just born with an inclination to sin; we’re born already guilty of having sinned.

I know what your response to that will be; everyone has the same response.

It’s not fair!

And, perhaps surprisingly, I’m going to agree with you on that. Back to that in a moment.

In the Mosaic Law, God said that a child could not be held guilty of his father’s sins (Dt 24.16). So why should I be guilty of Adam’s sin? How can that be just?

The answer—a partial one—is that Adam was representing us in his sin, just as a legislator can bind us with laws because his vote in Congress represents us.

But I didn’t vote for Adam! I never had a say in this!

True. Though I will note that you’ve spent your life demonstrating with your sinfulness that Adam’s apple didn’t fall far from the tree now, did it? So there’s that. Whether you’re held guilty of Adam’s sin or not, you’re still in deep, deep trouble, and Adam’s guilt isn’t going to make your outcome any worse. But that still doesn’t seem to justify holding you guilty for an act that you didn’t actually commit.

So why? Why has God set me up like this?

Ah, my friend, because what you’ve heard so far is not the whole story. When you were still a (sinful) child, you learned that waiting for the end of the story is always worth it.

So what’s the end of the story?

The official name for what we’ve been talking about so far is imputation. Adam’s sin has been imputed to you—placed on your account, like a credit-card charge—so that you are in debt for it.

But there’s more to imputation than just this.

In God’s gracious plan, your sin has been imputed, too. Your sin—every last bit of it—has been placed on the account of Jesus of Nazareth. He’s guilty of everything bad you’ve ever done.

That wasn’t fair, either.

And while you didn’t agree to receive the guilt of Adam’s sin, Jesus absolutely agreed to receive your sin.

How do you feel about the deal now?

And there’s more.

When Jesus came to earth, born as a man, he came as the Second Adam (Lk 3.38; Rom 5.18-21). Because the first Adam was your representative, you can now be represented by the Second Adam. And what benefit does that bring?

Well, when Christ willingly took your sins upon himself and bore their penalty, that wiped out your sin debt, but you were still broke. You went from owing a bazillion dollars to debt-free, but you still didn’t have any money in the bank.

The Second Adam changed all that.

In the third great act of imputation, all of Christ’s righteousness was placed in your bank account (2Co 5.21). All his perfect obedience to the Father throughout his earthly life is now your record. The Father has not only forgiven your sin, but the very record of that sin has been expunged. It’s not there. That’s why he “will remember it no more” (Jer 31.34). You are rich in righteousness, as rich as it’s possible to be. God sees you through Christ-colored glasses.

Now, you can complain about the unfairness of being guilty of Adam’s sin if you want, but that’s a stupidly short-sighted perspective.

Adam’s sin has traveled from him, to you, to Christ, who has burned it in the fires of eternal judgment. And what he has given us in its place is beyond reckoning.

Grace.

Part 3 Part 4

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

On Sin: All. He Paid It All.

October 1, 2018 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

At the core of biblical teaching is the idea of the vicarious atonement—that is, Jesus, the Son of God, took our place of guilt before God (2Co 5.21) and thus took our penalty of death (Rom 6.23).

The reason we’re not constantly overwhelmed with the significance of this is that, unfortunately, we’ve gotten used to it. Most of us have been told since age 3 that “Jesus died for my sins!” and now it’s just part of our ordinary universe.

That’s too bad.

We’ve lost the sense of marvel, of wonder, at what that means.

That means …

That God created us knowing that we’d rebel against him.
That he determined to rescue us when we were not only not calling for help, but were actively fighting him off, cursing and spitting in his face, determined to drown in our sin.
That he knew that his nature required a perfect, infinite payment for our sin, a payment that only he could make.
That he knew that making that payment—the death penalty—was something he could not do without himself becoming a mortal. Cur Deus Homo?
That he thus knew that by making even one of these creatures, he was committing himself to becoming one of them—to fundamentally altering the very fabric of the cosmos, or rather, the fabric of whatever there was before there even was a cosmos.

In the beginning, indeed.

We must confess that this is mystery. It’s a place where we tread with respect, with reverence, with awe. It’s holy ground.

But it is no mystery what are the results of this magnificent plan. The Scripture reveals them to us with light and delight.

He was made sin for us, the Scripture says, that we might be made the righteousness of God. And because he stood in our place, he has paid the full price for all of our sins (Isa 53.6). All of them.

What does that mean?

He has paid for our original sin—our complicity in the sin of Adam, our first father (Rom 5.12).
- Wait! You say. I’m guilty of Adam’s sin? That’s not fair!
- We’ll talk about that next time.
He has paid for our sin nature—the fact that we’re inclined to sin, left to our own devices. Our sinfulness is not primarily because the devil made us do it; it’s primarily because we tempt ourselves (Jam 1.13-15). You’re your own tempter.
- Wait! Are you saying it’s a sin to be tempted?!
- In our case, yes, I’m saying that. We’ll talk about that the time after next.
He has paid for every sin you have ever committed. The accidental ones. The momentary flares of evil that we didn’t see coming. And even the ones we planned, hardening our hearts even as we moved purposefully toward some great evil that we recognized as evil and wanted anyway. Every bitter thought. Every evil deed. All of it.
And get this. He has paid for all the sins of tomorrow—all the sins you haven’t committed yet but assuredly will. He’s paid for those too. Yes, you’ll need to confess them when they come, and he will forgive you at that time (1Jn 1.9), restoring the relationship and fellowship that your sin will have damaged, but you will never be in peril of eternal torment for that sin, even before you have confessed it. It’s paid for. All of it.

Now, perhaps a handful of you have had a thought on reading this.

My future sins are paid for?! So what’s the problem with committing them? Why not have a little sin party, since those sins won’t count anyway?

Oh, my friend, there are two great problems with that thought. First, those sins do damage your fellowship with your God—see just above—and that is a price far too high. You can’t treat as trivial the love of one who has done all this for you.

And the second problem derives from the first. Since it’s unnatural for God’s children to trivialize his grace, then your thought calls into question whether you know his grace at all. God’s people don’t think like that.

Shall we continue in sin, that grace may abound?!
May it never be!
How shall we, who are dead to sin, live in it any longer?! (Rom 6.1-2)

So revel in God’s grace and forgiveness. Drink it all up to the last drop. It’s an infinite gift.

For the next 2 posts we’ll probe some further related thoughts—

Why were we born guilty of Adam’s sin? How is that fair?
How can I say it’s a sin to be tempted? Jesus was tempted without any sin (Heb 4.15), right?

See you then.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

On Listening to the Designer

September 27, 2018 by Dan Olinger 2 Comments

When my wife and I were shopping for our first house, the inspector pointed out a tree on the property. “The branches are rubbing against the roof,” he said, “and that’ll shorten the life of your shingles. Further, the roots will eventually undermine your foundation. If you buy the house, you should cut it down.”

Well, we bought the house, and shortly later I bought me a chainsaw. A very manly one.

It came with a fairly hefty manual, which, you’ll be surprised to know, I read.

Lots of things to remember with a chainsaw. For starters, it has a two-stroke engine, so you have to mix oil with the gas, at a very specific ratio (32:1, to be precise). Second, there’s a compartment there where you need to put a different oil, with low viscosity, for the bar and chain sprocket, to keep things moving along.

And then there’s a section in the manual about kickback. Apparently there are ways you can manipulate the chainsaw that will increase the likelihood that it will come back at you, and you’ll be essentially kissing the business end of the thing, which I’m told can lead to negative patient outcomes.

So I read all that.

Now here’s the thing.

I’m an American. I have my rights. One of the most precious is the right to property, which some political philosophers (Locke, no?) tell us underlies all the other rights. When I plunked my money down on that orange counter, that chainsaw became mine, and I have a right to do whatever I want to with it.

If I don’t want to put oil in the gas, I don’t have to. If I don’t want to use special oil in that other compartment, I don’t have to. And if I want to manipulate that growling beast in ways the manual discourages, I can do that.

It’s my chainsaw. I have my rights.

But I think you’d agree that I’d be an idiot to exercise those rights. I’ll shorten the life of the tool and consequently end up spending more money than I need to, to keep myself in chainsaws. And even more significantly, I could shorten the life of the operator—and even mar this strikingly handsome face.

That would be a loss for everybody.

When the engineer tells you how he designed the machine, you’d better listen to him. Only a fool cares more about his rights.

I think you can see where I’m going with this.

When the designer of your mind and body tells you what the specs are, you’re nuts to cast off those constraints.

As just one example, our culture has set out to redefine sex and sexuality, as to its purposes, its significance, its definition, its safe and appropriate uses.

You can do that if you want to. Really, you can.

You can deny its interpersonal significance and make it a lonely, solo experience.
You can deny its safety limits and embrace random and exhausting and faceless promiscuity.
You can deny its marital limits and take your partner(s) places they’d rather not go, but won’t necessarily deny you.
You can create children with no means or plan to give them a meaningful life.

Yes, you can.

And when you’ve done that, you’ll have what we have in our culture—

The poverty of single-parent homes
Life-changing—and sometimes life-taking—diseases
An increasing sense of frustration, unfulfillment, and discontent
Fundamental distrust between men and women, each viewing the other as the exploiter, and everyone confused and worried about what’s OK and what isn’t, all the rules unspoken, and every encounter presaging danger of future betrayal
And sex without joy.

You know, the designer made it fun on purpose.

He gave it to us as a splendid and magnificent gift.

But we’re using it in ways that not only minimize its effectiveness and usefulness, and deprive us of much of its joy, but may well end up killing us before it’s all over.

I can hear my skeptical friends now—“You know, you’re assuming there’s a designer.”

Without going into all the reasons I think that’s a well-based assumption, let me just observe that our culture is assuming there isn’t a designer.

How’s that workin’ out?

Read the manual. Respect the design specs. Use it well.

Don’t be an idiot.

Photo by Michael Fenton on Unsplash

On Sexual Assault, Due Process, and Supreme Court Confirmations

September 24, 2018 by Dan Olinger 2 Comments

There’s no sense in my jumping into the Kavanaugh battle with a personal opinion; there are bazillions of those already, and I have no experience that gives me any special insight into legal issues.

But I do find something waaay back in the writings of Moses that may give us a little something to think about.

The legal difficulty of sexual assault is that it typically doesn’t happen in the city square, with lots of witnesses. The nature of sex as a private function means that abuses of the sexual function, like its legitimate uses, tend to happen in private. And in private, there are just two witnesses. If the sex is abusive, then the two witnesses are the perpetrator and the victim.

He said, she said.

That’s how it almost always is.

In biblical times it was the same way, of course. I note that in those days, unlike today, rape was a capital offense. I’ve heard it argued that today it shouldn’t get the death penalty because if the rapist knows that, he’ll just go ahead and kill the victim, since that would eliminate a witness without increasing his penalty. I recognize the logic, but I still would prefer to see the death penalty for rape, particularly in a day when DNA testing can make the identity of the perpetrator absolutely certain.

But back to my point. In biblical times, rape got the death penalty. But here’s the thing: elsewhere the biblical law restricted the death penalty to cases where you had at least two or three witnesses (Num 35.30; Dt 17.6).

Contradiction, no? Rape gets the death penalty, but there are never enough witnesses to actually get it carried out. The woman loses, every time.

Patriarchy.

Ah, not so fast.

There’s a special provision for allegations of sexual assault. In the midst of some broad-ranging regulations in Deuteronomy 22 (help an animal stuck in a ditch [4]; don’t kill a bird sitting on a clutch of eggs [6]; build your house so that visitors are safe [8]), there’s a point about sexual assault.

²³“If there is a betrothed virgin, and a man meets her in the city and lies with her, ²⁴then you shall bring them both out to the gate of that city, and you shall stone them to death with stones, the young woman because she did not cry for help though she was in the city, and the man because he violated his neighbor’s wife. So you shall purge the evil from your midst.

²⁵“But if in the open country a man meets a young woman who is betrothed, and the man seizes her and lies with her, then only the man who lay with her shall die. ²⁶But you shall do nothing to the young woman; she has committed no offense punishable by death. For this case is like that of a man attacking and murdering his neighbor, ²⁷because he met her in the open country, and though the betrothed young woman cried for help there was no one to rescue her.

Interesting.

If the attack happens near other possible witnesses, then we assume that in a nonconsensual encounter the woman would protest in ways that those nearby would hear. If she says later that it was rape, then she is judged to be lying since she didn’t scream during the assault.

Women lie sometimes too. Even about things as serious as rape. We have to take that into account.

But if the event occurs away from possible witnesses, the woman gets the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she did call for help, and there was nobody to hear her.

Now, a woman having a consensual sexual encounter in the woods might lie too. She could decide later that it was a mistake, and she could decide to get the poor guy in beaucoup trouble. That could happen.

But here, she gets the benefit of the doubt. As the only witness. In a charge that bears the death penalty.

It’s not a perfect world. God knows that. And he indicates that he expects us to do the best we can in these difficult decisions. We need to remember that women lie just as certainly as men do, for all kinds of reasons. And we also need to remember that sometimes we need to give a woman in a difficult spot the benefit of the doubt.

When do we do which? That’s a really tough call; as someone who served on a jury for a case of child sexual assault, I know exactly how difficult it is.

But if you support Kavanaugh simply because you’re a Republican, or you oppose him simply because you’re a Democrat, then you’re in no position to be heard in such a critical decision.

Which, I guess, disqualifies pretty much everybody this time around.

Photo by Claire Anderson on Unsplash

Fables Again, Differently

September 20, 2018 by Dan Olinger 4 Comments

A week ago I posted about possible lessons from Aesop for weather forecasters. This time I’d like to broach the subject again in a very different context.

In my university’s chapel program today, my colleague Eric Newton briefly referred (about 16:30 minutes in) to my experience of having my faith rescued through the study of OT genealogies. Since others may find the story helpful, I share it here.

In seminary I had to study a lot of theology, including aberrant theologies. Those included the first major theological innovation of the 20^th century, neo-orthodoxy, tied to the thinking of Karl Barth. Barth’s system and writings are complex, but the feature that got my attention was his “two-story” hermeneutic. There are two kinds of history, he said. There’s the stuff that really happened, which he called by the German term Historie. That’s the first story of the house, where we live. But there’s an upstairs too, with another kind of history, Geschichte. That’s the stuff that we believe. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t; that doesn’t matter. What matters is that our belief helps us make sense of a confusing world and, more importantly, it energizes an existential experience with God, which is the whole point of being. There’s no staircase in the house; we can reach the second story only by an existential leap of faith.

Neo-orthodox thinkers make this kind of thinking clearer to the average guy by calling the Scripture’s early history “fable.” They don’t intend the term to be an insult; in their minds, it’s a great compliment. Fables are delightful and artful literary works, and they play an important role in our education and broader culture. For example, Aesop told a story about a boy who cried “Wolf!” It teaches us that we shouldn’t lie. That’s important.

Now. In what country did this boy live? In what century?

Ah, my friend, by asking these questions, you’re indicating that you completely miss the point. It doesn’t matter where or when he lived—in fact, it doesn’t matter if he lived at all. The point is the lesson, and historicity is irrelevant. Just learn from the story. Recognize the literary technique, and don’t be such a knuckle-dragging literalist.

Well. That concept hit me pretty hard. What if Barth’s right? What if we’re completely missing the author’s intent? (Authorial intent is a really big deal in biblical interpretation, right?) What if none of it’s true? And then, what’s the point of Jesus being the Second Adam to solve the problem of human sin (Rom 5), if there was no First Adam to originate the sin in the first place?

Maybe it’s all just stories.

At that point in my thinking I made a really foolish mistake. Being too proud to ask any of my teachers—or fellow students—for help, I determined to push through this on my own. That was foolish for a couple of reasons—first, because human beings aren’t designed to suffer alone, and second, because, as I later realized, I was surrounded by people who could have given me the answer without my having to spend weeks in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

But, foolishly, I spent some time as a doctoral student at BJU wondering whether there’s even a God, and whether there’s light at the end of this dark valley.

Well, there is light. God is gracious; he knows and loves and cares for his children, and as he always has, he overlooked my foolishness and treated me with grace instead of giving me what I deserved.

I was seeking the answer to the question of authorial intent: did the narrators of early biblical history intend for me to read their accounts as fable, or as Historie? Is there evidence in their literature that would answer that question?

Yes, there is. One day it hit me like a brick. It’s the genealogies.

You see, when you tell the story of the boy who cried “Wolf!” you don’t tell how he grew up and had a son, and then a grandson, and then a great-grandson, and how his 200-greats grandson is the mayor of Cleveland. It’s fable; you leave it in the world of fiction.

That’s not what the authors did. They tied those very early people to the people of their generation. And later authors recognized that and extended the genealogical record through 4000 (or so) years of history to the central figure of history, Jesus Christ himself.

Barth was creative, but he failed to analyze the literature carefully. He missed clear evidence of the obvious answer to the most basic question—what did the author intend to say?

Postscript

Paul tells Timothy that all Scripture is profitable (2Tim 3.16). All of it. Even the boring parts. Even the parts you tell new believers to skip.

Don’t do that. It’s all profitable. It’s there for a purpose. Recognize, embrace, and live in the light of that purpose. My 200-greats grandfather, Adam, would tell you the same thing.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Sublime to Ridiculous

September 17, 2018 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

God is great, and he is good.

He created all things in the span of six days, and the Scripture describes the origin of all the stars in all the galaxies in all the galaxy clusters in all the universe with just three words (two in Hebrew): “and the stars” (Gen 1.16). And the speed with which he made it all implies no hurry or lack of attention to detail; he made the earth perfect as a residence—a sanctuary—for us humans, with all of our needs—oxygen, water, food, light, heat—freely and abundantly provided (Gen 1.29).

He made us in his image (Gen 1.27) and sought out our companionship in the cool of the day (Gen 3.8). And despite our faithlessness to him and our rejection of his commands (Gen 3), he set out on a long plan to woo us back to himself, as the one whom his soul loves.

Why so long?

For at least a couple of reasons, I think.

First, because his long, unflagging pursuit of us assures us of his love. He’s serious about this. He’s not going away. This is true love of the purest and most devoted kind.

And second, because he gives us time. We are stubborn—he knows that (Ps 103.14)—and we need to be shown that we will not be satisfied with anything or anyone but him. So he lengthens our leash, and he lets us sniff all the sidewalks to our heart’s content. He patiently endures the jealousy his own heart feels toward us, watching us seek satiation in everything else there is. He lets us exhaust ourselves in our foolishness. He’s a patient lover.

And when we’ve come to the end of our orgy, to the end of ourselves, wrecked and ruined and unattractive and repulsive (Ezek 16), then he draws us to himself, graciously, tenderly, and whispers to us of love. And we ought to believe him. His patience tells us of his love; his revelation of himself tells us (Rom 2.4); and most especially, his giving of himself in brutalizing, deadly sacrifice—for our filthiness, not his—tells us beyond any doubt (Rom 5.8).

But even as believers—forgiven, welcomed, indwelt, gifted, guided, protected, loved—we find ourselves faithless. We doubt his promises—or worse, forget them—and fear the place he’s called us to serve. Like toddlers in the checkout line, we find ourselves distracted by bright colors and sugary treats, and we seek our fulfillment in light and worthless things. We go through the motions of marriage to him, but our heart is elsewhere. We’re glad for his grace—don’t you feel bad for all those (other) people going to hell?—but we pursue our own joys and our own ends. We’ve hired other people, you see, to serve him “full-time,” to take the gospel to the ends of the earth as he has commanded us.

And we fear. Oh, do we fear. Will I lose my health? Will the wrong guy get elected? Will the market crash? Will laws be broken?

What if it does? What if they are? Is our God asleep? Is he in the men’s room (1Ki 18.27)? After millennia of pursuing us, is he going to abandon us now?

This isn’t the first time the kings of the earth have raged against God’s anointed (Ps 2). It isn’t abnormal that God’s people are not the powerful of the earth (1Co 1). His plan for us, apparently, is very different from our plan for ourselves. Once again.

I sought the Lord, and he answered me

and delivered me from all my fears (Ps 34.4).

So then.

PSA: I’ve seen all those memes. You know, those fearful and snide and unoriginal and hostile and divisive ones about Colin Kaepernick and Cory Booker and Nancy Pelosi and Dianne Feinstein and whatever else. So you can stop posting them now, OK? Maybe you could post about–oh, I don’t know–the things I’ve mentioned above. Thanks.

Photo by David Marcu on Unsplash