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

 

Retired Bible Professor,

Bob Jones University

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On National Conversations

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Another school shooting. Another subsequent sequence, one that, horrifically, we’ve gotten used to. Shock. Grief. Exposes of the shooter. Identification of causes, conveniently aligned with our political positions. Charges that the other side—and only the other side—is “politicizing” a tragedy. Snarky posts. Angry comment threads. And calls for a “national conversation”—in this case, on guns.

Back in 2009, when the national focus was on police shooting of unarmed black civilians, Attorney General Eric Holder was widely mocked by the political opposition for calling for a “national conversation” on race. Some conservatives charged that when liberals call for a “national conversation,” what they mean is “Shut up and do what I say.”

Of course that’s not fair. People are all different, even those in the same group; it’s conservatives who resist “class-conscious” thinking as Marxist. You and I can’t really say—accurately—that “all liberals” or “all conservatives” mean this thing when they say that thing.

But I’d like to try to go beyond the political posturing and the mud-slinging and the parading of moral superiority of “my side”—and I do have a side, which I’ll not state, for reasons that I hope will soon become clear—to encouraging us to think more deeply about our assumptions on all of this.

I’ve noted before that political victory is fleeting and that a great many things are more important because they last forever. That fact should certainly drive any “conversation.”

But I wonder if we might probe a little deeper. What’s the point of a conversation? To win the argument and rest in our smug confidence? To gain political ground and the consequent political power, so we can make everyone else—especially those morons who disagree with us—do what we want? Or to solve the problem?

What kind of conversation will lead to a solution?

Here’s where I get controversial.

A conversation that leads to a solution will not involve everyone, because not everyone has something of substance to contribute.

We all know what it’s like when everyone talks at once. And even when people take turns, we all know from experience that not everybody has something useful to say. (I know you’ve been in a meeting like that, as I have. Far too many times.)

A conversation that leads to a solution will involve people who (1) know what they’re talking about and (2) are interested more in arriving at a solution than in winning the argument.

Jim Geraghty recently expressed frustration with people who advocate for gun control but in the process demonstrate that they have no basic knowledge of how guns work. They’re ready to pontificate for everybody, but they think automatic weapons are legal—or that an automatic weapon was used in this shooting or that one (chances are, it wasn’t). They call a magazine a “clip.” They use the term “assault rifle” as if it actually means something.

Now, I grant that knowing the difference between a clip and a magazine, or a round and a bullet, is probably not going to affect any policy outcome. And I also grant that liberals aren’t the only ones who demonstrate on occasion that they don’t know what they’re talking about.

But what about the principle? Won’t we be more effective with national policy if we convene people with expertise and experience, get them away from the noise, and then listen to what they say? If we base our positions on hard data rather than political expediency?

  • How effective are various kinds of gun laws?
  • What are the primary avenues of illegal gun traffic?
  • What psychological conditions are most likely to result in violence?
    • Is shooting violence different in causation from other violence?
    • How can those psychological conditions most effectively be identified?
    • Is there a statistically significant correspondence between the use of antidepressants and violence? Is there a control group available for comparison?
  • Why do so many shootings happen in schools? Are there data on that, or is everybody just assuming his thesis?
  • What are the best practices in building security?

Come on; the military has been doing building security for centuries; the knowledge is out there. Why not use it?

I see the danger in what I’m saying. Elitism. Trust the smart people—you know, the ones from the Ivy League. The smartest ones in the room.

That’s a danger, all right, for many reasons, most obviously that the elites haven’t done all that great a job of running the country since, oh, 1800 or so. (Happy 286th birthday, Mr. President!)

But I’m not talking about the Ivy League. I’m talking about people with demonstrated expertise and success in the field in question. In this particular issue, many of those people may never even have gone to college. Let them talk. And listen to them.

I have a friend, whom I like very much, who has one really irritating characteristic. When we’re sitting together in an audience, he’ll keep whispering comments in my ear when I’m trying to listen to the speaker. And I have to choose between being polite to my friend or getting the information I’m there to get.

So. If you don’t know what you’re talking about, keep your opinions to yourself, so we can hear the people we came to hear.

Assuming, that is, that you want to solve the problem.

Photo by Jason Rosewell on Unsplash

On Revival

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This week my school is having its annual Bible Conference. The theme for this year is revival. As part of the program, various faculty members and students are presenting brief accounts of American revivals. What follows is my presentation Wednesday morning on the Great Awakening.

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It’s 50 years before the American Revolution. What will one day be the United States of America is a collection of 13 British colonies huddled against the Eastern Seaboard. Its people have come here for many reasons. Some have come seeking an economic chance by dint of hard work in land that no one has ever plowed; some have come to escape dark stories in the Old Country. Some have been here for a hundred years; their grandfathers and great-grandfathers came seeking religious freedom, the liberty to worship God after the dictates of their own consciences.

But that path is never easy, and it’s never certain. Eight of the colonies now have established churches, with the financial support and legal backing of the colonial governments. What happens when the church is the same as the governmental power? It’s usually not a pretty picture. Church leaders get comfortable and complacent and sometimes abusive. External conformity and empty formalism become the tradition, and people think that God is on their side because they drop by his house every week and say the right words, even though they don’t think much about what they’re actually saying.

So lots of people are claiming the name of Christ without living like it. Worldliness is common. Rationalism, the rejection of the supernatural, is making inroads. There is no passion.

A preacher in Pennsylvania, with his sons, begins to speak out against the spiritual laziness, exemplifying by personal passion that following Christ is serious business. People begin to listen to William Tennent, to respond to his message. Soon more want to hear the preaching than their little team can reach, and they set out to train more preachers to meet the need. Their little “Log College” (1727), what we today call Princeton University, will encourage a wave of new ministry training schools: Brown (1764), Rutgers (1766), Dartmouth (1769)—a good chunk of what we call today the “Ivy League.”

In 1739 British evangelist George Whitefield travels up and down the colonies preaching. People swarm to hear him; when the crowds are so great that no building will hold them, they move to the fields and pastures, where Whitefield’s booming voice reaches them all. Benjamin Franklin, intrigued by the work of a God he does not know, befriends Whitefield and listens to him preach. Franklin writes in his Autobiography,

In 1739 arriv’d among us from England the Rev. Mr. Whitefield, who had made himself remarkable there as an itinerant Preacher. … The Multitudes of all … Denominations that attended his Sermons were enormous and it was [a] matter of Speculation to me who was one of the Number, to observe the extraordinary Influence of his Oratory on his Hearers, and how much they admir’d and respected him, notwithstanding his common Abuse of them, by assuring them they were naturally half Beasts and half Devils. It was wonderful to see the Change soon made in the Manners of our Inhabitants; from being thoughtless or indifferent about Religion, it seem’d as if all the World were growing Religious; so that one could not walk thro’ the Town in an Evening without Hearing Psalms sung in different Families of every Street.

With Whitefield the flame moves northward. Jonathan Edwards, a pastor in Northampton, Massachusetts, preaches his famous sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” (1741), and the people respond with cries for mercy.

But there is resistance. The powerful religious leadership is scandalized by the inelegant displays of emotion and by the sometimes overexuberant responses. In defense of the revival, Edwards writes his work “Religious Affections” (1746) to argue that our relationship with God should involve the whole man, our emotions as well as our minds. He writes the work “The Distinguishing Marks of a Work of the Spirit of God” (1744) to separate the legitimate outbreaks from the opportunistic ones: a genuine work, he says, will include conversion, a rejection of worldliness, a love for the Scripture, and a love for God and man. In a letter to a friend, Edwards describes what he saw in Northampton:

In the month of May 1741, a sermon was preached to a company at a private house. Near the conclusion of the exercise, one or two persons that were professors were so greatly affected with a sense of the greatness and glory of divine things, and the infinite importance of the things of eternity, that they were not able to conceal it; the affection of their minds overcoming their strength, and having a very visible effect on their bodies. When the exercise was over, the young people that were present removed into the other room for religious conference; and particularly that they might have opportunity to inquire of those that were thus affected what apprehensions they had, and what things they were that thus deeply impressed their minds. And there soon appeared a very great effect of their conversation; the affection was quickly propagated through the room; many of the young people and children that were professors appeared to be overcome with a sense of the greatness and glory of divine things, and with admiration, love, joy and praise, and compassion to others that looked upon themselves as in a state of nature. And many others at the same time were overcome with distress about their sinful and miserable state and condition; so that the whole room was full of nothing but outcries, faintings, and suchlike.

The movement subsides in New England about 1760, just as inexplicably as it had begun.

But its effects continue. Americans see a religious diversity, and they like the freedom of choice that comes with it. All the colonies find a new shared experience that draws them together. It’s no surprise that less than two decades later, the colonies are ready to take on the tyranny of King George himself—and to defeat him. One leader of the Revolution, our second president, John Adams, wrote,

The Revolution was effected before the war commenced. The Revolution was in the minds and hearts of the people; a change in their religious sentiments of their duties and obligations.

And so it ever is. Unbelieving churches shrivel and die, even as the old “mainline churches” are dying today. But God’s Spirit moves among his people, and the story goes out; and God brings to himself uncounted sinners who find rescue and grace and mercy and peace—and who rejoice in that rescue in ways that shake the world.

Photo by Matt McLean on Unsplash

Somewhere Out There

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OK, that car thing was really cool. Sure, it was a waste of a really good car, in the most materialistic of senses, and sure, it was symbol over substance, and sure, they’re saying the radiation will destroy it in a year, and sure, it’ll never actually get to Mars, and sure, even if it did, without any propulsion it would just crash into it and join the rest of the rust.

But still, it was really, really cool. Sometimes symbol is every bit as important as substance.

And it got me thinking.

Wouldn’t it be even cooler if somebody found it, out there, somewhere? What would they think? What would they do?

The half-full folks think, “They’d know we’re here! And they’d come looking for us! And share their technology! And wouldn’t that be just awesome!”

And the half-empty folks think, “Are you OUT OF YOUR MIND?! They’d know we’re here! And they’d come looking for us! And make us slaves! Or eat us! Or something!”

Well, I’ll observe that if they come looking for us, then they’re way more advanced than we are, and the outcome is going to be pretty much out of our hands at that point.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we be asking if there’s a “they” at all?

A lot of people think there is. Are. Whatever.

I suppose we think like that because we want to. We’re social people—God made us that way (Gen 2.18)—and we want there to be Others. And since we’re broken, and everybody we know here is broken (Rom 3.23), maybe we like to hold out hope that there will be less irritating people Out There.

So we posit reasons and evidences. Evolutionists argue that as many galaxies as there are, there must be bazillions of planets, and a lot of them must be in the Goldilocks zone, and surely the odds favor that evolution has happened out there too. (Methinks they misoverestimate the odds that evolution happened even here.)

Even my fellow Christians—using the term fellow relatively loosely—have suggested biblical evidence for life on other planets:

Well, suppose we get a little more, um, down to earth, and give a little theological thought to the subject?

  • Could God have created life on other planets?
    • Of course! He’s omnipotent, and a multivariate creation of life is certainly not inconsistent with his nature.
  • Wouldn’t he have told us?
    • Not necessarily. There’s a LOT he hasn’t told us (Dt 29.29). He’s infinite, you may recall.

This possibility does raise a bunch of questions. For example,

  • Has this hypothetical extraterrestrial race been created in the image of God?
  • If so, has it fallen into sin?
  • If so, has God willed to redeem it? (Would it violate his nature not to redeem his image?)
  • If so, …
    • Is more than one method of redemption possible in some other planetary cosmos? Or is the specific method of redemption tied to the unchanging nature of God?
    • Or does the Son—or even a different member of the Godhead—incarnate with them and endure another death?
    • Or does God simply reveal to them what he has done on another planet (ours) and offer to apply it to them?
    • Are any of the above options completely ruled out by what we know of the nature of God?

I’ll tell you what we do know.

God has invested us with a stewardship here, and now, on this planet, and we need to make that our first priority. Speculation on matters like this are useful in that they can exercise our theological thinking and may provide insights into other theological questions. But they cannot replace direct obedience to the Great Commission (Mt 28.19-20) and to our fundamental purpose as images of God here on earth (1Co 10.31; Rom 11.36).

So that’s enough speculation for today. Let’s get back to Kingdom work, my fellow princes and princesses.

But that car is really cool.

Photo credit: SpaceX

On Blind Faith and God

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I believe in God.

More specifically, I believe in the God of the Bible.

A lot of people don’t.

And once in a while, one of them will ask me, sincerely, how an apparently happy, confident, reasonably intelligent person like me can do that. Isn’t that just blind faith? Isn’t religion just a crutch for the weak, a Magic 8-Ball for the unintelligent, an opiate for the masses?

Sometimes, yes. More than that—I think most religions are all of the above.

But not this one.

So what’s my particular delusion? Why the inconsistency?

Not so fast. Let me explain.

After a lifetime of study and growth, I realize that I’m a believer because God graciously drew me to himself. But from my perspective through that process, it didn’t look like that. It appeared to me that I was making a series of choices (and yes, I was).

  • First I chose to follow the example of my parents. Most children do that.
  • Then I chose to reject all that, and my life got less pleasant in hurry.
  • Motivated more by a selfish desire for happiness than anything numinous, I chose to return to what I had learned earlier, and it worked pretty well. The unpleasantness of the earlier lifestyle went away.
  • And so I stayed, and I began to learn things along the way.
  • I learned, first, that the Bible is an unusual book—one that can’t be explained naturally.
  • As so I began to take it seriously, and I chose to believe what it told me about my sinful self—I’d proved that in the lab already—and about what God had done to restore me to himself. I moved from a largely intellectual belief to an experienced conviction that this—knowing this God—was what I was made for.

Along the way I realized that there were a lot of things about this God that I didn’t understand. And it occurred to me that this was exactly what I should expect. If we had made God up—as an opiate, or whatever—we wouldn’t have made one who occasionally troubled us and, worse, embarrassed us in front of our friends; we’d have made him simpler. But if there really is a God, by definition infinite, then we would expect that he would regularly exceed the limits of our finite minds; he would occasionally go over the horizon of our understanding.

That wasn’t difficult for me to embrace. But the hard question is this:

What do you do when he does that? How do you respond when God mystifies or troubles you—when he seems to disappoint you?

Let me respond to that question with its parallel. What do you do when a long-time friend mystifies or troubles you?

I’ve been married for 33 years. I know my dear wife pretty well. She’s retired, and I’m still working. That means that for several hours each day, I’m unable to be at home, and she’s COMPLETELY unaccountable.

I don’t worry.

And not because “I’m all that,” and she’d be a fool to let me go.

No, it’s because I know this woman. I’ve lived with her for 33 years. I know what she’s like. She’s not going to disappoint me.

That’s how healthy relationships work. You trust your friends. And that’s most certainly not blind faith; it’s solidly founded—scientifically founded, if you will—on experience in the lab and in the field.

Nobody wants a marriage where your spouse is constantly checking up on you, constantly fearing that you’re going to do something awful. I don’t check the odometer on the car every night to see if the wife is putting more miles on it than her account of her day would support. Friends don’t treat each other like that.

And I’m not going to treat God like that either. I’m not going to assume the worst whenever something happens that I don’t understand.

Sometimes God goes over the horizon on me. Sometimes his ways puzzle me, and I can’t figure out what he’s up to. But in those moments, I trust him. I trust him because he has always been faithful to me—despite the many times I’ve been unfaithful to him. I trust him scientifically, because he’s proved himself to me in the lab and in the field.

That’s how healthy relationships work.

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On Memorizing Scripture

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This past Saturday evening I had the pleasure of seeing my friend and colleague Dr. Lonnie Polson actively recite—expound—the Gospel of Mark.  I’d seen him do an excerpted version of it several years ago at my church. I’ve enjoyed seeing similar recitations; one of the pastors at my church, Abe Stratton, gave us the book of Romans some time back, and years ago I saw a professional presentation of the Gospel of John at BJU; unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the artist’s name. (Was it the Brad Sherrill production?)

There’s great benefit to reading, or hearing, large chunks of Scripture at a single sitting. For years now I’ve been requiring students in my Epistles classes to read any epistle at a single sitting; you notice things, particularly large-scale structural things and repetitive patterns and themes, when you read the whole thing that you don’t notice when you read it a chapter at a time.

This is not to say that micro-reading is a bad thing; it provides opportunity to notice details (all of which are important in a verbally inspired document) and particularly to spend time in meditation, which reinforces the impact of the concepts on your mind and eventually on your instincts and the resultant actions.

But we ought to eat large meals of Scripture as well. Big, fat feasts.

For similar reasons, we ought to memorize large passages of Scripture. There’s benefit to memorizing key verses, whether “fighter verses” or key doctrinal passages; BJU has students in its undergraduate systematic theology course memorize the key doctrinal proof texts for all 10 standard theological topics, so they’ll have them at hand when they need them.

But the Scripture wasn’t given to us in little pieces of unconnected thoughts. (OK, Proverbs is the exception that proves the rule.) It was given to us in great sweeping arcs, storylines and extended logical arguments (most obviously Romans) that support the even greater storyline that all the Scripture together forms. There’s integrity and wisdom in memorizing it that way.

The summer after my freshman year in college I started out on that road by memorizing the book of James, 1 verse per day. The experience was life-changing, and James has been my friend ever since; I have regular conversations with him in my mind, which I couldn’t do without having expended that effort all those years ago.

How did I do it? Well, I was living in a western suburb of Boston that summer, and working in a CVS downtown. I commuted on my bicycle. (For folks who know Boston, when I tell you that I rode in and out on the infamous Route 9, you’ll consider it a miracle that I lived to tell the story.) I had about 45 minutes each way, 90 minutes per day to just go over James’s words in my mind. That was more than enough time to review once what I had memorized of the book up to that day, and even to go over it several times. And the stress of doing all that in killer traffic, I suppose, increased my long-term retention.

As I’ve noted before, memorizing doesn’t have to require a lot of time; what it requires is day-to-day discipline. We memorize, or move material from short-term memory to long-term memory, by a simple process of regular, spaced repetition. In other words, you need lots of brief sessions rather than a few long ones. You say today’s verse until you can say it without error (the number of repetitions is different for different people—God made us all different—but you’ll find that for pretty much everyone, the required number drops as you get more experience), and then you review what you’ve memorized on the previous days. That doesn’t need to take long; you can say the entire book of James out loud in just 15 minutes. Then you put the whole thing out of your mind and do other things. Most people will need to do that again later in the day; when I’m starting out on a dramatic role, I’ll review lines 3 times a day, for just 5 or 10 minutes. Each session goes a little faster, because you’ll retain more of what you did in the earlier sessions.

As little as 15 to 20 minutes a day. Just 5 minutes while you’re brushing your teeth in the morning, while you’re waiting for the microwave to heat up your meal at lunch, and while you’re waiting to fall asleep at night.

What can you accomplish with that?

In 3 months you’ll memorize Colossians, the greatest treatise on the headship of Christ ever written. In a month and a half, 2 Thessalonians, and in 3 more months, 1 Thessalonians, both on how to live while waiting for Christ’s return. In 3 more months, 1 Peter, on how to endure triumphantly while suffering. A new Psalm every week or two.

How much is that knowledge worth? How much difference would it make for you to have that kind of information stored in your head, part of how you think and who you are?

Maybe you’d be more consistent. Maybe you’d be more successful. Maybe you’d be happier.

I dunno. Worth a try.

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On Overcoming Cultural Distance

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The USA is sure a dysfunctional family, isn’t it? We share common experience, and a reasonably common culture, though of course we have a rich collection of subcultures, from the Italian Catholic feast days of Boston’s North End, to the summer dog days of the Carolina Low Country, to the rugged manliness of that isolated Texas prairie out west of Van Horn, to the streetwise playgrounds of Roxbury and Harlem and Avalon Park. The experiences of growing up in these places are significantly different, and those experiences shape our perspectives as well as our personalities.

But we’re family nevertheless. I began to come to that realization by growing up in a variety of places, from the Pacific Northwest to suburban Boston, before settling into a stereotypical “sleepy Southern town” with a decaying Main Street that blossomed over a few decades into a thriving city center after one of the most studied transformations in the country. (Thanks, Knox.) For several years I had immediate family members in all 4 corners of the Lower 48—almost as though we were all trying to get as far away from one another as we possibly could. Living in different subcultures—farm, suburb, town, western, northeastern, southern—helped me learn early on that we’re really different but all fundamentally the same.

That feeling has grown stronger in more recent years, with the opportunity to travel internationally more than the average American. I know the feeling of recognizing another American in an otherworldly place. Of being embarrassed by the horrified look on the Buddhist monk’s face when the gum-chewing girls in halter tops and short shorts are snapping photographs and talking exponentially more loudly than anyone around them, completely oblivious to the way they’re treating his sacred space. Or by the well-fed, camera-laden tourist in the sidewalk café berating the waitress for being obviously too stupid to speak English. Or, on a lighter note, enjoying a cultural moment with (The) Ohio State University students at the bungee jump bridge just downstream from Victoria Falls, Zambia. Or being moved by the student on one of my Africa teams, patiently interacting with an autistic child, perhaps the first person ever to interact with him in a way that understood and addressed his special needs.

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re my people.

We’re family.

But boy, are we dysfunctional.

Polarized. Hateful. Viewing one another through deeply distorted telephoto lenses, because we can’t abide getting close enough to talk face to face.

Pride is in our national DNA. It’s human nature to care for ourselves, to respect ourselves, infinitely more than others. To compare ourselves to others in a way that makes us the standard and others the defects. Everyone who drives slower than I do is an idiot; everyone who drives faster is a maniac. Me? I’m an excellent driver.

My congressman is awesome, but the people who elected all the other ones are idiots, and we ought to throw all the (other) bums out.

This pride isn’t unique to Americans; it’s in the human DNA too. The first evil creature rebelled out of pride, and the first human ones did too; they decided they knew better than their Creator on the question of produce.

So we despise each other; we talk but don’t listen, and the loudest, rudest, sharpest, cruelest remark wins.

That was good one!

What’s sad is knowing that if these same people were in a broken-down Jeep in the middle of the African grasslands, listening at night to the unfamiliar, terrifying sounds of the surrounding wildlife, they’d be working together. They’d be figuring out who was good at what, and they’d be dividing up tasks among the team members and figuring out a way to get the Jeep fixed or send a radio signal or use a mirror in the morning to flash sunlight at an airplane, or something to get out of there.

American ingenuity, you know.

And when they got out, they’d all go someplace and eat and drink together, and laugh, and tell stories, and joke about their individual idiosyncrasies, and be friends for the rest of their lives.

How do I know that?

Ask any combat veteran.

Maybe what we need is working on solving life-threatening problems, together.

Sure beats hate.

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Three Days with Hilaire: On Caring to Make a Difference

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When I was a boy, my Dad worked for a politically conservative speaker’s bureau. As a result, I got to meet a lot of interesting people when they came to town to give a speech. There was Gen. Robert Scott, WW2 fighter pilot and author of the book God Is My Co-Pilot, who sat at our dinner table and told wonderful story after wonderful story. There was Maj. Pedro Diaz Lanz, compatriot of Fidel Castro and chief of the Cuban Air Force, who defected and told horrific stories of repression in Cuba. There was Slobodan Draskovich, who hijacked a commercial flight to get out of Communist Yugoslavia, and who thought the wire leading to the electric blanket in our guest bedroom was evidence that someone was trying to kill him.

But my favorite was Hilaire du Berrier, a farm boy from North Dakota who was expelled by Pillsbury Military Academy (later the campus of Pillsbury Baptist Bible College) a month before graduation and eventually ran off to be a soldier of fortune. He fought against the Fascists in Ethiopia and spied against the Communists in the Spanish Civil War, then spied against the Japanese in Shanghai during their occupation of China. (As part of his cover he rented a room to a woman who later became one of Mao’s wives and was eventually disgraced as leader of the Gang of Four.) Eventually captured by the Japanese, he bore the scars of torture during their interrogation.

In short, he had a lot of stories to tell.

In town for a speaking engagement, he stayed at our house for 3 days in the spring of ’63.

I was a hyperactive kid, a complete pain in the neck.

He took an interest in me.

He showed me how to make a different kind of paper airplane. He told me stories about his idol, Napoleon. (Hilaire’s real name was Harold; he changed it to Hilaire in honor of one of Napoleon’s generals.) He took me to an office-supply store and showed me where they sold liquid rubber, the kind you use to make tear-off pads of paper. It was pink and had a distinctly pungent smell. He showed me that you could take a 3-dimensional object—he had a metal eagle that he’d gotten off a Napoleonic dispatch case, and why he had it with him on that trip, I’ll never know—and cover it with several layers of liquid rubber to make a mold. Then he showed me how to mix plaster of paris (is that French?), pour it into the mold, insert a wire in the back, and make an exact copy of the object, paint it (with gold paint!), and yield a pretty cool wall plaque. He took a little plaque I already had, with the Cub Scout oath on it, and we made a copy of that too.

I was a lot older when I realized that he had been teaching me spycraft.

He had a lady friend in our town—she was the host of the local Romper Room show—and incited me to come along on a dinner date to act as escort for her daughter. He instructed and rehearsed me to present my “date”—I was 8—with one of our cool gold-painted plaster eagles and induct her into the Society of Napoleon. We had a fabulous time at a fancy restaurant in Spokane. (In those days, there weren’t a lot of those.)

Hilaire was an artist as well; he’d done commercial art in Chicago before running off to chase adventure. He told me I should write a book; he laid out a characterization for me, presenting each of my family members as an interesting animal: Mel Mouse, Pauline Pony, Betty Jeanne Jackrabbit (though he misspelled her name), Kathy Cat, and, of course, Danny Dog. I should write The Story of Danny Dog and His Friends, he told me, and he said he would wait expectantly for me to send him a copy when it was published.

A few days later, having returned from the speaking tour to his apartment in New York, he wrote me a letter to let me know he was still thinking about me, and to encourage me to get to work on The Book.

He lived another 40 years, writing an international intelligence subscription letter called HduB Reports, eventually dying in his 90s, a tax exile in Monaco.

I’ve never forgotten the time he took during those 3 days to reach out to a painfully energetic boy, giving his attention to a kid who needed direction, planting ideas in me that I have gone back to as an adult and that I remember well now more than 50 years later.

Thank you, Hilaire. I’m grateful.

On Threats from a Hostile Culture

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Last week Carl Trueman published a thoughtful piece, entitled “Preparing for Winter,” on the future of Christian colleges. His premise is that they’re threatened, existentially threatened, by the hostile secular culture, particularly as it is expressed by the US government, and particularly in the matter of sexual discrimination, and particularly on the question of transgenderism. If Christian colleges stick to their beliefs, they will run afoul of anti-discrimination laws, thereby losing their accreditation and possibly—probably—even their tax exemption. An existential threat.

I don’t find anything he said directly wrong, but I’d like to balance his thoughts just a little bit.

First, a key piece of his argument is the Bob Jones Supreme Court case, in which my college lost its tax exemption because it violated “public policy” by prohibiting interracial marriage among its students. Something he doesn’t seem to consider, though, is that public-policy decisions arise more out of politics than out of law. It was easy for most Americans to agree with the court’s decision in the Bob Jones case because BJU was, well, wrong. It seems to me that if the government were to seriously consider denying tax exemption to all Christian schools that do not accommodate the policy du jour on transgenderism, the breadth of public outcry, and the consequent threat of political backlash, would render such an incursion politically impossible. There are a lot of people in this country who don’t see current transgender policy as in the same category as the civil rights movement.

There’s a reason that Social Security is the third rail of politics, even though the math underlying it is confessedly bogus. Politics works that way.

But times change, and majority public opinion changes with it. Suppose that, over time, clear biblical teaching on sexual morality is seen by most Americans as the enemy of the people? What then?

Well, several observations.

First, colleges can survive without tax exemption. Bob Jones did (and yes, it got the exemption back after several decades). It’s difficult, and with the passage of time a college will need to change significantly in the way it does things and perhaps even in its basic structure, methods, and size. But people are in the image of God, and that fact makes them creative, among other things. Just as businesses adjust to changes in tax law and all sorts of other elements in their legal environment—and do that every year, routinely—so people who want to run an educational institution can come up with ways to make it work. (And toward the end of his piece, Trueman essentially says that.)

But suppose the environment gets so oppressive that the college model can’t work at all? Well, for most of human existence—and this is true for young-earth creationists as well as old-earth creationists—people have been educating their offspring and preparing them for useful lives without any colleges whatsoever. You think businessmen are creative? Just watch parents trying to ensure their children’s success. There are no limits.

And it’s not just about the motivation and determined action of the parents.

For decades the People’s Republic of China was one of the most oppressive societies on the planet. It was completely cut off from the West; everybody had to dress just like Chairman Mao, and they had to quote his Little Red Book; and Mao had unfettered power to annihilate the scourge of Christianity from his land.

Several years ago I was teaching Christian theology. After class one of the students, who had grown up in China, said to me, “You are telling the [Bible] stories.” “Yes,” I replied. “I know the stories,” she said. “How do you know?” “My grandmother taught me.”

Mao had all the power imaginable, and he used all of it. Millions of his own people died under his orders just because they were Christians. But today Mao is dead—I’ve seen his corpse—and his great effort was foiled by a bunch of wizened 4’10” Chinese grandmothers, who told their grandchildren the stories. And today, by most estimates, there are more Christians in China than there are in the US.

Christian parents of whatever nation, however hostile, will tell those same stories, and Christian sons and daughters will go out as ambassadors for Christ, to spread the Good News, to die if necessary, but they will go out, and they will be faithful.

Christ, whose power well exceeds that of Mao and of any future American autocrat, will build his church, and the very gates of hell will have nothing at hand to stop it.

Fear not.

Photo by Cole Keister on Unsplash

The Great Illusion

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This time of year, it’s not unusual for the death rate to rise. And this time around, a lot of people I know have graduated from this life to the next. It started with a former student and advisee of mine, a recent graduate of BJU, a valued team member of an evangelist, another former student, in a car accident. His sudden departure was a shock to all who knew him, and a sobering reminder that we have only a brief time to know and serve God here.

Then came a wave of older friends, showing the wear of their years of faithful service, moving on at a more “normal” age. Dr. Stewart Custer, the teacher I had for more classes than any other, the gentle intellect whose clear faith and love for his God was impossible for any who knew him not to notice. Then Geneva Anderson, a stubbornly godly woman who battled cancer, it seemed, forever, and who in the end did not succumb so much as overcome. “The Lord be praised!” And then Bud Rimel, who taught my EMT certification class and with whom I had the joy of playing criminal during security training simulations. If it weren’t for Bud I never would have had the opportunity to “steal” that police car. (Wish I’d known how to turn off the light bar at the time.) And then Kay Washer, veteran missionary in Africa, whose example is being followed by her own descendants as well as many others.`

Then Don Horton, the California boy who spent his entire ministry life pastoring just one church in Statesville, North Carolina, who 43 years ago spent a year directing my undergraduate ministry internship, from whom I learned lessons that I have never forgotten. Then Gertrude Chennault, unassuming relative of the great Gen. Claire Chennault, whose life as an administrative assistant at BJU facilitated the accomplishment of great things but kept her out of the spotlight, which was just exactly where she wanted to be.

And Saturday I attended the funeral of Dolores Wood, wife of Bill for 72 years, a war bride, a member of the Greatest Generation, but much more importantly, a woman who met Christ at the age of 36 and spent the next 55 years serving him with the kind of love and joy you come across only once in an age. She loved her husband, and her family, and nearly everyone else; everyone who met her came away thinking she was Mom. For years of Wednesday night prayer meetings I heard her share prayer requests for people she was concerned about and ministering to.

And here’s the thing. Every one of these people—every one of them—has died, but only sort of. Death, for them, is just an illusion. For them, it is not death to die.

Every one of them is a child of God by faith, a fellow-heir with Jesus Christ, a sinner forgiven by grace through faith. And that means that every one of them is separated, but only temporarily, from the physical body but alive and well in the presence of Christ, safe and rested and painless and at peace, exponentially better off than they were even on their best days here, let alone during those last painful days or moments. But at the same time, they’re looking forward with eager anticipation to better days to come (2Cor 5.1-9).

What could be better than being instantaneously free of pain and sorrow and in the presence of a loving God? Well, there’s more coming for them. The day will come when their discarded bodies will be raised, reconstituted and flawless, impervious to pain, sickness, and death, and reunited with their waiting consciousnesses (1Th 4.16; 1Co 15.20-23, 42-43, 51-55). They’ll be complete again, embodied as they were designed to be, and prepared to serve their God flawlessly, expertly, and eternally.

What a day that will be.

Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash

The Judgment Believers Face

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The Bible talks a lot about judgment. Jesus anticipates the day when he will sit as judge over the nations (Mat 25.31-46). And readers of the Bible are all struck by the bleakness of John’s description of the Great White Throne judgment in Revelation (Rev 20.11-15). These are harsh and terrifying scenes.

I can remember wondering as a boy if I would come before Christ, confident that I was saved, and learn to my shock that I was mistaken: “Depart from me; I never knew you” (Mat 7.21-23). It’s a frightful thought.

Paul tells us that all believers will stand before Christ for judgment, and that this judgment will be on the basis of our works (2Cor 5.10). And he intensifies the picture with his main verb; the English says, “We must all appear,” but the Greek verb does not mean simply “we must all make an appearance”; it means, “we must all be made transparent.” There will be no hiding, no excuses, no covering up hidden secrets. Everything will be out there.

Is this our lot? Are we going to stand before Christ and face his disappointment with us—even his wrath, the “wrath of the Lamb,” because of our sin? And will all our sin be paraded before everyone, shouted from the housetops, with nothing held back? How can we live in “grace, mercy, and peace” in the face of that prospect?

It’s true that we’ll be made transparent before the judgment seat of Christ. But the description I’ve given is nothing close to accurate. Here’s why.

First, you and I will never have to face the wrath of God for our sin. We deserve to, and we would have no argument had God chosen to do that. But he has not chosen to do that; he has chosen instead to pour out his infinite wrath on his Son, who has equally chosen to receive it. Not only is the wrath of the Lamb not directed at his people, but the love of the Lamb is the very reason that he chose to intercede for us against the Father’s wrath. God’s wrath was poured out on him (Mat 27.45-54), and his wrath has been propitiated (1Jn 4.10); there is no more left for us.

You will never face God for your sins. The mighty Lamb, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, has done that in your place. We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ (Rom 5.1).

So what’s the judgment seat of Christ about? The passage tells us: “that each one may receive what is due for what he has done in the body, whether good or evil” (2Co 5.10). We’re giving account, not of our sins, but of our service—whether what we’ve done for Christ has been valuable (“good,” Gk. agathos) or worthless (“bad,” Gk. phaulos). We’re giving account of our stewardship.

Christ often spoke of this in his parables. The master returns from a long journey and sees what his servants have done with the resources he left with them (Mat 25.14-30; Lk 19.11-27); the king calls his servants to evaluate the quality of their service (Mat 18.23); even the crooked servant is commended for his diligence (Lk 16.1-13). Paul describes our works being tested by fire, so that the worthless and insubstantial (“wood, hay, stubble”) will be burned up and the valuable (“gold, silver, precious stones”) will be left for display (1Co 3.10-17).

Paul writes of the judgment seat of Christ in a context of warning—as does Jesus in telling his parables. This is serious business; you don’t want to disappoint the master or position yourself as an incompetent servant. He calls for diligence.

But the judgment seat doesn’t have to be a disappointment. Won’t it be great, if you’re a diligent servant, to present your service to him when he comes? Isn’t it great when a little child joyously and confidently greets her father at the door with “Daddy! Come see what I made for you!” Won’t that be something?!

Our father’s out of town on a trip (metaphorically speaking). He’s left us lots of really important things to do, but things that he’s equipped us for, things we can do well, things that bring great enjoyment. So we devote ourselves to those blessed tasks, and we anticipate his return, when we’ll be able to show him what we’ve done: “See what I made for you!”

There’s nothing to fear here. There’s no need for doubt, or apprehension, or a nagging dread in the pit of your stomach.

Serve with joy, and prepare for the reunion with delight.

Photo credit: Arek Socha