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

home / about / archive 

Subscribe via Email

Firstborn!: You and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Part 4

by Leave a Comment

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

You and two hypothetical Jehovah’s Witnesses are having a discussion, and they’ve pointed you to Colossians 1.15, where Christ is said to be the “firstborn of all creation.” We’ve noted that the operative word here is the term firstborn, and we’ve set out to discover what it means.

Defining the key terms

Since words have multiple meanings, we need to gather a list of what this key term could possibly mean. We’ve noted that according to its etymology, it simply means that the person is the first one to be born, or to come into existence. That means that our Jehovah’s Witness friends are winning.

But we’ve also noted that etymology is notoriously unreliable as an indicator of meaning. We need to look further.

Step 3: Possible meanings–context

The best indicator of a word’s meaning is how it’s actually used. If Michael Jackson used the word bad to mean “good,” then we need to know that when one of his fans uses the word bad.

Similarly, we need to survey how the word firstborn is used. The most reliable indicator is typically how it’s used in “near context”—the same chapter, the same epistle, the same author. The word does appear just a few verses below this occurrence, in verse 18; we’ll come back to that later. For now, we notice that it appears 3 times in Paul, twice in Hebrews, and twice in the Gospels. If you’re being extra diligent and using Strong’s numbers to check the underlying Greek word, you find 2 more uses, translated “first begotten” in the KJV, both in Hebrews.

So 9 uses in the New Testament. That’s a problem in that 9 uses are nowhere enough to constitute a meaningful dataset; statisticians will tell you that you need 50 whatevers before you can start drawing statistical conclusions. Furthermore, the problem gets worse; of these 9 occurrences, 8 of them are simply calling Jesus the firstborn, which is the very thing we’re trying to figure out. We need verses that use the term to refer to other things, so we can see what the term actually means. Our one instance in the NT, Hebrews 11.28, is a reference to Passover, when the death angel destroyed the firstborn of Egypt, and that’s talking about people and animals that were literally the first ones to come into existence.

Too little evidence, and what little we have says that the Jehovah’s Witness is still winning.

Drat. Again.

But we do have another resource. The Old Testament, the Scripture of the same cultural group, was translated into Greek about 200 years before Christ, which is close enough in time to be useful as evidence. We can take a look at that Greek OT, the Septuagint, to see how much it uses the term.

Firstborn occurs in the KJV OT 110 times. Now there’s a dataset. (If you get more technical and count the number of times the Greek word prototokos occurs in the Septuagint, you’ll get 124. That number’s different for several reasons, which won’t make any significant difference in our work here.)

Of those 110 occurrences, about 97% are literal—that is, we’re talking about a human or animal that is literally the first one born. So 97% of the time, this word speaks of coming into existence.

Who’s winning? The Jehovah’s Witness. Still. And by a mile.

But 97% is not 100%. There are a few instances where the word is used of someone or something that is not the first one born:

  • Then you shall say to Pharaoh, ‘Thus says the Lord, Israel is my firstborn son (Ex 4.22).
  • And I will make him the firstborn, the highest of the kings of the earth (Ps 89.27).
  • With weeping they shall come, and with pleas for mercy I will lead them back, I will make them walk by brooks of water, in a straight path in which they shall not stumble, for I am a father to Israel, and Ephraim is my firstborn (Jer 31.9).

Next time we’ll take a closer look at one of those passages, and we’ll learn of a second possible meaning for our word.

And, more importantly, we’ll also learn how not to completely abuse the Scripture in the process.

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Firstborn!: You and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Part 3

by Leave a Comment

Part 1 Part 2

Defining the key terms

So you’re deep in conversation with the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and you’re discussing the deity of Christ, and the spokesman clobbers you with Colossians 1.15: Christ is “the firstborn of all creation.” He’s the first created being.

Now what?

Well, you treat this passage like any other. You follow the exegetical process to determine what it means. Since this is a short passage and a simple statement, the process will be a little simpler than if you’re working in, say, Ezekiel 40-48, so this shouldn’t take long.

Step 1: Identifying the key words

You begin by looking at the words. (Were you expecting something more, well, profound?) What are the key words in the passage? You’re going to start with the subject and the main verb, then other nouns and verbs, then adjectives and adverbs. If you were dealing with a longer passage, you’d look closely at conjunctions as well, to see how the statements fit together.

The main verb of the verse is simply a form of “to be,” which in this case is fairly simple. There are nouns—image, God, creature—which here have fairly plain meaning (image excepted, perhaps) and in any case are not the focus of the theological disagreement. Both you and the Jehovah’s Witnesses are going to agree that the key word, the central character in the disagreement, is the adjective firstborn. What does it mean that Jesus is “firstborn”? Everything hangs on the answer to that question.

Step 2: Possible meanings–etymology

Now that you’ve identified the key word(s), you need to find out what they mean. This process will involve multiple steps.

You begin with a critical observation: words mean more than one thing. If you look up any word (in any language, come to think of it) in the dictionary, it’s pretty much always going to have more than one definition. There are exceptions, mostly very technical terms—deoxyribonucleic, for example—but every biblical word I’ve ever studied has multiple definitions (or, as the scholars like to say, “nuances”).

It might seem like the logical place to start is with the question, “Well, where did the word come from?” Or, to put it more technically, what is the word’s etymology? The word firstborn looks pretty obvious, and it is: it comes from two words meaning, um, “first” and “born.” So, the first one to be born, or to come into being. Jesus is the first one to come into being.

Who’s winning so far? The Jehovah’s Witness.

You can double-check in a formal source, like the Oxford English Dictionary (at the library), or Merriam Webster’s, or even dictionary.com. They’ll all say the same thing. First. Born.

Hmm. Well, how about the Greek? I don’t recommend that people who don’t know Greek set out to “check the Greek,” for reasons both practical and professional, but I’ll save you the trouble. The Greek word is prototokos. Proto, “first.” Tokos, “born.”

Drat.

He’s still winning.

I’ll tell you a little secret, though.

Etymology is a lousy way to find out what a word means. There’s even an exegetical error called the “etymological fallacy.” The reason for that is really simple: we’re in the image of God, and God’s creative, and consequently so are we. One of the ways we show that is by coming up with creative uses for our existing words. One reason you can’t understand half the things your teenagers say is that they’re using existing words with meanings that only they and their friends know. Back in the 80s Michael Jackson decided that the word bad actually meant “good,” and we’ve been messed up ever since.

If I were to say, “When the sun set, I polished my chess set while my wife set her hair,” you wouldn’t have any problem understanding the sentence, although it would seem like an odd juxtaposition of observations. The word set occurs in that sentence with 3 completely different and unrelated meanings (to go down; a collection of objects; and to harden in place), but if you’re a native speaker of English, it didn’t even slow you down. How did you sort out the meanings?

Context. The accompanying words sun, chess, and hair told you which meaning, or nuance, I intended in each instance.

So to find out what our word firstborn means, we’re going to have to do some work with context.

Next time.

Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Firstborn!: You and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Part 2

by 2 Comments

Part 1

The battleground

So you’re standing on the porch, or maybe sitting in your living room, and the conversation begins. You have a couple of choices. You can just let them talk, and ask clarifying questions along the way, or you can drive the conversation yourself. Either way, eventually you’re going to get to the most serious difference between JW theology and biblical Christianity: the deity of Christ.

Jehovah’s Witnesses, as modern ideological descendants of Arius and his followers, believe that Jesus is a created being, the first of God’s creatures, and then the creator of everything else. They happily show you where your Bible teaches that:

Who [Jesus] is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation (Col 1.15).

The designated spokesman of the pair will show you the passage in your Bible and then say, trying not to sound triumphal, “You see, this verse clearly says that Jesus was the first created being.”

What are you going to say to that? Many Christians find the statement a little troubling and seek to counter it with a bunch of other verses that, they say, teach the deity of Christ. You know, verses like John 1.1 (boy, is there going to be an argument about that one; few things are more comically futile than two people who don’t know Greek arguing about what the Greek says), and John 8.58, and Titus 2.13, and Isaiah 9.6, and …

But there’s a problem or three with that approach. First, you’re trying to win an argument by having the more verses. And in doing that you’re implying that the Bible teaches both sides, and the side with the more verses wins. And that’s an implicit denial of the unity and inerrancy of Scripture. Second, you’ve failed to respond meaningfully to his argument, thereby giving him a solidly planted tent peg that he doesn’t deserve. And most important, you haven’t gained from the Word what this verse actually teaches. If all the Scripture is profitable (2Ti 3.16), then you ought to mine the gold from this passage.

So what do you say about this passage? Here you have a wonderful opportunity to teach beyond the argument. You have a chance to teach these folks some exegesis, through which, if they heed it, they’ll be finding problems with their own theology all by themselves for the rest of their time as Jehovah’s Witnesses.

But it’s going to take some time. So, I suppose, those of you who are sitting on comfortable couches and drinking iced tea will have a bit of an advantage.

Exegesis is simply the process of getting the author’s intended meaning from a piece of writing. You do exegesis all the time, even if you’ve never heard the word before. In fact, you’re doing it right now—you’re reading my words and getting the meaning from them.

Most of our daily exegesis is pretty simple: Stop. Authorized personnel only. Exit left. Wait here to be seated. Waffles $8.95. Electronics Department. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But lots of writing requires more care in understanding correctly. Good poetry, for example, typically requires some scratching of the head, stroking of the beard, and furrowing of the brow. Narrative is much easier. In biblical studies, epistolary literature, of which Colossians is one example, requires considerable thought, especially when it’s developing an argument over multiple paragraphs and even chapters.

That means there’s a process for exegeting challenging writing. This process has multiple steps, each of which you need to do in its order and with careful thought. This passage is a great opportunity to learn the process, because it’s brief, but it also requires all the steps of the process if you’re going to understand what it’s saying. Further—and this is really cool—if you follow the process carefully, the meaning is absolutely clear, and it’s absolutely impossible for the passage to say what the Jehovah’s Witness claims it says. But all along the way, until the very end, your JW friend is going to think that he’s headed for a win; he’s going to be the proverbial hare to your tortoise.

All of that makes the exercise deeply enjoyable.

So next time, we’ll head jauntily off toward Understanding.

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Firstborn! You and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Part 1

by 1 Comment

To engage or not to engage

It’s not a question of “if.”

It’s only a question of “when.”

You’re going to open your front door, and two Jehovah’s Witnesses are going to be standing there. And they’re going to want to talk.

There was a time in this country when door-to-door salesmen were common and generally welcome, as another supply vector—for Fuller brushes or Hoover vacuum cleaners or Schwan’s ice cream. But those days are gone; today Americans are unanimously thinking How can I get this bozo off my porch and get on with my life? That’s not true in many other countries, but it’s true here.

So I know what you’re going to be thinking about those JWs.

Great. Just great. This is not a good time. Come to think of it, it’ll never be a good time. I have better things to do.

But. Do you? Really? Unless you’ve just called 911, and somebody’s exsanguinating on your kitchen floor, I’m not so sure you really do have better things to do.

There is a heaven, and there is a hell. And everyone’s going one place or the other. And here are two people, in the image of God, who have gone to the trouble of coming right to your door, and who want to talk about Jesus.

Now, exactly what better things do you have to do?

First question: do you invite them in? or do you talk on the porch?

Most Christians know about 2 John 7-11—I suspect mostly because it’s a great way to get yourself out of talking to them and back to those “better” things you have to do:

7 For many deceivers have gone out into the world, those who do not confess the coming of Jesus Christ in the flesh. Such a one is the deceiver and the antichrist. 8 Watch yourselves, so that you may not lose what we have worked for, but may win a full reward. 9 Everyone who goes on ahead and does not abide in the teaching of Christ, does not have God. Whoever abides in the teaching has both the Father and the Son. 10 If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, do not receive him into your house or give him any greeting, 11 for whoever greets him takes part in his wicked works.

So someone who “does not abide in the teaching of Christ,” who, as in this case, denies the deity of Christ, is a false teacher, and we’re not supposed to let him into the house.

Several years ago, I was helping a pastor friend plant a church in a Boston suburb. One afternoon we were planning the next Sunday’s service when the doorbell rang, and there were two JWs. My pastor’s words to them were curt:

“I know who you are; you’re Jehovah’s Witness; you’re heretics, Arians, and your heresy was condemned by the church in the fourth century. The Bible says I can’t invite you into my house, so I have nothing to say to you. If Dan wants to talk to you out here on the porch, he’s welcome to do so, but as far as I’m concerned, this conversation is over.”

And he closed the door in their faces. (I was young and a seminary student and spoilin’ for a fight, so I engaged them for quite a bit there on the porch—but that’s a story for another time.)

My pastor friend interpreted the 2 John passage very literally—on the porch, OK, but not in the house.

Other students of the Bible have read the passage differently. They suggest that in the first century, to “receive [someone] into your house” meant to give him a place to stay, and that meant that you were effectively endorsing him in your community. They note that when Jason, a man from Thessalonica, offered Paul and his team a place to stay, the locals took that as support and endorsement and even threatened Jason with civil forfeiture (Acts 17.1-9). Long before that, Lot took strangers (actually angels) into his house and felt obligated to protect them from the townsmen to the point that he offered the mob his own daughters for sexual assault (Gen 19.1-11). Hospitality in the ancient Near East was a very serious business indeed.

So, these interpreters suggest, the issue isn’t whether the conversation takes place inside or outside the house; the issue is whether you act toward them in a way that implies endorsement or recognition as anything other than false teachers. So, they would say, invite them in; show them to a seat; offer them some (sweetened!) ice tea. And then have a gracious but frank conversation with them about the error of their ways.

Whichever interpretation you take, I think you ought to have the conversation. The image of God is very serious business as well.

Next time: then what?

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

On Reading Numbers (the Book, not the Digits)

by Leave a Comment

Well, you got through Leviticus, and you found that it’s got a real devotional punch if you pay attention to the big ideas. And now you’re in Numbers. Funny name. Lots of repetition. And details. And, well, numbers.

What’s with that?

When Numbers begins, Israel is still at Sinai, where they’ve been for the year since leaving Egypt. They’ve received the Law (that’s the last part of Exodus, and all of Leviticus), and they’re preparing to continue to Canaan. When Numbers ends, the people of Israel are at the Jordan River, ready to enter the land (Dt 1.1). For those of you keeping score, that means that the entire 40 years of wilderness wandering takes place in Numbers.

So what’s with the numbers? What’s that all about?

Oh, this is really good. Really good.

The book begins, as you might expect, with numbers: a census. God directs Moses to count all the men in the Israelite army (Num 1.2-3). Moses obeys, and we’re told that Israel’s army numbers just over 600,000 (Num 1.46).

Hold that thought.

Now Israel prepares to travel from Sinai, what we might call Constitution City, to their permanent home, promised by God to Abraham all those centuries ago. If there are 600,000 soldiers, then you probably have about 2 million people in all, and moving that many people around is going to require some organization. So God describes the organization of the camp (Num 2); the jobs of the Levites in breaking down, carrying, and setting up the Tabernacle (Num 3-4); and the dedication of the Tabernacle to active service (Num 7-9).

Now we’re ready to move. Off we go.

The Israelites decamp and head for Canaan (Num 10-12), arriving at Kadesh-Barnea, near Canaan’s southern border, where God instructs them to investigate the land they’re about to enter (Num 13). What they see makes them afraid, and they refuse the land God has assured them is theirs (Num 14). God sends them on a 40-year hiatus, where the fearful adults will all die, leaving their “vulnerable” children to take the land by force (Num 14.28-35).

Yikes. That’s a turn of events.

And the rest of the book describes the torturous turns of those 40 years of wandering in the wilderness. Someone has estimated that for those 40 years, about 85 people died every day, on average, until all the adults were gone. That’s 40 years of daily grief, reminding Israel of the perils of faithlessness.

God is killing them all. Will he eradicate them? Or will he keep his promise to Abraham, 400 years ago, that they would occupy the land (Gen 17.8)?

Well, that’s where the numbers come in.

In chapter 26, Israel has arrived at the plains of Moab, just across the Jordan River from Jericho and the rest of The Land. All the older generation is gone now, and the current generation can see the land ahead of them. Will they be able to take it?

God answers their question with a second census. Count all the soldiers, he says. They do.

How many soldiers are there? 600,000 (Num 26.51). Just as many as there were before.

In judgment, God remembers mercy. He destroys the faithless generation, but he sees to it that four decades later, the army is just as large as it was before, despite their less-than-ideal living and breeding conditions.

The promise is still good. The land is still theirs. God’s judgment has not disabled the promise.

The numbers have spoken.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

On Reading Leviticus: Grace in the Details, Part 2

by 2 Comments

Last time we noted that the details in Leviticus remind us that the Law is impossible to keep; we’re going to need help. This time we’ll note another principle the Law teaches us, and where to go from here.

The Law Doesn’t Work

The Bible sometimes seems to be ambivalent about the Law. Paul criticizes the Law in Galatians and Romans—“the very commandment that promised life proved to be death for me” (Rom 7.10)—but in the midst of that he says that “the Law is holy, and the commandment is holy and righteous and good” (Rom 7.12). David sings that “the Law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul” (Ps 19.7), but God himself says through the prophet Ezekiel, “I gave them statutes that were not good and rules by which they could not have life” (Ezek 20.25).

Well then. Which is it?

One thing you notice about all those sacrifices in Leviticus is that they don’t seem to work—not really. Every fall there’s a big Day of Atonement (Lev 16), when the high priest goes through special preparation and then, alone, disappears behind the veil of the Tabernacle / Temple. There he sprinkles blood before the very presence of God himself, who declares that he resides in the space between the cherubim on the “mercy seat,” the solid-gold cover of the ark (Isa 37.16). And in doing that, he cleanses the Temple from the sins of the whole nation (Lev 16.16, 19).

But next fall, the high priest is going to have to do it all over again. The old sacrifice will have worn off. It didn’t work. Oh, it achieved cleansing for a time, but in the final analysis it didn’t take care of the problem it’s addressing. The problem is still there.

Every morning the priest goes to the altar and offers the morning sacrifice, for the sins of the people (Ex 29.38ff). By late afternoon it’s worn off, and we need an evening sacrifice to take care of the continuing failures of the day. It didn’t work.

Every time you sin, you go to Jerusalem and offer another sin offering. But when you sin the next time, you have to do it again. It didn’t solve your problem. It didn’t work.

The Law would be great, if only it worked.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was a priest who could offer one sacrifice for sins forever?

The Law Is Good. Really.

Have you ever tried to use a slot-head screwdriver with a Phillips-head screw? You try to get the job done one-eighth of a turn at a time, and the screwdriver keeps slipping out of the slot that it wasn’t designed to fit, and you tear up the screw head so much that you’re never going to be able to get it in or out, and you throw the screwdriver across the room in disgust. “Stupid screwdriver!”

No, not stupid screwdriver. Unwise tool user. A slot-head screwdriver isn’t designed to drive a Phillips-head screw. That’s not what it’s for. Don’t blame the screwdriver.

God designed the Law for a purpose. If God is God, then the Law accomplishes that purpose perfectly. If you’re frustrated with it, then maybe you’re trying to use it to do something it was never designed to do.

Why would God make a Law that’s impossible to keep? Why would he make one that keeps driving us back to the same altar, day after day, year after year?

Because the Law isn’t designed for us to keep. It’s designed to show us that we can’t keep it (Rom 3.20). It’s designed to drive us to God for mercy. And it’s designed to showcase the remarkable way he’s chosen to show that mercy.

The only way to avoid the frustration of living on the road to Jerusalem is to live in such a way that you never need to go there to offer a sacrifice for your own sin. Because we can’t do that, God himself, in mercy, steps into a human body and keeps the Law perfectly in precisely the ways we have not. He dies to become the perfect sacrifice, effective for all time, for all sin, for all who believe (Heb 10.12). And then he comes to us, broken by the Law—that’s what it was for—and invites us to receive the benefit of his atoning sacrifice and the righteousness that he has lived out for us (2Co 5.21).

The Law has done exactly what he designed it to do. It has broken us, frustrated us, and in our frustration it has driven us to the Christ (Gal 3.24).

Perfect.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

On Reading Leviticus: Grace in the Details, Part 1

by Leave a Comment

If you’re following a plan to read through your Bible in 2018, chances are you’re in Leviticus or have just finished it. Maybe it was a hard slog for you. All those sacrifices, all those procedures, all those animal parts. When do we start learning about the Gospel? About Jesus?

Let me encourage you to take a closer look—or perhaps to sit back in your chair and think about the implications of what you’ve been reading. Let me suggest a couple of life-changing principles that spring from what you’ve just read.

The Law Is Impossible

Let’s take a high flyover view of the Law for a moment.

God says that the penalty for sin is death (Rom 6.23). Specifically, he told the Jews that payment for sin required shedding of blood (Lev 17.11). But then he said, graciously, that you could offer the death of an animal in the place of yourself. That’s a huge relief, and it’s a glorious grace.

But here’s the thing. You can’t just go out in back of the house and kill a lamb. No, you have to offer the lamb to God. And in OT times, that means you have to take the lamb to where God is—in the place where he has placed his name (Lev 17.4, 9; Dt 12.5ff). During the wilderness wanderings, that meant wending your way through thousands of tents to the center of camp, where the Tabernacle was illuminated by the pillar of cloud, the sign of God’s presence. During the period of the judges it meant going to the Tabernacle’s more-or-less permanent location at Gilgal or Shiloh or Bethel or Nob or Gibeon or, finally, Jerusalem. And under Solomon and the divided monarchy, it meant going to the Temple in Jerusalem.

During the Babylonian Captivity, when there was no Temple—that was the greatest tragedy of the exile—there could be no sacrifices. But when Judah returned to the Land, the Second Temple, again on the Jerusalem site, served as the location until the Romans destroyed it shortly after Christ’s earthly ministry.

So. You live in Dan, in Galilee, and you sin. You have to offer a sacrifice. You saddle up and head for Jerusalem. It takes two days—longer if it’s after the Assyrian action of 722 BC and you’re too bigoted to go through Samaria. On arrival, you purchase a lamb at the Temple—that’s a lot easier than bringing one from home—and present it at the top of the steps, where you lay your hands on its head, symbolizing the transfer of your sin, and the priest takes it to the altar, where he executes it according to those instructions in Leviticus.

Done. Forgiven. Time to go home.

Saddle up and head north. You get home in two days.

The trip has taken at least 4 days. When’s the last time you went four days without sinning?

Houston, we have a problem.

You’d better move to Jerusalem, my friend, because if you don’t, you’re going to spend your entire pitiable life on the road.

It’s impossible.

You can’t do this, even if you’re a detail person. Especially if you’re a detail person.

You’re going to need help.

Next time we’ll look at a second life-changing principle, and at the solution to which both of these principles point.

Keep reading Leviticus. It’s a book about love.

Part 2

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

On Memorizing Scripture

by 2 Comments

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.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

The Great Illusion

by 5 Comments

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

by 3 Comments

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