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

My Personal Top Ten

by Leave a Comment

As I commented last year at this time, I’ve noticed that rants get a lot of hits. I understand why that happens—it’s pretty much the same phenomenon as onlooker delay at traffic accidents—but I don’t really like to rant, and I don’t admire people who rant all the time, first, because if they’re genuine, they’re living under the burden of an angry spirit, and probably fear, and second, because if they’re not genuine, but just ranting to get hits, then I don’t trust what they write.

I don’t want to be that guy. You know, the Talk Radio morning host.

Some things deserve rants, but ranting isn’t much of a lifestyle, and a society that feeds itself constantly on it—like ours—is pathological.

Most writers like some things they write more than other things, and the order of like-itude usually isn’t the same as their audience’s preferences—especially if they’re not just writing for the money or the recognition.

So as a thought experiment, here’s a list of the posts, in no particular order, that I personally like the most—some for reasons of content, some for esthetics, and some just because.

Photo by HENCE THE BOOM on Unsplash

2019 Top Ten List

by Leave a Comment

In the tradition of bloggers everywhere, here are my top ten posts for this past year.

10. On Church, Part 1

  • Biblical concepts about why Christians need to commit to and serve their local assembly

9. On Fear

  • What we should fear, and what we shouldn’t

8. Top Ten List

  • Last year’s list, making this year’s list …

7. On Coffee

  • Or rather, how a simple beverage teaches us a lot about how we ought to treat one another

6. On White Nationalism, Part 1

  • Let’s put this nonsense to bed.

5. On My Time in Jail

  • Yep. Guilty.

4. “No Peeking!”

  • I’ve learned a lot of theology since my kids were born.

3. On Cold-Call Evangelism and Cultural Appreciation

  • Obeying the Great Commission effectively

2. It Is. And It Does.

  • Meditation on the death of a friend

1. For My Angry Friends, Part 1

  • Depolarizing

And just for good measure, here are the all-time top ten posts that aren’t already listed above, in ascending order.

Since I’ll have one more post before year’s end, I’m going to use that one to list my ten personal favorites. Writers do have them, you know.

Photo by HENCE THE BOOM on Unsplash

On My Time in Jail

by 2 Comments

The last few posts have been pretty serious. I think it’s time for a break.

I’ve had a lot of interesting experiences, and I like to tell stories. I think every so often, when we need a little break here, I’ll tell about an interesting experience.

When I was in college, the school required four semesters of physical education as part of its general education requirements. They had lots of offerings in the area, and for my four semesters I took two semesters of judo, a semester of karate (shorin-ji, to be precise), and a semester of security training. (Seriously.)

In those days there was an outreach group that used judo as an evangelistic tool, and after I got my brown belt I joined them. The Judo Gentlemen. (Judo means “the gentle way” in Japanese, in reference to the fact that you could practice it without hurting the other student, unlike jiu-jitsu.)

Some years later—I was in Seminary and a teaching assistant in English—we scheduled a meeting in Canton, NC. It was a church banquet; we’d entertain them with a funny skit, and one of us—that would be me—would bring a short devotional.

As we were en route, I realized that I had miscalculated the drive time, and we were going to be late. So I did what any good steward would do—I adjusted the speed to solve the problem.

The highway patrolman clocked me at 71 in a 55.

When he approached the car, which I had borrowed from my roommate from Ohio (and thus had Ohio plates), he asked for my license and registration. Couldn’t find the registration. I handed him my Massachusetts driver’s license. He asked where I was from.

I said Greenville.

It went downhill from there.

The fine was $36, $20 plus a buck for every mph over the limit. (That was a long time ago, friends.)

Though I was in a 3-piece suit, most of the guys were in their judogis, which have no pockets. I had my wallet, of course, and I think maybe 2 of the other guys did as well. We had $32 among us.

We followed the officer in to the Buncombe County Magistrate’s Office, where they told me that I’d need to stay until the guys could get the extra 4 bucks. Something about reciprocity between states.

One of the team members, Bobby, was an officer in the Marine Reserves. He tried to get me released on his recognizance, like he would do with Marines having too much alcohol on leave.

No deal.

OK then.

I sent the guys on, appointed one of them to play the clown in the skit instead of me, and Bobby said he’d preach. Also instead of me.

I don’t recall what I was planning to preach on.

The team went on to Canton and planned to take an offering to get $4 to get the originally scheduled preacher out of the pokey on the way home.

The police took my shoes, belt, wallet, and Bible (it’s a sword, you know) and put me in the drunk tank, which was relatively crowded on that Friday night. I settled in and made friends with a fellow who was in for driving moonshine down from North Carolina. The others, being in various stages of inebriation, weren’t much for conversation.

At one point one of them roused himself from the floor, looked blearily at the (bullet-proof) window, and decided to break out. He got going as fast as he could in the limited space, hit the window with his head, and immediately resumed his original position on the floor.

I’d preached in jail a number of times. This was my first time as a client. I suppose I could have preached, but your credibility takes quite a hit when you’re a client rather than a visitor.

After about 4 hours (seemed like a week), the guys came back with the $4. The desk clerk had some trouble finding my things—they were filed under “Clinger”—but soon we were on our way home.

I walked into my apartment, where my roommate was up studying. He glanced up and said, “How did it go?”

Oh, you know, the usual.

To this day I believe that I’m the only BJU faculty member ever to have been incarcerated while on the faculty and still be employed. But in my defense I must add that I was never actually convicted. Of a felony.

This story is entirely true. If you don’t believe me, check with my roommate. His name is Dr. Dan Nelson, and he’s the administrator of Bob Jones Academy.

Photo by Bill Oxford on Unsplash

On Coffee

by 7 Comments

In my just-finished series on When We Fight and When We Don’t, I spent a lot more time on the doctrinal side than the behavioral side. I thought I’d share an experience I had a few years back that got my thinking developing on how we approach behavioral issues.

About 25 or so years ago, I noticed something odd. Every weekend, I would get a headache. Fine all week long, but every Saturday morning, like clockwork, headache. Sunday too. Then Monday I was fine again.

I tested a lot of variables to try to find out the cause. Sleeping in? Nope. Breakfast? Nope. Location-based allergies? Nope.

I guess you can figure out from the title of this post what the cause was. Every day at work I drank coffee. The departmental coffee pot was literally right next to my office, and I made good use of it. Weekend mornings, though, I didn’t make coffee at home.

Well, what am I gonna do about these headaches? I did what any sensible person would do.

I bought a coffee pot, and I made sure I had a cup on Saturday and Sunday mornings so I wouldn’t get a headache.

After I’d done that for a while, I got to thinking.

The headache was a caffeine withdrawal symptom. I was chemically addicted to caffeine.

But it’s not as bad as cocaine—and certainly not as bad as opioids—so it’s OK, right?

I skipped merrily along down that path for a bit longer, and my conscience really began to bother me.

I was a drug addict. Gotta have my hit. Every day. Or I won’t be able to function at my best.

And I thought of Paul’s words to the Corinthians: “All things are lawful unto me, … but I will not be brought under the power of any[thing]” (1Co 6.12).

My schedule and activities were being dictated by a physical addiction.

My conscience continued to bother me. And Paul also says that it’s a sin to violate the restrictions of your conscience (1Co 8.7)—even if the thing isn’t sinful in itself.

A Christian who realizes he’s sinning is supposed to stop.

So I did. Cold turkey. Three days of blinding headaches.

I got clean.

As follow-up, I would try a cup of coffee every few months just to see if the headaches returned. They did, so after a series of lengthening test periods I quit testing and just stayed clean.

Nowadays I find that I’m OK with a cup of decaf (which has a little caffeine, but not much) maybe 3 days a week without headaches. And I really love good coffee, so I’m happy about that. The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it (1Co 10.26), and we ought to enjoy whatever he’s placed here for us, the best we can.

Now. What do I do about my Christian friends who drink full-bore, drug-fueled coffee? Shall I become a prophet, crying in the wilderness against the evils of the demon bean?

Nope. Though I will say that it troubles me when my Christian friends declaim on social media about how they can’t live or function without their morning coffee. If they’re telling the truth—if they’re really physically addicted to caffeine—then I’d suggest that they think about whether maybe they ought to do something about that. Whether maybe they ought to be free—and might rejoice in their newfound freedom.

But short of addiction? Nope. The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it. If they’re drinking coffee and enjoying it, and especially if they’re thanking our good and gracious God for the joy it brings them, then I rejoice with those who rejoice.

For my first several years on the Bible faculty at BJU I shared an office with a long-time friend who’s a coffee aficionado. He roasts his own beans, as close to the time of consumption as possible; he grinds just a cup’s worth of beans at a time; he waxes eloquent on the specifics of crema. Every afternoon about 3, he’d say, “Well, time for a cup of coffee!” And the grinder would surge, and the office would fill with the most delightful aroma of fresh-roasted coffee beans. I couldn’t drink what he made, in good conscience, but I enjoyed the daily routine, and the aroma, and his pleasure in the simple experience of a good cup of coffee.

He’s not sinning. There’s nothing there to fight about, even though we’re behaving differently, for significant theological reasons.

What about you? Have a cup for me, my friends.

Just don’t get addicted.

And don’t sweat the small stuff.

In this outrage-addicted culture, here’s something we can disagree about, for substantial reasons, without being outraged.

How about that?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Application 1 Application 2

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

It Is. And It Does.

by 22 Comments

I’m interrupting the series for this reminiscence, for reasons that will soon become clear. It’ll be a little longer than usual.

Thirty years ago I was supervising the writing of secondary-level textbooks at BJU Press. One day a lady called me looking for a job. She and her husband had just moved to the area from Mississippi, and she had typing skills, skills that we routinely hired back in those days. I told her to come in for a typing test. Shouldn’t be any big deal, I said.

The next morning when she arrived, I directed her to a computer, gave her a page of text that served as our standard typing test, and told her to have fun with it.

As I turned to walk away, I noticed that her hands were visibly shaking.

When she said she was done, I checked the test.

Words per minute were abysmal—12, as I recall. Accuracy was just as bad.

I smiled at her and said, as kindly as I could, that I just didn’t think she’d be right for the job. She said she understood and headed for home.

I sat in my office and thought about what I’d just witnessed. Didn’t make any sense at all.

If she couldn’t type, why did she try to get a typing job? Why did she show up for what she knew would be a typing test?

And why were her hands shaking like she was facing a firing squad?

I’ll bet she really can type, I thought. I’ll bet she has test anxiety. Take that away, and I’ll bet she can do the job.

What happened here just isn’t right.

I called her home phone, and she answered, crying. I told her I thought she could do better than she did, that she was just nervous because of the test. I told her we hadn’t treated her right. How about this, I said. You come in next week and work for us—we’ll pay you—and we’ll see how you do. If after a week we decide you’re not right for the job, then we’ll part ways, no hard feelings. But I think you can bring something to us that we can use.

Monday morning she showed up, and I gave her a chapter of Tim Keesee’s US Government manuscript. Tim, if you know him, is a man of an earlier century, and he was still writing out his manuscripts longhand. Melba—that was her name—went to work, and after an hour I knew how our little experiment would turn out. Not only could she type perfectly well, but she could also read Tim’s handwriting, which put her into a pretty select class. By the end of the day I told her that the trial period was over and that she was on board for the long term.

Eight years later, when my pastor was dying of a brain tumor, and his associate pastor conducted a final interview at his hospital bed, Melba asked me if she could type up the interview so the congregation could have a hard copy of his dying words to them. This wasn’t her church, but she wanted to do what she could to minister to a hurting congregation. She saw it as a sacred task, and she wept as she typed.

She stayed with the Press for more than 25 years, eventually becoming an unofficial Mom for all kinds of people in the production side of the business, and throwing herself into party preparation with the best of them. I left the Press before she did, but I went back over for her retirement party to say that hiring her was one of the things I was proudest of. You see, I really don’t have the gift of mercy, and I have no doubt that my thinking that crucial day was quite literally an act of God.

_____

A few days ago, Melba finished her race here and joined her husband, who had preceded her by almost exactly 7 months. Her daughter was kind enough to contact me individually to let me know and to tell me where the funeral would be. It’ll be a ways away, she said. No matter; I’ll be there, I said.

So Tuesday, I set out on the 60-mile drive west from Greenville. Through Easley, then Clemson—the day after the CFB championship win—then Seneca, then Westminster. Then out into the countryside, not exactly Deliverance country, but getting pretty close. Down a country road to a small private establishment, where you park on the lawn and walk a couple hundred yards back into the woods to a rustic but beautiful chapel that holds maybe 40 people if they sit close together.

It’s mostly family, with a handful of friends, most of whom I know. A friend and colleague of mine, Melba’s pastor, leads the little group in singing “There Is a Fountain,” and her daughter and eldest grandchild share memories and tributes. The pastor comforts us from the Scripture, and in just a few minutes the quiet little service is over. The pallbearers, her grandsons, lift the plain pine box, handmade by her son-in-law, and we follow out the back of the chapel and another 30 or 50 yards farther into the woods, where there’s a grave prepared. We all sing “Amazing Grace,” including my favorite verse—

The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.

Her son and grandsons carefully lower the box into the grave, committing her now-discarded body to the earth from which it came. Then, as a granddaughter plays hymns on the violin, her grandsons, all young and strong–fine men–make short work of shoveling the displaced red South Carolina clay over the coffin, then cover the pile with topsoil and pine straw, her granddaughters adding greenery as a silent testimony that death is defeated and life continues.

It is. And it does.

So we continue, living and loving here while keeping our focus on the blessed hope and the restitution of all things.

Even so.

Photo by David Marcu on Unsplash

New Leaves

by 1 Comment

New Year’s Eve. Last day of the old year; looking forward to the new.

There is something in us that makes us reflective at this season. We think through the past year and often make resolutions for the new.

This year, things will be better. Life will be better. We will be better.

Humans being complicated, this general optimism—or at least desire for improvement—is countered by cynics (they would call themselves realists) who confidently predict that it won’t last. Some of them seem irritated that anybody’s even trying. The most obvious example of that, I suppose, is at the gym, where the regulars are frustrated that for the first week or two of every January they can’t get to their usual machines because of the crowds—and their irritation is increased by the fact that the interlopers don’t even know how to use said machines.

I feel their pain—though I’ll admit that I haven’t done much at the gym this last semester, mostly due to schedule constraints of my first-semester teaching schedule. If I were going to start an exercise program, I think I’d start in December—or any time other than January. But as it happens, my gym is closed for 2 weeks precisely at the end of December, so that’s out.

Anyway, while recognizing the inconvenience that the optimists are to the cynics, at least at the gym, I’d like to suggest that they lighten up a little. If history is any guide, a lot of people will set out on a course of self-improvement this week, and the great majority of them will apostatize before the month is out. But does that mean that they shouldn’t even try? Or that they shouldn’t at least aspire?

Isn’t aspiration, the desire to get better, the desire to succeed, an essential part of being a healthy human? Isn’t it part of the image of God in us?

And if it is, shouldn’t we start down that path, and encourage others to do the same? Is that hopelessly naïve, or is it just healthy?

God certainly knew that we would fail when he created us, and he went ahead and did it anyway. He knew that Abraham’s descendants would be unfaithful lovers in the extreme, but he chose and blessed them anyway. He knew that Moses would strike the rock in rage, and that the same Israel who stood at Mt. Sinai and cried—with one voice—“All that the Lord has spoken, we will do!” (Ex 19.8), would refuse to take the land when God gave it to them. He knew that David would sin with Bathsheba. Jesus knew that Peter would deny him—and that Judas would betray him. And God chose them all anyway.

The Judas story is particularly intriguing. The Scripture doesn’t tell us Judas’s motive for the betrayal—though earlier it describes his motive at Bethany as greed (Jn 12.6). Some have speculated that like some of the other Jews, he wanted Jesus to overthrow the Romans and establish a political Messiahship. Maybe he did. If so, Jesus’ treatment of him is interesting.

It appears that Jesus set up a “buddy system” among the Twelve; we know that he sent them out in pairs on at least one preaching tour (Mk 6.7), and the accompanying list of the apostles appears to list them in pairs—Peter and Andrew, James and John, and so forth (Mt 10.2). If this is a “buddy list” of long-term “roommate” relationships, with whom does Jesus pair Judas?

Simon the Zealot (Mt 10.4).

And what’s the significance of that?

The designation Zealot is a reference to an activist group of the day who opposed the hated Roman occupiers with what we would call today “asymmetrical warfare.”

Simon was a guerrilla fighter. He was a terrorist.

But a changed one. He followed Jesus, and unlike Judas, he stayed true to that commitment to the very death.

So maybe—maybe—Jesus paired Judas the malcontent with Simon the (converted!) Zealot to let him see up close what a redeemed terrorist and Roman-hater looked like.

Maybe he was giving Judas a chance.

In any case, the God who knows all doesn’t go all cynical on us just because he knows we’ll stumble or even fail spectacularly.

We shouldn’t think like that either.

So make your plans, and your resolutions, for the new year. Set off down that path, with determination.

And if you proceed unevenly—you will, you know—get up and keep going.

For what it’s worth, I’m rooting for you.

Photo by madeleine ragsdale on Unsplash

Dan’s Top Ten List

by 3 Comments

Since it’s customary for bloggers to post a “top-ten” list at the end of the year, I thought I’d do the same. I didn’t do one last year, because I’d only been blogging since the previous July, and it seemed silly to do a top-ten list for less than 6 months’ worth of material. But so as not to leave those 6 months unaccounted for, I’m going to include them in this year’s inventory.

So here’s my all-time top-ten list, for what it’s worth.

10. On Calling God by His First Name. One of my personal favorites.

9. One Tiny Reason Why I’m Not a Secular Humanist. Confession time.

8. Those Spiritual Gifts Tests? Maybe You Ought to Ignore Them. Don’t put words in God’s mouth.

7. On Sexual Assault, Due Process, and Supreme Court Nominations. Wading into the fray.

6. What Jury Duty Taught Me about Comment Threads. My first post.

5. Freak Out Thou Not. This Means You. A common theme; worth a hashtag, I guess.

4. I Was Born That Way. Bringing biblical theology to bear on a controversy.

3. Pants on Fire. What ever happened to telling the truth?

2. Are We Doing Church Wrong? A biblical teaching that reoriented my life many years ago.

And number 1 …

1. The Great Sin of the Evangelical Right. Sacrificing the permanent on the altar of the immediate.

I’ve noticed a trend that doesn’t surprise me and won’t surprise you either. Rants get clicks.

I’m not going to pander to that.

Onward.

Photo by HENCE THE BOOM on Unsplash

On Peace

by 1 Comment

Been thinking a lot about peace lately.

I suppose you can guess why.

In the runup to tomorrow’s midterm elections—the most important election of our lifetime!—there’s not much evidence of peace. Both sides are scared of the consequences of losing the election, and they want you to be scared too—provided, of course, you’ll vote for their side. When all your friends have an interest in making you afraid, peace can be a little hard to come by.

But we all want it—or say we do.

The Jews greet each other with the simple word peace—“shalom.” So do the Arabic-speaking peoples—“salaam alaikum.” And the latter greeting makes explicit what is only implicit in the Hebrew custom—why they say the word at all.

It’s a wish. The greeter is saying he wants you to be at peace, and that his intentions toward you are peaceful: “peace to you.” And if you are familiar with the culture, you respond reflexively: “wa alaikum salaam” (“and to you, peace”). I hear that greeting, and offer it, frequently in both West and East Africa, where there’s considerable Muslim and thus Arabic influence.

Peace. We all want it.

During times of war, our desires are pretty simple and straightforward—we just want the fighting and killing to stop. We want to go home. We want to be with our families. We want to not be afraid all the time. We want a peace treaty. The Old Testament often uses the word shalom this way.

But once the fighting has stopped, we find that that’s not all we wanted. We want peace at home, too. We want the neighborhood to be safe. We want our kids to be able to play outside until the street lights come on. We want to have block parties. We want to jog along the streets and wave at our neighbors. We want the mailman not to get bitten by the neighbor’s junkyard dog.

And the circle of concern gets narrower. We want peace inside the house as well as out in the neighborhood. We want to love and enjoy the company of our spouse. We want our children to love and respect us, and love to be at home with us, and make us proud. We want quiet nights by the fireplace with hot chocolate and popcorn. We want to sing silly songs in the car on the way to Wally World. We want family.

And most of all, we want peace inside ourselves. We want to be free from worry, and hate, and fear. We want to feel like a walk in the woods, a campfire, and a night in the forest all the time.

We want peace.

The direction of our travel here has been from the outside in. We achieve peace in wartime, then in the neighborhood, then at home, and finally within ourselves.

Many of us think that’s how peace comes to us.

But it doesn’t.

It travels from the inside out.

It has to start with peace in your soul, in your spirit.

Why?

Because if your heart isn’t fundamentally at peace, you’ll bring strife and discord to your home. And your home will bring strife to your neighbors. And a country at war with itself will destabilize its national neighbors—and in this global neighborhood, all the rest of the world as well.

What causes quarrels and fights among you? Is it not that your passions are at war within you? (James 4.1).

The biblical word shalom speaks of a lot of kinds of peace—of absence of war (1K 4.25) or, less formally, of strife (Gen 26.29); of healthy, happy, harmonious relationships; of prosperity; of completeness or fullness; of fulfillment.

Of being in the place you were meant to be, one that matches you perfectly.

How does that happen?

In the Bible, it comes from being righteous (when you behave yourself and live in a way society views as orderly, your life tends to be a lot less complicated, doesn’t it? [Isa 32.17]); it comes from being in God’s presence and especially from being in a relationship with him (Gen 15.15; Ps 85.8; Isa 54.10). In short, it comes from God:

The Lord bless you and keep you;
the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;
the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

And, importantly, shalom doesn’t come from our circumstances; it’s independent of them (Isa 54.10). It’s not going to come from winning the election—I suspect that no matter who wins, the rage is only going to deepen. But when the world is shaking—whether the whole world, or just your world—the peace is still there, because God is still there.

Do you have peace?

If you’re a believer, you should. And in a day when the world is teetering, that’s what you should be communicating to those who have no peace.

You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.

A really good and attractive sore thumb.

Salaam alaikum, my friend.

Photo by Sunyu on Unsplash