Dan Olinger

On the Unruffled Passivity of Modern Evangelicalism

August 13, 2020 by Dan Olinger 4 Comments

I’ve lived pretty much my whole life in evangelicalism. My parents weren’t believers when I was born, the youngest of their children, but when I was about 5 they heard the gospel and began attending an evangelical church, where eventually all of us made professions of faith. I’ve written about that before.

That church was mainstream evangelical; I can recall a citywide crusade featuring Torrey Johnson, the founder of Youth for Christ, that our church and several others participated in. A few years later we moved across the country, where my pastor was the young Chuck Swindoll, fresh out of seminary, and my Christian high school had been founded by such evangelical lights as George Eldon Ladd, Gleason Archer, and Harold Ockenga. Then I came to Bob Jones University, which was, well, a little further to the right on the theological spectrum, you might say, and I ended up staying there the rest of my life, so far.

So my evangelical bona fides are pretty solid. Been hanging around Christians since I was just a little tyke.

Many years later—maaaany years later—I was walking down Main Street in Greenville when a young man walked up to me, handed me a tract, and started to present the gospel to me. He was a student at Tabernacle Baptist Bible College in Greenville, out seeking to share the gospel with strangers on the street.

Why do I remember that so clearly?

Because it was the first time.

It was the first time anybody had ever told me about Jesus outside of a church building or event.

I was in my mid-40s.

I’d lived in the Bible Belt for a quarter of a century, and nobody had ever told me about Jesus, unless I went to their church and asked.

And it gets worse.

Since that afternoon 20 years ago, it hasn’t ever happened again.

For all the Christians I’m around, nobody reaches out to introduce me to the gospel.

What would account for that?

Well, you might say, I’ve been at BJU for almost 50 years now, and these people all know me, and they know I’m a professor of Bible, and they know I’m already a believer.

Fair enough.

But I don’t know every Christian in this town, not by a long shot, and that was even more true back in Boston and, before that, in Spokane. And I must have interacted with any number of Christians in daily commerce, where they wouldn’t have known me.

I crossed paths every day with Christians who didn’t know if I was a believer or not.

Nobody ever told me, except for that one kid from Tabernacle—God bless him.

Am I the only person? Is this just a case of hasty generalization based on a woefully insufficient evidentiary sample?

How many people have witnessed to you outside of a church?

How does that happen to someone in my shoes? Is the church not evangelizing, or is the evangelism just going on in places where I don’t hang out?

Are we afraid? What’s an ambassador for Christ got to be afraid of?

Are we distracted? What could possibly be more important?

Have we subcontracted the job to the professionals? Where is that in the Bible?

Do we just not care? Are you kidding me?

Do we assume somebody else is picking up the slack? Well, if my experience is any measure, nobody else is picking up the slack.

The King has left us very specific instructions, with all the resources necessary to carry them out:

“All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. ¹⁹Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, ²⁰teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Mt 28.18b-20).

Are we just going to sit in our churches and wait for them to come to us? I don’t find that in Jesus’ little word “Go.”

What would our world be like if we all got serious?

Photo by Hernan Sanchez on Unsplash

On Civil Disobedience

August 10, 2020 by Dan Olinger 6 Comments

There’s been a lot of talk about civil disobedience lately, across the political spectrum. Since it seems to me that much of the discussion among my fellow Christians has been out of focus, I thought it might be the time to reconsider basic biblical principles.

To begin with, one of the key distinctives of evangelical Christians is biblicism, or the recognition of Scripture as the ultimate authority for faith and practice (and for everything else); back in 1989, David Bebbington defined evangelicalism with the “Bebbington quadrilateral” of biblicism, crucicentrism, conversionism, and activism. For me and my house, then, the directives for addressing the question of civil disobedience are the same as for every other question: we’re going to take our orders not from Thoreau but from Scripture.

Undoubtedly the most well-known biblical statement on the question comes from Romans 13.1-7, where Paul lays down the foundational principle:

Civil authority is put in place by God. Obey it.

Other lesser-known passages repeat the principle (1P 2.13-14; Ti 3.1).

But that’s clearly not the whole story, for the Bible contains examples of civil disobedience and presents those examples as, well, examples for us to follow. Two of the three most well-known examples are in the OT book of Daniel; Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego refuse Nebuchadnezzar’s order to bow to an idol (Da 3.9-12), and Daniel himself openly disobeys the king’s order forbidding prayer (Da 6.7-10). In the NT, Peter faces down the Sanhedrin and refuses to obey its order not to preach about Jesus (Ac 4.18-20). Perhaps less well-known is the Hebrew midwives’ refusal to kill the male Jewish babies (Ex 1.15-17).

So there’s a mitigating principle:

Sometimes refusing to obey civil authority is the right thing to do.

Now we have another question to ask: when should we disobey?

In the four cases mentioned above, the defied order is clearly a violation of the direct commandments of God: idol worship is clearly forbidden; prayer and gospel preaching are clearly commanded; and killing babies, of any ethnicity or sex, is a direct attack on the image of God in mankind. So we can edit our first two principles into a single comprehensive one:

Civil authority is put in place by God. Obey it, unless doing so is to disobey God.

So far, pretty much all Christians would agree. But here is where it gets sticky. I’d like to start into the key area of disagreement by observing further on the biblical material.

Many times in the Scripture you have evil rulers—both Israelite and Gentile—who rule godlessly. I find it surprising that you find relatively few occasions where those rulers are openly disobeyed, and the disobedient subject (we’re dealing exclusively with monarchies here) is commended. As just one example, we find Paul coming into conflict with unbelieving Jewish authorities and their Roman overlords across the empire, and Paul seems to use cleverness rather than direct disobedience. He’ll leave town—once, over the Damascus city wall (2Co 11.33), and another time leaving Thessalonica in the middle of the night (Ac 17.10). On one occasion he’ll prevent a beating by claiming Roman citizenship (Ac 22.25), and on another he’ll take the beating and then use it essentially for blackmail (Ac 16.37).

I’d like to suggest that civil disobedience in the Scripture is a last resort. Recognizing that God has intentionally and purposefully given us the authorities we have, we should seek to respect the wisdom of his providence and use all our creativity to find a way to obey evil authorities while obeying God. Only when all possibilities—all possibilities—have been exhausted are we forced to disobey earthly authorities.

Do we do that secretly or publicly? Well, Peter defied the Sanhedrin to its face; Paul sneaked over the wall at midnight. Study your Bible and make the wisest choice you can.

But I would suggest that we can’t disobey a law or mandate just because we disagree with it, or it won’t work, or it’s stupid, or it’s an abuse of authority, or it’s applied selectively, or even because it’s unconstitutional. The US system provides legal ways to address stupid or abusive or unconstitutional laws, and disobedience doesn’t seem to be a biblical option in those cases. Seek an injunction, or sue, or protest, but obey the mandate while doing so.

Photo by Claire Anderson on Unsplash

On How You’re Remembered (Strategery)

August 6, 2020 by Dan Olinger 7 Comments

A few days ago I posted something on Facebook that caused some controversy. It was a reflection on an issue that’s extremely controversial—how we discuss our varying responses to the current pandemic. The whole world is worked up about this pandemic, because it’s global, and significant, and consequential.

As often happens, the comments turned back to arguing about the issue rather than about how we discuss the issue, which was my original point—and the hostility of the discussion pretty well made my point, which was that some things are more important than other very important things—that some things are infinitely important.

Years ago I had an experience that significantly changed my thinking about this principle. My father got involved in a tax-protest movement and stopped filing his taxes. I got to thinking about doing the same thing.

I was young—just out of college and into grad school—and at that moment I did one of the very few wise things I did in those days.

I went to see Dr. Panosian.

He was the chairman of the History Department at BJU at the time, and one of the school’s most well-respected professors. I thought his advice would be wise.

So I sat in his office and explained what the movement was all about and asked him what he thought.

He leaned back in his chair, looked off into the distance for a few seconds, and in that remarkably deep and sonorous voice, he spoke words that changed my life.

“Dan,” he said, “someday you’re going to die.”

And I wondered, what does that have to do with tax protest?

“And when you die,” he continued, “you’re going to be remembered for something. You need to decide whether this is what you want to be remembered for.”

And with those three brief sentences, uttered in less than 30 seconds, he expressed such concise and clear wisdom that I was ashamed that I had needed his help in the first place. I should have been able to figure that out myself. What a stupid question I had asked.

When my death notice comes out, do I want people to say, “Oh, yeah, Dan. He was that tax protestor, wasn’t he?”

Not in a million years.

I want them to say, “Oh, yeah, Dan. He believed Jesus. He studied his Word and taught it to others. I’m happier and closer to Jesus because of something he said once. I’m glad our paths crossed.”

Since then, I’ve been a lot less inclined to get all fired up about less important stuff. I get involved in righteous causes, of course; but I can’t find myself getting all riled up about the Outrage of the Day. I have overriding responsibilities, and confidence in the good plan of the One who gave them to me.

That brings grace. Mercy. Peace.

It brings joy. Confident expectation (“hope,” in the biblical sense).

And focus. Focus on the long view, the eternal issues, the most important goal. Strategery.

So.

You might be wondering what happened to my Dad.

Eventually he got under conviction for breaking the law and turned himself in.

The IRS said, “Don’t leave town; we’ll look into your case and get back to you.”

A few weeks later they called him in.

They said, “Mr. Olinger, your case is very interesting. You worked a union job at the Boston paper before you retired, didn’t you?” Yep. Linotype operator at the Herald American. Closed shop.

“And you held your union seniority after you retired.” Yep. A little union trick. You don’t quit your job; you put on a “permanent sub.”

“And then Rupert Murdock came in and bought the paper—and with it he bought out all the union contracts with a cash payment.” Yep.

“Your buyout check was handled through the union office in Boston, where they withheld taxes on the settlement based on your union income level, before they sent it on to you.” Yep.

“Well, Mr. Olinger, we’ve determined that since you’re retired now and not making as much as you were in the union job, you were over-withheld on that buyout check. Here’s what we owe you. Have a nice day.”

Now, I know what was going on there. Dad had no assets for them to recover, and they knew it. So they showed mercy and grace, figuring that he’d tell his tax protester friends and that some bigger fish would be enticed by his story to turn themselves in. The IRS was thinking strategically, far beyond the current case.

The children of this world are often wiser than the children of light.

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

The Mark, Part 5: On Track

August 3, 2020 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: Looking Ahead | Part 2: Down the Aisle | Part 3: The Look of the Big City | Part 4: Life in the Big City

John, the last apostle living, is writing the book of Revelation while exiled on the island of Patmos, imprisoned for preaching the gospel (Re 1.9). He has seen visions of wonderful things, including the glorious end of history and the ultimate triumph of God for the benefit of his people. We get the impression that John is often unable to put into words what he is seeing; there is nothing on earth with which to compare it. So he speaks of jasper and gold that are as clear as crystal.

He has no words.

These things are unimaginably delightful.

But John is not in the heavenly city. He’s on Patmos, which, while a very nice island, as islands go, is most certainly not paradise. And according to well-established legend, he is occupying his time with slave labor in the salt mines, at the age of 90 or so.

The nasty now and now.

We look forward to the glorious consummation of all things, but we’re not there yet. We look for the mark at the finish line, but we’re very much still in the race, on the track, still running, exerting ourselves, exhausted, just trying to make it to the end.

What do we do now?

John addresses that for his readers.

Confident Trust

After describing the glories of the heavenly city (Re 22.3-5), John turns to his readers, as it were, and says simply, “These things are faithful and true” (Re 22.6)—an assertion that he immediately documents by identifying the source, a messenger from God himself.

This is not pie in the sky. It’s not merely a psychological mind game, a crutch that enables us to hobble along through a frustrating and meaningless world.

It’s the real deal. It’s coming. And you can take that to the bank.

Obedience

And since it’s certainly coming, we can and should live in anticipation of it. Christ is coming (Re 22.7, 12), and there will be an accounting (Re 22.11-12). When you know you’re going to give an account of yourself, what do you do? You live in such a way that you can explain yourself without embarrassment. That’s just common sense.

But what about the embarrassing things you’ve already done? And the things you know from experience that you’re going to do, despite all your effort to resist?

Ah, my friend, there’s a solution for that. You clean up (Re 22.14); you “wash your robes.” In what? John has already told us: “in the blood of the lamb” (Re 7.14). You’re not righteous, but you can be made righteous by faith in the Lamb who died for you.

The Lamb invites all who are thirsty, all who wish to drink, to come and drink the water of life abundantly, at no cost (Re 22.17). That was true long before Jesus came (Is 55.1-13), and it is true today.

All you have to do is come to him.

Anticipation

And so, ready and confident, we watch, and we wait.

Warren Wiersbe observes that the book ends with a plea (“Come!” Re 22.17), a prayer (“Come, Lord Jesus!” Re 22.20), and a promise (“I am coming quickly!” Re 22.20). That promise—“I am coming quickly”—occurs 3 times in this last chapter of God’s Word to us (Re 22.7, 12, 20). The word translated “quickly” speaks of the nature rather than the timing of the event; it’s not so much that the coming will be “soon”—it was more than 2000 years away when Jesus spoke those words—as that it will unfold rapidly when it comes, “like a thief in the night” (1Th 5.2), “in the twinkling of an eye” (1Co 15.52).

And so we need to be ready. Just as there’s no time to put on your seat belt when the car gets T-boned, so you need to be ready for his certain coming.

Come to the waters, and drink.

And as we watch and wait, enjoy the race.

Photo by Béatrice Natale on Unsplash

The Mark, Part 4: Life in the Big City

July 30, 2020 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: Looking Ahead | Part 2: Down the Aisle | Part 3: The Look of the Big City

John has described the entrance of the Bride, the New Jerusalem, and has told us something of what the city looks like. Now he begins to describe life, culture, in this unprecedented city.

His opening observation (Re 21.22) is the most obvious feature, the one that drives all the rest:

God is there.

The Lord God Almighty, and the Lamb—John speaks of them as distinct persons, but also in the same breath, as if they are equals—have taken up residence in this city; John says, perhaps unexpectedly, that they are “its temple,” or “its holy place.”

Now, that’s odd. How can God, who is infinite (unconfined by space) and thus omnipresent, be said to be a “place”?

Welcome to theology, where we spend our time seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible, where things are indisputably true but deeply puzzling, where God invites us to know him but in significant ways remains beyond all knowing—and so where we are constantly reminded that we are not the smartest people in the room.

At any rate, as we’ve noted before, the Scripture portrays God as seeking, throughout history, to dwell with his people, to live in their midst. And now the partial, the anticipatory, has come to fruition. Now he dwells with us, visibly, physically(?), notably.

For the rest of the paragraph, John describes life in the city in a series of characteristics that flow directly from the fact that God Is There.

First, God’s presence illuminates the entire city and all life in it. The sun and moon are no longer needed (Re 21.23). How could one glorious presence light every corner of a city 1500 miles across? I suppose it’s reductionistic to suggest that since all the building materials are clear as crystal, there’s nothing to impede the light; this is God’s light, after all, and everything about the place is supernatural. It’s not as though a brick wall could keep the light from getting through.

It’s often been noted that this last section of the Bible often parallels the first; the entire Scripture is marked by what literary critics call an inclusio. In Genesis 1, God begins by creating light (Ge 1.3). Since he creates the sun, moon, and stars on the fourth day (Ge 1.14-19), skeptics have questioned how there could be light on Day 1—and how there could be 24-hour days without a sun. The Bible doesn’t answer that question, but this passage makes it clear that there can be light—and more than sufficient light for life—without any sun at all. Does life at the beginning of Scripture resemble life at the end—light provided directly by the glory of God itself? That would certainly make sense.

It’s worth noting as well that the Lamb, who humbled himself and died in darkness, is now glorious enough to be the light of the city. The Father has indeed exalted him (Php 2.9).

There’s more to this city. Because God is there,

It’s safe (Re 21.25); those big imposing gates have no protective function. Omnipotence will bring that result.
It’s prosperous (Re 21.26). With the freedom that safety brings, there’s activity among the citizenry; there’s commerce; stuff gets done. Basically, it’s the opposite of life in a pandemic.
It’s clean (Re 21.27). It’s not “gritty,” the way life in most big cities usually is.
And finally, because God is there, the city is characterized by life rather than death (Re 22.1-2). There’s water of life, and consequently a tree of life (there’s Genesis again), whose fruits bring healing—life—to all peoples, without distinction and without discrimination. Remember what God said after Adam sinned? He moved to stop him from eating from the tree of life (Ge 3.22), perhaps because he would then be irredeemably sinful. But now, here, in the City, the time is right. The tree of life is here, and all can eat of it without fear.

The consequence of all this will be worship (Re 22.3-5). But we don’t need to wait for that. Next time, we’ll finish this series by reflecting on what we should be doing while we’re waiting for all this to happen.

Part 5: On Track

Photo by Béatrice Natale on Unsplash

The Mark, Part 3: The Look of the Big City

July 27, 2020 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: Looking Ahead | Part 2: Down the Aisle

In the first 8 verses of Revelation 21, the bride, the New Jerusalem, is presented. Now we turn for a closer look at the heavenly city and what life will be like for those who live there.

To begin with, John is informed by his heavenly guide that the city doesn’t just act like a bride (Re 21.2)—she actually is one. And her groom, it turns out, is the Lamb Himself, the one who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll (Re 5.1-12), the one who by being sacrificed—by laying down his life—has redeemed to God a people from every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation (Re 5.9).

And this bride is bedecked as befits her station. The city appears like no other.

The walls are constructed with stone—not just concrete, or even marble—but precious stone (Re 21.11), the kind you wouldn’t use for massive construction work, because it’s just too expensive. Pretty much all the English translations render this word “jasper,” which is the best they can do to name an unearthly material. But it’s not much like jasper, which is quartz of various colors, and opaque. We read that this stone is “clear as crystal.” And the Greek word rendered “jasper” apparently carries a reference to being cut, more than being a particular species (is that the right word?) of gem. Imagine walls made of faceted diamond! Just that aspect of the city’s beauty boggles the mind.
It has high walls, with 12 gates and solid foundations (Re 21.12-14). In biblical times, walls were indications of strength; the city was protected from invaders and well positioned to repel them, since defenders could stand atop the walls—on the “high ground”—and make life miserable for any foolish enough to attack. The gates, too, are defensive, specially designed to make entry difficult in multiple ways. But here’s the thing: there are no invaders. All evil has previously been destroyed in the lake of fire (Re 20.11-15; 21.8). There’s no need for defense. This is one astonishingly safe city.
John’s guide goes to the trouble of measuring the city (Re 21.15-16). Oddly, it’s a cube—square on the ground but as high as its length and width. What that’s going to look like architecturally—lots of stories? spires?—we’re not told, but it reminds us of something ancient. In Solomon’s Temple, the Holiest Place, where God’s personal glory hovered between the cherubim atop the Ark of the Covenant, was a cube as well (1K 6.20), of 30 feet, covered with pure gold. This city too is pure gold “like clear glass” (Re 21.18). If we had been able to stand inside the Holiest Place, we would have been astonished. This is exponentially more than that. It isn’t ordinary gold, and it isn’t ordinary construction.
The foundations are various gemstones; jasper shows up again, as just the first of a dozen materials (Re 21.19-20). The gates are pearl (Re 21.21)—there must be some very large oysters somewhere—which is odd, since there’s no more sea. :-) And the streets are gold, again “like transparent glass” (Re 21.21).

Often in my academic reading, I’ll finish a page and think, “I know what every word on this page means, but I have no idea what this writer is talking about.” (That happens a lot with certain unnamed twentieth-century German theologians.) When that happens, I often suspect that it’s a flaw in the writer. The purpose of writing, after all, is to communicate.

But here the problem is not with the writer. The problem here is with me. I can read the words, but the content of this passage is simply beyond my ability to visualize and comprehend. It is beyond earthly experience.

We can only imagine.

And John’s description of the heavenly city is far from finished. So far he has described just the physical things. The spiritual nature of this city—if you will, the culture, the lifestyle, the vibrant life of this city—he’ll get to next.

We’ll talk about that next time.

Part 4: Life in the Big City | Part 5: On Track

Photo by Béatrice Natale on Unsplash

The Mark, Part 2: Down the Aisle

July 23, 2020 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: Looking Ahead

The last two chapters of the Book (Rev 21-22) begin with a wedding. The musicians sound the opening notes of the processional, the doors at the back of the sanctuary open, the mother of the bride rises to her feet, and all eyes turn to the bride. John writes,

¹Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth passed away, and there is no longer any sea. ²And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, made ready as a bride adorned for her husband. ³And I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, “Behold, the tabernacle of God is among men, and He will dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be among them, ⁴and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.”

This is an impressive event, marking the greatest change since Creation. Several things to notice about it.

Replacement

The old is done away with (Re 21.1). Everything physical that you know—the earth and everything in it, the universe, all of it—is gone. Like a ratty old coat, it’s tossed aside and replaced.

At the risk of sounding ridiculous, I suppose it’s a little like junking an old car. You liked that car; maybe you even had a name for it. It took you lots of places, and you have lots of memories of good times with friends and family. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours, and you have had something of a relationship, as odd as that sounds.

But the mechanic has given you the talk. There’s a lot wrong with the old car, and fixing it would cost more than it’s worth. Cheaper to buy a new one.

Junk it.

And so, with regrets, you do.

I’m a happy guy. For all the old world’s flaws—and they are many, and deep-seated—she’s a beautiful place, with Rocky Mountains and river rapids and birdsong and thunderstorms and honeysuckle. God has been exceedingly good to us in placing us here, at the bottom of an ocean of all the air we can breathe, and giving us the abilities to sense all of these graces in multiple ways.

But this world is indeed broken, physically and socially and politically and in a thousand other ways, and we were designed, in God’s image, for a much better place than this—one without all the disappointments and frustration and pain and death.

A new universe. A new earth.

New constellations. New glories. New delights.

The old will be replaced, and the new will come.

God will bring history full circle, making new again all that has been damaged, replacing the broken and worn with the new and shiny and perfect and completely functional.

As in the beginning.

There’s more.

Moving In

God himself, the Creator, moves right into the neighborhood (Re 21.2-3).

That has always been his plan, that we would be neighbors—no, family members, living on the same land and enjoying unbroken fellowship forever. In Eden, he walked with Adam and Eve. In the Sinai, he gave Moses instructions for a tent where his light would shine perpetually and guide his people. Eventually David made plans for a permanent structure. And then—remarkably—the Son took on flesh and tabernacled among us (Jn 1.14).

But now it all comes to perfection. God lives on our street, and we live on his.

Healing

Why do away with the beautiful, old earth if you’re not going to get rid of what’s wrong with it?

Miraculously, magnificently, God destroys evil at its source. All the violence, all the injustice, all the deprivation. And with it go its effects: the suffering, the tears, the death (Re 21.4). Sin will die, while God’s people will live as they’ve never lived before (Re 21.6-8).

And this is just the beginning.

Next time, life in the big city.

Part 3: The Look of the Big City | Part 4: Life in the Big City | Part 5: On Track

Photo by Béatrice Natale on Unsplash

The Mark, Part 1: Looking Ahead

July 20, 2020 by Dan Olinger 4 Comments

Crazy days, no?

The pace of social change is increasing, and with it the uncertainty. A lot of people are really, really angry. A great many are scared. And there’s a pretty good-sized chunk of folks who are just tired of the whole thing.

Unsurprisingly, there seems to be a lot of discontent with the way things are going—a sense of “we can do better than this.” I’ve seen a few of my Christian friends express longing for the passing of this broken world and the coming of the next—“this world is not my home, I’m just a-passin’ through” and all that. And within Christianity there’s always a subgroup of folks who are shouting that every headline is proof that The End Is Near.

As a personal note, I’ll observe that I too hope the end is near, though I’m not much for “proving” it from this or that headline. Jesus said that he would come “in such an hour as ye think not” (Mt 24.44), after all. (So are they wrong, or am I? :-) ) Both Jesus and Paul tell us to “watch,” and that we can certainly agree on.

With that in mind, I’d like to consider The End for a bit.

I’ve called this series “The Mark.” Maybe you think that’s short for “the mark of the beast,” which is indisputably a chip that they’re going to sneak into us when Bill Gates forces us all to get vaccinated.

Not gonna go there, for now, at least.

I’m referring to a different Mark. Paul writes,

One thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, ¹⁴I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus (Php 3.13-14).

In the King James Version, which is where most of my Bible memorization has happened, the word goal is rendered “mark.” It’s the tape, the end of the race. It’s where we’re headed. Where the exertion ends and the celebration begins.

That mark.

I’d like to spend a few posts thinking about the end of the book, the denouement.

The bulk of the book, the storyline, the arc of the narrative is reasonably well known—

God creates a perfect world as a place where He can fellowship with creatures in His image. (That’s us.)
We reject His offer of fellowship and break the perfection of the world.
- Sin brings injustice, suffering, and pain to life.
- Life always ends in death, for animals and humans.
God graciously works to undo the damage we have done.
- In the midst of judgment, He provides for us to flourish.
  - Adam can still wrest food from the earth, though by the sweat of his brow.
  - Eve can bear children—though only through pain—so humanity can grow and prosper.
- He raises up a people in Abraham—
  - To provide a vehicle for the Law and prophets and thus the Scripture.
  - To provide a royal line for the birth of Messiah, the incarnation of the God-Man.
- The Son steps into human form, obeys the Law perfectly, and dies to pay the penalty for our sin.
- In the person of the Spirit, God restores spiritual life to His people and dwells in them to conform them to the image of His Son, so badly marred by their sin.

That’s quite a plot.

But like any plot, it’s going somewhere; it’s working toward a conclusion, a resolution.

He’s going to restore Creation to where it was in the beginning, before we damaged it.

We read about that at the very end of the book.

Many Christians are surprised to learn that we don’t find very much about heaven in the Bible. We read a lot about the kingdom, the Millennium, but very little about what happens after that. The latter, the new heaven and the new earth, is pretty much limited to the last two chapters.

We’ll spend the next few posts there.

Part 2: Down the Aisle | Part 3: The Look of the Big City | Part 4: Life in the Big City | Part 5: On Track

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On Being Like Jesus, Part 8: Closing Thoughts

July 16, 2020 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

You’re not going to be called on, like Christ, to die for the sins of the world. But wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, God has called you to be like Christ, to represent him well (2Co 5.20) by serving others rather than being fixated on yourself.

How can you live that out in your ordinary life?

You can notice when someone around you could use a hand. Hold a door; pick up what someone’s dropped; tell a friend there’s ink on his face.

You can decide to spend less time thinking about your own happiness, or success, or popularity, or grooviness,* and think instead about how you can help other people get those things. Pass the ball. Redirect the spotlight. Make somebody else look good.

You can think about the effect of your actions on people you don’t see right now. Clean up after yourself; pick up trash off the sidewalk. Don’t say every clever thing that pops into your head. Leave a loose end on the roll of toilet paper.

You can choose to obey regulations and laws you think—or know—you don’t need, because that helps everybody, in more ways than you can imagine.

You can take responsibility for your own actions instead of blaming your misfortunes on someone else. You got the grade you got because you didn’t study, not because the test was stupid. You got a speeding ticket because you violated a policy that you already knew about, not because the cop hates you.

You can think about the things you’re good at—everyone’s good at something—and figure out who you know that could use your help with that. Did you do well in school? How about tutoring someone who’s struggling? Are you tall? How about getting stuff off the high shelves for the rest of us?

You can walk circumspectly—looking around—watching for situations that could use your help, and do what you can, even if it’s not something you’re particularly good at. You can go out of your way, inconvenience yourself, be late to something, miss a bus, because somebody just needed a little help.

You can look for ways to be kind to someone you don’t like. He’s voting for that other guy. He advocates positions that are stupid. He’s a jerk. He’s nasty to you. Rather than unfriending him :-), how about watching his posts to see if there’s something he needs or wants that you can provide? How about encouraging him privately when he’s angry or afraid or sad? How about praying for him—grace, mercy, peace?

You can notice when other people are kind to you, or help you, or do things that benefit you, and you can thank them for it, specifically.

You may never be at the homecoming dance at Richmond High. You may never need to be a hero. But you can live every day in a way that benefits the people around you.

By God’s grace and with His help, you can be like Christ.

* I use a word that’s hopelessly outdated to make a point. Whatever the term for “popular” or “admired” is in the current culture, it will be outdated in a few years—so outdated that people will laugh when you use it, taking it as an indication that you are hopelessly behind the times and thus the very opposite of what the word used to mean. Public admiration is a transient and ethereal thing. We seek it as if it were a thing of value, and it isn’t.

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

On Being Like Jesus, Part 7: Sacrificing Yourself

July 13, 2020 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Let’s start with a quick review.

Being Christlike begins by changing the way you think—specifically, what you value (Php 2.3) and where you focus (Php 2.4). That change in outlook will then issue in changing the way you act—divesting yourself (Php 2.6), humbling yourself (Php 2.7), and now—and finally—sacrificing yourself (Php 2.8).

And being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross.

Christ, who is equal with the Father, as we’ve learned earlier (Php 2.6), submitted himself to the Father in obedience.

That is a mark of remarkable humility—and confidence, as we’ve discussed earlier. He obeyed someone who was not his superior.

We’re not like that. We don’t like to obey anybody, ever. As 4-year-olds, we thought we were smarter than our parents, and as 14-year-olds, we thought we were smarter than our teachers. (Actually, I recall acting that way openly in class when I was just 11. I was a precocious little snot, I was.) Today I have all kinds of friends who think they’re smarter than the government.

OK, maybe that was a flawed example. :-)

But the point stands. We don’t want to obey anybody, even—and most especially—those whom God himself has placed in authority over us.

Romans 13? Well, that says the government is a terror to evil and a praise to those who do good, and my government isn’t like that, so I don’t have to obey them.

By that standard, no one has ever had to obey any government that has ever existed, and God wrote Romans 13 as a gigantic joke.

That’s not a conclusion I can come to.

Obey the government? Well, in the US the government is the Constitution, and our elected officials don’t follow it, so I don’t have to obey them and their stupid laws.

There’s a fancy term for that governmental philosophy; it’s called anarchy, when every man does what’s right in his own eyes. And it doesn’t turn out well.

Jesus obeyed. He is God, and he obeyed.

That’s remarkable.

The passage goes further.

Not only did he obey, but he obeyed at infinite cost—to death, and even the death of the cross.

Crucifixion was designed specifically to be the slowest, most painful death possible. The Father’s will was not to send Jesus to die during the French Revolution, when the guillotine was the execution device of choice.

Drop, lop, plop. Done.

He didn’t send him to die in Hiroshima in August of 1945, when his life would have ended in a brilliant flash of light and instant vaporization.

He sent him to the Roman Empire in the first century.

There has never been a worse time to die.

Obedience really cost him something. And this something went far beyond the merely physical pain.

Obedient unto death—even the death of the cross.

I’ve heard a lot of talk from Christians recently about persecution.

For the most part, I find it embarrassing.

What persecution? Against this background—the death of the cross—what persecution?

What have I sacrificed?

I’ll tell you about the worse I’ve ever suffered for Jesus.

In college, I was standing on a sidewalk in St. Matthews, SC, next to a friend who was preaching across the street from a bar during the Purple Martin Day Festival, the town’s annual street party. Some men came out of the bar to see what was going on. One of them had a large paper cup of beer, and he threw it at my friend. Missed him and hit me. Beer all over me.

That’s the worst I’ve ever suffered.

And to tell the truth, it was a hot night, and the cold beer actually fell pretty refreshing running down my front.

Serving Jesus has cost me nothing of any consequence.

I know that not everyone can say that. I have friends who have lost much to follow Christ, and I have friends of friends who have died violently specifically because they were Christian.

They would say that it has all been worth it.

Next time, we’ll share some closing thoughts.

Part 8: Closing Thoughts

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