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

Chair, Division of Biblical Studies & Theology,

Bob Jones University

home / about / archive 

Subscribe via Email

Dealing with Intimidation, Part 2: No Panic

by 1 Comment

Part 1: Facing a Giant

As he commissions “son Timothy” (1Ti 1.18) to a daunting task—one likely overwhelming to his timid constitution—Paul begins, surprisingly, by noting what God has not given him—and us. He’ll get to what he has given us in a moment.

But God’s “stinginess” is important to our success. He has not given us a spirit of fear.

For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline (2Ti 1.7).

This is not the usual word for fear (phobos); using that more common word, God has often reminded us that although we should not fear other people (Dt 31.3-6), we most certainly should fear Him (Dt 31.12-13); as Jesus put it,

Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell (Mt 10.28).

So it would not be true for God to say that He has not given us a spirit that is able to fear, for He has. Fear can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on its object and its justifiability.

This word means something different. As the NRSV, which I’ve quoted here, makes obvious, this is the word for “cowardice”—being controlled by fear to the point that you cannot or will not do the things that you should.

Nobody likes a coward. We glorify heroes, because they do more than we expect; but we will not tolerate a coward. We don’t ask him to be a hero; we simply ask that he do right despite his fear.

Some years ago, I had the opportunity to participate in an exercise with the Greenville County Sheriff’s Office’s SWAT team. They wanted some practice clearing a fairly complex building in a terrorist scenario, and they asked for some volunteers to play the terrorists.

Well, of course.

The deputies and the volunteers met in a room and went over the procedures. Each of the volunteers was issued a handgun and blank rounds and instructed on various limits to the exercise. Then they took us to the building and told us to go inside, position ourselves however we liked, and in 30 minutes they’d be coming in.

Some of my fellow terrorists set up hostage scenarios to complicate the deputies’ situation. I decided to go off by myself. Found a room, evaluated hiding places, and eventually decided just to wait for them inside the door.

Counted my rounds. Seven. OK.

Something this SWAT team did surprised me: stealth was not on the menu.

They came in the end door of the building with a crash, a wave of shouting, and a volley of flash-bangs.

There was no doubt that they had arrived.

Then they began working methodically down the hall in my direction, coordinating movements, pronouncing rooms “Clear!” and moving precisely as planned.

It occurred to me that in a measurable number of minutes, they were going to arrive at my location—and dispose of me. Let me tell you, that was really intimidating. I was terrified.

Even in a simulation.

As they got close, I fired down the hall, and I’m proud to say that I stopped them briefly. But then I made a fatal mistake: I neglected to count my shots. On the eighth trigger pull, the “click” brought the shout “He’s out!” and down came Sennacherib’s Assyrian hordes on my little walled city.

I was surprised, on reflection, at how scared I was, even though I knew that this was make-believe and that these burly brutes weren’t going to hurt me.

Sooner or later, we all come face to face with the fact of our fear. We’re afraid of physical danger, of course, but we’re also afraid of less physical things. We’re afraid of rejection; we’re afraid of failure; we’re afraid of biblical confrontation; we’re afraid of saying the wrong thing at funerals. I’m afraid, and so are you.

But God has not given us a spirit of cowardice; He hasn’t given us a spirit that bails out in a crisis.

God has not given us a spirit that stops short of doing what we must do. Even when we’re afraid.

Photo by Astrid Schaffner on Unsplash

Dealing with Intimidation, Part 1: Facing a Giant

by Leave a Comment

“It’s just too much!”

We hear people say that. Sometimes we say it ourselves. Sometimes we face a problem, or a frustration, or an opposition that just seems to overwhelm us.

I had an experience like that recently.

I’m not a mechanical person—mostly because I just don’t want to be. If there’s a problem with the car, or the house, or whatever, I’d rather pay somebody else, who knows what he’s doing, to fix it than put the time and energy into doing it myself.

A while back my riding mower broke down, right in the middle of my mowing the lawn—but then, when else would it? This was beyond my knowledge set, and I made plans to take it to a shop and have it fixed.

But no one would work on it. They’re swamped; they can’t get parts lately; they don’t work on this model.

Nobody wanted my money.

Well, Dan, you’re just gonna have to knuckle down and figure out how to fix it yourself.

It took a while—longer than it would have if the guy with the wrench had known what he was doing—but I’m happy to say it’s back to its old self again, and I have all my fingers as well as my sanctification.

Thank you, YouTube.

Over the decades I’ve faced bigger problems, longer-lasting ones, intimidating ones. And so have you. Since my life has really been relatively easy, chances are you’ve faced bigger ones than I have. I know that’s true for many of my friends.

A situation comes along that you just don’t know how to deal with. You don’t have the knowledge, you don’t have the strength, you don’t have the focus, you don’t have the emotional stability.

It’s all just too much.

There’s a discussion on social media these days over whether God ever gives you more than you can handle. I think the disagreement is largely a matter of definition—what does “more than you can handle” mean?

We do have Paul’s famous observation that everything that comes your way has been allowed—filtered, if you will—by God, and that there is a way of escape (1Co 10.13), though it may be difficult to find. We have Paul’s further assertion that all things eventuate well (Ro 8.28)—though many have observed that quoting that verse at the moment of crisis is not always the best pastoral care.

But when those hard challenges come, where do we turn? What’s in our toolbox? Where’s the instructional video?

There are several instances in the Scripture where God’s people faced significant challenges. We all know about David and Goliath (1Sa 17.40-54), and Joshua’s commission (Jos 1.1-9), and Solomon’s (1K 2.1-4), and Jesus’ farewell address to his disciples (Jn 14-16).

I think we can find some useful information in a lesser-known event, another transition.

Paul’s ministry is a wonder to behold. He achieved astonishing things in his few decades of service to Christ, moving the gospel from its first location outside Israel—Antioch (Ac 13.1-3)—to the extent of the Roman Empire, the world of his day. He planted successful churches all across Turkey (Ac 13.4-16.10), all across Greece (Ac 16.11-18.18), up into modern-day Albania (Ro 15.19), the length of Cyprus (Ac 13.4-12) and Crete (Ti 1.5), and (I’m quite sure) across Spain as well. Most pastors are doing well to plant one church; Paul seems to spin them off every few weeks.

But Paul, like everybody else, has limited time. Soon he is “Paul the aged” (Phm 1.9) looking to pass off his ministry to his proteges, most famously Timothy and Titus.

We know more about Timothy than Titus. It seems that Timothy was less than a natural leader; Paul once prodded him not to let others undercut his authority (1Ti 4.12) and admonished him to take medicine to settle his stomach (1Ti 5.23).

Timothy, apparently, felt too small for the job. He didn’t think he could do what the Word of God, from the mouth of the apostle, had ordered him to do.

In his final letter, Paul urged him on:

I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands (2Ti 1.6).

And then he lifted the haze of doubt and uncertainty and timidity and fear that welled up in Timothy’s heart by saying these words:

For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline (2Ti 1.7).

I’d like to take a few posts to consider how we can face the giants—and win—based on this brief sentence.

Photo by Astrid Schaffner on Unsplash

The Eye of the Storm, Part 2

by

Part 1

Let’s take a closer look at Psalm 11, where we find ourselves faced with a stark choice as we deal with troublous times.

Stanza 1 includes verses 1-3. David’s advisors, having done a SWOT analysis, present him with what appears to be the only logical choice: “Run! Run for your life!”

Flee as a bird to your mountain!

And they give solid reasons: you have enemies, and they are preparing for action, which includes hidden threats to your very life. With weapons. Bad ones.

For, lo, the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow upon the string, that they may privily shoot at the upright in heart.

They also note the consequences of inaction.

If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?!

This is, as we say these days, an “existential threat.” The consequences are world-shaking. What we’re facing is the end of all we know and love. Oblivion.

That’s their case.

Now David presents his.

I note that he doesn’t deny the truth of their facts. He’s not careless, disengaged, distracted, or apathetic. “There are no threats; no one’s after me; you people are a bunch of paranoid freaks.”

No. Accepting their major premise—that there’s a real threat out there—he presents rather a different perspective on it.

He brings in a variable that they haven’t mentioned. There is another actor on the battlefield; his name is YHWH, the ever-present and unchanging one, the one who keeps covenants. David views this God from three different perspectives.

His Person

David begins his response with a statement about who God is, what he is like:

The LORD is in his holy temple, the LORD’S throne is in heaven (v 4).

What is he like? Well, for starters, he has a temple—he’s God—and it’s “holy,” or unique. He’s not like everybody else; he’s in a class by himself. Adding him to the scene changes everything.

Second, he has a throne. That means he’s a king. And if he’s holy, then he’s not like any other king. He’s bigger, and stronger, and smarter, and better at kinging than any other king.

There’s a third factor. That throne is in heaven. That means, at least, that he’s above the battlefield and has a broader and clearer perspective on what’s going on down below. The high ground is militarily significant for many reasons, and one of them is the advantage that its perspective gives for strategic planning.

And heaven, of course, is not just any ordinary high ground. It’s the highest ground of all, the home of him who never loses.

So this is who the fearful have left out of their equation. A fairly significant oversight.

His Perspective

David also considers where God is looking—where his attention is focused. He actually bookends his thoughts—what scholars call an inclusio—with this idea.

His eyes behold, his eyelids try, the children of men (v 4).

His countenance doth behold the upright (v 7).

This powerful God, this master general, this unmatchable force, is paying attention. His eyes are focused like a laser on his people; he knows what’s going on, and his hands are poised on the armrests of his throne as he prepares to move against any and all threats to them. His silence is evidence not of distance or distraction, but of concentration.

The storm in which we find ourselves has an eye, a place of calm. And the eye belongs to God.

His Plan

God has plans for every actor on the battlefield.

God’s plan for the righteous is to strengthen him not by avoiding the exertion of battle, but by enduring it.

The Lord trieth the righteous (v 5).

We all know that athletes don’t become great by lying on the couch. They become great by building endurance through physical challenges—wind sprints, road work, scrimmages seemingly without end. And they build dexterity and skills by constant repetition at the blocking sled or doing layups or punching the timing bag.

They get tired.

But they get great.

That’s God’s loving plan for us through the dark days, through the frightening challenges (Ro 5.3-5).

God also has plans for those who threaten his people.

The wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth. 6 Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and an horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup (vv 5b-6).

They won’t prevail. They won’t even survive.

The foundations, in the end, cannot be destroyed. The battle may well be strenuous, and we may well pick up some Purple Hearts, or maybe even a Congressional Medal of Honor, along the way.

But the outcome is certain.

Fear not.

Photo by NASA. That’s Tropical Cyclone Eloise coming ashore in Mozambique on January 22, 2021.

The Eye of the Storm, Part 1

by

I’ve been meditating lately in Psalm 11, as part of my effort this year to memorize a few key Psalms. (So far, 1, 2, 8, 11, and 14; next is 19, d.v.)

Psalm 11 is most well known for its third verse: “If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?”

I’ve heard that verse used as a call to action against evil—typically, social or political action against evil policy proposals, national or regional. Some years ago I even spoke at a Christian-school conference that had chosen that verse as its theme.

But I’d like to suggest that those friends and others have taken this verse to say the very opposite of the intended meaning.

Here’s the whole Psalm—

1  In the LORD put I my trust: how say ye to my soul, “Flee as a bird to your mountain! 2 For, lo, the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow upon the string, that they may privily shoot at the upright in heart. 3 If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?!”

4 The LORD is in his holy temple, the LORD’S throne is in heaven: his eyes behold, his eyelids try, the children of men. 5 The LORD trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth. 6 Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and an horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup. 7 For the righteous LORD loveth righteousness; his countenance doth behold the upright.

I’ve modified the punctuation of the KJV text just a little: I’ve added quotation marks; I’ve changed the question mark at the end of verse 1 to an exclamation point; and I’ve added an exclamation point to the question mark at the end of verse 3.

It appears to me that the KJV translators viewed the quotation as ending in verse 1; that’s why they put the question mark there. (Note that there was no punctuation in the original manuscripts or in the early copies. All punctuation in the Bible is a later editorial decision.) What basis do I have for extending the quotation through verse 3?

Well, the first consideration in any such decision should always be the context. The contrast between verses 3 and 4 indicates a significant change of perspective—which is why all the major English translations that show paragraph breaks put one there, and all those that include quotation marks end the quotation at the end of verse 3. The fear and frustration expressed in verse 3 seems much more in tune with the quotation in verse 1 than the response in verse 4.

Since it’s always a good idea to run your ideas past experts, the next step is to check the commentaries. Of the technical commentaries I have at hand, Faussett, Keil & Delitzsch, Lange, Kidner (Tyndale), Futato (Cornerstone), Longman (Tyndale), and Motyer (New BC) all agree that the major break is between 3 and 4—in other words, that verse 3 belongs with verse 1.

Thus the psalm consists of two paragraphs, or more properly, two stanzas. In the first, David announces his life principle (“In the Lord do I put my trust”) and then questions those who question him. The words “what can the righteous do?!” are not David’s, but those of his questioners, his self-appointed advisors, who see the world as a much more frightening place than he does. They are words of fear, not of faith.

The second stanza is David’s reply to his fearful advisors. He answers calmly and logically—theologically—and gives reasons for his faith. The reasons are rooted in God’s person, his perspective, and his plan.

And in the face of that, the alarmed have nothing more to say.

I think this Psalm is timely for these days.

In the next post we’ll take a closer look at the words of both the fearful and the faithful. And then we’ll get to pick a side.

Part 2

Photo by NASA. That’s Tropical Cyclone Eloise coming ashore in Mozambique on January 22, 2021.

On Fear

by

It’s October 31—the day my Presbyterian friends call Reformation Day, but pretty much everybody else calls Halloween. Some Christians think it’s OK to celebrate Halloween, and others don’t. I’m not going to enter that discussion in this post, but I do want to use the occasion to do a little biblical investigation.

In our culture Halloween is typically associated with fear—haunted houses, goblins, and so on. I suppose an outside observer would find it odd that we humans like to be scared, as long as we know it’s safe—and for some, even because we know it’s not safe.

More seriously, I see a lot of fear in the world around me, fear that seems to come from every direction. In politics, fear of the other guy winning. In health, fear of this or that environmental concern. In parenting, fear of this or that factor hurting my child. Any number of my newsfeed friends comment on a post with a single word: “Scary!”

I’d like to lay out a theology of fear from a single biblical book.

Deuteronomy is at the heart of Scripture. It’s the climax of the Constitution that God himself drew up for his chosen nation. Scholars have noticed that it’s in a specific legal form common in its day, called a “suzerainty covenant.” It establishes a relationship between an emperor and his people, laying out the terms of the relationship—and this covenant is unusually gracious to the conquered people. It puts the lie to the nonsense about the “angry God of the Old Testament.”

And it talks a lot about fear. This very common Hebrew word appears 39 times in 32 chapters in the book—31 times as a verb, 6 times as an adjective, and twice as a noun. And its usage pattern is very interesting.

Did you know that the book says both that we should fear, and that we shouldn’t?

The difference is in the objects.

Here’s what God’s people shouldn’t fear—

  • The wilderness (Dt 1.19; 8.15)
  • The Canaanites, with whom they’re about to do battle (Dt 1.21, 29; 3.22; 7.18; 20.1, 3; 31.6), specifically
    • The king of Bashan (Dt 3.2)
    • Occupying the land (Dt 31.8)

So there’s no need for us to be afraid of our circumstances, or the people who stand in opposition to us.

Hmm. That’s pretty much everything that we fear, isn’t it?

Don’t be afraid.

Not about politics, not about health, not about the environment, not about people.

Let me anticipate an objection. I’m not suggesting that these things aren’t significant, or that they aren’t important. A nation’s political leadership can make life miserable (Pr 28.15), and disease is so devastating that Jesus was moved to heal it (Mk 1.41), and God has given us responsibility to care for creation (Gn 1.28), and sin causes unimaginable grief to God himself.

But we shouldn’t be afraid. We have a heavenly Father, and he is working his plan, and he cares for us (Lk 12.22-32).

God even told his people that the very people they were afraid of were going to be afraid of them (Dt 2.4, 25; 11.25; 28.10). How about that.

But perhaps surprisingly, we’re not supposed to be fearless.

Here’s what God’s people should fear—

  • God

There’s only one entry on that list. But Deuteronomy emphasizes this fact far more than the fact that we shouldn’t fear anything else. It gives us lots of information about fearing God—

How should we fear him?

  • All our days (Dt 4.10; 6.2; 14.23)
  • Intergenerationally (Dt 4.10; 6.2; 31.13)
  • By
    • keeping his commandments (Dt 5.5, 29; 6.2, 24; 8.6; 10.12; 13.4, 11; 17.13, 19; 19.20; 21.21; 28.58; 31.12)
    • worshipping him (Dt 6.13)
    • swearing by his name (Dt 6.13; 10.20)
    • loving him (Dt 10.12)
    • serving him (Dt 10.12, 20; 13.4)
    • clinging to him (Dt 10.20; 13.4)

Why should we fear him?

  • Because he is “fearsome” (Dt 7.21; 10.17) and does “awesome” things (Dt 10.21; 28.58)
  • Because it results in
    • Things being well with us (Dt 5.29; 6.24)
    • Prolonged days (Dt 6.2, 24)

My natural tendency is to get all this just exactly backwards. I fear temporary and empty stuff, and I find my heart lacking in fear toward the only one who matters.

But here’s the thing.

Fearing God isn’t like fearing everything else. It’s liberating; it’s beneficial; it’s joyous. It’s what we were designed to do.

It fits.

Oh that they had such a heart as this always,
to fear me and to keep all my commandments,
that it might go well with them and with their descendants forever! (Dt 5.29)

Photo by Alexandra Gorn on Unsplash

Sublime to Ridiculous

by

God is great, and he is good.

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

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

Why so long?

For at least a couple of reasons, I think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sought the Lord, and he answered me

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

 

So then.

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

Photo by David Marcu on Unsplash

On Weather and Fables

by

As I post this, Hurricane Florence is bearing down on the Carolinas, predicted to make landfall today and to reach here in the SC Upstate over the weekend. For days we’ve been hearing about how bad this storm is, with dire warnings to run for your life if you’re on the coast—and this one, they say, will have surprisingly destructive force far inland, even here above the fall line.

I believe them. But a lot of people don’t. They’re staying put. And the local first responders are collecting the names of their next of kin so they can notify them after the fools are dead.

Why don’t people listen to such grave warnings?

Well, some people are just foolish. That’s part of human nature. But I think these days there’s more involved.

In recent years journalism has become almost entirely ratings driven. Every story has to be hyped. Local news desks give you a teaser at 8 pm so you’ll tune in at 11—and when you do, the story turns out to be not as big a deal as the teaser implied. In fact, the teaser is more like a National Enquirer headline than actual journalism. And the national desks do it as well. For some time now, Fox News’s Bret Baier has been introducing his evening broadcast—“Special Report”—with an “ALERT” logo—to imply that there’s breaking news, when usually there isn’t.

Everything’s a Big Deal. Go for the adrenaline. Capture the eyeballs. Every day.

And the weather folks are doing it too. Local and national weatherpeople, even the agencies that feed them information—the National Weather Service, the National Hurricane Center, and so on. Every storm is the Storm of the Century, or the Snowpocalypse, or some other frightening neologism.

And they start saying these things 5 or 6 days out, before they can have any sort of reading of the storm with any scientific basis. At that point they can’t predict the path—but it MIGHT hit a population center!—or the intensity or the size of the storm. But they can get several days of good ratings by fearmongering.

Why do they do this? I’m sure they would say that they’re doing a public service by giving the population plenty of time to prepare for any eventuality. And they do, and for that I’m grateful.

But I think it’s demonstrable that there are other reasons as well. For the news outlets, they want the ratings, the eyeballs, because that drives the ad fees, and that means money in their pockets. For the agencies, they want the exposure, because that usually turns into stable future funding. There’s a strong element of self-interest in this.

Which is fine—capitalism and all that—except that there’s a downside.

As Aesop noted all those centuries ago, when the boy cries “Wolf!” repeatedly, eventually people stop believing him—even when he’s telling the truth.

Now, lots of people in Charleston remember Hugo, and lots of people in New Orleans remember Camille and Katrina, and they’re wise enough to get ready and get out. We’ve seen the interstates looking like parking lots the last couple of days, and I had a visitor in my class this morning who’s been evacuated from his school down on the coast.

But other people in hurricane-prone areas have heard repeated frenetic warnings about literally every storm with a snowball’s chance of reaching any point of the North American coastline. And in many cases those storms were described superlatively—this is a rare and even unique threat. And in most of those cases, the warnings haven’t panned out—usually because the hype started before there was any scientific basis for it.

When you’ve seen that happen a few times, you’re tempted to start downplaying the warnings. Significant numbers of people who live on the coast, and who can remember the last 20 years, are going to board up their windows, buy some batteries and bottled water, and settle in to watch the storm through their beach-facing picture windows.

And eventually, some of them are going to die—probably in great quantities, during the same genuinely powerful storm.

And whose fault is that? Might there be blame for more people than just the ones who died?

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

7 Stabilizing Principles in a Chaotic World, Part 6

by

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Number 5: Peace. God enables his people to have inner peace amidst outward turmoil.

I’ve been fishing this lake since I was 10—since Dad first took me out on his boat. I’ve been working it professionally since I was 16, 6 days a week, 12 hours a day—well, except when the weather was too bad. I’m a professional; I have enough sense to stay off the lake when the weather could kill you. And I’ve seen weather like that, more than once. But I have never—never—seen a storm like this. It’s sudden, and violent, and powerful beyond all my experience to deal with it. We’re essentially baggage, being thrown around the boat by a storm the likes of which we’ve never seen.

We’re toast.

And he’s asleep.

Seriously?! How does he do that?!

Peter would soon find out how he does that. In a few moments, shaken awake by lifelong sailors who think they’re about to die, he speaks a few words, and the storm is dead, the water calm, the threat just a memory, as if a dream (Mk 4.35-41).

He does that because he’s Lord. He’s in charge. There is no threat.

__________

This summer I took my 5th trip into Tanzania’s Serengeti National Park, one of the 4 premier safari locations in the world. On 4 of those 5 trips we’ve found lions. We drive up in our safari vehicles, to within perhaps 10 meters of the beasts, and we turn off the engines and just sit in silence, most of us taking photos as quickly as we can.

And what do the lions do?

Nothing.

They sit and stare across the plains, completely ignoring us. They may get up and walk around a bit, sometimes even rubbing up against our vehicles, but paying no attention to the people inside.

One year, it was a mating couple. Another, a female lion and 2 cubs. Another, 17 males sitting in the shade of a single acacia tree.

They ignore us. Why?

Because we’re no threat. The lion is the king of the jungle (and the savannah); he has no predators, and he knows it.

He’s at peace.

Now, the peace is deceptive; he’s capable of sudden, rapid, and brutal action. One year we saw a lioness take down a wildebeest literally 15 feet in front of our front bumper—eyes on us the entire time.

And that power is part of the reason for the peace. He has no need to fear.

__________

Jesus is like that. He has no fear, because he has no predators. He’s in charge. He’s king of kings.

And as we’ve noted, he’s directing all that’s happening around us, to his own spectacularly good ends. And he intends for us to play a part in how it all turns out.

That means we have no reason to be afraid. We ought to be at peace as well.

But God knows our frame; he knows that we are but dust (Ps 103.14), because he’s the one who formed us from the dust in the first place (Gen 2.7). And so he knows that we’re going to be afraid, even though we have no reason to be.

So what does he do?

He doesn’t just say, “Stop being afraid”—though he does do that (Lk 12.32).

He gives us his peace. He bequeaths it to us, a gift from the one who always gives the perfect gift for every occasion.

Peace he leaves with us. His peace he gives unto us. Don’t let your heart be troubled, he says, and don’t let it be afraid (Jn 14.27).

Throughout the Scripture God tells his people not to fear their enemies (Dt 1.21; Dt 31.6), or their circumstances (Gen 21.17; 1Ch 28.20). Why not? Because I am with you, he says (Dt 31.6; Isa 43.5). Reach up, take my hand. I won’t let you be destroyed.

But he does tell us to fear—not enemies, not circumstances—but him.

Fear God, and keep his commandments (Ecc 12.13).

And be at peace, no matter how violent the storm.

Part 7 Part 8

Photo by Keith Misner on Unsplash

7 Stabilizing Principles in a Chaotic World, Part 1

by

Many of my Christian friends are angry. Or afraid. Or both. At least, that’s the way it looks in their posts on social media.

And that’s too bad, for several reasons—

  • There’s no reason to be angry or afraid.
  • We make really bad decisions when we’re angry or afraid.
  • We make lousy ambassadors for Christ when we’re angry or afraid. Our actions belie our profession.

In the history of the church, there have been many times when God’s people got angry when they shouldn’t have. Martin Luther was famous for getting angry—and while we might say that he often had some pretty good reasons to be angry—indulgences come to mind—he let things get out of hand with some frequency. He believed, as modern Lutherans do, that the body of Christ is really present “in, with, and under” the elements of the Lord’s Supper—and Zwingli didn’t. Zwingli thought Christ was “spiritually present,” but not physically present, at Communion. Luther consigned poor Zwingli to the fires of hell over that one, and in the harshest of terms:

Beware of this man Zwingli, and shun his book as the poison of the prince of devils; for he is entirely perverted, and has entirely lost sight of Christ.

Yes, he got angry when he shouldn’t have.

And God’s people have gotten scared when they shouldn’t have. The fact that Thomas Cranmer is well known for his numerous recantations seems to imply that in between his recantations were recantations of his recantations. It was all very complicated. And, apparently, scary.

But looking back at this history reminds us that God’s people are at their best when they could be afraid but aren’t—or when they could be angry but aren’t. Those are the times we celebrate. Those are the people we want to be.

And, as I’ve said, these are not times when we should be afraid or angry.

I’d like to suggest 7 principles that should drive our thinking, our feeling, our words, and our actions in a time when many people think the world is about to go over the edge.

Take a deep breath, focus your thinking, and get ready to change the way you see the world, the culture, and the rage of our day.

Maybe you can make a difference.

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

Photo by Keith Misner on Unsplash

On Christian Convictions, Legalism, and the Fear of Man, Part 6

by

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

So we’ve established that taking care of one another is more important than exercising our liberties. I think we’re ready now to talk about the fear of man.

Fear of man is a powerful disincentive to doing the right thing. We know what we ought to do, but we’re afraid of what people will think.

  • Looks to me like the group is about to do something we shouldn’t. I should speak up. But I don’t want to be That Person. I’ll just go along.
  • What that guy said about his wife is just reprehensible. I ought to take him aside and talk to him about it. But then he might not like me anymore. Hmm. It’s not that big a deal. Probably what he said doesn’t mean anything at all. I’ll let it pass, just this once.
  • If I befriend that unpopular person …
  • If I criticize what that cool Christian is doing …

Fear of man. It’s a menace.

I suspect that fear of man is the biggest reason that most Christians—most Christians—ignore Christ’s last and most important command. “Go into all the world,” he said. “And take the gospel to every creature.”

But we don’t. Not to the ends of the earth, not to the next state, not to our neighbor, not to the waitress who came right up to our table and started talking to us.

Nobody.

Because we’re afraid. Of them. Even the friendly ones. And especially the ones we already know.

Fear of man. It’s a menace.

But I’ve seen the charge leveled at people who clearly don’t deserve it. Can you see how someone following the clear principles of our passage might be accused of cowardice?

I have a right to eat meat offered to idols. It’s meat. There’s nothing wrong with it. But there’s this guy in the church who doesn’t think I should. So I won’t.

“Fear of man!” they cry. “You’re free! Free in Jesus! Be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage! Do The Thing! Don’t let fear of what that benighted legalist might think stop you from enjoying—celebrating—all that you are and have in Christ!”

Fair enough. But according to our passage, when we say that, we’re not thinking accurately, or precisely enough.

If I refuse the meat because I’m afraid of what someone will think, that’s indeed fear of man, and I need to deal with my soul about that.

But if I’m restraining myself because I care about that brother’s spiritual health—if I don’t want to encourage him to do something he thinks is wrong—then that’s not fear of man. It’s love for my brother.

It’s what every believer ought to do.

So don’t slander that kind of thinking. Celebrate it. Imitate it. Live that way.

Remember what the critic said? “Be not entangled with the yoke of bondage.”

That’s a Bible verse. Galatians 5.1. And it’s true. We ought not to be entangled with the yoke of bondage.

But the Bible isn’t a collection of inspirational quotations to be pulled out and used as ammunition against fellow believers without any understanding of the context.

What’s the “yoke of bondage” we’re not supposed to re-entangle ourselves with? In context (the entire book of Galatians), it’s attempting to earn salvation by keeping the law. Don’t do that.

But you know what else the context says? This verse is at the beginning of a paragraph. If you’ll read through to the end of the paragraph, you’ll find that Paul says, “By love serve one another” (Gal 5.13). That word serve is the same Greek root as the word bondage in verse 1.

Guess what? We’re free from the law, but we’re not free from everything. We’re bondslaves of Jesus Christ (Gal 1.10) (and yes, that thought is balanced by Gal 4.7, but the principle remains).

And, it turns out, we’re bondslaves of one another too. We serve one another. We put our brothers’ and sisters’ needs ahead of our own. That’s what we’re called to do.

How often, when you’re deciding whether or not to do something that believers disagree about, do you stop and consider the effect of your action on the believers around you? How often do you decide to serve your fellow believer instead of your own desire for freedom? How often?

I’m not asking you to be in bondage to the fear of man. If you labor under that burden—and most of us do, at one time or another—then take that burden to the cross and leave it there.

But serve your brother. Love your brother. As Christ has loved you.

Part 7

Photo by niu niu on Unsplash