Kevin Max is apostate. Tait is a sexual predator. Toby, don’t fail now.
A way to actionably summarize part of my June 1 post: If it’s not for the sake of someone else, then do it in thanksgiving. If I stick that two-part rule for behavior, I’ll be doing everything in love.
Whoa. If we don’t listen to God, God doesn’t listen to us. Or so I’m taking from Zechariah 7:13-14.
“For others.” As I was concerned last night about whether my inclination to stay home on a Saturday night instead of socializing—not that I had an invitation—and in a more general sense about whether my current stance of what seems to me to social passivity, at least relatively speaking, as well as my choosing to read books or listen to recorded music by myself is OK, I went to bed pondering how to rephrase “Let everything you do be done in love” to be more incisively helpful in making daily decisions about what to do.
“For others” is the thought I woke up to this morning, as in, “Let everything you do be for others.” I have since expanded that slightly for clarity to “for the sake of others.” Let everything you do be done for the sake of others.
Staying home last night in particular fits this criterion just fine: I’ve been underslept since hearing about Frank’s cancer last Tuesday, and I’m well aware that sensitivity to suboptimal sleep volume is my behavioral Achilles’ heel. Going to bed early last night has set me up to contribute more heartily and happily to the wellbeing of others today and during the upcoming workweek . (This kind of thing is what prompts me to regard self-care is a necessary evil.)
But can I honestly say it’s for the sake of others that I, who have some capability as a community organizer, adopt of stance of not initiating social plans beyond ambulatory or telephonic tête-à-têtes? And can I honestly say it’s for the sake of others that I read books by myself or listen to recorded music by myself?
An observer will naturally reply to these questions, “Scott, I think you’re taking 1 Corinthians 16:14 too literally. Relax a little, will you?” To which I will naturally rejoin, “Dear observer, thank you for your concern. But no. That’s not how my brain works. Plus, the last thing the world needs or that God wants is for Christians to start compromising on the Royal Law in the name of self-care and inner peace.” (Okay, maybe the last thing is for us to start compromising on the Royal Law in the name of political success. Oops. Too late.)
To answer my first question about whether it’s OK for me to avoid throwing myself into organizing social gatherings and local political mini-movements, I must remember that I have decided to adopt this relatively passive social stance on purpose for the short season that remains when my children are guaranteed to live under my roof. I made the decision for their sakes. So yes, it’s perfectly OK because it’s done for the sake of others. And when my kids do move out, I already have an overlong list of civic, environmental, ecclesial, communally musical, charitable, preferential-option-for-the poor interpersonal, and public philosophical ideas for what to undertake then. My current avoidance is purely seasonal (and it’s not absolute anyhow).
Now, my second question about whether it’s OK for me to read books or listen to recorded music alone—well, this one is harder for me to answer in the affirmative. I might posit that reading books equips me to be a sympathetic human, which it does, or that listening to a symphony trains my capacity for the type of long attention that makes for being a good listener to other humans, which it does. But that kind of thinking is too close to the eat-your-broccoli approach to reading that Jacobs rightly disparages, at least if it’s underpins all my reading and listening.
What about reading or listening just for the joy of it? Can I faithfully substitute “Do everything for the joy” for “Do everything for the sake of others (i.e., in love)”? Again, observers will say to me, “Scruples, man. Of course you can! You are definitely way too serious.”
To which I reply: Look, I can’t substitute “do everything for the joy” for ‘do everything for the sake of others’ except if by joy we mean “the joy of knowing others are flourishing in part because of my efforts.” But you’re probably right: I probably am overserious. If no social plans have presented themselves to me for a given evening, if I don’t feel up for trying to make social plans myself, if calling my sisters doesn’t feel like the thing right now, it is OK for me to opt for a receptive activity I enjoy. I might still take this little round of introspection to tilt a little further toward a bias for social engagement, but opting to read or listen nevertheless falls squarely in the “self-care is a necessary evil” bucket, and is therefore OK. Except maybe it’s an “enjoyment is a necessary evil” bucket. And maybe it’s not even that. Paul writes “do everything in love,” which is not precisely synonymous with “do everything for the sake of others.” Enjoyment and thanksgiving can be a form of love for the Creator of the good things I’m enjoying. So if the impulse of my heart is to read a book or listen to recorded music, I will read a book or listen to recorded music, provided that I can do so in thanksgiving and that I’m not ignoring some more pressing matter of love. After all:
- “Do not go on drinking only water, but use a little wine for the sake of your stomach and your frequent ailments” (1 Timothy 5:23).
- “My son, eat honey, for it is good / Yes, the honey from the comb is sweet to your taste” (Proverbs 24:13).
(But also: “Have you found honey? Eat only what you need so that you do not have it in excess and vomit it” (Proverbs 25:13). Or as Harrison put it: “All the world is birthday cake, so take a piece, but not too much.”)
One final, little question: How do I choose between competing “sakes of others”? I will simply choose whichever sake I sense to be more pressing.
The distinction I’ve been seeking between the kind of amends the Father has declared no longer necessary by the cross of Christ and the kind of amends still required may be well captured by calling the former “symbolic” and the latter “proving.” Apologies, gifts, animal sacrifices, and Jesus’ cross are symbolic. That doesn’t mean symbolic amends aren’t necessary: It is impossible to prove repentance immediately. Hence, a token that’s symbolic of our repentance often must be extended in order to proceed, and hence, our impulse to make cultic sacrifices to God is a good instinct.
But God desires to skip such symbolic amends, which run too high a risk of masking an absence of true repentance, preferring instead to get straight to the heart of matters. He wants us to live lives characterized by earnest attempts at obedience to the law of love—amends that proving, not merely suggestive, of repentance.
The problem of divine hiddenness doesn’t bite as much when you consider that despite God’s hiddenness, over seventy percent of the world’s population is probably monotheistic, pluriform monotheistic, or henotheistic.
“Pay close attention to yourself and to the teaching; persevere in these things, for as you do this you will save both yourself and those who hear you” (1 Timothy 4:16).
The only way this makes sense is if salvation is transformation by the renewing of your mind (and all that flows from that).
“Law is laid down not for an upright person, but for…slave-dealers…“ (1 Timothy 1:9a,10b). How have I never seen this before? At least some followers of Christ have been opposed to slave trade since at least near the beginning?
Line from “Citizens” currently striking me: “Everyone born is illegal when love is the law of the land.”
The threefold and fivefold) synopses are the only places where I articulate the entire breadth of my answer to the why and how of Jesus’ self-subjection to crucifixion. Someday, I’d like to expand that synopsis into a complete essay. For now, I’ve posted the threefold synopsis on Github, where I’ve added a shade of conditionality to the first liberation and where I continue to tinker.
“I mean, you can’t just be a wimp and call yourself a pacifist.”
— Carla
“What is the causal joint?” I asked God.
“You* are the causal joint,” He replied.
*plural
Just re-read: The Epistle of James, and I am more convinced than ever of this: Donald Trump is an antichrist. (Please note the indefinite article.)
My God, please have mercy on all of us, including him, by relieving him of his power to do ill.
“Mere faith alone is not sufficient for salvation…Yea, I confess…that mere faith does not deserve to be called faith, for a true faith can never exist without deeds of love” (Balthasar Hubmaier).
Just finished reading: “The Nonviolent Atonement: Human violence, discipleship, and God” (2006) by J. Denny Weaver, which I summarize as follows: All previous accounts of the role of the Cross in how God brings us back to Himself, except for most Girardian explanations and the cosmic battle version of Christus Victor, implicate God as in some way needing violence to get the job done. Yet such a need stands in unacceptable tension with the consistently nonviolent life lived by Jesus, God’s perfect and authoritative image. Thus, we should to what I call “narrative Christus Victor,” by which I posit that neither the Father nor the Son in any way willed the Son to die, and that God brings us to Himself instead by vindicating Jesus’ way via the Resurrection. If we need forgiveness, we need only repent.
I disagree with Weaver about the Cross and don’t think his argument about it succeeds on his own terms: The Father is still “implicated” in the Son’s death if He knew that Jesus’ death was inevitable and did not rescue Jesus upon the latter’s request. Additionally, even if dying was not an intrinsic part of Jesus’ mission, as Weaver maintains, it is nevertheless untrue that Jesus couldn’t have fulfilled His mission without being executed: He could simply have evaded capture, as He did when pushed to a precipice in Luke 4:29-30.
Still, Weaver and I agree about this: “…the focus of being Christian is a life transformed by the narrative of Jesus.”
A friend asked me how I thought The Parable of the Prodigal Son related to my insistence that forgiveness, rightly practiced, requires amends be made. I initially responded: “This is an excellent question. The Parable of Prodigal Son comes up a lot in discussions of God’s forgiveness, mostly among folks who insist God forgives without requiring anything. So I have some answers percolating.” Later, I replied by subjecting him to a 10-minute think-aloud voice message, which I then revised and summarized in writing as follows: “The Parable of the Prodigal Son demonstrates, among other things, that God is so keenly interested reconnecting with and embracing His people that mere but provably genuine repentance can count as amends. (God’s relative position of power, which the parable keeps in view but which should be noted is not a feature of every relationship, facilitates this mercy.) However, the story is not absent an amends more concrete: Besides your beautiful, literary observation that, obliquely reminiscent of Leviticus and therefore of Jesus, an animal is slaughtered to facilitate the celebration of the restored relationship, the son was explicitly preparing to offer himself to his father as a hired hand. That his father saw no need for that demoting measure does highlight the father’s mercy, but it does not thereby reject the rightness of the offer. True repentance will always prompt the repenter to want to substantiate his repentance.”
Just re-listened to: Resurrection Letters, Volume I (2018) by Andrew Peterson. A stirring, orthodox anchor in my “progressive” Christian seas. CCM through and through, but with much stronger- and clearer-than-average theological ties to The Story and The Book.
Here’s a very concise summary of my take on the Cross of Christ: Jesus’ death can be a manumission of our minds from five things that would keep us in servitude:
- guilt,
- impunity,
- selfishness,
- the world, and
- the fear of death,
all of which facilitate separation from God.
John 20:23 and Matthew 18:18 say the same thing: God respects human decisions about what to forgive and what not to. That’s because God can’t forgive on someone else’s behalf; that’s a logical impossibility.
Just listened to: Light for the Lost Boy (2012) by Andrew Peterson. Probably a keeper, but I’m not completely sure about that because I know I give a positive bump to Christian albums whose theology and ethics I find agreeable. Two things regarding this album are obvious, however: First, he found a new producer. It’s striking how different this album sounds from all the albums he put out before it. Every review of this album you’ll read rightly talks positively of its use of “atmosphere” and “space.” It makes me wonder: Is receptivity to child-of-Lanois audio production a fruit of the Spirit?
For my part, as much I share this affinity, I nevertheless usually regard such atmospherics as a pleasing way to mask poor songsmanship, a deed of the flesh that sometimes seems endemic to Christian music. In Peterson’s case, though, not to worry: The lyrics here are among his strongest, and that’s saying something. He continues examine and deploy his favorite motifs (youth, memory, geography, the sun, the weather, and fire) to express his Reformed Christian thoughts, this time throwing in multiple allusions to The Yearling and at least one to Peter Pan. And this time around, Peterson’s lyrical force is helped by it sounding like sometime between making the prior album and this one, he had a long, doubt-laden drive of his own like the one on which he accompanied me.
Just re-listened to: Resurrection Letters, Volume II (2008) by Andrew Peterson as part of a slow-motion Peterson marathon meant to confirm or repudiate my September claim that he’s the most skilled evangelical songwriter of the century. This album, unlike the three that come between it and his 2000 debut, is evidence in favor of that claim. Polished folk pop expressing orthodox Christian thoughts. The Mullins mimicking continues, and that’s not a bad thing.
What’s more, this album will forever be linked in my life to one particularly long drive home from Florida back in October 2015. I drove a thousand miles through hot tears of doubt about God’s existence. Along those long highways, I had seven companions consoling and counseling me: over the phone, five good friends and one mom, and over the truck stereo, Peterson, who sang “I believe You are the Christ, the son of the living God” with enough conviction that I eventually joined in.
His Cross is not a coat of arms. It’s a teacher, a master, a goad.
Can anything good come out of universalism? /s
Just finished reading: “Beyond Words: On the role of silence in film and faith” (2025) by Arthur Aghajanian, whose main idea is that filmmakers can use and sometimes—but not often enough—do use silence to draw viewers in to spiritual experience.
Just finished reading: “From Dietrich Bonhoeffer to James Cone: The complexities of forgiveness in a racialized Society” (2024) by Reggie Williams, whose main idea is that in America, Black forgiveness is a maintainer of the status quo.
Some striking quotations:
- “Can forgiveness find a footing in broader systemic realities?”
- “To encourage [Black people] to see their suffering as righteous obedience to God in Christ is to sanctify a perpetual social death.”
- “In a moment of racial distress, forgiveness becomes a reflex response that serves the social maintenance of racial hierarchy.”
Some quick reflections: This is why forgiveness without amends is usually bad.
Potts is right that punishment and recompense will always be incommensurate with the wrongdoing (except for restitution, which can come close). That’s how you can say that forgiveness and justice can and do coexist: Forgiveness doesn’t say nothing is due; forgiveness says that what’s been paid is enough. Nothing more is due.