When the Ice Melts

© Chema Madoz

THE LAST TIME I ever thought about touching that deadly rock happened while sitting in an apartment without furniture, watching a group of addicts huddled in the center of the "dying" room, like scavengers hovering over a carcass, snarling at each other to pass the pipe, to not take so big a hit the next time.

That memory haunts me still.

Nothing smells or tastes like crack cocaine. I don't type this lightly. In fact, it's a horrific and embarrassing thing to admit. I don't do so merely to bring attention to myself. I do so because at times I smell it and taste it—not as if I'm tempted to partake in that particular activity, but because it still trips me out. Like a shadowy ghoul perched on my shoulder, I'm reminded of sensory experiences that I cannot shake.

When the ice melts (perhaps over a bowl of ash), what will you leave behind? What will you have left?

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I posted this about a year ago and then took it down. It seemed a bit too self-absorbed, even for me. I know not many, if any, former crackheads (I was not one, being more of a "generalist") read this blog. So what purpose would this post serve? On the other hand, I'm sure lots of folks out there often feel like they have little control over the events in their lives. And it keeps piling on, forcing you to fix your gaze only on the temporal, which causes fear, anxiety, depression—basically all the stuff that gets you screaming for some quiet.

I'm still shaken and mesmerized by how a piece of rock melts beneath its flame. Its alchemy. And that thirty-second high. There's little competition out there for how high it actually is.

Unfortunately, I've learned time and again that the troubles I walked away from in that scene described above have followed me in different forms these past (almost) twenty years. Starting to take the Christian faith seriously (i.e., practicing it), which is how I'm describing conversion (or perhaps a return of sorts), as anyone knows who has been at it for any length of time, means many years of painful refining, often commensurate with how deeply the evil one's way has become one's own. Sanctification, too, is by grace through faith.

One the reasons my spiritual journey is comprised of a series of rejections of modern evangelicalism (how's that for a non sequitur?) is its obsession with salvation through change—the personal amending of one's life. "Clean up your life and become a Christian!" If we can just stop doing this or that, acting this way or that way, then God will pay it all off with his grace.

On the contrary, the cart of reformation indeed comes. But it's pulled by the workhorse of a restoration wrought by an irruptive grace.

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An Exilic Presbyterian's Manifesto, part 4

This fourth installment marks the end of my walkthrough of Jason J. Stellman's Dual Citizens: Worship and Life Between the Already and the Not Yet. I appreciate your reading thus far, and I will follow this up with a few reflections in the coming days. Without further adieu:

Chapter 11 simply seeks to demonstrate how “Pilgrim Theology, driven as it is by the doctrine of the two kingdoms, actually carves out some valid space for creation and the goodness of earth and its blessings” (126). Using G.K. Chesterton’s delineation of the two poles that mess this up (“puritans” and “pagans,” broadly understood) as his point of departure, Stellman intends here to show how the two-kingdoms paradigm provides the needed balance between the pagans’ pursuit of earthly pleasure and the puritans’ avoidance of it. He argues, in short, that “if we desire to give authen­tic expression to our citizenship both of this age and the age to come, then we need to beware of enjoying earth too little, as well as enjoying it too much” (135).

One main reason this balance must be maintained is simply because of what God’s Word teaches about this transitory life, which, under the new covenant, “is characterized by sweetness as well as bitterness, by possession as well as longing. In short, the presence of the Spirit within the believer means that the future has intruded into the here and now, and the saint has been granted some ‘already’ to go with the ‘not yet’” (138). If we are to give expression to this “pilgrim dynamic,” understanding this principle is absolutely crucial, according to Stellman. Thus he spends the entirety of the chapter backing it up biblically—mainly through a redemptive-historical reading of Romans 6–8, a lá Ridderbos, Fee, and Moo (if not Wright). If you’re likely to hold this book in less esteem because of Stellman’s exegesis here, then you can skip this chapter with no real loss, so long as you take his main point to heart: “The ever-present sense of ‘not yet’ that frustrates us throughout this age does not negate the dynamic ‘already’ that was inaugurated as our risen and ascended Lord bestowed on His church the gift of the Spirit as an engagement ring, assur­ing us of our future glorification. Because the cross was followed by an empty tomb, we must not fail to incorporate the resurrection into our understanding of Christian living” (149–50). One gets the sense that Stellman has been carefully loading both barrels of a sawn shotgun.

As it turns out, the bullets are rather benign—or are they? The next chapter makes the case for new covenant boasting—“not in the things we achieve, but in the entitlements we sacrifice for the sake of Christ’s kingdom and the cross-bearing lives Jesus challenges us to live” (155). Why might this prove scandalous? Because, Stellman contends, despite the fact that we’ve outgrown the old law (like a young adult does a babysitter), “the new covenant affords us the freedom not simply to do less than the law requires, but to do more. This freedom opens up a new—and largely unfamiliar—avenue of Christian growth for God’s people (though it might not exactly be welcomed with open minds or hearts)” (158–59). Suffering is this avenue, and it’s not to be understood by us Americans primarily in its extreme forms (e.g., torture or imprisonment), which serves to help us “make peace with the concept of suffering [because] we can be cer­tain that we never will have to do it” (ibid.). Taking Saint Paul as our example (if not Jesus), Stellman exhorts us to engage “in a kind of active, rather than passive, suffering,” which means that it’d be “in some sense voluntary and therefore boast worthy” (159–60).

Thus, the whole point of the previous chapter comes into view: being freed in the new covenant by the power of God’s Spirit to fulfill the law of Christ rather than laboring under the law of Moses, it’s now “possible for the Christian under the new covenant to voluntarily suffer by going above and beyond the call of duty and relinquishing his right to enjoy certain blessings to which he is entitled” (160).

And how can I not recount Stellman’s refreshing challenge to his fellow pastors?

Likewise in the spiritual realm, when the pulpit is used as a means of meticu­lous legislation, it may engender conformity driven by fear, but if that were the goal for the Christian life, would not the law have sufficed without needing to give way to the gospel? A minister who turns the pulpit into a bully pulpit from which to micromanage the flock rather than tend it will only retard the natural process by which lambs mature into full-grown sheep. To put it simply, when the pastor never stops telling his people what to do, he is not only failing as a leader by giving his congregants what they want (law) rather than what they need (gospel), he is also making it virtually impossible for them to mature. And only a mature saint will seek the opportunity to boast in willingly forfeiting his right to enjoy perfectly legitimate blessings. (161)

Stellman goes on to offer several other encouragements and challenges to the lay reader, like this: “If you feel that you are wronged, ignored at times, or occasionally taken advantage of, you can demand to be treated fairly and with appropriate sensitivity, or you can look past such things and offer your suffering as a sacrifice of thanksgiving to the God who suffered so much for you” (162).

Well, where would you expect a book like this to end? An exhaustive concordance of all the secular pursuits worthy of Christian participation (like, for example, a guide through the best beers from all over the globe)? Think again; the topic is assurance, and the role of the “absolutely central” person of the new covenant, the Holy Spirit (165). What’s the connection? The believer’s life, that one leg he has in the earthly kingdom, is fraught with chaos and tragedy even in the midst of the anticipated return of the king. Thus assurance is a precious commodity. And under the new covenant, Stellman argues, the church’s assurance “should be much stronger than it would have been under the old. This is because the witness of the Holy Spirit is to be under­stood as an authenticating work whereby He gives the believer assurance of salvation not only by directing us to the objective promises of the gospel, but also by means of appeal to the evidence of His own handiwork in the believer’s life” (166).

Stellman does this oft-discussed subject justice, which elevates it from the simply redundant to being actually helpful. As seen in the quote above, he refuses to separate the witness of the Spirit from either the objective promises of God in Christ or the evidence in our lives with which we find that love for God has been poured into our hearts. It’s helpful because it steers clear of divorcing “Word from Spirit, making assurance possible by Word alone without the Spirit’s witness, by Spirit alone without the Word’s promise, or by works alone without either” (170). So many books and sermons about assurance have suffered from precisely this.

But there’s still something missing here, even if Stellman gave it the appropriate attention elsewhere (e.g., xi, xxvii, 5, 8, 12ff., 20, etc.). In a word, it’s the sacraments. Not even an allusion. The best of classical Protestant theology has always held that the regular and ordinary means of grace do provide us with the assurance of God’s favor. How? Because they are graceful signs (not mere witnesses or memorials) of (in Stellman’s words) the “objective promises of the gospel.” That is to say, baptism and Holy Communion, as the visible Word, convey the finished work of Christ. This is why Luther could answer “I am baptized” when faced with doubt; he understood that through the sign of baptism the objective, completed faithfulness of Jesus was promised to him (no doubt authenticated by God’s Spirit). All this might be barely underneath the surface in this final chapter. But the reader wouldn’t know it.

At any rate, Stellman wonderfully ends with a good word about works in the new covenant and how the Spirit’s enabling grace and thus the believer’s foretaste of the future means that the “new covenant saint derive[s] comfort from his works rather than fear” (175). In other words, “the believer’s giving practical expression, by faith, to his heavenly identity in his day-to-day life on earth is anything but a legalistic activity” precisely because “the Spirit’s role is to bring the future into the present” (174). The point of all this talk about assurance at the end of a discourse on Christian life in this time between the times? So that we may have a “measure of certainty in our sighs as we long for the full attainment of what has been promised to us. The gap we feel between what awaits us and what we presently experience—so often heightened by our own sin and shortcomings—in no way threatens our certainty that the God who has made such great and precious promises, and has confirmed them with an oath, will be faithful to keep them” (176).

* Here are parts one, two, and three of this review.

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The Freedom of Fear

Cain offered grain faithlessly, and his sacrifice was meant to appease (see Gen. 4:1–6; Heb. 11:4). His concern was to placate the demands of his creator. Homage was a trivial thing to him, a mere formality to be dispensed with so he could get back to his daily routine. He gave his grain out of fear, and fear alone. His duty lacked love and delight.

Yet, fear is not a bad thing. To fear God is to begin on wisdom’s journey (Ps. 11:10; Prov. 9:10). Sometimes groveling is an appropriate reaction — especially for Christians. But maybe like Cain, we struggle to believe in the superabundant grace of God? Even though we seem to ignore the fact that we can displease him (Heb. 12:3–11), more often than not we seem to be suspicious of the bounty of God’s grace. We, too, attempt to secure the favor of God.

This must not be confused, however, with pleasing God, for that is a worthy cause indeed (see Rom. 12:1; 14:17–19; 1 Tim. 5:4). No, the kind of appeasement we fall into is the kind that seeks to block God’s view of our sin. Maybe if we give money to the church regularly, buy a pew for the new chapel, offer time and resources to the youth program, teach a Bible study, or speak of our faith to others, then possibly God will overlook our sin. Maybe he will see that we are not so bad, all things considered. Now, such things in themselves are good and right to do, but we grieve God when we adopt the appeasement mentality and disbelieve his grace (yes, we can grieve God; see Eph. 4:30).

In John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, a fellow by the name of Honest relates a story about one Mr. Fearing. Christiana, wife of the famed pilgrim Christian, sat close by, listening intently. Summarizing Mr. Fearing’s character, Honest said, “Difficulties, lions, or Vanity Fair, he feared not at all; it was only sin, death, and hell, that were to him a terror, because he had some doubts about his interest in that celestial country.” Strikingly, this redeemed individual was said to have no fear regarding physical calamities, but every fear about the life hereafter. What can assuage such fear?

There are those rare moments for many of us whose lives reflect the holiness and image of the living Savior. But at the exact moment we look to that fruit as a sign of our salvation, we are faced with the fear of having in reality no interest whatsoever in the city of God. After all, some of the world’s most virtuous philanthropists are self-avowed atheists.

For me, this happens at the table of celebration during Holy Communion. Any good work I may have accomplished the week prior utterly melts away. At the table, I become Mr. Fearing.

I ask God: Have I no interest in that celestial city? Have I been duped these many years, confusing the blessings of the church with the blessings of personal faith? Even worse than Mr. Fearing, I am anxious-ridden about life’s difficulties, lions, and Vanity Fair. In the end, my outward faith is a far cry from that of Mr. Fearing.

Then it hits me. This is what the gospel is all about. We have absolutely nothing to bring to the table of this new covenant. And it is precisely at this moment when we are to come, eat, and rest. Faithful obedience and confession, to be sure, are essential to the Christian pilgrimage, but we dare not bring those as payments or appeasements with which God will let us partake of his Son’s body and blood. Through faith we are not only declared “not guilty,” we are transformed, albeit imperfectly in the present, into the faithful nation of God.

Nonetheless, anxiety like Mr. Fearing’s cripples most of us at least once in life. In such a world as this, believing in God’s grace is truly a hope against all hope. Even our heroes succumbed to it, though we often prefer the caricatures over against the reality. We want the Luther who stood against Rome, noble and staunch, but forget about the Luther who wrote in 1527 that “for more than a week I was close to the gates of death and hell. I trembled in all my members. Christ was wholly lost. I was shaken by desperation and blasphemy of God.” We prize the Calvin of Geneva, that great reformer and teacher, and too often overlook the brooding anxiety that drove him to describe the world as an unsettling place in which “we cannot be otherwise than constantly anxious and confused.” We are, in short, bored and suspicious of God’s superabundant grace.

But essential to the health of our Christian lives is the faith through which we come to know that we are free, the faith to know where we stand with the Lord of all. Liberty such as this scares some people. But it never scared the apostle Paul. He wrote that now there is “no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death” (Rom. 8:1–2). That old, yet holy, law (of Moses [Rom. 5:20], which judges all who are in Adam) can no longer condemn those who, through baptism, have entered into Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection (Rom. 6:3–5). This is good news indeed. “For one who has died [in union with Jesus] has been set free from sin” (Rom. 6:7). What kind of court would pronounce a verdict of “not guilty” and still refuse to let the pardoned person leave the prison? Yet this is exactly what we do when we deem suspect God’s abounding grace. There are enough people in the world that desire nothing less than to bind our consciences to their own. We need not add to it; rather, we need to champion the gospel of grace and cripple the crippling anxiety of Mr. Fearing.

{This originally appeared in Tabletalk 28.9 (September 2004): 23–24}

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Confidence in Christ

{This originally appeared in Tabletalk 28.2 (February 2004): 26–27}

“Faith cannot be without a settled peace of mind, from which proceeds the bold confidence of rejoicing,” John Calvin wrote in his commentary on Hebrews in the mid-sixteenth century. This point is most striking, and mostly underplayed by many exegetes. How could Calvin write something so…insensitive? And again: “We hence conclude that those who assent to the gospel doubtfully and like those who vacillate, do not truly and really believe.”

Just as faith is the assurance of things hoped for, so, too, is faith the constant and confident hope of the believer (Heb. 11:1; cf. 3:6). For Calvin, then, faith necessarily includes a firm confidence in that which has been believed: “Besides, what firmness of confidence can there be when men know not what they ought to believe?” But again we must ask, did not Calvin see how unsympathetic this doctrinal point would be to the one who has doubt in his or her interest in the heavenly Jerusalem? How might Calvin respond to such an inquiry? Whether he anticipated this question or not, the truth is that the reader will not be able to simply skim his writings for an answer. It is there, but it is not all laid out in plain view, so to speak. One lyrical gem comes to mind that falls in line with his understanding that faith cannot be without a firm persuasion of the promises of God. Writing on predestination, Calvin quipped that if someone were to ask him how he is to know that he is elect, his answer would be “Christ is more than a thousand testimonies to me.” That is, being persuaded of the veracity of the promises of God made certain in the life, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus provide a more substantial ground of assurance than a thousand outward attestations of faith (both in personal good deeds and in verbal compliments paid by our peers). In other words, man’s praise should be cast at the foot of the cross. What we see here is a bold affirmation of the supernatural gracious gift of faith over against a worked-for faith.

But this confidence of which Calvin spoke is not brazen; it is Spirit-filled meekness, and “meekness” here does not mean “timid” but “unpretentious.” As one version of the Bible translates it: “Happy are those who are humble; they will receive what God has promised!” (Matt. 5:5, TEV). It is no coincidence that Saint Matthew’s gospel and the letter to the Hebrews agree that receiving what God has promised comes as a result of being meek (or put differently, of having saving faith). Thus, the settled peace of mind attached to the faith of which Calvin spoke does not declare, “I’m so saved, I couldn’t go to hell if I tried.” Rather, it cries along with the tax collector: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” (cf. Luke 18:9–14; see also 15:1–7).

To be sure, Calvin granted that absolute certainty in this life is unthinkable, given that one anxiety or another always assails assurance. But saving faith is not stagnant, nor does it endlessly embrace gross doctrinal errors (the two points against which Calvin’s argument is directed). This, then, is the context within which we must view Calvin’s statements about faith above. The Genevan reformer was a committed preacher and churchman, as the records of his persistent preaching and congregational and missional ministries show. He was not insensitive to his parishioner’s needs. And the need that he was meeting was the dispensing of all false notions of security. His opponents had posited the idea that a person could fail to grasp the content of the gospel and yet have faith. This had the unfortunate effect of sending many people through life wrapped in a false blanket of assurance. But passages like Hebrews 3:6 remind us, according to Calvin, that "we are always to make progress even unto death; for our whole life is as it were a race.”

In like manner, we must be equally concerned today with, for example, such mistaken conceptions as “carnal Christianity.” This is why we say that the believer’s sanctification necessarily flows from his or her justification. That is, good works in Christ Jesus follow from being saved by grace alone through faith alone. Such works are done in gratitude for salvation — not as prerequisites for salvation. Knowing this also helps us to understand what is happening when we see those who have but a transitory faith yield no lasting fruit. They are like the third seed in our Savior’s parable, the one that was sown among the thorns and eventually strangled by the cares of this world (Matt. 13; Mark 4).

The only certain ground of assurance, which the letter to the Hebrews makes clear time and time again, is the finished work of the risen Christ. A confidence based on anything less can only lead to a baseless faith. For this reason, let us “lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God” (Heb. 12:1b–2).

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