The Far Green Country

One of the most horrible feelings you can experience in this life is disconnection.  Those of you who have experienced it will know what I’m talking about.  Disconnection: that sense of utter, unbridgeable distance and separation from the things or persons whom you love.    It is like a chalice of uncertainty, or a horn-full of the mead of helplessness.

About two years ago, I was in Redlands, California on a Thursday afternoon when my cell phone rang.  It was my wife.  She was eight months pregnant, and had just been to her OB-GYN appointment, for one of the regular weekly check-ups.  When I asked her how the appointment went, she did not mince words: she was having sharp pains in her back; the doctor said she was several centimeters dilated; they expected she would give birth within a day or two.  Oh, and could I come home today, please?

There is a unique sense of terror one experiences upon suddenly learning that one is three thousand miles away from the imminent birth of one’s child.  Add the fact that said imminent birth is coming a month premature, and you descend to new places of panic.  Could I come home today?  Could I?  Woe betide those who would stand in my way!

There was just one problem: it was the Thursday prior to Independence Day weekend.  In other words, all the flights – all over the country – were booked and overbooked.  Several frantic conversations with the company travel department later, I was left with mixed news and more uncertainty.  They could get me to Phoenix on Thursday, but could not guarantee getting me back to Pittsburgh.  I could try getting on the standby lists; but if that didn’t pan out, I’d be stuck in Phoenix until the date of my original return flight to the East Coast – Friday afternoon.

Well, what could I do?  A gracious coworker drove me back to my hotel (I had walked to the office that day), where I packed up and egressed as quickly as I could to make the flight for Phoenix.  Arriving in Phoenix, I tried everything I could – but the two flights to Pittsburgh were full.  It seems I was stuck in Phoenix until Friday afternoon after all.  I tell you, that was not a pleasant phone call to make.

It was not a pleasant experience in any respect.  In order to find dinner, I had to leave the secure area.  Not wanting to risk missing a cab or any other peril common to extreme travel, I was unwilling to risk leaving the airport for an offsite hotel.  Thus I spent a night in the terminal, sleeping fitfully on a chair while clutching my bags.  I bought Walter Isaacson’s biography of Benjamin Franklin (an interesting book, by the way) to help pass time.  But under the circumstances, one could only read so much.  One could only sleep so much, too – what with the announcement, every five minutes, that – surprise! – firearms were not permitted in the airport terminal.  Thank you, TSA.

After a morning passed fretting away in the Phoenix airport on minimal sleep, I boarded a plane at 3 PM to Pittsburgh.  Landing late at 10:30 PM (a flight made to feel even longer by the teenage girls sitting next to me on the plane, one of whom played Nirvana on her laptop, and the other of whom was a mother herself), I ran through the terminal and got out of the airport by 11 PM.  There was a voicemail on my phone: had I landed yet?  How far was I from the hospital?  My wife was in labor at this point, but they were going to try to slow things down.

The drive back to Johnstown was another adventure.  You want to know why I eschew tail-gating people on the highway?  Because I was tail-gated that night by some punk.  Looking in the mirror, I remember muttering something dark about, “If looks were cruise missiles, kid…”  You want to know why I like motorcycles?  Because providentially, I subsequently got behind a motorcyclist whose penchant for speed allowed me to follow him a significant portion of the way home from a radar-safe distance – well in excess of the legal limit.

That is, until we ran into the State Police sobriety check-point.  (No, I’m not making this up.)  Cycle Boy got pulled in, I was waived through.  Thank you, Cycle Boy.  And thank you, God.  Despite the fear of delay, even this turned to my advantage.  Feeling secure in the knowledge that most of the officers in the vicinity were now behind me, I was able to make very good time the rest of the way to Johnstown.

As it turns out, I did make it home on time for the birth of my second son.  Only just, however.  I arrived at the hospital at 12:30 AM.  My son was born at 1:34 AM.

Throughout this harrowing journey – and for the entirety of the nine days after his birth during which my son was kept in the hospital’s Natal Intensive Care Unit with under-developed lungs – I went through some of the most extreme feelings of helplessness that I have ever experienced.  The impotence one feels in such circumstances is, well, potent.  You feel almost as though you are floating through your days, seeing everything through a fog.  Fireworks that weekend?  Who cares.  Rather like a balloon whose lost its tether, you drift from worry to prayer to sleep to weeping – and back again.

My second son celebrated his second birthday this past week.  By God’s grace, he’s a healthy, strapping, dirt-eating boy.  This weekend, I am going to preach a sermon on Psalm 42.  Interestingly enough, the theme of that text is hope: hope for those who feel disconnected from God; hope for those whose feelings of disconnection lead them into a certain downcastedness of soul.

The Psalmist in Psalm 42 (though not explicitly mentioned, identified by some as David before he was king) has been cut off from the tabernacle in Jerusalem.  His trust in God remains, but having been cut off from the outward means of God’s grace – the sacrifices, the altar, etc. – he feels disconnected.  In the absence of the faith-fortifying ceremonies and worship of the tabernacle, the stress of his exile is starting to gnaw at his faith.  Unable to feed his soul its “vitamins,” he is hearing ever more loudly the taunts of the world, the flesh, and the devil.  And he’s feeling ever more keenly the burden of difficult providences – he compares them to roaring waterfalls, waves, and breakers.  And like a man caught beneath the waves, he feels the tug of the deep.  Like a cancer in his bones, the abyss calls to his spirit: “Despair!  God hath forgotten thee!”

And yet in all this, the Psalmist maintains hope.  When circumstances prevent him feeling the presence of God outwardly – when words of explanation fail – he centers his hope on God.  Turning his eyes outward, he lifts them to, “the God of my life” (v. 8 ), whose love watches over him during the day like a command, and is with him like a song in the night.  When he is hopelessly downcast in himself, he hopes in God:

Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my salvation and my God.

The day that I first read that verse, I wept – for I myself was feeling downcast and disconnected from God.  As I prepared the sermon this week, however, it struck me that as Christians, we need never despair that we are disconnected from God.   We have access to God from any place.  Jesus himself says that we need not go to Jerusalem, but only worship in spirit and in truth (see John 4:19-26).  And Jesus Christ himself is that Truth.  Though absent from us now in body, he gives us his Holy Spirit to cheer and to guide us.

Why do we still find ourselves downcast, then?  I think perhaps it’s because we forget this aspect of the Gospel – that God is always with those who trust him.  He is never far from us.  Or perhaps we distance ourselves by willful sins – such as neglecting the means of grace.  If we neglect to be at prayer or in the Word, are we surprised that God seems distant (see John 17:17)?  Or if we absent ourselves in mind and/or in body from the public worship where he promises to meet us, are we surprised that we can’t sense his presence?  Or, most often, perhaps we just believe the lies – forgetting that nothing can separate Christians from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (see Romans 8:38-39).

Disconnection makes us acutely downcast.  And though it be true that, sometimes, providence requires separation from earthly loves, it is never – never – the case that those who trust Christ as God and Savior are separated from his love or presence.  If we have committed ourselves to his glorious grace, we know that we will not thirst forever.

“Why are you downcast, O my soul?  And why are you in turmoil within me?”  Hope in Christ; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.

(A printable, PDF version of this article is available here.)

I just finished reading The Reason for God by Tim Keller. Dr. Keller is a well-known minister in the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA), the bigger, younger sister to my own denomination, the Orthodox Presbyterian Church. Back in the late-eighties, Tim moved to Manhattan in New York City to plant Redeemer Presbyterian Church. Without a lot of flashy gimmicks or crass marketing, Redeemer has grown to about 5000 people attending weekly.

All of which is to say, Tim Keller not only understands Scripture, he understands culture and people. The Reason for God is in many ways the sum of his experience - his manifesto, if you will. The book is divided into two primary parts. In the first part, Dr. Keller engages with the seven most common objections to the Christian faith, among them such questions as why all religions cannot be true, how a loving God could send people to Hell, why science doesn’t conflict with Christianity, and why it’s not nutty to take the Bible literally.

What makes Tim’s approach to these questions unique is that, unlike other would-be Christian apologists, he doesn’t rely on pat answers or look for shortcuts. He lays out the objection in its strongest form, even citing relevant authorities on the questions. Then, after making every effort to be accurate and honest about the problem, he engages it thoughtfully from the standpoint of orthodox Christian faith. As I read each chapter in this section of the book, I came away not only with a better understanding of the Christian answer, but also with a clearer grasp of the concerns as they are held from an non-believer’s standpoint. This is an incredibly valuable resource for those of us who hope to be used by God to encourage our non-believing family and friends toward Christ with gentleness and respect.

After a short chapter entitled “Intermission” in which he tidies up his treatment of the common objections to the faith, Dr. Keller spends seven more chapters laying out the positive case for the Christian faith. As in the first half, what stands out is how he refuses to fall back on Pollyanna statements or simplistic constructions. Without compromise and without condescension, he slowly builds the strongest case possible for belief in Jesus Christ. And in fact, just about the time you could picture somebody saying, “Yeah, but…”, Tim raises the question himself. It is this aspect of his presentation that is particularly winsome: it is robustly orthodox, yet takes nothing for granted.

There is an emphasis recurrent throughout the book that I think deserves special mention. Although Keller does not shy away from dealing with what appear to be the most thorny questions for contemporary readers (such as evolution, historical church abuses, and the biblical view of women), he nevertheless makes a point of continuing to bring the focus back to where it needs to be: on the core claims of Christianity. The point is made clearly as follows:

You may appeal, “But I can’t accept the Bible if what it says about gender is outmoded.” I would respond to that with this question - are you saying that because you don’t like what the Bible says about sex that Jesus couldn’t be raised from the dead? I’m sure you wouldn’t insist on such a non sequitur. If Jesus is the Son of God, then we have to take his teaching seriously, including his confidence in the authority of the whole Bible. If he is not who he says he is, why should we care what the Bible says about anything else?

Think of it like this. If you dive into the shallow end of the Biblical pool, where there are many controversies over interpretation, you may get scraped up. But if you dive into the center of the Biblical pool, where there is consensus - about the deity of Christ, his death and resurrection - you will be safe. It is therefore important to consider the Bible’s core claims about who Jesus is and whether he rose from the dead before you reject it for its less central and more controversial teachings. (p. 113)

I think Keller’s point here is extremely valuable, for both believers and non-believers. When sharing or exploring the Christian faith, we need to make sure we buy the house before we consider weeding the garden.

Overall then, The Reason for God is superb. It shows how Christianity is a reasonable faith. It shows how Christianity is a faith of grace, unlike all man-made religions. And it demonstrates how the resurrection of Jesus Christ really does change everything. In my estimation, it will be for our century what C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity was for the last. Buy and read it for yourself. Then share it with both your Christian and non-Christian friends. I only hope the paperback version will be out in time for Christmas.

(A printable, PDF version of this article is available here.)

It was raining this morning in Hollidaysburg. Outside my office window – a gentle, pattering fall of water. It has stopped now, but the sidewalks are dark with moisture and the trees are sated green. At first glance, rain may not impress you: just a sort of sky-based squirt gun, writ large? But when you think about what rain really does, it’s hard to be so impassive.

Rain is how the earth is watered. Water is necessary for nearly every form of organic life. Even the human body is something like 60% water. That’s pretty amazing, if you think about it. For every ten pieces of me, six of them are nothing but water. For babies, the percentage is even higher. Our bodies are composed of many things; but in the end, they’re mostly water. Without water, we are dust.

Rain is also how the earth is transformed. Rain falls to the earth and collects into rivers. Rivers cut deep banks into the earth (witness the Grand Canyon in Arizona). Sometimes those banks are not deep enough, and the rivers flood the landscape (witness the floods in the news, or the golf course up the road from my house). Rivers flow into seas and oceans, whose waves beat an incessant cadence against the shores of every coast. In the end, rain turns even the hardest stone into sand.

I’ve been thinking a lot these last two days about grace. It strikes me this morning that grace is like rain. At a certain level, it falls on everybody. We all live who live, and we all breathe who have heart and lungs. In this sense, God is gracious to every living thing. He didn’t have to create us, and he doesn’t have to sustain us. But he does. If he did not keep it going, the universe would wink out of existence. No more warm sun, no more bright mornings and cool nights. No more smiles, no more joy: no more life.

I had an astronomy professor at university who was fond of saying, “We are of the stars.” By that he meant that human life evolved from elements deposited by cosmic bombardment of the primordial Earth. But apart from the grace of God, however, even this could not be true. For just as our bodies without water are dust, so too the entire universe without God’s sustaining power collapses into nothingness. Sans grace, everything is less than dust.

Grace is also like rain in that it is transforming. Rarely are we able to trace its movement – just as we are unable to entirely trace the source of the rain and the rivers. Very few Christians can tell you with complete certainty when it was that God’s Spirit began to move in their lives.

But what cannot be denied is the effect of grace upon those to whom it comes. When the Holy Spirit changes a heart – when the waves of grace turn the hardened stone of a soul into a tender surf awash with faith – the change is evident. Seldom can we learn exactly when the rock became a beach; however, we cannot deny that it is sand which sticks between our toes. One of more famous twentieth century Christian authors, C.S. Lewis, described his own conversion along these very lines:

“I was driven to Whipsnade one sunny morning. When we set out I did not believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and when we reached the zoo I did. Yet I had not exactly spent the journey in thought. Nor in great emotion. “Emotional” is perhaps the last word we can apply to some of the most important events. It was more like when a man, after a long sleep, still lying motionless in bed, becomes aware that he is now awake.” (Surprised by Joy, p. 229)

Lewis spent the bulk of his autobiography telling the story of how he crossed from unbelief and death into spiritual life. And yet when it comes to the point – when everything finally comes clear – he can only describe it as a sort of waking up. I think that is very beautiful.

This sense of grace like rain – of grace awakening us – has been so true to my own experience. I don’t have Lewis’s experience of atheism in my past; so far as I can remember, I’ve grown up believing. However, there have been several times in my life where grace has come to me in a way that is awakening – as a child, as a teen, early last year, and even this morning.

I woke up this morning fretting about grace, troubled over whether I trust Christ in the right way. I know my fretting is dung – a thing of which to be ashamed and repentant. It betrays a heart trusting in itself rather than in God; it reflects a forgetfulness about the character of grace. Salvation is not by a certain quality of faith. It is by grace through faith in the absolute quality of the Savior. Faith itself is not trusting in the quality of one’s faith; it is trusting exclusively in the absolute quality of one’s Savior. Yes, we exercise faith. But we are saved by grace. Period.

I have tried many things to make myself see this. I’ve tried praying, “repenting”, and thinking about grace in the right way. I’ve tried getting my friends to talk sense into me. I’ve even tried ignoring it. Obviously all of these have been a huge success…

Why do I continue to struggle with this? Why have I been acting like a beach which wonders if it’s sandy enough, or a soaked sidewalk that wonders if it’s wet enough? The earth doesn’t receive the rain and then water itself, nor does the rock take the breakers and pound itself into sand. The change comes only of the rain and waves. Just so with faith – it’s all of grace.

This morning as I was standing in the shower it came to me what I really needed to do was just stop all this flailing. For one who confesses justification by faith alone, I have been giving a poor testimony to it. Yet I can’t deny that grace has changed my heart. I can’t deny that I do have faith in Christ. Perhaps it’s time I just trusted him for real?

At first I tried to answer that question with a special prayer. But I ended up just laughing, and finishing (after several tries) with something like, “Okay, Jesus.” The point was taken. I sure hope it sticks. Grace is not a self-help kit. Grace is like the rain. And it is raining.

The other night I sat down to read a story to my eldest son.  I opened the book to what I thought was the beginning, but he quickly corrected me.  “Daddy, you missed a page,” he said.  And indeed I had: the cover of the book had stuck to the first page.  So we turned back to the first page before beginning the story in earnest.

I have the same sort of feeling this afternoon, as I prepare to explain why I am leaving ESRI at the end of this month to pursue seminary education.  To simply make the announcement (as I just did) without providing a bit of background is to start the story off on the wrong page.  A proper communication of why I am doing what I am doing requires we first turn back a page.

I have been a Christian for as long as I can remember.  I remember the day I was baptized, even though I could not have been more than three years of age.  I grew up in the church, grew up believing.  The Gospel of Jesus Christ was treated in my home with the same level of veracity as the truth of mathematics: Dad and Mum treated the biblical facts of who he is and what he accomplished as of equal certainty to the fact that 2 + 2 = 4.  Though there were times over the years when I rebelled against these truths & their implications, I think I’ve always known that I could no sooner deny the former as I could the latter.

Jesus Christ is the Son of God who came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief.  Yet whoever will believe in him will not perish, but have everlasting life.  I find this impossible to deny; I find it impossible not to trust him.  This truth forms the foundation, not only of my Christian identity, but also of my decision to change careers.

But the bare fact of being a Christian doesn’t explain why I’d give up a cushy career in software engineering to pursue the Gospel ministry.  So why am I doing this?  Let me say firstly that it is not to try to earn brownie points with God, to try to curry his favor.  The Christian religion knows nothing of trying to earn our way into good standing with God.  Unlike every other religious system in the world, it is a religion of grace, not of works.

I’m also not leaving ESRI because I hate working here.  In truth, I have never been happier as a software engineer than I have been at ESRI.  I get to make software that really does make a difference in the world.  I get to work for and with people of diverse backgrounds with varied stories.  I get to see places and experience things I would never have seen or experienced otherwise, and which I will not get in seminary.  So why am I leaving?

I am leaving because I believe I am called to enter the Gospel ministry.  I realize that this will not make much sense to everyone who reads this.  Even I can’t completely understand it at times; sometimes even I wonder if I’m really not out to lunch.  When I say I believe that I am called, I don’t mean that I’ve heard a voice telling me to preach the Gospel.  Some ministers throughout history can testify to this.  I, however, cannot.  I understand my calling more in terms of ability, desire, and opportunity.  God has given me at least some measure of the abilities a minister needs.  He’s also given me the desire to serve in this way.  Lastly, he’s provided for me the opportunity to pursue the required training.

This last point speaks to the question of what my future is really going to look like, for those who wonder.  Beginning this summer, I am going to be studying full-time toward a Master of Divinity degree through Greenville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, located in South Carolina.  We are not going to relocate, however (even though they’ve got great mountains!).  Rather, I will be a distance student participating in the classroom via video chat – not at all unlike the web-conferencing tools we’ve used at ESRI.  My church here in Hollidaysburg – Westminster Orthodox Presbyterian Church – has provided my family with the health insurance coverage and salary necessary to undertake study in this way.

Alongside of the studies which will occupy the bulk of my time, I will be working alongside my pastor in the daily life of the church.  Once or twice a month I will provide pulpit supply.  I will help visit the congregation and assist in teaching Sunday School.  Where opportunities arise, I will assist in evangelism and outreach.  In this way, my next few years will function not only as a time of academic study, but also as time of practical training and mentorship.

Will I still write software?  For the near future, the answer is yes.  Currently, I plan to continue to write software as a consultant.  Due to the responsibilities of my new position, however, this work will be done on a much-reduced schedule – during my day off and here and there in my “free time”.  So yes, I’ll still be coding – but the halcyon days of leading the charges and storming the towers of insurmountable software challenges are definitely fading.  I am transitioning programming from a primary occupation to a supporting one: metaphorically speaking, I am leaving the front-lines to work in logistics.

I am turning a page in my life.  Rather, I should say that God is turning that page.  I find that I am meeting this turn with a mix of excitement and trepidation.  I’m afraid because I cannot see the future.  I’m not the author of this story, and I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next chapter.  At the same time, I’m excited because I know how the story ends:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”  And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” And he said to me, “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give from the spring of the water of life without payment. The one who conquers will have this heritage, and I will be his God and he will be my son. (Revelation 21:1-7, ESV)

So as this page turns in my life, I can’t help but hope and pray that the Lord who has loved me and given himself for me – who has enabled and persuaded me to believe in Jesus Christ – will do the same for each of you who read this.  Knowing God is not easy and never without struggle. But it is the only way to be cleansed and freed from sin; the only way to fully and truly live.  Knowing God is what we were made for.  And so I end with a prayer that his gracious hand will turn the page for each of you.

(A printable, PDF version of this article is available here.)

Two winters ago, I had the opportunity to attend a reception in the gallery of the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. In his welcoming remarks, the reception’s host pointed out that the Library had a “sense of presence.” The articulation was perfect; for indeed, the gallery of the Library of Congress is one of the most beautiful and stunning interiors that I have ever seen. Ever since that night, the phrase has stuck with me.

I was reminded of this phrase this morning, when I attended the memorial service for the mother of a friend. “Memorial service” is too meager a term; the better name was the one printed on the bulletin: “service of resurrection”. Perhaps in practical terms they amount to same thing; yet there is in the latter a potent emphasis lacking in the former.

The service of resurrection was held at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. Sewickely is a old, wealthy suburb of Pittsburgh situated about a dozen miles northwest of the city along the Ohio River. I’m not sure how old St. Stephen’s Church is; the grandeur of the architecture (or its ‘impracticality’, as our impoverished modern sensibilities would refer to it) seemed to indicate that the parish is nearly as old as the town, which if accurate would date it to more than a century.

More interesting than its age, however, is the parish’s vibrancy. When I expressed some surprise at the size of the facilities, I was told that St. Stephen’s has over 2500 members! More important than the bare numbers, however, is the thing around which they all have gathered: and that is the Gospel. That this church is centered on the Lord Jesus Christ was evident everywhere - in its literature, in the spirit of the parishoners, and in the minister’s homily.

Which brings me around to the sense of presence. Now I know that all of the world is God’s world, and that everything in it belongs to him. I realize that true worshippers of Christ worship him in spirit and in truth, not with whitewashed sepulchres. Nevertheless, there was a definite sense of presence in St. Stephen’s Church this morning.

How can I describe the experience? Upon entering, one is almost immediately struck by the sheer scale of the sanctuary, the span of its enormous rafters, and the intricate details of the stained-glass and the wood trim. It was impressed upon me just how much bigger is Christ and his Church than I. Now to be sure, this was not the first time I had contemplated this truth. But too often in life, I am like a man who looks at himself in a mirror, only to go away forgetting what I look like. That is to say, I forget how truly small I am - especially before God. Today I was humbled. The experience was not unkind, however; just a gentle reminder.

The service of resurrection itself was beautiful. The opening hymn - “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God” - was majestic in its music, yet utterly earthy (in a good way) in its lyrics. I don’t know if my friend hand-picked this song himself, or whether it was requested by his mother before her death. Regardless, it set the tone for all that followed. A lady of the parish sang a stirring acapella rendition of Psalm 42, with the congregation singing the choral response. The Gospel was read from Isaiah 25, Revelation 21, and John 14, and the minister spoke on the reality of the hope available to all in Christ. Then we had communion, after which we prayed the commendation. The service was concluded with the hymn, “Abide With Me.”

The sense of presence was present throughout the service. This should not have surprised me, as the Lord himself said that where two or three are gathered in his name, there he is with us. I think the Holy Spirit was present today at St. Stephen’s. Not in wild displays or explosive outbursts, but rather in a calming quietude of spirit that presided over the worship. The Gospel is real, we were assured. Christ is alive, and those who put their trust in him are assured of his grace and their own resurrection.

I myself was not unmoved by the proceedings. Assurance of grace is a recurring struggle in my spiritual life. At one point as I sat in the pew this morning, I was staring at the “service of resurrection” title printed on the bulletin. I prayed that the Lord would use the service to resurrect me from my own doubts. Later on, as I kneeled at the rail to receive communion, I prayed that Christ would take away all my doubts and sins.

It was sometime after I returned to my pew that I was struck by a simple thought. We are accustomed as Christians to confessing our faith in Jesus with the phrase, “I trust you, Lord Jesus.” I confess this myself, but often I am tripped up in praying this way because I know my trust is not strong. Now I know that the strength of one’s faith is irrelevant to the power of God’s grace, but the phraseology still stings me. But this morning as I saw in my pew following communion, it struck me that the phrase could be reversed: “Lord Jesus, you are my trust.”

A subtle shift, I know. Irrelevant and unnecessary to most believers, I’m sure. But to me, it makes all the difference - taking the emphasis off of me and putting it on Christ, where it properly and truly belongs. Confidence in myself I have none; but confidence in Christ I lack nothing.The meaning was not changed in rearranging the words - but I was. Words will not express what this really did to me; but I wager that some who have had similar experiences will understand.

There are those who say that there is no such thing as sacred space - that one can worship God as truly from a couch as from a pew. And while they have a certain point, I think they miss something. I think they miss a sense of presence. Aesthetics do not enable the grace of God. But perhaps, just perhaps, God uses them to enable us to better receive his grace - humbling us and emphasizing to us the pre-eminence of Christ over all our smallnesses. This is a subtle thing, I know. But sometimes subtle shifts make all the difference.

(A printable, PDF version of this article is available here.)

Christianity is the religion of grace. As a Christian, graciousness is perhaps the part of God’s character in which I take most solace. As a sinner, however, grace is also one of the most difficult things for me to accept. I’ve written on this several times - most recently just a few days ago.

This afternoon I spent about an hour lying in the grass under a big old tree in a nearby park. I’m particularly fond of the park in question because it is so quiet; I’m particulary fond of the tree in question because it is so gnarled. I went to the park to spend some time pondering the relationship of grace to faith. I was somewhat torn as to whether or not this is a good idea.

To the extent that I know myself, I know that I have a tendency to overthink things. Just last night I realized that, to a very large extent, this proclivity to overthink is the source of much of my restlessness in regards to Christian assurance. I have been defining assurance of salvation in terms of my understanding: specificly, in my ability to answer all of my own theological questions. In times when I can’t think of any questions to stump myself, I feel assured. But any time a question comes along to which I do not know the answer, my little house of cards collapses - and I’m left there whining that I have to start all over.

The problem with this approach should be glaring: I am resting in myself, not in Christ. For a Christian, that is a huge no-no. And I know it. Having recognized and repented of this sin some time ago, I thought that I was over it. Alas! Were it only so! I feel kind of like a relapsed alcoholic - a guy who, having gone through one rehab session, thinks he’s able now to return to hanging out in the pub. This is exactly what it is like for me. Having gotten over trusting in my understanding once - over a year ago - I thought I was clean & cured for good. As it turns out, however, that is not the case: spiritual sobriety, like temperance, is a process - not a switch.

Anyway, this is why I was torn as to whether or not it was a good idea to go to the park today. Suppose that, in all my musings of faith and grace, that I were to arrive at some helpful conclusions. Would that really help me, or would it just reinforce my bad habit of trusting my synapses instead of my Saviour? On the other hand, what if the Lord were to lead me to figure out something that really could help point me away from myself? That was my dilemma. So I went to the park to ponder.

For awhile, all my thinking was noise. I prayed to the Lord, explaining my frustrations and asking for his help. I percolated over a passage from one of Paul’s letters:

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ-by grace you have been saved- and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. (Ephesians 2:4-9, ESV)

I had gone to this passage last night before bed. I went back to it this afternoon in order to see if it might help unravel my issue.

My issue goes like this: I believe that Scripture teaches salvation is by grace alone, through faith alone (not by works), and that faith is a gift of God. And yet, faith is still something we do - we believe in, we trust, the Lord Jesus. In that case, is it possible that we could be trusting Jesus alone as Lord and Savior the wrong way, and so not be saved?

It came to me then, however, that there are two problems with this question. The first goes thus: if faith is a gift of God, yet possible to be done wrong, then God is handing out defective gifts. The thought of this shook me. I would never intentionally accuse God of peddling bad merchandise; nevertheless, if my question were answered in the affirmative, that is exactly what I would be doing.

The second problem was more profound yet. As a Calvinist, and I admit that faith is a gift of God. And yet, if I allow that this gift can be wrongly (and ineffectively) used, what I am really doing is changing this gift from the instrument of salvation into the basis of salvation. If salvation depends on me taking God’s gift of faith and using in the right way, then salvation is no longer something I receive entirely as a gift - it’s something I earn partly. In other words, what my question was suggesting was not Calvinism, but Arminianism.

Now I love my Arminian brothers in Christ. However, I do not wish to join them - mainly because I don’t trust myself to even partly earn anything. When it became clear to me that this is where my question was leading, I realized I had taken a wrong turn. Ephesians 2:8 says that we are saved through faith - not because of it. And in the very next verse it says that this salvation through faith is a gift of God - not a result of works.

I think it was right around this point that a simple - yet important - distinction came to the forefront of my thinking. Christ does not choose to save us because we believe; we believe because he chose to save us. It seems to me that this statement unpacks the passage in Ephesians in two important ways. Firstly, it emphasizes grace as the sole basis of salvation. But secondly - and more to the point, in light of my primary concern - it excluses the idea that faith contributes anything to that grace. This gave me the answer to my main question.

Is it possible that we could be trusting Jesus alone as Lord and Savior the wrong way, and so not be saved? No. The reason that this is impossible is that our trusting Jesus contributes nothing to the basis for our salvation. The sole basis for our salvation is Christ’s finished work. When God saves us, he doesn’t apply that finished work in half-measures. God does not give us eyes to see, and then take his hands off to see where we’ll look: he gives us eyes to see, and then turns those eyes to Christ. And from the moment we see Christ, we are saved. Nowhere in this chain is a contingency upon our actions introduced. Why not? Because it is by grace we are saved through faith. Not by our own doing, not a result of our works. It’s the gift of God. Christ does not choose to save us because we believe; we believe because he has chosen to save us.

This is the conclusion with which I left the park this afternoon. It seemed to me a helpful one, and so I left optimistic. However, I was not terribly comfortable holding this conclusion without some sort of expert support. So when I came home from worship this evening, I dug around a bit in The Collected Writings of John Murray, Volume 1, where I found the following quotations to support my conclusion:

“If salvation at any point is contingent upon some contribution which man himself makes, then at that point it is of ourselves, and to that extent it is not of grace. Paul’s definition ‘and that not of yourselves’ is thereby effaced and the true nature of grace is denied.” (p. 120)

“Here we have the same principle exemplified and confirmed: grace knows no human contribution. If of grace, then it is wholly and exclusively of grace. Since salvation is of grace, it is all of grace.” (p. 122)

Did I learn something today? I think so. Will this enhanced understanding of grace humble me to rest wholly in Christ, or will it only reinforce my tendency to rest on my understanding? I fear the latter, but I pray for the former. One of these days, I really am going to have to stop whining and just trust Jesus alone. I hope - and I pray - that such a day has begun.

(A printable, PDF version of this article is available here.)

“I want warm water, Daddy; I want warm water!” The voice of my three-year-old was increasing in both insistence and pitch.

Today was a Thursday. Thursdays are “bath nights” for my children. Our youngest gets his in a small tub on the kitchen counter. The elder sons get a shower together - providing both comic relief and saving water. It is amazing how truly little children need to entertain themselves. A plastic cup, a rubber duck; just add water, and off they go.

Sometimes, there is even a bonus: the plastic cup will contain a bit of water from earlier in the day. By the time bath night rolls around, this water will have cooled considerably. On such occasions, bath time is inaugurated by a splash of these relatively frigid drops. It’s a good way to break the ice (lame pun intended), and the boys have always liked the penguin pictures their grandfather took on his voyage to Antarctica. My middle son will usually just blink. The eldest, however, reacts much more frantically. Such was the case tonight.

However, the whining continued even while the warm water was being prepared. Being the beacon of patience that I am - I am assured this is a hereditary trait - I waited all of two seconds before reacting: “Stop Whining!” I ordered sternly. Then, turning back to testing the running spigot for appropriate warmth, I added in an exasperated tone, “Just trust me!”

The words were out of my mouth before I knew it, and a moment later the shower sent a warm, calming rain on my sons. As I stood there watching the water stick the hair to their foreheads, the words I had uttered came back to me - and I realized something. These words were not just my irritable, thoughtless remarks to my son (though they were certainly that); to me, these words might as well have been the voice of God himself.

I should perhaps explain. For the past few weeks, I have been wrestling with a miniature spiritual crisis. One of my recurring struggles as a Christian is the matter of assurance: how can I be sure that I am saved? The issue has haunted me for over a dozen years. About a year ago, the Lord opened my eyes to the answers I needed. (You can read more about that here, if you are so inclined.) But old sins die hard; they morph & re-emerge in new guise. In recent weeks the hangover from this struggle had been “flaring up” to the point where it was occupying a large portion of my spare brain cycles.

The really crazy thing is this. Tonight, just prior to putting my sons in the shower, I was standing in my bedroom. Being thoroughly fed up with myself over this issue, I asked the Lord to show me what my problem was. I wasn’t really sure if he would answer; but I was pretty sure that if he decided to answer, it would not be via an audible voice. Turns out I was wrong on both counts.

“Stop whining. Just trust me.”

Pow. I had said those things to my own son, of my own accord. And yet at the same time, the extreme significance that they had to the point of my crisis had hit me almost as soon as the words had passed my lips. That is why I said above that these words might as well have been the voice of God to me; because I think, in an indirect way, that is exactly what they were.

You see, the specific points of my crisis might be unique to me. But in essence, what it all really boils down to is me having difficulty in admitting my own inability. And that, I think, is a problem that is spread far and wide in this world - both within and without the Church. Whether we want to admit it or not, none of us are able to self-exist for even one second. If we live and move, eat or sleep, we do so only by the sustaining grace of God. If we make it through a difficult trial, it’s only because God carries us through. How much more so is this the case when it comes to dealing with our primary problem: the sin that infests each of us like a horde of maggots?

The cure has to begin with knowledge: “faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” (Rom. 10:17, ESV) We have to be made aware of the cure first, before we can embrace it: we must hear the Gospel. But let’s face it. For many of us, the information has been available for quite some time. The problem is not ignorance. The problem is intransigence. At least, that is the problem with me.

There is no self-help solution to intransigence. What we need is faith. Contrary to our independent spirits, faith turns one away from oneself and trusts solely to the power of Another (cf. Rom. 4:5). Moreover, faith is not something we can gin up on our own, or whose operations we can credit as our own merit; it is a gift of God (cf. Eph. 2:8-9). Faith is trust, not work; and it trusts not itself, but Christ.

These remarks on faith may seem like an unnecessary distraction from my main thread, but they aren’t. As a Christian, I have put my trust in Christ. But sometimes, I get foggy on what that really entails. I start to think that my faith is somehow about itself rather than Christ. I ask myself questions like, “How do I know I’m trusting in the right way?” Of course, that question is absurd and unanswerable - it’s like asking, “How do I know if this square is round enough?” Trust is not an internal combustion engine; it’s a solar panel that receives and rests solely upon the energy of the Son.

I know all this, but very often I need to be reminded. And I think the same can be said for everyone, regardless of what your particular pet sins may be. You may not obsess over assurance: it may be the farthest thing from your mind. But I bet you get anxious about something. We all have a habit of trying to move boulders we can’t lift. I may be one of the few Christian obsessive-compulsives; but I know I’m not the only spiritual invalid.

And this brings us back round to the words I said and heard tonight. “Stop whining! Just trust me!” I think this is what Christ is really saying to each and every one of us. If you are a Christian, then you are probably trying to deal with things on your own that - if you keep it up - will likely squash you. If you are not a Christian, then you definitely are. Sin comes in many degrees and various forms, but it’s like VX - fatal in even trace amounts. I think we’re all aware that we are sinners. Oh, we may not use the word ’sin’, but only lawyers and politicians (and theologians) quibble over terms. We all know the truth - even when we try hard to suppress it. We all need the same cure, too. Christ is that cure. Whatever it is we’re whining about, we need to stop; we need to trust him.

The words I heard tonight - which I believe God meant for me even more than I meant them for my son - were tough love. Whining is something I most associate with my small children, not with myself. I don’t like to think of myself as a whiner. But the truth is, that is exactly what I am. I am whining child - and a splash of cold water is the least of my troubles. The cure for the whining child - whether he’s three years old, or three years short of three decades old - is the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

The Gospel came to me tonight in the shower through my own ill-tempered remarks to my son. As it sunk in, I couldn’t help but thank God. And then I laughed. “Stop whining. Just trust me.” Tough love indeed. But like the warm water falling on the heads of my sons, it was a rain of sweet relief.

It has been nearly three weeks since I last put digital pen to paper in this space. So what has been going on in that time? Much indeed - some bits more interesting than others.

The first highlight of the last three weeks came at the end of March, when my wife and I celebrated our tenth “dating anniversary.” I mean by this exactly what the phrase implies: that it has now been over ten interrupted years since my wife and I began to date. Though certainly not as significant as our wedding anniversary, we reckon that it is nonetheless worth celebrating that we have been together for a decade. A timespan of this length offers one a good opportunity to reflect: how much of my life now would I have been able to predict at age seventeen? It just goes to show that over-speculation regarding one’s future is not just self-absorbed; it’s functionally useless.

The second highlight of recent weeks was a trip that I made to Chantilly, VA, on the second day of April. The company for whom I currently work was participating in a “user conference” for a product that involves a lot of our software. What this means in practical terms is that not only did my company get to foot the bill for the conference refreshments; we were also on tap to provide presenters for most of the talks. As it turns out, most of my team’s “A-list” presenters were unavailable, so I got drafted. The talk went for about forty minutes, and people seemed fairly pleased with what we had to say.

Other highlights of the day included spending a bit of time chatting and having lunch with my boss from CA, and (on the way home) spending some time and sharing a meal with my little brother, who lives now in Cumberland. Even the drive was nice - a lot of miles spent driving along rural roads in the Old Dominion. I got to listen to a nice set of talks by Sinclair Ferguson on the way down, and got to puff on my pipe a bit on the way home. Best of all, the Lord brought me home to a happy and un-hectic family. All told, it was a pretty good day. Even if I did have to get up at 3.30 AM.

The third cluster of events occurred over the first weekend of April. That Friday and Saturday were spent with my pastor in Grove City, PA, at the Spring stated meeting of our presbytery. Presbytery meetings don’t typically have a reputation for excitement (just go to one sometime - you’ll see). This past meeting, however, was a significant exception. In the course of a day and a half of discussions, no fewer than three very interesting topics were discussed. Moreover, we ended the meeting early on Saturday (yes, really). More moreover, I sold three copies of my book. More more moreover… well, you get the idea.

Overall, it was a good meeting: good accomodations, good discussions, good meals, and good conversation with my pastor on the drive. Though there is no question that he and I are different in some ways, I can tell that I am going to learn a lot from him over the upcoming years. I’m really looking forward to that. And by the by, this is one of the great things about the Gospel: how it touches and unites folks from different backgrounds and upbringings - not just around the world, but even within the same county!

The Sunday after our return, my third son - who is today about seven weeks old - was baptised. This was certainly the most significant event of these weeks. The minister who baptised him (my pastor, whom I alluded to above) was the same minister who baptised me roughly twenty-five years ago. That was pretty great. I also had the morning sermon for the service, to the largest crowd to which I have ever had the honour to speak: 204 souls. That made for a hectic morning, but it went fairly well. After the service, we had a large family dinner. That was nice, too - and rather filling. Later that evening, we had a guest speaker at our evening service: the minister in whose church my wife and I had worshipped during university. After the service we had an opportunity to catch up a bit. All told, it was a gracious, great day.

Though other things have occurred in the last twenty odd days (beautiful weather, great walks, good fellowship - even being interviewed on my political views by an out-of-town news team at the coffee shop!), these are the highlights as they currently present themselves to my mind. It has been a busy three weeks in Pennsylvania. But it has also been a good three weeks. God is so gracious.

One of the most difficult things for me to grasp in my Christian experience has been the totality of grace in salvation. This is a somewhat disturbing confession to make as a Reformed Presbyterian; nevertheless, it is the truth. I wonder if I am the only person who has these sorts of struggles. Do others wrestle with resting in God’s grace as I do, or is it merely I who is - as a dear friend memorably described me - a scab-picker?

Grace is the unmerited favour of God. It comes to Christians when the Holy Spirit effectually applies the finished work of Jesus Christ to us: convicting us of sin, enlightening our minds in the knowledge of Christ, renewing our wills and working faith in our hearts. This faith in Jesus Christ, born of grace, enables us to receive and rest upon him alone for salvation.

Once God has worked this faith in our hearts, he declares us to be justified. Even here, though, grace is pre-eminent. We are justified not on the basis of the presence of faith, or on our act of believing, or on anything else we do. It’s not that we possess faith, or that we exercise it. We are justified only by the obedience and satisfaction accomplished by Jesus Christ - imputed to us through (and not because of) faith.

Grace is key word here. It’s only five letters long, but it’s so hard for me to swallow sometimes. I know that I’m only saved by receiving and resting upon Christ alone through faith alone. But there’s a part of me that wants to doubt this. There’s a fragment of sin & unbelief that wars against my soul, constantly trying to redirect my attention away from Jesus and onto myself. Being unable to deny grace overtly, it tries subtlety: are you thinking about this grace correctly, or often enough?

Knowing the ridiculousness of these questions, I am continually attempting to repent of them. I confess them to God as foolishness; I beg forgiveness. Here again, however, the rearguard of sin hits my flanks: have you asked in the right way, or recently enough?

I can quote Scripture at my sins, but sometimes repeating even my favourite verse - Romans 4:5 - becomes so spiritually exhausting that I despair. I wonder how I can ever hope to minister the Gospel of grace to people, when I seem to have such a loose grasp on it myself. My thoughts become dark and my mood depressed.

But in the end, I remember that the keyword is grace. My salvation does not depend on how correctly, how often, or how well I trust Christ or repent of sins. My salvation does not depend on making sure I’ve asked for it, or making sure I’ve asked forgiveness for each and every sin, each and every time I commit one. If any of this were true, then justification would be by works.

It is because I know the hopelessness of myself that I thank God from the bottom of my heart that, “faith, thus receiving and resting on Christ and his righteousness, is the alone instrument of justification,” (WCF 11.2) and that, “justification is an act of God’s free grace” (WSC 33)

I don’t have a strong faith. I don’t receive and rest on Christ alone very well. That’s shameful to admit, but is it utterly true. This is why I am so grateful to God that it’s not dependent upon me, that salvation doesn’t work this way. I know that some readers don’t care for lengthy quotations, but I really cannot state it better than this:

Those whom God effectually calleth, he also freely justifieth: not by infusing righteousness into them, but by pardoning their sins, and by accounting and accepting their persons as righteous; not for anything wrought in them, or done by them, but for Christ’s sake alone; nor by imputing faith itself, the act of believing, or any other evangelical obedience to them, as their righteousness; but by imputing the obedience and satisfaction of Christ unto them, they receiving and resting on him and his righteousness, by faith; which faith they have not of themselves, it is the gift of God. (WCF 11.1)

I am a Christian. My sins are forgiven. I am going to heaven when I die, and I will live with Jesus for all eternity in a new heavens and a new earth after he returns. But not because of anything I possess or do. Not even because I have faith or believe. It’s only because of who Christ is and what he has done. I don’t receive and rest upon him very well with the faith that he has given me. That’s a shame, but it’s also irrelevant. Faith is not our salvation: Christ is. Faith is only the instrument. Whether it’s weak or strong in me, it is still the gift - the saving grace - of God. And God’s grace never fails.

I am a scab-picker, it’s true. I trust Christ feebly, fumbling about and tripping over doubts. I have a hard time with the totality of grace. But I am saved - by grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone - in spite of my weakness. I cannot help but love God for this: that his grace comes even to the restless. Even to one such as me. Sola Deo gloria.

I just got an email update… my dividend miles have broken 70k!  Have I really flown this much?