Many biographies of Martin Luther contain the story of when he froze at the altar offering a prayer at his first mass. He later recounted,

With what tongue shall I address such majesty, seeing that all men ought to tremble in the presence of even an earthly prince? Who am I, that I should lift up mine eyes or raise my hands to the divine Majesty? The angels surround Him. At His nod the earth trembles. And shall I, a miserable little pygmy, say 'I want this, I ask for that'? For I am dust and ashes and full of sin and I am speaking to the living, eternal, and true God.

This recollection allows us to observe in the young Luther a limited grasp of the character of God and our relation to him. He certainly had a strong sense of God's majesty and approached him with a deep sense of reverence and fear. But it is clear that he did not yet understand the work of Christ, which enables believers to "draw near to God with a sincere heart and full assurance of faith" (Heb. 10:22). God is great to be feared, but he is also a loving Father who invites us to draw near to him.

Tracing the development of his thinking on prayer is quite interesting. Later in life, he would come to treasure prayer so much that he is reported to have spent three hours each day praying. One of his students, during the famous Table Talk sessions, recorded Luther saying,

O how great and upright and godly Christian’s prayer is! how powerful with God; that a poor human creature should speak with God’s high majesty in heaven, and not be affrighted, but, on the contrary, knoweth that God smileth upon him for Christ’s sake, his dearly beloved Son. The heart and conscience, in this act of praying, must not fly and recoil backwards by reason of our sins and unworthiness, and must not stand in doubt, nor be scared away.

Notice Luther's shift in perspective here. Where at first the majesty of God caused him to feel unworthy, now he marvels that we should not be scared away by this. He himself wrote,

We pray after all because we are unworthy to pray. The very fact that we are unworthy and that we dare to pray confidently, trusting only in the faithfulness of God, makes us worthy to pray and to have our prayer answered... Your worthiness does not help you; and your unworthiness does not hinder you. Mistrust condemns you; but confidence makes you worthy and upholds you.

Of course, there is much for us to learn from Luther's understanding of prayer. His transparency is good for us to see because many of us find our understanding of prayer developing on the same trajectory as Luther's. We might begin by trembling before our awesome God, but as we come to understand who he is and what Christ has done in reconciling us to him, we come to recognise the intimate relationship we can have with God. And in time we come to realise what a treasure it is to be able to come before a holy and righteous God with such confidence in his love for us, knowing that he hears and answers our prayers.

As children innocently prepare their costumes and empty bags or pillowcases for an enjoyable evening of collecting candy, evangelicals will be battling the forces of Satan on two fronts tonight: boycotting Halloween, and gathering together for a few rousing rounds of Rome-bashing.

Now, I don't enjoy Halloween (specifically what American culture has made of it), and have no problem with those who wish to abstain from participating in it; there are many good reasons not to. However, I am sure there are many doing so tonight who have no idea what they are actually boycotting. They prefer to ignore all that history and instead seize on to the opportunity to celebrate another day which nicely coincides with this awful pagan holiday—Reformation Day.

Lest I sound too cynical, let me note that I am, indeed, very thankful the Reformation happened—I am glad that the doctrines of grace were recovered, I am glad that the abuse of power by corrupt church leaders was curtailed, and I am glad that I did not have to pay for St. Peter’s to be built pay for my relatives to be sprung from purgatory. The Reformation is most certainly something to be thankful for. But one question continues to linger in my mind—would we even celebrate Reformation Day if it didn't conveniently fall on the same night as Halloween?

We might ask why we need a special night to celebrate the Reformation. On the one hand, it seems to be the equivalent of using Valentine's Day to tell your wife that you love her. As your love for her should be manifest each day, shouldn't our rejoicing in God's saving grace be something we do each day? This grace should pour forth from the preaching of the Word and we should taste it in partaking of the Lord's Table each Sunday. Do we really need a specific day to commemorate this?

Moreover, Martin Luther's act of nailing the 95 Theses to the church door in Wittenberg was not the monumental act of defiance that many make it out to be. He only intended to raise a discussion about various issues concerning the Catholic Church with his academic peers. Luther's innocent action exploded into the major events that followed only because some random guy grabbed the piece of paper off the door, translated it into German, and sent copies of it all throughout the country. Do we need to a special day to remember that autumn day in 1517 when Luther walked up the stairs to the door of the Wittenberg church and made known his desire to have an academic discussion with his colleagues?

Hardly. So what is it, then, that evangelicals end up celebrating on Reformation Day? To be sure, there are those who will understand and acknowledge the theological implications of the Reformation. But for others, Reformation Day is, for all intents and purposes, a day to celebrate the disunity of the church. That, to me, is certainly not worth celebrating.

For some reason, people seem to forget that while Luther ultimately made the move to break from the Roman Catholic Church, he did not do so immediately. He spent years in agony deciding whether or not to leave the church he knew as mother and to go against Christ's call for unity in the body of believers (John 17:20-26, 1 Corinthians 1:10). People also forget that Luther was not the first Reformer, and that there were many who went before him who also tried earnestly to reform the church from within. Separating from the church was never the intention of these men, yet their valiant efforts to remain united seem to go unheralded. Instead, we prefer to celebrate the Protestant break from Rome, the second-most definitive and drastic split in the history of the church (the first being the Great Schism of 1054).

Am I advocating a return to Rome? No. Do I think the church will ever be one this side of our Lord's return? Of course not. Am I thankful for the work of the Reformers? Absolutely—I count it a great privilege to be rooted in the theological heritage they left us. But we can't forget that the Reformation also produced a lot of collateral damage. When you have to start constructing graphs that look like the one below (and this is just the American Presbyterians!) something is terribly wrong. And it is nothing to celebrate.O Lord, make us one as You are one.

I wrote this review of Mark Noll's book, The Old Religion in the New World, back in January for the research study I'm doing on the history of Christianity in America. Don't feel any obligation to read it—in fact, not doing so will save you from using up ten minutes of your life unnecessarily. The only reason I'm posting it here is to test out how Posterous embeds PDF files. The book, however, unlike my review, comes highly recommended if you are looking for a good introduction to the factors that shaped American Christianity. Go and read the book.

Click here to download:

noll_review.pdf (13 KB)

The pastor of our church is retiring in April, and after going through his collection and taking home the books he wanted to keep, he graciously allowed three of us who are seminary students to pillage the rest of his library. We went to the office a few nights ago and began to mark out our territory. About half of Martyn Lloyd-Jones' series on Romans was there as well as Philip Schaff's 8-volume History of the Christian Church, which were the two sets I wanted most from all the books on the shelf. The other two guys did not mind, so I happily put them in my box. While I know Schaff's work is available online, I wanted it on my shelf, especially since my area of interest is church history and historical theology and Schaff's history is still an important one in the field. I was able to grab a few more worthwhile items as well, which you see in the photo to the left.

Collecting new books never gets old, but it does fill up our bookshelves very quickly—once I get these put into their proper places, we will almost be out of shelf space again.

As part of my research study on the history of Christianity in America, I am reading Reformed Theology in America: A History of its Modern Developments, a collection of essays edited by David Wells on the various streams of Reformed theology in the United States. One of the chapters, written by Wells himself, is on Charles Hodge, one of the most significant Calvinist theologians in American history and one of the longest-serving professors at Princeton.

Part of the chapter deals with Hodge's understanding of the atonement, set against that of the New School thinkers (such as Moses Stuart, Albert Barnes, and especially Nathaniel Taylor), whose understanding, among other things, denied the doctrine of imputation. Hodge saw a connection between how one understood the atonement and how they understood God's governance of the world. For Hodge the satisfying of God's justice was central to the work of Christ, and "the atonement made possible the preservation of the moral structure of the universe" (55). In accord with His character, God would treat His creatures as they deserved, showing favor to what is good and disfavor to what is wrong. For Hodge, then, the issue of theodicy was connected to one's understanding of the atonement.

In the view of men like Taylor, God's justice against an immoral society served as a sort of detterent, and for the individual sinner it would be a form of rehabilitation. Hodge, however, understood that God's dealing with His creatures was in accord with what they deserved, and thus "only Christ's interposition could preserve us from the calamity which the vindication of God's character would produce" (55).

Here lay the crux, so to speak, of Hodge's differences with the New School thinkers. For they believed, in most cases, that in God's government of the world punishment was used but the purpose was to prevent sin and to correct the sinner. This attitude naturally led to the assumption that the chief goal of existence is happiness, and holiness is simply the best way to get there. But, countered Hodge, 'we know that holiness is something more than a means; that to be happy is not the end and reason for being holy; that enjoyment is not the highest end of being.' This results in our viewing ethical choices in commercial terms. A choice is made, not because it is the inherently right thing to do, but because it produces profit of some kind and avoids loss. Virtue becomes expediency. The end justifies the means. And human beings are degraded because their moral capacities are reduced to being merely the instruments of happiness (55-56).

Evangelicalism today, in many respects, is largely a witness to the continuing influence of the thought of men like Taylor. There is a pervasive moralism that lurks beneath the surface, one that, while perhaps affirming salvation by grace alone, leaves the individual responsible for doing things that will make them happier or better people—reading their Bible more, praying more, going to church and attending all of its programs throughout the week, listening to Christian radio, giving a little more than the required tithe, and so on. People become quick to attribute their various "sufferings" to their neglect of the performance of any or all of these duties (also prevalent right now is the linking of the economic state of the United States with its collective lack of holiness).

All of this fails, for one, to make the distinction between happiness and joy, the latter of which is something volitional. Paul's letter to the Philippians contains a number of imperatives demonstrating that rejoicing in the Lord is not a feeling that results from doing certain things. Instead, Paul encourages us to be joyful by considering "everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus" (Phil. 3:8), and by glorying in the blessing of being united with him. Additionally, it fails to recognize the holistic work of Christ in our lives. Our salvation, being brought from death to life, includes the ongoing work of sanctification by the Spirit in our hearts, enabling us to grow and mature and increasingly live in a manner worthy of our calling as children of God.

While we should certainly devote ourselves to things like the study of Scripture and prayer, Hodge is right to say that we should not view holiness as a means to an end. Holiness, instead, is a response to the grace of God. The Heidelberg Catechism affirms that "it is impossible for those grafted into Christ by true faith not to produce fruits of gratitude" (Q&A 64). Our happiness is never contingent on the performance of certain holy duties. Hodge would argue that to hold to this understanding would be do a great disservice to the atoning work of Christ.

If you study the history of American Christianity, as I have been doing over the past couple of months, one of the themes that appears again and again is the emphasis on conversion. It is not an emphasis that has faded over time, either—even today many Christians continue to hold to the idea that one must have a definable moment of conversion followed by a decision on their part to follow Christ in order to legitimately be considered a Christian.

In the 18th and 19th century, during a period of revivalism, men like Charles Finney made this emphasis the cornerstone of their preaching. These preachers would constantly urge their listeners to make a decision to follow Christ in the hopes of seeing many conversions take place on the spot, much like the modern "altar call." Predictably, there was strong reaction against this from certain quarters. Back in 1902, for example, the Reformed Church in the United States had published an edition of the Heidelberg Catechism (rather unoriginally titled The Heidelberg Catechism of the Reformed Church in the United States, 20th Century Edition) in which it was made clear that while some people would legitimately be able to point to a time when they first believed, this was not something that every Christian had to articulate (contrary to the opinion of Finney, et. al.). Under the heading "On Confirmation, Catechism, and Conversion," was this:

What are the qualifications for full [communicant] membership?

Answer: an intelligent, cheerful, humble, sincere, earnest 'yes' to the three confirmation vows of repentance, faith, and obedience.

Need I tell you that this fitness is conversion? Some persons, not understanding our church life and customs, foolishly think that we confirm our young people no matter what their state of mind and heart is, and that we do not believe in conversion. This is a great mistake. We require a high degree of fitness for confirmation, namely, an intelligent, sincere, and unreserved taking of three most searching and far-reaching vows in the name of the holy Trinity.

Then, too, this fitness for confirmation may be called 'a change in heart,' though this is only another name for conversion. This change is not sudden, but runs through years. You have not had any wonderful religious experiences, such as you hear about in others; but the Holy Ghost has done much in you in a very quiet way.

Nor need you doubt your conversion, your change in heart, because you cannot tell the day when it took place, as many profess to do. It did not take place in a day, or you might tell it. It is the growth of years (Mark 4:26-28), and therefore all the more reliable. You cannot tell when you learned to walk, talk, think, and work. You do not know when you learned to love your earthly father, much less the heavenly.

This the Reformed doctrine of 'getting religion.' We get religion, not in bulk but little by little. Just as we get natural life and strength, so spiritual life and strength, day by day.

To this fitness, this preparation of heart and mind, you profess to have come. You are about to take your vows, turning your back to the Devil, the world, and the flesh, while you look heavenward. Fix your whole heart upon Christ. Consecrate yourself fully to his service, realizing that with body and soul, in life and in death, you are his.

I found this to be very interesting, not least for its emphasis on the idea that precisely because you cannot point to a specific time of conversion, you should consider it all the more reliable. One did not need a Damascus Road experience to be certain of their faith, for the work of God in the heart of the believer was a gradual, ongoing process. Religion does not come in bulk, it is here argued. What do you think?

*Thanks to my professor, John Muether, for sending this my way.

The doctrine of sola Scriptura has long been contentious, for any number of reasons. In the early American period, with a Christianity greatly influenced by populism and democratic ideals, it served as a license for people to interpret the Bible free of any traditional authorities such as ordained clergy and confessional standards. To put it bluntly, it gave them a license to do whatever they wanted. Nathan O. Hatch, in The Democratization of American Christianity, observes this:

Any number of denominations, sects, movements, and individuals between 1780 and 1830 claimed to be restoring a pristine biblical Christianity free from all human devices. 'In religious faith we have but one Father and one Master,' noted the Universalist spokesman A. B. Grosh, 'and the Bible, the Bible, is our only acknowledged creed-book.' 'I have endeavored to read the scriptures as though no one had read them before me,' claimed Alexander Campbell, 'and I am as much on my guard against reading them to-day, through the medium of my own views yesterrday, or a week ago, as I am against being influenced by any foreign name, authority, or system whatever.'

Protestants from Luther to Wesley had been forced to define carefully what they meant by sola Scriptura. They found it an effective banner to unfurl when attacking Catholics but always a bit troublesome when common people began to take the teaching seriously. For the Reformers, popular translations of the Bible did not imply that people were to understand the Scriptures apart from ministerial guidance. Thus when dealing with a scholar such as Erasmus, Luther could champion boldly the perspicuity of Scripture, its clarity for all: 'Who will maintain that the public fountain does not stand in the light, because some people in a back alley cannot see it, when everybody in the market place can see it quite plainly?' Yet when confronted with headstrong sectarians, he withdrew such democratic interpretations and admitted the danger of proving anything by Scripture: 'Now I learn that it suffices to throw many passages together helterskelter whether they fit or not. If this is the way to do it, I certainly shall prove with Scripture that Rastrum beer is better than Malmsey wine' (179-180).

Abraham Kuyper once wrote, in his Encyclopedia of Sacred Theology, that it would be foolish for someone to attempt to hike through the mountains of Switzerland without the help of a guide or a map. That is analogous, of course, to saying neither is it wise for someone to take up the Bible and attempt to interpret it apart from the wisdom of the Church throughout the ages. "In its rich and many-sided life, extending across so many ages," Kuyper wrote,

the Church tells you at once what fallible interpretations you need no longer try, and what interpretation on the other hand offers you the best chances for success. On this ground the claim must be put, that the investigator of the Holy Scriptures shall take account of what history and the life of the Church teaches concerning the general points of view, from which to start his investigation, and which paths it is useless to further reconnoitre.

Kuyper's sentiments are entirely antithetical to most of American Christianity, both past and present. As much as democratic ideals have done good things for America as a political entity, insofar as people have allowed those ideals to shape the Church in America, they have done a great disservice. Like I said in my last post, God grants authority to the Church, not the individual. He gives Scripture to His covenant people that it may reveal their Lord and shape and govern their life according to His will. To be sure, the individual must appropriate Scripture for himself (Deut. 6:4-9; Psalm 119; 2 Tim. 3:16-17, etc.), but never in a vacuum.

Our identity as Christians is not primarily that we are individuals saved by Christ. This is true, but it is not primary. What is first is that God has called a people to Himself, has redeemed them and brought them into a covenant relationship with them. Individual believers consitute that people, but not atomistically; their corporate identity as the body of Christ is at the fore. It follows here, then, that our reading of Scripture is to be done in this covenant community and not apart from it. This is not to say individuals should not read their Bibles on their own, of course, but that when they do so they should read it through what Kuyper calls the "consciousness of the Church." The Bible is, after all, God's covenant document with the Church.

When I was in college, Albert Wolters once said something like, "Don't worry, you can't come up with any new heresies. They've all been tried already." I'm not sure if that was intended to comfort us, but the point was that if we set ourselves some theological boundaries and recognize that the Church throughout history has already tried a myriad of interpretations, approving some and disapproving others, we have ourselves a pretty reliable guide as we travel today.

History matters, tradition matters, and the Church matters. They are gifts. Lean on them.

Writing on the legacy of post-Revolutionary era Christianity in America in his book, The Democratization of American Christianity, historian Nathan Hatch attempts to determine what the driving force was behind it all. He notes that American Christians certainly did not develop "a genius for ecclesiastical organization...[but instead] muddled along in a state of anarchic, free-market pluralism." It did not have leaders of great prestige, nor "an ability to make faith plausible to the modern world" (212-213). So what was the driving force, then?

A central force [in American Christianity] has been its democratic or populist orientation. America has lived in the shadow of a democratic revolution and the liberal, competitive culture that followed in its wake. Forms of popular religion characteristic of that cultural system bound paradoxical extremes together: a reassertion of the reality of the supernatural in everyday life linked to the quintessentially modern values of autonomy and popular sovereignty. American Christians reveled in freedom of expression, refused to bow to tradition and hierarchy, jumped at opportunities for innovative communication, and propounded popular theologies tied to modern notions of historical development. No less than Tom Paine or Thomas Jefferson, populist Christians of the early republic sought to start the world over again. By raising the standard 'no creed but the Bible,' Christians in America were the foremost proponents of individualism even as they expected the open Bible to replace an age of sectarian rivalry with one of primitive harmony. Like the egalitarian credo of the early republic, this vision has taken a powerful hold on the American imagination despite the disparity between the quest for unity and actual religious fragmentation and authoritarianism (213).

There is no doubt that we continue to see this legacy today in American Christianity. I find it particularly interesting that while we so often attribute the problem of individualism to Enlightenment thought and its vindication of autonomous man, Hatch here demonstrates that, in American culture at least, individualism is in part owing to the forms of Christianity which gained such prominence in the early years of the republic.