Ellen Charry, professor of systematic theology at Princeton Theological Seminary, wrote a book about a decade ago called By the Renewing of Your Minds: The Pastoral Function of Christian Doctrine. She argues, using the example of some of the most significant theologians in history, that theology must be done first and foremost for the service of the church. Theology is a key component of discipleship and an essential part of growth in faith. In a chapter on the Swiss reformer, John Calvin, she notes:

[Calvin] was concerned with engaging Christians in understanding God deeply and personally...he believed that Christians need moral strengthening and that God is the proper agent of reform. Training in godliness is the purpose of his Institutes of the Christian Religion, stated in the opening paragraph of his prefatory address to King Francis I, which accompanied the first (1536) edition: 'My purpose was solely to transmit certain rudiments by which those who are touched with any zeal for religion might be shaped to true godliness'... And in the prefatory note to the final (1559) edition, Calvin repeats that he had 'no other purpose than to benefit the church by maintaining the pure doctrine of godliness' through his 'zeal to spread [God's] Kingdom and to further the public good'... Calvin begins by identifying himself as an aretegenically oriented teacher of the church who understands the implications of theology for public life.

If we take doctrine and piety as belonging to two separate fields, one academic and the other pastoral, we will never understand Calvin. For Calvin, the purpose of treating articles of religion is to enhance godliness. If that treatment is comprehensive, so much the better. The modern academy eliminated spiritual and moral formation from scholarly inquiry, rendering the modern disciplines of marginal use to the church. Calvin would stand down from this decision (199).

Calvin's perspective here (and, by extension, Charry's) is the reason I maintain such an interest in theology. While one can certainly study theology at an academic level, that person then has a responsibility – indeed, a duty – to use the fruits of that study in service of the church and for the building up of the body of Christ. I noted last year how Jamie Smith makes this same contention, and was reminded of his words again today as I was reading this portion of Charry's book. One of my professors at RTS, John Frame, would frequently make the same observation. His defintion of theology as "the application of God's Word by persons to all areas of life" makes the point explicitly. It's not just intended for the ivory tower of the academy.

(As a side note, I find it odd that given Calvin's perspective on theology, we treat the Institutes as some sort of rigorously academic textbook, when instead Calvin intended it for the people in his congregation, as a means to help them understand the Bible more fully, and thus as a tool for discipleship.)

The church needs theology, there is no getting around it. Jesus commanded his disciples to make disciples by teaching them all that he had commanded them. Growth in faith correlates with a growth in knowledge. Theologians, do your work for the service of the church that God's people might increasingly learn to live for his glory.

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Slapdash. Messy. Disorderly. Shambolic. Any or all of these attributes could describe it.

Gary Parrett and Steve Kang recognize this. Their recent (and excellent) book, Teaching the Faith, Forming the Faithful: A Biblical Vision for Education in the Church, makes this all-too-obvious yet seemingly unheeded observation:

There are very few spheres in which an approach to education is as random and haphazard as that practiced in many of our churches today. If someone wanted to study toward a degree in economics, for example, it would be most unlikely that the college would let her choose all her own courses or choose simply not to take classes at all. If we wish our child to learn to play an instrument, we would certainly hope to find an instructor who has some idea and plan about what particular things really must be learned and when and how. When we look at the medical school diploma on the walls of our doctors' offices, we probably assume—and gratefully so—that our doctors actually attended (in the full sense of the term) all the required classes in the curriculum and not only those that suited their fancies at the time. How strange it is that, in this matter of Christian education and formation, we have come to adopt so very different a scheme.

Indeed.

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One section of James K. A. Smith's book, The Devil Reads Derrida, is a collection of essays on the university, entitled "Schools of Faith." The title underscores Smith's recognition of the fact that any educational institution communicates a worldview and is shaped by a certain religious orientation.

The modern American university, Smith says, is every bit as religious as those institutions which intentionally declare themselves as such. These other institutions operate on the false principle that they are educating objectively, with the assumption that the secular is neutral and non-religious. This, of course, is impossible; "indeed, one could suggest that much that goes under the banner of 'secular' education is, in fact, a kind of religious formation where students are initiated into a particular worldview" (56). In the case of the secular institution, this means education reflects the secular commitments of the market and political liberalism, among others.

What this fosters is the mindset that students are consumers. As a defining characteristic of Western culture, Smith argues, this consumerist mentality filters its way into every part of our life such that even our educational institutions become agents in the process of consuming "goods" and "skills," which are intended solely for the benefit of the individual and his or her happiness.

There is another way, however, that does not focus on consuming goods and skills, but acquiring them, a distinction Smith employs to emphasize that acquisition of these things is ultimately for the sake of others—to be used in service to God and for the good of our neighbors. Here is where a liberal arts education is so important.

The scandal of the liberal arts education is that it's not about giving people what they want. It's about challenging the wants themselves, and ultimately to form and direct those wants and desires otherwise. My task is to invite students to radically reconsider their wants. The professor's task is not to politely and meekly ask, 'Can I help you find what you're looking for?' Rather, I want to challenge students by asking: 'Why would you be looking for that?' A liberal arts education—and especially a Christian liberal arts education—should come as a shock to those whose habits have been shaped by a culture of consumerism. This is because the liberal arts are about the formation of students, and the central task of formation runs deeply counter to the egocentric stance fostered by consumerism. The very notion of 'formation' calls into question the autonomy at the heart of consumerism (42).

Referencing the modal theory of Dutch philosopher Herman Dooyeweerd, Smith goes on to make the point that the university needs to operate according to its leading function or aspect, and raises the question of whether or not "the paradigm of student-as-consumer indicate[s] that the college is unwittingly letting a secondary, economic aspect trump our leading aspect of education, formation, and research" (44). The answer, of course, is quite clear. And so, Smith concludes,

while students are here to acquire habits, skills, and wisdom, this does not make them 'consumers' or customers. As an institution focused on the task of education, we are not providing a 'commodity.' And having a unique identity does not just translate into being a 'brand.' In fact, the task of a distinctively Christian liberal arts education is to create a community of people formed to resist and challenge the reductionism of a market-driven culture. To the extent that we do that, we will be faithful to our calling (45).

Any thoughts on this?

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James K. A. Smith's new book, The Devil Reads Derrida, grabs you immediately—not only is it shod in a can't-turn-your-eyes-away red, but it bears a provocative title that compels you to drop whatever you're doing, pick it up, and scan the table of contents.

That is just how I reacted when I walked into the RTS Bookstore some time ago and saw it on the shelf of new featured items. At this point, I've only read the introduction and the first chapter, but it looks as if there will be lots of great material in this little volume; certainly some good material on which to blog.

Smith makes his overarching theme known within the first few pages of the introduction. Christian scholarship, he contends, is something done in public—that is, it is ultimately done in service to the Church, for the purposes of discipleship. When academics withdraw into the scholarly world, and the roads they travel never intersect with the laity, the latter will begin to look for wisdom and guidance wherever they can find it.

His intention, following the lead of Richard Mouw, is to work out of a hermeneutic of charity. He admittedly finds himself frustrated from time to time with "his people," the evangelical world, yet realizes that this is precisely the reason he can't withdraw from those circles even when he wants to. In his own words:

No matter how much I might disagree and be frustrated by their positions and interpretations, I know that above all my brothers and sisters want to be faithful disciples of Jesus. Even if I think they've bought into all sorts of questionable assumptions and causes; even if I think they've been co-opted by cynical political machines; even though I might think they've assimilated the worst sorts of cultural prejudices; even if I think God wants to invite them to 'higher' cultural passions—there is a sense in which I think they're just trying to make their way in the world the best they can. And if they've bought the paradigms sold to them by the voices on Christian radio that I think are problematic, then the burden is on me to show them otherwise. My responsibility is not to condescendingly look down upon them from my cushy ivory tower, but to take time to get out of the tower and speak to them—and, please note, learn from them. Christian scholars would do well to be slow to speak and quick to listen.

This hermeneutic of charity is not just romantic or utopian; in my experience, the wisdom of this stance has been confirmed. When I take the time to teach an adult Sunday School class, I find Christians who are hungry for wisdom. And though ultimately I might be trying to induce a paradigm shift in their thinking, hoping to basically de-program the way Christian radio has got them thinking about gender or justice, I find that so long as I begin from the assumption that we want to bring all of our thinking and doing under the Lordship of Christ and the light of the biblical narrative, my brothers and sisters are quite happy to hear a different take on their settled convictions—as long as it is offered in charity and humility, not with scolding and condescension (xv-xvi).

Reading this last night was refreshing; it was as if Smith was taking my own thoughts and neatly putting them in paragraph form. Next to glorifying God, the deepest desire I have is to take my abilities as an academic (well, that's rather audacious—perhaps an aspiring academic, or maybe a pseudo-academic) and use them in service to His people in order that they might come to know and serve Him better, and to love Him more. That is one of the reasons I love teaching the adult Sunday School at our local church, and why I see myself being involved in the educational ministry of the church for years to come.

Smith rightly points out that in the family of faith, there is no "us" and "them." It's only "us," bound together by the name of Jesus Christ. If those whom God has gifted with intellectual and academic abilities make primary use of their gifts outside of the Church, we can only expect churches full of people who lack wisdom and discernment.

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Due to time constraints and pressing deadlines, I am foregoing addressing the next point in the Monday series until next week. Today's post will be a short quote from some reading I was doing earlier this week.

For one class this semester, a good chunk of reading from Don Carson and Douglas Moo's book, An Introduction to the New Testament, has been assigned. It is not my favorite book in the world, not a book you can really just sit down and read, but it certainly is a helpful resource. And there are some noteworthy points that really stand out now and then, like this:

An easily overlooked theme in Acts is the power of the word of God. Again and again, Luke attributes the growth and strength of the church to the dynamic activity of God's word. Preaching the world of God is what the apostles do wherever they go. 'Received the word of God' is another way of saying 'became a Christian' (Acts 11:1). Especially striking are those places where Luke, usually in transitional summaries, claims that the word of God 'grew' or 'spread' or 'increased' (Acts 6:7; 12:24; 13:49; 19:20). For Luke the word of God is especially the message about God's gracious redemption through Jesus Christ. For all Luke's emphasis on the importance of apostolic preaching, therefore, he makes clear that it is only as they are faithful witnesses to the Word that spiritual transformation takes place. As C. K. Barrett notes, 'Luke's stress on the proclamation of the Word...shows that the Word itself was the decisive factor,' and that the church is an agency of salvation 'only in so far as it provides the framework within which the preaching of the Word takes place.'

This is a helpful corrective for our time, where sometimes it seems as if we have lost the conviction that the Word of God is living and active (Heb. 4:12). The Word of God must stand at the center.

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