Socrates and the Beach

The beach is not my favorite place to vacation. Sitting in the hot sun with sweat dripping in my eyes and sand in my shorts is not my idea of a great time. On our first day out, Zack sprayed me with sunscreen, but it apparently didn't go on smoothly. (I'm sure spray-on sunscreen was a great idea on paper; but in the real world of windy beaches, it doesn't seem so bright.) Now I have a funny-looking sunburn.

But Judy loves the beach, my kids love it, and Judy's family goes every year. So I have learned to enjoy it with them. And to be honest, when the kids were younger I really did enjoy playing in the sand and waves. (The waves are still fun. Sand in my shorts—not so much.)

As a younger man, I would have preferred to go places and do things. Now I enjoy a quiet, beautiful setting to relax, read, and think. So I prefer to retreat to the mountains. And there is no better place than the mountains to pray.

In recent years, Judy has graciously returned with me several times to the mountains above Gatlinburg for a time of rest and renewal. It seemed only fair that this time I would go with her to the beach. So after a week at St. Simon's Island with her family and our grown kids, Judy and I have now moved to Myrtle Beach for a quiet week to ourselves. It's not as secluded as the mountains; but we are enjoying time to ourselves, time to rest and reflect, and time together with God.

There are aspects of the beach that I do not find helpful. It's overcrowded this time of year. Too many people and umbrellas block my view of the ocean. The scantily clad sun-worshipers frequently strolling past are an uncomfortable distraction. And then there's the distraction of those scantily clad sun-worshipers who make you silently wonder, "What in the world did they see when they looked in the mirror and thought that was a good choice in beach attire!"

But there are other aspects of the beach that are a blessing, much as are the mountains. The vast expanse of the ocean…the relentless surge of the tides…the quiet roar of the waves drowning out almost all other noise…the mysteries of the deeps hidden beneath the white-capped waters—these all give testimony to the Great Creator.

I'm reminded of the biting words of God in response to the complaints of Job:

Where were you when I laid the earths' foundation?
Tell me if you understand.
Who marked off its dimensions?
Surely you know!

Who shut up the sea behind doors when it burst forth from the womb…
when I said, "This far you may come and no farther;
here is where your proud waves halt"?

Have you journeyed to the springs of the sea or walked in the recesses of the deep?
Have you comprehended the vast expanses of the earth?
Tell me, if you know all this!

My father used to tell me that the value of an education is not in what you know, but in what you know that you don't know. I have to admit, I'm getting quite an education this trip. Our visits to the relatively obscure Fort Frederica from the Colonial era and to Fort Jackson from the Civil War, to the oldest African-American church built by slaves in Savannah, and to the exclusive winter club on Jekyll Island for the captains of the Industrial Revolution taught me lessons in American history that I was embarrassed I had never heard. I'm reading a very challenging book (The Tangible Kingdom) that is reminding me how little we church leaders really know about the church and God's mission in this world. My son and I tried to swim from the sand bar to the shore against the outgoing tide and I discovered how uninformed I was about my physical condition. And looking out at the ocean, I shudder at how pathetic our confidence must seem to the One who made the seas and all that is in them.

I wore a T-shirt to the beach today that I bought last year in Greece. On the front is a quotation from Socrates: hen oida hoti ouden oida. It translates roughly as:

"I only know one thing, that I don't know anything."

Jesus and Old Glory

Last Saturday was the Fourth of July. Instead of having our usual cookout and excursion to see Nashville's impressive fireworks show, Judy and I were driving back from a week volunteering at Barefoot Republic Camp. By the time we got home, unpacked and showered, we were too pooped to do much but have a quiet dinner at my parents' and watch fireworks with them on TV (but I must admit, the fireworks looked pretty good in high definition!).

Each year on Independence Day I find myself somewhat uncomfortable. As an American I feel patriotic. I am certainly grateful for the freedoms and prosperity we enjoy in this country. And having travelled to many other countries, I am convinced we live in the greatest country on earth. (I wonder if French travelers say the same thing about their country . . . and if they do, is that patriotism or self-delusion!)

On the other hand, as a Christian, I struggle with what it means to live as "aliens and exiles" (1 Peter 2:11), a stranger in a foreign country longing for a better country (Hebrews 11:8-16), knowing that my true citizenship is in heaven (Philippians 2:11). What does it mean to be a Christian and to be an American? Can I have dual citizenship, like someone who is a citizen of two countries at the same time?

And what does it mean for an "alien and exile" to pledge allegiance to a flag? Is it enough to say "one nation under God" and by that to assert that my allegiance to my country can only go so far as is consistent with my higher commitment to God?

Sometimes it seems to me that our talk of "God and country" runs the risk of confusing the two. If I were a Christian in Brazil or South Korea or New Zealand, wouldn't I love my country and face these same questions? And then what would we all do if we found our countries at war with each other (like the British and German Christians facing each other in the trenches of World War I). If we are not careful, could unquestioned loyalty to our country and saluting the flag in church put us at risk of following the path of Christians in Nazi Germany who saluted the Nazi flag in their churches?

Now please don't misunderstand me. I am certainly not saying that America is Nazi Germany! But then, in 1930 Germany wasn't yet Nazi Germany. Yet within a few years, many Christians in Germany somehow found themselves saluting the flag hanging in their churches—a flag that stood for almost everything the cross stands against. Somewhere along the way they crossed a line—or maybe it was more a gray area—between loyalty to their country and faithfulness to the will of God.

I wonder where that gray area begins. I wonder at what point our patriotism could enter that gray area. I wonder if we would realize we were in it.

As we were driving home Saturday along a rural highway, we passed a little church with a row of dozens of flags out front. As an American, seeing the row of red, white, and blue stirred feelings of pride. As a Christian, I couldn't help but wonder if we were slipping into that gray area.

Last year I attended a Christmas parade in Texas. Amid the various floats and clowns and marching bands came a group of horses with riders dressed in red, white, and blue. Some were carrying a U.S. flag and a Texas state flag with crosses on top of the flag poles. That image troubled me. What were we to make of a cross on top of a flag pole? Did they mean that the flag is under the cross—that what the flag represents should always be seen as subordinate to what the cross represents? Or, was it possible that they actually had the cross and the flag confused—that patriotism and religion were becoming too intermingled?

My question was answered a moment later when two riders came by with a specially-made American flag spread between them. Across the middle of the flag, between the red and white stripes, in large blue letters . . . was the name, "Jesus."

More on Baptism Matters

I've been thinking a little more about how to explain what I mean by "baptism matters." Let me expand a little on the education analogy (acknowledging that no analogy is perfect).

To say that baptism doesn't matter unless it is a get-it-right-or-be-lost issue seems to me to say that the only things that matter are those that keep you out of heaven. To me that says that following Jesus is just a pass-fail class and nothing matters except what is required to pass the class. I'm reminded of those students in a college class (I've had some of these in my classes) who don't care about anything but the minimum required to pass. If you don't have to do it to pass, then it doesn't matter to them.

But better students want more than just to pass. They want to learn. They want to become competent in a field of study. They want to be good students. They want to be the best they can be. They want to grow. Other things matter to these students than just what it takes to pass. They want to know what it will take to make an A. They want to do more, read more, study more, discuss more, and attend class more than students who only care about passing.

Aren't there things in the Christian faith that matter even if failure to do them or understand them correctly doesn't keep you out of heaven? Do I really want to stand before God and say, "Nothing you said in the Bible mattered to me except what I thought was a requirement to get into heaven"?

Figuring out what is on the "heaven or hell" list is not always easy. But I think Jesus put his emphasis on something other than baptism.

Rob

Does Baptism Matter?

In the late 1970s, in a class on Restoration History at Abilene Christian University (a "Church of Christ" school), Dr. Bill Humble explained that the Churches of Christ had begun as a nondenominational movement. They saw themselves as "Christians only, not the only Christians." However, he further explained that we had been evolving into a denomination, and that the evolution was virtually complete. It was an eye-opening examination of our roots and of the current state of our fellowship.

In the early 1980s I had my first experience of true nondenominational Christianity when I attended graduate school at Wheaton College, a nondenominational evangelical school. Professors from a variety of Christian traditions deepened my understanding of the Scriptures, matured my faith in Christ, and challenged my walk with God. Students from a variety of denominations joined together in study, worship, and fellowship. Denominational identities were relatively unimportant and virtually ignored (at that time, every member of the Theology faculty was attending a different denomination than the one in which he had been raised). What mattered most was that we shared a common faith in Christ, a common trust in the inspiration and authority of the Scripture, and a common fellowship in the family of God. I had grown up in churches and schools that claimed to be nondenominational, but it wasn't until I reached Wheaton that I realized how misleading those claims had been.

In the years that followed I had more and more opportunities to enjoy fellowship across denominational lines. In Promise Keepers rallies, local ministerial associations, church leadership conferences, gatherings of Pro-Life clergy, a city-wide prayer movement in Houston, and more, I would find myself in worship and prayer and study side-by-side with Christians from across the entire spectrum of the Christian church. I sang with Pentecostals, planned city-wide prayer services with Baptists, prayed for the unborn with Catholics, and learned about church growth from Methodists.

And throughout that journey, one objection has continually been raised by sincerely troubled members of my own fellowship—good folk who, knowingly or not, have rejected the nondenominational roots of our churches. "If you accept all those other groups as Christians," some will say, "then you are saying that baptism doesn't matter." What they are saying is that one must be properly baptized, as we understand the New Testament to teach baptism, in order to be Christian and be saved. If you say that someone can be a Christian and be saved without being properly baptized, then you are saying that baptism doesn't matter.

But is that really true? Are the only options either to say that correct baptism is an absolute, essential, indispensable requirement for salvation and fellowship or to say that baptism doesn't matter? Is there nothing in between?

Can I say that Jesus and the apostles commanded baptism, and that they practiced it by immersion; that God intended for all believers to be baptized as part of becoming a Christian and receiving his forgiveness; and that I believe God intended baptism to be "believer's baptism" (i.e., baptism based on one's own faith and repentance) rather than infant baptism; but, also acknowledge that many believers in Jesus (most, in fact) have sincerely reached different conclusions? Can't I also say that God is judge, not me; and, it is not my place to decide which persons who claim to be Christians may, in fact, be weeds which God may someday separate from the wheat? Can't I also say that since salvation is by grace through faith, not by works, that someone who believes in Jesus and is mistaken about baptism will be saved by the same grace and mercy of Jesus that I trust will save me in my own errors of understanding? Can't I acknowledge that the New Testament never directly addresses the issue of when to baptize children raised in Christian homes, and therefore acknowledge that as convinced as I am of the correctness of believer's baptism, some will sincerely come to different conclusions?

Are the only things that "matter" the ones which will keep you out of heaven? Is the Christian life just a "pass-fail" class, and the only things that matter are the ones required for you to pass? Isn't it important to try and do more than the minimum? Doesn't obedience matter, even if perfect obedience isn't required for salvation? Doesn't it matter for us to continue to teach "New Testament baptism" (as we understand it) to those who would follow Jesus, even though we may acknowledge that many have come to follow Jesus without being taught about that baptism? Doesn't it matter to practice and teach what we understand the Scriptures to teach, even though we trust that God's mercy will save both us and others who do not perfectly understand what the Scriptures teach? Doesn't it matter for us to do what we sincerely believe God wants us to do, without condemning those who sincerely think differently?

Yes, baptism matters!

I just think Jesus matters more.

A Compliment I Don’t Like Hearing

"You're the coolest 'Church of Christ' preacher I've ever met."

When a lady said this to me, I had to remind myself that she was trying to express an enthusiastic compliment. But somehow it was hard to feel very grateful. I might have felt differently if she was impressed with my undeniably cool personality or my sharp fashion sense or my familiarity with the latest cultural trends. But that was not what she meant.

The comment was made at the end of a gathering of local church leaders and members to discuss how our churches could cooperate in meeting the needs of the poor in our community. Her point was that she had known other ministers from Churches of Christ who would not have participated in such gatherings and were not open to such fellowship with other Christians.

Several times recently I've received compliments like that. One kind person said, "Some of my relatives are 'Church of Christ'—but you're not anything like them!" Now mind you, I enjoy a compliment as much as anybody. And I certainly appreciate it when people like me. But that kind of compliment causes me as much pain as it does pleasure. Such statements are not merely affirmations of something about me, they are criticisms of my religious heritage. More than criticisms, they are in fact condemnations (though probably not intentionally so) of the sectarian arrogance that has too often characterized the interactions of Church of Christ ministers and members with other followers of Jesus.

The irony, of course, is that the sectarian reputation by which Churches of Christ are too often known is completely contrary to the original vision and attitude of our movement. We began with the call to be "Christians only, but not the only Christians." Somewhere along the way, many of our churches replaced that identity with "Christians only and the only Christians" (though few if any would have openly proclaimed those words). Sadly, a nondenominational movement zealously committed to Christian unity has become widely known as a narrowly sectarian denomination.

A few days ago I sat at a luncheon for our local ministerial association. At one point in the meal, a minister attending the association for the first time looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, "Now…I have to ask something…" (I looked over at a colleague from my church and said, "Here it comes." This has happened so many times over the years that I can almost see it coming before any words come out.) Searching for the right words, he continued, "You…uh…you are from the Church of Christ, right?" ("I told you.")

"Not that kind of 'Church of Christ,'" I replied.

Everyone at the table was laughing.

I wanted to cry.

O Barnabas, Where Art Thou?

A church I once served had "Encouragement Cards" in the pews for people to write notes to members—birthday and anniversary greetings, a comforting word to someone in grief, "get well" wishes to someone in the hospital, a thank you to a worship leader or Sunday School teacher. These cards were collected and volunteers mailed them to the intended recipients. It was a wonderful ministry led by one of the sweetest, most encouraging people I have ever known.

The only problem was that some members were using the "Encouragement Cards" to express their complaints and criticisms—sometimes in rather unkind words (that's right—rude complaints written on "Encouragement Cards"!). The practice became frequent enough that the staff privately nicknamed the notes "Discouragement Cards"! We finally had to address the problem from the pulpit, and thankfully it cleared up.

One of the passages we considered in our church during the week leading up to Good Friday and Easter was Philippians 2:1-11—"If there is any encouragement in Christ…" That passage prompted me to reflect a little on the meaning of encouragement.

We all recognize encouragement. It's a little league coach urging a youngster to shake off an error and "get the next one." It's an expression of thanks to a nurse for taking good care of a loved one. It's an offer to help someone who seems a little overwhelmed by the task at hand. It's a boss praising an employee for hard work on a busy week. It's a big hug for mom when we get up from the dinner table.

And we all recognize discouragement. It's a basketball coach whose players will all graduate, whose team won more than 2/3 of their games, and made it to the NCAA tournament for the 4^th year in a row; but all he hears is people harping that they didn't make to the "Sweet Sixteen." It's a nurse who's worked double shifts covering for others who call in sick, has more patients than she knows how to manage, hasn't had time to take a 15-minute lunch break in the last 7 hours, and then has to listen to an irate family member berate her because she didn't answer a call button fast enough. It's having a boss who swears at you constantly because you can't read his mind (I actually had one of those once). It's a wife who prepares a nice dinner, only to hear her husband unthinkingly say, "It's good, but my mom's meatloaf tasted a little better . . . Wonder what she put in hers?" (And no, I never, ever said anything that ridiculously stupid to my wife. Never. Really. Just ask her . . . on second thought, don't ask her—just take my word for it.)

In a world which makes such a habit of discouragement, I wonder how we could make the church a haven of encouragement.

But that's probably a completely unrealistic wish.

I Am Off the Wagon

Hello, My name is Rob. I am a chocoholic.

As many of you know, I have a long history of overindulgence in chocolate. In my college days I was known to consume one-pound bags of M&Ms in a single sitting, or dozens of chocolate chip cookies in a couple of days. I love extra thick chocolate milk shakes made with Marble Slab's double dark chocolate ice cream. I love double-stuff oreos—and the new ones with chocolate filling are a welcome improvement. Chocolate cake, chocolate pie, chocolate candy, chocolate milk, chocolate-covered raisins…well, you get the idea.

I gave up chocolate for Lent—something I have done before. I did this for two reasons. Fasting from something you love during the weeks before Easter causes you to think about Jesus and his suffering every time you think about the thing you have given up.

I thought about Jesus a lot!

I also gave it up to deal with my chocolate craving. To be honest, going without chocolate for six weeks wasn't as hard this time as it sometimes was in the past. Even as Easter approached and there was chocolate candy everywhere I turned, I managed to abstain without a great deal of difficulty. So I was pretty confident that I had the chocolate problem under control.

Then came Easter.

My wife baked me a chocolate cake with chocolate icing and Ghirardelli's chocolate in the mix. She put a big chocolate Easter bunny on the top. By Tuesday night I had eaten nearly all of it. Some friends gave me a bag of the best chocolate truffles I've ever put in my mouth—they're nearly gone too (but I did share them with family). And then there were the little chocolate eggs wrapped in pretty foil—I would have eaten more of them, but it takes too long to peel off all that little wrapping.

An interesting side-effect of eating all this chocolate has been that nearly every time I indulge, I am reminded of the six weeks without chocolate, which reminds me again why I gave it up. So eating lots of chocolate has made me think of Jesus—often!

Does that sanctify gluttony?