From The Bondage of the Will by Martin Luther:

[Erasmus asks] What use or need is there, then, of publishing such things [controversial writings such as these on free will], when so many harmful results seem likely to follow?

[Luther replies]: It should be enough to say simply that God has willed their publication, and the reason of the Divine will is not to be sought, but simply to be adored, and the glory given to God, Who, since He alone is just and wise, wrongs none and can do nothing foolish or inconsiderate—however much it may seem otherwise to us. This answer will satisfy those who fear God. However (to say a little more than I need, since there is so much more that I can say), there are two considerations which require the preaching of these truths. The first is the humbling of our pride, and the comprehending of the grace of God; the second is the nature of Christian faith.

For the first: God has surely promised His grace to the humbled: that is, to those who mourn over and despair of themselves. But a man cannot be thoroughly humbled till he realises that his salvation is utterly beyond his own powers, counsels, efforts, will and works, and depends absolutely on the will, counsel, pleasure and work of Another—God alone. As long as he is persuaded that he can make even the smallest contribution to his salvation, he remains self-confident and does not utterly despair of himself, and so is not humbled before God; but plans out for himself (or at least hopes and longs for) a position, an occasion, a work, which shall bring him final salvation. But he who is out of doubt that his destiny depends entirely on the will of God despairs entirely of himself, chooses nothing for himself, but waits for God to work in him; and such a man is very near to grace for his salvation.

So these truths are published for the sake of the elect, that they may be humbled and brought down to nothing, and so saved. The rest of men resist this humiliation; indeed, they condemn the teaching of self-despair; they want a little something left that they can do for themselves. Secretly they continue proud, and enemies of the grace of God. This, I repeat, one reason—that those who fear God might in humility comprehend, claim and receive His gracious promise.

The second reason is this: faith’s object is things not seen. That there may be room for faith, therefore, all that is believed must be hidden. Yet it is not hidden more deeply than under a contrary appearance of sight, sense and experience. Thus, when God quickens, He does so by killing; when He justifies, He does so by pronouncing guilty; when He carries up to heaven, He does so by bringing down to hell. As Scripture says in 1 Kings 2, ‘The Lord killeth and maketh alive; He bringeth down to the grave and bringeth up’ (1 Sam. 2.6). (This is no place for a fuller account of these things; but those who have read my books are well acquainted with them.) Thus God conceals His eternal mercy and loving kindness beneath eternal wrath, His righteousness beneath unrighteousness. Now, the highest degree of faith is to believe that He is merciful, though He saves so few and damns so many; to believe that He is just, though of His own will He makes us perforce proper subjects for damnation, and seems (in Erasmus’ words) ‘to delight in the torments of poor wretches and to be a fitter object for hate than for love.’ If I could by any means understand how this same God, who makes such a show of wrath and unrighteousness, can yet be merciful and just, there would be no need for faith. But as it is, the impossibility of understanding makes room for the exercise of faith when these things are preached and published; just as, when God kills, faith in life is exercised in death.

—Martin Luther, The Bondage of the Will (Revell, 1957) 100-101.

It’s all Darrin’s fault. Having no consideration for weaker brothers, he put a stumbling block in my path. I didn’t mean to do it, honest. I was just looking. It doesn’t hurt to look, does it? Anyway, here is what he did: he posted—callously, I might add—this excerpt from J. H. Merle D’Aubigne’s The History of the Reformation. So I went shopping—just looking, mind you!—and I found it, used. Now, Darrin had stated (the previous link is my witness) that it has rarely been out of print, so I emailed him to enquire if he knew where it could be found new.

This is where it gets ugly. No, it could not be found new; but there were many options, from merely used to antquarian. He sent me links. One of them had over 300 listings. I tried to resist, really, I did. I tried to click back, but the page loaded too fast. I had no choice. I scrolled down. Then I scrolled down some more. Like Jonah, I went down, down, down, until I had gone too far to turn back.

Then I saw it: a promising specimen. I clicked the link. It was a nice set, and reasonably priced. I bookmarked it, virtually guaranteeing my demise. Still, I told myself I was just looking. Certainly, if my wife had walked in and caught me, that would have been my defense: “Just looking, Dear! (nervous laughter here) Really! (more nervous laughter, beginning to perspire) Oh, nothing, heh, heh, just some old (mumbling now, hoping she doesn’t catch the damning word) books.” That’s when I will get THE LOOK.

You see, we’ve been down this road before. My fellow book addicts will understand. Money magically disappears from your pockets when you walk past a bookstore. You wake up clutching a strange hardcover, with no memory of acquiring it. You have books on your shelves that you had to have but haven’t yet read. Challies reviews a book, and you click the Amazon link every time. Of course you don’t buy every one, but you add them to your wishlist until it is bloated beyond any useful limits. Your wife begins to squirrel money away in Switzerland, out of your reach. No, she’s not leaving you—she’s just hiding the grocery money.

I kept scrolling and clicking “next page.” I bookmarked two more pages before I stopped. I now had three serious temptations before me. I clicked back and forth between them feverishly. The one that called my name the loudest was a beautiful 1843 edition in quarter-leather binding. I’ve purchased used books many times before, but I’m no expert on antiquarian books; so I emailed Darrin once more. He gave me his opinions, which were pretty much what I had hoped for. I was gazing hungrily at the screen, mesmerized by antique leather, when my wife walked in, jarring me from my trance. From this point on, my memory is hazy. This is how I remember it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I decided to play it straight—as straight as I could, anyway. “I, ah, I’m looking at some books.” Her eyes narrowed. It was THE LOOK. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. THE LOOK is only worth a few, but they are unambiguous. Whatever you are doing when you get THE LOOK, you know exactly what it means, and it is never encouraging.

“What kind of books?” she said, her voice low, eyes narrowed, brows arched. It was THE LOOK, deluxe edition.

“Antique Reformation history books.”

“And how much are they?” It was an accusation, not a question. I gave a number. “Hmmm…,” she said, voice very low. THE LOOK intensified. “I have to do laundry.” She stalked ominously from the room.

I looked at the screen. My cursor was situated directly over the “add to cart” button. My heart began pounding. My ears were ringing. My vision became cloudy. A voice in my head whispered, “It’s now or never!” I heard a click, and another. Then, before my eyes, a form was being filled out. A name—my name! An address—my address! Numbers, dates, click, click! The room was spinning! What is that black bird above my monitor? What does he mean, “Nevermore”? Bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells! Click, click!

I awoke with a start. No! I thought. It was a dream. It had to have been a dream. Then I saw it: the little envelope icon on my taskbar. You’ve got mail. I clicked Outlook Express. There is 1 unread Mail message in your Inbox. Hands trembling, I clicked my inbox. Thanks for your recent order! This is confirmation that your order has been received . . . My heart sank. Then, slowly, the cloud lifted. 1843; leather; History of the Reformation. I couldn’t help it. A warm sensation engulfed my body, and the corners of my mouth began to creep apart until a broad smile stretched across my face.

My wife walked in. “Oh, no,” she said, “you’ve done it, haven’t you?”

I just smiled.

Anyone who has argued much with Catholics against Roman Catholicism has heard this question: “If the Catholic Church is not the true church, then where was the church for all the centuries between the alleged apostasy of Rome and the Reformation?” Dr. Luther replies:

In passing, I will here reply to the passage where you [Erasmus] describe it as unbelievable that God should overlook an error in His church for so many ages, and not reveal to any of His saints a point which we maintain to be fundamental in Christian doctrine. In the first place, we do not say that God tolerated this error in His church, or in any of His saints. For the church is ruled by the Spirit of God, and Rom. 8 tells us that the saints are led by the Spirit of God (v. 14). And Christ abides with His church till the end of the world (Matt. 28.20). And the church is the pillar and ground of the truth (i Tim. 3.15). This we know; for the Creed which we all hold runs thus, ‘I believe in the holy catholic church.’ So it is impossible that she should err in even the least article. Even should we grant that some of the elect are held in error throughout their whole life, yet they must of necessity return into the way before they die; for Christ says in John 8: ‘None shall pluck them out of my hand’ (John 10.28). But what is hard and problematical is just this: ascertaining whether those whom you call the church were the church—or, rather, whether after their lifetime of error they were at last brought back to the truth before they died. It does not at once follow that, if God suffered all those consummate scholars whom you quote to err throughout so many ages, therefore He suffered His church to err! Look at Israel, the people of God. There, out of a great number of kings over a long period of time, not one king is mentioned who did not err. Under Elijah the prophet, all the people and every public institution among them had gone astray into idolatry, so that he thought he was the only one left; yet, while the kings and princes, priests and prophets, and all that could be called the people and church of God, were going to ruin, God had reserved seven thousand to Himself (cf. i Kings 19.18). But who saw them, or knew them to be the people of God ? And who will dare to deny that in our day, under these principal men of yours (for you only mention persons of public office and of great name), God has kept to Himself a church among the common people, while allowing all whom you mention to perish like the kingdom of Israel? For it is God’s prerogative to bring down the chosen ones of Israel, and, as Ps. 77 says, to slay their fat ones (Ps. 78.31); but to preserve the dregs and remnant of Israel, according to Isaiah’s words (cf. Isa. 10.22).
   What happened under Christ Himself, when all the apostles were offended at Him, when He was denied and condemned by all the people, and only Joseph, Nicodemus and the thief on the cross were preserved? Was it not the former group who were then called the people of God? Indeed, there was a people of God remaining, but it was not so called; and that which was so called was not it. Who knows whether, throughout the whole course of world history from its beginning, the state of the church has not always been such that some were called the people and saints of God who were not so, while others, who were among them as a remnant, were the people and saints of God, but were not so called?—as appears from the histories of Cain and Abel, Ishmael and Isaac, Esau and Jacob. Look at the time of the Arians, when scarcely five catholic bishops were preserved in the whole world, and they were driven from their sees, while the Arians reigned everywhere, taking to themselves the public name and office of the church. Yet under these heretics Christ preserved His church; though in such a way that it was not for a moment thought or held to be the church.
   Or show me a single bishop discharging his office under the kingdom of the Pope. Show me a single council at which they dealt with matter of religion, and not with gowns, rank, revenues and other profane trifles instead, which only a lunatic could consider the province of the Holy Ghost! Yet they are called the church, despite the fact that all who live as they do are lost, and are anything but the church. Even under them, however, Christ has preserved His church, though not so as to be called the church. How many saints do you think the Inquisitors alone have in time past burned and killed for heretical perversions, such as John Hus and those like him? And many holy men of the same spirit doubtless lived in their day.
   Why do you not rather marvel at this, Erasmus: Since the world began, there have always been superior talents, greater learning, and a more intense earnestness among pagans than among Christians and the people of God. It is as Christ Himself acknowledges: ‘the sons of this world are wiser than the sons of light’ (Luke 16.8). What Christian can be compared with Cicero alone (to say nothing of the Greeks) for ability, learning and hard work? What then shall we say hindered them from finding grace? For they certainly exerted ‘free-will’ to the utmost of their power! Who dare say that not one among them pursued truth with all his heart? Yet we are bound to maintain that not one of them reached it. Will you say in this case too that it is unbelievable that God abandoned so many great men throughout the whole course of history and let them strive in vain? Certainly, if ‘free-will’ has any being and power at all, its being and power must have been present with such men as these, in some one case at least! But it availed nothing; indeed, it always wrought in the wrong direction; so that by this argument alone it can be proved clearly enough that ‘free-will’ is nothing at all, inasmuch as one can show no trace of it from beginning to end of the world!
   But I return to the matter in hand. What wonder, if God should leave all the great men of the church to go their own ways, when He thus allowed all the nations to go their own ways, as Paul says in Acts (cf. Acts 14.16) ? My good Erasmus, God’s church is not so common a thing as the term ‘God’s church’; nor are God’s saints so promiscuously found as the phrase ‘God’s saints.’ The saints are pearls and precious jewels, which the Spirit does not cast before swine; but (as Scripture puts it) He keeps them hid, that the wicked may not see the glory of God! Else, if they were open to the recognition of all, how could they be so vexed and afflicted in the world as they are? So Paul says: ‘Had they known him, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory’ (i Cor. 2.8).
   I do not say this because I deny that those whom you cite are the saints and church of God; but because it cannot be proved that they really are saints, should anyone deny it; it is left completely uncertain; which means that no position is sufficiently guaranteed by their holiness to make good any doctrine. I call them saints, and so regard them; I call them the church, and so judge them—but by the rule of charity, not by the rule of faith. By which I mean that charity, which always thinks the best of everyone, and is not suspicious, but believes and assumes all good of its neighbour, calls every baptized person a saint. There is no danger involved if she is wrong; it is the way of charity to be deceived, for she is open to all the uses and abuses of every man, as being handmaid of all, good and bad, believing and unbelieving, true and false. Faith, however, calls none a saint but him who is proclaimed such by divine sentence; for the way of faith is not to be deceived. Therefore, though we should all look on each other as saints as a matter of charity, none should be declared a saint as a matter of faith, as if it were an article of faith that so-and-so is a saint. (In this way, that adversary of God, the Pope, canonizes as saints men of his own choice, whom he never knew, so setting himself in God’s place [cf. 2 Thess. 2.4].) All that I say of those saints of yours—ours, rather—is this: that, since they differ among themselves, those should rather have been followed who spoke best (that is, for grace against ‘free-will’), leaving aside those who through weakness of the flesh testified of the flesh rather than of the Spirit. So, too, in the case of those who are inconsistent, the places where they speak from the Spirit should have been picked out and held fast, and those where they savour of the flesh let go. This is the right course for the Christian reader, as being the clean beast that parts the hoof and chews the cud (cf. Lev. 11.3; Deut. 14.6)! But as it is we abandon our judgment and swallow everything indiscriminately; or else (what is more wretched still) we reject the better and acclaim the worse in one and the same author, and proceed to affix to those same worse parts the title and authority of his sanctity—which he gained, not by reason of ‘free-will’ or the flesh, but by reason of that which is best of all, even of the Spirit only!

—Martin Luther, The Bondage of the Will (Revell, 1957) pp. 119-123.

I was thirty years old before I actually encountered anyone who called themselves Christians and denied the Trinity. I had heard that such people existed, but outside the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I didn’t know who they were. Then, when we moved to this small town in North Dakota, we met a character who had recently left the same church that we began attending. He was a self-styled teacher with a very overpowering personality who had managed to gather a small group of very committed disciples and formed his own “church,” renting a church building in a neighboring town. A few years ago, this little cult built its own facility just a few blocks up the street from our house.

This post is, in a nutshell, what I told one of them when I had the occasion to discuss it, along with a few comments to Trinitarians who explain it badly.

There is one true God, eternally existent in three persons.

There is only one God. In no sense are there three.

“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord” (Deuteronomy 6:4, and quoted again by Jesus in Mark 12:29). “[H]ath not one God created us?” (Malachi 2:10) God is always spoken of as singular. God is always “he,” never “they.” He reigns over the kingdom of God, not the kingdom of the gods. In Luke 18, Jesus is addressed as “Good Master.” His reply: “Why callest thou me good? none is good, save one, that is, God” [bold type added].

God is three distinct persons. In no sense are they one. All three exist simultaneously and eternally.

The Father is God.
The Son is God.
The Holy Spirit is God.
The Father is never the Son or the Holy Spirit.
The Son is never the Father or the Holy Spirit.
The Holy Spirit is never the Father or the Son.

The Trinity is revealed in Scripture from the very beginning. In Genesis 1:2, “the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.” Farther along in verse 26 we find God talking to himself: “Let us make man in our image” [bold type added]. Who was God talking to? Why the plural pronouns? Four thousand years later, John the Apostle wrote of Christ: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made.” (John 1:1-3) The Son was present in the beginning, and participated in creation.

“Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith unto the disciples, Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder. And he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and very heavy. … And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt. … He went away again the second time, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done.” (Matthew 26:36,39,42) Who was Jesus praying to? Was he putting on an act, going through the motions of prayer in order to set an example for his disciples, as some have said? If so, what does that tell us about him? If true, it tells us that God is an actor, a deceiver, a manipulator who plays with our minds like faith-healers and “revival” preachers. No, Jesus, being God, is incapable of any kind of deceit. He was praying to his Father, as one distinct person to another.

The Trinity is probably most clearly demonstrated at Jesus’ baptism: “And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water: and, lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him: And lo a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:16-17). Jesus was in the Jordan, the Holy Spirit descended upon him, and the Father spoke from Heaven—three distinct persons in three distinct places—simultaneously.

God does not appear at different times and places in different roles or modes. His triunity may not be compared to the way in which we fill different positions yet remain one person, as one man may be a son, husband, father, grandfather, employer or employee, etc., all at once. That is the Modalist heresy.

God also cannot be described as many Trinitarians have attempted to describe him:

The Trinity is not like an egg—yolk, white, shell.
The Trinity is not like an apple—skin, flesh, seeds.
The Trinity is not like water—liquid, solid, vapor.
The Trinity is not like time—past, present, future.
The Trinity is not like space—height, depth, width.

The Trinity is not any other metaphor you’ve thought of. I know, some of you can’t stand not having an explanation for everything. You are very creative and imaginative and love thinking these things up. Well, stop it! You almost persuade me to become a modalist. The Bible tells us quite clearly that God is triune. It does not even begin to tell us how that is so.

George Santayana wrote, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” I believe that is a fair axiom, but I also believe that the past is inevitably repeated because men of every age possess the same sinful natures and the same self-centered desires, resulting in the same foolish actions.

Church historian J. A. Merle D’Abigne writes of the condition of the Church at the time of the Reformation:

At the same time, a profane spirit had invaded religion, and the most solemn recollections of the Church; the seasons which seemed most to summon the faithful to devout reflection and love, were dishonored by buffoonery and profanations altogether heathenish. The humours of Easter held a large place in the annals of the Church. The festival of the Resurrection claiming to be joyfully commemorated, preachers went out of their way to put into their sermons whatever might excite the laughter of the people. One preacher imitated the cuckoo; another hisses like a goose; one dragged to the altar a layman dressed in a monk's cowl. A second related the grossest indecencies; a third recounted the tricks of the Apostle St. Peter;—among others, how, at an inn, he cheated the host, by not paying his reckoning. The lower orders of the clergy followed the example, and turned their superiors into ridicule. The very temples were converted into a stage, and the priest into mountebanks.

Sound familiar, doesn’t it? What they were doing five hundred years ago is being done today. Why? Because the spirit of the age during the sixteenth century is the spirit of our age. People want to be entertained, to have fun, to be made to feel good. Religious leaders want to fill their auditoriums and be admired and make people happy. That is the essence of the gospel in mainstream churches today. In five hundred years, human nature has not changed. Consequently, the methods of attracting audiences have not changed. Religious leaders are still selling the same sugar-coated garbage to those who love it so.

At the same time, because human nature has not changed, the genuine need of sinners has not changed. Sinners do not need self-esteem. They do not need to be entertained. They do not need to go to “church” and be religious. They need the Gospel of Jesus Christ, which is not found in entertainment, fun, and games. It is found in the pages of Holy Scripture, and nowhere else.

Pastors, preach the word; be instant in season, out of season; reprove, rebuke, exhort with all longsuffering and doctrine (2Timothy 4:2). Christians, desire the pure milk of the Word, that you may grow thereby (1Peter 2:2).

John Piper writes,

On July 2, [1505,] on the way home from law school, [Luther] was caught in a thunderstorm and was hurled to the ground by lightning. He cried out, “Help me, St. Anne; I will become a monk.” He feared for his soul and did not know how to find safety in the Gospel. So he took the next best thing, the monastery.

Fifteen days later, to his father’s dismay, he kept his vow. On July 17, 1505, he knocked at the gate of the Augustinian Hermits in Erfurt and asked the prior to accept him into the order. Later he said this choice was a flagrant sin—“not worth a farthing” because made against his father and out of fear. Then he added, “But how much good the merciful Lord has allowed to come of it!” We see this kind of merciful providence over and over again in the history of the church. We saw it powerfully in the life of Augustine, and we will see it in Calvin’s life too. It should protect us from the paralyzing effects of bad decisions in our past. God is not hindered in his sovereign designs from leading us, as he did Luther, out of blunders into fruitful lives of joy.

–John Piper, The Legacy of Sovereign Joy, pp.83-84.

Among the frustrations of conversing with postmodern/emergents is their insistence that the Bible is not the Word of God, but Christ is the Word. True Christianity is not to be found in the written Word, but in relationship with the incarnate Word. To this I reply, “Nonsense!” (Greek – skubalon). John Piper responds more eloquently (and more politely):

Why is the Spirit so silent about the incarnate Word after the age of the New Testament—even among those who encroach on the authority of the book? the answer seems to be that it pleased God to reveal the incarnate Word, Jesus Christ, to all succeeding generaions through a book, especially the Gospels. Luther puts it like this:

The apostles themselves considered it necessary to put the New Testament into Greek and to bind it fast to that language, doubtless in order to preserve it for us safe and sound as in a sacred ark. For they foresaw all that was to come and now has come to pass, and knew that if it were contained only in one’s head, wild and fearful disorder and confusion, and many various interpretations, fancies and doctrines would arise in the Church, which could be prevented and from which the plain man could be protected only by committing the New Testament to writing and language.

The ministry of the internal Spirit does not nullify the ministry of the “external Word.” The Spirit does not duplicate what the book was designed to do. The Spirit glorifies the incarnate Word of the Gospels, but he does not re-narrate his words and deeds for illiterate people or negligent pastors.

The immense implication of this for the pastoral ministry and lay ministry is that ministers are essentially brokers of the Word of God transmitted in a book. We are fundamentally readers and teachers and proclaimers of the message of the book. And all of this is for the glory of the incarnate Word and by the power of the indwelling Spirit. But neither the indwelling Spirit nor the incarnate Word leads us away from the book that Luther called “the external Word.” Christ stands forth for our worship and our fellowship and our obedience from the “external Word.” This is where we see “the glory of God in the face of Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6). So it is for the sake of Christ that the Spirit broods over the book where Christ is clear, not over trances where he is obscure.

–John Piper, The Legacy of Sovereign Joy, pp. 81-83.

Some people really hate labels. I like them. Labels are very useful. They give us a name for whatever it is we are talking about. Without them, our language would be very clumsy. “I’m going to the place that sells meat, vegetables, dairy, and other consumable commodities. Be back in an hour.” Suppose grocers resisted the label “grocery store”—after all, they sell toothpaste, band-aids, and soap, among other non-grocery items. “I just don’t like being pigeon-holed like that,” says the grocer, or whatever he is.

In theology, labels like “Calvinist,” “Arminian,” “Reformed,” and “Dispensational” serve as shorthand for systems that would take hours to describe, or at least several minutes to summarize. I would hate to be without those labels. However, there is such a thing as a useless label. Many labels that at one time were clearly understood have become meaningless. When a label more often than not causes people to think of something entirely different than it originally represented, it has become useless.

I was born with a useless label: Lutheran. I was happily ignorant of the obsolete nature of my label until I left home and moved to Minneapolis. I had always known that there were those liberal Lutherans who denied inerrancy and ordained women and [gasp!] used real wine for communion. I just hadn’t realized there were so many of them. I very quickly discovered that Bible-believing Lutherans were a scant minority, and every time a non-Lutheran Christian asked what kind of church I belonged to, I had to give a couple of paragraphs of explanation to avoid the “heretic” label. “Lutheran” is no longer descriptive of the theology of Martin Luther, and so it is a useless label.

I am no longer a Lutheran (except in as much as I agree with the Reformed doctrines that Luther helped to recover); however, there are a few other labels that I really would love to use, but can’t because they don’t mean what they ought to mean.

First, Catholic. “Catholic” has been worthless to Christians for centuries, so why care? I managed just fine without it for years until my family visited the church of some relatives one summer. It was one of the large liberal denominations, and as we recited the Apostle’s Creed, I was shocked to hear the words “holy catholic church” from everyone but me and my siblings. We had been taught “holy Christian church.” If I didn’t already know my cousins were on a greased sled straight to Hell, I knew it then. It was still a few years later when I learned that “catholic” was a perfectly good word, in fact the correct word in the Creed, meaning universal, but it had been hi-jacked by the Papacy and could not be recovered.

The second label that is sadly lost is a beautiful word: “Pentecostal.” Just as the true church is catholic, it is Pentecostal. The New Testament Church was born on the day of Pentecost. For the first time, believers received the baptism and filling of the Holy Spirit. Every Christian was baptized with the Holy Spirit, and every Christian since, without exception, has been as well. I am a Pentecostal Christian. Sadly, I can’t use the term. “Pentecostal” now signifies doctrines and practices that I want no part of.

Now I’ll get to some more familiar labels, beginning with “evangelical.” Evangelical originally meant belief in the Biblical evangel, or Gospel. Evangelicals believed in Biblical inerrancy and literal interpretation of Scripture. They believed that the Bible was the Word of God, and salvation was by grace alone through faith alone in Christ alone. Now anyone can be an evangelical. Growing up Lutheran, I watched the two most liberal (apostate) Lutheran denominations merge into the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. Rick Warren is an evangelical. Billy Graham, who has stated unequivocally that he believes in salvation outside of faith in Christ, is an evangelical. Tony Campolo is an evangelical, for pete’s sake! At this rate, how long can it be before the Pope and Dali Lama are called evangelical? Maybe Richard Dawkins is an evangelical, too!

Now I’m going to get personal. Some of my readers will cringe when I declare the utter worthlessness of the “fundamentalist” label. I know—it originally meant adherence to a set of five doctrines called The Fundamentals of the Faith. The five doctrines are indeed fundamental, although sola fide is conspicuously missing. Unfortunately, no one thinks of those things now when they hear the word “fundamentalist.” “Fundamentalist” means my hair doesn’t touch my ears, my wife doesn’t wear jeans, and I think this is good old Gospel music. Fundamentalism is a list of negatives. “Fundamentalist” means I don’t _____, and I don’t fellowship with those who do. At one time, fundamentalist seemed to me a good thing to be. Now, you can have it.

I have never technically been a Baptist, but I have wished I could be. I have just never lived anywhere where there was a good Baptist church. Lately, though, especially as I have watched the Caner-White fiasco, I have begun to wonder just what it means to be “Baptist.” James White is a Baptist, but so is Ergun Caner; so “Baptist” means nothing soteriologically. Albert Mohler and Mark Dever are Baptists; but so are Gail Riplinger and the late Jack Hyles. As far as I can tell, “Baptist” only means “not paedobaptist.” I almost wrote Baptist means credobaptist, but from what I’ve observed, no credible profession of faith is usually required. If you can recite a “sinner’s prayer,” they’ll dunk you—as many times as necessary until it “takes.” Is “Baptist” on the way to obsolescence too?

(There are Southern Baptists in Canada, so now I’m also wondering what “southern” means.)

So, I’m not sure what I am. “Reformed” seems good, and I think it will always mean the same thing, so I usually use that. But I’m not paedobaptistic or thoroughly covenantal. I just don’t fit in. I’m beginning to feel lonely. I need a hug. Unfortunately, I’ve just alienated all my friends with this article.