David Wells lists four mistakes made by the church marketers: they have achieved the “wrong result,” made the “wrong calculation” and “wrong analogy,” and targeted the “wrong customer.”

Of the “wrong result,” he writes,

   George Barna was one of the primary architects of this new approach to “doing” church. He was in on the ground floor three decades ago. As the church’s most assiduous poller, he undoubtedly expected by this time to be the bearer of good news once his marketing strategies were widely adopted, as they have been. It has not turned out that way. It has fallen to him to be the most important chronicler of his own failure.*

Wells describes how Barna is now “leaving behind this long trail of failure as if it had never happened, . . . [striking] out in a new direction with the same old panache, bravado, and undented self-assurance.” Now, according to his book Revolution (2005), it doesn’t matter that the church as an institution has failed, because, Wells says, “serious spiritual revolutionaries can simply cut themselves loose from every local church. Just walk away! And find biblical Christianity elsewhere.”

   What is resulting from Barna’s approach is barely recognizable as Christianity today. And that is what makes the desire of some of the leading American marketing pastors to export their experiment to the rest of the world almost incomprehensible. It certainly is an expression of unbounded chutzpah.*

Biblical Christianity without the local church? It seems that their Bible is missing parts — like the New Testament.

The second mistake of the church marketers, according to David Wells, was making the “wrong calculation.” They have calculated that “unless [the church] makes deep, serious cultural adaptations, it will go out of business, especially with the younger generations.”

The market-driven church brings up legitimate concerns about the stagnation of evangelicalism. However, this stagnation is taking place primarily in the West, in the United States and Europe. In other parts of the world — Africa, Latin America, and Asia — Christianity is growing.

The face of Christianity is changing . . . It is no longer predominantly northern, European, and Anglo-saxon. It is the face of the underdeveloped world. It is predominantly from the Southern Hemisphere, young, quite uneducated, poor, and very traditional. The question Westerners need to ponder is why, despite our best efforts at cultural accommodation in America, God seems to be taking his work elsewhere. Is there a lesson lurking somewhere in this story?*

The motive driving evangelical pastors today, says Wells, is fear: the fear of being obsolete and irrelevant to this postmodern culture.

   This, of course, was the fear that haunted the older generation of Protestant liberals . . . They were overwhelmed by the need to be relevant to the culture. . . . It was the purveyors of the Enlightenment . . . with whom they sought an intellectual truce, a working compromise. From this capitulation — for that is what it was — was born a synthesis in which elements from Christian faith and elements from the humanistic world were drawn together into a single package that was Christian in name and humanistic in much of its substance. The downfall and wreckage of the mainline denominations in North America in the second half of the twentieth century, as well as their counterparts in Europe, bear eloquent testimony to the impossibility of accommodating Christ to culture in this way.
   This lesson, however, is entirely lost on most evangelicals today. The reason is partly that they are treading a different path and so the do not see the parallels. Theirs is not the accommodation to high culture as was the liberals’. . . . The parallels between these older liberals and today’s evangelicals is not in the culture to which they are accommodating but in the process of accommodation. Behind each is the same mindset. The difference is only in what is being accommodated. . . . Evangelical Christianity is as endangered by its postmodern dance partner as the earlier liberals were by their Enlightenment partner.†

Compromise is a dangerous game. The church that has attempted to gain the whole world through compromise is losing its soul. And what if, after all that risk, the game is lost? Wells concludes that, because of the church marketers fear going out of business with the younger generations,

What it has not considered carefully enough is that it might well be putting itself out of business with God. And the further irony is that the younger generations who are less impressed by whiz-bang technology, who often see through what is slick and glitzy, and who have been on the receiving end of enough marketing to nauseate them, are as likely to walk away from these oh-so-relevant churches as to walk into them.‡

That’s supposed to be funny. Palin/Paladin — get it? No? Never mind, then. Since everyone seems to be excited — positively or negatively — over John McCain’s choice of Sarah Palin as running mate, I thought I might as well get excited, too. The trouble is, I can’t, either way. I am not distraught that a woman, wife, and mother is playing second fiddle on the Republican presidential ticket. I am also not thrilled that said fiddle is exceedingly pro-life. It’s not that I don’t care about those issues. It’s just that, in a way, the former point doesn’t matter at all, and in another way, it matters very much; and the latter point, while truly a wonderful thing, could surely have been found in someone less maternal. All this leaves me with mixed feelings; not the kind that upset my stomach, but the kind that balance out to a disinterested ambivalence.

Only under the most unfortunate circumstances do I approve of a married woman, with or without children, being employed outside her home. My reasons — which are not germane to this article, so won’t elaborate on them — are two-fold: 1) she ought not submit to the authority of anyone but her husband and 2) it is virtually impossible for her to do so without in some way, however small, neglecting her home. However, it would be hypocritical of me to object to Palin’s candidacy on those grounds as long as I continue to patronize businesses that employ married women, many of whom are mothers.

Marital status aside, the fact that she is a woman does not bother me. Just as I don’t mind paying a woman to pour my coffee at the café, I don’t mind paying a woman to be Vice President, or even President. Well, I suppose it bothers me a little. I am convinced that women, by design, are not ideal for such positions. But then there was Margaret Thatcher; and considering the performance of our last two male Presidents, I don’t think I’ll push that point at this time.

While the Bible does say a wife is to be a keeper at home, it does not say that a woman can’t have a job — and that’s what this is: a job. I know, many will say this is different. This is a really big job, much different from the average job that the average woman might have. Well, yes, it is; but that only presents a difference of degree, not kind. Others will point out that this is a position of authority. I would suggest that those people do two things: get a copy of the Constitution and learn what the job of President (since the Vice President could conceivably be thrust into that office) actually entails, and read the Bible and learn exactly what kind of authority a woman is forbidden.

First, the Bible: Scripture bars women from exercising authority over their husbands and in the church, nowhere else. Unless you believe the church should be joined to the state, there is no biblical impediment to women holding public office.

Second, the law: Presidents (or senators, etc.) are not authorities. This is a republic. We have, as John Adams said, “a government of laws, not men.” Elected officials are merely administrators of the law. The Constitution is King (Lex Rex). I have been disappointed to see some slandering Mr. Palin, implying, or stating outright, that he must not be the head of his home, and by allowing his wife to be Governor and now Vice President, he is subjecting himself further to her authority. That is an unfounded charge. We don’t know how things are in their home, and her public service has no bearing on that. There is no elected position that would place her in authority over him.

So, I’m not excited about this candidacy. I think it’s just a reflection of the sad state of the culture we live in, and no more than that. I’m sorry that the Palin’s have chosen to order their family as they have; but I’ll say the same for many of the ladies who work in the stores around town. I’m glad that Mrs. Palin is very pro-life, but I find it sadly ironic that a woman who has pursued a demanding career away from home is billed as pro-family.

There is a tendency for conservative Christians to become indignant and hit the outrage button when the world behaves worldly and insist that, if they can’t have things as they ought to be, they won’t have it at all. That’s foolish. Sometimes — often, actually — we have to take the cards we’re dealt and make the best of it.

I will vote for McCain-Palin in November. As I do, I will be sorry we can’t do better, but happy to be voting against Obama for a candidate that might actually defeat him. I will do that because there is a difference, and it does matter.

The third mistake of the market-driven church is to have made the wrong analogy. David Wells writes, “The analogy du jour is between the way proficient marketers like Pepsi do their business and how the church should do its business.”

Wells notes two main parallels in this analogy. First, they have observed that Christ came into the world of men as a man, entered the culture, and spoke the language of the culture. “His teaching was contextualized. Our church life, our message, should be, too.”

   Our context today, at least in the West, is principally one of commerce and consumption. To speak in the language of consumption, to use its speech and ways, is to speak contextually. It is to speak the language everyone understands. It is to enter the culture and mindset of twenty-first century Westerners. It is to meet them on their own terms, incarnation ally, just as Jesus met the people of his own day. That is the logic.1

Second, the marketers have drawn a parallel between marketing and evangelism. Great effort is put into researching the market. The target audience is identified, and the product is customized to meet its demands.

   The parallels with evangelism are not of course exact, but a great many evangelical churches have signed off on this analogy. . . . Now, churches are likely to be ledby former CEOs, advertisin executives,corporate managers, few of whom have, or want, a theological education. The skills that made them successful n the business world make them successful in the church world. That, at least, is what is assumed.
   The gospel is a product, evangelism is about selling it, and church (pastoral) staff is there to make it happen. . . .
   In both forms of marketing — in the world and in the church — the result is an exchange of goods. In the one, a new sound system, a new BMW, or the latest and most alluring perfume. In the other, eternal life.
   So, what is wrong with this? What is wrong if it clearly works? After all, some churches that have marketed themselves and their product, the gospel, have grown rather astoundingly, though those that have failed rarely get noticed. Can we argue with success?2

Wells says, yes, we can and we should, because the reason it has “worked” is that, in order to make the product attractive to the consumer, it has been stripped of truths that are fundamental and essential, but unattractive to potential buyers.

   Success can be had along marketing lines, but truth is not an intrinsic part of that success. There is the formula. Does that not raise a red flag? Is the gospel not about truth? The Christian message is not about anything else than the “truth of the gospel” (Gal. 2:5), the “truth [as it] is in Jesus” (Eph. 4:21). Gospel truth, biblically speaking, is not a formula, not simply a relationship, not just about spirituality. It is about the triune God acting in this world redemptively, in the course of time, in the fabric of history, and bringing all of this to its climax in Christ. . . .
   That is where this gospel really parts company from the way in which productsand services are marketed in our modernized world. These products and services are no more than products and services. They are simply there for our use. The gospel is not. The gospel calls us not to use it but to submit to the God of the universe through his Son. A methodology for success that circumvents issues of truth is one that will rapidly emancipate itself from biblical Christianity . . .3

The result is a church with a gospel stripped of saving truth. This is necessarily so, because the gospel as a product has been defined by the felt needs of the consumer, rather than the actual needs identified by an omniscient God — and the two perspectives could not be more different.

   We suppress the truth about God, holding it down in “unrighteousness” (Rom. 1:18). We are not subject to his moral law and in our fallenness are incapable of being obedient to it (Rom 8:7), so how likely is it, outside the intervention of God, through the Holy Spirit, that we will identify our needs as those arising from our rebellion against God? No, the product we will seek naturally will not be the gospel. It will be a therapy of some kind, a technique for life, perhaps a way of connecting more deeply with our own spiritual selves on our own terms, terms that require no repentance and no redemption. It will not be the gospel. The gospel cannot be a product that the church sells because there are no consumers for it. When we find consumers, we will find that what they are interested in buying, on their own terms, is not the gospel.4

The Great Commission is not analogous to the marketing and sale of any product. “It is the benefits of believing that can be marketed, not the truth from which the benefits derive.” As a product, that truth has no takers. It is only desirable to those whom it has already set free.

David Wells on Church Consumerism:

Part One
Part Two

I listened to Christopher Parkening all day yesterday. I thought I would share a little with you.

Fairest Lord Jesus
Miller‘s dance (duet)
Romance
Adiós Granada with Plácido Domingo

I reioyced, when they sayd to me, We wil go into the house of the Lord. (Psalme 122:1 Geneva Bible)

HYMN 22 Part 1. (L. M.)
Christ the eternal life. Rom. ix. 5.
Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

JESUS, our Savior and our God,
Array’d in majesty and blood,
Thou art our life; our souls in thee
Possess a full felicity.

All our immortal hopes are laid
In thee, our surety and our head;
Thy cross, thy cradle, and thy throne,
Are big with glories yet unknown.

Let atheists scoff, and Jews blaspheme
Th’ eternal life and Jesus’ name;
A word of thy almighty breath
Dooms the rebellious world to death.

But let my soul for ever lie
Beneath the blessings of thine eye;
’Tis heav’n on earth, ’tis heav’n above,
To see thy face and taste thy love.

—from The Psalms & Hymns of Isaac Watts. Hymns and Spiritual Songs. Book I: Collected from the Holy Scriptures (Soli Deo Gloria, 1997).

Psalme 150
(Geneva Bible)
1 Praise ye the Lord, because he is good: for his mercie endureth for euer.
2 Praise ye the God of gods: for his mercie endureth for euer.
3 Praise ye the Lord of Lords: for his mercie endureth for euer:
4 Which onely doeth great wonders: for his mercie endureth for euer:
5 Which by his wisedome made the heauens: for his mercie endureth for euer:
6 Which hath stretched out the earth vpon the waters: for his mercie endureth for euer:
7 Which made great lightes: for his mercie endureth for euer: 8 As the sunne to rule the day: for his mercie endureth for euer:
9 The moone and the starres to gouerne the night: for his mercie endureth for euer:
10 Which smote Egypt with their first borne, (for his mercie endureth for euer)
11 And brought out Israel from among them (for his mercie endureth for euer)
12 With a mightie hande and stretched out arme: for his mercie endureth for euer:
13 Which deuided the red Sea in two partes: for his mercie endureth for euer:
14 And made Israel to passe through the mids of it: for his mercie endureth for euer:
15 And ouerthrewe Pharaoh and his hoste in the red Sea: for his mercie endureth for euer:
16 Which led his people through the wildernes: for his mercie endureth for euer:
17 Which smote great Kings: for his mercie endureth for euer:
18 And slewe mightie Kings: for his mercie endureth for euer:
19 As Sihon King of the Amorites: for his mercie endureth for euer:
20 And Og the King of Bashan: for his mercie endureth for euer:
21 And gaue their land for an heritage: for his mercie endureth for euer:
22 Euen an heritage vnto Israel his seruant: for his mercie endureth for euer:
23 Which remembred vs in our base estate: for his mercie endureth for euer:
24 And hath rescued vs from our oppressours: for his mercie endureth for euer:
25 Which giueth foode to all flesh: for his mercie endureth for euer.
26 Praise ye the God of heauen: for his mercie endureth for euer.

Grace be with you, and Peace from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ.

Modern, postmodern — day after day, century after century, men prove that there truly is nothing new under the sun. David Wells writes of the overthrow of truth, and the causes and motives behind it.

Truth is hot today. Hotly disputed, that is. . . . Doubts about truth are aired in rarified intellectual circles and heard in movies. It is a question in law journals as in the wider popular culture. Everywhere we are hearing the same uncertainties about the very possibility of truth.
   In the church it is tempting to exploit these uncertainties, and many are falling prey to this temptation. The temptation is that sounding diffident about truth, about whether we can know the truth, does have its attractions today. It establishes an immediate bond with those in our postmodern culture. Postmoderns have become very leery about truth and about those who think they know it.
   This apparent gain by way of connection however, is more than matched by a loss. What makes for a bond with culture makes for a rupture, I will argue, with the ways of God.*

Why is it that truth has so fallen out of fashion in the world? And why is it that the church is rejecting absolute truth claims as well? The answer begins with one basic fact:

. . . American Christians rate themselves high on relationships and low on Bible knowledge. The Bible, after all, is the source of truth God gave us. Of the seven characteristics [George] Barna selected for measuring spirituality in 2005, Bible knowledge came out the lowest.
   This is part of our picture today. We are spiritual. We want relationships, but we do not want to be religious. Bible knowledge is increasingly considered part of religion in this growing and damaging separation of spirituality from religion. This explains why so many of our churches, especially the most prominent marketing mega churches, give the impression that Christianity is about many things, but truth is not one of them. . . .

   My conclusion is that absolute truth and morality are fast receding in society because their grounding in God as objective, as outside of our self, as our transcendent point of reference, is disappearing. There is nothing outside the individual that stands over against the individual, that remains as the measure for the individual’s actions, the standard for what is right or wrong, or as the test of what is true and what is not.
. . . I am talking about what is called the “autonomous self.” It does have a connection with the earlier individualism that was so much a part of the American story. However, it is not simply individualism. It is what has happened to individualism in our highly modernized society. It is how individualism looks in its postmodern dress.†

Postmoderns, of course, reject individualism. Individualism was a part of modernism, with which they vehemently deny any connection. Postoderns are all about community — and it is evident that they do long for community. However,

. . . postmoderns are deceiving themselves if they think the autonomous self died with modernity. It did not. This is one of the threads that weaves its way, unbroken, from old Enlightenment days into our newer, postmodern disposition and explains an awful lot about the way truth is being understood.
   Then it was that Enlightenment thinkers demanded to be freed from all external authority in order to make up their own minds. They demanded to be freed from God, religious authority, and the past. . . . This attitude has come down to our own time in the form of secular humanism.
   It is true, of course, that postmoderns, in and out of the church, despise this older rationalism. . . . There is much to be said for this rejection of Enlightenment rationalism . . . However, the breach here with the past is not nearly as complete as postmoderns imagine. There is actually a thread of continuity that ties that age to ours, and this thread is quite unbroken.
   This thread is our understanding about the self. Then, as now, it has been loosed from every external constraint, be it God, the past, or religious authority. We demand to be free. We today, postmodern that we may be, are more unconstrained, more emancipated from everything except our own selves than were the proponents of the enlightenment.‡

In the few millennia since Adam, little has changed. Self and its demands for autonomy are still the ultimate motivation of every sin.

Postmoderns revel in uncertainty. The more they learn, the less they know; and the less they know, the more certain they are that no one else knows anything, either. David Wells comments,

   What we hear from many of the emergent church leaders who are most aware of the (post)modern ethos, therefore, is a studied uncertainty: “We do not know.” “We cannot know for sure.” “No one can know certainly.” “We should not make judgments.” “Knowing beyond doubt is not what Christianity is about.” “We need to be more modest.” “We need to be more honest.” “Christianity is about the search, not about the discovery.” “Christianity is about the spiritual journey, not about arriving.” They forget that Scripture is divine revelation. It is not a collection of opinions of how different people see things that tells us more about the people than the things. No. It gives us God’s perfect knowledge of himself and of all reality. It is given to us in a form we can understand. The reason God gave it to us is that he wants us to know. Not to guess. Not to have vague impressions. And certainly not to be misled. He wants us to know. It is not immodest, or arrogant, to claim that we know, when what we know is what God has given us to know through his word.

   Listen to the new Testament . . . Hear plain speaking and words that ring with conviction: “We know. . . . We know. . . . We know.” in the Johannine Epistles, for example, we are told that we know the truth (1 John 2:21; 2 John 1; cf. John 8:32). And not only in the Johannines. Paul speaks of coming to a “knowledge of the truth” (2 Tim. 2:25; cf. 3:7–8; 4:4). The writer of Hebrews speaks of a “knowledge of the truth” (Heb. 10:26), and Peter speaks of “obedience to the truth” (1 Pet. 1:22). If truth is uncertain, elusive, out-of-reach, lost on us as we live in our own private worlds of (post)modern “reality,” what on earth are the apostles talking about?

—David F. Wells, The Courage to Be Protestant: Truth Lovers, Marketers, and Emergents in the Postmodern World (Eerdmans, 2008), 77, 79.

The rejection of objective truth in postmodern thought has its roots in something much deeper than the professed desire for “conversation” and the focus on the “journey” rather than the destination. David Wells writes,

   At the heart of [the] sin that holds us captive is pride. The essence of sin is finding in the self what in fact can be found only in God. So pride, as Cornelius Plantinga writes in Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be, leads us to think much about the self and much of the self. We imagine that within ourselves we have power enough, wisdom enough, and strength enough to live in security, in the fullness of happiness, as we want to live, amidst all the conflicts and opportunities of life. Very finite preoccupations are therefore substituted for those that are eternal, and we then confidently take the place God once had. We therefore redefine reality. Is this not the ultimate explanation as to why life in the postmodern world has lost its center? What I am describing here, within a biblical framework, is what others in the postmodern world are seeing without this framework. This is the “autonomous self.”

—David F. Wells, The Courage to Be Protestant: Truth Lovers, Marketers, and Emergents in the Postmodern World (Eerdmans, 2008), 103.

This is the root of the rejection of absolute, objective truth. Postmodern man, indeed, modern man, and all who have come before and, no doubt, all who will follow, rebel against the claim that they cannot determine for themselves what is true and right, that there is an authority outside themselves that is eternal, unchanging, and absolute. Most unacceptable of all, this authority is not subject to their judgments, and couldn’t be less interested in their opinions. This authority, of course, is God; and this exaltation of self is no less than a rejection of God.

David Wells writes of the loss of God and his truth as our center:

Perhaps the most startling consequence of all this is that our self begins to disintegrate. When the universe loses its center or, to be more precise, when the center is lost to us as something outside us that has the authority to reach into our lives, we ourselves begin to disintegrate. The self that has been made to bear the weight of being the center of all reality, the source of all our meaning, mystery, and morality, finds that it has become empty and fragile. When God dies to us, we die in ourselves. That is the connection we need to see, and it has become especially aggravated in the context of our (post)modern world.
   Many modern writers have pondered the emptying out of the (post)modern self, this was certainly evident in the 1960s, and it has continued down to this present time. Their language is sometimes different, but what they have in mind is much the same. [Various writers have written] of the “minimal self,” . . . “decentered self,” . . . “an enfeebled self,” . . . “the empty self, . . . “the depleted self.” Their analyses came at it from different angles, but all saw a constant erosion of out internal substance in the modern world. And whatever else we wish to say about it, it does seem clear that this is related to our experience of being uprooted, of not belonging, of drifting, of being homeless. It is also related to our being constantly bombarded with images, ideas, demands, products, and options that wear down our inward substance. But, most importantly I believe, it is related to the fact that there is no one before whom we are summoned, no one outside our experience before whom we are accountable, none on whose light we measure who we are and where we are heading. It is this last point that many (post)modern writers do not understand.

—David F. Wells, The Courage to Be Protestant: Truth Lovers, Marketers, and Emergents in the Postmodern World (Eerdmans, 2008), 111–112.

God, in relation to man, is both immanent and transcendent. That is, he is near to us and intimately involved in our lives, and he is holy, far away and high above us. David Wells employs the terms “the inside God” and “the outside God.” These different truths about God are not in opposition to each other, nor are they options between which we can choose. God is both, and, Wells writes,

We lose something essential to who God is, essential to what Christian faith is, and essential to our understanding of ourselves if we lose either side of this equation. And when we do, the side we retain always becomes perverted and dangerous because of the side we have lost.*

The God that is lost in this postmodern age, he says, is the “outside God.” Postmodern man wants relationship; he does not want accountability or to be subject to authority. And he does not want to be summoned to God; rather, he wants God to come to him.

I want to explore a few of the consequences that follow from the fact that God is outside us, that he is objective to us, that he summons us to a knowledge of himself that is not something we have or find in ourselves, and that he summons us to be like him in holiness. This summons, this calling to stand before God in his awesome moral purity, is not something we would ever hear within our fallen selves, nor from our fallen world or our postmodern experience. It is a call that, as it were, is wholly alien to us. It is other than what we are in ourselves. It comes from the outside.
   God’s holiness is part of the explanation of the biblical language of God being “above” and “high.” It is why God is Other, why he is the outside God. This translates itself, though, into very practical realities.†

And we will, Deo volente, look at those practical realities in a future post.

And now, for something completely different . . .

Not hip with the postmodern scene (i.e., don‘t get it)? Click here, here, and here. Click here to view image full-size.

I reioyced, when they sayd to me, We wil go into the house of the Lord. (Psalme 122:1 Geneva Bible)

HYMN XI
Plenty in a time of dearth. Gen. xli. 56.
by John Newton (1725-1807)

Y soul once had its plenteous years,
And throve, with peace and comfort fill’d,
Like the fat kine and ripen’d ears,
Which Pharaoh in his dream beheld.

With pleasing frames and grace receiv’d,
With means and ordinances fed;
How happy for a while I liv’d,
And little fear’d the want of bread.

But famine came and left no sign,
Of all the plenty I had seen;
Like the dry ears and half–starv’d kine,
I then looked wither’d, faint and lean.

To Joseph the Egyptians went,
To Jesus I made known my case;
He, when my little stock was spent,
Opened his magazine of grace.

For he the time of dearth foresaw,
And made provision long before;
That famish’d souls, like me, might draw
Supplies from his unbounded store.

Now on his bounty I depend,
And live from fear of dearth secure,
Maintain’d by such a mighty friend,
I cannot want till he is poor.

O sinners hear his gracious call!
His mercy’s door stands open wide,
He has enough to feed you all,
And none who come shall be denied.

—from Olney Hymns. Book I: On select Passages of Scripture.

salme 143
(Geneva Bible)
A Psalme of David.
1 Hear my prayer, O Lord, and hearken vnto my supplication: answere me in thy trueth and in thy righteousnes.
2 (And enter not into iudgement with thy seruant: for in thy sight shall none that liueth, be iustified)
3 For the enemie hath persecuted my soule: he hath smitten my life downe to the earth: he hath layde me in the darkenes, as they that haue bene dead long agoe:
4 And my spirit was in perplexitie in me, and mine heart within me was amased.
5 Yet doe I remember the time past: I meditate in all thy workes, yea, I doe meditate in the workes of thine hands.
6 I stretch forth mine hands vnto thee: my soule desireth after thee, as the thirstie land. Selah.
7 Heare me speedily, O Lord, for my spirit fayleth: hide not thy face from me, els I shall be like vnto them that go downe into the pit.
8 Let me heare thy louing kindenes in the morning, for in thee is my trust: shewe mee the way, that I should walke in, for I lift vp my soule vnto thee.
9 Deliuer me, O Lord, from mine enemies: for I hid me with thee.
10 Teach me to doe thy will, for thou art my God: let thy good Spirit leade me vnto the land of righteousnes.
11 Quicken me, O Lord, for thy Names sake, and for thy righteousnesse bring my soule out of trouble.
12 And for thy mercy slay mine enemies, and destroy all them that oppresse my soule: for I am thy seruant.

Grace be with you, and Peace from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ.

David Wells lists five realities resulting from the fact that God is holy, or, in Wells’ words, the “outside God.” The first is that There Is a Law.

It means, first, that there is a moral law. Indeed, without the holiness of God, his character as morally pure, there would be no moral law in the world. Our consience reflects the moral nature of things (Rom. 2:14–15), however imperfectly, and in God’s self-revelation in Scripture we have our full, objectively given instructions on how to live. The “law,” Paul says, “is holy, and the commandment is holy and righteous and good” (Rom 7:12). These are the moral norms for life that reflect the holy character of God. What would we lose if we had neither this law nor human conscience?
   We would lose all knowledge of the difference between good and evil, and in fact, we would do evil in complete innocence. We could not appeal to conscience . . . Indeed, there would be no morality at all. . . .
   Now let us think of the reverse side of this coin. God has not abdicated his rule. His character of holiness has not been eliminated from this world. He still sustains the difference between right and wrong. And knowing that difference, being helped to work it out in practice, is what gives our first moments of recovery a sense of what it is to live in God’s world on his terms. It steers us away from what is destructive and into what is right and healthful. Satisfaction, protection, and joy result from following God’s law. All of this is a consequence of God being the “outside God.”

—David F. Wells, The Courage to Be Protestant: Truth Lovers, Marketers, and Emergents in the Postmodern World (Eerdmans, 2008), 127–128.

The second of five realities rising from the holiness of God, according to David Wells, is that There Is Sin. This is a reality we lose when we fail to see God as the “outside God.”

The second consequence is that without the holiness of God, sin loses all its meaning. Sin, as I have argued, is not simply the breaking of some church rule but is every act that is an affront to the character and will of God. It is true that only 17 percent of Americans define sin in relation to God, but their mistake in no way diminishes the nature of what their sin is.
   What has been lost is not the sin itself but its culpability. Sin in all its forms is still present in life. It is still trailed by all the pain and confusion that always attends it, but it is not being understood in relation to God. It thus loses its depth, character, and culpability because we have lost our internal compass. That compass lines up our sinning, not merely horizontally, but also vertically. Sin brings not only shame, but also guilt when we understand it in relation to God’s holiness. “Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight” (Ps. 5:14), after the calamity he brought upon himself by his sexual affair. Only then do we understand its nature. When we lose the holiness of God we have sins pains and calamities, but we do not understand it anymore.
   But if we begin to see the nature of sin, we are on the road back to reality. We are on our way back into the presence of God through Christ. It is not that the knowledge of sin alone suffices, but rather that it pushes us to seek our deliverance from it. Knowing about sin is therefore vital knowledge. There is none quite so lost as those who know little or nothing of their sin. Knowing about our sin, therefore, is something for which we should be deeply grateful. This is why it is so important for us to be able to understand that God is not simply the inside God but he is the outside God as well.

—David F. Wells, The Courage to Be Protestant: Truth Lovers, Marketers, and Emergents in the Postmodern World (Eerdmans, 2008), 128.

Third on David Wells’ list of realities rising from the holiness of God, is that There Is a Cross. When we lose sight of God as the “outside God,” we lose the cross.

Third, without the holiness of God the cross would be emptied of all meaning. Christ was not a social reformer, of a do-gooder for whom things got out of hand. These are the old liberal ideas, but they are not biblical thoughts. The cross was not an accident. It was planned in eternity, and it was for this, Jesus said, that he had come. He had come to die. And in his moment of death the holiness of God and our sin collided. This in what called forth his cry of dereliction. It is an impertinence, at the very least, to say, as Steve Chalke and Alan Mann do in The Lost Message of Jesus, that this view makes God guilty of “cosmic child abuse,” that the cross needsto be purified of its violent images. This may appeal to a postmodern constituency, and to its Arminian counterpart, but it is remote from the way the Bible thinks about Christ’s death and distant from the way the church, down through the ages, has thought about it. The truth is that Christ’s death is simply incomprehensible if we do not start with the demands of God’s holiness, which cannot tolerate sin’s violations.
   Without the holiness of God, then, there is no cross. Without the cross there is no gospel. Without the gospel there is no Christianity. Without Christianity there is no church. And without echoes of the holiness of God in those who are Christ’s, there is no recognizable church. What is it about this chain of connections that the evangelical church today is not understanding that is leading it to soft-pedal, overlook, or ignore the holiness of God?

—David F. Wells, The Courage to Be Protestant: Truth Lovers, Marketers, and Emergents in the Postmodern World (Eerdmans, 2008), 129.

Among the truths that are lost when we fail to recognize God as the “outside God” is his power over evil.

[W]ithout his holiness God is reduced to being kind, amiable, approachable, and harmless, but for all his likeability he is incapable of dealing with evil in the world. The perspective of the Bible, by contrast, is that God’s patience and forbearance will one day run out. The time will come when he acts in judgment because of his holiness. And when he does, he will place truth forever on the throne and evil forever on the scaffold. All that has broken and defiled life will be finally, and irrevocably, overthrown.
   This doctrine of God’s judgment should not be an embarrassment to the church. It is not simply a negative doctrine. It is profoundly positive.
   It is this doctrine that carries the church’s hope. For in this world evil often triumphs, goes unpunished, and what is good and righteous is often dismissed or even penalized. However, this applies only to the interim period. In the end, evil is judged, the world is cleansed, and the church is finally redeemed. This is why Christians have hope. All the injustices, the upside-down nature of things morally will be set right. God’s holiness will descend upon the rebel creation. And then, as John saw, the “night will be no more.” And God’s people “will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever” (Rev. 22:5). This vision of the end of time now throws back its clarifying light into the muddled present.
   Sin, grace, love, and faith . . . Have nothing but a superficial meaning until we see them in relation to the Holy, arising from it, and setting it forth. God’s love is his holiness reaching out to sinners; grace is but the price that his love pays to his holiness; the cross is but its victory over sin and death; and faith is but the way in which we bring our worship to him who is holy.

—David F. Wells, The Courage to Be Protestant: Truth Lovers, Marketers, and Emergents in the Postmodern World (Eerdmans, 2008), 130.

David Wells writes of five realities that are lost when we lose sight of the holiness of God, or as Wells puts it, the “outside God”: There Is a Law, There Is Sin, There Is a Cross, There Is Conquest, and finally, There Is Obligation. God’s holiness calls us to a life of holiness. Yet, Wells writes, according to Barna, “. . . even among [those who claim to be] born-again, fewer than half have any idea what holiness means.”

When asked to describe what holiness is, only 7 percent of Americans rooted this in the character of God. Although 72 percent said they had made a commitment to Christ, and 71 percent said their faith was “very important” to them, and 60 percent said they were “deeply spiritual,” only 16 percent said their faith was the highest priority in their lives. Barna’s conclusion was that most American like the security of being able to call themselves “Christian,” but most also resist the biblical responsibilities that go along with that claim. For the great majority, he says, being identified as a Christian is more about image than substance. It is a cultural thing. It is all about creating a pleasing self-image.
. . . where this state of affairs is most scandalous is in the churches that imagine themselves on the cutting edge of advancing Christian faith. What many of them are producing are so-called followers of Christ who are in it for their own spiritual comfort but are at sea when it comes to understanding the significance of God’s holiness for their Christian lives. And the reason for that, quite simply, is that many churches, obsessed with their own success, have made Chritianity light and easy so that they can market it successfully. what are the consequences, then, of losing sight of the holiness of God, this aspect of the outside God? And, just as important, what are the consequences of seeing the holiness of God?
   Our situation is not that different from what pertained in much of Israel’s history. The Old Testament people of God were religious, but often their religion made little difference. This, apparently, is what we have in the [professing] born-again sector in America today. The ancient Israelites’ religion was not an impediment to idol worship or to a whole assortment of pagan practices. They had the written law and temple worship. They had the prophets. They had all they needed to please God, but so often they would not listen. They would not reckon with his holy will. They became careless, living as if he were not there . . . The problem was that, again and again, with monotonous repetition, they lost sight of the holiness of God. And they paid the painful consequences for this, again and again.
   Is this really so different from what we have now in the West? We have Bibles enough for every household in America a couple of times over. We have churches galore . . . All too often we don’t have what the Old Testament people didn’t have. A due and weighty sense of the greatness and holiness of God, a sense that will reach into our lives, wrench them around, lift our vision, fill our hearts, make us courageous for what is right, and over time leave its beautiful residue of Christlike character. . . .

   So what do we need to do? Quite simply, we need to find the outside God.

—David F. Wells, The Courage to Be Protestant: Truth Lovers, Marketers, and Emergents in the Postmodern World (Eerdmans, 2008), 131–133.

I am not among those who believe that the United States were founded by Christians as a Christian nation. I do not doubt that some of our founders were genuine believers, and I do believe our Constitution represents the closest thing possible to Christian government, if there could be such a thing. However, the Constitution is not the Word of God, and many of the founders — Thomas Pain, for one notable example, and Thomas Jefferson — were definitely not Christians.

Among those that I believe may have been believers is John Adams. I’ve just completed David McCullough’s biography of Adams (cleverly titled John Adams). It contains too little information to conclude with certainty that Adams was a genuine believer, but it does paint a picture of a man of great integrity who was humble and, at least after a fashion, a God-fearing man.

Adams suffered much through his life and political career. While President, he experienced the grief caused by his second son’s dissolute life and premature death. He was not a wealthy man as were many of his peers, and he sacrificed a great deal in service to his country. Defeated by Thomas Jefferson in his second run for the Presidency, he left office abused, slandered, and largely unappreciated by his colleagues in the fledgling government. And this after doing more for his country than, in my opinion, any other President to this day. Yet he bore these offenses largely with grace.

McCullough gives us a small window into Adams’s spiritual life in the following passage, which takes place shortly after Adams left office and returned, finally and gratefully, to private life.

He wrote [to his friend and fellow signer of the Declaration of Independence Benjamin Rush] of his renewed enjoyment of Shakespeare—Adams would read Shakespeare twice through again in 1805—and in his continued devotion to Cicero and the Bible. And he dwelt much on ideas. The ideal of the perfectibility of man as expounded by eighteenth-century philosophers—perfectibility “abstracted from all divine authority”—was unacceptable, he declared.

It is an idea of the Christian religion, and ever has been of all believers of the immorality of the soul, that the intellectual part of man is capable of progressive improvement for ever. Where then is the sense of calling the perfectibility of man as used by modern philosophers to be mere words without a meaning, that is mere nonsense.

He had himself, he told Rush, “an immense load of errors, weaknesses, follies and sins to mourn over and repent of.” These were “the only afflictions” of his present life. But St. Paul had taught him to rejoice ever more and be content. “This phrase ‘rejoice ever more’ shall never be out of my heart, memory or mouth again as long as I live, if I can help it. This is my perfectibility of man.”*

Some years later, writing to his son John Quincy, who by then was President, Adams wrote,

Rejoice always in all events, be thankful always for all things is a hard precept for human nature, though in my philosophy and in my religion a perfect duty.†

On the riddles of life, he told his young granddaughter,

You are not so singular in your suspicions that you know but little. The longer I live, the more I read, the more patiently I think, and the more anxiously I inquire, the less I seem to know. . . . Do justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly. This is enough.‡

I reioyced, when they sayd to me, We wil go into the house of the Lord. (Psalme 122:1 Geneva Bible)

PETITIONARY HYMNS
POEM IX. On War
Augustus Toplady (1740–1778)

Great God, whom heav’n, and earth, and sea
With all their countless hosts, obey,
Upheld by whom the nations stand,
And empires fall at thy command:

Beneath thy long suspended ire
Let papal Antichrist expire;
Thy knowledge spread from sea to sea,
’Till every nation bows to thee.

Then shew thyself the prince of peace,
Make every hostile efforts cease:
All with thy sacred love inspire,
And burn their chariots in the fire.

In sunder break each warlike spear;
Let all the Saviour’s liv’ry wear;
The universal Sabbath prove,
The utmost rest of Christian love!

The world shall then no discord know,
But hand in hand to Canaan go,
Jesus, the peaceful king, adore,
And learn the art of war no more.

—The Complete Works of Augustus Toplady (Sprinkle Publications, 1987).

Psalme 150
(Geneva Bible)

Grace be with you, and Peace from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ.

I recently had rather odd dream. I was a kid again, and back at a Bible camp. At this camp, we were singing a number of the “7-eleven” songs that were popular twenty-plus years ago. The final song in my dream was Lord, Be Glorified.

In my life, Lord,
be glorified, be glorified
In my life, Lord,
be glorified today.

If you’ve sung this chorus, you know it can be strung out indefinitely by substituting any number of things for “my life.” In my dream, we were doing just that, but with even more absurd, mind-numbing repetition than ever in reality. “In my ____, Lord, be glorified, . . .” Fill in the blank with any noun you can think of, and we sang it. I was glad to wake up.

Trivializing repetition aside, it is, of course, good and right to pray that God will be glorified through us. This ought to be our chief motive in everything. But what came to mind was the fact that we ought not pray that God will be glorified through us as if it is possible that he might not. I think many, if not most, Christians believe that it is possible to live a life that does not glorify God; but that is just not true.

The truth is that God will be glorified through every one of us. He has been glorified through the lives of faithful saints throughout time, from the beginning of creation to this present day. But he has also been glorified through the failures of those saints, and even through the most heinous sins of history’s most notorious villains.

God was glorified in Genesis 6, not only through Noah, who “found grace in the eyes of the Lord,” but through the “wickedness of man” which he judged in the flood. God was glorified not only through Isaac, but through Ishmael also. He was glorified through Joseph’s brothers, who sold him into slavery. He was glorified through Joseph as Joseph was faithful and righteous and, by his God-given wisdom, saved a nation. He was glorified through Pharaoh as Pharaoh enslaved God’s people, and was then judged for it. And as Israel wandered away from God, God was glorified as he repeatedly punished them and extended his grace to them.

God was glorified through Christ and the apostles, and Mary, Martha, and Lazarus; but he was also glorified through Caiaphas, Judas, and Pilate.

In short, God will be glorified through us, one way or another, either as his grace is displayed in our lives, or his judgment is meted out to us. His grace may come to us in the form of discipline, as well as obvious blessing. His judgment on the wicked may be seen here, as with the Genesis flood, or it may not be seen until the final judgment; but it will be seen by all, and God will be glorified. He will be glorified through every act of every one of his creatures.

The question is not, will God be glorified through me, but how will he be glorified through me?

In his work Cur Deus Homo? (Why the God-man?), Anselm of Canterbury (1033–1109) sought to answer the question of why the incarnation was necessary. R. C. Sproul writes,

   At the heart of Anselm’s answer to that question was his understanding of the character of God. Anselm saw that the chief reason a God-man was necessary was the justice of God. That may seem to be a strange answer. Thinking of the cross and of Christ’s atonement, we assume that the thing that most strenuously motivated God to send Christ into the world was His love or His mercy. As a result, we tend to overlook the characteristic of God’s nature that makes the atonement absolutely necessary—His justice.
   God is loving, but a major part of what He loves is His own perfect character, with a major aspect being the importance of maintaining justice and righteousness. Though God pardons sinners and makes great provision for expressing His mercy, He will never negotiate His justice. If we fail to understand that, the cross of Christ will be utterly meaningless to us.

—R. C. Sproul, The Truth of the Cross (Reformation Trust, 2007), 18–19.

Sin, R. C. Sproul writes, “is cosmic treason.”

We rarely take the time to think through the ramifications of human sin. We fail to realize that even the slightest sins we commit, such as little white lies or other peccadilloes we are violating the law of the creator of the universe. In the smallest sin we defy God’s right to rule and reign over His creation. Instead, we seek to usurp for ourselves the authority and power that belong properly to God. Even the slightest sin does violence to His holiness, to His glory, and to his righteousness. Every sin, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is truly an act of treason against a cosmic King.
   There are two aspects of the one problem we must understand if we are to grasp the necessity of the atonement of Christ. . . . God is just. In other words, He cannot tolerate unrighteousness. He must do what is right. . . . The other aspect of the problem [is that] we have violated God’s justice and earned His displeasure. We are cosmic traitors. We must recognize this problem within ourselves if we are to grasp the necessity of the cross.

—R. C. Sproul, The Truth of the Cross (Reformation Trust, 2007), 32–33.

R. C. Sproul, considering the separation between God and man that made a substitutionary atonement by a God-man necessary, draws three circles. The first represents the character of man.

   Imagine a circle that represents the character of mankind. Now imagine that if someone sins, a spot—a moral blemish of sorts—appears in the circle, marring the character of man. If another sin occurs, more blemishes appear in the circle. Well, if sin continues to multiply, eventually the entire circle will be filled with spots and blemishes. . . . Human character is clearly tainted by sin . . . The sinful pollution and corruption of fallen man is complete, rendering us totally corrupt. . . .

   To take it further, when the apostle Paul elaborates on this fallen human condition, he says, “‘There is none righteous, no, not one; . . . There is none who does good; no, not one’” (Rom. 3:10b-12). That’s a radical statement. Paul is saying that man never, ever does a good deed, but that flies in the face of our experience. When we look around us, we see numerous people who are not Christians doing things that we would applaud for their virtue. . . . But how can there be these deeds of apparent goodness when the Bible says that no one does good?
   The reason for this problem is that when the Bible describes goodness or badness, it looks at it from two distinct perspectives. First, there is the measuring rod of the law, which evaluates the external performance of human beings. For example, if the law says you are not allowed to steal, and you go your whole life without stealing, we could say that you have a good record. You’ve kept the law externally.
   But in addition to the external measuring rod, there is also the consideration of the heart, the internal motivation for our behavior. We’re told that man judges by outward appearances, but God looks on the heart. From a biblical perspective, to do a good deed in the fullest sense requires not only that the deed conform outwardly to the standards of God’s law, but that it proceed from a heart that loves Him and wants to honor Him. You remember the great commandment: “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind’” (Matt. 22:37). Is there anyone reading this book who has loved God with all of his or her heart for the past five minutes? No. Nobody loves God with all of his heart, not to mention his soul or mind. . . .

   If we consider human performance from this perspective, we can see why the apostle would come to his apparently radical conclusion that there is no one who does good, that there’s no goodness in the full sense of the word found among mankind. Even our finest works have a taint of sin mixed in. I have never done an act of charity, of sacrifice, or of heroism that came from a heart, a soul, and a mind that loved God completely.

—R. C. Sproul, The Truth of the Cross (Reformation Trust, 2007), 85, 87–89.

R. C. Sproul draws three circles illustrating the separation between God and man that made a substitutionary atonement by a God-man necessary. The first circle represented the character of man. Sproul continues:

   Imagine a second circle, just like the one we had for man, to represent the character of God. How many blemishes would we see in this circle? Absolutely none. We are totally depraved, but God is absolutely holy. In fact, He is too holy to even look at iniquity. He is perfectly just.
   Here, then, is the crux of the problem: how can an unjust person stand in the presence of God? Or, to put the question another way, how can an unjust person be made just, or justified? Can he start all over again? No. Once a person commits one sin, it is impossible for him ever to be perfect, because he’s lost his perfection with his initial sin. Can he pay the penalty for his sin? No—unless he wishes to spend an eternity in hell. Can God simply overlook the sin? No. If God did that, He would sacrifice His justice.
   Therefore, if man is to be made just, God’s justice must be satisfied. Someone must be able to pay te penalty for man’s sin. It must be a member of the offending party, the human race, but it must be one who has never fallen into the inescapable imperfection of sin. Given these requirements, no man could qualify. However, God Himself could. For this reason, God the Son came into the world and took on humanity. As the author of Hebrews says, “He had to be made like His brethren . . .” (Heb. 2:17a, emphasis added).

—R. C. Sproul, The Truth of the Cross (Reformation Trust, 2007), 90–91.

Apparently, some emerg*** folks are thinking of dumping the term “emerging.” I have three observations:

1. Wow, that didn‘t take long.
2. I approve of dropping the term. It‘s no longer accurate. May I suggest emerged?
3. You can change your clothes as often as you like, but until you take bath, you‘ll still stink.

On a related note, earlier this week a rather low-wattage commenter on another blog summed up his remarks with this statement: “Let's take theology out of Christianity.” I‘m afraid the Bible is going to need some serious editing.

I reioyced, when they sayd to me, We wil go into the house of the Lord. (Psalme 122:1 Geneva Bible)

A Song of Praise for Deliverance
by John Mason (1645–1694)

that I am drawn out of the depth,
Will sing upon the shore;
I that in hill’s dark suburbs lay,
Pure mercy will adore.
The terrors of the living God
My soul did so affright,
I feared lest I should be condemned
To an eternal night.

Kind was the pity of my friends,
But could not ease my smart;
Their words, indeed, did reach my case,
But could not reach my heart.
Ah, then, what was this world to me,
To whom God’s Word was dark;
Who in my dungeon could not see
One beam or shining spark?

What, then, were all the creatures’ smiles,
When the Creator frowned?
My days were nights, my life was death,
My being was my wound.
Tortured and racked with hellish fears,
When God the blow should give;
Mine eyes did fail, my heart did sink;
Then mercy bid me live.

God’s furnace doth in Zion stand,
But Zion’s God sits by;
As the refiner views his gold
With an observant eye,
God’s thoughts are high, His love is wise,
His wounds a cure intend;
And though He doth not always smile,
He loves unto the end.

Thy love is constant to its line,
Though clouds oft come between;
Oh, could my faith but pierce these clouds,
It might be always seen.
But I am weak, and forced to cry,
Take up my soul to Thee;
Then, as Thou ever art the same,
So shall I ever be.

Then shall I ever, ever sing,
While Thou dost ever shine;
I have Thine own dear pledge for this,
Lord Thou art ever mine.

—Worthy Is the Lamb (Soli Deo Gloria, 2004).

salme 7
(Geneva Bible) Shigaion of Dauid, which he sang unto the Lord, concerning the wordes of Chush the sonne of Iemini.
1 O Lord my God, in thee I put my trust: saue me from all that persecute me, and deliuer me,
2 Least he deuoure my soule like a lion, and teare it in pieces, while there is none to helpe.
3 O Lord my God, if I haue done this thing, if there be any wickednes in mine handes,
4 If I haue rewarded euill vnto him that had peace with mee, (yea I haue deliuered him that vexed me without cause)
5 Then let the enemie persecute my soule and take it: yea, let him treade my life downe vpon the earth, and lay mine honour in the dust. Selah.
6 Arise, O Lord, in thy wrath, and lift vp thy selfe against the rage of mine enemies, and awake for mee according to the iudgement that thou hast appointed.
7 So shall the Congregation of the people compasse thee about: for their sakes therefore returne on hie.
8 The Lord shall iudge the people: Iudge thou me, O Lord, according to my righteousnesse, and according to mine innocencie, that is in mee.
9 Oh let the malice of the wicked come to an ende: but guide thou the iust: for the righteous God trieth the hearts and reines.
10 My defence is in God, who preserueth the vpright in heart.
11 God iudgeth the righteous, and him that contemneth God euery day.
12 Except he turne, he hath whet his sword: he hath bent his bowe and made it readie.
13 Hee hath also prepared him deadly weapons: hee will ordeine his arrowes for them that persecute me.
14 Beholde, hee shall trauaile with wickednes: for he hath conceiued mischiefe, but he shall bring foorth a lye.
15 Hee hath made a pitte and digged it, and is fallen into the pit that he made.
16 His mischiefe shall returne vpon his owne head, and his crueltie shall fall vpon his owne pate.
17 I wil praise the Lord according to his righteousnes, and will sing praise to the Name of the Lord most high.

Grace be with you, and Peace from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ.

Yesterday my wife and I joined the church we’ve been attending. This is the testimony I presented to the congregation.

I haven’t shared my testimony publicly in this way very many times. Of the times I have, when I look back and remember what I have said, it occurs to me that most of what I have said has been about me. That ought not be the case, and I am going to try to avoid that this time; because my testimony is not primarily about me. It is primarily about God. God is the main character in my story, and the mover behind the various minor players.

God has been gracious to send people into my life and use them to bring me the gospel. In my earliest years, I was given wise and godly Sunday school teachers. I thank God for the example of my mother, whom I frequently saw — and who still can be seen — sitting with her Bible, always with a notebook at hand, writing copious notes. He sent me friends whose lives made me want to know God, even while I resisted him.

I don’t know when God saved me. I know the general time frame in which I began to receive assurance of salvation, which is now more than twenty years ago. Because of some rather confused theology in the churches I grew up in, I had a difficult time gaining that assurance. That’s not particularly important. What is important, and what I do know, is how God saved me. Ephesians 2 says,

1 And you were dead in your trespasses and sins,  2 in which you formerly walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that is now working in the sons of disobedience.  3 Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest.  4 But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us,  5 even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved),  6 and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus,  7 so that in the ages to come He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.  8 For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God;  9 not as a result of works, so that no one may boast.

I have done nothing; God has done it all. It was God who chose me before the foundation of the world according to his good pleasure (Ephesians 1). It was God who sent the gospel to me, who convicted me of my sin, called me to faith in Christ, gave me the gift of faith (Ephesians 2), granted me repentance (2 Timothy 2), and gave me the understanding to discern the things of God (1 Corinthians 2). It was God who adopted me as his son (Romans 8, Galatians 4, Ephesians 5), and made me a joint-heir (Romans 8) with his only natural son, Jesus Christ. It was God who gave me a new nature (2 Corinthians 5), so that I would hate my sin, and love him and his Word. And it is God who continues to work in me, “both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Philippians 2). Finally, it is God who has promised to perfect the good work he has begun in me (Philippians 1) and to glorify me with him (Romans 8).

I was conceived and born in sin. I had no ability or inclination to choose Christ, accept Christ, make a decision for Christ, or any other phrase you may have heard or used to describe conversion. I was an enemy of God, a rebel, concerned only with my own pleasure and well-being. As much as I would like to diminish my role in this story, there is one way in which I was very actively involved. I actively hated God and loved myself. But God loved me, and saved me. Just as he called Lazarus out of the grave, he called me from mine; and just as Lazarus could not raise himself from the dead, neither could I raise myself.

I am not saved because I have accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior. I am saved because God, in Christ, by his perfect righteousness and his death for my unrighteousness, has made me acceptable to him. He has not accepted me because I have accepted him. My faith in him is a consequence, not a cause, of his acceptance of me. I have trusted Jesus as my Lord and Savior because God has accepted me in Christ.

Because of Christ, God doesn’t see me as the sinner I am. He sees me covered with Christ’s righteousness. And in that same way, I hope when you hear [or read] this testimony, it causes you to see not me, but the glory of God in Christ.

Illustrating the necessity of a substitutionary atonement, R. C. Sproul draws three circles. The first circle represents the character of man. The second represents the character of God. The third represents Christ.

Imagine a circle representing Jesus’ character. He lived as a man on earth for decades, subject to the Law of God and subject to all of the temptations known to man. (Heb. 4:15). But we do not see any blemishes in His circle. Not one. This is why . . . John the baptist cried, “Behold! The lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29b). The Passover lambs of the Old Testament were to be lambs without blemish, as physically perfect as possible. But the ultimate lamb, the Lamb of God who would take away the sins of His People, was to be perfect in every way. In calling Jesus the Lamb of God, John was affirming that Jesus was untouched by sin.
   Jesus Himself made this claim. He asked the Pharisees, “‘Which of you convicts me of sin?’” . . . How would you react if somebody said to you: “I am perfect. If you don’t agree with me, prove that I’m not.” That’s what Jesus said. He claimed to have no shadow of turning, no blemish, nom sin. He said that his meat and drink were to do the will of the Father. He was a man Whose passion in life was obedience to the Law of God.
   We have one unjust party (man) and two just parties. We have a just God, and a just Mediator, Who is altogether holy. The Mediator is the One who came to satisfy the requirements of a just God on behalf of the unjust race of man. He is the One who makes the unjust party just. He is the only One Who could do so.
. . . This justification takes place ultimately when the supreme Judge of heaven and earth says, “You are just.”
   The grounds for such a declaration are in the concept of imputation. . . . we are talking about imputation when we say that Jesus bore our sins, that He took the sins of the world on Himself. The language there is one of a quantitative act of transfer whereby the weight of guilt is taken from man and given to Christ. . . . In theological language, we say that God imputed those sins to Jesus.
   If all that happened was a single transfer of our sins to Jesus, we would not be justified. If Jesus took all the sins I’ve ever committed on His back and took the punishment for me, that would not get me into the kingdom of God. It would be good enough to keep me out of hell, but I would still not be just. I would be innocent, if you will, but still not just in the positive sense. I would have no righteousness . . .
   Thankfully, however, there is not just one transfer, there are two. Not only is the sin of man imputed to Christ, but the righteousness of Christ is transferred to us, to our account. As a result, in God’s sight the human circle is now both clean of all blemishes and adorned with glorious righteousness. Because of that, when God declares me just, He is not lying.

—R. C. Sproul, The Truth of the Cross (Reformation Trust, 2007), 91–95.