Check out this post from Douglas Wilson, talking some hard sense about the supernatural. Money quote: “The first point is that while the Bible teaches us the reality of the spiritual world, it also teaches us that that world, like the physical world around us, is filled with liars. When we enter the spiritual realm, the need to have every fact established with two or three witnesses, and confirmed as being in line with the Word, does not go away.”
Amen.
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Chrestomathy, Functioning Supernaturalism | 
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Posted by Tim Nichols
Among the list of qualifications for eldership is “not a novice” (1 Tim. 3:6). Depending on the translation you read, it may say “not a new convert” or “not a recent convert” or “not new in the faith.” The words “convert” and “in the faith” are simply not in the passage here. The word is νεόφυτος, and it means “young man.”
So why did some translators add the extra words? For the same reason they usually do: for clarity in English translation. There are two possible meanings: a literal reading (“not a young man”) or a metaphorical extension (“not young in the faith”). Translators who favor the metaphorical interpretation have often chosen to clarify their meaning by adding the additional words. In this case, that is a mistake.
First, let’s start with the vocabulary. Paul uses two different words in his writings to refer to the office under discussion here. The one in this passage means “overseer,” and the other word literally means “old man.” So when Paul says that the appointee should not be “a young man” — well, I ask you. The word Paul chose for this qualification refers to a new-growth plant in Job 14:9 and Isaiah 5:7; it’s applied to the younger generation in Psalm 127:3 and 143:12. In other words, Paul’s Greek OT source material uses the word literally.
Does that mean it can’t be metaphorical here? Not at all. Paul could be crafting a novel metaphor by applying the literal term in a new metaphorical context. As Christians, we already refer to conversion as being born again; calling a new convert a “young man” regardless of his chronological age would make a certain sort of sense. (In fact, that’s exactly the process by which new metaphors enter language.) But is Paul doing that here? If he were, how would we know?
One obvious way would be for Paul to add the extra words himself. If he’s crafting a novel (if fairly obvious) metaphor, it would be fitting to specify it: “not a young man in the faith.” But he doesn’t do that. Another way would be for the context to make it otherwise obvious that’s what he must mean. Proponents of the metaphorical view will argue that this is the case, because Timothy himself is a young man. Surely Paul can’t be giving young Timothy the job of appointing elders, and then telling him, “Don’t appoint someone your own age.”
Ah, but he could! In fact, we already know that Timothy doesn’t meet all the criteria in the list of qualifications. Being unmarried, Timothy isn’t the husband of one wife (for that matter, neither is Paul). Timothy doesn’t have a household to rule well. We don’t need to claim some special spiritual meaning for these terms, as if “husband of one wife” would refer to Timothy’s fidelity to the Church, the Bride of Christ, or that “rules his household well” must mean that Timothy functions properly in the “houselold of God.” No, “husband” and “household” have their ordinary meanings, and Timothy is a valid exception.
How is Timothy supposed to function in that situation — appointing people that meet qualifications he doesn’t? He’s exemplary. The overriding qualification is blamelessness. Paul has that, despite not being a husband. Timothy also has that, despite being young. When we’re evaluating elder candidates, if a man gives us reason to doubt his faithfulness to his wife, he’s not qualified. If we look at his household and think “yikes!” he’s not qualified. And if we look at him and see that his youth is a drawback, he’s not qualified. If, in contrast, we look at him and think “I wish I was like that” — if he’s exemplary despite being young — then he is qualified, in the same way that Timothy was qualified.
The older men who are married and running households are wishing they were like Timothy in word, conduct, love, spirit, faith, and purity. He’s setting an example for them, not the other way round. Because Timothy is exceptional, Paul has recognized him as an exception. And thus we can see that “young man” refers to age in the same way that “husband” refers to marital status and “rules his household well” refers to familial and business affairs — all the terms have their ordinary meanings in the context.
So how do we apply the criteria like Paul would? Clearly it’s not the case that no young man would ever serve as an elder, but it would be rare, and with good reason — chronological age actually is a concern. On the face of it, this ought to be obvious just from the terms chosen for the office: one means ‘overseer,’ but the other literally means ‘old man.’ Maturity matters, and most young men haven’t taken sufficient advantage of the scant time they’ve had, or haven’t had enough experience, to season them out. Life experience and maturity are simply more common in older men, thus most of your elders will be, well, elder men.
If the candidate you’re looking at strikes you as a greenhorn in any sense, you probably shouldn’t pick him. On the other hand, if he’s been raised in the faith from childhood, as Timothy was, and he presents himself as exemplary in word, conduct, love, faith, and purity, as Timothy did — sure, go with that guy.
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Posted by Tim Nichols
I’ll be joining Chris Morrison of Gulfside Ministries for a special live podcast on Hebrews 6 on January 27th at 10 am Mountain Time. Come join us!
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Posted by Tim Nichols
When someone comes to me for discipleship, I tell them that I only teach four things: how to read, how to pray, the story of our people, and fruitful living. (I have a specialty in practical doctrine of creation and dust-and-breath anthropology, but that falls under the heading of fruitful living.) Today, I’d like to highlight two books that have changed my approach to teaching the more recent parts of the story of our people.
The historical development of science is a bit of a puzzler for most people. Modern science was created by Christians, and arguably couldn’t have been created by anybody else. If you rewind a few centuries, you find people like Robert Boyle, Matthew Maury, Michael Faraday, Lord Kelvin, and many more–faithful Christians moved by their Christian worldview to investigate the world God made. They would be shocked and puzzled to discover that today everybody “knows” that science and Christianity are in conflict; they never found that to be true. I had long been aware that the “conflict thesis” was nonsense, and worse, carefully constructed propaganda (about which, see Of Popes and Unicorns for the riveting tale, but that’s not why we’re here today.) But the history around Draper and White and their promotion of the conflict thesis never quite explained the speed with which Christians adopted it.
Paul Tyson’s A Christian Theology of Science has filled that gap. Tyson shows how the roots of the conflict thesis lay, not in 19th-century academia, but in currents of thought that run back to the medieval European church. He also shows how deeply we’ll need to repent to come back to a proper understanding of science’s place in the world. (I’m not with him in his largely negative appraisal of young-earth creationism, but he’s fair, and offers a rare compliment on pp.145-6. I’d love to buy the guy a beer and chat about it for a couple hours.) It’s not a thick book, but expect to expend a little skull sweat getting through it. It’ll be worth it. You’ll find that it inspires you to think differently — and harder — about contemporary discussions in which both religion and science have a stake.
In a similar vein, American Nations: A History of the Eleven Rival Regional Cultures of North America by Colin Woodard sheds light on the development of American political thought and practice. It’s obvious enough from a glance at the news that today, the people of the United States do not have a single dominant conception of what it means to be American, what the good life is, or what good government should look like. Woodard’s thesis it that we never really had that, and he starts in the 1500s to demonstrate his point.
I was raised at a history teacher’s knee, and my father would often contrast the Plymouth Bay Colony and Jamestown, pointing out their rival religions, attitudes, and forms of life as a key lens through which to view the development of the early American republic. Woodard takes that observation much further, and his historical unfolding of the American founding is really helpful. We frequently talk about the “Founding Fathers” as though they were a single group of people with a single shared set of values; that is simply not the case. Rather, the documents of the American founding represent a struggle to hammer out a working synthesis among multiple competing visions. I would argue that synthesis, despite its notable imperfections, was largely successful, and remains an important guiding light for us today.
Woodard maintains that the eleven distinct and competing cultures he describes continue to operate today (here’s a county-by-county map), and offers his synthesis as a broadly useful lens through which to view and explain current cultural battles. That claim seems to be where he has garnered the most criticism. You’ll have to make your own determination about that. I will say that I’ve found his eleven nations a helpful filter in considering some interpersonal conflicts. If you’d like a quick overview, this podcast is a good place to start.
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Posted by Tim Nichols
Pastors are leaving the church in droves. Why? This week, I spent some time reading one man’s answer. It would be worth your time to skim his account. As Rev. Lang articulates his reasons for leaving, not just that particular church, but the pastoral vocation altogether, I find myself sympathetic. There’s a lot in the article that I don’t agree with, and some of the things he says cause me to wonder if he’s called to the pastorate at all; good shepherds have to be tough, and I don’t think he is.
But his list of the seven proficiencies expected of a pastor really struck me. That’s true in most churches. I don’t have any trouble seeing why ten years of his job left him burned out. I’m surprised he made it that long.
“This thing Rev. Lang was doing, that also calls itself ‘pastoral ministry?’ It’s not.”
You know what’s missing in it all? Any sense of what biblical shepherding ministry actually is. Rev. Lang tells us why he stepped into the role which church culture defined for him, and why, some years later, he stepped out of it again. That’s worthwhile information for a church to absorb, but one of the things it’s missing is, well…the Bible. There is no such biblical position as the one his church asked him to occupy. He shouldn’t have been doing that job; no one person should have been doing that job. More importantly, no church should be trying to hire one person to do that job.
I’m hoping that the masses of men leaving the ministry will provoke some soul-searching in congregations. We need — all of us — to be stepping into the work of the ministry. Every Christian should be a disciple, and every disciple should be a disciple-maker at the level they’re able to be. Those who are called to equip congregations to do that work are the leaders we need. More and more of them are bivocational, in part because it gives them greater freedom to do what they’re actually called to instead of getting sidetracked into various backwaters of institutional trivia. Back when I was on staff at a mid-sized church, I used to keep track of how much time I spent on different activities. When I left that position, I continued keeping track for a while. You know what happened? Fewer people wasting my time, and more disciple-making.
This thing Rev. Lang was doing, that also calls itself “pastoral ministry?” It’s not. For any young man who finds himself in the unfortunate position of being hired to do that job, I recommend that he resign forthwith and get involved with a ministry where he can heed the Bible’s counsel rather than flouting it as a necessary condition of his employment.
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Posted by Tim Nichols
So Christmas just happened. It’s grown popular in the evangelicalism of our time to get cranky about the crass commercialism of it all. You know what? I’m tired of the crankiness. Christmas Day is a time for raucous celebration: blinking lights, flying wrapping paper, egg nog and good chocolate, viewing our gifts through the delighted eyes of the receiver. It is good.
It is very good. I hope you enjoyed it to the hilt.
And now, let’s reflect a bit, because Christmas isn’t over. December 25th isn’t Christmas; it’s the first day of Christmas (yes, like the song). The Christmas season continues for 12 days; the evening of January 5th is Twelfth Night — the end of Christmastide — and January 6th is Epiphany, the feast where we celebrate the revelation of Jesus for who He is. On Epiphany, we remember both the Transfiguration and the Wise Men finding Jesus (about which more anon). For this week, let’s focus on the thing we’re celebrating at Christmastide: the incarnation of God.
Bless the LORD, O my soul;
And all that is within me, bless His holy name!
Bless the LORD, O my soul,
And forget not all His benefits:
Who forgives all your iniquities,
Who heals all your diseases,
Who redeems your life from destruction,
Who crowns you with lovingkindness and tender mercies,
Who satisfies your mouth with good things,
So that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.
(Ps. 103:1-5)
Did you eat anything good in the past month? That was Him satisfying your mouth with goodness. You’re welcome. Take it as a downpayment on the rest of the psalm, a tangible sign that He is giving you all these things. All your sins are forgiven. All your diseases will be healed. Your youth and vigor will be renewed.
That’s who was in the manger. The God who forgives all our sins. The God who heals all our diseases. Who redeems us from destruction. Who pours mercy on our heads. And who gave you that salted caramel.
Taste and see that the Lord is good!
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Posted by Tim Nichols
In case you’ve missed it, there seems to be a bit of a furore about Christian Nationalism all of a sudden. The thought seems terrifying to the secular media, and they seem to be joined in their terror by all the Best Christian Thinkers. (You know, the same ones that thought “Do not forsake assembling yourselves together” was optional if Caesar has any objections to it.)
Some of us are wondering what the big deal might be. Me, I love my country as I love my mother: not because everyone else’s is trash, but because in God’s good providence, this one is mine, and has been a blessing to me. Mixed blessing, to be sure, but how are we to make it better? Why, by seeking to live according to what is true, good and beautiful.
“Ah,” they say, “But who is to say what is true, good, and beautiful? After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Everybody has a different idea of good. And truth?” They shrug, Pliate-like. “What is truth?”
Right. So don’t give the steering wheel to those guys. And in case you haven’t noticed, those guys seem to be the ones doing most of the steering in our culture right now. They’re happy to let us all continue to celebrate Easter, continue to think of Jesus as risen from the dead, and like that, just as long as we think it personally and privately, and don’t attempt to insert it into any discussion that matters. You want to believe in Jesus? Fine. You want a baby in the womb to be legally protected from murder, because Jesus? Oh no, that just won’t do. That’s Christian Nationalism, you see.
Also in case you hadn’t noticed, those guys aren’t just steering the culture. They’re also steering the Best Christian Thinkers. As it turns out, the Best Christian Thinkers are all afraid to be called Christian Nationalists, and that fear causes a little steering wheel to grow right out their backs, right between the shoulder blades. Periodically, the powers reach out and turn that wheel just a little. There was some Christian Nationalism in the road ahead, you see. A little to the left…there we go! Missed it! Phew! What a relief.
Again, do not let those guys have the steering wheel.
Here’s what’s actually happening: there’s at least two different kinds of Christian Nationalism. There’s Bugbear Christian Nationalism, which is what the talking heads at NPR (and the talking heads who listen to them) will accuse you of advocating if you want your Christian beliefs to have any impact in the public square—if, for example, you want to outlaw murder (like, say, dismembering babies in utero, you misogynist), or if you want to enshrine liberty of conscience, or any other Christian value, in law. Every discerning Christian is guilty of these charges—haters, every one a’ youse—and there’s no point in quibbling about the label; might as well hold our heads high and ask “As opposed to what?” Molochian Nationalism? Liberte, Egalite, and Guillotines? The Five Year Plan to reach true communism? Looting liquor stores for racial justice? The options just keep getting better. It’ll work next time, you’ll see….
Then there’s a second kind: Wierdbeard Christian Nationalism, which is all prairie muffin dresses and fines for wearing clothing of mixed fibers, or some such thing. In a nation of 350 million people, there are literal fives of people holding this view, and the talking heads are hoping to steer the rest of the Christians by making us afraid to be associated with them. Now, to be fair, they really do have some things I don’t want to associate with—I like my poly/cotton shirts and my dental care, ya know? On the other hand, the nice folks in button-down shirts are selling baby parts in bulk. Compared to them, the wierdbeards are starting to look downright civilized. If the choice is between high-end necromancy and square dancing, swing your partner!
This really doesn’t have to be complicated. I love my neighbors and I want good things for them. I want their faucets to run with clean water, their neighborhood streets to be smooth and pothole-free, the cracks in their sidewalks to be repaired promptly, their toilets to be a one-way system. Even for the poor families. I want their children to live free of the danger of being abused, mutilated, or murdered by anybody, including their own parents. I want them to have public order, that they might lead quiet and peaceable lives, and I want them to have the freedom to worship in accord with their consciences.
You don’t have to be Christian to want clean water for yourself, but wanting clean water for your neighbors is another matter. Historically, that ‘love your neighbor’ thing gets very limited play in places where the gospel hasn’t seriously penetrated the culture. All these things—every one of them—are Christian values, and I vote in support of them, because Jesus thinks I should. If that makes me a Christian Nationalist…what the heck? Ain’t the worst thing I been called this week.
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Posted by Tim Nichols
My new post on the prodigal’s older brother is up at Theopolis.
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Posted by Tim Nichols
I was raised to be a student of great thinkers. My parents were modeling and teaching good hermeneutics in family Bible study before I could even read. My whole life, I was taught to do the research and expend the imaginal effort to grasp the situation of the writing: what was happening for the writer? For the readers? What was their culture, language, cause for writing the message? It was understood (long before I ever heard of speech act theory) that writing is hard work, and the writer isn’t just spouting off for self-expression; he’s trying to do something to the readers. What are the readers supposed to see and hear? What are they supposed to do?
All this is just basic to being a good student of the humanities, but being raised on the sacred text, there was also an additional dimension: application. Of course a good teacher can bend your ear at length about the value of, say, Abraham Lincoln’s discourses on slavery or St. Patrick’s Confessio for our present day, but a student can just add them to his fund of knowledge of history with no particular thought to present-day lessons. A faithful Christian student of Leviticus has no such luxury. Our fundamental orientation toward the Scriptures is obedience.
Some Scriptures are written closer to our immediate situation (e.g. Romans), and others (Leviticus) further away, but toward all of them we bring a desire to hear what the Holy Spirit will say “Today, if you will hear His voice….” Failure to bring that desire to the text is a moral failure, as demonstrated in the next breath: “…do not harden your hearts as in the Rebellion.”
Coming into my own as a student of the humanities in high school, I applied all my background to my studies. My biblical lessons gave me a leg up on my classmates in grasping the underlying source material for the (Western) literature we studied. More than that, my reflexive habit of looking for application added dimension and depth to my study and commentary. Which is not to say that I had nothing to learn: I came out of high school with two big additional pieces. First, I fell in love with the beauty of the arts. I didn’t come from a background that appreciated beauty, so waking me up was not a trivial task. I was blessed with teachers that tackled the job with great enthusiasm. (Bornarth, Brinkley, Kuyper, and Virgo: Thank you all!) Second, I learned how to drill down into an author’s biography and body of work, to become a student of that author in particular and begin to see the world as he or she saw it.
My first project of that nature was a months-long team effort with two other students, focused on George Bernard Shaw. It had honestly never occurred to me that one could develop that kind of grasp of a particular person’s work. I was hooked. Since then, I’ve devoted serious attention to authors as diverse as Plato, Euclid, Flannery O’Connor, St. Patrick, Matteo Ricci, Stephen Barnes, Rex Stout, George Leonard, Peter Leithart, Orson Scott Card, Frank Herbert, and N. D. Wilson.
Every human is handcrafted for eternity; there’s not the slightest chance that even a prolific writer will successfully convey all their own depths to even the most apt of readers. Happily, you need not be the most apt of readers to immerse yourself in a particular person’s thought for a time. The strength of this sort of experiment is that you get a chance to try on someone else’s mind, see what they see, think what they think. It’s never a perfect fit. Of course it’s not. The places that fit don’t fit easily are the whole point.
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Posted by Tim Nichols
I was maybe 14 or 15 when I first read Frank Herbert’s Dune. In college I discovered the sequels–all 5 of them–and I’ve returned to them a number of times since. Herbert’s sociology of religion shines in certain ways. The average sociologist of his time is a fairly woodenheaded materialist who thinks of religion as humanity’s first and worst answer to being lost in a perplexing cosmos, an ill-fitting patch pulled over a waning ignorance, soon to wither away before the growing light of Science. Herbert knew better — he understood that religion is one of the fundamental driving forces of human society, and it’s not going away; in fact the opposite: the more humans explore their potential, the more powerful religion is going to get. His explorations into the human potential movement only took him further in that direction. The theme is implicit in The Santaroga Barrier, touched lightly in The Dosadi Experiment, and explored rather thoroughly in the Dune universe.
What Herbert fails to explore is the possibility of genuinely supernatural elements operative in religion. He can countenance humans shaped by extreme training (The Dosadi Experiment, the Sardaukar legions) and even radically transformed by millennia of selective breeding (the Guild Navigators, the Tleilaxu, the various products of Bene Geserit breeding programs, the children of Siona). But as close as he gets to a genuinely *other* presence is the Caleban race of Whipping Star and The Dosadi Experiment, and he situates the Caleban within the ConSentiency universe (which is full of aliens, as opposed to the Dune universe, which has none) as one more alien species, perhaps a little stranger than most.
Which is to say, Herbert takes the enduring presence and power of religion seriously, but he treats it as an entirely human artifact; it doesn’t seem to occur to him that any of it might be real. This dyed-in-the-wool materialist approach could easily be a rational business decision to work within the default approach of the genre. Working with deity in fiction is tricky; even Tolkien (a devout Catholic of immense narrative power) mostly left religion out of his books — and he was writing in fantasy, where he could have gotten away with it.
But Herbert, as far as I can tell, just didn’t take the existence of a deity seriously, at least in his fiction. He viewed religion as a complex force entangled with deep and poorly understood parts of the human psyche, and therefore having an immense power that was a sort of emergent property, greater than the sum of the inputs and therefore capable of turning on even sophisticated manipulators like the Bene Geserit. So he avoids the deus ex machina problem by having no actual gods, and gains some of the plot tension divine intervention can create via that emergent-property power. Far from being puppet masters, his religious manipulators discover they’re riding a tiger and barely holding on.
He’s certainly right that humanly created religious manipulations have a way of turning on the manipulators. He misses that this is because God will not be mocked.
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Posted by Tim Nichols
Full Contact Christianity 