The Gospel

One Sunday, when I was five, I walked into the sanctuary of our small, conservative church, and there, stretched across the back of the last pew, was the skin of an African python. Our speaker for the morning was a missionary from the Central African Republic, and by the end of the service, I was certain that my future included living in a hut, facing down autocratic tribal chiefs, establishing medical clinics and schools, and rescuing orphans from dark, pagan traditions.

I grew up in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in a region dotted by dilapidated family farms and former coal towns. We are the second poorest county in the state and the most exotic animal we ever saw was the occasional bear or mountain lion. But within the church I discovered the world.

I met women like Amy Carmichael and Mary Slessor and learned that the measure of womanhood was not your relationship status or professional accomplishments, but whether you lived your life in service of God and others. In elementary school, I knew the flags of over thirty nations—not because of the Olympics but because we hung them from the ceiling every year during our missions conference week. I became versed in Cold War politics when for two summers we sent our VBS nickels and dimes to the underground church in the Soviet Union.

The story of Christian missions is a complicated one. When I was young, it was all about adventure and holy passion and converting cannibals. As I grew older, I discovered that mission efforts often ran parallel to and sometimes intersected the darker story of western colonization. I read Achebe and Paton and Forster and had to face the reality that when David Livingston was taking the gospel to free souls in the interior of Africa, the United States was embroiled in a civil war to keep their cousins enslaved.

I have known many folks who embrace what I call “folk religion.” It runs something like this: “I want my family (and myself) to be nice, good, and decent. Christianity is what makes people nice, so I will choose to be a Christian and rear my children as Christians. The theology doesn’t matter, what matters is how we live and treat others.”

This belief system boils down to using the Kingdom of God. Using this reasoning, our faith exists to help us and our children become kind and honest people—a civilizing, positive influence. Hopefully our faith will keep us off of drugs, keep us from being promiscuous, help us avoid excessive alcohol, and help us avoid dishonest gain. We will see our kids grow up to become responsible, family-oriented, and self-supporting.

We all desire our children to turn out well, and to live decent lives ourselves. This is not a bad secondary goal. We should aim for that. But if this is why we call ourselves Christians, we are in trouble. Faith in Jesus becomes a means to an end, not an end in itself. Our primary goal should be to be in right relationship with God.

When folks use Christianity in this manner, they will eventually be confronted with the rude awakening that some who profess faith in Jesus are not all that wonderful. On the other hand, at times, those who profess other faiths or no religion at all are sometimes quite kind and generous.

Cynthia Pearl Maus packs a world of insight into a short space when she says: “You may have tangible wealth untold, caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you could never be; I know someone who told stories to me” (in David Larsen’s Telling the Old, Old Story, p. 13). For reasons I cannot fully explain, those lines detonated as an existential sunburst in my soul the first time I read them. Tears welled up in my eyes; in part, I suppose, because I read them as a father who tells stories to his children. I suspect my response was also owing to the fact that my heavenly Father tells stories to me, and his stories have enriched my life beyond measure.

“Richer than I you could never be; I know someone who told stories to me.” Maus certainly means to say that stories are told to children who are loved. And that is right. But I think she is saying something more. She recognizes the singular contribution story-telling can make to the development of moral character, psychological stability, intellectual depth and similar soul-shaping inheritances. Stories provide children with roots—teaching and grounding them in transcendent realities. Stories shape souls, who steer cultures and define eras.

By creative design we are programmed to thrive on stories. Elie Wiesel is quoted on the same page in Larsen’s book as saying: “God made man because He loves stories” (emphasis mine). That statement walks just as well on its head: God made stories, because he loves man. The God of the Bible is a story-telling God who graciously roots his people in the truth, motivates them to live righteously, and comforts their hearts by means of stories.

This sermon outline continues a series preached in 2002.

Precious Knowledge

Intr​o

In 1928 Alexander Fleming was doing research in the area of bacteriology. He’d been growing a bacterium called staphylococcus in a culture dish and found it had been contaminated by a mold of some kind. Taking a closer look, he discovered that the mold was killing the bacteria and did this consistently. Howard Florey and Earnst Chain learned how to extract the substance and use it as medication. It was eventually used to fight staph infections, gangrene, scarlet fever, meningitis, and more. We know it as penicillin. It was a great discovery, priceless knowledge.

Nowadays we take that discovery for granted. We don’t remember what life was like before antibiotics. It’s human nature to lose sight of the context of things we benefit from and, as a result, fail to fully appreciate them.

As Christians we even manage to get used to the gospel—especially the gospel in its totality—God’s great redemptive, gospel plan. We weren’t around in the days before this plan was known, and we slip into taking it for granted. But in the days of the apostles, the gospel plan as a complete whole was a great new discovery of sorts. It came by revelation rather than research. That makes the knowledge even more precious.

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CHAPTER V A PERSONAL TESTIMONY

BY PHILIP MAURO, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW, NEW YORK CITY

Republished, with permission, from Voice magazine, Jul/Aug 2013.

Americans have the privilege of living in a country with a great heritage and great opportunities. Our country has never been perfect, so it’s right for us to pray with the patriotic song line, “America, America, God mend thine every flaw.” But is there more that we should do about those flaws than pray? And if so, what shape should our public engagement look like? In particular, what about a Christian’s involvement in politics and social campaigning? Is there a way for us to put feet to our prayers that doesn’t put our feet on the wrong path?

This is a divisive issue among Christians. On one side are those who advocate a militant political approach to our nation’s moral ills. Frankly, I’m uncomfortable with some of today’s prominent forms of Christian political activism. There’s a real danger for the Church and Christians to become overly politicized. Sometimes Christians embroiled in public arena battles seem to lose sight of what the good fight of faith is really about. On the other hand are those who advocate a withdrawal from all engagement, seeing it as a rival to true Christian ministry. In some cases this includes prohibitions against voting of any kind. While I view my calling as an ambassador of Christ of far greater importance than my being a citizen of a great country, I believe there is such a thing as Christian citizenship, a way to meaningfully engage in the concerns of public life without getting our gospel priorities out of order.

There are three basic perspectives regarding life after death. Some believe such notions are pure fantasy. There is no such future—no continuation of consciousness after death. We live out our days in this world, then it’s lights out. Forever.

A second perspective is held by those uncertain about life beyond the grave. Such people are generally a hopeful lot. While never brimming with confidence, they suspect there is life after death and knock on wood that the experience will be a happy one. It’s all a mysterious prospect.

A third perspective is held by those who live with confident expectation of life beyond the grave. A degree of mystery is acknowledged; but they remain convinced death is a portal leading to continuing consciousness on the other side.

People in either of the first two categories share a life orientation that focuses primarily on the rewards of this life. Some from the first category are bold enough to insist that those who die with the most toys win. Grasp all you can get now. Eat, drink, and be merry. There is no future existence and thus no reckoning or eternal reward. Others in this first category labor less selfishly, desiring to leave the world a better place than they found it. Nonetheless, the focus is on this life. There is no other for which to live.

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CHAPTER VII THE PERSONAL TESTIMONY OF CHARLES T. STUDD