August 03, 2022

Moral Faith and Huntington's Disease: An Interview with Dr. Elton Higgs and Dr. Laquita Higgs

August 03, 2022/ Managing Editor

In this interview, Caregiver Chronicles interviews doctors and authors Elton and Laquita Higgs, who raised two adoptive daughters with Huntington's Disease. They speak about how their caregiver journey and how their faith has guided them as parents.

Dr. Higgs is a longtime contributor to MoralApologetics.com and a good friend and mentor of Dr. David Baggett. This interview highlights the role that moral faith can have in dealing with suffering.

February 07, 2022

The Moral Universe of Desmond Doss

February 07, 2022/ Jonathan Pruitt

Desmond Doss was born February 7, 1919, in Lynchburg, Virginia. He would have been 103 this year. Growing up, Doss was enamored with an illustration of the Ten Commandments hanging in his living room. Constantly, he would drag a kitchen chair to the spot so he could get a better look. There, he read the words, “Thou shalt not kill,” and studied the picture of Cain standing over the dead body of Abel. Doss’s wife said that while he stood in front of the picture, the young Desmond imagined Jesus saying to him, “Desmond, if you love Me, you will not kill, but save life as I would if I were in your place. Follow My Example.”[1]

In 1942, Doss was drafted into the World War II. During his training, his convictions and resolve were incessantly tested. He was maligned and mocked. He was denied furlough because he would not train with a weapon. His commanding officers sought to dismiss him on grounds of insanity. And despite the grueling series of trials, Doss insisted that he stay at his post, saying, “I’d be a very poor Christian if I accepted a discharge implying that I was mentally unbalanced because of my religion.”[2]

Doss faced the harrowing danger of war and carried no weapon. On May 5, 1945, at the Battle of Okinawa, he saved nearly a hundred men, including even some of the enemy. Though wounded himself, he climbed a towering cliff dozens of times, into enemy mortar fire, to pull soldiers to safety. At the top of the escarpment, Doss kept praying, “Lord, help me get one more.”[3] Sometime later, he was seriously injured by a grenade and was being taken away from the fray on a litter when he crawled off and tended to the wounds of another man who was more seriously injured. Doss would be the only Conscientious Objector to earn the Medal of Honor during the war.

Doss risked his own life over and over, and not only for the sake of his friends, but even for those whom he had every reason to consider his enemies. He acted for the sake of others, and at his own expense.

From the point of view of moral apologetics, there are many lessons to be drawn from the case of Desmond T. Doss. But here I only make two observations. First about moral rationality and then about moral goodness.

Moral Rationality

Moral rationality has to do with how morality and reason are ultimately harmonized. It must be rational, in the end, to be moral, or else, as Henry Sidgwick argued, we will have competing and contradictory purposes for acting. Doss’s biography gives no evidence that he acted for the sake of his own interest, but Doss did have faith that God was just and would reward him. Doss himself said,

God wrote the Ten Commandments on tables of stone with His own finger. He said it was perfect and that nothing is to be added to it or taken away from it. We are to be judged by this law of liberty, so whether we accept or reject it is a matter of life or death.[4]

From Doss’s perspective, “life” would be the reward for his obedience to God’s command. God judges and rewards human beings, ensuring the connection between virtue and happiness. On that day in May 1945, Doss said that he remembered the promises of God and that gave him the assurance he needed to act.[5] The ultimate rationality of morality, at least in Doss’s own mind, was likely a necessary condition for the good he did.[6]

Moral Goodness

There are many competing conceptions of the good. Some think of the good as identical to utility or pleasure. Christian philosopher H. P. Owen didn’t think much of this idea. Instead, Owen argued that when we encounter the good, we know we ought to desire it, even if we don’t. Owen imagines a friend who is “honest and kind in all his dealings.” In this friend, Owen finds a goodness that confronts and compels; it demands admiration.[7]

It is difficult to explain away our sense that what Doss did was deeply good in terms of mere chemistry and evolutionary psychology, as some have attempted to do.[8] There would be a gaping chasm between what seems obvious, that the heroic deed was good, and reality, that it was only the outworking of physics. Or if goodness is pleasure, it seems incredibly odd to try to explain the goodness of saving a hundred men in terms of a particular state of mind. One must check how they feel about the events before rendering a moral judgment. If the good is total utility, then we must withhold judgment because the complete ramifications of Doss’s actions have yet to be resolved. Whether it’s good or not remains to be seen, on this view.

In Doss’s story, we find an example of goodness that, as Owen suggests, confronts us and compels our admiration. For many, the power and clarity of conscience provides the clear and unassailable apprehension “this is good.” And this is a matter of fact about objective reality, no mere trifling statement about our own feelings, a fact held with the same credulity one might believe “the sun shines.” One would be hard pressed to say that any person asserting, “What Doss did that day was good” was not a competent user of good in at least that instance.

The good that is perceived in the work of Doss on that day can be recalcitrant for some who think of the good too narrowly or reductively. But if God himself is the good, and he gave his own life as ransom for many, then the veridical nature of our perception is easily explained.

[1] Frances Doss, Desmond Doss: Conscientious Objector (Pacific Press, 2005), 7.

Doss clearly thought that following Jesus entailed limited pacificism (Doss, according to his biography, did think that one could resist with force, just not lethal force). Christians disagree about whether Christ has obliged his followers to be pacifists. The issue of pacificism is not the concern here, though. Rather, I focus only on Doss’s exemplary moral character and integrity.

[2] Doss, 78.

[3] Doss, 151.

[4] Doss, 11. (from the preface by Desmond Doss).

[5] Doss, 102.

[6] Frances Doss also records multiple accounts of God’s rewarding of Doss’s faithfulness prior to the Battle of Okinawa. One example: Doss felt convicted to pay his tithe, though that would leave him unable to pay his rent. He did so, then, unbidden, the landowner cut his rent by half and he was able to pay.

[7] H. P. Owen, The Moral Argument for Christian Theism (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1965), 20.

[8] See for example the explanation of love given in terms of evolutionary psychology in Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2008), 214.

The Managing Editor of MoralApologetics.com, Jonathan has been a vital part of the Moral Apologetics team since its inception. Currently, he serves as adjunct instructor of philosophy for Grand Canyon University and Liberty University. He also is affiliate faculty at Colorado Christian University. Prior to these positions, he was ordained as a minister and served as spiritual life director. He is the author or co-author of several articles on metaethics, theology, and history of philosophy. With a Master’s in Global Apologetics and a graduate of Biola’s Master’s program in philosophy, he recently finished his doctoral dissertation in which he extends a four-fold moral argument from mere theism to a distinctively Christian picture of God. Jonathan, his wife Sara, and their two children presently live in Lynchburg, Virginia. You can find his personal website at JonathanRPruitt.com

February 10, 2021

Moral Apologetics & Christian Theology

February 10, 2021/ David Baggett

For some while now I have had the thought that it would be worthwhile to explore the connection between moral apologetics and theology. I have had occasion to touch on this matter here and there, but never anything remotely exhaustive. It remains in my mind a project to pursue for later—resonances of the moral argument(s) with such theological categories as ecclesiology and Christology, eschatology and soteriology, pneumatology, theological anthropology, and theology proper. In this short piece today, I’m going to just tip my toe in such a project by using something of a traditional four-fold distinction that cuts across a variety of theological concerns.

From the earliest chapters of Genesis we find that what gets broken and is need of being set right are the following facets of our existence: ourselves, the creation, our relationship with others, and our relationship with God. John Hare’s forthcoming book on theistic ethics—the third in his trilogy (after The Moral Gap and God’s Command)—is structured in a similar four-fold way: specifically, the unity we seek in life, with the creation or environment, with other people, and with God. And R. Scott Rodin’s excellent book on the steward leader similarly couches the discussion in terms of four areas in which leaders foster robust health: in the self, with others, with creation, and with God. Categories of self and life might seem different, but since I see the biblical discourse of life primarily in terms of the abundant, kingdom life for which God designed each one of us, it seems to me that they are inextricably linked. So let’s quickly canvass each in turn.

In terms of the self, and the sort of life for which we were made, there are three conceptually distinct aspects to our salvation. There is justification, which puts us right with God; this largely involves our forgiveness for falling short. C. S. Lewis said the key to understanding the universe resides in recognizing that there’s a moral standard and that we fail to meet it. This introduces the need, first, for our forgiveness, and according to Christian theology God has made provision for our forgiveness in the death and resurrection of Jesus. The second dimension of salvation is sanctification, the gradual process by which we are not just forgiven, but actually changed and transformed into the likeness of Christ. This introduces what John Hare calls the performative dimension of moral apologetics—how we can cross the gap between the best we can do, morally speaking, and the moral standard. If we are obligated to meet the standard, but are unable to do so on our own, Augustine thought that this was to show us our need for God’s grace to be changed. The culmination of salvation is glorification, the point at which, by God’s grace, we are entirely conformed to the image of Christ; we are made perfect, altogether delivered from sin’s power and consequences. Christian theology thus makes sense of our need for forgiveness, our need to be changed, and ultimately even our desire to be perfected.

Immanuel Kant’s argument for the afterlife was predicated on his thinking that a “holy will” was the province of God’s alone, and that it would forever reside beyond our reach. We would thus need eternity to approach it asymptotically (ever closer but never there)—because it’s a process that will never be completed. He was both right and wrong, I think. Contra Kant, Christian theology says that we will indeed by God’s grace be entirely conformed to the image of Christ, so there is a destination at which the regenerate will arrive. But I suspect he was right in an important sense to think of our eternal state as involving more of a dynamic picture than a static one. Once glorified, our growth won’t cease; indeed, completion of “the good work within us” will mark the chance for us to live as we were fully intended with all the obstructions removed.

Sometimes there is debate over whether morality will go away in heaven. My guess is that morality in Kant’s sense certainly will; talk of rights and duties will pass away. But they will be replaced by something far grander—gift and sacrifice, as George Mavrodes would say. Or think of rights and duties as the mere anteroom in a grand castle or cathedral that represents morality. Life in that place will be as it should be: life among its towering spires, where self-giving love is the norm. We are told, in fact, that the glory to come is something so wonderful we can scarcely imagine it.

Lewis sometimes likened the whole quest of morality to a fleet of ships. This fleet must consist of vessels that are individually seaworthy. It must function cooperatively, with all vessels navigating their ways without crashing into one another. And this fleet must have a destination. The first and third requirements—individual seaworthiness and reaching a destination—are closely connected to the individual’s moral trajectory. By God’s grace we are made seaworthy: we find forgiveness for our invariable shortcomings, grace to be radically transformed, grace by which to find meaning in life and our vocations of purpose, and grace ultimately to become the wholly distinctive expressions of Christ God designed us to be.

Lewis’s middle requirement in the fleet example pertains to not bumping into others, and this is the second of the aforementioned four theological constraints. In fact, nowadays, morality is often deflated in the minds of many to pertain just to this feature of ethics, but in fact it is only one of the four parts. Morality rightly understood and practiced does indeed lead, in general, to more harmonious relations with others; this is one reason why Christ followers are called to be ministers of reconciliation. Indeed, this is arguably also part of the goal or telos of humanity: that the barriers of fellowship between people would be removed and we would learn to love another and forge deep relationships of mutual care with one another. Indeed, in Christian theology, after the most important commandment, which we’ll get to in a moment, the second most important command is that we love our neighbors as ourselves. And we are pretty much told that we can’t discharge the most important command without taking the neighbor-love command with dreadful seriousness. The communal aspects of sanctification remind us that the implications of morality are not a simply individualist affair; waging war on systemic evils, promoting justice, feeding the poor, opposition to slavery—all of these are aspects of the moral life expansively and communally construed. Paul Copan is especially effective at highlighting this historical dimension of the moral argument by chronicling a myriad of ways in which Christians have traditionally led the way in women’s suffrage, building orphanages, opposing foot-binding, and the like.

In terms of the third theological category—unity with creation—two salient connections with moral apologetics immediately come to mind, namely, moral duties we have to care for the creation of which we have been made stewards, and treatment of animals as the sacred creatures they are. In his Lectures on Ethics Kant tried to spell out how our duties to animals are rooted in our obligations to fellow human beings, writing that if a man treats his dog well, regularly feeding and watering it and taking it for walks, this man is probably going to be kinder in his dealings with human persons. This is why Kant says, “We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals…. Tender feelings towards dumb animals develop human feelings towards mankind.”

Although that is likely true, I can’t help but be a bit dissatisfied by this analysis alone. It seems sounder to say we have an obligation to God to treat his creation properly, which includes animals, and it’s even more pressing we treat animals well because they are capable of feeling pain. It’s almost become cliché to remind us all that dominion isn’t domination. Intentionally and needlessly inflicting pain on animals, for example, is cruel disregard for God’s creation—and a sin against God. We should care about the experience of animals and want them not to suffer needlessly, and not just for instrumental reasons. I count the inability of a number of naturalist accounts to justify believing we have obligations toward animals a deficiency—even if it’s true that animals don’t have rights (a question on which I’m currently agnostic).

Elsewhere I have repeatedly made it clear that I’m eminently open—with N. T. Wright, John Wesley, and C. S. Lewis—to the idea that we will see animals in heaven. It’s not a nonnegotiable conviction of mine, but it’s a reasonable inference, I think, if we take seriously the notion that the work of Christ redeemed the entirety of the created order, of which animals are a vital part. It is actually quite illuminating to peruse the full range of biblical teachings about the animals.

Fourthly, finally, and most centrally, Christian theology gives pride of place to reconciliation with God—and not just reconciliation, but a relationship of all-consuming love for and relationship of intimacy with God. Since there are principled reasons to think of the ultimate good in personalist terms (as nothing less than God himself) and the ultimate good for us in such terms as well (nothing less than the beatific vision), I can’t help but think of the telos of humankind and the culmination of salvation in the Christian order of things through the lens of Goodness itself. The deontic family of terms, discourse about what’s obligatory or permissible, might well pass away when all things are made new, but the Good and the Beautiful will be on full display and to be enjoyed forever. That Christianity teaches that the most important commandment of all—a necessary and eternal truth—is love of God with all of our heart and soul, mind and strength, puts this dimension, this unity, this relationship at the core of reality.

Morality here and now involves just the first, fledgling lessons in learning the dance steps of the Trinity. For this reason Lewis once wrote these words: “Mere morality is not the end of life. You were made for something quite different from that…. The people who keep on asking if they can’t lead a decent life without Christ don’t know what life is about; if they did they would know that ‘a decent life’ is mere machinery compared with the things we men are really made for. Morality is indispensable: but the Divine Life, which gives itself to us and which calls us to be gods, intends for us something in which morality will be swallowed up.”

David Baggett is professor of philosophy and Director of the Center for Moral Apologetics at Houston Baptist University.

Enduring Loss and the Hope of Glory

November 18, 2020/ Marybeth Baggett

Buffy had been losing weight for a few weeks, but the procedure was supposed to be routine. Still, there we sat in the vet’s office listening to the doctor explain that our kitty just wasn’t recovering from her biopsy.

Her blood pressure and temperature were dangerously low, and our normally energetic, friendly cat could barely lift her head and seemed hardly even to recognize us. Her eyes were glazed over, her breathing labored.

My husband and I sat in the room numb, struggling to grasp how it could be that our ten-year-old, always healthy pet was now lying listless in an incubator as the vet did all she could to stimulate the healing process.

A few of the doctor’s words penetrated our mental fog, but they only added to our confusion: “We’re not ready to give up on Buffy yet,” “Let’s keep her in the emergency clinic overnight,” “Do you want to add a DNR?” We had no framework into which we could fit these statements, no sense of how this happened, let alone how to respond.

Buffy’s death followed soon after, and it was a devastating punch to the gut—no less because it came a week before our cross-country move. We had picked the house in Texas with Buffy in mind and had imagined her there, sitting next to David in his office while he worked as she so faithfully did in Lynchburg, hanging out with us while we watched TV, running around playing with the laser light. But now she wouldn’t be coming with us. It was a hard realization to take. Grief mingled with anger came quick, but the demands of the moment left little space for mourning.

Inside the house I was packing boxes while outside our son was digging Buffy a grave, a grave we would have to leave behind. The rapid approach of our moving day meant no time for a memorial, no time to be still and simply reflect on this precious cat’s life. I felt an impulse to rage against the meaninglessness of it all, but had no energy or mental space to generate the emotions.

Buffy’s death—so unexpected, so wrong, and yet so inescapable—somehow symbolized all I felt about this summer’s transition. There would be promising possibilities waiting for us in our new location and new positions, I knew, but what loomed larger for me at that moment was all I stood to lose with the move, and Buffy’s death underscored that loss, crystalizing and compounding it.

The comfort of home, the familiarity of Lynchburg, the intimate acquaintance with my late institution’s practices and policies: these would soon be no more. Harder still was moving 1,200 miles from my family and son and leaving behind friends and beloved colleagues. And all of this during a pandemic. This transition has been one of the most difficult experiences I’ve had to endure—with its logistical challenges, financial burdens, and emotional tolls.

Although I know on one level that the conditions at our past school would have made staying there more challenging in the long run, my longing for comfort and my visceral resistance to the loss entailed by our fresh start persisted and sometimes manifested in anger. I was angry that my many prayers for spiritual renewal at Liberty returned unanswered and seemingly unheard, that conditions worsened even.

I was angry that God’s answer to my pleas for deliverance involved so much loss and pain. And I was angry that those responsible for the unbearable conditions were either unaware of or unmoved by the pain they caused. Like Buffy’s death, it all just felt so wrong. It was hard to square with my vision of God, the one who cares and comforts, who sets things right. Why had he refused to set things right? Or, rather, why was the remedy he offered, this escape, so painful?

Over the summer, I wrestled with the paradox of trusting the redemption of my pain and loss—of Buffy, of our home in Lynchburg—to the same God who allowed that loss in the first place.

I know the biblical promises of the resurrection. I know that they apply not merely to the physical body but also to the cosmos. “Behold, I make all things new,” Jesus says in Revelation. It’s a beautiful promise—life-giving in every sense of the phrase. But as much as I’ve professed my embrace of those truths, even earlier this summer in writing about the pandemic, Buffy’s loss conjoined with our move tested that faith. I am only now starting to believe that that testing strengthened it.

The pain I endured through Buffy’s loss and this transition has pushed me further in my recognition of how little I know of God’s redemption of the world or even of what in the world God has redeemed. Day by day I had to lean on God to provide the strength I lacked, the comfort for my hurts, and the hope to overcome my fears. It was a sobering time, too, as it forced me to confront my own self-entitlement, pride, and complacency.

I longed for God to prevent Buffy’s death and to accommodate my desire to remain in place. Truth is, Christianity teaches that real victory comes beyond death, not in bypassing it. I have said it before, I know it cognitively, but this summer I experienced that truth and now know it even deeper—even as I’m still learning of the restoration God will provide on this side of my loss.

That really is the story of scripture, that God delivers us through suffering and loss not from it. Humanity’s ultimate deliverance, of course, comes from the ultimate suffering—the innocent suffering of Christ on the cross. The resurrection is, in fact, linear—death, and only then eternal life.

It’s a hard word in many ways. Who willingly embraces suffering? No one of their own strength and not for suffering’s sake alone. Instead, redemptive suffering requires our hearts to be set right—and it can serve to set our hearts right if we allow God to do a new work in us through it.

Thomas Merton in No Man Is an Island puts it this way:

If we love God and love others in him, we will be glad to let suffering destroy anything in us that God is pleased to let it destroy, because we know that all it destroys is unimportant. We will prefer to let the accidental trash of life be consumed by suffering in order that his glory may come out clean in everything we do.

If we love God, suffering does not matter. Christ in us, his love, his Passion in us: that is what we care about. Pain does not cease to be pain, but we can be glad of it because it enables Christ to suffer in us and give glory to his Father by being greater, in our hearts, than suffering would ever be.

So this summer was excruciating. I’m coming out of it—stronger, more experienced, better prepared for what God has ahead. But most of all, I’m even more confident that the eternal glory to come, of which I’ve seen only glimpses so far, truly will far outweigh these light and momentary afflictions (2 Corinthians 4:17).

Marybeth Baggett is professor of English at Houston Baptist University and serves as associate editor for MoralApologetics.com. She earned her PhD in Literature and Criticism from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and — along with her husband— recently has published The Morals of the Story: Good News about a Good God (IVP Academic, 2018).

November 11, 2020

4 Thoughts on Responding to Tragedy, Pain, and Suffering

November 11, 2020/ Stephen S. Jordan

Sometimes in life tragic news shatters our plans, alters the direction of our lives, leaves us with a string of unanswered questions, and causes us to lose hope for a period of time. News such as this oftentimes comes in the form of a text message, phone call, letter, social media post, medical prognosis—or in my own case, when my wife and I recently heard these seven words in an ultrasound room:

“I’m so sorry. There is no heartbeat.”

You see, my wife and I found out around the time of my birthday in late August that we were expecting our fourth child, only to realize a few weeks later in an ultrasound room that we were actually expecting our fourth and fifth children. We were going to be the parents of twins! I remember feeling a profound sense of excitement (and if I am honest, I also felt a bit overwhelmed).

About a month after our first ultrasound appointment, preparing to enter the ultrasound room for the second time, we were thrilled to see our twins and also hear their little hearts beat. The appointment began with a quick scan of the first baby, allowing us the opportunity to see how much our first baby had grown. We were also able to hear our first baby’s heartbeat. Everything appeared fine until the ultrasound technician shifted her attention to the second baby, where we soon realized that something was wrong. After a few moments of attempting to detect a heartbeat, the ultrasound technician broke the news to us that our second baby did not have a heartbeat. Following a few moments of unbelief (and perhaps even denial), my wife and I locked eyes as tears began rolling down each of our faces. We were devastated.

In the days since receiving this news, we have cried together, prayed together, and reflected upon God’s truths together. Although there are many truths that I could share in light of losing one of our twins, four thoughts have consumed my mind.

First, God empathizes with us in our pain. Hebrews 4:15 says, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses…” Jesus Christ, our high priest, not only shows compassion to those of us who are hurting, he takes to himself a joint feeling of our weaknesses—because he himself endured suffering, loss, mockery, abandonment, and temptation. Jesus experienced not only physical suffering, but also spiritual, emotional, and relational hardship, among other things.

Have you been rejected by friends before? So has Jesus. Have you been made fun of before? So has Jesus. Have you been ridiculed for your beliefs? So has Jesus. Have you lost someone you loved? So has Jesus. Have you experienced physical, emotional, or relational pain? So has Jesus. And here is the one that has been most comforting for us recently: Have you lost a child? So has God the Father. Although there are many other ways in which God can empathize with us in our specific instances of pain and suffering, here is the bottom line: God knows what it is like to be in our shoes; he took on human flesh, becoming one of us and walking in our shoes, experiencing many of the difficulties that we face today. This enables him to empathize with us, proclaiming, “I understand what you are going through. It’s tough. I’ve been there before.”

Second, we can trust God in our “why” moments. There are times in life when we wonder why something (usually something bad) has happened. In our “why” moments, and in all other moments, we can trust God because of who he is. The character of God is the foundation of our faith in him. Of course, the same is true with a close friend or a spouse—we trust the character of these individuals when we do not know why they are asking us to do certain things, and again, it’s because of who they are. However, unlike our human acquaintances, God is entirely holy (Is. 6:3), good (Ps. 136:1), loving (1 Jn. 4:8), just (Is. 61:8), sovereign (Acts 4:24), omnipresent (Ps. 139:7), omnipotent (Jer. 32:27), gracious (Ex. 34:6-7), merciful (Ex. 34:6-7), unchanging (Mal. 3:6), personal (Gen. 3:8), and so on.

God is also omniscient, which means that he knows all things, including the answers to all of our “whys.” Although we may not know “why” something has happened, such as the loss of a child, we can still trust God who knows why. As we understand who God is on a deeper level, we come to realize that because of his character, we are able to trust him in those things that we do not know or understand. Why? Because of who he is; he is trustworthy.

Third, God gives us what we need most: himself. Having gone through several tragedies in my lifetime, I am not convinced that we would be entirely satisfied even if God revealed to us his reasons for allowing something to happen. With our “answer” in hand, we would still be missing what we need most: God himself.

The day that my wife and I received the news about our twin’s passing, I read Job 38-42 and reflected on these words from C. S. Lewis, found in Lewis’s Till We Have Faces: “I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?”[1] This Lewis quote is very similar to what Job realizes about God in the last five chapters of the book of Job. Job does not get an answer; rather, he realizes that God is the Answer. What we need most in the face of tragedy is not an answer to a question; we need God, who is himself the Answer. God is not only what we need most, he is also what, or more correctly who, is best for us. Simply put, a mere answer in the form of a statement will not truly satisfy; we need something far greater: the Answer himself.

Fourth, God gives us others to help us through our pain. Oddly enough, in the week following the difficult news about our twin, I came across several newspaper clippings pertaining to my father’s sudden death in 1994. Despite reading each article carefully, one of the articles deeply moved me. The article, focusing on how the community where we lived in North Carolina at the time rallied around us, begins this way: “Sometimes the pain from a sudden tragedy can be made less hurtful by the love and acts of kindness which result.”

As human beings, we were never meant to go through life alone. God has given us others to help us through our pain, to meet the needs that we have, pray for us, encourage us, and so on. The pain that we experience as a result of something difficult in our lives is oftentimes either lessened or at least becomes more bearable when we allow others to minister to us amidst our pain. In the days since October 22, numerous family members, friends, coworkers, and students have come alongside us in order to weep with us, pray with us, encourage us, and bless us in so many other ways (meals, cards, etc.).

There is certainly a lot more that I could say, and I pray that God gives me opportunities to say more in the future—particularly to those who find themselves experiencing loss as we have experienced loss. For now, it is enough to remember that (1) God empathizes with us in our pain, (2) that we can trust God in our “why” moments, (3) that God gives us himself, and (4) that God provides others to help us through our pain. These four truths continue to assist us as we navigate the difficult season through which we are walking, and I am confident that these four truths will get us through whatever else may come our way in the future.

*Elyse Faith, our sweet girl who we never actually “met,” we love you and we cannot wait until the day we see you in heaven. Until then, we’ll cling to what your name means: faith in the promises of God.

Stephen S. Jordan currently serves as a high school Bible teacher at Liberty Christian Academy, a Bible teacher and curriculum developer/editor at Liberty University Online Academy, and he oversees the curriculum development arm of The Center for Moral Apologetics at Houston Baptist University. He possesses four graduate degrees and is presently a PhD candidate at the Liberty University Rawlings School of Divinity, where he is writing his dissertation on the moral argument. He and his wife, along with their three children, reside in Goode, Virginia.

[1] C. S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces (San Francisco, CA: HarperOne, 2017), 351.

October 28, 2020

Let Not Your Heart

October 28, 2020/ Tom Thomas

My family arrives at Grandma’s house. She exclaims as we pile out of the car, “The only thing about saying ‘hello’ is I’ve gotta say ‘goodbye’”. Saying “hello” implies saying “goodbye”; arriving suggests leaving; Jesus’ coming means Jesus’ going. Why does Jesus leave? Why must life have such parting and departing, particularly at life’s end?

Jesus’ disciples wonder the same thing. Thursday evening before he is crucified, Jesus says to his disciples, “Little children, I am with you only a little longer”. “Lord, You just got here…you’ve been saying the last three years, ‘Follow me’.” Now you’re saying the opposite, “Where I am going, you cannot follow me now…A little while, and you will no longer see me” Jesus’ disciples are in shock. Jesus, the One whose Kingdom is to have no end and who “will reign over the house of Jacob forever”, is departing?

This is the background for Jesus’ heartwarming word to his disciples, “Let not your heart be troubled. Believe in God and believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?”

“Let not your heart be troubled” . The word “troubled” is full of trouble: it pictures a horse confronting a coiled rattlesnake, or a hurricane agitating the sea. Being left alone by the Savior to a world of darkness and terror troubles the heart. What’s troubling you? Today, I do not know anyone who is not troubled; indeed, Jesus himself was ‘troubled’. At the ‘Last Supper’ as he foresees his betrayal, he ‘was troubled in spirit’. The shade of meaning Jesus uses in the tense of his word, “do not be troubled”, looks beyond the troubling moment. It is a commanding imperative coming out of eternity: “Do not go on letting your heart be troubled”; “do not persist in being troubled.” Though the immediate impact of a coiled rattlesnake in your path makes your heart pound, do not continue to be agitated. Why not? That brings us to Jesus’ second imperative. The first imperative only works because of this second imperative. It is the antidote for your troubled heart: “Believe in God and believe also in me.” If you trust in God, you will trust in Jesus Christ. If you trust in Jesus Christ, then you trust in God. Once this trust is established, then your future is established: you are not only going to see Jesus again; you are going to be with Him again - forever!

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.” Look at the phrase, “In My Father’s House”. In England, one refers to the British Royal Family as the ‘House of Windsor’. Similarly, ‘my Father’s House’ refers not to a structure , but to the Father’s Family or his Kingdom. ‘Father’s House’ is the Father’s realm where the Father resides.

Keeping that in mind, consider further. “In my Father’s house, there are many _____.” There is no exact translation of the word left blank variously translated, ‘mansions’, ‘rooms’, or ‘dwelling places’; a better term is ‘traveler’s rest’. The idea of ‘traveler’s rest’ seems to be a place where weary pilgrims on a long and trying journey find long-term sanctuary. A ‘traveler’s rest’ is a haven removed from suffering, from the weary struggles of conflicts and battles, and the dangers of dark forces.

In JRR Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings , the Hobbit Frodo Baggins is on a perilous and strenuous odyssey to save the world from the Dark Forces. At a moment of impending death and capture, he is removed to safety to Rivendell. Rivendell is a “traveler’s rest’ in a strategically fortified gorge offering him security and peaceful protection. Here he convalesces in perfect safety.

Last October, my wife Pam and I had an ambitious day of travel. We toured American Founder John Adams’ home and then drove across Boston. Heading up into New Hampshire, we ambled around Robert Frost’s farm. At early dusk, we arrived at our final destination, the New Hampshire country inn, Manor on Golden Pond . In desperate need of country refuge and refreshment, we found a ‘traveler’s rest’! We still savor the gourmet dinner in the elegant, paneled dining room; we see the view of Golden Pond out the picture window of our bedroom.

“In my Father’s house there are many permanent, traveler’s rests.” Is there one for you? Jesus says to his disciples, ‘I am departing to ready it for you.’ The Lord of Hosts is making up His disciple’s residence. “If it were not so, I would have told you.’ This is a strong statement. Jesus’ word is at stake. One more thing: ‘If I go and prepare a place for you, I am coming again and I will take you with me to my home. So that where I am, there you may be also.’

Historically, English Lords, such as Lord Grantham in Downtown Abbey, invite people to their estates like ‘Downtown Abbey’ for ‘do’s’ - like his hunting party. People come for days to the country and live off the hospitality of the Lord of the manor.

The Lord of the heavenly realm has departed to go ahead of his disciples; He’s preparing eternal residences - ‘traveler’s rests’ - even one for you! He very much wants you to join him there. So that where He is, ‘there you may be also’. Don’t you want to be with Him and his friends? Knowing this means, you only have one final parting, and then no more ever again. In the meantime, ‘do not go on letting your heart be troubled...trust in God and trust in Jesus Christ!

Tom is currently a retired Elder in the Virginia Annual Conference. He has pastored churches in Virginia, California and England. Studying John Wesley’s theology, he received his Ph.D. and M.A. degrees from the University of Bristol, Bristol, England and his Master of Divinity degree from Asbury Theological Seminary. While a student, he and his wife Pam lived in John Wesley’s Chapel “The New Room”, Bristol, England, the first established Methodist preaching house. Tom was a faculty member of Asbury Theological Seminary. He has contributed articles to Methodist History and the Wesleyan Theological Journal. He and his wife have two children, daughter Karissa, who is an attorney in Richmond, Virginia, and, John, who is a recent graduate of Regent University. Being a part of the development of their grandson Beau is a rich reward. Tom enjoys a good book by a crackling fire with an English cup of tea. His life text is, ‘Jesus, confirm my heart’s desire, to work and speak and think for thee’.

October 09, 2020

Hope Among the Graves

October 09, 2020/ Elton Higgs

A few days ago my wife and I and our daughter Rachel made one of our occasional visits to the grave of our daughter, Cynthia, Rachel’s biological mother who died of Huntington’s Disease in 2010. She’s buried in a peaceful, ordinary county cemetery in Spring Arbor, MI, and we make the 15-minute trip there four or five times a year to trim the grass and flowers around her grave. Our most recent trip was on a beautiful, sunny fall day, when it was just pleasant to be out. We sat there at the grave after we had trimmed around it and thought about how Cynthia’s life had enriched us, in spite of her disability. The same is true of Rachel, who also has Huntington’s Disease, the genetically transmitted disease of which her mother died. Just the week before, we were made aware of how a comment Rachel made in our small group at church had an effect none of us had anticipated.

One member of our group was lamenting about some really intense difficulties he had gone through, and Rachel remarked something to the effect that we could be confident that it was all going to be all right, because we are on our way to heaven. The leader of our group made no particular comment at the time, but the next week he and his wife went for a vacation and he had time to ponder his own busy life, and he remembered Rachel’s word of encouragement and was uplifted by it. He told us about this experience when we met again the next week. Rachel said her remark came out of a kind of vision that God had given her, and that was not the first time that she had had a word from the Lord to share. We were all blessed by the word of the Lord coming through her.

Just as Rachel and her mother before her have been a blessing in spite of their disability, so it seemed to me, there in the grave yard, that there was hope represented in that seemingly unlikely place, and the next day the following poem came to me.

Visiting Cynthia’s Grave

I want to be among the graves

When Jesus comes to claim His own;

To see the spirits rise,

Unbound from Adam’s dust,

The resurrection of the just

Erupting at trumpet’s call,

Unshrouded and clothed anew

With Christ-like form

To meet Him in the air.

Passing fair to wear

Eternal robes of immortality!

Oh, what a congregation then,

When all the Lord’s elect,

Both those awaiting in the dust

And those not yet beneath the earth

Triumphant rise

To meet Him in the skies,

Forever freed from Adam’s curse!

Elton D. Higgs

(Sept. 8, 2020)

Dr. Elton Higgs was a faculty member in the English department of the University of Michigan-Dearborn from 1965-2001. Having retired from UM-D as Prof. of English in 2001, he now lives with his wife in Jackson, MI. He has published scholarly articles on Chaucer, Langland, the Pearl Poet, Shakespeare, and Milton. Recently, Dr. Higgs has self-published a collection of his poetry called Probing Eyes: Poems of a Lifetime, 1959-2019, as well as a book inspired by The Screwtape Letters, called The Ichabod Letters, available as an e-book from Moral Apologetics. (Ed.: Dr. Higgs was the most important mentor during undergrad for the creator of this website, and his influence was inestimable.

July 15, 2020

The Morality of Mystery

July 15, 2020/ Jeffrey Dickson

In the digital age of mass information and social media, the cultural values of openness, sharing one’s truth, expressing one’s feelings, and sticking up for oneself have begun to drown out other important values that keep these supposed virtues in check. Patience, reflection, nuance, restraint, and the like are scarce, but perhaps none are rarer than mystery and/or discretion. After reconsidering discretion in the framework of the Christian worldview, this article will argue that mystery is not always a problem in need of solving, but a much-needed biblical and theological virtue characteristic of and encouraged by the ultimate good (God himself). As mystery, rightly understood, is morally good, employing it in today’s world of total transparency will go a long way in flattening the curve of caustic commentary that is currently inhibiting human flourishing.

The God of Mystery

Christian theism has long celebrated God as a personal being who has revealed himself by means of the world he created (Rom 1:18-20), the Scriptures he breathed (2 Tim 3:16-17), and in the Word made flesh (Jn 1:1-4; Col 1:15). Hebrews 1:1-2 highlights these methods of revelation when it says “God, after He spoke long ago to the fathers in the prophets in many portions and in many ways, in these last days has spoken to us in His Son, whom He appointed heir of all things, through whom also He made the world.” Though the fallout of Spinoza’s radical transcendentalizing, Newton’s deistic cosmological dualism, and Kant’s disjunction between the noumenal and phenomenal has recently called into question God’s ability to speak and even then in a way that human beings could intelligibly discern, an even more recent resurgence in trinitarian theology and developments in speech act theory has provided Christians newfound confidence in divine revelation via robust theological and philosophical considerations.[1] That said, one of the things that has been divinely revealed is that God has not disclosed everything (not even close). This does not betray incompleteness or insufficiency on his part, but a character choice he has made in keeping with his goodness.

For instance, mysteries permeate scripture. Often mysteries are introduced by God through confusing visions and solved in prophecies (Dan 2:18, 19, 27, 28, 29, 30, 47; 4:9; Rev 1:20; 17:7). In other cases, important theological quandaries previously left unexplained are elucidated (Rom 16:25; 1 Cor 15:51; Eph 1:9; 3:3, 4, 9; 5:32; 6:19; Col 1:26, 27; 2:2; 1 Tim. 3:16). While God is free to solve mysteries as he wills and, on some occasions, desires his solutions to be shared (Rom 11:25; Col. 4:3), often explanations are reserved for a select group and not disclosed to everyone (Mt 13:11; Mk 4:11; Lk 8:10). Still, some mysteries are left unsolved (Eccl 7:24; Dan 12:4; Rev 10:4).

Running complementary to the theme of mystery is the motif of concealment. One of the first actions taken by God on behalf of humanity following their creation involved the production of garments to cover the nakedness of Adam and Eve following the fall in the Garden of Eden—‘’the Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife, and clothed them” (Gen 3:21). These concealing coverings are no small matter. Earlier in the narrative, immediately upon eating the forbidden fruit, the text reads, “Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were asked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loin coverings” (Gen 3:7). Something about the sin of this first couple (a sin which came after being tempted to be like God and involved eating from the tree of knowledge of good and evil) rendered them unable to cope with the juxtaposition of how God created them and the surrounding world they broke. This sent them hiding and clamoring for relief in crudely fabricated rags. Out of his abundant grace, God provided Adam and Eve with an upgraded wardrobe that covered their nudity and, more importantly, their shame, allowing them some measure of respite from their debilitating preoccupation with their naked bodies. By keeping certain things hidden, mankind was able, at least in part, to live with the knowledge they had illegitimately obtained. Here, concealment and subsequent mystery proves to be a good graciously offered by God.

Later, the God-Man is shown concealing himself and leaving certain statements or actions unexplained. For example, after Jesus performed many miracles and foreshadowed his death, Luke 9:45 states, “But they did not understand this statement, and it was concealed from them so that they would not perceive it; and they were afraid to ask Him about this statement.” In one episode of his ministry, immediately upon confirming that he was the Messiah, Jesus instructed his disciples not to tell anyone (Mt 16:20; Mk 8:29-30; Lk 9:20-21). Sometimes Jesus asks those who received a word/miracle from him not to share it with others (Mt 8:1-4; Mk 1:40-44; Lk 5:12-15). There are even examples of Jesus concealing himself entirely (Lk 4:30; 24:13-35; Jn 5:13). The accounts of his life are also incomplete, leaving much a mystery. John’s remarks at the end of his gospel are telling—“And there are also many other things which Jesus did, which if they were written in detail, I suppose that even the world itself would not contain the books that would be written” (Jn 21:25). Though possible motivations behind these examples and interpretations of their meaning run the gamut, one thing is for certain: Christ did not endorse unchecked transparency and at times chose to remain, in part, hidden.[2] His discretion is utilized in many different settings for the purpose of accomplishing the will of the Father in the divinely prescribed way and time.[3]

Pervasive mystery and concealment in the scriptures by both the Father and the Son are not just activities in which God engages, but are indicative of who God is (at least in part). As John reveals, “No one has seen God [that is, the Father] at any time…” (Jn 1:18). This is probably because, as God tells Moses, “no man can see Me and live!” (Exod. 33:20). This is why Job concludes, “Were He to pass by me, I would not see Him; were He to move past me, I would not perceive Him” (Job 9:11)[4] and why John declares “No one has seen God [the Father] at any time…;” (1 John 4:12). After all, is not God [the Father] “spirit”?[5] are not his ways higher than our own?[6] Again, while God certainly discloses himself in the world, his word, and the Word made flesh, there is still much about him that remains a mystery. If God is the ultimate good,[7] then even this personal attribute ought to be considered a moral value when appropriately understood and applied.

The Virtue of Mystery

Thankfully, not only does the Christian worldview offer an explanation for the moral value of mystery as rooted in God himself, it is also equipped with instructions on how to appropriately endorse discretion in the world. Such applications are found in (though certainly not limited to) the wisdom literature of the Old Testament. Proverbs 12:16 suggests that the wise are those who keep quick reactions to offence to themselves (“a fool’s anger is known at once, but a prudent man conceals dishonor”). Proverbs 12:23 teaches that it is actually prudent to conceal knowledge and not overshare (“A prudent man conceals knowledge, but the heart of fools proclaims folly”). According to Proverbs 17:9, this aforementioned principle is especially important concerning the transgressions of others (“He who conceals a transgression seeks love, but he who repeats a matter separates intimate friends”). These helpful maxims (and many others) are compliant with the character and nature of God[8] who is himself mysterious and has chosen to withhold certain things from his creation. He offers this advice so that moral beings can enjoy the kinds of interpersonal relationships that contribute to flourishing which, in and of itself, is good.

Unfortunately, the world is happily exercising the inverse of these virtues and suffering as a result. At no other time in history has it been easier or rendered more efficient to communicate with large numbers of people and share what is on one’s mind. While this may prove good in some ways, it is exceedingly bad/wrong when this ability transgresses the God-given principles of discretion outlined above. The immediacy with which people react to the latest polarizing post, the unchecked openness with which people share everything they are thinking and feeling, the expediency with which people betray a confidence, and the gleeful alacrity with which people expose/share the failures of an interlocutor or presumed enemy is staggering. These proclivities run contrary to the character and will of God who himself enjoys mystery, is himself mysterious, and encourages people to keep certain things to themselves. Unchecked transparency, unnuanced reporting, uninhibited sharing is ungodly and has contributed to a multiplicity of moral ills brought on by increased polarization, anxiety, shame, bullying, etc. Many would do well to put the garments God has provided back on by reconsidering and applying the virtue of mystery. Like Adam and Eve, we continue to prove that we are unable to adequately cope with the broken world around us without adorning the protective coverings of concealment that God has graciously provided, in our case, in his word.

Neil Armstrong once said, “mystery creates wonder and wonder is the basis of man's desire to understand.” Perhaps what the world needs is not more information or more commentary. Perhaps it needs more mystery. After all, God, the ultimate good, both encourages it, endorses is, and is, at least in part, mysterious. Therefore, according to the Christian worldview, to exercise discretion is to follow his example and that is a good thing both for oneself and others.

Jeffrey Dickson, PhD studied Theology and Apologetics at Liberty University where he now serves as an adjunct professor of Bible and theology. Dr. Dickson is also the senior pastor of Crystal Spring Baptist Church in Roanoke VA where he lives with his wife Brianna and their children.

[1] For a compelling discussion of this modern affront to classical theism see John Morrison, Has God Said? Scripture, The Word of God, and the Crisis of Theological Authority (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2006), 7-110. See also Nicholas Wolterstorff, Divine Discourse: Philosophical Reflections on the Claim that God Speaks (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995) and Kevin J. Vanhoozer, Is There Meaning in This Text? The Bible, The Reader and the Morality of Literary Knowledge (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1998).

[2] Consider other examples of God remaining hidden/mysterious: 1) his glory was hidden behind the veil in the Holy of Holies of the Old Testament, 2) He often proves reticent in seasons of discipline or judgement (especially in the intertestamental period), 3) Jesus’ ascension and the sending an invisible helper following his resurrection, 4) Jesus’ choice to speak in cryptic parables requiring his own interpretation.

[3] One example of this is in John 8:59 where Jesus disappears to escape a premature death by stoning. Given that it was not his appointed time this concealment allowed Jesus to continue following God’s will in the way set before him.

[4] See also Job 23:8-9.

[5] See Jn 4:24.

[6] See Isa 55:8-9.

[7] This article assumes the goodness of the Christian God and is not prepared to make a case for this. That said, for such a case, see Robert Adams, Finite and Infinite Goods (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999) and David Baggett and Jerry Walls, Good God: The Theistic Foundations of Morality (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011).

[8] “It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings” (Prov 25:2).

June 24, 2020

Right Life, Happy Life: Insights from Belgravia

June 24, 2020/ Tom Thomas

Does the right life lead to the happy life? The question arises for me in ‘Belgravia’, Julian Fellowes follow-up cable TV series to ‘Downton Abbey’. In ‘Belgravia’, Lord Edmund Bellasis, handsome heir to the Earl and Countess of Brockenhurst, and Sophia Trenchard, daughter of a moneyed London business-man, love each other; their eyes lock as they waltz together at Lady Brockenhurst’s ball in 1815 on the eve of the Battle of Waterloo. Sophia’s mother, Anne Trenchard, is dead set against the match; she knows that while she and her husband James travel in aristocratic circles, they are ‘trade’ not nobility

Interrupting the ball, Britain’s Duke of Wellington calls his dancing soldiers to report immediately for the march to Napoleon at Waterloo. Sophia’s love, soldier Lord Bellasis, rides off to his death in battle, never to return; come to find out, he and Sophia had married secretly. As Sophia carries their child, she has reason to believe Lord Bellasis tricked her into a fraudulent marriage leaving no husband and no certificate - only a child. As Sophia dies giving birth to their son, her parents, the Trenchards, accept the baby boy is a bastard.

The immorality of a believed-to-be fraudulent marriage producing a bastard sets in motion a twisting narrative; characters counter the fallout from the evil with their own bad, moral choices one after another in an effort to secure for themselves good. Does responding with evil after being victimized by evil only further evil? Does one lose control of one’s life and the good one seeks by attempting to secure good by a pattern of choosing badly? Can one control one’s destiny for good by responding to evil with a pattern of good, moral choices?

The preponderance of characters in ‘Belgravia’ makes bad, moral choices with John Bellasis leading the way. Since Earl and Lady Brockenhurst’s only child, Lord Edmund Bellasis, was killed at Waterloo, John Bellasis, their nephew, stands to inherit the title and estate. John Bellasis becomes alarmed when his aunt, Lady Brockenhurst, showers favor on a mysterious young cotton merchant, Charles Pope. What John does not know but Lady Brockenhurst does is that Charles Pope is her believed-to-be illegitimate grandson, the son of her deceased son Lord Bellasis and Sophia. Not content with ignorance, John Bellasis is determined to solve the mystery of Charles Pope and deal appropriately with this menace to his inheritance; at stake is nothing less than one of the noblest and wealthiest estates in England.

So, John Bellasis begins making a chain of bad, moral choices which tend to escalate as he goes about securing for himself the desired good of a noble fortune: he pays servants of both the Trenchards, and the Brockenhursts to betray their masters by surveilling them and prying into their affairs; he wants to unearth information about Charles Pope. Next, he seduces the Trenchard’s daughter in law with an eye to obtaining desired information. He insinuates himself into Charles Pope’s workers and finds a disgruntled employee who points him to a false report that maligns Pope’s character.

By the time his plot seems to crescendo to success, John Bellasis and his bad moral choices are suddenly unmasked and revealed when he attempts to murder Charles Pope. He implodes as his bad, moral choices are exposed and bring evil on the lives of those he enlisted to do his bidding: the servants’ betrayal of their masters is revealed, causing their disloyalty to jeopardize their standings and positions; the woman he seduces realizes John hates her and disowns their baby she carries; the malignant report against Charles Pope turns out to be quite the opposite; and the Earl of Brockenhurst’s inheritance will definitely not go to John - but to Charles Pope. John Bellasis flees to Europe a wanted criminal.

Choosing moral evil, John Bellasis loses control of himself and the ultimate good he desires. He believes each evil choice will put him in control of securing his inheritance. Contrarily, each evil choice moves him a step further away from obtaining his desire. By making bad moral choices he loses control of the good desired for himself and lets evil manipulate and shape him into its image. Rather than being esteemed by others as a morally, good person who brings grace and benefit to others, his immoral actions make him into a persona non gratis who brings harm to all.

The narrative of John Bellasis is illustrative of the moral structure of the universe: bad, moral choices inevitably lead one not to good and happiness, but to dystopia and harm. Responding to an evil with an evil ultimately produces evil. As Augustine said, ‘We must lead a right life to reach a happy life’.

The biblical character Joseph is the antithesis to John Bellasis. When Joseph’s brothers victimize and sell him as a slave, he makes good, moral choices: he chooses to trust and be dutiful, conscientious, courageous, honest and trustworthy to his master Potiphar. When Potiphar’s wife tries to seduce him, rather than entering into the evil he makes the good, moral choice to be faithful to her husband, his master Potiphar. Though his good action seems to counter my thesis and is rewarded by another evil victimization - he is sent to prison - he responds to this evil by making the good, moral choice not to be vengeful or bitter; rather, he chooses to be a dutiful, conscientious, compassionate, trustworthy and responsible prisoner.

The successive evil injustices that come against him do not control him; he does not become evil seeking to counter evil with evil; he does not become a vengeful, bitter, selfish person but embraces virtuous, moral actions. Like drips of mineral laden water filtering through a rock cavern form successive, mineral deposits into a conical stalactite, Joseph’s successive good, moral choices mold him into a person of good, moral character. He is one who acts consistently with beneficent traits of compassion, moral courage, honesty, faith, responsibility and perseverance of which all persons want to be recipients. Rather than capitulating to and being controlled by the evil so that he becomes one with it, he exercises control over his ‘becoming’ through good, moral choices and faith in God. The result is a good life discontinuous with and independent of the evil which assails him.

If you will exercise control over your life, no matter what evil is perpetrated against you, every time respond with good, moral choices which all persons recognize are a benefit to others. Joseph controls his life parrying the evil through good, moral choices and transcends evil producing a good, virtuous character which puts him at just the right position at just the right time to act to save not only Egypt, but God’s own people. ‘We must lead a right life to reach a happy life’.

April 10, 2020

Easter and Ecclesiology

April 10, 2020/ Brian G. Chilton

By now, you have probably been inundated with articles surrounding the COVID-19 pandemic. Some articles have told you about the dangers of the virus and why you should heed the advice of the CDC, whereas other articles have claimed that the pandemic is nothing more than a governmental conspiracy aimed at bringing forth socialism into the nation.

But one of the greatest challenges to come out of the COVID-19 pandemic is a theological question that has been posed to the Church. The Church[1] has been unable to meet in person. However, due to the advances in technology, churches across the nation and the world have met virtually through online services and alternative styles, including drive-in services. The question has been asked, “Are these still church services?” An even bigger theological question raised is, “Who is the church?” These questions are part of the theological branch known as ecclesiology or theology of the church.

As we approach the Easter season, many churches will find themselves unable to meet in person. However, does this mean that the Church is no longer in operation? To answer this question, we might consider Jesus’ provocative statement from John 2:19: “Destroy this temple, and I will raise it up in three days.” Jesus had challenged the disciples and Jewish leaders early in his ministry. It was something that resonated with both. The Jewish leaders exclaimed, “This temple took forty-six years to build, and you will raise it up in three days?” (John 2:20). The disciples only fully understood his message after the resurrection had transpired and the leaders used his message as fodder to fuel Jesus’s condemnation. Oddly, the message is not included in the Synoptic Gospels. However, it is reflected in the accusation of the Jewish leaders against Jesus during his trial, saying, “We heard him say, ‘I will destroy this temple made with human hands, and in three days I will build another not made with hands’” (Mark 14:58). Even on the cross, Jesus was ridiculed by individuals who said, “You who would destroy this temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself! If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross!” (Matt. 27:40). The correlation of these verses across the Gospel accounts amounts to what Dr. Lydia McGrew calls an undesigned coincidence. That is, a correlation that was unplanned, but which shows a common source behind all the Gospel narratives.

The aged apostle John explained the message of Jesus, noting that Jesus “was speaking about the temple of his body. So when he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the Scripture and the statement Jesus had made” (John 2:21–22). But what does Jesus’s teaching tell us about the Church this Easter season, especially during this pandemic? Here are a few applications:

1. The Church is a people and not a place. This is a recurring theme throughout the teachings of Jesus and something that makes him quite the controversialist. Early in Jesus’s ministry, he met with a woman that most modern Christians would turn away. She was a woman who had been divorced five times and was living with a man (John 4:17–18). While Jesus shared the gospel with her, she turned to the debate over place. She, being a Samaritan, said, “Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, but you Jews say that the place to worship is in Jerusalem” (John 4:20). Jesus redirected her attention to the true mode of worship. While admitting that Jerusalem was the chosen place to have the temple, he said something even more revolutionary about worship. He said, “But an hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in Spirit and in truth. Yes, the Father wants such people to worship him. God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in Spirit and in truth” (John 4:21–24). As the CSB Study Bible says in its commentary, “Jesus’s point was that since God is spirit, proper worship of him is also a matter of spirit rather than physical location.” This is something to which God is directing our attention during this time. Worship is not just something that happens corporately on Sunday mornings even though that is extremely important, but rather worship is something that can and should happen every day of the week.

2. The Church is a body and not a building. I have been concerned for quite some time that we as Christians worship the buildings in which we worship the Lord. This pandemic has unfortunately suggested that is so. By Jesus’s teaching concerning the temple of God being his body rather than the building, he was directing people against the idol worship of the temple building. Jesus warned the disciples that the temple would be destroyed (Matt. 24:2). Yet, the Church would be the bride of Christ (Matt. 25:1–13; Rev. 21:1–2). That is, the Church is a body—a universal body—which cannot be restrained by bricks and mortar. What makes us think that a building could ever hold the totality of God’s presence in the first place (Acts 17:24)?

3. The Church is an organism and not an organization. Jesus taught that the Church would not be built by organizations but rather through the organism of his Church. When Peter proclaimed that Jesus was the Messiah, Jesus noted that Peter had this truth revealed to him by the Father. He calls Peter blessed before saying, “And I also say to you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overpower it” (Matt. 16:18). The reality is that the Church is a larger assembly of people that one could ever realize. It spans across denominational lines, transcends time, and unites various nationalities and ethnicities.

We have long accepted the idea that the Church is equivalent to a local community club. However, the Church is an unstoppable organism of the like that COVID-19 shutters and flees. No organism can stop the Church. Several viruses much worse than COVID-19 have tried in the past and lost. Smallpox has hit numerous times throughout history from 165 to 748, and the Church lived on. The bubonic plague, otherwise known as the “Black Death,” killed thousands of people from 1348–1352, and the Church continued. Throughout the 1400s and 1500s (the time of the Reformation), the bubonic plague arose from time to time, and the Church remained formidable. The 1600s continued to see the bubonic plague strike and even into the 1700s. The Church has remained steadfast even still. We will survive COVID-19. If we return to the ecclesiology of Jesus, we will have a better picture of the Church and a better theology to accompany what and who the Church is supposed to be.

Remember, it was after the resurrection that the Church began to understand what Jesus meant by the temple being his body. Despite the challenges we face, may we remember the victory found in the resurrection of Jesus and our identity found in him.

Brian G. Chilton is the founder of BellatorChristi.com, the host of The Bellator Christi Podcast, and the author of the Layman’s Manual on Christian Apologetics. He received his Master of Divinity in Theology from Liberty University (with high distinction); his Bachelor of Science in Religious Studies and Philosophy from Gardner-Webb University (with honors); and received certification in Christian Apologetics from Biola University. Brian is enrolled in the Ph.D. program in Theology and Apologetics at Liberty University and is a member of the Evangelical Theological Society and the Evangelical Philosophical Society. Brian has been in the ministry for nearly 20 years and serves as the Senior Pastor of Westfield Baptist Church in northwestern North Carolina.

[1] I use the capitalized Church to indicate the universal Church.

March 27, 2020

Leaning on God’s Staff

March 27, 2020/ Elton Higgs

In these troubled and uncertain times, we can be both encouraged and warned by the example of Moses’ use of his staff.

March 04, 2020

Waiting

March 04, 2020/ Tom Thomas

I used to see a red, retro-Ford Thunderbird in my neighborhood with the license plate, “Why Wait?” It always triggered a reaction in me. “Why wait? Waiting is the way,” I said to myself. “Everyone must wait…on something…on someone.” We are waiting on dinner, to pass the course, a good job opening, to find Mr. Right or the “dream girl,” for test results, or for gratification. Who likes waiting?! Observed the late Henri Nouwen, “Waiting is a dry desert between where we are and where we want to be.”

Waiting for my mother to pick me up after baseball practice at Miller Park in Lynchburg was surely a dry desert. As the afternoon shadows deepened, the field was long abandoned. I was the last one left. Cell phones did not exit. I did not even have a dime to call on the pay phone. Bored, there was nothing to do. Vulnerable, I was alone. Fearful, I might get picked on by older boys. Had she forgotten me? What would I do? How could I get home?

Waiting…must we? Yes, waiting is the proactive way. Is there a good way to wait? How and why do we wait? In Psalm 27 King David urges us to wait and tells us how and why. “Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord,” he urges. Let me draw out several lessons from David’s moral encouragement to wait. Godly waiting is (1) staying in place unrealized; (2) staying in place being courageous; and (3) staying in place because God is the One coming to deliver you.

Patient people dare to stay where they are: waiting. Waiting is the way.

In Psalm 27, David finds himself in an anxious predicament. It might have been life threatening. You might feel yourself in a life-threatening situation. Adversaries bring false accusations against David and “breathe out violence.” His adversaries are trying to ruin his reputation and destroy him. Pretty serious business. There is no immediate relief in sight. He tells himself to “wait.” Waiting is the way. Waiting is what the children of Israel did in the Sinai wilderness for forty years. Waiting on Samuel is what Saul was told to do. Waiting on the bridegroom to arrive is what the ten bridesmaids did. “To wait for the promise of the Father” is what Jesus charged his disciples. Waiting is what we are doing for the second coming of Jesus Christ. On what else are you waiting?

For the people of God, to wait is “to stay in place in expectation.” The military general David tells himself to “wait for the Lord.” Stay where you are. Stay in what state you are. Stay there until God comes. Henri Nouwen observes, “Impatient people expect the real thing to happen somewhere else, and therefore they want to get away from the present situation and go elsewhere. For them, the moment is empty.” This is a good description of how I have felt. You too? Patient people dare to stay where they are: waiting. Waiting is the way.

What makes waiting such a challenge is how we must wait. We must remain temporarily neglected and unrealized. David is in this unrelieved state in Psalm 27. He is finding no defense from adversaries lobbing grenades at will at him. While waiting on their Messiah Israel was subject to hundreds of years of empires’ domination. Jesus is a prime example of waiting seemingly neglected. Jesus, appearing deserted and undone on the cross, cries out, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

Does waiting neglected and unrealized mean one must wait in a nervous state, insecure and anxious? No. King David urges emphatically how we are to wait: “Be strong and let your heart take courage.” Inherent in waiting is a need for strength and courage. Courage is waiting in place, withstanding the present danger. One of Scripture’s best pictures of courage is Moses and the children of Israel backed up against the Red Sea. Trying to escape Egypt, their backside is hard against the boundary of the Red Sea. Pressing down upon them from the front side is the driving Egyptian army with its charioteers. Martin Luther describes them as a caged parrot. God’s word to Moses is, “Fear not and stand firm.” Wait. Be strong. Hold your ground looking the approaching danger square in the face. “Courage,” said John Wayne, “is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.” God echoes the same word to Joshua as Joshua readies himself to confront the great walled city of Jericho: “Be strong and of good courage.” Likewise, Jesus commands his disciples, “Do not let your heart be troubled.”

The English have a “bitter,” a beer, called “Courage.” Courage’s logo is a rooster with the slogan, “Take Courage.” In almost every film I have ever seen courage is pouring yourself a drink when facing an uncomfortable situation. A shot of “Courage” is no courage. In fact, it is not waiting at all! How then does one who has no courage “take courage”!? Simply telling me to take courage when I have no courage makes me even more nervous! I would not be anxious if I knew how to not be anxious!

How can David’s exhortation “Be strong and take courage” be effectual to scared people like us? The strength to wait and the reason we wait derives from the knowledge of Him for whom we wait: we “wait for the LORD.” Only in the knowledge that we “wait for the LORD” can we have confidence. Only for this reason can we wait unrealized. Only for this reason does the courage come to withstand present danger. Staying in place is predicated upon waiting for God. In waiting for God, we are waiting for the One David describes in Psalm 27 as “my light and my salvation” and “the stronghold of my life.” We wait in faith, confident that “my light,” “my salvation,” and “my stronghold” will deliver us. “He will hide me in his shelter” and like a Middle Eastern tribal chief “will conceal me under the cover of his tent.” Even though an army besieges us, surely we are confident we shall see “God’s goodness in the land of the living.”

Batman assesses the adversaries amassing against him. He says to Robin, “There are six of them against us…odds slightly in our favor.” How do we wait? With courage. Why do we wait? Because of Him for whom we wait: we wait for the Lord, “my light and my salvation.” With the Lord the odds are always in our favor!

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord.”

February 22, 2019

Why Write an Autobiography

February 22, 2019/ Elton Higgs

A Twilight Musing

Recently I felt moved to write an autobiography. You may ask why I think an account of my life is worth recording and who I think would (or should) read it. Those are questions worth asking and answering, so I will proceed to do so. (Perhaps we could call it my apologia autobiographica.) My basic reasons for undertaking this task are three: (1) Everyone has a story, and the best time of life to tell it is from the vantage point of advanced years, and my four-score and one qualifies. (2) An account of my life, if written from a Christian perspective, should be a testimony to God’s goodness and faithfulness, so it has the potential of being an encouragement to others. (3) Recording the events of my life will provide some documentation for our children and grandchildren to understand better their relationship to the past. And in a more personal way, I want to leave some information about myself that enables them to know me after I’m gone.

One of the stereotypical characteristics of older people is their being inveterate story tellers who patch together episodes in a kind of stream-of-consciousness manner. I want to tap into this inclination to look back and recall events, but give it structure and thematic unity. My theme would be to recognize, acknowledge, and give thanks for the many people whose lives contributed to the formation of my character and the development of my skills. Some of these may be obvious and stand out, while others rendered their services so unobtrusively as to be easily forgotten. A carefully written record will assure that even my quiet benefactors are recognized. I remember, for example, the loving attention given to me and others by “Miss Addie,” my first Sunday School teacher. She never drew attention to herself, but she introduced scores of little children to Bible stories and the love of Jesus over the years. In contrast, my mentor and sponsor in college days was a larger-than-life professor named James Culp. Dr. Culp took me under his wing and held out the vision of pursuing an academic career. I worked as his student assistant in my senior year, and he nominated me for a graduate fellowship that paid my way for the first year of a doctoral program. After I completed my Ph.D. and was employed as a college teacher myself, he continued to be interested in what was happening to me and rejoiced in my successes. Miss Addie and Dr. Culp differed greatly in their visibility and the sophistication of their help to me, but I owe them both a significant debt of gratitude.

It has taken a full lifetime for me to come to the state of confidence I now have in the absolute reliability of God. He has, so to speak, rolled up an overwhelming “track record” of meeting my needs and giving me the strength and resources to do the tasks to which He has called me. Some account of these experiences is appropriate to share with others—not to brag about, but to give praise to God. Some of my examples were epiphanies of God’s goodness and dependability, but others were more diffused blessings, like having godly parents who taught me the Word of God and moral responsibility, and having educational opportunities that fostered my intellectual development. Prominent among the notable instances of God’s provision was His identifying an adult foster care home for our daughter, Cynthia, whose Huntington’s Disease-generated behavior had exhausted our mental and spiritual resources. Thanks to our being unexpectedly connected by a politician with some influential people, Cynthia was placed in a foster care home within a week of the initiation of procedures. I hope that more examples of both kinds of God’s good gifts will be of benefit to others and bring Him praise.

Nobody has requested that I write this treatise, so there is no guaranteed audience for it, but I hope that my children and grandchildren, in particular, will see its value once it’s done (a point in time that seems to recede farther the more I write!). My efforts will have been rewarded if their eventual personal interest in this record morphs into a broader appreciation for the larger history that concerns us all. Valuing the records of the past is a much-needed perspective in the present Western culture of chronological snobbery. Our society places so much value on the present and on the supposed advancements of the future that the past seems irrelevant. Whereas the truth is that we don’t even know who we are without some serious attention to understanding the past. Even more important for Christians is the fact that their faith is founded in the history of God’s work with His people, and that history is the substance of the Gospel message.

In writing about oneself, it’s difficult to strike a balance between egoistic projection and transparent honesty. I hope there is something to be gained in reading about both my supposed successes and my failures. I will do my best neither to exaggerate the one nor to gloss over the other. Beyond the mere relation of events, I want to present to potential readers some sense of how I see my life experiences and how my understanding has changed over the years. Of one thing I’m sure: For my having reached this point in my long journey with mind and body pretty much intact, God is greatly to be praised. I hope that my account of that journey will supply more evidence of His goodness.

Dr. Elton Higgs was a faculty member in the English department of the University of Michigan-Dearborn from 1965-2001. Having retired from UM-D as Prof. of English in 2001, he now lives with his wife and adult daughter in Jackson, MI.. He has published scholarly articles on Chaucer, Langland, the Pearl Poet, Shakespeare, and Milton. His self-published Collected Poems is online at Lulu.com. He also published a couple dozen short articles in religious journals. (Ed.: Dr. Higgs was the most important mentor during undergrad for the creator of this website, and his influence was inestimable; it's thrilling to welcome this dear friend onboard.)

June 13, 2018

Now May the God of Hope…. The Biblical Obligation to Hope in Suffering, Part II

June 13, 2018/ Dorothy Rhoads

Photo by Jake Blucker on Unsplash — Photo by Jake Blucker on Unsplash

Part 1

Consequential Nature of Hope in Suffering

Despair and Hope: A Contrast

The word hope itself appears for the first time in the book of Ruth, but it is the absence of hope in suffering that is noted rather than the existence of hope. Having come under horrendous grief, Naomi’s soul is embittered toward God. She has lost her husband and her sons, and with them, she has buried all natural hope for safety and prosperity. As could only be expected, she despairs in sorrow, but her despair is particularly characterized as bitter and hopeless.[1] She proclaims herself to be a victim of God’s cruel treatment (Ruth 1:12-13; 20-21). Having adopted this filter through which she sees reality, Naomi inadvertently positions herself against God and speaks out as a perpetrator of his goodness. Through her story, the Bible attests to the fact that experiences with deep sorrow and tangible evil are powerful enough to serve as blinders to all hope; in fact, in this scenario, Naomi rejects hope as an offensively unrealistic mindset and an intentional, disregarding assault toward her pain. Yet, biblically, hope is neither artificially constructed nor dismissive of suffering, and hope in suffering does not preclude grief. Naomi’s rejection of hope is tied to her fundamental misunderstanding of God’s character in light of his dealings with her (Ruth 1:12-13). Though enduring life-altering and heart-breaking suffering is sufficient to produce hopeless bitterness in any soul, the biblical narrative indicates that in view of God and his mercies, it need not, and it must not.

Hannah, too, “was in bitterness of soul,”[2] (1 Sam. 1:10), but rather than resenting God as the cruel catalyst of her pain, she laces her sorrowful cries with confessions of hope. Hannah not only prays, but she weeps, continually pouring out her soul (1 Sam. 1:15), “an involvement of the whole being.”[3] The sufferings of both Naomi and Hannah affronted the core of their beings, and each woman writhed in anguish. Even so, Hannah was unable to relinquish her hope in God. She unleashed the cry of her anguished soul with the confidence that God would not treat her grief casually, nor would he dismiss it flippantly.[4] Hannah’s heart was weighed with her grief, but as her prayer reveals, it was lined with a hope that properly positioned her to receive a response. To this point, it is interesting that though Eli blessed Hannah according to the formal appellation, “God of Israel” (1 Sam. 1:17), a reflection of his deity and authority over the nation, Hannah prayed to “Lord of Hosts” (1:10-11), referencing the personal, covenantal name of the one who revealed himself as compassionate and loving to her ancestors at Sinai (Ex. 34).[5] She knew the one to whom she prayed, and she boldly appealed to him with hope that he would display his goodness in her situation. Even before Samuel was conceived, Hannah’s grief was turned to joy because she received God’s promise by faith and anticipated it in hope.

Culminating Value of Hope in Suffering

The grief of both Hannah and Naomi was answered through miraculous means of unexpected provision; both women tangibly received the desires of their hearts in this life, which is certainly not promised or universally experienced (John 16:33; 2 Cor. 12:9-10). Ultimately, God will right every wrong, and though justice and vengeance may not abound until this world has been purged of evil (2 Pet. 3:10), he guarantees that he will wipe every tear and renew all that is groaning under the curse of sin (Heb. 6:19). It is the biblical intent to inspire hope.[6]

In light of God’s revelation, there is a biblical obligation to hope, yet the inescapable reality is that each person will suffer and make a choice as to how he suffers. To this end, we are implored to pour out our anguish before the Lord of Hosts, even through tears of bitterness, and emerge as those who, through storm, wind and fire, have been unmoved from the rock that is Christ (1 Cor. 15:58). Yet, just as mankind was free to choose the road of sin that led to suffering, we are free to suffer apart from God and void of hope; we are free to turn from him in hopelessness, embittered by the conclusion that evidently, circumstances have revealed him to be less loving than he promised. In either case, and in any case, God will make all wrongs right (1 Cor. 15:24-28), but a choice has to be made whether the claims of the biblical narrative will be believed and its God trusted by faith. G. K. Chesterson summarized the rejection of God, and the rejection of hope, in these words: “When belief in God becomes difficult, the tendency is to turn away from him; but in heaven’s name to what?”[7] It is imperative that we hear the biblical command to hope, for without it, the one suffering will be deceived into constructing a distorted view of a distant and unfeeling God. This misconception is fatal to the soul. In light of the Savior, this must not be the experience of the Christian. The Bible answers the cries of human suffering with a depiction of a God whose nature and ways among men validate humanity’s sorrowful cries while answering them with a proclamation of consoling hope.

Surely, hope trusts in the goodness of God’s character and the reliability of his word, and it submits to the process by which he promises to produce perfection. While bitter grief is laced with anger, resentment and a latent distrust of the one who could allow such seemingly unjust treatment, hopeful grief is paradoxically “sorrowful, yet rejoicing” (2 Cor. 6:10), expectant and confident in God’s goodness. It is essential that the biblical obligation to hope not be mistaken as an attempted means of escaping suffering. God’s love is enduring and perfecting, and it must be distinguished from weaker forms that dilute genuine love with permissive kindness that stiff-arms all sources of discomfort, no matter its value in the end.[8] The biblical narrative witnesses much too loudly to suffering for Christian theology to be distorted according to moralistic therapeutic deism. Though pain and suffering are the unavoidable byproducts of a sinful existence, the character and promises of God, as revealed through the biblical narrative, offer an unshakable source of enduring and eternal hope that is anchored in God’s commitment to create good out of present evil and pain.

Conclusion

Though traces of this transformative goodness can be detected in this life, suffering will finally give way to glory in eternity, and the moral knowledge of God, his character and his promises, obligates hope in the present (Rom. 8:18). Rather than simply commanding the Christian to endure suffering, the biblical narrative implores him to do so with hope because hope distinctly validates the conviction that all is not yet well, while simultaneously appropriating God’s strength to be sustained through suffering. Paul encouraged the church in Thessalonica, “We remember before our God and Father … your endurance inspired by hope in our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Thess. 1:3). His prayer must be appropriated by every generation of Christ-followers.

When suffering threatens to capsize the believer, hope anchors him in the person and promises of God. To Abraham, God “swore by himself” (Heb. 6:13) and established his person as the grounds for Abraham’s hope. His specific promises were filtered through the reliability of God’s person, so hope was sustained through years of silence, and Abraham “against hope in hope believed… according to that which had been spoken” (Rom. 4:18). Regardless of how outlandish the content of the promise sounded to Abraham’s reason, he instead reasoned through eyes of hope, because it was God’s unchanging character that was the backdrop to each of his promises. Having received inspired accounts of God’s faithfulness to reference, and having seen in Jesus the full and perfect revelation of God’s character, we now, with even greater confidence, must flee to God for refuge “to lay hold of the hope set before us” (Heb. 6:18). Hope certainly is the graciously ordained “anchor for the soul” (Heb. 6:19).

[1] Ruth 1:20: “The Almighty has dealt to me very bitterly” הֵמַ֥ר שַׁדַּ֛י לִ֖י מְאֹֽד.

[2] נָ֑פֶשׁ מָ֣רַת וְהִ֖יא. The same root word found in Ruth 1:13 and 1:20 and is found here: מָר, “bitter.”

[3] David Toshio Tsumura, The First Book of Samuel, NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 121.

[4] “Then Elkanah her husband said to her, ‘Hannah, why do you weep? Why do you not eat? And why is your heart grieved? Am I not better to you than ten sons?’” (1 Sam. 1:8). Hannah sought consolation that validated her suffering.

[5] Tsumura, The First Book of Samuel, 122.

[6] “For whatever things were written before were written for our learning, that we through the patience and comfort of the Scriptures might have hope” (Rom. 15:4).

[7] Ravi Zacharias, Cries of the Heart, 65.

[8] C. S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain, (New York: Macmillan, 1994), 33.

May 30, 2018

Fear of Giants, or Faith in God?

May 30, 2018/ Tom Thomas

John Martin - Joshua Commanding the Sun to Stand Still - Google Art Project

Giants threaten. How do you respond to them? With fear? Or with faith? In July 1739 John Wesley was just getting untracked in outdoor preaching. Joining with George Whitefield the two began advancing England’s eighteenth century awakening. Giants menaced their mission. Bishop Joseph Butler was aghast at their unauthorized preaching. He confronted John Wesley. Bishop Butler was no slouch. He was the Bishop of Bristol and the renowned author of The Analogy, a hallmark defense of orthodoxy. Their interview was often in my mind as I frequented Bristol City Library just yards away from the once episcopal residence. The Bishop spoke plainly to John Wesley: ‘You have no business here; you are not commissioned to preach in this diocese, therefore I advise thee to go hence.’

How John Wesley would respond to the bishop would have historic consequences. Would he respond with fear? Would he stop offering Jesus Christ to church outsiders? Would he respond in faith? Would he trust God for the call on His life? Would he continue to preach salvation in Jesus Christ in the highways and by-ways? What ‘giants’ threaten you? What threats would deter you from fulfilling God’s purposes in your life? Are you responding with fear? Or with faith?

Moses and the children of Israel are in the Sinai desert at the borders of the Promised Land. Moses sends twelve men into Canaan to assess the land. They bring back a mixed report. The report’s positive is the land is great. It flows ‘with milk and honey’. The report’s negative is the people are great too! They are physically strong. Their towns are fortified. The people are of ‘great size’. Literally, they are ‘men of measurement’: ‘Giants!

The majority of Israel’s spies came to this conclusion: ‘We are not able to go up against this people, for they are stronger than we.’ In some sense, this was the right conclusion. They ‘were not able’. The Canaanites had well-defended towns. They were more powerful people. Israel was ‘grasshoppers’ next to these giant Canaanites.

Jesus was talking to his disciples about how hard it is for the rich to be saved. He told them it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom. He disciples shot back, ‘Who then can be saved?’ Jesus led them to recognize salvation is not the province of humans, ‘For mortals it is impossible, but for God all things are possible’. We are not able!

King Jehoshaphat had Moabites and Ammonites threatening war. He stood at the temple with the Israelites assembled together praying to God, ‘For we have no power to face this vast army that is attacking us’. We are not able!

The kernel of the Gospel, Martin Luther insisted, included this point: ‘In fact, we are not sick and in need of healing. We are dead and in need of resurrecting.’ Luther said if we don’t recognize we need eternal life from the hand of God, we remain in our sins and are eternally dead. We are not able!

The children of Israel came to the right conclusion but made the wrong response. They said ‘we are not able’ and responded with fear. They weighed the strength of the towns. They noted the size of the inhabitants. They feared. Fear supplants God with the threat. It deifies the threat. The threat carries more gravitas than God. The Israelites responded with fear to Canaan saying, ‘We are not able to go up against this people, for they are stronger than we…Why is the Lord bringing us into this land to fall by the sword’? Let us choose a captain and return to Egypt.

Had not God told them many times what he told the Israelite spies before he sent them out, ‘Send men to spy out the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelites…’ The Israelites overvalued the threat and undervalued God.

Remember when disciple Peter got out of the boat and walked on water toward Jesus. When Peter noticed the strong wind, he became frightened and began to sink.

A second respond to the conclusion ‘we are not able’ is faith. Both Caleb and Joshua saw the same threat as the other Israelite spies. They responded to the Canaan giants with faith. They believed God was able. Caleb said, ‘Let us go up at once and occupy it, for we are well able to overcome it.’ Joshua joined in with Caleb and said, ‘If the Lord is pleased with us, he will bring us into this land and give it to us.’ Faith puts a threat in God’s perspective. Yes, we are not able…but God is.

When Bishop Butler said to John Wesley, ‘You have no business here’, John Wesley stood his ground. He argued that since he was a fellow of Lincoln College, Oxford, he had a commission to preach the word of God in any part of the Church of England. Therefore, he did not conceive that in preaching in the brickyards in Bristol that ‘I break any human law’.

This was John Wesley’s argument not ecclesial policy! The greater point for John Wesley was if the Bishop’s protestation prevailed, he would effectively not be able to offer Christ outside church walls! This would annul God’s call on his life. Giant of a bishop or not, John Wesley told a friend, ‘God being my helper, I will obey Him (Jesus Christ) still, and, if I suffer for it, His will be done.’ John Wesley did not fear Bishop Butler. He put His faith in Jesus Christ.

The threat of giants can be watershed moments. Israel’s refusal to go into Canaan was a momentous watershed moment. The children of Israel listened to their fears. They paid dearly for it. After this, they wandered in the wilderness for forty years. Worse yet, they never made it into the Promised Land. Caleb and Joshua believed God. They did enter Canaan. John Wesley believed God rather than fear Bishop Butler. Consequently, he entered a historic ministry of preaching Jesus Christ to persons who never darkened a sanctuary door.

Is there a ‘giant’ threatening you? ‘We are not able’…but God is. Respond not with fear. Respond with faith. The way of fear leads to the way of curse. The way of faith leads to finding your providential way!

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April 06, 2018

John Hare’s God’s Command, 8.5, “Transcending our Evolutionary Situation with God”

April 06, 2018/ David Baggett

Photo by Mahkeo on Unsplash — Photo by Mahkeo on Unsplash

The story at the beginning of this chapter was treated as a Kant-like translation from biblical theology into the language of contemporary (non-theological) anthropology, though it is still a story and not science. We can now go back and put God back into the story, and doing so helps make sense of the story. We can do this in three moments: the encounter, the command, and the punishment.

First of all, God meets our ancestors, though they were probably not monotheists. The story described this in terms of awe and joy. When we feel awe, we have a sense of something’s greatness, and this requires some standard of comparison. There are many kinds of greatness. Kant distinguishes, for example, between the mathematical sublime that responds to greatness in amount and the dynamic sublime that responds to greatness in power. Both kinds of greatness can make everything else seem small by comparison. It is probably impossible to specify a kind of greatness that is the object of all kinds of awe. But it’s plausibly something personal early on. We’re looking after all at agency detection. Such awe is something like reverence. It doesn’t go far enough to say one respects the Torah, and “respect” may also not be adequate as a translation of Kant’s Achtung, which is the feeling occasioned by the moral law that we “recognize as God’s command.”

Bringing in an encounter with God at this first moment explains how we might arrive at the silencing or subordinating of self-interest. Suppression is not the same as subordinating. It doesn’t mean that in the presence of what is good in itself we lose the affection for advantage, but its salience can be radically decreased. This produces a double-source account of motivation. The encounter with divinity might have been with something experienced as great, not merely terrifying but deeply attractive (in Otto’s terms of fascinans as well as tremendum).

The second moment at which God enters the story is the command. This command, in the story, is not connected in any intelligible way with nature. We are invited to think that God selects within the divine prerogative (arbitrium) the fruit as a test, and the test is to see whether the humans will try to usurp the divine function of establishing what is good and bad, or what is right and wrong. For present purposes, the significant feature of the command is that it is not deducible from our nature or from any nature, and it can therefore stand in for the whole series of divine commands that are within God’s arbitrium in the same way. The basic command is not about the fruit, but is the command to love God that comes out of the experience of being loved by God. Refraining from the fruit is merely a symbol of that response. But, if we generalize to all the divine commands for which we do not see the whole reason, we get some sense of how introducing God into the picture might help from an explanatory point of view.

The third moment is God’s punishment. In Genesis there is expulsion from the Garden, and the condemnation to wearisome work, pain in childbirth, and distorted sexual relations. Despite the punishment, there’s hope that continues, and an ongoing high moral demand. The theistic version of the story tells us that divine punishment doesn’t exclude divine love, and that God intervenes in our predicament to rescue us. The possibility of that redemption is already implicit in the original encounter, but is made explicit in the form of covenant. God goes on making initiatives towards us, and we go on refusing them. Redemption returns us to the argument from grace in Chapter 1.

It’s not surprising that the story fits the theistic explanation, because the original version had God as a central character. But to the extent that the translated version fits what actually happened to our ancestors, it is significant if a theistic explanation is coherent and helpful. Evolutionary psychology gives us an excellent background against which to see why bringing in God might give us a good explanation. There is a fit between what we need and what God’s presence, guidance, and assistance give to us.

Hare now goes back through the discussions of evolutionary psychology to see how our situation as evolved makes some independent guidance helpful. In terms of Greene, we need something both to include us, so that we can get beyond the tragedy of the commons, and to push us beyond the group, so that we do not end up with mere within-group altruism. The failures in psychological altruism that Kitcher posits as the origin of ethics infect both our intra-group and our inter-group lives, and we can see the preachments of the great religious traditions helping us with both. In Arnhart we see our devotion to the competitive goods such as wealth, power, and honor. We have seen Haidt’s claim that because of our evolutionary background we care more about reputation than about truth or sincerity, and that our reasoning is often better seen as an “inner lawyer” managing this reputation than an “inner scientist” trying to work out what is right to do. We have seen Greene’s claim that from an evolutionary perspective our reasoning systems are designed for selecting rewarding behaviors.

We don’t have to accept all of these claims in order to conclude that even within the group our ability to care for others is fragile. Our list of failures could be expanded to include unrighteous anger, importunate lust, and craven fear. To make such a list is not “Calvinistic Sociobiology,” because it’s consistent with saying that we also have tendencies to the good, “better angels” of our nature, so that we end up a mixture. But we need something other than just an appeal to our nature to get us to follow the parts of the mixture that we should follow and not the parts we should not.

Now consider the preachments of the traditions. God is luminous, severe, disinfectant, exultant, and the law of the Lord is cast in the same terms, giving light and cleansing us, to be rejoiced in, more than gold or honey. The Sermon on the Mount is full of commands that go inside the mind. The Qur’an says to give money to kinsmen, orphans, the needy, etc. In all these ways, the resources of religious traditions have responded to the problems within groups posed by our evolutionary heritage. The same is true of the second class of psychological-altruism failures between groups. For Greene, the tragedy of our between-group hostility can be overcome by utilitarianism, but he cuts this school off from its theological roots and the common ground they provide. A variety of commands takes the adherents of the Abrahamic faiths towards a universal morality. These faiths both include their adherents into a community, and then push them beyond it.

Does the picture of divine command, mixed natural capacity, and divine assistance actually work to produce morally better lives in those who accept it? There is some empirical evidence that the answer is “Yes.” Shared religious life binds people together. More importantly, Robert Putnam and David Campbell compared how religious and non-religious Americans behave in terms of giving money and time to charities and social organizations. The religious Americans gave more money not just to religious organizations but to the American Cancer Society, and they volunteered not just in church and synagogue and mosque but in civic associations across the board. They conclude, “By many different measures religiously observant Americans are better neighbors and better citizens than secular Americans—they are more generous with their time and money, especially in helping the needy, and they are more active in community life.”

When we look at the great movements towards the recognition of human value over the last sixty years, we will often find a religious motivation. Hare is thinking of Martin Luther King and the civil-rights movement, and the Lutherans in East Germany and the fall of the totalitarian state. Why is this? Hare suggests it’s because of the nature of the God they worship. It’s true that belonging to a community is very important, but the God of Abraham not only includes us in community but pushes us out beyond community, to meet the needs of the poor and the marginalized who are the object of God’s care just as much as we are. God commands both the inclusion and the moving-out. And these do not need to be competing goals.

September 02, 2016

What’s Really New?

September 02, 2016/ Elton Higgs

A Twilight Musing

We Americans are fascinated with all things new, largely because both the word and the idea of “new” are at the center of promoting products, from cereals to automobiles. I heard just this morning in a newscast (as you can see, the word is even embedded in the media) a report about how Apple can get away with marketing a new iPhone every couple of years: people want and eagerly await the next new thing, especially in communications technology.

The assumption of the superiority of the new is also deeply woven into the fabric of modern Western thought. It is intricately connected to the idea of progress, undergirded both by ever-expanding scientific and technological knowledge and by the application of Darwin’s theory of biological evolution to human social development. Arising out of these elements of thought is the rather arrogant assumption that the present age is by definition more advanced than any that has preceded it, merely because it is the latest. This is the state of mind described by C. S. Lewis as “chronological snobbery.” In this context, it’s not surprising that modern theological opinions are considered superior to old ones. If doctrines and moral standards clearly stated in the Bible conflict with modern, enlightened, “scientific” understandings, then we must cast the old aside and embrace the progressive new.

However, the God of the Bible is actually the source of all things new—is, in fact, the only source of the New. The conflict is not primarily between the old and the new in a chronological sense, but between mankind’s “new” and God’s “New.” God demonstrated the archetypal New when He “created the heavens and the earth.” No such thing had ever existed before; it was unique, completely original, and God “saw that it was good.” When sin corrupted this perfect new world, God provided a lesser but sufficient way for the human race to survive on earth until God’s redemption of the fallen world could be worked out. For Adam and Eve, newly banished from the Garden, He balanced the penalties of pain in childbirth and painfully tilling the ground for food by providing them garments and promising that the Serpent who had deceived them would one day be bruised (fatally and finally, it is implied) by one of their offspring. (See Gen. 3:14-21.) We now know that the “offspring” referred to was Jesus Christ, Messiah and Incarnate Son of God, whose heel was bruised by the Serpent Satan when Jesus died on the cross. But before the culmination of that divine plan in the Incarnation, there was a very long period of progressive New Things, beginning with the purging and purifying of the earth through the Flood; the calling of Abraham to be the father of God’s nation, Israel; the institution of a Covenant with that nation, based on the Law given to Moses; the blessing of Israel with a land to live in; the apostasy of the nation leading to their being exiled from that land; and their return from exile to rebuild Jerisalem and the Temple. Thus, over long years, the way was prepared for the coming of God’s Son, the Newest Thing ever seen.

Jesus’ appearance in the world marked the creation of a New Adam, a being who, like the original creation, was unique and without precedent. The first Adam was created from the earth, and God breathed into his physical form the breath of life; but the Second (or New) Adam sprang from the very Spirit of God and was only temporarily clothed in a perishable body (see I Cor. 15:45-49). When Jesus arose from the grave after being struck to death by Satan, He became the source of a New Covenant, established through the shedding of His perfect blood to remove forever the curse invoked on mankind because of sin. With this New Covenant came a New definition of the people of God. No longer was His people merely physical Israel, but a unification of Jew and Gentile into “one New Man” (Eph. 3:15, my caps, and so throughout), so intimately identified with Christ as to be referred to as His Body. The people of God are made up of all those who have accepted Jesus as Lord and have experienced the transformation from death to life, putting off the “old self” and being “renewed” so that we can “put on the New Self” (Eph. 4:21-24), which is actually Christ in us (Col. 1:27). As Paul says, “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal 2:20-21). All of this is preparation for our being ushered into the New Heaven and New Earth with which God will replace the flawed universe in which we now dwell. (See Is. 65:17-18; II Pet. 3:11-13; Rev. 21:1-8.)

God’s New is obviously glorious and benevolent, greatly to be desired and joyfully to be embraced. And yet, as I indicated above, we in this fallen world easily fall prey to the glittering temptation of the temporal new. Scripture has many examples from which we can profit in this regard. One of God’s repeated accusations against Israel was that they went after “new gods” and “forgot the God who gave [them] birth” (Deut. 32:17-18). The jaded old man whose voice we hear in Ecclesiastes is so satiated with his pursuit of the ephemeral “new” that he concludes “there is nothing new under the sun” (Eccl. 1:9-10). And he is right, for what is under the sun is not God’s New, but mankind’s flawed new. Nevertheless, God is at work in His people of every age providing spiritual renewal in the midst of our weariness. Inserted into the middle of the book of Lamentations (3:22-24) we find the beautiful affirmation: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in him.’" In Isaiah 40:31, those who “wait for the Lord” are promised that they will “renew their strength” and “run and not be weary . . . walk and not faint.”

Nevertheless, perverse beings that we are, we not only are easily lured by the glitter of the world’s fleeting “new,” we often are frightened and threatened by God’s ‘New,” even though he makes it readily available to us for the asking. But to receive God’s New, we must put off the old that would hinder us from growing in our walk with Him. I once wrote a New Year’s poem that expresses this ambivalence, and I present it here by way of conclusion.

A Reluctance for New Wine

The fabric of threadbare hope

Stretches toward year's end.

Pieces of frayed ambition extend

To cover the old wineskins

That many disclaim But few set aside.

Like children clutching tattered dolls,

We hug in vain security

The rags of the past,

Because in some degree

They are accommodated to our wills.

The outworn selves we cling to

Can be our own

The more as time goes by:

We patch and mend In order to possess.

The New Stirs something deep within—

But I would not willingly admit it.

--Elton D. Higgs (Dec. 31, 1977)

Image: "Beginning" by Uzzaman. CC License.

July 29, 2016

Why do you have faith?

July 29, 2016/ Elton Higgs

One day at lunch, my wife asked me, “Why do you have faith?”— meaning, of course, “Why do you have faith that the Christian message is true, and that you should continue to follow it?” Peter instructs us to be ready to give an answer to that kind of question, but I had to pause a few seconds to come up with a concise, focused reply: “Because I need to.” However, that conciseness conceals a great deal that lies behind it. One can identify a variety of contributing elements that can flow into that core, short answer. One is cultural influence. Those who grow up in a theistic culture will usually have a predisposition for some kind of faith, and those who are nurtured from birth in a Christian family are more likely to be Christian believers. Another element is temperament. Some people are led to faith by an emotional experience, and they continue to live in faith because it supports them emotionally. For others, it might have been a path of weighing the arguments of the Christian message, and they continue to find intellectual fulfillment in studying the Word of God. A third element is the experiences of a believer after an initial commitment to walking with Christ. Has the person grown through challenges to his or her faith? This last line of response is the most important, I think, for the question is not addressed merely to the present state of one’s faith, but is also an inquiry as to how the person got to the faith he now holds. A full answer to the question requires some attention to the person’s “journey of faith.” By what stages has one arrived at the kind of faith that he now holds?

My own journey of faith began as I grew up in a devout Christian household. My father was a lay elder, and nightly prayer was faithfully observed (the “family altar” it was called) with all on their knees. I was a Bible reader from at least the age of 8, and I made a profession of faith and was baptized when I was 9. I went to church 3 or 4 times a week, including youth group. In my teen and early college years, I seriously considered being a preacher or a youth worker, but I finally settled on majoring in English, thinking to teach in high school so I could be a self-supported missionary. As I approached my last two years in college, my English professors encouraged me to go to graduate school. When I graduated with my B.A., my wife and I went off to begin my graduate work at the University of Washington, where I encountered for the first time the kind of secular thinking I had been protected from at Abilene Christian College. I went through a couple of years of angst, trying to accommodate my belief in the God of the Bible to the rationalism and materialism assumed by the faculty and many of my fellow students. This experience marked my transition from childhood faith to one forced to deal with the intellectual complexity of believing.

When I finished my graduate work in 1965, I took a position on the faculty of the newly established University of Michigan-Dearborn, at the age of 28. For approximately the first half of my 36 year career there, I was able to tap into the needs of a growing campus, contributing administratively to the creation of new structures to accommodate the expansion from an institution of fewer than a thousand students to an eventual 6,000 or more. During this period my Christian convictions were a sort of curiosity to most of my colleagues, but not a source of any great difficulty. The faculty and staff were fairly close-knit until the academic units began to multiply and we were pulled apart by growth. Eventually, academic and political factions were the rule, and when these factors merged with social changes growing out of the restless ‘60s, particularly the militancy of homosexuals, I increasingly became a target for my publicly stated conservative religious convictions. To these disruptions of professional relationships were added ruptures in church relationships, the two kinds unrelated to each other but both contributing to the painful recognition that my best intentions in interacting with others were not sufficient to prevent those relationships being broken. In the same time period I also had to accept that my professional ambitions were not going to be realized to the extent I had envisioned. In addition to all of this, our church life became unstable, and for the first time Laquita and I considered churches outside the denomination in which we had grown up. Out of this perfect storm of challenges and changes, we began a period of redefining who we were as members of the Body of Christ, and I had to consider a faith that not only went beyond generally accepted intellectual boundaries, but one that transcended the insecurities of friendship and got past conflict within the church.

The resolution of these experiential challenges to my faith came through a deeper understanding of the church as family and of my personal relationship with God. I had to realize that the definition of who I am doesn’t depend on the impression I make on others, but on discovering God’s definition of who I am. I suppose it boiled down to God undermining my self-created security so that I was forced toward humility. When I was in my childhood and young adult faith, I saw myself as a sterling example of a “good boy,” conforming to and exceeding the expectations of both my natural and my spiritual families. In my graduate and early professional years, I had an image of myself as one bravely standing up for my faith in spite of the opposition of my colleagues. But when long-cherished friendships crumbled in both academic and church settings, I had to face the possibility that somewhere along the line, I might have made some really bad choices. The faith that emerged out of that struggle was based on the grace of God, not my own attempts at perfection. My sense of self-worth had to be reestablished through confidence (faith) that I have value because God loves me.

The final stage of my faith development was also born out of difficult personal circumstances, but this time of a sort that brought Laquita and me face to face with an evil that had to be endured more than explained. We had two adopted daughters (mother and daughter biologically) who both developed a genetically transmitted malady called Huntington’s Disease, which is irreversible and fatal, progressing through ten to fifteen years of steady deterioration in mind and body. God called us to be direct caregivers to both of these beautiful daughters over a period of years, beginning when the older daughter was 25 and we were in our mid-fifties. Because the older daughter (Cynthia) was already symptomatic when the younger one (Rachel) was born, we were the newborn’s parents from the beginning of her life. But we knew God had called us to this complex task before it became complex. At first it was agreeing to adopt a child (Cynthia) whose possible “handicap” seemed relatively remote and theoretical when we brought her home. Years later, when she was diagnosed with Huntington’s Disease, it helped enormously to remember that taking care of her was a task assigned to us by the Lord. That confidence was confirmed over the years of our care for her, during which both our need and His faithfulness were beyond what we could have imagined at the time.

Now, nearly 50 years since we adopted Cynthia, God has brought us through not only Cynthia’s illness (she died at age 42), but He has enabled and blessed us to raise Rachel and to be her direct caregivers during the first years of her own illness. (She was diagnosed with the juvenile form of Huntington’s Disease four years ago, when she was only 18; she has just recently been placed in an adult foster care facility, after it became clear that we were no longer able to give her the 24-hour a day attention that she needs.)

From this last stage of experience, we have learned a level of faith that has been absolutely necessary to our survival as care-givers. We understand better now why God waited until Abraham’s old age to give him the supreme challenge to his faith, the order to sacrifice his only son. We are told that, although Abraham knew God could even raise his child from the dead, he did not know how God would actually make this preposterous demand come right. Abraham knew only that God had been absolutely faithful up to that point, and he was willing to trust that although he didn’t see how, God was at work in this situation, and in His sovereign power and provision, He would bring it to His glory and honor. In the same way, Laquita and I have been so faithfully sustained in all that God has called us to do that we can look beyond the mystery of the moment and be assured that as God has been the Perfect Provider in the past, He will continue to be so, to His glory, in the present and future.

This is the journey that explains how my short answer to Laquita’s question about the foundation of my faith was, “Because I need to—because I have to.”

May 13, 2016

The Twilight Years

May 13, 2016/ Elton Higgs

A Twilight Musing

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!'' (Robert Browning, “Rabbi Ben Ezra,” lines 1-6)

[su_dropcap size="4"]S[/su_dropcap]ince I have chosen to allude to my age in the overall title of my weekly articles, I suppose it would be appropriate for me to say a few words about the way I have come to regard my “twilight years.” Although I don’t completely share the sanguinity about aging expressed by Browning’s character, I do see some advantages to being old, in spite of the minimal inconveniences attached to this stage of life (reduced energy, less supple joints, erratic memory, and other less mentionable difficulties). However, I acknowledge that by the grace of God and through no merit of my own, I have not had to struggle with the chronic illness and economic insecurity that often bedevil people my age. It is with that qualifier to my credibility that I presume to share with you some of the advantages I see in having completed almost 79 years on this earth.

The first advantage to the elder years is that I have a wider perspective from which to evaluate both my experiences and those of others. When I was young, I was much more absorbed in what was happening to me, and I judged events to be good or bad by how they made me feel, not how they affected others. What was it to me if I received the Dean’s Award and others saw it as evidence of favoritism? In my imperceptiveness, their anger was a total surprise to me. Later on, in the midst of my career, what if my losing out on an appointment as dean meant that the person who got the job was thereby launched on a highly successful administrative career? Any ability to celebrate his success was obscured by my feelings of rejection. As I matured, the real value of such successes and failures diminished, and I was able to understand that I not only had to look beyond myself, but also had to view events over a period of time to evaluate accurately what was happening to me and those around me. The same widened perspective also eventually made me less prone to snap judgments about people’s character.

Second, in my latter years I am better able to appreciate the value of long-term relationships. I am able to have a much deeper kind of intimacy with my wife of 56 years than I had any conception of when we were young. And long-term friendships become special treasures. We have lost touch with most of the friends we had in our younger days, but with those we are still close to we share a richness of mutual understanding that comes only with long and growing acquaintance. Moreover, in those rare instances when it is possible to establish new significant friendships, I have learned to cut through superficialities to the meat of getting to know each other and discussing things that really matter.[su_pullquote]Old age brings with it a sharp understanding of the fact that this world is not our home, and a willingness to hold it loosely now and to let it go gladly when the time comes.[/su_pullquote]

Third, I have learned in my early winter years not to be too concerned with what people think of me, which in turn frees me to state my convictions clearly and directly, though I now see more clearly the need to do so gently and with patience. But in the latter part of my life, I have also discovered the need of attentiveness to the words of others. Truly listening to others leads not only to being listened to more intently oneself, but to finding out how interesting and complex other people’s lives are if you encourage them to tell you how they came to be who they are.

Fourth, through long experience in struggling to see God’s will being worked out in my life and those of others, I have been privileged to compile a record of God’s faithful provision that convinces me to the core of my soul that He is always at work, sometimes especially when we’re not able to see it, or when in His wisdom He doesn’t let us see it. Many times my wife and I have looked back and realized that God’s perfect timing required that His resolution to a problem be delayed until other circumstances were in place. In the buying of our present home, for example, we looked for months until our agent informed us of a house that had just gone on the market, and it turned out to be the perfectly suitable and pleasant home that we still live in.

Finally, old age brings with it a sharp understanding of the fact that this world is not our home, and a willingness to hold it loosely now and to let it go gladly when the time comes. This, too, has a freeing effect, not only liberating us from the fear of death, but enabling us to embrace with eagerness the transition that brings us into the presence of our Savior.

Psalm 92:12-15 declares that the righteous “flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the Lord; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green.” Because of the borrowed righteousness from our Lord Jesus, one of the richest benefits of my twilight years has been God’s gifts of renewed possibilities to “bear fruit in old age.” Besides opportunities to serve in a fellowship of Christians that I became associated with only when I was 70, and the recent boon of singing with my daughter in a local choral society after years of absence from singing with a group, the privilege and challenge of writing this column has been a wonderful stimulus to my creative skills and disciplined thinking that might easily have become inactive. I pray that for those who read these “Twilight Musings,” my “sappiness” will always be reflective of my being planted, by His grace, in “the courts of our God.”

May 09, 2016

The Appropriate Authority of Morality

May 09, 2016/ Frederick Choo

The moral argument tries to argue from morality to God. In this short article, I will work on what the source of moral obligations should be based on some features of obligations and of moral obligations.

To start off, we must distinguish between moral obligations and moral values. Moral obligations are deontological, having to do with whether something is required to do (or not to do). The terms typically used are “right” and “wrong”. This is distinct from values which are axiological, having to do with the moral worth of a person, action, or some state of affairs. The terms typically used are “good” and “bad”. Something may be good such as donating one’s kidneys or being a lifeguard to save lives, however one is not morally obligated to do so. Moral obligations have a reason-giving force for all to act, regardless of one’s goals or desires or interests, and even always trump non-moral reasons. It is an imperative with great force and not just a suggestion or preference. In other words, it is an unconditional “ought”.

What then would be an appropriate authority and source of moral obligations? First, we know that obligations come from another person or a group of persons. Some examples are familial obligations, legal obligations, obligations to one’s country, obligations to one’s company, etc. In the case of moral obligations, its source also has to come from another mind(s). It is difficult to see how we are required to do something if no other mind requires it of us.

Second, obligations only arise if the source stands as an authority over those who are being obligated. It would be pointless for some random person to demand to bring you to the police station for questioning unless that person is a police officer who has jurisdiction. In the army, a soldier of a lower rank and without being given authority cannot issue commands to one who is of higher rank. In the case of morality, since moral obligations apply to all human beings across all places and times, the source must transcend human persons and societies and stand as an authority over all human persons.

Third, when different obligations conflict, one obligation trumps the other based on which social relationship is greater or which authority is greater. In the case of moral obligations, since it trumps all other obligations, either the source has a social relationship with humans which is more important than any other social relation, or the source must possess more authority than any other human. Fourth, obligations arise not by might, or by dealing out rewards and punishments. For example, a thief does not exercise authority over me by robbing me at gunpoint. Neither do evil dictators have the appropriate authority. If the law stated that no one could go to the toilet for a hundred days for no good reasons or that we should torture children for fun, then it does not generate an appropriate legal obligation to follow. For obligations to arise, they must be grounded based upon good reasons. So for moral obligations to always be appropriate to follow, the source must be reasonable and perfectly good.

Fifth, the source of obligations must be in a good epistemic position to know relevant considerations. If one is perfectly good and yet cannot know the relevant considerations in a situation and evaluate it properly, then there is no obligation generated. For morality, the source must be able to see all relevant considerations, including really difficult things like predicting the consequences of an action. Hence the source must be wise and intelligent.

Sixth, for obligations to be followed, they must be made known by the source in some way. Since moral obligations are to be followed, the source must either be able to communicate to us or give us faculties that can come to know these moral obligations. Lastly many agree that at least some moral obligations exists necessarily in all possible worlds. For example, it is not possible that the world turned out such that it is right to torture babies for fun. Since there are some necessary moral obligations such as not to murder, the explanation for moral obligations must also be necessary. In the care of moral obligations, the source necessarily requires some actions to be done (or not to be done). If so, it follows that the source must also exist necessarily in order to do so. Note that this does not undermine the source’s freedom if nothing external to Him determines that He requires so.

To sum up, an appropriate source of morality must be from a person or persons, must be an authority above all human persons, either have a social relationship with humans which is greater than any other social relation or possess more authority than any other human, be reasonable and perfectly good, be wise and intelligent, be able to communicate to us or give us faculties that can come to know these moral obligations, and exists necessarily. Hence for theists, one can argue from moral obligations to such a source of morality which they may call God.

Image: CC License. "Authority" by M. Coghlan

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