“Let There Be Peace on Earth…”
December 31, 2007
As 2008 dawns in the midst of the Twelve Days of Christmas, how we long for peace: for shalom, that great Biblical word for the flourishing of each individual, each relationship, and the cosmos as a whole in harmony with God.
Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus as the one foretold to be “the Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6), the one who came to bring “shalom on earth,” as the angels declared to the shepherds (Luke 2:14). And it is only as we look to Jesus that we will have the peace he promised (John 14:27).
One doesn’t need to be a Christian, of course, to long for peace, to work for peace, and to enjoy seeing peace on earth–in part, here and there, for a while. And let’s acknowledge that we Christians are as capable of wreaking “non-peace” as anyone else.
The fundamental Christian hope, however, is of the “peaceable kingdom” to come, when Jesus returns to set things finally right. And the Christian joy is to experience something of that peace already in the present age of tumult and trouble.
So my kids are wondering, having spent the last week or so at home full-time with Professor Papa, why the theologian doesn’t radiate peace, why I don’t characteristically walk into the room as a soothing breeze of calm and delight, trailing clouds of quiet happiness in my wake.
What Do You Want for Christmas?
December 14, 2007
During my commute today, I listened to a lecture on CD by colleague Iain Provan, professor of Old Testament here at Regent, on the story of Jacob. That’s not a typical Advent story, of course, but it’s interesting to consider it in a Christmas context.
Brother Provan, superb expositor that he is, notes that God reiterates the Abrahamic promise to Jacob during Jacob’s famous dream of a ladder reaching to heaven: “the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring” (Genesis 28).
But when Jacob eventually responds to God’s extravagant promise, he mentions nothing about gaining an entire land, or having numberless offspring, or being a blessing to the whole world. Here’s what he says instead: “If God will be with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat and clothing to wear, so that I come again to my father’s house in peace, then the LORD shall be my God.”
Provan points out the shocking disjunction between what Jacob wants and what God offers. And as I listened, I was suddenly struck by the shameful disjunction between my own paltry desires and God’s great promises.
Great Preaching as a Great Present
December 8, 2007
I don’t easily find books for spiritual reading. So I’m always glad when someone recommends a book that he or she has found helpful.
One such book I’ve just finished is a collection of sermons by the late James S. Stewart, formerly the Professor of New Testament Language, Literature, and Theology at Edinburgh University (the post now held by a friend of mine, Larry Hurtado). The publishing arm of Regent College recently released a reprint of this fine anthology, Walking with God, edited by Gordon Grant.
Stewart has been lauded by many fine preachers, including such disparate pulpiteers as Lloyd John Ogilvie (former chaplain to the U.S. Senate), Gardner Taylor (dean of African-American preachers), and William Willimon (former chaplain to Duke University and now a Methodist bishop). His sermons are couched in the elegant language of a bygone generation, replete with aphorisms from his wide reading in classical and British literature (I would say “English literature,” but he was a Scot, and quoted Robbie Burns as often as Shakespeare, it seems). His messages are always directed to both piety and practice, and I have found many a passage to be provocative–whether to compunction or to comfort.
Herewith a bouquet of quotations plucked from these pages:
“We think of ourselves–ourselves who get so worried, so hectic with life’s load of care; who carry our fever with us, and wince at pin-pricks, and get flurried and fussy and nervous, and can’t relax; who feel that everything is getting on top of us, and life is too much for us, and quite lose our interior peace. There is no real remedy for that condition but this–a closer walk with God” (16-17).
Entering Advent: Repentance and Forgiveness (I)
November 24, 2007
As Christians enter the season of Advent—the time of the church year when we undertake an examination of our lives and repent of our sins to prepare for the celebration of the first coming (“advent”) of Jesus—we do well to consider the themes of repentance and forgiveness. There is a lot of confusion around these terms, and a lot of pain around them as well, perhaps especially as Christmastime brings to mind hurtful events and relationships in one’s life. Let’s see if we can bring a little Christmas light to bear on the subject.
Repentance and forgiveness are at the heart of the Christian faith and two of the key words in the Christian vocabulary.
Indeed, they are
• at the heart of the Gospel—we are called to repent and God promises to forgive our sins;
• at the heart of Christian prayer: “and forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us” (Luke 11:4) ; and
• at the heart of Christian conduct toward our neighbours.
Yet sometimes Jesus says such odd things about forgiveness: “Be on your guard! If another disciple sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive. And if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, `I repent,’ you must forgive” (Luke 17:3-4).
Notice that in this short passage we encounter multiple sins and multiple forgivenesses. Forgiveness may be necessary toward the same person over and over again.
Notice also that repentance seems to be required. But it isn’t.
The Privilege of Prayer
October 5, 2007
The great science-fiction author Arthur C. Clarke, whose most famous work is 2001: A Space Odyssey, wrote a powerful short story that has stuck with me for the thirty-plus years since I first read it. What if, he asked as his premise, the stars came out only once every thousand years? How would we react to, and value, such an occurrence?
The Stackhouse family recently celebrated two birthdays, those of our younger two sons. Coincidentally, we read through several books of the Torah this past summer in family Bible reading, with many chapters dealing with ancient Israel’s tabernacle and its elaborate system of worship. Such chapters are full of restrictions about who can do what, where, and when–and yet they describe the amazing opportunity for at least the representative of the people to actually meet with God, with no intermediaries, in direct communication.
I found myself wondering: What if every year on your birthday you yourself–and not just a high priest–were allowed to dress in special robes and go to a special room in your local temple and there, for five precious minutes, you could say anything you wanted to the God of the universe and be guaranteed that he would hear you?
