That's Not Your Story

For years I’ve been reminding myself—or rather, God keeps graciously reminding me—of something Aslan tells Shasta and Aravis in The Horse and His Boy: “That’s not your story.”

Actually, that’s a misquotation. What Aslan tells Shasta in Chapter Eleven, in response to Shasta asking him why he attacked Aravis, is “I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own” (p. 165 in the 1994 HarperTrophy edition). And in Chapter Fourteen, Aslan tells Aravis, in response to her asking him about what will happen to the slave girl who was whipped when Aravis ran away from home, the same thing: “I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own” (p. 202).

But “That’s not your story” comes to the same thing, and I can’t say how many times those four words have resurfaced in my mind to  either convict or comfort me. 

When I am tempted to ask Person A for the details of Person B’s difficult situation: That’s not your story. When I am tempted to tell Person B what I know of Person A’s difficult situation: That’s not your story. When I want to know what is going on with Person C, who I thought was a Christian but has been living in a way inconsistent with the gospel and the cost of discipleship: That’s not your story. When I wonder why Person D seems to have it so easy compared to me: That’s not your story. 

When, like Asaph in Psalm 73, I am bothered by how the wicked prosper while the righteous suffer: That’s not your story. When, like Job’s friends I want to know why a believer is suffering so intensely: That’s not your story. When, like Peter at the end of the Gospel of John, I want to know what God may have in store for another believer: That’s not your story. I think also of what Jesus told Peter in that moment: “What is that to you? You follow me!” (John 21:22).

Of course, telling ourselves “That’s not your story” won’t do much to quell our confusion or envy or love of gossip if we don’t believe there is a Storyteller who is both sovereign and good. But if there is such a Storyteller, we can trust Him to bring our stories and every other person’s story to a fitting end. He is telling us our own stories, and no one else’s. Let’s follow Him.

Pauline Patience for Difficult Relationships

Here’s a passage of Scripture that’s been reorganizing my mind and heart lately:

“But one thing I do [consider]: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, God will reveal that also to you. Only let us hold true to what we have attained” (Philippians 3:13b-16, ESV).

I don’t remember when I was first struck by this realization: Paul is so convinced of the power of God to work in people’s hearts (see Philippians 1:6 and 2:13) that he isn’t fazed by the immaturity of believers, whether with underdeveloped theologies or a disconnect between their doctrine and their behavior; instead Paul trusts God to teach or correct them in due time. But in the past week two different reading group discussions, and multiple conversations with friends about rifts in our other relationships, have brought this passage back to my attention and have made its message all the more compelling, convicting, and comforting.

First, in my church my pastor has been leading discussions of Ray Ortlund and Sam Allberry’s book You’re Not Crazy: Gospel Sanity for Weary Churches (Crossway 2023). This past Sunday we discussed Chapter 6: “Leave Behind Lord-It-Over Leadership: A Culture Guided by Gentle Shepherds.” One of the points of that chapter is that, when a pastor trusts that “God himself is the ultimate shepherd, [he] can breathe. [The pastor has] responsibility—sobering responsibility—but God has the ultimate responsibility” (p. 108). When a pastor understands and embraces this truth, he won’t feel the need anymore to pick fights with cantankerous church members over secondary or tertiary issues, or to be pushy with those who are weaker in the faith and slower to grow (see 104-105). Instead the pastor can trust that God knows His sheep and is looking after each of them. I think this is a very Pauline take on patient, humble ministry, and indeed Ortlund quotes what Paul says just a few sentences after the above passage: “Philippians 4:5 says ‘Let your reasonableness [or gentleness, ESV margin note] be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand’” (113). From this verse Ortlund draws the conclusion that “a culture of gentle leadership means that people who differ on serious issues can belong together in the same church” (113). Imagine: if we really believed that people who received the same gospel and have the same Spirit don’t have to all be at the same level of maturity or agree on all the issues to have true, loving fellowship, there would be far fewer church splits, far fewer blogger brawls, and far fewer cage-stage Christians torpedoing perfectly fine friendships just to score points.

Second, I’m also reading J. Gresham Machen’s classic Christianity & Liberalism (1923) with two grad school friends, and on Monday we discussed Chapter 2: “Doctrine.” The point of the chapter is to dismantle the common refrain among theological liberals that doctrinal distinctions don’t matter, or at least distract from what they think is more important, following Christ’s ethics. But Machen doesn’t just expose the dangers and incoherence of this kind of thinking; he argues there is still space for a healthy ecumenicism, and even “tolerance,” when it comes to nonessential disagreements. And to make this point, Machen also turns to Philippians. In 1:15-18, Paul isn’t bothered that some other preachers are pursuing gospel ministry with the intent of upstaging him and making him jealous. Paul shrugs this off and praises God anyway: “What then? Only that in every way, whether in pretense or in truth, Christ is proclaimed, and in that I rejoice.” Machen writes, “It is impossible to conceive a finer piece of broad-minded tolerance” (p. 22 in the 2023 Westminster Seminary Press edition). Of course, Machen goes on to point out how intolerant Paul was of false teaching in Galatians—and I’ll add that in Philippians itself Paul has strong words for the Judaizers who insisted on circumcision (see 3:2). But there is no contradiction here, Machen explains, because in one case immature people are preaching the true gospel, and in the other case even more immature people are preaching a false one. Paul can live with the former, whereas the latter threaten to destroy the church at the root (22-25). And my own point is that Paul could be unflappable about these upstarts who “proclaim Christ out of selfish ambition” (1:17) because he trusted the Spirit could work in and through them, just as He had in his own life, and could get them to a place where they could say with Paul that nothing else matters but pressing on to know Christ (3:7-16). Imagine: if we really saw people the way Paul did, and trusted the Spirit’s power like he did, a fellow believer could try to egg us into arguing about something trivial and we could respond, “No thanks. I have better things to do, and so do you.” 

Ortlund and Allberry apply Paul’s patient mindset to pastoring and Machen applies it to theological disputes. But, finally, in my own life I’m finding these passages in Philippians immensely helpful for staying hopeful about fading or lapsed friendships. Some friends and I have each been grieving the abandonment or disengagement of people we considered close friends. These people have hurt us and either do not realize it or haven’t yet sought reconciliation. But what steadies me is Paul’s confidence that God always finishes the work He starts in a person (1:6, 2:13); that even misguided people can do transformative gospel work (1:15-18); and that God teaches and corrects His own in His own good timing (3:15). These friends of ours may not repair these breaches for months, years, even decades. But what if God has a long-term plan for bringing them to greater maturity and godliness, and only later will they be ready to reconcile? What if our conversations with them planted seeds that won’t grow to fruition until after a long, dark winter? Maybe, and maybe not. But if we take the promises of God’s Word seriously, we can at least rest assured that, if the other person is a brother or sister in Christ, we will be reconciled in heaven. Our disagreements, our grievances, or even just a lack of emotional intelligence will not separate us any longer. As I said in my last post, one day we won’t have to choose between our friendships and the Truth. God Himself will bring our erring Christian friends into the Truth.

Friends in the Truth, Forever

Two weeks ago I wrote a post about how, if they had to choose between having friends and being just, Aristotle might choose friendships whereas Plato would surely choose justice. As I was wrapping up writing that post, I asked myself, what would be the Christian’s response when faced with this dilemma? Providentially, this week I started to revisit Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Life Together, and within the first few pages Bonhoeffer helped me formulate my answer. 

Of course, it should be conceded that Bonhoeffer’s book is about Christian fellowship in general, not Christian friendships in particular. But I think everything I’m about to quote or summarize from him can apply to a Christian understanding of friendships. I should also signal that I’m going to use ‘truth’ instead of ‘justice’ as my other key term. This is because Bonhoeffer talks about truth, not justice, and living in the truth is a major part of what it means to be just.

First, for the sake of living in the truth, we may be separated from our friends. Bonhoeffer would seem to side with Plato in recognizing that in pursuing wisdom the just man may have to make enemies, and that those enemies may prevent him from living with his friends. He says on the very first page of Life Together that “It is not simply to be taken for granted that the Christian has the privilege of living among other Christians. Jesus Christ lived in the midst of his enemies. At the end all his disciples deserted him. On the Cross he was utterly alone, surrounded by evildoers and mockers” (p. 17 in the HarperOne edition). Christ warned us that a servant is not greater than his master (John 15:20). If He had to part with His friends to be faithful to God, we must be ready to do the same—just as Bonhoeffer was. He was imprisoned and executed for living in the truth that Hitler should not have any man’s allegiance.

In my last post I had talked about the difficulty of balancing the Already and the Not Yet in our eschatology. I think Bonhoeffer does an excellent balancing act here. Christians were intended to have fellowship with one another and can enjoy much of that Already because of what Christ definitively accomplished on the cross—but we are Not Yet able to enjoy that fellowship fully and without hindrances, not until we get to the New Creation. Bonhoeffer writes that “between the death of Christ and the Last Day it is only by a gracious anticipation of the last things that Christians are privileged to live in visible fellowship with other Christians” (18). He repeats, “the fellowship of Christian brethren is a gift of grace, a gift of the Kingdom of God that any day may be taken from us” (20). 

Even though God made us in such a way that it is not good for anyone to be alone (Genesis 2:18), we cannot insist or demand that God never put us on a deserted island or in solitary confinement. That might be just what it takes for God to sanctify us and glorify His Name through us. God doesn’t owe us a healthy or legal church in which to participate, or a best friend who pledges loyalty like Jonathan did to David, or Ruth did to Naomi. It is a mercy and a kindness that, on any given day and for however long on that day, we get to interact with any of our friends in Christ. Read this conclusion that Bonhoeffer reaches and let it weigh on you for a few moments: 

“Therefore, let him who until now has had the privilege of living a common life with other Christians praise God’s grace from the bottom of his heart. Let him thank God on his knees and declare: It is grace, nothing but grace, that we are allowed to live in community with Christian brethren” (20).

Second, for the sake of living in the truth, we may have to separate ourselves from our friends. Bonhoeffer distinguishes between spiritual and human love. One of the differences between the two is whether they submit to God’s truth. Bonhoeffer says that “Human love has little regard for truth. It makes the truth relative, since nothing, not even the truth, must come between it and the beloved person” (34). Human love would choose friendship over truth, ten times out of ten. But spiritual love cannot be divorced from truth. Without truth—or more precisely, Christ the Truth—love ceases to be love, for “love of others is wholly dependent upon the truth in Christ” (37). It is only because the truth in Christ transforms our hearts that we can truly love one another. And sometimes, Bonhoeffer cautions us, this Christ-transformed spiritual love will require ending a friendship: “Where [Christ’s] truth enjoins me to dissolve a fellowship for love’s sake, there I will dissolve it, despite all the protests of my human love” (35). 

Once again, insofar as Bonhoeffer is presenting a biblically accurate view, it would seem Plato is closer than Aristotle in agreeing to the Christian answer regarding what to do when faithfulness to the truth and loyalty to friends would push us in opposite directions. However, to return to the above point about eschatology, it is only in the present time, in the Already-Not Yet, that we will ever face this impasse and ever have to walk with Bonhoeffer and Plato’s mentor Socrates away from our friends and toward our deaths for the sake of truth. This is because:  

Third, ultimately we will not have to choose between friendship and the truth. As I said in the Plato and Aristotle post, rather than pitting them too much against each other Aristotle sees justice and friendship growing up alongside and reinforcing each other. But in this fallen world, that won’t always be the case. Yet the Christian is looking forward to a new and better world, where there will be no enemies to our friendships and no need to end a friendship for the sake of convictions—because everyone there will pledge allegiance to the same Lord and love the same Truth.

Bonhoeffer, writing Life Together while running an underground seminary and understanding that a government crackdown could happen at any time, was looking forward to that “Last Day,” too (18). He writes of the astounding reality that “we also belong to [Christ] in eternity with one another. … He who looks upon his brother should know that he will be eternally united with him in Jesus Christ” (24). We may have non-Christian friends turn on us; we may have to let some of them go. But our Christian friends—even if those relationships should cool due to time, distance, or conflicts—truly are our BFFs: best friends forever.

A few days ago I was reminded of a song by Sanctus Real called "Benjamin." The song is addressed to a friend who is approaching death around the same time that his son is born. The singer tells the dying father: “We've been friends for a long, long time, / So if you can't talk, just cry, / And know that we will talk on the other side.” And he tells Benjamin, the son, “And we will be friends for a long, long time, / So until you can talk, just cry, / And know that we will talk for the rest of our lives.” 

That is our Christ-accomplished hope for our Christian friends: We will be friends for a long, long time. As we wait in the Already-Not Yet, we can cry for the friends we’ve lost to death or disagreement or never even had, because friendship is a good thing worth grieving. And we can trust we will have friends to talk to for the rest of our lives, on the other side. 

Is Heaven Here and Now?

[Musical Coincidences #1]

MercyMe’s 2017 album Lifer and Tenth Avenue North’s 2019 album No Shame each have a song that pushes back against an under-realized eschatology that, by setting all its sights on the life to come, would downplay the redemptive work that God is doing and that believers should be participating in today. MercyMe’s song opens with the lines, “Thought I knew / how this all goes, / Tryn’ to get through life / Till you get called home.” The Tenth Avenue North song starts in the same place, but critiques this “get through life” mindset more sharply: “I used to count the days 'til I was gonna fly away, / All I wanted was a promise that You’d take away my pain, / Oh, won't You take away my pain? / I didn't wanna be used to engage / I just wanted to use You to be my escape.” The shared rebuttal to this escapist mindset is conveyed in the songs’ titles. MercyMe’s song is called “Heaven’s Here”; Tenth Avenue North’s is called “Heaven Is Now.” To quote Dash Parr’s 5th-grade teacher in The Incredibles, “Coincidence? I think not!”

Although two songs in two years do not establish a trend, their similarities make me wonder if a shift is occurring in popular-level evangelical thinking about how to reconcile the tension between the Already and the Not Yet. On the one hand, Christ’s incarnation, crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension, and the giving of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost have transformed the status quo of what’s possible in a fallen world. On the other hand, sin, suffering, and death persist and the wheat will keep growing alongside the tares until Christ returns. Keeping these truths in balance isn’t easy. One often gets the upper hand over the other, and this is reflected in what gets emphasized in Christian media. A lot of the Contemporary Christian Music (CCM) that I’m familiar with, from Keith Green in the late 70’s to some of MercyMe and Tenth Avenue North’s own songs in the aughts and 2010’s, emphasize the Not Yet and look forward to spending eternity with God, whether after someone’s physical death or Christ’s second coming. Comparatively few songs that I’m aware of emphasize the Already as emphatically as these two recent songs do: the kingdom of heaven is at hand, they argue, here and now. So, my highly-unscientific, anecdotally-driven hypothesis is that “Heaven Is Now” and “Heaven’s Here” reflect a movement away from stressing the brevity and brokenness of the present world and toward stressing the need for a faithful, redemptive presence in it.

If a shift really is happening, I would welcome some aspects of it as a helpful corrective. I have been saddened to hear older Christians say things like “I can’t imagine bringing a child into this world today” because of rampant godlessness (which, by the way, makes them sound like some secular people closer to my age who fear having kids because of climate change) instead of expressing hope that God can use their descendants to reach the next generation. And I’ve often thought that Christians who long to leave this earth, if they don’t long just as earnestly for the salvation of nonbelievers, act too much like Jonah, sitting outside Nineveh waiting for God to destroy it, and not enough like Jeremiah, calling on the exiles to live faithfully in Babylon. For better or worse, much of my eschatology and practical theology has developed in response to these attitudes. As I wrote in a recent Notebook post, “So much of my creative work and so many of my thought projects are attempts to answer the essential question, ‘How should I live, here and now … in the tension of the already-not-yet?’” Given all that, these songs would seem to be strong candidates for my own theme song. 

And yet, now that I have before me two examples of songs that push back against this under-realized eschatology and put my own concerns into words, I’m reminded of the phrase, “Be careful what you wish for.” I won’t say that these songs are guilty of swinging the pendulum too far the other way, into an over-realized eschatology that downplays how badly we need Christ to return soon and make all things new. That could be an unfair charge to bring against them, because a 3- to 4-minute song can only emphasize a few truths at once—and emphasizing one truth does not require denying a contrasting one. Still, I am concerned these songs don’t have the needed nuance to avoid presenting an overly sunny view of our predicament this side of glory.

MercyMe’s theological justification for saying that “Heaven has begun, / Eternity is now” is that “He has raised us up.” This could be a reference to Ephesians 2:6, which says that God “raised us up with [Christ] in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus” (ESV). Amazingly, Paul says this is a completed action, a present reality. And he says elsewhere, in Colossians 3:3, that “you have died [past tense], and your life is hidden with Christ in God [present tense].” However, the song’s response to this theological truth is not to look forward to our complete union with Christ in a new creation without sin and death. Instead the conclusion the song reaches is that “We don’t have to wait, / heaven’s here with us” and “there ain’t no hurry” to get to what’s next. But with all the suffering and injustice around us, shouldn’t we be asking, with anguished cries, “How long, O Lord?” The second verse seems to qualify the song’s optimism, saying “Make no mistake, / Trust me I know, / There’s a place waiting / That we'll call home.” But there’s no grief in the song over the painfully obvious fact that we aren’t there yet.

Another problem with MercyMe’s “Heaven’s Here” is that it doesn’t present an alternative to waiting for heaven. “We don’t have to wait”—but what is the thing we don’t need to wait for and can enjoy now? And if we aren’t waiting for something in the future, what should we be doing in the present? The song doesn’t address the pain of living in a fallen world, and it doesn’t give the listener guidance on how to endure it.

The Tenth Avenue North song is more theologically balanced. “Heaven Is Now” does present an alternative to “wait[ing] until I see those pearly gates.” The alternative is “Let me bring Your grace into this world and recreate.” Instead of acting like Jonah outside Nineveh, the singer says he’s “Not gonna wash my hands and say ‘Let it burn,’ / I wanna burn with your love instead.” The song’s theological justification for this is the Lord’s Prayer: “You taught me how to pray / Let your kingdom come here in my heart.” The desire of the song is for Christians to do God’s will on earth as it is in heaven. And the song is not naive about how hard it will be to live according to God’s will. The singer says that we see “glimpses” of the kingdom “when we learn to love, / And we're forgiving one another.” These words imply that hate is our default setting (love has to be learned) and that we are still sinning and sinned against (necessitating continual forgiveness). The implication is we are still in a fallen world; so the eschatology is not as over-realized as it is in the MercyMe song. Whereas MercyMe gives the impression the party starts now, according to Tenth Avenue North we have some serious, potentially painful and costly work to do for the rest of our earthly lives. 

Nevertheless, my concern with the Tenth Avenue North song is that it implies a false binary. We can both “count the days” and still live in the moment. We can both ask God to “take away [our] pain” and trust Him to use the pain for our good. We can both long for our “escape” from this world and “engage” it at the same time. We can have a category for Not Yet and a category for Already at the same time, as conceptually, spiritually, and practically difficult as that may be. But the alternative, emphasizing only the Already and trying to “Walk my city streets like they are paved with gold” would seem to me to require more mental gymnastics, to the point of cognitive dissonance. To say we are awkwardly caught between the Already and Not Yet, desperately needing Christ to come resolve the tension, is more accurate both to the testimony of Scripture and to our own daily experience.

Praying and Sleeping in Gilead

Reading Marilynne Robinson’s wonderful novel Gilead a few weeks ago, I was struck by how it joins together two things I tended to think of as being at odds with each other: prayer and sleep. 

I first noticed this about halfway through, when the narrator, the aging and ailing Reverend John Ames—the whole novel is an extended letter written to his young son—closes a section by saying, “Much more prayer is called for, clearly, but first I will take a nap” (125). And then, he says something similar just a few pages later: “Now I will pray. First I think I’ll sleep. I’ll try to sleep” (131).

My initial reaction reading these lines was concern. My thought was that prayer should come first, then sleep. When I think of prayer in relation to sleep, my mind automatically goes to the disciples falling asleep while Jesus prays in Gethsemane, and I know from experience that tiredness is a strong temptation to not pray. So, naturally, reading these lines, I thought, “Uh oh.” It seemed to me that sleep was keeping Ames from bringing to God the troubles weighing on him.

True, Robinson’s novel does recognize that sleep can be a way of avoiding hard things. In one scene, Ames’ best friend, Boughton—also an aging, ailing pastor, seems to fall asleep, and Ames explains why: “Boughton sort of nodded off then, as he does when conversations get difficult” (212). 

Tiredness can also make people irritable, working against the kindness they pray to able to show to others. At one point, Ames gets up before sunrise and goes to his church’s sanctuary to pray—until, just like the disciples in Gethsemane, he falls asleep. When he is woken up by Boughton’s prodigal son, Jack—the very person he had been “praying for the wisdom to do well by”—Ames confesses in his writing that “I was immediately aware that my sullen old reptilian self would have handed him over to the Philistines for the sake of a few more minutes’ sleep” (167). Sleep, it’s true, can be a hindrance to love of God and neighbor.

But Robinson’s novel ultimately shows that prayer and sleep can work together. First, sleep can be an answer to prayer. Ames says the reason he fell asleep in the sanctuary that morning is because he had been “praying for tranquility”; as a result, “I had arrived at a considerable equanimity, there in the dark, and I believe that is what permitted me to sleep” (168). This reminded me of Psalm 127:2: “he gives to his beloved sleep.” The ability to sleep is a gift God gives us out of love; so we should pray for it.

(As an aside—this doesn’t seem to be a point implicit in Gilead—prayer and sleep can both be ways of submitting our lives and cares to God. In Psalm 127:2, resisting the gift of sleep is a symptom of “anxious toil,” of not trusting God to provide. But the person who has prayed in the faith that God provides can fall asleep trusting He will answer. To quote another psalm, “In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety” [Psalm 4:8].)   

Second, the novel suggests that prayer and sleep work together to help us see clearly. Ames writes later on that “I have prayed considerably, and I have slept awhile, too, and I feel I am reaching some clarity” (201). Notice that the clarity comes not from depriving himself of sleep so he can pray all night, nor from sleeping in and neglecting prayer; instead, Ames associates the clarity with praying and sleeping. 

Elsewhere, Ames reflects that “right worship is right perception” (135). To worship God rightly, we have to see Him as He is. That’s hard to do when we aren’t praying, as Jesus did in Gethsemane, “Thy will be done.” When we aren’t praying “Hallowed be Thy Name,” we are following after our own skewed vision of reality, in which everything revolves around glorifying ourselves. And it’s also hard to see God as He is when we are exhausted or sleep-deprived. How many times have I thought the sky was falling and God had forgotten me, when all it took to show my fears and unbelief for what they were was a good night’s rest? 

The novel ends with the line, “I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep” (247). Is this a sign that Ames was wrong to put sleep before prayer earlier, and now he’s got the order right? I think not, because taken as a whole the novel treats both sleeping and praying as ways that Ames receives peace from God. This last line is instead a sign that, after weeks of spiritual trial leading to “elusive … grueling” sleep (155), he is at peace with God and neighbor once more.

Emphatic Evangelicalism

One of the books I have most benefitted from reading this year is Fred Sanders’ The Deep Things of God: How the Trinity Changes Everything (Crossway, 2010). I had picked up the book for the obvious reason of wanting to grow in my understanding of the Trinity, but what struck me about the book from its first pages on is that it is also a defense of the neglected resources available in evangelical theology.

Sanders admits that “evangelicals are not currently famous for their Trinitarian theology” and that “the evangelical movement is bedeviled by a theological and spiritual shallowness” (11). This causes some to develop what I’ll call an “Evangelical Inferiority Complex.” “Many evangelicals,” Sanders writes, “seem haunted by a sense of not being about anything except the moment of conversion. When they stop to ask themselves where they are taking their converts, they fear that when they get there, there will be no there there. … When serious-minded evangelical Christians feel the desire to go deeper into doctrine or spirituality, they typically turn to any resources except for their own properly evangelical resources” (12).

If the primary goal of the book is to show how “the gospel is Trinitarian, and the Trinity is the gospel” (10), the second goal is to show that this thesis is and always has been entirely at home in evangelical thought: in fact, Sanders argues “evangelical Christians have been in reality the most thoroughly Trinitarian Christians in the history of the church” (9). This in turn serves a third goal: “to reintroduce evangelical Protestants to what is best in our own tradition” (13). To borrow the title of another, more recent Crossway book, The Deep Things of God is a work of “theological retrieval for evangelicals.” 

But how did evangelicals get into this situation of being “radically Trinitarian without knowing it” (12)? How did we drift from our historical depths into “theological and spiritual shallowness” (11)? Sanders’ answer to these questions is what has reverberated in my mind ever since I read the book’s Introduction in January, and my reason for writing this post: evangelicalism is “emphatic”—that is, “It has made strategic choices about what should be emphasized when presenting the fullness of the faith” (14). In particular, evangelicals major on “Bible, cross, conversion, heaven”—and, Sanders stresses, “These are the right things to emphasize” (15, italics added). It isn’t wrong that we are so emphatic about these doctrines. The problem, though, is that in our enthusiasm for them we can tend to forget that “Bible, cross, conversion, heaven” only make sense, only have weight and meaning, in the context of a host of other doctrines. “When a message is all emphasis,” Sanders explains, “everything is equally important and you are always shouting” (17). If I wrote this whole post in italics, the italics wouldn’t mean anything. If everything is a nail, what is there left to nail down? After a certain point, emphatic evangelicalism can become “anemic,” “reductionist,” and open to the charge of “anti-intellectualism” (16-17).

But a healthy, robust evangelicalism does have things to say about the doctrines that surround and support our major emphases. “What is needed,” Sanders argues, “is not a change of emphasis but a restoration of the background” (19). And this “restoration of the background” can be had by learning from many of our evangelical forebears.

The Good King by Ghost Ship

One of the good things to come out of Mars Hill Church was that it gave birth to a number of Christian bands that, even after Mars Hill’s collapse, continued to produce music that is both theologically rich and stylistically eclectic. My favorite Mars Hill Bands are Citizens, Kings Kaleidoscope, and The Sing Team, but I also really like Ghost Ship’s debut album, The Good King (2013). One of the things I like about the album is its thematic unity. True to its title, every song is about Christ the Good King and His character and deeds. Even the songs not explicitly on this theme fit within this framework. The songs on the album are also, I am convinced, arranged as a chiasmus.

Tracks with asterisks after them (3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8) refer to Christ’s kingship, but the central track of the album, the turning point of the chiasmus, is entirely dedicated to enumerating His kingly attributes.

Tracks 1 and 11: “Mediator” and “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”

Christ the Good King is the intercessor through whom we are reconciled to God and through whom we pray to God.

Tracks 2 and 10: “Orion” and “Where Were You”

Both songs are based on Job 38. Christ the Good King is sovereign over all creation, yet also shows intimate concern for us.

Tracks 3* and 9: “Lion Man” and “Behold the Lamb of God”

Christ the Good King is both conquering lion and sacrificial lamb.

Tracks 4* and 8*: “Jude Doxology” and “The Gospel”

Christ the Good King is our savior, redeeming us from slavery to sin and death.

Tracks 5* and 7*: “Son of David” and “Holy, Holy, Holy”

Christ the Good King removes spiritual blindness so that we can see Him as He is. (In this rendition of “Holy, Holy, Holy,” a Trinitarian hymn, the last line is changed to place emphasis on God the Son as “King of kings.”) 

Track 6*: “The Truth”

“The Truth” at the heart of the album, thematically and numerically, is Christ the Good King. This King is “mighty,” “loving,” “sovereign,” and “faithful.”