The SBC Scandal

 Throughout my career I was called by one of three titles. (I was called other things but that is irrelevant.)

“Doctor.” A rarely heard title, but I never corrected anyone using it. I’d earned it by hard work and sacrifice (mine and my family’s). Hearing it reminded me of an obligation my opportunity to study imposed. Borrowing words from the obituary of a 19th-century theologian, I realized I should strive to be “a scholar who never forgot he was a Christian, a Christian who never forgot he was a scholar.”

“Pastor.” A challenging title. It is daunting to try to shepherd (pastor is from the Latin for one who feeds or grazes the sheep) through teaching, encouraging, comforting, and sometimes correcting that part of God’s flock under your care.

“Reverend.” A frightening title, from the Latin for “one who is to be revered.” I knew I deserved no reverence, had achieved no special spiritual/moral status. Fortunately, my churches usually had enough God-appointed pedestal-topplers to dissuade me from succumbing to the temptation to think I merited the title.

Though I sincerely hope I never exploited this title, honesty forces me to admit some church leaders have. This, I believe, helps explain the abuse scandal in the Southern Baptist Convention.

Years ago, a distant cousin and her husband were exploited by an associate pastor at their rural church. I’ll call him “Elmer” (as in Gantry). Like many farmers, they maintained a storage tank of gasoline for their farm equipment. Elmer regularly visited them to say he needed his car's tank filled-up and he knew they would want to help him in doing God’s work. Of course, this wasn’t sexual abuse, but it was abuse, an example of manipulation by one perceived to merit reverence.

I don’t know what happened to Elmer, but one wonders if this abuse might have led to greater betrayals of trust.

Exploitation by church leaders began early. In 2 Timothy 3:6, Paul condemns false teachers who “make their way into households and captivate silly women, overwhelmed by their sins and swayed by all kinds of desires.” These seemed to be immature believers, ungrounded in the Faith. (Regrettably, John Calvin believed this verse suggests women are naturally more susceptible to error than men; nothing Paul says implies that.) 

Although Paul doesn’t specify sexual abuse in this verse, less than a century later Irenaeus reported on a false teacher named Marcus: A woman taught by Marcus “… then makes the effort to reward Marcus, not only by the gift of her possessions (in which way he has collected a very large fortune), but also by yielding up to him her person, desiring in every way to be united to him, that she may become altogether one with him." (Cited by Wm. Barclay) We can find such women, often lonely and grateful for the attention Elmer has given them. If Elmers lived in the first century, we shouldn’t be surprised if they live in the twenty-first.

The target might be a single woman or a wife whose husband does not share her faith. If the target if a teenaged girl, she might be flattered by a revered (!) adult’s attention and enjoy feeling “special.” At the same time, if she reports being uncomfortable by his attention she might not be heard, being told she was imagining things; in extreme cases she might be told “Satan is planting those thoughts to make you doubt a good man.” (Not often in an SBC church but not unheard of.) Should she avoid being alone with Elmer, he will simply move on. 

How could men who once made weighty pledges at an ordination service behave this way? It is beyond my province to say they are unconverted, like a modern Gilbert Tennent might say. That they are behaving in ways that belie their profession is certain. 

Doubtless, alongside Elmers there are Arthurs (as in DimmesdaleThe Scarlet Letter). These Arthurs may be seeking relief from the loneliness sometimes associated with the job. Their behavior is still a betrayal of trust, but I like to think it is not an ongoing pattern. Yet, like Arthur they may refuse to confess and seek forgiveness. Perhaps, because of shame, perhaps because, like Arthur, they lived in a community disinclined to forgiveness. Nevertheless, such Arthurs, like the Elmers, he encouraged a cover-up.

How did the SBC cover-up succeed so long?

Our churches believe in forgiveness and restoration. At times this might be an appropriate response to moral failure (though to offer grace to an Elmer without mandating counselling is unwise). Elmers know how to take advantage of this graciousness, how to exploit the goodness of others. If feigning regret lets you escape consequences, it’s a small price to pay. Arthurs may repent and do better.

The SBC fosters intense loyalty in its pastors. Sometimes this promotes an ill-advised resistance to harming the denomination’s reputation. Moreover, there is sometimes a longstanding “old boy’s network” in some areas (pastors there even attended the same seminary) making fellow pastors disinclined to cause trouble for friends. Especially if those friends promise to do better.

The cover-up may reflect distorted priorities. Weeks before the convention, some leaders opined that the whole issue was a satanic plot to shift the convention’s focus from evangelism; they would have had the issue buried. These men forget that the church’s message will remain unheard if the church lacks integrity.

The denomination’s commitment to the hierarchical view of men and women sometimes (note, sometimes) leads to a fundamental disrespect for women. This may make it difficult for women to present themselves as the victims of abuse, especially since some men are inclined to think of women as naturally hysterical (a word reflecting that very prejudice). I don’t agree with those who believe hierarchicalism always leads to abuse, but it happens.

Without giving up that commitment, the convention seems to be trying to address the problem of sexual abuse. I hope it is a sincere and successful effort. In the end, I believe the number of abusive pastors in the convention is small. Most of our pastors are men who would never harm those in their care, men who sacrifice time that might properly belong to their families, men who earn less than others with the same level of education, men who seek to serve God.

As a Baptist, I am obliged to say all this is my opinion. Another Baptist might say something different. 

As I finish, I occurs to me no one called me “A Man of Few Words.”

Meet John Sung

 John Sung (1901-1944) deserves to be better known, especially as historians realize evangelicalism’s influence extends well beyond the West.

Sung was born in the Fujian province of China to parents who converted from Buddhism to Christianity shortly before his birth. While still a child, Sung, worked alongside his father, who had become a Methodist pastor. The youngster distributed tracts and preached occasionally, earning the nickname “little pastor.”  After graduating from high school, a wealthy benefactor offered to pay for his education at Ohio Wesleyan University. After receiving his bachelor’s degree, he moved on to the Ohio State University (Columbus) where he received the Ph.D. in chemistry in 1926. 

Though he had opportunities to teach in the sciences, Sung decided to prepare for the ministry. Following a friend’s advice, he enrolled at Union Theological Seminary in New York. 

Founded in the mid-nineteenth century, Union had by 1926 become the flagship seminary of liberal Christianity. Liberalism, sometimes called modernism, rejected notions like the verbal inspiration of the Bible and generally attempted to divest Christianity of any traces of the supernatural. Miracles, even the resurrection of Christ, were considered myths or fictional tales intended to support a moral lesson, such as the virtue of self-sacrifice. When Sung asked his friend to recommend a seminary, Union may have been mentioned due to its notoriety. Whatever prompted him to attend Union, it was a life-altering experience.  

Recall that during these years many who embraced Christian orthodoxy and believed the Bible to be God-inspired were still reeling from the humiliation of the Scopes trial (1925), where conservative faith was held up to scorn as newspapers and radio reports told of rural bumpkins and conservative pundits attempting to challenge evolution. Those who continued to hold onto  orthodoxy became the targets of acerbic journalists such as H. L. Mencken. In response, some Christians retreated into a sub-culture that distrusted higher education. Pastors warned their members not to allow their children to attend secular universities such as Ohio State. While orthodox seminaries existed, the level of distrust among Bible-believing Christians toward all graduate schools was so widespread, it’s likely many Christians Sung encountered would have had no idea how to advise the young scholar. (It would be two decades before evangelical scholars would establish schools where hard scholarship would challenge the claims of liberalism.)

In the liberal atmosphere of Union Seminary, Sung began to question his faith. Union professors told him the Bible was just another religious text, not God’s special revelation; they told him evangelism and conversion were unnecessary. The work of indigenous pastors like Sung’s father and of the missionaries scattered throughout China was considered presumptuous, unless their goal was simply to improve the material lot of people.  

Disillusioned, Sung considered returning to his mother’s Buddhism and even began chanting Buddhist prayers. This, though his Chinese name Zhu En meant “God’s grace” and was given because he was the first child born after his mother’s conversion to Christianity.  Of this period he would say, “My soul wandered in a wilderness. I could neither sleep nor eat. My faith was like a leaking, storm-driven ship without captain or compass. My heart was filled with the deepest unhappiness.”

Then Sung accepted an invitation to Calvary Baptist Church where he expected to hear a visiting scholar. Instead, he heard Uldine Utley (1909-1995). Utley was a young girl from Oklahoma who preached her first sermon at age eleven. Her preaching possessed such maturity that some of the most highly regarded American fundamentalists endorsed her ministry. John Roach Straton, regarded by some as “the Baptist pope,” was the pastor at Calvary Baptist. After hearing her at a Bible conference in Florida, Stratton invited her to preach at Calvary. 

Ruth Tucker describes the impact hearing the fifteen-year-old evangelist had on the young seminarian.

“Like he had been, she was a ‘little preacher,’ and he was captivated by her message. He returned the following four nights to hear her, vowing that he would pray until God gave him the same power to preach that this girl had. His life was transformed, and in the weeks and months that followed, he spent his time reading the Bible and Christian biographies and testifying of his newly reclaimed faith. When he was given a gift of a globe by a stranger, he took is a sign from God that he would one day preach the gospel around the world. Instead of chanting Buddhist scriptures, he began singing hymns as he walked the halls of the seminary—behavior that was viewed by some of the seminary officials as a sign of mental instability.”

Tucker tells how seminary officials ordered Sung to undergo psychological testing and he was hospitalized for several months. The liberal disdain for heart-felt Christianity ran deep. Yet, during this period of hospitalization, Sung read through the Bible forty times. This, too, would be a life-altering exercise.

In 1927, Sung returned to China and began an evangelistic ministry. While he did not preach around the world, he did preach throughout China and Southeast Asia. Before his death from cancer and tuberculosis in 1944, he led fruitful revivals in Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Taiwan, Thailand, and Singapore. During a crusade in Java, Chinese merchants closed their shops so their workers could attend his meetings. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, there were still church leaders in Southeast Asia whose conversions occurred under his ministry. Because of his success and the strategy of never leaving an area without organizing the Christians into evangelistic bands, one biographer stated, “his ministry can rightly be described as apostolic, and he was possibly the most effective evangelist of the 20th century.”   Irene Tay’s evaluation of Sung’s ministry agrees: “Sung is one of the greatest evangelists of the modern period of church history.” 

Doubtless, Sung’s faith might have been rekindled through his own reading and reflection or through the ministry of evangelical scholars he could have heard in the New York area. Doubtless, he could have gone on to his powerful ministry without ever attending New York’s Calvary Baptist Church. But it happened as it happened. While Sung’s name is known to millions of Asian Christians (though not to as many Americans), the turning point in his pilgrimage came through the ministry of a teenage girl from Oklahoma whose name is also unknown to most Americans.

If ever events should tempt us to invoke the notion of God’s providence, certainly the story of John Sung’s return to faith qualifies. Here we have a young man who came half-way around the world to be trained as a scientist, a man who could have had a quiet life as an academic away from the poverty of his homeland, a nation where political turmoil was becoming a constant reality, but who instead chose to become a minister of the gospel. And in him, we have an ardent young Christian who sought to deepen his knowledge of God’s Word so he might more effectively preach that gospel, but who instead had his faith in that Word eroded by purveyors of doubt. Here we have a young scholar who heads off to what he believes will be a lecture from another scholar only to find himself listening to a young girl from Oklahoma, a girl who had not yet graduated from high school, a girl likely to have been unfamiliar with the periodic table and certainly unable to parse a Greek verb, a girl who never imagined her preaching might impact nations she would never visit. And do not forget this girl was invited to speak by a fundamentalist pastor who defied his fellow fundamentalists by allowing a woman to speak from his pulpit, a pastor who became an articulate defender of women preachers. The girl from Oklahoma and the precedent-defying pastor created the circumstance that would put John Sung back on the road to faith and to a powerful ministry. 

You and I never know how our efforts to serve God’s Kingdom may impact people. And, by God’s grace, we don’t have to be speaking from a prestigious pulpit to make that impact.

For further reading:

Irene Tay, et al, “John Sung,” A Dictionary of Asian Christianity, S. W. Sunquist, ed. Grand Rapids:  William B. Eerdmans, 2001.

Ruth A. Tucker, From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya: A Biographical History of Christian Missions (second edition), Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1984,2004.. 

Hwa Yung, “Sung Revivals in Southeast Asia,” A Dictionary of Asian Christianity, S. BIBLICAL. Sunquist, ed. Grand Rapids:  William B. Eerdmans, 2001, p. 808. 

CONVICTIONS ARE NOT ENOUGH

 I’ve been reading about some individuals with real convictions, individuals willing to oppose the power of the government, individuals who believed their lives and their world-views were rooted in the Bible. 

One of these men was Benjamin Tillman. He held onto his convictions even though many disagreed with him. And he would not be silent. He shared his convictions across the country. Listen to Tillman’s words in response to Theodore Roosevelt appointing William Crum as customs collector in Charleston, an act Tillman believed reflected the president’s faulty political philosophy, an act he believed to be harmful to America, “We still have guns and ropes in the South and if the policy of appointing the Negro to office is insisted upon, we know how to use them.” Crum was a black man; Tillman was a Democratic senator from South Carolina at the beginning of the 20th century.

Yes, like many in the post-Reconstruction South, Tillman was a man of conviction. His courageous stand for his convictions was hardly that. He simply knew he wasn’t alone. Claiming to speak for his fellow southerners, Tillman said, “We of the South have never acknowledged that the Negroes were our equals….” 

I’m going move on from those disgusting words because this post isn’t about racism. We all know Tillman’s words are hateful and immoral (at least I hope we do). But my point is Tillman’s convictions were wrong—even though they were strong. 

Of course, I didn’t have to resurrect an obscure American politician to make my point. Think of the Nazis whose convictions (especially about the Jews) were so strong. Think of those who flew planes into the twin towers and the Pentagon—their convictions were strong. Then, too, think of those who stormed the capitol on January 6; did they have anemic convictions? No. Were they, therefore, right to jeopardize lives and destroy property?  “No,” did you say? But their convictions were so strong.

I was raised in an Evangelical church. I attended “youth rallies” where, as good Evangelicals, we were encouraged to share our faith. This meant being ready to counter any argument raised against becoming a Christian. Speakers told us we would face those who said, “It doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you’re sincere.” We should, we were told, counter this fallacy with an analogy like the following. Suppose you are given a large bottle of iodine which someone (a psychopath, no doubt) had labeled “cherry soda.” Thirsty, you drink it down. No matter how strong your conviction that the bottle contained a red sugary beverage, it would kill you. 

Of course, the lesson from those meetings isn’t a “religious” truth; it applies to the world of science as well. Centuries ago, most people embraced the conviction that the sun revolves around the earth. Then, certain scientists—sometimes at great peril—challenged that conviction. They proved their conviction—that the earth moves around the sun—with math and observation. Any conviction—a strongly held belief—needs corroboration.  

Usually, we Americans are generously liberal in allowing our neighbors the freedom of their convictions. If my neighbor believes he was a grilled cheese sandwich in a previous life, so what. If he doesn’t march outside my home to protest my occasionally having such a sandwich with a bowl of soup for lunch, we will probably get along. His convictions don’t really matter.

But this isn’t always true. Another neighbor may believe Ivermectin will prevent or cure COVID-19. Should I allow my neighbor to act on this conviction, allow him to act on his convictions even though he puts his life and the lives of his family members at risk? Should I stand by and admire her acting on her convictions when I am sure she is harming herself? 

Usually, we Americans feel we have an obligation to intervene. For instance, we make every effort to prevent individuals from acting on their convictions that cocaine or heroin is the way to peace and happiness. We may disagree on how to deal with these individuals (jail or therapy), but we all agree we cannot remain indifferent to their self-destructive behavior. I am not ready to force my neighbor to get a vaccination or wear a mask. But neither am I ready to remain silent. My convictions won’t let me.

Recently, I read an essay praising the Southwest Airlines pilots for standing on their convictions until management backed-off their vaccine mandate. The author compared them to Jesus and George Washington—men who stuck to their convictions. As I read, I wondered what the author would have said if Southwest’s executives had stood by their convictions, even at the risk of lost revenues. I doubt they would have been praised. 

Those who refuse the vaccine and eschew the mask (risking their health and the health of others, according to many scientists) may be exercising their rights as Americans and may even be standing up for their convictions. But don’t ask me to applaud them.

Fear: Now and Then

 “I would like to speak briefly and simply about a serious national condition. It is a national feeling of fear and frustration that could result in national suicide and the end of everything that we Americans hold dear.”

Those are not the words of a contemporary politician, columnist, or “influencer” you might find on YouTube; they are the opening words of a speech made by a Republican senator from Maine, Margaret Chase Smith. The words began her “Declaration of Conscience” which she made before the US Senate in June 1950. She was responding to the activities of a fellow Republican senator from Wisconsin, Joseph McCarthy. 

Like others from both political camps, Smith believed McCarthy’s usually unfounded claims that Communists had thoroughly infiltrated the State Department and other American institutions were eroding the nation’s confidence. Yet, McCarthy had such influence that even the newly elected Dwight Eisenhower hesitated to criticize him. And any journalist who dared to do so faced a barrage of anger and accusation. Because the “Milwaukee Journal” criticized his antics, the senator told business groups that supporting the newspaper was “contributing to bringing the Communist Party line into the homes of Wisconsin.” Despite flimsy proof or no proof for his accusations, McCarthy won followers.

In many ways, the Cold War thrived on fear. On the radio, there were programs like “I was a Communist for the FBI,” a fictional series following the exploits of an agent who had infiltrated the Party and regularly thwarted Moscow’s numerous plans to undermine America’s freedom. Of course, there was always the implication that somewhere in America there might be plotters who were not thwarted. Comic books distributed in our grade school encouraged us to report any un-American comments made by our teachers. The rumor mill said Saint Louis (a mere fifteen miles from my hometown) was a prime target for Soviet bombers. Though we had air-raid drills in our school, more knowledgeable (i.e., older) students informed us our efforts would be of no use if a bomb struck so close. Never telling my parents, I often lay in my bed wondering if the plane flying over in the night could be carrying a “the bomb.” 

Like today, some religious leaders capitalized on fear to increase their following. My mother, who never voted because she didn’t “trust any of them,” listened to Billy James Hargis and his Christian Crusade. Hargis who said, “All I want to do is preach Jesus and save America,” believed saving America meant accusing any Christian who differed from him of being weak on communism or worse. Hargis opposed Billy Graham (who certainly preached Jesus and was no friend of communism) because he cooperated with non-fundamentalist Christians whom Hargis said were sympathetic to the communist cause, and branded Martin Luther King, Jr as an out-and-out communist. Like McCarthy, Hargis (and his ally Rev. Carl McIntire) won followers by sowing fear.

Of course, fear was used to manipulate the thinking of Americans well before the Cold War.

Documentary filmmaker Ken Burns has compared today’s national mood with that of the late Ante-bellum period. I can see that. The nation was divided. Section opposed section. Politicians used fear to foment anger and distrust, especially in the South. There, those who did not own slaves and had little prospect of ever owning even a single slave were told the abolitionists would happily free millions of slaves who at worst would become a murderous hoard threatening their safety and at best a source of cheap labor who would take their jobs. In some of their ugliest rhetoric, these fear-mongers warned that Republicans like Lincoln would allow blacks to vote and marry white women. Secession—inspired, in part, by this campaign of fear—was the course taken by the Southern states despite Lincoln’s insistence he would allow slavery to remain were it was already legal and only bar it in any new states.

(In fairness, I should add that Lincoln’s opponents in the North were just as capable of using fear to stir voters to deny the president a second term. During the 1864 election campaign, the New York Times opined there would soon be a black son-in-law in every Republican family in the city.)

So deeply engrained were these fears that the appearance of the Ku Klux Klan during the Reconstruction period following the war was greeted as a godsend. The Klan’s supporters had no qualms about its penchant for violence toward blacks and any whites who supported the freedmen, especially those northern whites who came to teach the former slaves to read and write; all manner of harassment of the newly freed slaves was acceptable, including lynching. The Klan and scheming politicians robbed African American men of their vote. 

And, of course, many who endorsed the Klan were active church members, professing Christians who would openly shed pious tears at the still popular revival meetings, while their churches supported a racist hermeneutic that taught blacks were cursed, destined to be subservient. 

To me, this is one of the saddest features of today’s situation, that churches are so regularly aiding in creating division and suspicion. They are fostering fear and despair, not faith, hope, and love. 

At long last, McCarthy’s influence was fatally undermined when a bi-partisan vote of the US Senate officially censured the senator in December 1954. Decency prevailed. 

Some modern historians have attempted to rehabilitate McCarthy’s image, claiming recently opened KGB files proved there were spies in high places in the US government. Of course, I know of no historian who claims there were no Soviet spies at work in the nation; but “McCarthyism” thrived on making accusations without proof, of vague claims to have access to secret information (which the senator refused to make public), and character assassination. 

McCarthy’s chief weapon was fear, a weapon freshly honed and newly wielded each generation. Sometimes those brandishing the weapon succeed in dividing the country; sometimes they fail.

At the risk of being simplistic, I think resistance to fear’s power to disorient involves three aspects of our nature. Intellectually, fear can often be combatted with fact. Those who listen only to rumors and outright error are more susceptible to fear than those who ask probing questions and take the time to do more than visit a partisan website. Socially, fear can be resisted with the help of our friends. But only if we have been mature enough to make friends who don’t always agree with us—friends who faithfully listen to our opinions and then gently challenge our assumptions and ask us for our proof.  Spiritually, fear can be combatted with faith. When we keep in mind that God loves us, fear cannot get a grip on our hearts and minds.

Three Words for a Not-So-Happy Trail

 Back in 1955, during the Cold War, an actress known as “the Queen of the Cowgirls,” composed a simple little song recommending qualities the church has long described with the lofty term: “The Theological Virtues.” Dale Evans’s song said, “Have faith, hope, and charity.

That's the way to live successfully. How do I know? The Bible tells me so.”

It’s not a deep song. It doesn’t even define living “successfully.” Though from a subsequent verse we might infer successful living means pleasing God; nothing suggests it means getting rich, having the latest gadget, getting a long-sought promotion. Despite her show business successes, Evans, best known as Roy Rogers’s wife (if you have to look him up, you’re really young), had not escaped pain and loss, yet that didn’t keep her from seeing what is important. But, lest I digress, I’ll move on to a more relevant analysis of this bit of poetry, written when poems still rhymed. 

Relevant because it talks about virtues we could well use today.

FAITH. 

Our faith seems to be at a low ebb. We’ve lost faith in our leaders, lost faith in our institutions; and some, it seems, have even lost faith in God. I get it. Over the past few years, I have been disheartened over the number of pastors and church leaders who have fawned over a man whose attitudes and behaviors would have once inspired jeremiads. Some even argued that opposing this man was as good as being in league with Satan!

Then I think about Elijah, the Old Testament prophet who also tried to communicate with people committed to a leader whose morals had long been jettisoned. Elijah preached to people who didn’t listen, people who had forgotten their own history and heritage. Perhaps he hadn’t lost his faith, but he seemed ready to turn in his notice as a prophet. Frustrated and convinced he alone had remained faithful; Elijah saw no reason to go on living. At this point, God said to Elijah, “Just a minute there, Sunshine, there are lots of good folks who haven’t gone over to the dark side.” (Ok, that’s a bit of a paraphrase.)

If your faith is wavering, maybe you need to broaden your social horizon. Maybe you need to listen to other people than those who continually sing songs of doom and gloom. Maybe you have Facebook “friends” you need to block for thirty days—maybe indefinitely. Maybe you need to expand your reading habits. Read a biography about some man or woman who triumphed over tough times.  If you’ve decided it’s safe to go back to church, take a serious listen to what the pulpit is saying—do the sermons build your faith or do they inspire despair? (This is not an invitation to criticize your pastor; it’s just a reminder that pastors, too, are subject to the general malaise so prevalent right now.) In time, some of us may have to make hard decision about the kind of churches we will support. (Again, I digress.) The point is, nourish your faith; don’t starve it.

Above all perform the exercise that builds faith: Reflect on the blessings God has bestowed on your life and those you know, even as the pandemic impacts our lives.

HOPE.

Hope also seems to be in short supply. It absence may be heard in the words of those who simply say, “I don’t think we will ever get back to normal.” Or in the weary observation of the one who nervously comments, “I’m afraid we are on the verge of another civil war.” And, I can’t help but wonder if some who insist the 2020 election was “stolen” take that position because they saw one man—flawed though he might be—as the key to the future they long for, a future where their beliefs are not mocked, their moral sensibilities are not assaulted, their nation is still respected around the world. In short, this man was their hope. 

Rather than put our hope in those who demand our attention by their bluster, maybe we should look for hope in incidents that might have otherwise gone unnoticed. My friend Tom called my attention to a group of Marine “body bearers” (a unit assigned to help during funerals at Arlington cemetery) who, after serving at four funerals, took a moment to help a woman whose car was stranded in flood waters in Washington, D.C. The incident prompted Tom to say, “There’s hope.” When interviewed about their actions, one of the marines, Cpl. Jered Tosher, insisted what they had done was nothing special. Instead, he hoped such actions might become part of a cycle, saying, "And if people [who benefited from a good deed] just reciprocate that, and do good unto others, I think our country is headed in a good direction." 

Of course, our eternal hope—a hope untouched by the challenges of this life—is in Jesus Christ. Without getting into the intricacies of Christian theology, Christians believe who Jesus is and what he did makes possible real hope. The hope we have for the future changes how we see the present. That hope reminds us that justice will triumph, wrongs will be righted, life will prevail over death. As Tim Keller says, "Our Christian hope is that we are going to live with Christ in a new earth, where there is not only no more death, but where life is what it was always meant to be." 

LOVE. 

Wait, what happened to “charity?” The English language happened to “charity.” While the translation was fine in the early 17th century, most modern translations prefer translating “agapē” as “love.” This is the love that seeks the best for others. Older evangelical theologians called it “disinterested benevolence,” doing good for others with no thought of being repaid or rewarded. It is a love that does not first ask, “What’s in it for me?”

Just consider the fuss over masks. Most of those who complain seem immune to the suggestion they might wear a mask for someone else’s benefit. While many of the anti-vax arguments are spurious (Magnetized. Really?), some might be granted a degree of plausibility; yet the anti-mask arguments seem 98% self-centered. “I can’t breathe when I wear a mask,” some say; this, while millions around the world breathe just fine while wearing a mask.

We know 2020-21 will be remembered for the pandemic and the continuing election fury. Perhaps I should add the “Karen phenomenon.” You’ve seen her in action, usually marked by an explosion of self-centeredness ignited by a conviction of privilege. 

Wouldn’t you enjoy waking to stories about some “Teresa” (such women need a generic name, too) who has committed an unbridled act of kindness while seeking nothing in return, an act that affirms rather than demeans?

With so many voices, on the left and the right, promoting division, outbursts of love are needed in every corner of our world. We need “Teresas” (and “Nicks,” for that matter) to counteract hate and indifference. As with “Karens” (and whoever their male counterparts may be), these purveyors of love can come from every part of society, from millionaires who build social centers in blighted neighborhoods to high schoolers who mow a disabled neighbor’s yard. 

Of course, the great inspiration of this love is Jesus. Look again at the New Testament for illustrations of his love—manifested in acts of benevolence and grace. Throughout the Christian centuries, mystics, sages, theologians, and ordinary believers have understood that close contemplation of Jesus’s love will change how we treat one another. Philip Yancey explains, “One who has been touched by grace will no longer look on those who stray as ‘those evil people’ or ‘those poor people who need our help.’ Nor must we search for signs of ‘loveworthiness.’ Grace teaches us that God loves because of who God is, not because of who we are.” 

One promise of the new birth is that as we continue our pilgrimage our love will become much more like God’s love because of what God’s love is making us. 

Martyrs? No.

 The Book of Acts reports the death of Stephen.  Outraged over Stephen preaching the gospel, authorities ordered him executed by stoning. With his last breath, Stephen prayed that God would not hold their actions against his killers. Christianity sees Stephen as the first “martyr,” the first of the many believers who would confirm their witness by death. 

The long list of martyrs stretches from the first to the twenty-first century. A review of church history would include among the most famous Polycarp, Perpetua and Felicity, Narcissa Whitman, Oscar Romero, Jim Eliot, and Maximillian Kolbe. Lesser-known martyrs would include sixteenth-century Margaret Cliterow and the forty-five Anglican and Catholic youngsters (most mere boys) who were martyred in Uganda during a bloody persecution from 1885 to 1887. Already in the twenty-first century, there have been martyrs for the faith, including Matthew Ayariga, Gayle Williams, and Son Jong-nam.

A common thread in all these stories is the martyrs’ refusal to give up their faith; and in most accounts, the martyrs’ refusal to respond to their persecutors with violence or even ill-will. 

The former president’s characterization (see AP 18 July 2021) of those facing trial for participating in the January 6th assault on the nation’s capital as “martyrs” cheapens the word, tarnishes it by linking the notion of martyrdom to vandalism and disregard for human life.

They are no more martyrs than John Brown, though some describe the man who attacked Harpers Ferry, Virginia, in 1859 with the term. In the name of God, Brown committed cold-blooded murder. His actions jeopardized the welfare of thousands of slaves. Even those who shared his abhorrence of slavery, believed he was “mad” at best, bedeviled at worse. 

No, those who attacked the capital and now face the due consequences of their actions are not martyrs.

Who's Singing Next to You?

 I’ve been reading about the work of English Baptist theologian and leader Dan Taylor (1738-1816). Taylor was an advocate for congregational singing; he believed it blessed the whole church. Some of his fellow Baptists weren’t so sure. They believed such singing violated Paul’s rule against women speaking in church (I Cor. 14:34). Taylor’s view eventually prevailed. Isn’t it curious how we will take some verses and squeeze every imaginable implication, however improbable, from them? Yet, we take a command like “Love your neighbor” to mean we should love people who look like us—and maybe not all of them.