Theology Central

In the previous essay I explained three areas in which nineteenth-century Baptist theologian Alvah Hovey provided some help in thinking through the nature and place of theological education. One of these was the idea that theology itself is the master and those who study it are to be mastered by it. In Hovey’s mind, theological education ought not, and cannot, be divorced from the Christian life. It cannot be confined to seminary study alone.

Theological education cannot be confined to seminary because it is by nature a lifelong endeavor. Formal theological education produces a base out of which further study ought to grow. Hovey was aware that not every pastor can attain formal education, and, in some cases, it did not hinder great ministries. John Bunyan, Andrew Fuller, and Charles Spurgeon fall into this category. However, these men had exceptional minds and engaged in lifelong self-education by which they attained, in a roundabout fashion, the recommended theological education. In certain other cases, such as men who receive a call to ministry later in life, theological education is certainly more difficult though still preferable.

In another sense, theological education is part and parcel of the Christian life because there is always an element of mystery or partial knowledge to the practice of theology. This is the distinction between archetypal and ectypal knowledge. Archetypal is the knowledge that God has of himself and ectypal is our derivative understanding of God that we have because of God’s self-revelation and the Spirit’s work of regeneration and illumination. Hovey admitted that “partial knowledge is all we can now have in matters of religion. And it is wholesome for us to bear this in mind as we investigate doctrines of surpassing interest” (Hovey, “Character Tested by Religious Inquiry,” 508). Mystery is not a reason to abandon the study of theology; rather, the recognition of such mystery is requisite to the study of theology.

Beyond the Creator-creature distinction is the fact that there are limitations to learning and reason. Human reasoning ability is a God-given faculty to be used even though it is limited. Studying theology comes with mental, moral, religious, and educational qualifications. Each is important, each relates to the others, and a lack in one is a detriment to others. Hovey’s guiding principle was that theological study is a continual spiritual exercise directed toward seeking the face of God. When speaking about the “religious” qualification of a theological student, Hovey simply stated that, “We must love divine things in order to know them” (Hovey, Manual of Christian Theology, 9).

The person who would study theology and effectively minister has an important task. Hovey’s summary of this is pointed and instructive: “He must be one who clings, not to human speculation or intuition, but to revealed truth, which is sure, and worthy of all acceptance. He must be, not a rationalist, who leans to his own understanding, nor a mystic, who surrenders himself to the impulses of his own fancy or feeling, but an educated Christian, who knows and love, and retains with the grasp of intelligent faith, that system of truth which was taught by Christ and his apostles” (Hovey, “Preparation for the Christian Ministry,” 440).  In another place Hovey calls this same requirement intelligent piety. I hope what Hovey was driving at is becoming clear. Due to the nature of the theological exercise and the limitations of humanity, the personal abilities that ought to accompany someone who studies the things of God extends to the whole person.

In the final examination, theological education contains an inherent warning to the Christian. Hovey felt that God tested the theological student in his reverence, his faith, and his hope. Reverence is tested because the vast difference between God and humanity means the student should never think too much of himself in comparison to God and his judgments. Faith is tested by study because the limitations of reason mean the Christian must have a fearful and loving trust in God and his Word when doubt and difficulty come. Hope is tested because though we are limited in the here and now, “the time will come when we shall no longer see through a glass darkly, but face to face, when we shall no longer know in part, but shall even know as we are known” (Hovey, “Character Tested by Religious Inquiry,” 511). Character is tested by theological study.

The connection between theological education and the Christian life is essential. We must love God in order to know God and we must know God in order to love God. Hovey’s warning that the failure to comprehend the ways of God will test our faith should not be lost. The difficulty of theology and the limitations of our study are not to hold us back. Rather, they direct us toward God.

Ministry, whether vocational or not, is complex. Hence, the skills and knowledge needed to effectively minister are also complex. Theological education has an essential place even though it has (and we have) definite limitations. These should keep us from pride and pontification. But they should not cripple us through fear and reticence. We are all expected to minister, which assumes some level of theological education. Done well, this should drive us to our knees.

Hovey’s view of the study of theology as a spiritual exercise agrees with much of the heritage of the church. Those of us living in the twenty-first century would do well to pursue God similarly through the study of theology. Conversely, we should never, and really can never, study theology properly without simultaneously pursuing God. At its best, theological education helps develop ministerial capacity. More importantly, it leads the student to seek the face of God.

This essay is by Matt Shrader, Director of Recruitment and Retention and Assistant Professor of Church History at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

This Is the Day the Lord Has Made

Isaac Watts (1674–1748)

This is the day the Lord has made;
He calls the hours His own;
let heav’n rejoice, let earth be glad,
and praise surround the throne.

Today he rose and left the dead,
and Satan’s empire fell;
today the saints His triumphs spread,
and all His wonders tell.

Hosanna to th’anointed King,
to David’s holy Son.
help us, O LORD, descend and bring
salvation from Your throne.

Blest be the Lord, who comes to us
with messages of grace;
who comes, in God His Father’s name,
to save our sinful race.

Debates over theological education are nothing new. Why do we have seminary theological education? What are seminaries meant to do? What about theological education for the non-pastor? Fortunately, we do not stand alone in trying to answer these questions. Mining the wealth of those who have come before us is a worthwhile exercise. In two short essays I propose that we take some time to learn from one of our Baptist forebearers about the nature and place of theological education.

In the second half of the nineteenth century, the name Alvah Hovey signaled knowledge, wisdom, and respect among all Baptists. Very few Baptists in his day held as much deserved authority to speak on issues of theology and education. Hovey taught at Newton Theological Institute in the Boston area from 1849 until his death in 1903, serving as its president from 1868–1898. Hovey was known for his published theology textbooks, his many articles, his reviews, and his editing of the American Commentary on the New and Old Testaments. (If you own John Broadus’s commentary on Matthew, then not only did Hovey edit that volume but he also contributed the forty-page introduction to the New Testament in Broadus’s volume). In addition to theology and commentary, Hovey wrote much on practical matters, including theological education. Hovey repeatedly shared three pieces of the theological education puzzle that help us understand why we have theological education at any level and what theological education at its very base level must accomplish.

The first piece of advice is the simple truth that ministry is multi-faceted because the Christian life is multi-faceted. Hovey pointed to the Apostle Paul’s counsel to Titus and Timothy (Titus 1:9; 2 Tim 2:2) as an example. These are some of the later letters of Paul and, like many of Paul’s later letters, they provide instruction for the early church as well as answers to the growing opposition to genuine Christianity. Paul recognized the complex world that Timothy and Titus were facing, and Paul understood that the end of his own life was drawing near. What then could he exhort these young men to do? The charge that Paul laid on these young men was to take their theological education and put it to use for the sake of the church. Hovey understood these two verses to argue the simple truth that theological education was “eminently desirable.” With the passage of the centuries Christian ministry has not grown any less complex. Ministry is multi-faceted in that Christian leaders have various character qualifications they must meet. They must be mature as a person, as a leader, and as a teacher. Character qualifications reach to the entire person. More than this is the simple understanding that Christian ministry is complex because it has to be able to speak to and meet the many (rational, moral, spiritual, etc.) needs of the people around them.

Since ministry is multi-faceted, Hovey then asserted the coordinating truth that theological training also needs to be multi-faceted. This second piece of advice was a reference not only to the idea that there are multiple departments of a theological seminary but that there are multiple skills one needs to learn. Traditionally, students who have completed the standard seminary curriculum should be able to take their developed understanding of the Bible and theology along with their acquired skills for understanding contemporary theological issues and then speak and lead their people wisely toward faithful Christian living. Theology helps the pastors, it helps their people, it helps in evangelization, it helps in edification, it helps guard against error, and it generally promotes usefulness.

Beyond these two simple ideas that undergird why theological education exists and what it must accomplish is Hovey’s third piece of advice and what I think is his chief contribution: we must let theology master us. More to the point, theology will master us whether we let it or not. Hovey did not desire to get students into seminary merely so that they could be churned out quickly. Theological education did not work that way because theological maturation does not work that way. He argued that “time and culture are requisite, and the work of the spiritual husbandman is but just begun when the seed of divine truth first takes root in the regenerated heart; it must be watched and watered and kept in the sun; the weeds of error must not be suffered to take its life, nor the cares of the world to choke it.”¹ Maturity, specifically theological maturity, is neither quickly nor easily attained. This was why sitting under seasoned (and somewhat specialized) professors at a seminary was important. But the time and difficulty of attaining spiritual maturity was also a significant reason why seminary, for Hovey, could not on its own make a minister. He felt that the local church and the Spirit of God were essential, even more so than seminary. Hovey stated: “Let no man suppose that by any system, new or old, education can do the work of the Holy Spirit, or of the Christian churches in preparing our youth for the pulpit.”² A diploma hanging on a wall is not an indication of spiritual maturity. That is measured differently.

This third piece of the puzzle is a significant assertion that is often forgotten. For Hovey, it was the central idea behind all theological education, and it pointed to how theological education ought to reach beyond just the seminary and the seminarian. When asked what he thought was the most important need for theological students, Hovey had little hesitation asserting that “there is one thing that would do more for theological students than any change in their studies, namely, a deeper consecration to the Lord.”³ Theological students need to grow in their walk with God in order to grow in their understanding of God and their skill in leading the people of God. And it is not simply pastors who need to be mastered by theology. Theological education is for all. It is a central piece in the Christian life. Hovey had much more to say on being mastered by theology. How he unpacked this is fundamental to the theological education conversation, and it will be the subject of the following essay.

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This essay is by Matt Shrader, Director of Recruitment and Retention and Assistant Professor of Church History at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Risen Lord, Thou Hast Received

Charles Haddon Spurgeon (1834–1892)

Risen Lord, Thou hast received
Gifts to bless the sons of men,
That with souls who have believed,
God might dwell on earth again.

Now these gifts be pleased to send us,
Elders, deacons, still supply,
Men whom Thou art pleased to lend us,
All the saints to edify.

Guide us while we here select them,
Let the Holy Ghost be nigh,
Do Thou, Lord, Thyself elect them,
And ordain them from on high.

[Pause while election is made.]

Lord, Thy church invokes Thy blessing
On her chosen elders’ head,
Here we stand, our need confessing,
Waiting till Thy grace be shed.

Pour on them Thy rich anointing,
Fill Thy servants with Thy power,
Prove them of Thine own appointing,
Bless them from this very hour.

Abraham entered the Promised Land as a foreigner. Although he spent virtually the rest of his life in the land, he never lost his status as an alien. Rather than ceding rights to the surrounding kings, settling down, and establishing a home, Abraham continued to live as a nomad (Heb 11:8-9). He had been promised this land as an inheritance from God. He anticipated a “city that hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God” (Heb 11:10). He would accept nothing less.

Abraham’s attitude is built into the life of faith. To live by faith is to confess that one is a foreigner and an exile on earth. It is to yearn for a better homeland—a heavenly one. God delights in people who display this attitude, and He has prepared a city for them (Heb 11:16). Clearly Christians ought to be such people.

The problem is that all our lives we have the opportunity to return to our old homeland (Heb 11:15). We know that we are destined for the heavenly city, New Jerusalem (Rev 21‑22). Yet that city seems more distant and less real—less like home—to us than, say, Minneapolis or Dallas. For now, it is invisible and intangible, but the necessities of mortal life are present to us. At meal time our bellies want substantial (and preferably tasty) food; we cannot eat the marriage supper of the Lamb. When we stub our toe in the dark our first thought is not for the light of the eternal city, but to reach for a light switch. Of course, the pleasures of sin may seem very pleasant indeed, even if we know that we enjoy them only for a season. Even apart from sin, however, the innocent delights of this world may occupy our attention by virtue of their very immediacy.

We face something of a paradox. On the one hand, we dare not deny the goodness of God’s creation (including the goodness of our own bodies), and we ought not to question that He has made certain good things in the present world to delight us. Who would want to live in a world without sunsets and autumn leaves? On the other hand, we are destined for a new creation that culminates in a New Jerusalem on a new earth, and the life of faith consists in prioritizing the new creation above the old.

This paradox forces upon us two temptations. The first is that we may seek to value the new creation by neglecting or even despising the good things that God has placed in the old. In the face of this temptation we need to recall that not everything that is immanent is evil; in some sense we are to use this present world without abusing it (1 Cor 7:31). Christianity has no place for an utterly world-denying asceticism.

Yet we face a second temptation as well. We may become so preoccupied with immanent things—even good things—that we fail to stretch our anticipation forward toward our eternal home. When this happens we run the risk of becoming grubby, earthbound creatures who delight only in what can be seen and touched. When we lose our expectation of the New Jerusalem, we lose hope, for in the Bible hope is expectation. Furthermore, when we lose hope we also lose faith, for faith is the substance of things hoped for.

What we need is a way to make earthly things seem as ephemeral as they actually are while at the same time making the heavenly city to seem as substantial as it really is. God in His goodness has provided such a way. It takes the form of suffering.

Suffering teaches us by practice that even the good things of this world are very transient. Loving relationships lead to bereavements and betrayals. Good health gives way to illness and age. Money brings cares and often loss. Life itself is a vapor. Each good thing that we own comes to own a part of us, for with possession comes the stewardship of maintenance and right use. Hence the maxim, bon pa dire—good don’t last. The better we learn this lesson, the greater will be our legitimate detachment from earthly things.

On the other hand, suffering also tends to draw our attention to our eternal home and to make that home seem sweeter. Every loss quickens our eagerness for that which cannot be lost. Every hurt stirs up hope for a city where there are no tears and where pain has ceased to exist. What once seemed shadowy and ephemeral begins to take on solid form—the substance of things hoped for. 

The first Christian martyr was Stephen the deacon. As the gnashing mob rushed upon him, God granted Stephen an unusual blessing. The heavens were opened before his sight. He saw God’s glory, with Jesus standing at God’s right hand (Acts 7:54-55). In that moment, what must have seemed most real to him?

We do not have to wonder about the answer to this question. Stephen cried out, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!” The term for receive (the Greek verb dechomai) carries the idea of showing approval by welcoming a gift that is willingly offered. In other words, as the mob was murdering Stephen, he wasn’t begging for help. He was expressing readiness and even eagerness to go home, to step into the glory of God and presence of Jesus upon whom he was gazing. For Stephen, Christ was real and the glory of God was real—more substantial than the attackers who were about to martyr him.

We do not expect God to give us a similar glimpse into glory. Nevertheless, God teaches us to yearn for home like Stephen did. We usually take longer to learn the lesson, but God’s methods are suited to individual situations. Each affliction instructs us that this world is not our home. Every trial directs our attention away from the home we have left (but that still beckons to us), and toward the home to which we are going. We are citizens of another city, and when we live now as citizens of that city, God will not be ashamed to be called our God.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

The Duteous Day Now Closeth

Paul Gerhardt (1607–1676); tr. Robert Bridges (1844–1930)

The duteous day now closeth,
each flow’r and tree reposeth,
shade creeps o’er wild and wood;
let us, as night is falling,
on God our Maker calling,
give thanks to Him, the Giver good.

Now all the heav’nly splendor
breaks forth in starlight tender
from myriad worlds unknown;
and man, the marvel seeing,
forgets his selfish being,
for joy of beauty not his own.

His care he drowneth yonder,
lost in th’abyss of wonder;
to heav’n his soul doth steal;
this life he disesteemeth,
the day it is that dreameth,
that doth from truth his vision seal.

Awhile his mortal blindness
may miss God’s loving-kindness
and grope in faithless strife;
but when life’s day is over
shall death’s fair night discover
the fields of everlasting life.

The apostle Paul knew how to write with exceptional clarity. Sometimes, however, he chose to express himself in ambiguous ways. A clear example of Pauline obscurity can be found in Ephesians 3:13. Paul writes, “Wherefore I desire that ye faint not at my tribulations for you, which is your glory” (KJV). In this verse Paul is making a request (I desire means I ask), but he does not specify whether he is making this request to his readers or to God. The request itself is literally not to be discouraged, but Paul does not elucidate whether he or his readers are the ones who might grow discouraged. He talks about the purpose of his afflictions, which are “for your glory,” but he does not clarify whether this glory is a matter of their present boasting or of their future glorification before God.

Paul wrote Ephesians from prison. If he intended to address his request to God, he probably would have said so. Furthermore, he was personally in little danger of losing heart, as his attitude in Philippians (written at about the same time) shows. So Paul is likely recognizing that his readers might be embarrassed and discouraged in the face of his imprisonment. He asks them to buck up, reminding them that they can actually glory in his present sufferings.

Why would a Christian glory in tribulation, particularly someone else’s tribulation? The first word of the verse (wherefore) indicates that the previous discussion contains the reason. The immediately preceding verse (Eph 3:12) says that believers have boldness and confident access through the “faith of Christ.” This boldness and access are “in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Eph 3:11) in whom God carried out His eternal purpose. According to this purpose, God made known His multi-faceted wisdom to heavenly rulers and authorities (Eph 3:10), a reference to invisible superhuman intelligences. In other words, even though these powerful spirit beings are surrounded by God’s splendor, they are learning something more about the intricacies of His wisdom—and they are learning it by observing His dealings with and through the Church. The Church itself was a secret, hidden by God since creation. God has now brought this secret to light (Eph 3:9). He chose to reveal it through the ministry of Paul, who was given the astounding privilege of preaching Christ’s incomprehensible wealth to the Gentiles (Eph 3:8).

Paul is saying that heavenly beings already knew about certain aspects of God’s plan. We can speculate about how much they knew. They probably knew about God’s plan for Israel. They probably knew about His plan for the nations. These matters were revealed in the Old Testament. With the beginning of the Church, however, God began to do something that was not included in these previous plans. He was now incorporating both Jews and Gentiles into a new humanity (Eph 2:11-22). This enterprise was so grand and unexpected that it provided a staggering new revelation of God’s wisdom. Mighty spirits in heaven were learning about God from the Church, and Paul’s preaching was right at the center of this unfolding revelation. At the time Paul was writing these words, he was in prison for his preaching—but so what? Even his imprisonment was part of a grand object lesson that God was using to instruct princes and rulers in heaven. Why should Paul’s readers be ashamed of such an imprisonment? Instead they should glory in it, just as he did.

No sensible person would choose the circumstances in which Paul found himself. He was in jail, awaiting trial. Potentially he could be executed. For the duration he had no liberty, no privacy, no ability to pursue his own agenda. Yet he was able to look beyond his circumstances and to glimpse a larger picture in which his afflictions played a part. In this larger scheme, his sufferings were not really about him. Instead, they were an aspect of a magnificent seminar that God was conducting in His cosmic classroom. Because Paul’s suffering had a role in God’s great work, he could embrace it and even glory in it—and he expected others to glory in his behalf.

Paul’s teaching implies another application for his readers, whether past or present. As long as the Church is on earth, God is continuing to reveal His wisdom to principalities and powers in heavenly places. All those who are in the Church (i.e., all those who are united to Christ’s body) have a role in that revelation, just as Paul did. We do not bring the mystery to light as Paul did, but we do play a part in its ongoing development and exposition. Our faithfulness matters, just as Paul’s did. Furthermore, just as Paul’s faithfulness was tested through suffering, so ours will be also.

Not all trials come from persecution, but every single affliction is an opportunity to exhibit our trust in God. When we respond to suffering in godly ways, we are acting out a part of the object lesson that the Greatest Instructor is setting before the heavenly powers. When God permits pain in our lives, Cherubs and Seraphs have the opportunity to observe how He accomplishes His manifold goals. Partly, God’s purpose is His glory, but partly it is also our good. God never acts contrary to our ultimate welfare when He puts Himself on display, because part of what He displays is His goodness.

When we suffer, we need to remember who we are. We are part of a now-open secret, the Church. God is using the Church, including us, to reveal His manifold wisdom to the aristocracy of heaven. One way in which He does that is by permitting affliction, tribulation, and suffering in our lives. Whenever we and our loved ones encounter such things, we need to remember that the trial is not necessarily about us, but about a greater good that God is accomplishing. Let us ask ourselves (as Paul asked his readers) not to be discouraged, for in this picture even our suffering is our glory.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

The Head That Once Was Crowned With Thorns

Thomas Kelly (1769–1855)

The head that once was crowned with thorns
is crowned with glory now;
a royal diadem adorns
the mighty Victor’s brow.

The highest place that heav’n affords
is his, is his by right,
the King of kings and Lord of lords,
and heav’n’s eternal Light:

The joy of all who dwell above,
the joy of all below,
to whom he manifests his love,
and grants his name to know.

To them the cross, with all its shame,
with all its grace, is giv’n;
their name an everlasting name,
their joy the joy of heav’n.

They suffer with the Lord below,
they reign with him above;
their profit and their joy to know
the myst’ry of his love.

The cross he bore is life and health,
though shame and death to him;
his people’s hope, his people’s wealth,
their everlasting theme.

Is self-reliance a virtue or a vice? The Bible includes passages that appear to answer this question with a yes. It also includes passages that appear to answer it with a no.

In favor of self-reliance, the book of Proverbs counsels industry as a way of avoiding poverty (Prov 6:6-11). Hard work leads to wealth, while sloth leads to shame and poverty (Prov 10:4-5). A lazy person craves but has nothing, while the diligent person is full (Prov 13:4). An undisciplined life leads to poverty and shame (Prov 13:18). Work produces gain, while empty talk leads to poverty (Prov 14:23). Idle people can expect to go hungry (Prov 19:15). A person who quits working too early will have nothing when he ought to have plenty (Prov 20:4). Those who spend foolishly will come to poverty (Prov 23:20-21), as will those who neglect their opportunities (Prov 24:30-34).

The New Testament teaches much the same. People are supposed to support themselves, and those who do not work are not to be fed (2 Thess 3:10-12). Indeed, the person who does not provide for his own household has denied the faith and is worse than an infidel (1 Tim 5:8).

The emphasis of these and similar passages seems clear. Under normal circumstances God wants people to take responsibility for their own wellbeing. He wants them to work hard, to live orderly lives, to plan ahead, to exercise discipline and thrift, and to use good times to prepare for bad. Scripture actually forbids Christians to provide a safety net for people who refuse to become self-reliant in this sense. Their safety net is to learn order and industry.

On the other hand, the Bible also recognizes that the power to gain wealth comes from God (Deu 9:18). Consequently, those who want full barns and overflowing vats must begin by trusting God and acknowledging Him rather than leaning on their own understanding (Prov 3:5-10). Because they trust God, they are able to show generosity (Prov 3:27-28). To show generosity to the poor is to lend to the Lord, who will repay (Prov 19:17). Such generous people will receive more than they give (Prov 11:24-25). This is the very point that Jesus expands in the New Testament: those who seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness will receive all the material things they need, so they do not need to concern themselves with the future (Matt 6:33-34).

Such people are not so much self-reliant as they are fully God-reliant. These two perspectives (self-reliance and God-reliance), while paradoxical, do not really contradict each other. People who truly rely upon God will do what God commands in terms of industry, thrift, order, and discipline. In other words, the truly God-reliant person will seek to become self-reliant, while fully recognizing complete dependence upon God. Consequently, even a converted thief will labor so that he can have something to give to those in need (Eph 4:28).

All abilities, privileges, and giftedness come from God. So does all prosperity. While we are enjoying God’s good gifts, however, we find it difficult to remember how much we rely upon Him. Indeed, we have never yet realized just how absolutely dependent upon Him we are. So He must teach us, a bit at a time.

It is not that we need to depend upon God. We actually do depend upon God moment by moment, for absolutely everything, whether we realize it or not. To remind us of this truth, God may choose to deprive us (either temporarily or permanently) of some gift that we have previously enjoyed. Alternatively, He may place us in some position in which we cannot function without a gift that we do not possess.

We experience such challenges as afflictions or  trials. We feel that we are being deprived of something upon which we have come to depend or that we are being pushed to do something beyond our capability. And we are! But that is just the point. God is teaching us that we actually do rely upon Him and that He can work in us and through us despite our deficiencies.

Even the apostle Paul passed through this sort of experience. God called him into a difficult public ministry. Paul would eventually travel thousands of miles over land and sea. He would stand before the leading intellectuals of his day. He would defend himself and his message before kings. Yet God also gave Paul a “thorn in the flesh,” and “messenger of Satan,” resulting in an unspecified physical debilitation (2 Cor 12:7). In other words, God gave Paul an affliction that worked against the very mission that God had called him to perform.

Paul begged the Lord on three different occasions for this affliction to be removed (2 Cor 12:8), but God did not take the trouble away. Instead, the Lord told Paul, “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor 12:9). Paul’s response was that he would glory in his infirmities so that the power of Christ might rest upon him.

The point is not that Paul needed Christ’s power when he was weak. The point is that Paul needed Christ’s power all the time. The “thorn in the flesh” did not create Paul’s need; it only highlighted the need. The grace that Paul needed during weakness was exactly the grace that Paul needed all the time.

While we enjoy God’s gifts we sometimes feel that we are adequate to face whatever comes our way. We forget that even those gifts are manifestations of God’s grace, and that we need His grace all the time. There is never a time when we should simply think, “I’ve got this.” When we do, when we feel self-reliant, God in His goodness sends us suffering, affliction, pain, and trial so that we may learn to rely upon His grace and strength. He wants us to rely on Him, not only during the affliction, but all the time. Like Paul, we should learn to find pleasure in infirmities, reproaches, necessities, persecutions, and distresses. God permits these in our lives for Christ’s sake, because when we are weak, He is shown to be strong.

Should we try to be self-reliant? The answer to this question is yes in the sense that we should not expect other people to take responsibility for us. Even in this sense, however, our self-reliance needs to be grounded in a constant God-reliance. The Lord will put us in situations where we simply do not know what to do. We will have nowhere else to turn. All of our gifts, privileges, and prosperity will fall short. We will find ourselves crying out to God, “I can’t do this. I can’t bear this.” We will feel as if we are plunging into a free fall.

In those moments God is teaching us that He’s got this. In fact, always and under every circumstance He is the one who has it. We always depend on Him. These occasions of suffering simply remind us of that truth.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

I Thought That I Was Strong, Lord

Joseph Denham Smith’s Collection, 1860

I thought that I was strong, Lord,
And did not need Thine arm:
Though troubles thronged around me,
My heart felt no alarm.

I thought I nothing needed,
Riches, nor dress, nor sight;
And on I walked in darkness,
And still I thought it light.

But Thou hast broke the spell, Lord,
And waked me from my dream;
The light has burst upon me
With bright unerring beam.

I know Thy blood has cleansed me,
I know that I’m forgiven;
And all the roughest pathways
Will surely end in heaven.

I know that I am Thine, Lord,
And none can pluck away
The feeblest sheep that ever yet
Did make Thine arm its stay.

Denny Burk is one of the leading voices for biblical complementarianism, a perspective that claims that, according to Scripture, men and women can be genuinely equal while nevertheless existing in certain structured relationships (such as the home and the church) that require male leadership. Needless to say, biblical complementarianism runs counter to the spirit of the age. Because Burk is one of the defenders of biblical complementarianism, I celebrate his insights and influence. The following response, then, should be understood as a disagreement among friends who share the same overall perspective.

On Wednesday, August 21, Burk published an essay addressing Paul’s command to “submit to one another in the fear of the Lord” (Eph 5:21). This text has been used by some opponents of complementarianism who argue that husbands and wives must share authority equally within the marriage relationship. Burk rightly objects to this egalitarian interpretation, but in my judgment he ends up denying what the text actually does teach.

Burk claims that the term submit (Greek hupotasso) “always indicates authority and submission” within ordered relationships where one party submits to another. Citing the standard New Testament lexicon (BDAG) as his authority, Burk insists that the term cannot be softened to include relationships in which parties mutually serve each other or put each other’s needs first. Of course, Burk must then explain the reciprocal pronoun (one another). He adduces examples (Mt 24:10; Luke 12:1; Acts 19:38; 1 Cor 7:5, 11:33; Rev 6:4) that are supposed to show this pronoun functioning in contexts where “it is clear that reciprocal action is not in view. One party is performing some action and another party is receiving the action.” The result is that Burk reads Eph 5:21 as if it said, “Some of you submitting to some others of you.”

For his pièce de résistance, Burk points out that in Eph 5:22 wives are explicitly told to submit to their own husbands. This command is not repeated for husbands, who are told instead to love their wives. Furthermore, Burk states that Christ and the church do not mutually submit to one another (Eph 5:23‑25). Consequently, he feels justified in denying that husbands and wives are under any obligation of mutual submission.

For each of his arguments, however, Burk places more weight on his evidence than it will bear. First, though he appeals to the standard New Testament lexicon (BDAG), he neglects to mention that it includes as one definition of submit (Greek hupotasso) “submission in the sense of voluntary yielding in love.” This definition is fully compatible with “mutually serving each other” and “putting each other’s needs first.” One of the biblical references that the lexicon lists for this usage is Eph 5:21. Furthermore, Gerhard Delling’s discussion of this word devotes an entire paragraph to occurrences in which it connotes “readiness to renounce one’s own will for the sake of others . . . and to give precedence to others,” including, “mutual submission among Christians” (TDNT 8:45).

Second, Burk’s observations about the reciprocal pronoun are mostly flawed. People actually can mutually betray and hate each other (Matt 24:10), step on each other (Luke 21:1), accuse each other (Acts 19:38), deprive each other of marital rights (1 Cor 7:5), and wait for each other to eat (1 Cor 11:33). The one text that appears to support Burk’s argument is Rev 6:4, where people are caused to kill each other. Even here, it is not impossible for individuals to be committing mutually simultaneous murder. In any event, when the reciprocal pronoun is used for groups it uniformly indicates action that occurs indiscriminately among the members of the group, not action in which one specified party is acting upon a different specified party.

Third, Burk completely ignores evidence about how the apostolic fathers understood Paul’s command. For example, 1 Clement contains an exhortation that paraphrases Eph 5:21: “let each man be subject to his neighbor” (1 Cle 38:1‑2). Like Paul, 1 Clement illustrates this principle by using pairs of examples in which each member of the pair exhibits a kind of submission suitable to that party’s station. For example, the strong must not neglect the weak, and the weak must respect the strong. The rich must support the poor, and the poor must give thanks to God for the rich. In each of these pairs, both members are exhibiting mutual submission, though in different ways.

Fourth, if submission does mean serving the other and putting the other’s needs first, then Christ and the Church really do have a mutually submissive relationship. Christ served the interests of the Church when He “loved the church, and gave himself for it; That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word, That he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish” (Eph 5:25-27). For Burk to state that “[t]here is no reciprocal submission between Christ and his bride” is not evidence, but begging the question.

What, then, is Paul saying in Eph 5:21ff? The leading verb is found in Eph 5:18, where believers are commanded to stop being drunk with wine but to be filled with the Spirit. In a series of modal participles, Paul describes what Spirit filling looks like: speaking, singing, and making melody (Eph 5:19), giving thanks (Eph 5:20), and submitting to each other in the fear of the Lord (Eph 5:21). The passage expects an attitude of mutual submission from every Spirit-filled believer toward all other believers.

The problem is that such mutual submission is difficult to conceptualize—in Paul’s day no less than in ours. Rather than attempting to explain the concept, however, Paul chooses to illustrate it. He pictures submission in three pairs of relationships. Each pair involves an order of authority. Paul shows what submission looks like for each member in each pair.

For wives, mutual submission looks like submitting to their own husbands as to the Lord (Eph 5:22‑24)—and the change in wording is significant. For husbands, mutual submission looks like loving their wives as their own bodies and as Christ loved the church (Eph 5:25‑33). For children, mutual submission looks like obeying parents and honoring father and mother (Eph 6:1‑3). For fathers, mutual submission looks like not provoking their children to wrath but rearing them in the nurture and admonition of the Lord (Eph 6:4). For slaves, mutual submission looks like obeying their masters sincerely (Eph 6:5-8). For masters, mutual submission looks like treating slaves humanely and kindly (Eph 6:9).

I think that Burk is wrong to say that Eph 5:21 does not teach mutual submission. I also believe that egalitarians are wrong when they assume that mutual submission obviates authority structures. The most straightforward reading of Eph 5:21‑6:10 is that God does require mutual submission, but that mutual submission is fully compatible with the exercise of authority. As Paul illustrates, rightly mutual submission will manifest itself differently on each side of a relationship that involves ordered authority.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Psalm 45

Harriet Auber (1773–1862)

With hearts in love abounding,
Prepare we now to sing
A lofty theme, resounding
Thy praise, almighty King;
Whose love, rich gifts bestowing,
Redeemed the human race;
Whose lips, with zeal o’erflowing,
Breathe words of truth and grace.

In majesty transcendent,
Gird on Thy conquering sword;
In righteousness resplendent,
Ride on, incarnate Word!
Ride on, O King Messiah,
To glory and renown;
Pierced by Thy darts of fire,
Be every foe o’erthrown!

So reign, O God in Heaven,
Eternally the same!
And endless praise be given
To Thine almighty name.
Clothed in Thy dazzling brightness,
Thy church on earth behold
In robes of purest whiteness,
In raiment wrought with gold.

And let each Gentile nation
Come gladly in her train,
To share Thy great salvation,
And join her grateful strain:
Then ne’er shall note of sadness
Awake the trembling string;
One song of joy and gladness
The ransomed world shall sing.

The apostle Paul was not given to self-aggrandizement. He understood himself to be the chief of sinners, rescued only by God’s grace. Only when forced to defend his ministry and apostleship was he willing to talk about his gifts and attainments—and even then he spoke with a kind of wry embarrassment.

Nowhere did Paul talk about himself more than he did in 2 Corinthians. Under attack by the “super apostles,” he adopted the tactic of ironically measuring himself against their claims. They held letters of recommendation from the most important figures; Paul saw the Corinthians themselves as his living letters of recommendation (2 Cor 3:1-3). They invited people to look at their appearance; Paul invited people to look at his heart (2 Cor 5:12). They were admired for their height; Paul told his readers to measure his height by the miles he traveled to take the gospel to them (2 Cor 10:12-13). They were eloquent orators; Paul responded that even if he wasn’t an orator, he actually knew what he was talking about (2 Cor 11:5-6).

At the apex of these comparisons Paul came to visions and revelations of the Lord. False teachers like the “super apostles” typically claimed some sort of advanced revelation to which only they had access. At this point, however, Paul deployed a secret weapon—an event that he had never talked about before. Indeed, even now he refused to discuss it as his own experience, narrating it transparently in the third person. Undoubtedly, however, Paul was speaking of his own past.

What was the experience to which he appealed? Paul claimed that he was “caught up to the third heaven,” or Paradise, where he heard “unspeakable words” which he was not even permitted to repeat (2 Cor 12:1-5). This was an astonishing claim—to have actually visited heaven itself. No “super apostle” could surpass that revelation.

Paul’s critics were given to boasting, but their fantasies came nowhere close to Paul’s reality. He was tremendously blessed, gifted, and privileged. He not only held the office of apostle but also had better grounds for boasting than any of his condescending critics.

Given the high position in which Paul stood, he must have faced a very practical problem. What the first Baron Acton observed concerning power also applies to privilege: it tends to corrupt. Those who enjoy privileges may begin to believe that they deserve those privileges, then to demand them. To believe that one deserves privilege is pride; to demand it is hubris. Could even Paul have possibly stood in danger of these temptations?

According to Paul’s own words, he could. He noted the danger that he might be “exalted above measure” (2 Cor 12:7), a Greek idiom that means to “have an undue sense of one’s self-importance” (BDAG ὑπεραίρω). This temptation was particularly perilous in view of the abundance or greatness of the revelations that Paul had received. His privileges, while great, also opened a temptation to arrogance that might have brought him into spiritual disaster.

So it is with us, too, though our blessings, gifts, and privileges seem rather shrunken in comparison to Paul’s. We fail to remember that we are the recipients of favor that we did not deserve. Once our blessings begin to seem commonplace, we easily forget that they are unmerited gifts and instead take them as a normal and expected part of our lives. If something interrupts our enjoyment of these privileges or our use of these gifts, we become annoyed—as if we claimed these things by right. We even begin to suspect that our blessedness elevates us above ordinary people. We find ourselves looking down upon the masses who do not share our privileges.

This neglect shows that our depravity is still with us. Nothing is easier for us than to slide into pride and hubris. God, however, knows our weakness, and He is prepared to protect us against it. We glimpse His protection at work through the example of Paul.

“Lest I should be exalted above measure,” said Paul—by which he meant, “Lest I should think too highly of myself in view of the great revelations that I received”—something else was given to him. Besides his other gifts, God granted Paul a powerful endowment that would protect him against pride and hubris. What was it? Paul himself describes it as a “thorn in the flesh” and a “messenger of Satan to buffet me” (2 Cor 12:7). Twice Paul states that this thorn or messenger was God’s gift to keep him from thinking too highly of himself.

What was this thorn in the flesh, this messenger of Satan? Some have tied it to Paul’s supposed eye trouble. Others have theorized that Paul was epileptic. The words “messenger [angel] of Satan” may indicate demonic involvement. The fact is, however, that nobody knows exactly what Paul meant by his “thorn in the flesh,” except that it must have included a painful and probably humiliating physical affliction. In other words, when Paul faced a possible temptation to arrogance, God protected him by giving him suffering.

For Paul, suffering was not the result of sin. It was armor against sin. God knew that the humiliation of suffering was necessary to protect Paul against a form of self-aggrandizement to which he might otherwise have been tempted. Paul needed the kind of shield that only suffering could supply, and so God granted it to him.

When we suffer, we might ask whether our sufferings are designed to balance out the blessings, gifts, and privileges that we have been granted. We already know that we are inclined to pride, so we should anticipate that the God who protected Paul from this temptation will also protect us. We should plan for God’s blessings to be accompanied by the pain that He uses to keep us from arrogance. Under these circumstances we can embrace our afflictions, just as Paul embraced his, because they arrive as a gift from our Father.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

In Duties and in Sufferings Too

Benjamin Beddome (1717–1795)

In duties and in sufferings too,
Thy path, my Lord, I’d trace;
As Thou hast done, so would I do,
Depending on Thy grace.

With earnest zeal, ’twas Thy delight
To do Thy Father’s will;
O may that zeal my love excite
Thy precepts to fulfil!

Unsullied meekness, truth, and love
Through all Thy conduct shine;
O may my whole deportment prove
A copy, Lord, of Thine!

[This essay was originally published on September 25, 2015.]

Sometimes things that look alike are actually quite different. One mushroom cooks up into a delectable repast, while another that appears almost identical can kill. A gold nugget will buy a new car, but a pyrite crystal is a mere curiosity. Careful minds learn to distinguish things that look alike when they are not the same.

That is why Baptists should recognize the difference between independence, non-affiliation, and autonomy. This distinction is one that has been almost entirely lost in some circles. Nevertheless, it is crucial to the health of both Baptist churches and Baptist identity in general.

Autonomy is self-government. The autonomy of the local congregation is one of the Baptist distinctives. It is a historic principle that is a sine qua non of Baptist identity. Baptist churches—which is to say Baptist congregations—make their own decisions under Christ. They cannot be overruled by synods, general assemblies, presbyteries, councils, conclaves of bishops, boards of elders, committees, boards, or any other hierarchy or official, whether external or internal. Under the pattern of the New Testament, an individual congregation is sovereign under Christ.

Of course, sovereign, autonomous congregations still have leaders. Deacons exercise a kind of leadership. Scripture sets them as coordinators over the material affairs of the church. But Baptist deacons cannot make decisions for Baptist congregations. They exercise a delegated authority from their churches, and they can always be corrected or overruled by the congregation.

Pastors (bishops, elders) exercise spiritual leadership in New Testament churches. Some translations of the Bible even state that bishops or elders “rule,” but their rule must not be understood in terms of decision making. Elders rule by their example and their teaching. They persuade, but they do not decree. Biblically, they do not ever have authority to enforce a decision upon a congregation without the church’s consent.

Here is a snippet from the constitution of an organization that calls itself an independent Baptist Church (its name does not matter, since this is only one example of a widespread phenomenon): “The senior pastor shall be the president or chief executive officer, and the pastors shall select the other corporate officers . . . . He shall have the complete and final authority, under God, in any matter directly affecting the spiritual program of the church.” This church may think of itself as independent, but it is not autonomous. The biblical prerogatives of the congregation have been sharply curtailed. Properly speaking, it is not a Baptist church, since congregational autonomy is one of the Baptist distinctives.

Most churches that call themselves independent actually mean that they are not affiliated. They participate in no formal, organized fellowship with churches outside themselves. They are not connected with any convention, association, conference, or other organized body.

A church that chooses non-affiliation is well within its rights. An autonomous Baptist congregation does not have to maintain formal connections with other organizations—not even with other churches—to function as a fully-ordered New Testament church. The reasons for seeking (or rejecting) affiliation are purely practical.

Nevertheless, the New Testament does establish a pattern of churches cooperating as churches. The apostolic churches worked together in the cause of missions, benevolence, mutual encouragement, and even mutual accountability and counsel. This kind of cooperation does not always require a formal structure, but it does involve cooperation between congregations, not merely fellowship between leaders. If affiliation is not biblically required, it is certainly biblically permitted and even encouraged.

What the New Testament never depicts is a genuinely independent church. Instead, the apostolic churches were keenly aware of each other. They recognized that what affected one would often affect all. They communicated with each other and even held each other accountable. When members of the Jerusalem church created a problem for the church in Antioch, messengers were sent from Antioch to Jerusalem. They urged the Jerusalem church to clarify its position and to call its members into account. In turn, Jerusalem sent messengers with written counsel to Antioch and the gentile congregations. While both churches were autonomous, their conduct was light years from independence.

Baptist churches are interdependent in all sorts of ways. When one makes a decision, it often affects others. Pastors move from church to church, and so do members. They face common concerns and must answer common questions. The fact is that Baptist churches influence each other, even when they are not formally connected. For that reason, any Baptist church is within its rights to seek counsel from another Baptist church. It is also within its rights to offer counsel, even if that counsel has not been solicited.

The most dangerous course is for a church to abandon autonomy (usually by placing fiat authority with the pastor) while claiming radical independence. This move often results in pastoral leadership that has little accountability either internally to the congregation or externally to sister churches. Good men may still make good pastors, even under this unbiblical polity. Still, this is the form of order that allows cranks, despots, and abusers to flourish in the pastoral office. It is sheer fiction to apply the name Baptist to churches that operate this way.

Baptist churches are always autonomous because New Testament churches are always autonomous. Congregational autonomy is a Baptist distinctive. Any church that abandons autonomy loses its right to the name Baptist.

Affiliation is optional. If they wish, Baptist churches may engage formally in organized fellowship with each other. They have plenty of warrant from the New Testament if they do. Still, the decision is practical, and churches that prefer non-affiliation are within their rights.

No Baptist church is ever truly independent. As a matter of fact, Baptist churches are mutually dependent. The fiction of independence has kept churches from helping each other as much as they might. It has also prevented them from challenging each other as much as they should.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Happy the Souls to Jesus Joined

Charles Wesley (1707–1788)

Happy the souls to Jesus joined,
And saved by grace alone;
Walking in all Thy ways, we find
Our heaven on earth begun.

The Church triumphant in Thy love,
Their mighty joys we know;
They sing the Lamb in hymns above,
And we in hymns below.

Thee in Thy glorious realm they praise,
And bow before Thy throne,
We in the kingdom of Thy grace:
The kingdoms are but one.

The holy to the holiest leads;
From hence our spirits rise;
And he that in Thy statutes treads
Shall meet Thee in the skies.

[This essay was originally published on February 5, 2016.]

The Reformers erected the doctrine of calling in reaction to the Romanist distinction between clergy and laity. At the time, Catholics recognized only two vocations: the calling to consecration (which typically involved joining an order) and the calling to ordination (priesthood). In other words, monks and priests had a vocation; other people did not.

Over against this distinction the Reformers insisted that God calls all Christians. Their vocation is whatever station enables believers to demonstrate God’s love by serving others. In the Protestant view of vocation, ministers are called—but so are bakers, farmers, shopkeepers, and tradesmen.

The Protestant view of vocation grows out of 1 Corinthians 7:17-22. In this passage, vocation refers primarily to God’s calling of the individual to salvation. That is the first and highest calling for any Christian—to be a child of God, placing His character on display in the world, working out our salvation. Paul’s point in this passage and its surrounding context is that every lawful station of life (marriage, singleness, slavery, freedom, circumcision, uncircumcision) provides the opportunity to do just that. We are to use whatever station in which we find ourselves for God’s glory. The Reformers’ doctrine of vocation—the Protestant doctrine of vocation—is really the Pauline and biblical doctrine of vocation.

This Pauline doctrine of vocation is probably what lies behind Paul’s cryptic comment in 1 Timothy 2:15. He says that the woman will be saved in childbearing if she continues in faith, love, holiness, and self-restraint. Paul certainly does not mean to teach that giving birth somehow forgives a woman’s sins and secures eternal life. Given the context, he is most likely saying that maternity is a station that allows a woman to demonstrate how God’s saving grace is working in her life. A minister exhibits his salvation through his preaching and teaching, but Paul forbade women to teach or usurp authority over men. Are they then relegated to the position of second-class Christians? Not at all! Maternity (and domesticity) enable the stay-at-home mom to place her salvation fully on display.

This is an important truth. Pastors have the privilege of spending hours each day in the Scriptures so that they might minister the Word of God. Stay-at-home moms may struggle to find a quarter of an hour for devotions. Some might think that the pastor occupies the more spiritual position, but that is not what Paul says. A woman who rightly fulfills her station as a mother is bringing glory to God, just as the minister is.

What is true of the stay-at-home mom is true of all lawful vocations. They are ways of showing God’s love by serving others. They are ways of working out our salvation. Every vocation provides a giant screen upon which the Christian can project the manifold grace of God.

The difference is that the pastor’s vocation takes him into the study, away from the rush and tumble of life, to listen quietly to God. The mother’s vocation takes her into playrooms and grocery stores, and she does things like changing diapers, preparing meals, and wiping runny noses. To use the traditional labels, the minister’s life is contemplative while the mother’s life is active.

The point is that both of these lives are callings. Both are spiritual. Both bring glory to God if they are conscientiously pursued.

Most Christians actually occupy multiple callings. One of those callings pertains to all believers: the calling to place salvation on display. Other callings are discovered in our particular situations. A married man is called to love his wife. A father is called to bring up his children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Whatever we do to gain a living is also our calling, whether it involves balancing books, performing surgeries, or flipping burgers. Obviously some callings may change over time. A wedding marks the end of singleness (one calling) and the beginning of marriage (a different calling). A transition between jobs also usually marks a change in callings.

Some callings we choose; some are chosen for us. A slave does not typically choose slavery, though Paul says that if slaves are given a choice, they should choose freedom. Nevertheless, both slavery and freedom are callings. Sometimes our choice of callings is restricted by circumstances: there are no accountant jobs open, so we sweep floors instead. When such situations occur, we must not feel ourselves to be victims or become bitter against the calling into which God has led us. We must use it for His glory.

Other times God allows us to select from multiple options. How then should we choose? Too many Christians assume that the most financially rewarding option must be God’s calling. Sometimes it is, but often it is not. Callings should almost never be chosen on the basis of pecuniary considerations alone. Rather, we should ask, Where can I best place my salvation on display? How can I best show people God’s love by serving them? What am I equipped to do with excellence, and what will make the greatest difference for the Lord?

A man who would make a terrible pastor might make a wonderful truck driver. A woman who could never adapt to the mission field might make a good lawyer. Some young people who would be miserable in college might be more useful—and more happy—as plumbers or electricians. God not only calls people to different vocations, He also equips them differently for those vocations.

Every vocation deserves respect and even esteem. Christians who are farmers, bankers, doctors, airline pilots, police officers, short order cooks, managers, cashiers, actuaries, and stay-at-home moms have vocations that are just as significant to God as the vocation of the minister. Let us honor all, and make the most of the callings that God has given us.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Let Me But Hear My Savior Say

Isaac Watts (1674–1748)

Let me but hear my Savior say,
“Strength shall be equal to thy day,”
Then I rejoice in deep distress,
Leaning on all-sufficient grace.

I glory in infirmity,
That Christ’s own power may rest on me:
When I am weak, then am I strong,
Grace is my shield, and Christ my song.

I can do all things, or can bear
All suff’rings, if my Lord be there;
Sweet pleasures mingle with the pains,
While his left hand my head sustains.

But if the Lord be once withdrawn,
And we attempt the work alone,
When new temptations spring and rise,
We find how great our weakness is.

How perplexing! Christians are supposed to be children of God, heirs and joint heirs with Christ. We are no longer under condemnation—God’s wrath has been cancelled for all our sins. We have received unimaginable privileges in Christ. Yet we ache when we get up in the morning. We need glasses and antacids. We have to visit doctors and dentists. We even attend funerals—the last one of which is our own. How do we reconcile these experiences with what we have been told about who we are in Christ?

The eighth chapter of Romans probably has more to say about the subject of suffering than any other chapter in scripture. Paul tackles our problem head-on in verse 10: “And if Christ be in you, the body is dead because of sin; but the Spirit is life because of righteousness.” Many find these words puzzling, but I think their meaning is rather straightforward. Even though we are Christians, our bodies are still mortal (dead), meaning that our bodies still die. The reason they die is because of sin (for death came into the world by sin, Rom 5:12). So on the one hand, we are no longer under condemnation (Rom 8:1). The Holy Spirit indwells us (Rom 8:9). Christ Himself lives in us (Rom 8:10). On the other hand, our bodies have not yet been delivered from the mortality that came through sin.

The indwelling Spirit provides the solution to this problem. The Spirit is life because of righteousness (which probably refers to the imputed righteousness of Christ). The Spirit who lives in us is also the Spirit of the one who raised up Jesus from the dead (Rom 8:11). Hence, the indwelling Spirit constitutes a guarantee of a future resurrection—and the resurrection body will no longer be subject to mortality.

This same Holy Spirit is the Spirit of adoption. He teaches us to address God as “Abba! Father!” (Rom 8:15). He testifies to our spirits that we are children of God (Rom 8:16) and consequently God’s heirs and Christ’s joint heirs (Rom 8:17a). Paul adds that if we suffer with Christ, we will also be glorified with Christ (Rom 8:17b).

The “if” in this verse does not express doubt about whether Christians will suffer. Paul assumes that believers will suffer during the present age, and he makes this point clear a bit later (Rom 8:36). What the verse is saying is that for the Christian, the very quality of suffering has been transformed. All of our suffering is now suffering “with Christ.” Our suffering brings us into the same experience of suffering that He accepted when He took a mortal, human nature. Since Christ’s sufferings led to His glory (see Phil 2:5-11), our sufferings will also lead to glory. Indeed, Paul elsewhere points to suffering as the very mechanism through which God increases our glory (2 Cor 4:17).

In His sovereignty, God is able to take evil things like suffering and use them to produce great good (Rom 8:18). In fact, if God loved us enough to give us Christ, then He loves us enough to give us everything that is good (Rom 8:32). Paul’s affirmations are not Pollyannish naivety. Paul knew that bad things happen, even to Christians. These bad things can include afflictions, pressures, persecution, starvation, inadequate clothing, physical danger, and even violent death (Rom 8:35). Yet even in these calamities God is at work.

During the present, God uses sufferings to conform us to the image of His Son (Rom 8:29). In anticipation of the future, God uses sufferings to prepare us for glory; indeed, He uses present sufferings to increase future glory. This exchange of suffering for glory is near the heart of Paul’s perspective on afflictions during this present life. We accept affliction now so that we can receive glory later. We will exchange the one for the other.

This exchange, however, is not even. Paul says that our present sufferings will result in a “far more exceeding weight of glory” (2 Cor 4:17). Indeed, “the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us” (Rom 8:18). To say that there is no comparison is to say that present suffering fades to insignificance when compared to future glory.

To repeat, Paul is not denying the reality of present suffering with all its pain. Our tears are real. They may come from physical distress. They may come from bereavement. They may come from betrayal. We may weep from concern for lost loved ones. Rivers of water may run down our eyes because of those who reject God’s law (Ps 119:136). The pain is real and it goes deep.

Think of your most harrowing affliction, and ask yourself this. What would have to happen, not just to erase that pain, but to make it seem so incidental as not to be worth thinking about? How great would the change have to be? That is the kind of thing that God intends to do for us. He intends to heap such a heavy weight of glory upon us that our sufferings will recede into the nooks and crannies of our recollection. They will not be worth remembering.

That is why Paul can affirm that in all “these things” (which refer exactly to our sufferings) we are “more than conquerors” (Rom 8:37). We will not simply triumph after adversity. We will not stagger across the finish line, ready to collapse, whispering, “at least I made it.” Rather, we will burst out of suffering and into unimaginable splendor. We will hand over our thimble of affliction for boxcars full of glory—and in the process we will almost forget that we ever had a thimble.

God rules over our afflictions. He permits them for good reason. He is doing something with them. However severe our pain, however heavy our pressure, we have reason to trust Him, obey Him, and rejoice. Let every morning ache and every bout of indigestion, every betrayal and every bereavement, remind us of God’s good plan: this pain, too, will be transformed into glory.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

O Thou From Whom All Goodness Flows

Thomas Haweis (1734–1820)

O Thou from whom all goodness flows!
I lift my soul to thee;
In all my sorrows, conflicts, woes,
Good Lord! remember me.

When, on my groaning, burden’d heart,
My sins lie heavily;
My pardon speak, new peace impart;
In love remember me.

When trials sore obstruct my way,
And ills I cannot flee,
Oh, give me strength, Lord, as my day:
For good remember me.

Distress’d with pain, disease, and grief,
This feeble body see;
Grant patience, rest, and kind relief:
Hear and remember me.

If on my face for Thy dear name,
Shame and reproaches be,
All hail reproach, and welcome shame,
If Thou remember me.

The hour is near, consign’d to death,
I own the just decree,
Savior, with my last parting breath
I’ll cry, Remember me!

To all appearances the apostle Paul was less than average. He was probably so short that he couldn’t see over the heads of a crowd. He was no golden-tongued orator—in fact, his preaching was known to put people to sleep. Many believe that he had an ocular disease that forced him to keep wiping the pus from his eyes while he was speaking. In an age when physical appearance was thought to mirror greatness of soul, he was squat and ugly.

Paul also had a questionable reputation. He was thought to be argumentative in writing but pusillanimous in person. He had been in trouble with the law on multiple occasions. He could produce no letters of recommendation from the people who really mattered. He changed cities so often that he looked like somebody on the run. He kept poking his nose into places it was not welcome. Some people even questioned his sanity.

Furthermore, he seemed to be the unluckiest man alive. He kept getting beaten, stoned, and whipped. He was once left for dead. He had been shipwrecked repeatedly, and on one occasion had spent three days drifting at sea. He often went without food and drink. Sometimes he did not have adequate clothing. He would work late into the night, sometimes skipping sleep entirely. He seemed to face a myriad of dangers, sometimes from robbers, sometimes from Gentiles who thought he had turned the world upside down, sometimes from Jews who thought he had betrayed their religion, sometimes in crowded cities, sometimes in empty wastes, sometimes on the high seas, and sometimes from people who pretended to be his friends but then betrayed him.

Paul suffered much and some people held it against him. For example, the church at Corinth had been swept off its feet by avowedly Christian leaders who called themselves “Super Apostles.” These leaders were tall, handsome, learned, eloquent, accomplished, and well connected—just ask them! They were also religious hucksters, and they understood that they had to discredit Paul if they were going to capture the church. The easiest way to gain control was to point out Paul’s deficiencies, his ostensibly bad reputation, and his constant troubles. Surely (they reasoned) God would not permit one of His genuine apostles to live such a life.

People bought it. Even though the church in Corinth owed its origin (humanly) to Paul, its members began to despise him and even to mock him. In comparison to the Super Apostles he was seen as a lightweight. His ponderous words could be safely ignored in view of his contemptible person. The thing that made it all so believable was Paul’s suffering.

This pathetic situation directly precipitated the letter that we now call 2 Corinthians. Paul wrote this epistle specifically to address the problem of rejected leadership—his leadership. It is the most personal of Paul’s missives. His heart is laid bare on every page.

Interestingly, Paul did not begin the letter by drawing attention to himself or even to the Super Apostles, but to God. Even more interestingly, he did not point to God as transcendent, powerful, sovereign, or glorious. Instead, he drew attention to God as the God of all comfort.

God is the God of all comfort. This truth implies that He is on the side of His afflicted children. Sufferings are not a sign of His displeasure, but of His tenderness and compassion. For Paul, God being the God of all comfort was more than simply a paragraph in his theological catalog. It was a truth that mattered in life, for two reasons.

First, since God is a God of comfort, He comforts His children in all their afflictions. He is filled with mercy and compassion, and He is available to His children when they are hurting. He enfolds His own just as a nursing mother soothes her child. He knows how weak and frail His people are, and He shows them the kind of compassion that a father shows to his little children. From His own heart He lends them peace in their distress, joy in their sorrow, and consolation in their anguish. God ministers comfort because His nature is to comfort. This is who He is.

Of course, we can know cognitively that God is the God of all comfort without really understanding what that means. As long as God’s comfort remains an abstraction, our theology will show a deficit. The only way to balance the books and to grasp the meaning of God as the God of all comfort is actually to experience His comfort. For that to happen, however, we must first need to be comforted.

Consequently, God permits at least some pain in our lives specifically so that He can comfort us. He longs for us to know Him as He is, and that includes knowing Him as the God of all comfort. The only way we can know Him as the God of comfort is to meet Him in the midst of suffering. In other words, suffering is a way of growing in our experiential knowledge of God. Paul can rightly exclaim, “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation” (2 Cor 1:3-4).

The fact that God is the God of all comfort also matters for a second reason. God wishes to administer His comfort not only to us but also through us. He wants us to become conduits through which His comfort reaches others who are torn. By ourselves, however, we tend to be self-centered and callous. We are insensitive to the sufferings of others, blind to their misery and deaf to their groans. God needs to show us how to be people of comfort, channels of His own comfort. He does that by permitting pain in our lives, allowing us to be hurt, and then showing us how comfort feels and why it matters. He works this way so “that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God” (2 Cor 1:4).

For these reasons, Paul told the Corinthians that his affliction (which they held against him) was for their good. They saw him afflicted and comforted. They saw him comforting others who were afflicted. They learned that when he suffered, they suffered with him. They also discovered that when he was comforted, his comfort became theirs (2 Cor 1:5‑7). The bonds of Christian sympathy are forged in the bonfires of shared affliction and tempered in cooling showers of shared comfort.

Suffering is never meaningless for those who fear God. Our Father is working in and through all of our pain. In our tribulations He accomplishes many purposes. One of those purposes is to comfort us so that we can comfort others, until we find our place in the vibrating web of shared affliction and consolation.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Give to the Winds Thy Fears

Paul Gerhardt (1607-1676); tr. John Wesley (1703–1791)

Give to the winds thy fears,
hope and be undismayed;
God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears;
God shall lift up thy head.

Through waves and clouds and storms,
He gently clears the way;
wait thou His time, so shall this night
soon end in joyous day.

Still heavy is thy heart,
still sink thy spirits down?
Cast off the weight, let fear depart,
and ev’ry care be gone.

What though thou rules not,
yet heav’n, and earth, and hell
proclaim, God sitteth on the throne,
and ruleth all things well.

Leave to His sov’reign sway
to choose and to command.
so shalt thou wond’ring own His way,
how wise, how strong His hand!

Far, far above thy thought
His counsel shall appear,
when fully He the work hath wrought,
that caused thy needless fear.

Thou seest our weakness, Lord,
our hearts are known to Thee;
O lift Thou up the sinking heart,
confirm the feeble knee.

Let us in life, in death, 
Thy steadfast truth declare,
and publish with our latest breath
Thy love and guardian care.

On our first Thanksgiving in Denver, my wife and I wanted to drive to Iowa to see her family, then to Wisconsin for my parents’ silver wedding anniversary. The problem was that a snow storm was blowing in from the Rockies. Snow swirled the whole night before we were supposed to leave, but in the morning it seemed to be letting up. Having grown up in central Iowa I’d never seen a snow storm that you couldn’t drive through. You just had to go slowly and drive carefully. I assumed that Colorado snow storms would be the same, so I decided that we should head east up Interstate 76.

We were hardly outside Denver when the snow started to thicken and the wind began to howl. The further we drove the worse the storm grew. Sometime after Sterling our car began to bottom out in the drifts. There were times when the blizzard was so fierce that I couldn’t see the hood in front of the windshield. We felt like we were the only thing on the road. Finally we piled into a snow bank that we could neither plow through nor dig out of. We were stuck.

We’d brought food, water, blankets, and candles. We hunkered down in the car and prepared to wait out the storm. Every couple of moments I’d try the CB radio to see whether somebody could hear me. I was about to give up when a snow plow answered. He had intended to exit somewhere behind us, but instead he drove up to us, plucked us out of our car, turned around through the median, and drove us back to the last exit. We found ourselves in a little truck stop with half-a-dozen other motorists who were waiting out the storm. We ordered supper in the coffee shop and then slept on the floor overnight. In the morning the storm had passed, but our car was buried under the snow. It took us half the day to get it pulled out and started. That afternoon we were finally able to drive east along a single lane that the plows had cleared.

By the time we resumed our drive, I had gained significant wisdom. Besides learning something about Colorado weather, I also learned something about the dangers of taking risks based upon flawed assumptions. Furthermore, I learned something about the weight of responsibility that comes with making choices that affect others.

Wisdom increases with experience—but usually with experience of a particular kind. I would never have learned the same lessons by driving on a sunny day in June. The kind of experience that teaches wisdom is almost always difficult. We gain wisdom by enduring loss or the threat of loss.

The Bible has much to say about wisdom. One of the most profound statements is found in James 1:5. James tells his readers that if anyone lacks wisdom, “let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.” God does not reproach those who desire wisdom. He gives it to them—and that is good. The part that we overlook, however, is how God gives wisdom to those who ask.

The promise of James 1:5 occurs in the middle of James’s discussion of trials. He has already said that trials produce endurance. In verse 5 he stipulates another fruit of trials: wisdom. The implication is that if we ask for wisdom, we can expect God to send us trials.

Of course, we can gain a kind of wisdom all on our own. We learn to make good choices by experience. We gain experience, however, by making bad choices. That’s what I did during that Thanksgiving weekend in Denver. I made a choice that could have been disastrous.

When God sends us trials, however, they are not disasters. He does not send them to break us. Every trial that God permits He keeps under His control. By guiding us through these controlled circumstances He permits us to experience just enough pain and distress to accomplish His purpose for us—in this case, wisdom.

That is why James says that when we ask for wisdom we should ask “in faith, nothing wavering.” God produces wisdom in us by guiding us through trials. We cannot have the wisdom without the trials. When we ask for wisdom, we are effectively asking God to send us whatever afflictions will be necessary to produce the wisdom. We must not say that we want wisdom, but then balk at the trial. That kind of wavering is like a wave that goes back and forth in the water. If we bring that sort of uncertainty to our quest for wisdom, we will not get what we seek. (Jas 1:6-7)

In fact, this kind of wavering is what James refers to as being “double minded.” He notes that double-minded people are unstable people, and not just in their asking for wisdom. The kind of person who desires the ends but rejects the means will be unstable in all sorts of things.

God permits His children to experience pain and suffering, trials and afflictions. Even if Scripture did not tell us so, we would learn it by experience. The question is not whether believers must endure pain. The question is why. That question has many answers, since God accomplishes many purposes through the affliction of His people. One of those purposes is that they should grow wise.

Wisdom is the ability to make good choices in the absence of a definite rule. We gain wisdom by experience—usually unpleasant experience. When we ask for wisdom we can expect unpleasant experiences. Nevertheless, we can rejoice in knowing that when God uses trials to increase our wisdom, they are always under the control of His wisdom and love.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

My Spirit Looks to God Alone

Isaac Watts (1674–1748)

My spirit looks to God alone;
My rock and refuge is his throne;
In all my fears, in all my straits,
My soul on his salvation waits.

Trust him, ye saints, in all your ways,
Pour out your hearts before his face:
When helpers fail, and foes invade,
God is our all-sufficient aid.

False are the men of high degree,
The baser sort are vanity;
Laid in the balance both appear
Light as a puff of empty air.

Make not increasing gold your trust,
Nor set your hearts on glittering dust;
Why will you grasp the fleeting smoke,
And not believe what God has spoke?

Once has his awful voice declar’d,
Once and again my ears have heard,
“All power is his eternal due;”
He must be fear’d and trusted too.

For sov’reign pow’r reigns not alone,
Grace is a partner on the throne:
Thy grace and justice, mighty Lord,
Shall well divide our last reward.

The temperature hovered in the nineties as the August sun beat down on the practice field. We had been running through a combination of calisthenics and drills in full gear for nearly two hours. This was our first two-a-day of the season. I’d thought I was in decent shape, but I was beyond tired. My field of vision was narrowing and my sight beginning to darken. There were moments when I couldn’t see anything at all. One teammate had already passed out on the field; I was afraid I might be next. While I was determined not to quit, I dreaded the possibility that my body might quit on me. Then, just as I thought that I was at the end of my endurance, the coach called a halt to the practice.

The next day I expected more of the same, but now I knew that I could make it to the end. I had already done it. When I felt the signs of increasing exhaustion—the wobbling legs, the burning lungs, the dimming vision—they did not surprise me. I knew that I could push through them, and I did. In fact, something remarkable happened. Even though we worked out just as hard the second day, the exhaustion wasn’t as bad. As one practice followed another I could do more and more while feeling less pain. Enduring actually produced greater endurance.

Much the same is true of afflictions. James, the half-brother of the Lord Jesus, spoke of afflictions as trials or tests. He said that we should “consider it all joy…when you encounter various trials” (James 1:2, NASB). He did not say if we encounter various trials, but when or whenever. James assumed that trials would be part of a believer’s life—and he was right. God has not exempted Christians from any of the sufferings that are the common lot of human beings. In fact, believers may actually suffer more than unbelievers, because Christians can also be persecuted for the sake of their Christian testimony.

Words like afflictions, trials, and sufferings all imply pain. Contrary to those who preach a pretend gospel of health and wealth, God places His children in circumstances where they must encounter and endure pain. We obviously don’t enjoy pain, whether physical or emotional. We avoid it when we legitimately can, and that’s not wrong. But we won’t always be able to avoid it, so we need to learn how to face it.

What are we supposed to do with our pain? James answered that question directly: “consider it all joy.” He did not state that the pain itself is joyous. Rather, we are to consider the trial (the painful event) as a joyous occasion. Pain is never good as an end in itself, but it can be used by God to accomplish good purposes.

James mentions one of those purposes: “the testing of your faith produces endurance” (James 1:3, NASB). God wants us to live by faith. In fact, as Hebrews 11 makes clear, the life that God wishes us to live with Him is fundamentally a life of trust. It is a life in which we believe God, whatever our circumstances may be.

The implication is that our faith is going to be tested. How could it be otherwise? Exercising faith—believing God—means trusting Him for something. If we must trust Him, then by definition we either need something or are in danger of losing something that we already have. In other words, we face either lack or loss. We experience the discomfort of either a deficiency or a danger. We encounter a trial.

When that trial comes, it gives us the opportunity to persist in believing God, often in spite of our circumstances. The trial is a chance to endure, and our endurance matters to God. We are most truly God’s people when we exhibit trust either by relying on Him through situations that appear to be impossible or by obeying Him when the cost of faithfulness is very high. Abraham and Sarah trusted God for a son when she was too old to conceive a child. Later, Abraham trusted God for the life of Isaac, even on the mountain of sacrifice. Moses obeyed God and chose to identify with Him rather than to identify with the royal house of Egypt and to enjoy the passing pleasures of sin. Joshua trusted God while the walls of Jericho still stood strong against the army of Israel. God has constantly placed His people in impossible situations, asking them to believe Him. He does the same with us.

Every affliction is an opportunity to persevere in trusting God. We will often find ourselves pushed to the limits of our endurance. When we do, something marvelous happens. We find that faith, like muscle, grows stronger when it has been stressed. The more we endure, the greater our endurance grows. So James exhorts us to “let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing” (James 1:4, NASB). By enduring present trials, we will grow able to endure the challenges of the future. Eventually we will be able to endure whatever God, in His sovereign purpose, has for us.

Two-a-day practices were not an end in themselves. Their purpose was not simply to equip the team to endure more practices. Instead, they prepared us for real play. Because of what we endured on the practice field, we were strong enough to play at full intensity for the entire game.

In the same way, every little trial that we endure becomes God’s way of strengthening us to face bigger trials in the future. Ultimately, He uses these trials, afflictions, pain, and suffering to make us strong enough to accomplish His will in our lives.

Daniel was not thrown into the lion’s den on his first day in Babylon. By the time that test came, he had already endured many trials and had grown through each one of them. He was equipped to endure this last and greatest test by persevering through many trials that had gone before. The result was an astonishing confession on the part of Darius the king, and a lesson that continues to be taught some 2,500 years later.

We do not know what God eventually intends to do with us. If we did, we might well blanch. What we do know, however, is that the next trial that comes our way, however painful it may be, is designed to prepare us to be faithful under whatever circumstances may follow. We will not enjoy the trial, but we can rejoice in the increasing endurance that it accomplishes in us.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Dear Refuge of My Weary Soul

Anne Steele (1717–1778)

Dear refuge of my weary soul,
On thee when sorrows rise;
On thee, when waves of trouble roll,
My fainting hope relies.

While hope revives, though pressed with fears,
And I can say, “My God,”
Beneath thy feet I spread my cares,
And pour my woes abroad.

To thee I tell each rising grief,
For thou alone canst heal;
Thy word can bring a sweet relief,
For every pain I feel.

But oh! when gloomy doubts prevail
I fear to call thee mine;
The springs of comfort seem to fail
And all my hopes decline.

Yet gracious God, where shall I flee?
Thou art my only trust;
And still my soul would cleave to thee,
Though prostrate in the dust.

Hast thou not bid me seek thy face?
And shall I seek in vain?
And can the ear of sovereign grace
Be deaf when I complain?

No, still the ear of sovereign grace
Attends the mourner’s prayer;
O may I ever find access,
To breathe my sorrows there.

Thy mercy-seat is open still;
Here let my soul retreat,
With humble hope attend thy will,
And wait beneath thy feet.

Monday night, June 17th, in the presence of his family, Dr. Rolland McCune entered into his eternal rest. He had recently turned 85. After having survived two previous bouts with cancer, he was diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer several weeks ago. The end came peacefully. There was little pain and he died with full assurance of his eternal hope. I last spoke with him soon after his final diagnosis and he was matter-of-fact about his coming death. He was preparing “to be gathered to his people.” I would have expected nothing less of my esteemed professor of Systematic Theology, under whose tutelage I had the joy of sitting during the early 1990s. He knew what awaited him and he was prepared to meet his Lord.

Dr. McCune, who had studied at Taylor University (BA) and Grace Theological Seminary (BD, ThM, and ThD) in Winona Lake, Indiana, spent fourteen years on the faculty here at Central. He moved to the Detroit area and finished his academic career as professor of Systematic Theology, dean of the faculty, and finally president of the seminary, retiring in 2009. He was heavily influenced by Homer Kent, Jr. at Grace and by Richard Volley Clearwaters, long-time pastor of the Fourth Baptist Church, in whose building our seminary is housed. I “knew” Clearwaters from McCune’s teaching long before I came under his shadow as a professor here in 2004.

Dr. McCune was noted for a number of pithy sayings or wry comments with which he peppered his classroom lectures. One of my personal favorites was his encouragement for us to learn to “think in straight lines.” I must say that this was a problem of mine when I entered Detroit Baptist Theological Seminary in the fall of 1991. My personal theology was what McCune would call “brush-pile” theology: a heap of disorganized ideas without much system to them. It was no secret where Dr. McCune stood theologically (this was one reason why I chose Detroit) and he helped me to arrange my own theological understanding in a more coherent fashion. When it came to thinking in straight lines, students often avoided the struggle with the hard issues of theology and would merely side-step or go around a difficult problem without thinking through the problem in the text. Dr. McCune thought through the issues and forced us to do the same. He also opposed “glandular religion,” religious ideas driven more by one’s emotions than by the text of Scripture.

In class, he was a no-nonsense theologian who viewed his job as inculcating biblical truths into the minds of his eager students. It was dangerous to disagree with him, in class or in a paper. He knew his stuff and there was hardly an objection that a student could raise in class that Dr. McCune hadn’t considered and couldn’t give a reasoned answer to. After a McCune class on any topic, we knew what he thought the Bible taught and I nearly always agreed with him!

Students, of course, were free to disagree with him, but they did so at their own academic peril. The red ink would flow as he critiqued the content and argument of the paper. I once had a new student ask me if he had to believe all that the seminary taught to graduate. I said, “No, but you have to be able to defend your views.” He had a hard time with that when he faced the faculty and Dr. McCune in particular. Dr. McCune knew his stuff.

I also had the privilege of knowing Dr. McCune a bit outside of the classroom. His brother-in-law Wendell Heller, former pastor of the Colonial Hills Baptist Church of Indianapolis, held several meetings at Emmanuel Baptist Church in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, when I was pastor. He would travel with his wife Betty doing itinerant ministry and we would always have the McCunes over for dinner when the Hellers were in town. Daisy is Wendell’s sister. Watching the four of them interact was a hoot! “Rollie” “let his hair down” (he was bald) in my home in a way I seldom saw as a student. The four of them laughed and joked. He had a less cerebral side that students seldom saw.

As I reflect back on the nearly thirty years I knew Dr. McCune, there are a number of things I owe him. My final call to him was another effort to express my deep gratitude for his impact on my life and ministry. Most recently I owe to Dr. McCune the permission to use his systematic theology notes in my early classes here at Central. I had finished my PhD in 2004 and was hired in July to begin teaching that fall. I taught Church History and half of the Systematic Theology classes. After nearly twenty years in mission and pastoral work, I needed good teaching material for students. Dr. McCune cheerily gave me permission to use his material which was so formative in my own thinking. I unapologetically used his theology notes in my early years as I worked to build my church history notes. It was fitting that I do this anyway. As a student, I was pastoring and I would periodically tell Dr. McCune on Mondays that “we” preached a great sermon the previous Sunday. With his content and my delivery, we knocked it out of the park! His thinking was clear and concise and eminently preachable. My church was well-fed whenever I used his content to help me discuss theological concepts.

He was a great teacher, a clear thinker, and I am glad to say, a personal friend. During his retirement, I would periodically call him to “talk shop.” Even after his retirement, he stayed active and enjoyed his family, and he always found time for a conversation. I appreciated his abiding influence in my life and I told him that I “took him with me” as I traveled the world teaching. Professors leave hidden marks on the lives of their students, especially professors from whom students take multiple classes. I took every “McCune class” DBTS had to offer. I wanted to know what he thought and was glad for the exercise of another course with him. When new students came to seminary, I would counsel them to “take all the McCune classes you can. Who knows when he will retire!” He was then in his sixties and would teach until he was seventy-five, but I didn’t want my friends to miss out on Dr. McCune.

I am grateful that in the providence of God I was directed to Detroit Baptist Theological Seminary during the apex of the McCune years. He was in his prime having taught seminary classes for over twenty years. He knew his material and he knew his God. That which he passed to me has stood me in good stead during my fifteen years here at Central. I thank God for Rolland D. McCune. Congratulations, Dr. McCune, on a race well run. We will miss you. “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints” (Psalm 116:15). Soli Deo Gloria.

This essay is by Jeff Straub, Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Now Let Our Mourning Hearts Revive

Philip Doddridge (1702–1751)

Now let our mourning hearts revive,
And all our tears be dry;
Why should those eyes be drowned in grief
Which view a Savior nigh?

What though the arm of conquering death
Does God’s own house invade?
What though the prophet and the priest
Be numbered with the dead?

Though earthly shepherds dwell in dust,
The agèd and the young,
The watchful eye, in darkness closed,
And mute th’instructive tongue;

The Eternal Shepherd still survives,
New comfort to impart;
His eye still guides us, and His voice
Still animates our heart.

“Lo! I am with you,” saith the Lord,
“My Church shall safe abide;
For I will ne’er forsake My own,
Whose souls in Me confide.”

Through every scene of life and death,
This promise is our trust;
And this shall be our children’s song,
When we are cold in dust.

It was the best day of his life. He had been blind from birth. One day as he sat begging he heard himself being discussed. Men were asking a rabbi whether the blindness was because of his sins or his parents’ sin. The teacher replied that it was neither: instead, God wanted an opportunity to put His glory on display. Then the rabbi, whose name was Jesus, spit in the dirt, mixed up some mud, and put it on the man’s eyes. “Go,” He said, “Wash in the pool of Siloam.”

The man obeyed, and as he wiped the mud away sight flooded his eyes. For the first time he saw water. He saw the stone steps leading down to the pool. He saw the sky. As he returned from the pool he saw his neighbors. They refused to believe that he was really the same man, but he insisted that he was. Then they wanted an explanation.

The man gave a straightforward narration of the events. Perplexed, the neighbors took him to the Pharisees, but those religious experts became indignant because Jesus had healed him on the Sabbath. The Pharisees began to grill him about Jesus, hoping to get him to denounce the one who healed him. Instead, every question moved the man closer to faith in Jesus. Finally they pushed him too far, and the man retorted, “I’ve already answered you and you didn’t listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Would you also like to become his disciples?” (John 9:27).

That word also was significant. It meant that the man had made his choice. He couldn’t have picked Jesus out of a crowd (a fact which quickly became evident). But the Pharisees had forced him to choose, and he chose to become a disciple of Jesus.

His reaction did not sit well with the Pharisees. At first they tried to deride and insult him, hoping to bully him into submission. The harder they badgered him, however, the more loyal the man became to Jesus. Frustrated, the Pharisees finally cast the man out of the synagogue (John 9:34).

Putting him out of the synagogue was a judicial act. Its effect was to mark the man as a renegade and to remove him from participation in the life of national Israel. Henceforth, he would be treated like a Gentile, not like a son of Abraham. It was the worst penalty that the Pharisees could legally inflict.

What had been the best day of his life was now the worst day of his life. It was at this juncture that Jesus re-inserted Himself into the conversation. First, He asked the (formerly) blind man whether he believed on Him, the Son of God. In response the man worshipped Him. Then Jesus turned on the Pharisees, accusing them of a kind of willful blindness for which they would be held accountable. Finally, Jesus told a parable that would redefine the situation in which the man found himself.

In His parable Jesus compared Israel to a sheep-fold. Inside the fold were both sheep that belonged to the shepherd (Jesus identified Himself as the shepherd) and sheep that did not belong to the shepherd. Jesus stated that His sheep knew His voice and that they would follow Him, while other sheep would run away. He further stated that He would lead His sheep “out” (John 10:1-5).

Out of what? Obviously, out of the fold—that is to say, out of Israel. The implication was that though the (formerly) blind man now found himself outside of Israel, his situation did not displease God. In fact, all of Jesus’ followers were going to be led out of Israel, constituting a flock following the shepherd.

Jesus went even further. He claimed that He also had sheep who had never been in the fold. This reference could only be to Gentile believers (John 10:16). Jesus stated that He would also lead these sheep, and that they would become one flock with the sheep who had left the fold.

The flock about which Jesus spoke is obviously the Church. The Church comprises believers who were once reckoned as Jews and believers who were once reckoned as Gentiles. In the one flock, however, they are neither. They are identified and held together by their mutual following of the shepherd. This teaching closely mirrors Paul’s analogy of the new humanity in Ephesians 2:10-22.

In John 10 Jesus taught an important lesson about the nature of the Church. In doing so, He wanted to use an object lesson. That object lesson involved a blind man who would be healed and then subjected to some bitter hours of recrimination. This man was already made to suffer for Jesus before he ever figured out who Jesus was. The suffering was real, but it had a point.

Sometimes God permits pain in the lives of His children because He intends to use them as object lessons. The man who was blind from birth is an example. Job is another. From Job’s point of view, his suffering was random and meaningless. From a transcendent point of view, however, God was teaching an important lesson, first to Satan, but then to others. Even today people are still learning from Job’s suffering.

God did much the same with the apostles. Paul wrote that the apostles were made a spectacle “to the world, and to angels, and to men” (1 Cor. 4:9). God allowed the apostles to look like fools. He allowed them to suffer weakness. He allowed them to be despised. He permitted them to be deprived of food, drink, clothing, and housing. He let them be beaten, and He made them labor with their own hands. They were insulted and defamed. They were treated like filth and the “offscouring of all things” (1 Cor. 4:10-13).

These were deep afflictions. The apostles endured agonies that would have broken most of us. But God intended to make a point, and He chose to make it through them. Not one of them would have traded away his afflictions for any degree of human splendor.

When we come into pain, our brothers and sisters are watching. The unsaved are watching. Even the angels are watching. In ways that we cannot perceive and might never guess God uses our afflictions to teach lessons to these observers. Our sufferings are never wasted, pointless, or futile. They are ordained by God to make us object lessons in the great drama of God’s self-disclosure.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

God of My Life, to Thee I Call

William Cowper (1731–1800)

God of my life, to Thee I call;
Afflicted, at Thy feet I fall;
When the great water-floods prevail,
Leave not my trembling heart to fall.

Friend of the friendless and the faint,
Where should I lodge my deep complaint?
Where but with Thee, whose open door
Invites the helpless and the poor?

Did ever mourner plead with Thee
And Thou refuse that mourner’s plea?
Does not the word still fixed remain
That none shall seek Thy face in vain?

That were a grief I could not bear,
Didst Thou not hear and answer prayer;
But a prayer-hearing, answering God
Supports me under every load.

Fair is the lot that’s cast for me;
I have an Advocate with Thee.
They whom the world caresses most
Have no such privilege to boast.

Poor though I be, despised, forgot,
Yet God, my God, forgets me not;
And he is safe and must succeed
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.

The early chapters of Genesis trace death to Adam’s sin. Along with death came an entire brood of calamities. Alienation from God, suspicion of and hostility toward other people, grinding labor, sorrow, and physical pain all began with the sentence of death. At that time the created order was altered so that things no longer functioned according to their original design and purpose. For example, the ground was cursed and certain plants were changed so that they became hindrances to human wellbeing.

The New Testament teaches much the same: Adam’s sin brought death and its brood. In 1 Corinthians 15:21 Paul states that death came through a human being. In the next verse he identifies this person as Adam. Paul adds that all die in Adam, linking every human death to Adam’s original transgression.

The apostle further develops this theme in Romans 5:12-21. Verse 12 may teach more about the human condition than any other single verse in the Bible: “Wherefore, as by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and so death passed upon all men, for that all have sinned….” Here Paul links Adam, sin, and death. Death came into the world only through sin. Sin entered the world only through Adam.

In Romans 8, which continues Paul’s argument from Romans 5, he further explains disorder and suffering in the world. He begins by noting that believers are sons of God and joint-heirs with Christ, joined with Him both in suffering and in expecting glorification (16-17). The sufferings, he explains, are far less significant than the eventual glory (18). Paul then uses a conjunction that links human suffering to the futility of the created order (19), observing that creation is presently in slavery to decay (20-21). This slavery is not something that creation chose for itself; rather, decay was imposed upon it (20). The result is that the whole created order has been groaning and suffering in labor-like pains ever since (22). As part of this general decay, human beings, including believers, also experience groaning (23). Both human suffering and the suffering of creation in general will continue until believers are manifested as God’s children and adopted sons, an event that will occur at the redemption of their bodies—a clear reference to their bodily resurrection (21, 23).

Romans 8 and Romans 5 have to be taken together. First, Romans 5:12 links human suffering and death to Adam’s original sin. Then Romans 8 teaches that human suffering and “natural” suffering (i.e., the suffering of the created order) are tied together. These notions form a single, biblical idea that matches the picture in Genesis 3, namely, that Adam’s sin brought death and its brood upon both humankind and the created order.

Furthermore, Romans 5 specifies the reason that all humans (even those who are apparently innocent) suffer for Adam’s sin. Paul’s purpose in these verses is to discover the extent of human sinfulness. He reasons that, since death is the consequence of sin, the presence of death marks people as sinners. Given that all people die (an observable fact) he infers that all sinned (Rom. 5:12). Paul confirms this inference later in his discussion: the “many” (i.e., the entire human race) were constituted sinners by the disobedience of one human being (Rom. 5:19).

In other words, the reason that all people die is not simply because Adam sinned, but because they somehow participated in his sin. Theologians explain this participation in different ways. According to those who hold the theory of federal headship, Adam stood as the representative of the entire human race. While I do not object to this explanation as far as it goes, I believe a more complete one is available.

According to those who hold the theory of natural headship, Adam actually stood as the race itself. Natural headship takes a bit of explaining. At the present moment (mid-2019), the human race comprises nearly eight billion individuals. When I was born (1955) it included fewer than three billion. In 1800 the human race was still numbered in millions rather than billions. If we could trace the numbers we would find a time when the race was numbered in the thousands, and before that in the hundreds, and before that in the dozens. If we go far enough back, the entire human race consisted of only one individual. At that point, Adam was not only an individual person: he actually constituted the human race. Accordingly, when Adam sinned, the human race sinned, not as individual persons (except for Eve) but as a race.

Consequently, all who derive their life from Adam are already guilty of Adam’s sin, because they participated in the sin of the race. That is why Paul does not say that “all sin,” in the present tense (Rom. 5:12). He says that “all sinned,” with the past tense pointing back to Adam’s original transgression. In some sense Adam’s transgression was also ours. We sinned when he sinned. We all share the guilt of the human race. Because all humans participate in Adam’s guilt, they also suffer the consequences—even if they have never committed any act of personal transgression.

The inescapable teaching of Scripture is that even babies are sinners who participate in Adam’s guilt. Even though they are not yet capable of personal, moral choices, they are already sinners. They do not become sinners when they commit sins; on the contrary, they commit sins (if and when they reach a point of moral agency) because they are already sinners. We know this because babies die, and death only entered the world through sin. Whoever dies bears the guilt of sin.

Natural headship best accounts for the language of Romans 5:12, 18-19. It also makes the best sense, given that God’s breath of life was breathed only into Adam, and not into Eve or any of their descendants. The human race is not simply a collection of individuals. It is the continuation of the life given to Adam, which is shared with all who derive their life from him. Everyone whose life comes from Adam must necessarily be a sinner and thus inherits death and its brood.

The death penalty that came upon us in Adam involved more than physical death and suffering. It also involved alienation from and eventual condemnation by God—penalties that we often refer to as “spiritual death” and “eternal death.” The race-wide distribution of death creates a problem, however. If infants die because they are guilty of Adamic sin, then we must ask whether that guilt also condemns them to eternal separation from God. I’m not going to leave that question unanswered—but it will take a separate essay to address it.

This essay is by Kevin T. Bauder, Research Professor of Historical and Systematic Theology at Central Baptist Theological Seminary. Not every one of the professors, students, or alumni of Central Seminary necessarily agrees with every opinion that it expresses.

Lord, at Thy Feet We Sinners Lie

Simon Browne (1680–1732)

Lord, at Thy feet we sinners lie,
And knock at mercy’s door:
With heavy heart and downcast eye,
Thy favor we implore.

On us, the vast extent display
Of Thy forgiving love;
Take all our heinous guilt away;
This heavy load remove.

‘Tis mercy—mercy we implore;
We would Thy pity move;
Thy grace is an exhaustless store,
And Thou Thyself art Love.

Oh! for Thine own, for Jesus’ sake,
Our numerous sins forgive;
Thy grace our rocky hearts can break,
Our breaking hearts relieve.

Thus melt us down, thus make us bend,
And Thy dominion own;
Nor let a rival dare pretend
To repossess Thy throne.