Theology Central

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.

God did not create human beings to suffer or die. Nothing in the Bible teaches that pain had any place in the world God made. God fashioned humanity, both male and female, as part of His good creation. He gave them His blessing. He put them in a place of shelter and provision. He understood and provided everything that was good for them.

In return, He required only one thing: that Adam, and later Eve, would not eat of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and bad. Why this restriction? Surely not because anything was wrong with the tree or its fruit! The Bible observes that, “the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise” (Gen 3:6). No, the problem lay in the meaning of the eating. For Adam to eat of the fruit of the tree would signify that he was rejecting God’s judgment of the good and seizing the right to judge what was good (or bad) for himself. For Adam to seize this right could only mean that he saw the Creator as untrustworthy. It would constitute a declaration of independence from the true and living God.

God is the source of all life. Anything that lives derives its life from Him. To declare independence of the Creator is to separate one’s self from life. No wonder that God warned that the penalty for disobedience would be death. God’s threat was no curmudgeonly wish to deny Adam a legitimate pleasure. Instead, it was fair warning against a penalty that would be both a judicial condemnation for and a natural consequence of Adam’s disobedience.

In the end, Adam and Eve allowed the whisperings of the tempter to outweigh the command of God. They ate the fruit, expecting to become wise and to know good and bad for themselves. It was a wretched choice. They gained nothing good. The only part of the tempter’s promises that they actually experienced was a direct and personal knowledge of the bad.

Every aspect of their being was corrupted by their choice. They could no longer enjoy direct and easy communion with God; instead, they fled from His presence (Gen 3:7-11). They began to view each other as competitors, leading to suspicion and the potential for abuse (Gen 3:12, 16). With the sentence of death arose the beginning of human pain (Gen 3:15-16). The created order was cursed and altered so that it no longer functioned according to its intended purpose; a destructive element was introduced (Gen 3:17-18). Sorrow, pain, and hard labor became part of the human experience (Gen 3:17-18).

A couple of conclusions can be drawn from Genesis 3. First, the death penalty that God pronounced upon Adam worked at more than one level. The sentence clearly involved more than the death of the body. The judgment of Genesis 3 weaves several concepts together. These include alienation from God, alienation between humans, the corruption of human moral nature, the disordering of the created world, and the introduction of suffering and hard labor to human experience.

Second, all of these calamities began with the fall. None of them existed before that time. All were imposed because of Adam’s sin. They were either the penalty for or the outgrowth of human disobedience. If Adam had not eaten the fruit, then none of these bad things would have happened. Creation would not have been spoiled. We would not grow jealous or suspicious. We would never see each other as enemies. We would not experience grief, pain, hardship, or death. Most of all, we would enjoy God’s blessing as we walked with him in transparent trust.

The moralistic principle, which sees every calamity as the result of specific sin, is mistaken and unbiblical. The Bible does not permit us to infer that those who suffer are necessarily being punished for vice, just as it does not permit us to infer that those who rejoice are necessarily being rewarded for virtue. Some people (infants, for example) experience pain and death, even though they have never committed any personal sins. Neither prosperity nor suffering is proportioned to present righteousness.

On April 12, 2019, Emmanuel Deshawn Aranda seized a five-year-old boy—a perfect stranger—and threw him from a third-story balcony at the Mall of America. By his own admission Aranda intended to murder the child, who suffered broken arms and legs in addition to massive head trauma. Amazingly, the boy survived. When we ask why a child should have to endure such horrors, one of the crassest possible answers is that he was somehow a worse person than his assailant. This child was not being punished for his sins.

Even so, every instance of human suffering stems from Adam’s wretched choice. Adam’s revolt was what made Emmanuel Aranda’s hate possible. It was what brought pain into the world, from the garden of Eden all the way down to the Mall of America. Every bit of human trauma, anxiety, contempt, alienation, grief, torment, and death can be traced to that fateful choice. We suffer because our first father brought sin into the world, and with sin came death.

If we are at all thoughtful we have to ask, “How can this be fair? How can God force all humans to suffer because of something (however wrong) that Adam did?” The writers of the Bible were aware of that question. The Bible provides the answer.

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.

Backward with Humble Shame We Look

Isaac Watts (1674–1748)

Backward with humble shame we look,
On our original;
How is our nature dash’d and broke
In our first father’s fall!

To all that’s good, averse and blind,
But prone to all that’s ill;
What dreadful darkness veils our mind!
How obstinate our will!

How strong in our degenerate blood,
The old corruption reigns,
And, mingling with the crooked flood,
Wanders through all our veins!

Wild and unwholesome as the root
Will all the branches be;
How can we hope for living fruit
From such a deadly tree?

What mortal power from things unclean,
Can pure productions bring?
Who can command a vital stream
From an infected spring?

Yet, mighty God, thy wondrous love
Can make our nature clean,
While Christ and grace prevail above
The tempter, death, and sin.

The second Adam shall restore
The ruins of the first,
Hosanna to that sovereign power
That new-creates our dust!

Human suffering is universal. We all feel pain. We ought to expect it, but usually we don’t. When suffering intrudes, we default to self-pity. Rather than saying, “It’s my turn,” we ask, “Why me?”

Perhaps we ought to remember why people suffer at all. We should recall that God did not hardwire our affliction into the original creation. The early chapters of Genesis include two accounts of creation, the second of which retells a part of the story from the first. In the first narrative (Gen 1:1-2:4) God creates the entire world in six days, resting on the seventh. As He creates, he repeatedly pronounces His creation to be good (Gen 1:4, 10, 12, 18, 21, 25, 31). The seventh time He pronounces it very good (Gen 1:31). This sevenfold declaration underlines the goodness of creation in its completeness and perfection.

In this context, the word good (Hebrew tov) has the idea of useful or beneficial. The goodness of the created world consisted in its utility. Of course, God did not need to tell time by sun, moon, and stars (Gen 1:14-19). God did not need to eat fruit, seeds, and leafy green vegetables (Gen 1:29-30). Who did need these things? The answer is that humans, the apex of God’s creation, did. God made a world in which humans could thrive.

Furthermore, God placed His blessing upon the human race (Gen 1:28). Under God’s blessing humans were meant to be fruitful, to multiply and fill the earth, to subdue it (a strong term, as its use in Esther 7:8 shows) and to rule over God’s creation in the world. Just as God had ordered creation previously, humans made in God’s image were to continue bringing order to the created world.

In this good creation, under God’s blessing, the human relationship to God was fundamentally one of trust. Humans did not decide what was good. God did. That is the theme upon which the second creation account expands (Gen. 2:5-24). God created the man and placed him in a garden—a place of shelter and beauty. God furnished the garden with plants and fruit trees. The man was given permission to eat of the fruit of any tree except one: the tree of the knowledge of good and bad (Gen 2:16-17).

Undoubtedly this was a real tree, with leaves, bark, and fruit that could be touched and tasted. It was not a magic tree that would somehow poison the soul. It was, however, a symbolic tree, as its name indicates. It stands for knowing good and bad. Up to this point in the story, only God had said what was good. The man simply received what God knew to be good. For Adam to eat of the fruit of the tree would represent his decision to “know” or determine good and bad for himself. That would be a rejection of the creator’s evaluation of the good in favor of Adam’s own understanding.

In other words, for Adam to eat of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and bad would, in effect, be to declare his independence of God. This act was the worst thing imaginable. It would certainly entail a rejection of God’s good gifts. Worse, it would involve a fundamental distrust of either the Creator’s ability to discern or willingness to provide the good. As an act of distrust, it would indict the very character of God.

God announced that the penalty for transgression was death. The phrase “you shall surely die” does not mean that Adam would die the instant he ate. Rather, it is a Hebrew idiom indicating that Adam would immediately come under sentence of death. How could it be otherwise? God is the source of life. To declare independence of God is to declare independence of life. Death is the only possible result.

The critical question posed by the tree, and by Adam’s probation, is quite simple: Is the Creator trustworthy? Can He be trusted to know and provide what is good? In answer to this question, God for the first time announced that something is not good. Specifically, it was not good for the man to be alone (Gen 2:18). Consequently, God determined to provide the good. First, however, he had to make Adam aware of the deficiency.

God taught Adam this lesson by making some animals and inviting Adam to engage in an exercise of comparative taxonomy (Gen 2:19). As Adam classified the animals he had to compare and contrast them; in the process he must inevitably insert himself into those comparisons and contrasts. As a result, Adam became aware of his own alone-ness. He could find no helper “like him” (Gen 2:20).

At this point God placed the man in a deep sleep, removed a rib, and fashioned it into a woman (Gen 2:21-22). Interestingly, God did not breathe into her the breath of life. Evidently she received her life, not directly from God, but through the man. Humanity is not merely a collection of similar individuals; it is one race enlivened by one life principle. Each individual human being is born as an instance of the same unifying life principle that God first breathed into Adam.

Adam should have understood that the Creator was trustworthy. When God brought the woman to him, his response was to utter the first poem that any human ever composed (Gen 2:23):

This is now bone of my bones,
And flesh of my flesh:
She shall be called Woman,
Because she was taken out of Man.

These words recognize the excellence of the Creator’s gift. Knowing that something was not good,

God made Adam aware of the deficiency. Then God supplied the good in a way and to a degree that Adam could never have imagined. Adam should have known that the Creator could be trusted.

That is the truth that helps to understand how serious the events of Genesis 3 actually were. In the fall, Adam did more than to eat a piece of fruit (though he certainly did that). At a deeper level, he attacked the trustworthy character of the Creator and came under the promised condemnation. The significance of that condemnation, however, will require further explanation.

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.

Praise to Thee, Thou Great Creator

John Fawcett (1740–1817)

Praise to thee, thou great Creator;
Praise be thine from every tongue;
Join, my soul, with every creature,
Join the universal song.

Father, source of all compassion,
Free, unbounded grace is thine:
Hail the God of our salvation:
Praise him for his love divine.

For ten thousand blessings given,
For the hope of future joy,
Sound his praise through earth and heaven,
Sound Jehovah’s praise on high.

Joyfully on earth adore him,
Till in heaven our song we raise;
There, enraptured, fall before him,
Lost in wonder, love, and praise.

Last week I began a brief series here in parallel to Kevin Bauder’s “Growing Up Fundamentalist.” Kevin showed how his early interaction with fundamentalism was healthy and uplifting. My early exposure and experience entering into fundamentalism was equally healthy, though I entered into the movement, if it can even be called one, in my late teens. I had scarcely heard of fundamentalism before I went to Bob Jones University. I studied at BJU not because it was a fundamentalist school but because I met a young man who loved God and had a major discipleship role in my life. His purpose was not to make me a fundamentalist but to help me in my personal journey to become a thriving believer. His emphases were not on externals—forms of music, clothing styles, Bible versions, or social taboos. He emphasized a love for God and a commitment to serve Him. He modeled true Christianity to me and was someone I wanted to be like.

In a similar fashion, many of those whom I subsequently met in my days in college were equally interested in my personal growth in godliness. From fellow students to University professors and staff members, God placed men and women in my path to help shape me and direct me into His service. I had many positive experiences at this part of my journey and there were many who helped me along the way. But there were a few challenges. Those who know my story may be tempted to suggest that I am only telling half the story. Indeed, there were some hard relationships and some difficult interactions, but before I say a word about those, let me commend several other individuals who helped on my spiritual pilgrimage.

Perhaps the most influential professor I had at BJU was Mike. I took him for more hours (19 as I recall) than any other professor. He taught me second year Greek, first year Hebrew, Aramaic, and Advanced Old Testament (I took it the only year he taught it!). He had a way of saying things that stuck with me, like saying that he would not make us memorize the sixteen uses of the genitive in Greek. His wife could do that and she didn’t know Greek. One day in Hebrew, someone was laboring over a Hebrew dagesh (a small part of a letter). Mike said off the cuff “Don’t sweat the dagesh!” That became for me a handy phrase when I was struggling—don’t sweat the small stuff!

Our Hebrew exams in his class were brutal. A score of 35% might be a B+. After one particularly difficult exam he told us his rationale—“I don’t want to know what you know. I want to know what you don’t know!” Finally, I remember a lecture he gave: “The Nature of the D-Stem in Semitic Languages.” I was in his class the only time he ever gave that lecture. So why am I telling you all of this? Because Mike left a mark on my life that abides to this day. He was a great professor with an engaging manner who gave his students a desire to learn difficult things. As an historian, I don’t keep up with some of what Mike taught me so long ago. My own academic interests lie elsewhere than the biblical languages. I cannot know everything. But this is no reflection on Mike. I hope I can have the same kind of influence on my students that he had on me.

Then there was Jesse. I tremble even calling him by that name. Perhaps I should say Mr. Boyd. He modeled Bible exposition in a way I had never heard. His preaching and teaching was substantive and rich. I grew much under his teaching and I was grateful for the hours I spent attending his church on Sunday nights.

I should also mention Fred. He ran the dining hall during my later years. I worked there three of my four years at BJU so I knew the people there well. Fred was a friend and mentor to me. He rebuked me when it was needed, laughed with me, and encouraged me. Near the end of my journey, I said something I shouldn’t have said but he instructed me and helped me. Thanks, Fred, for your role in my life also.

One last man I wish to thank is Doug, who sixteen years ago took a chance and hired me to teach at Central. I am about to complete my fifteenth year here. Thanks, Doug, for your ministry in my life. You are a blessing indeed.

Life is about sanctification, becoming more like the Lord Jesus. Not every relationship in life is pleasant. Sometimes interactions with people go awry. Sometimes these sour experiences were my fault and sometimes not. I learned valuable lessons even in these hard things. What is happening in us is more important than what is happening to us. Sure, people do wrong. I did and so did others. There are two ways to respond—biblically and otherwise. I wish I could say I always acted in a biblical manner. Such is not the case. But as I look back over these experiences, they were not the fault of nasty fundamentalism. They were the result of sinners sinning. Sadly, we sin against each other, and that sin causes disruption. However, even in the disruption, God is still on the throne.

A verse that has come to mean a great deal to me down through the years is Philippians 1:6. “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion.” There is a well-known story of Franz Schubert’s Symphony No.8 in B Minor, commonly called the “Unfinished Symphony” because he started it in 1822, lived six additional years, but left only two complete movements of the four typical of symphonies. Scholars debate the whys of Schubert’s incomplete work, but it stands out as an incomplete musical legacy.

With the child of God, the Father never leaves His work unfinished in our lives. He will do a good (perfect) work in us and we will be brought into greater conformity to Christ in preparation for eternity. Those professing believers who do not exhibit the sanctifying work of God should be concerned about their eternal destiny. God will complete what He starts. In some of my difficult situations with others, I was being sanctified. God allowed certain things to happen. He even allowed me to be wronged that I might be sanctified. My duty in those situations was to learn to respond in a biblical fashion. Did I always? No. But God was orchestrating my life to conform me into His image. Sure, there were men who sinned against me who happened to be fundamentalists. And I sinned against them, despite being a fundamentalist.

This is a sin problem, not a problem of fundamentalism.

I have met many fine men in the movement called fundamentalism. Most good, some flawed. I found fundamentalism to be filled with good and godly men and women who have stood with me, prayed for me, rebuked me, and encouraged me as I have made my forty-five-year journey. I did not grow up in fundamentalism. But I have no problem being associated with those whom God has brought into my life these past forty-five years. 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.

‘Tis Finished! The Messiah Dies

Charles Wesley (1707–1788)

‘Tis finished! the Messiah dies, 
cut off for sins, but not his own. 
Accomplished is the sacrifice, 
the great redeeming work is done. 

The veil is rent; in Christ alone 
the living way to heaven is seen; 
the middle wall is broken down, 
and all the world may enter in. 

‘Tis finished! All my guilt and pain, 
I want no sacrifice beside; 
for me, for me the Lamb is slain; 
‘tis finished! I am justified. 

The reign of sin and death is o’er, 
and all may live from sin set free; 
Satan hath lost his mortal power; 
‘tis swallowed up in victory. 

In recent weeks, my colleague Kevin Bauder has written a series reflecting on the fundamentalism of his youth. He expressed gratitude for those who he knew in his early life and their influence upon his future ministry.  His exposure to fundamentalism happened early and was pretty good.

This got me thinking about my journey of not growing up in fundamentalism—actually, of not growing up in a Christian home at all. We were Christmas and Easter Christians. Oh yes, and I was an altar boy for a while as a kid, around the time of my confirmation as an Anglican. But I really remember little of my religious life before I was exposed to fundamentalism in my later teen years. My parents separated when I was fifteen and shortly thereafter my father died. I was living with him when he died and I returned to live with my mother, which was not a positive experience. I was placed in foster care and soon moved from Oregon to Georgia to live with my dad’s brother. I occasionally attended his Presbyterian church (I am unsure of the group to which it belonged) but I was little impressed with it. A neighbor invited me to a Southern Baptist church near where I lived. It was into this church that I was baptized. The church was a warm, loving group of people, but soon I was attending a youth Friday night Bible study at another church. It was there as a junior in high school that I met a freshman, Becky, whose mother was a youth leader. Soon I was attending the larger SBC church with the active youth program.

I needed to find a different place to live as my uncle felt I was an unwholesome influence on his young children. He was right: I badly needed discipleship and mentoring. I was sent to a private college prep school in Rome, Georgia, where I graduated from high school and became attached to the family of a Christian man at this larger SBC church. Becky was dating Tommy, a boy about my age and member of the family.

When I came home for Christmas, I met an independent Baptist pastor from Indiana who was starting a youth camp. His philosophy was that “it is easier to build boys and girls than to repair men and women.” He allowed me to come and work at the camp for the summer. I quit smoking on the Greyhound bus headed to Indiana. At that camp, I met JD, a physical education major at Bob Jones University. I had never heard of the place. JD loved the Lord and had a zeal for God that was impressive for a young man. He became a mentor and a friend to me.

He also took me to a summer banquet in Indianapolis where I met the president of BJU, Bob Jones III. I had been planning to go to Auburn University to major in wildlife conservation, but after hearing him speak, I determined to attend BJU in the fall. When I told my SBC foster dad the good news, he told me I could not go and hung up the phone! When I was still committed to going after camp, he informed me that if I went, he would not support me. He was true to his word, financially at least. He said that BJU encouraged their men to lead their churches out of the SBC. Keep in mind, this was the summer of 1974, five years before the conservative resurgence in the SBC began. I had no idea what he was talking about.

As I prepared to go to college, Mr. C. took me to a clothing store to buy some clothes. I bought a couple of sport jackets (never having owned a suit nor even a jacket). He fussed at me for wasting my money. As it turned out, I needed a jacket for dinner! Seems you had to “dress up” for dinner at BJU. Remember, I had never visited there. I only knew one student, my friend JD. But I wanted what he had, and it seemed like BJU was the place to get it.

So now I had been around fundamentalists for the summer. As a busy camp worker, there was little time to appreciate my surroundings. As a student at BJU, things were different. We were told when to get up and when to go to bed. We could hang out with girls only in certain places on campus and at certain times. We couldn’t even talk to them after supper. Since there was only one pay phone on each dorm hall, we couldn’t call to the other side of campus either. The school wanted the phones kept free so parents could reach their students. No cell phones, texts messaging, or internet. How did we survive?

As a freshman at BJU, I met a wide assortment of men and women whom God would use to shape my life over the next six years. The man who hired me as a dishwasher in the dining hall was interested in my Christian life. Mr. Gillespie encouraged me and helped me navigate some of the University’s rules. It really was only the grace of God that I was not expelled in my early years, though I tried hard. I received 74 demerits my first semester and 60 my second! Stupid things on my part—cleaning my room, or lack thereof, tardiness to class, horseplay—who me? I once went back to bed after my hall leader came into the room to ensure we were up. He told me not to return to the bed, but I did anyway. I was tired. A roommate turned me in. He even timed me. I was back in bed for 20 extra minutes! Did my hall leader give me grief! But I deserved it! I was careless and needed correcting. I survived with no scars and I smile as I remember these days.

My university days were filled with lots of new experiences and new friends. I met men in the early days with whom I have served Christ and men who today are dear friends. We have walked together apart serving Christ. One dear brother I came to learn had been a drug dealer newly converted. We met in the weight room and became friends. Years later, he would invite me to Romania for my first overseas ministry. Because of this dear brother, I went on to earn a PhD and will soon complete my fifteenth year at Central. Thanks, Steve, for your influence!

There are many others like JD, Mr. Gillespie and Steve. I could speak of Mrs. Boyd, my French teacher who helped me discern the will of God to go to Canada and spent the summer on an Indian reserve. I had been accepted into a Baptist Mid-Missions missionary apprentice program and planned to go to France. I soon heard about a ministry team headed to Manitoba. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. In speaking of my plans to Mrs. Boyd, she gently suggested that my French was too rudimentary to be of much service that summer in France. I should wait until my skills were better before embarking on a summer ministry there. I heard her counsel and chose the Canadian ministry team. I would later return to that spot when the missionary I had worked with over the summer retired. It was the beginning of nearly twenty years of serving Christ in Canada! Thank you, Mrs. Boyd, for godly counsel!

I didn’t go to BJU because it was a fundamentalist school. I went there because I met a committed Christian whom I wanted to emulate. I did not hang out with people who were “defenders of the faith” though perhaps they were that too. I met men and women, some my age and others my teachers or supervisors, whom God used to help shape my life. “A man’s steps are ordered by the Lord” (Ps 37:23). In my case, the steps took me to Bob Jones University and into fundamentalism. Thank you, Lord, for your kind direction.

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.

Through Good Report and Evil, Lord

Horatius Bonar (1808–1889)

Through good report and evil, Lord,
Still guided by Thy faithful word,
Our staff, our buckler, and our sword,
We follow Thee.

In silence of the lonely night,
In the full glow of day’s clear light,
Through life’s strange windings, dark or bright,
We follow Thee.

Strengthened by Thee we forward go,
’Mid smile or scoff or friend or foe,
Through pain or ease, through joy or woe,
We follow Thee.

With enemies on every side,
We lean on Thee, the Crucified;
Forsaking all on earth beside,
We follow Thee.

O Master, point Thou out the way,
Nor suffer Thou our steps to stray;
Then in the path that leads to day,
We follow Thee.

Whom have we in the heaven above,
Whom on this earth, save Thee, to love?
Still in Thy love we onward move;
We follow Thee.

At the time my father enrolled in Bible college, few fundamentalist pastors went to seminary. That was beginning to change a decade later as I approached my senior year. Some of my professors were encouraging me toward seminary. One evening our church hosted a seminary president at a special event, and he took the time to talk to me about the process. He invited me to come visit his school. He also suggested that I think about a one-year Master of Arts program if I was uncertain about the three-year Master of Divinity. He was a sly old fox.

Debbie and I drove to Denver with her parents to visit the seminary. It was a small school, and classes weren’t in session. I had a chance to meet several professors, though, and was impressed by the personal interest they took in me. I was also impressed by their credentials and reputations.

Days after graduation Debbie and I left for Denver pulling all our goods behind my Chevy Nova in a twelve-foot trailer. The temperature was in the 90s, and the little 250 straight-six constantly threatened to overheat. That night we stopped west of Omaha and a cold front blew over us. The morning was chilly and rainy, and we had no more trouble. We pulled into our apartment in Denver (actually Thornton) that night, and the next morning we awoke to snow.

We quickly adjusted to life in Denver. That summer, three things happened to solidify my direction. First, I got a job with a security company, which left me time to read at work. I set myself to work through A. H. Strong’s Systematic Theology. It was an imposing work, over a thousand large pages of fine print supplemented by even finer print. It was the first serious theology with which I had tried to grapple. I found myself in a constant argument with Strong, underlining passages and looking up references. Sometimes he would convince me; other times not. By the end of the summer, however, I had begun to love the work of systematic theology.

Second, my father gave me a copy of Francis Schaeffer’s The God Who Is There as a graduation gift. While Schaeffer’s work has its weaknesses, I am indebted to him for two reasons. One was that he provided me with my first overview of Western intellectual history. The other was that his obvious interest in art, music, and philosophy gave me what I can only call permission. I’d always been drawn to the arts and humanities, but I had the impression that they were beneath the interests of serious Christians. I should be clear at this point—neither my parents, my churches, nor my college ever told me that. Numbers of my college professors would have been horrified at the suggestion. It was an inchoate impression that I’d picked up somehow, and Schaeffer dispelled it entirely.

Third, I struck up an acquaintance with two old college classmates who had gone on to get philosophy degrees from a state university. They brought me into a whole world of questions and discussions that I’d hardly known to exist. They fired my intellectual curiosity and furthered my resolve to take the life of the mind seriously.

One might think that a small, fundamentalist seminary would be a poor place for genuine intellectual growth, but it was exactly what I needed. Students and professors enjoyed more of a peer relationship than I had experienced in college. I was able to study both their intellectual intensity and their personal devotion. They did not all share the same intellectual interests, of course, but each set an example that challenged me to pursue his discipline to the best of my ability. Among them were individuals who read widely and thought deeply about the permanent questions, and they provided both stimulus and guidance.

Seminary also brought a widening circle of friendships. Not all seminary students have the same interests and abilities, so those friendships developed in different directions. Most important to me were the friends who, besides sharing exegetical and theological progress, stoked my interest in art, music, and philosophy.

More important than the intellectual growth of those years was the spiritual deepening. This progress came not so much from study as from the relationships that I enjoyed with my professors. The president, William Fusco, may have been the kindest man I have ever met, even though his wife was dying (and eventually did die) of a terrible disease. Faculty salaries were months in arrears; most of the professors had to work outside jobs, often doing menial work. I never heard them complain, but I did hear them cry out to God in moments of need. They always took time to give personal attention to their students. I was challenged by these examples and understood that God might well ask the same of me someday.

After earning my MDiv I stayed an additional year to work on a ThM. I was also given my first opportunity to teach—an experience that changed my direction in ministry. Two years later, the seminary closed its doors and the faculty was scattered. My diplomas may as well be made of rubber, and one school to which I applied for doctoral studies stated as much. For years I wondered whether I had really received a credible education.

Eventually I went on to complete both a DMin and a PhD from large, accredited seminaries. In those institutions I sat in class with graduates of most of the important seminaries and schools of divinity in this country. That was when I discovered that I was as well prepared for doctoral studies as any of my peers, no matter what schools they had attended. In fact, I was better prepared than most. Evidently it was possible to get a decent education at my little Bible college and seminary.

I graduated with my ThM in 1983, exactly ten years after leaving high school and nearly forty years ago. Now, decades later, I am still growing up. I am also still a fundamentalist. Completion of seminary, however, seems like a reasonable place to end this narrative. It is also the place to say a word about why I have written it, but that must wait for the next installment.

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 Zion’s Watchmen All Awake

Philip Doddridge (1702–1751)

Let Zion’s watchmen all awake,
And take the alarm they give;
Now let them from the mouth of God
Their solemn charge receive.

‘Tis not a cause of small import
The pastor’s care demands;
but what might fill and angel’s heart,
And filled a Savior’s hands.

They watch for souls, for which the Lord
Did heavenly bliss forgo;
For souls, which must forever live
In raptures, or in woe.

All to the great tribunal haste,
Th’ account to render there;
And should’st thou strictly mark our faults,
Lord, how should we appear?

May they that Jesus, whom they preach,
Their own Redeemer see;
And watch thou daily o’er their souls,
That they may watch for thee.

One of the rituals of life at Bible college was the daily chapel service. In chapel we heard preaching by local pastors and other Christian leaders. We sang hymns—usually better ones than the hymns I’d grown up singing. Part of chapel was also devoted to community life. Chapels were like student assemblies with announcements, skits, and congratulations for students who achieved some milestone.

Life in a Bible college was as varied as life in any college or university. We had concerts and recitals, speech and theater, intervarsity and intramural sports, a student paper. The food in the cafeteria was good. Unlike some Christian schools, relationships between male and female students were fairly relaxed; we could date whom we chose when we chose. We pretty well had the run of Des Moines, which offered plenty of interesting things to do.  

Besides these activities, the college hosted special events that focused on spiritual interests. Class schedules were modified for a week each semester as the college hosted a missionary conference in the fall and a Bible conference every spring. Most of the preaching at these events was well above average. Our own faculty and administration could offer outstanding exposition of Scripture.

All classes were taught from a Christian perspective. The history courses were largely church history. The classes in social studies reflected a biblical perspective on human nature. The course in ethics was geared toward establishing and defending biblical morality. Students seeking a bachelor of arts would take two years of biblical Greek.

In a Bible college, all students major in Bible. Our studies began with survey courses that covered both the entire biblical corpus and the entire system of doctrine. All students completed a class in biblical interpretation. More required courses focused on individual biblical books such as Genesis, Matthew, Acts, and Romans. Students could take many other biblical and theological electives.

This constant focus on biblical and doctrinal content was an important formative force in my life. Through my first year-and-a-half I tried to ignore it, but it pressed on me constantly. The teaching of my professors, the intensity of the spiritual conferences, and the daily routine of biblical preaching in chapel began to reshape my understanding of who I was and what mattered. Along with my roommate Dave’s example, this constant biblical teaching helped to bring about that mid-sophomore-year renewal of long-neglected dedication.

At that point my whole perspective changed. The primary emphasis on our campus no longer seemed to be one of denial, but of opportunity. Ours was a small school in which faculty, students, and administrators knew each other personally. I saw that the president, the professors, and others were serving at considerable personal sacrifice. Furthermore, they were on my side. They were not there to repress me, but to help me succeed.

I had said that I would start giving back. The next day I heard a chapel announcement that one of the school’s theater troupes had lost an actor and was looking for a replacement. Theater was right down my alley, so I tried out and got the part. I spent the second semester traveling with that group. We performed in high schools and churches from Ohio to the Rockies. It was the first time as an adult that I actually tried to do something just to serve the Lord.

The experience was wonderful, and I don’t mean from a thespian point of view (I’d been in better productions in high school). What was different was the sense of mission and camaraderie shared by the actors and crew. Those people became my friends, and the friendships were different in quality from any I’d experienced before. One young woman became a special friend. I took her to the spring formal that year. After she graduated, we kept up a relationship through the summer. At the end of the summer she agreed to become my wife.

Early in my junior year I learned that an old injury had been improperly treated and was going to require surgery. About halfway through the first semester I dropped out of school. By that time, my wife-to-be had been offered a staff position at our college. I took a daytime job and did not return to school again for more than a year.

When Debbie and I were married, I had no sense of vocation at all. I was working full-time in an auto parts warehouse. That was definitely not my calling. An insurance agent tried to recruit me to sell insurance. A chiropractor tried to convince me to go into his field. Nothing seemed right.

During that time Debbie and I began working with the young people in my father’s church. Teaching the Bible just seemed to fit. Preaching felt natural to me. I had never really considered the ministry, and I had a list of reasons that I thought I wouldn’t do well. Over the next year, however, the Lord put me in positions in which every one of those reasons was tested—and collapsed. One day Dave even encouraged me to think about the pastorate.

Over these months I began to sense that ministry should be my life’s work. To this point, however, I had said nothing to Debbie. I brought the subject up over dinner one evening: “What would you say if I told you I thought the Lord was leading me to be a preacher?” She replied that she had seen this coming and that she fully supported me. That was that. I knew what I was going to do.

Of course, this decision meant returning to Bible college. I started with a single course, a night class on Psalms. This was the first time I’d taken a class really wanting to learn the Bible. The book of Psalms just seemed to come alive. Studying the compositions of David and Asaph was not a chore; it was a delight.

Next fall I was back full time. The first morning that I stepped on campus one of my old professors saw me crossing the parking lot. He looked me up and down, grinned, and said, “I knew you’d be back.”

Perhaps the most formative course that I took was a summer class on the history of fundamentalism. This was the first time I had heard any sustained description of fundamentalism, either as an idea or as a movement. The professor didn’t try to sugar-coat anything. He was frank about the problems in fundamentalism, but he was also clear about what fundamentalism was. I entered the class doubting that I would ever be a fundamentalist. I left the class knowing that I already was one.

The next two years flew past. Debbie and I lived in the small town where I’d spent my high school years. After my father moved to a different state, we became members of the formerly-Presbyterian church he had pastored. We formed new friendships and learned new life lessons. Along the way I wrote a paper or two that impressed my professors, and they began to encourage me toward seminary. Though a married man, I was still growing up fundamentalist.

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 Worldly Minds the World Pursue

John Newton (1725–1807)

Let worldly minds the world pursue,
It has no charms for me;
Once I admired its trifles too,
But grace has set me free.

Its pleasures now no longer please,
No more content afford;
Far from my heart be joys like these;
Now I have seen the Lord.

As by the light of opening day
The stars are all concealed;
So earthly pleasures fade away,
When Jesus is revealed.

Creatures no more divide my choice,
I bid them all depart;
His name, and love, and gracious voice,
Have fixed my roving heart.

Now, Lord, I would be Thine alone,
And wholly live to Thee;
But may I hope that Thou wilt own
A worthless worm, like me?

Yes! though of sinners I’m the worst,
I cannot doubt Thy will;
For if Thou hadst not loved me first
I had refused Thee still.

My parents always stressed the importance of college education. My father actually modeled his commitment to higher education by going to college during my teen years. He graduated the same spring that I graduated from high school.

As commencement drew near, the question was not whether I would attend college, but where and how. The how was a matter of finances. Neither I nor my parents had money. My grades weren’t good enough to earn a scholarship (I actually graduated in the lower half of my class). The idea of paying for college loomed as a huge, intimidating barrier.

I’ve mentioned that my mother ran the bookstore at my father’s Bible college. One of her perquisites was that I was granted free tuition. An added bonus was that I could continue to live at home. Effectively, the where was decided by the how. That fall I enrolled at the same college.

In January my father moved to a new ministry. I had to move into the dorms and pay tuition like everybody else. It was probably the best thing that could have happened to me, but at the beginning I hated it. Besides having to make the usual adjustments to dorm life, I found that the college’s rules were rather stricter than my parents’ household rules had been. They weren’t as bad as some institutions I’d heard about, but they were still strict enough that I found them onerous.

On the other hand, my roommates were not stereotypical Bible thumpers. Three had transferred from state universities. One was just out of the Army. After he was discharged in Panama, he rode his Honda 350SL up the Pan American Highway until he blew the engine in Kansas City. We rebuilt the bike in our dorm room that spring—surreptitiously, because motorcycles were against the rules.

My roommates were a riddle to me. On the one hand, they were serious about spiritual things in a way that I was not. On the other hand, they weren’t exactly pietists. They had seen more of life than I had, they knew what they liked, and they weren’t averse to skirting institutional regulations to enjoy themselves. I found myself drawn to that side of their character. I still wasn’t what most people would think of as a bad kid—I still didn’t drink or do drugs or even go to movie theaters (which were strictly forbidden by fundamentalists of that era). But I did like to have a good time, and I didn’t really care whether I broke a few rules doing it. My grades, never very good, plummeted.

After our freshman year, two of my roommates left the school and a third went in a different direction. I continued to room with Dave, the guy who rode his motorcycle up from Panama. He was about five years older than me, which seemed like a lot at that age. He took it upon himself to tutor me in a kind of quasi-countercultural masculine maturity. Dave taught me about motorcycles, stylish clothes, big stereos (he introduced me to Yes and to King Crimson), and revolvers (Dave had one in our dorm room—naturally against regulations).

Oddly enough, it was also Dave who showed me again the importance of spiritual things. He read his Bible like he expected to hear from God. When he prayed, his prayers were not just forms like mine were. Dave was genuinely trying to grow in his walk with God. As his roommate I saw the struggles through which he passed. As these unfolded, I perceived that some of them were the result of Dave’s past sins. I began to understand that sin produces consequences in one’s life. I also saw that my own sins, particularly my rejection of authority, were beginning to produce consequences in my own life.

I received a particularly rude shock when our residence advisor (the student leader of our dorm) challenged me about the negative results of my attitudes and actions. I’d had conversations like this with others (including the dean) and remained unmoved. Mark, however, was from the church in this college town—the church I had joined at thirteen and where I judged the young people to be indifferent toward spiritual things. Mark and I had been in the junior high youth group together. It was jarring to realize that his commitment to the things of the Lord exceeded my own.

To this day I insist that some of the rules at my little college were silly and unnecessary. Some of them, however, were designed to protect us from spiritual influences that really did have the potential to hinder our wellbeing. Others were intended to keep immature college students from hurting each other while they were trying to grow up. I saw that some of my choices really were hurting other people—perhaps only in small ways, but the hurts were real. Furthermore, I began to grasp that simply living life to have fun was not going to produce much fulfillment in the long run. For the first time in a long time I took a good look at myself, and I did not like what I saw myself becoming.

The result was a change of direction during the middle of my sophomore year. At that time I remembered the price that Christ had paid to save me. I recalled that I had once promised my life to Him, and I recognized that I had been neglecting that promise for years. In fact, I began to see myself as something as a leech on the system. Godly men and women had built my college to prepare young people for future ministry, but at this point I had no intention of serving the Lord. In fact, I really had no idea what it would even look like to serve Him.

This was a turning point. I chose to renew the commitments that I had made years before, and to renew them in the following terms. (1) I had no idea what the Lord might wish to do with me; I really had no sense of calling at all. (2) I was willing to allow God to direct me in my future choices, including big ones like vocation and marriage. (3) Rather than simply freeloading on the system, I would look for ways to give something back, to make my school better, and to make life better for the people around me. (4) While a student, I would no longer try to judge which institutional rules ought to be kept, but would do my best to keep them all, both in letter and in spirit.

From a theological perspective, I’m not fond of talk about rededications. Too often that talk betrays a seriously flawed understanding of the normal Christian life. Still, I admit that what happened to me in late 1974 does look suspiciously like a rededication. I did not walk down an aisle or make any sort of public demonstration. But the choices I made were real, and I began to put them into action immediately.

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, Thou Hast Won

John Newton (1725–1807)

Lord, Thou hast won, at length I yield,
My heart, by mighty grace compelled,
Surrenders all to Thee;
Against Thy terrors long I strove,
But who can stand against Thy love?
Love conquers even me.

All that a wretch could do, I tried,
Thy patience scorned, Thy power defied,
And trampled on Thy laws;
Scarcely Thy martyrs at the stake,
Could stand more steadfast for Thy sake,
Than I in Satan’s cause.

But since Thou hast Thy love revealed,
And shown my soul a pardon sealed,
I can resist no more:
Couldst Thou for such a sinner bleed?
Canst Thou for such a rebel plead?
I wonder and adore!

If Thou hadst bid Thy thunders roll,
And lightnings flash to blast my soul,
I still had stubborn been:
But mercy has my heart subdued,
A bleeding Savior I have viewed,
And now, I hate my sin.

Now, Lord, I would be Thine alone,
Come take possession of Thine own,
For Thou hast set me free;
Released from Satan’s hard command,
See all my powers waiting stand,
To be employed by Thee.

My will conformed to Thine would move,
On Thee my hope, desire, and love,
In fixed attention join;
My hands, my eyes, my ears, my tongue,
Have Satan’s servants been too long,
But now they shall be Thine.

And can I be the very same,
Who lately durst blaspheme Thy name,
And on Thy Gospel tread?
Surely each one, who hears my case,
Will praise Thee, and confess Thy grace
Invincible indeed!

During my childhood my father was a rising manager with a national airline. When I was thirteen, however, he moved us from Michigan to Iowa so he could attend Bible college. He continued to work for the airline, but he had to take a demotion to do it. It didn’t matter to him. He was convinced that God was calling him into pastoral ministry. When we left Michigan, our church presented both of my parents with leather-bound New Scofield Reference Bibles.

We moved into a home right across the street from the college my father would attend. We immediately joined the fundamental Baptist church in that college town. This church was much larger than our old one, and it had an entirely different atmosphere. Quite a few of the young people seemed uninterested in spiritual things. This was the heyday of the counterculture, and several of the church’s youth were more fascinated by the symbols and slogans of that generation than by spiritual priorities. I should add, however, that several of them did go on to serve the Lord as adults.

For a while my father taught the junior high boys’ Sunday school class. One Saturday he took us to the airport and let us more-or-less run wild in a Boeing 727. The seat cushions were attached with Velcro, which none of us had ever seen (or heard) before. We were fascinated by the ripping sound it made when we pulled the cushions off. For a while a dozen young teens ran down the aisle tearing off every seat cushion. Then Dad started the engines and taxied the plane around a bit. Needless to say, the airline industry has changed since then.

This congregation also gave me my first taste of church politics. There was a faction that wanted to fire the pastor. For a while things were pretty brittle. They contrived to get a vote of confidence, but a sizable majority voted for the pastor to stay. The minority left the church. Some of their children were among the least interested in the Bible or the things of God.

Overall, this church was not a happy experience for me. I was not a cool kid—in fact, I was a bit odd. I certainly didn’t fit in with the other teenagers in the church. Most of them were indifferent toward me and some were overtly hostile. For the first time, I found that I really hated going to church and especially to youth meetings.

Then my father took the pastorate of a tiny church in a nearby village. We moved from a suburban community to a country town of fewer than a thousand. The church was actually Presbyterian, but it could not find a Reformed pastor and so the people and elders promised to let my father preach Baptist doctrine. Over the next three years the church withdrew from its Presbyterian denomination, first becoming an independent Bible church, then a Baptist church. It also began to grow.

Now a sophomore in high school, I became (regrettably) more interested in extracurricular activities than in the things of the Lord. I wouldn’t have been judged a bad kid: I never drank, smoked, or did drugs, never got involved in promiscuity, never got into fights or vandalism, never shoplifted or drove recklessly. But my heart wandered from God. I knew that I was living to please myself and not Him. Band, chorus, journalism, football, and especially theater were what really mattered to me—those, and an unsaved girlfriend.

Still, having a father who was both a pastor and a Bible college student kept me close to the Bible and its teachings. What he learned in the classroom was discussed around the dinner table. It also became fodder for his preaching and teaching. Both church and family learned what he was learning.

During these years I also started to become aware of the broader fundamentalist and evangelical world. When my father accepted his first pastorate, the congregation was part of the Reformed Presbyterian Church, Evangelical Synod. This group had broken away from Carl McIntire during the 1950s. It was also the denomination of Francis Schaeffer and J. Oliver Buswell. In 1970 McIntire tried to take over the American Council of Christian Churches by forcing an illegal vote. News of McIntire’s antics was still reverberating when my father became a pastor.

Though it seems strange in retrospect, I had never thought of either myself or the churches in which I’d grown up as fundamentalist. McIntire gave me my first real impression of the fundamentalist movement—and he did not create a good one. The second impression, which wasn’t much better, was created when our church’s mail brought a pair of life-size cardboard cutouts of a balding man in a black suit. The accompanying letter gave his name as Lester Roloff. He ran a girls’ home in Texas, where he was fighting with the state. He sent the cutouts to remind us to pray for him and to send him money. I thought he looked frightening, and when I finally heard him on the radio my auditory assessment matched the visual impression.

While I was still a sophomore in high school, one of the big churches in Des Moines invited Frank Garlock to speak to a youth rally. Garlock taught music at Bob Jones University, and he wanted to convince us that rock and roll was bad. I had never listened to much music of any kind, so his lecture was probably my first real exposure to rock (he played Dylan, among others—and I don’t mean Dylan Thomas). Garlock also did something more: he took the time to explain what Tchaikovsky was doing musically in the last movement of his Fifth Symphony. If most of Garlock’s lecture was lost on me, I came away fascinated with the idea that music was a medium of communication. I wanted to hear more of that kind of music. I also wanted to hear more rock.

It was in my public high school rather than in my church that I began to hear rumors of still other fundamentalists. I heard about schools where young men and women weren’t allowed to touch or even converse. The word was that these colleges even built separate men’s and women’s sidewalks. Courting couples were required to be chaperoned. These institutions were supposed to be highly authoritarian, using demerit systems to expel students for even minor infractions of their numerous rules.

My dad’s school wasn’t like that. I was in a position to know. I delivered newspapers for two of the college’s presidents. One of the professors lived across the street from us for a while; another professor became one of my father’s closest friends. My mother ran the campus bookstore. I was on speaking terms with most of the faculty and administration. While I judged many of the students to be a bit odd, I never saw the kind of extremes that I heard rumored of other colleges. And that was good, because my options for colleges were pretty narrow. But more on that later.

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.

Strait the Gate

Benjamin Beddome (1717–1795)

Strait the gate, the way is narrow,
To the realms of endless bliss;
Sinful men and vain professors,
Self-deceived, the passage miss;
Rushing headlong,
Down they sink the dread abyss.

Sins and follies unforsaken,
All will end in deep despair;
Formal prayers are unvailing,
Fruitless is the worlding’s tear;
Small the number
Who to wisdom’s path repair.

Thou who art Thy people’s guardian,
Condescend my guide to be;
By Thy Spirit’s light unerring,
Let me Thy salvation see:
May I never
Miss the way that leads to Thee.