Theology Central

When I was thirteen, my father became convinced that the Lord was calling him to pastor. He moved our family across several states to attend Bible college. He took his first pastorate while he was still a student. That put me in a position to hear the week-by-week results of his classroom learning. I saw firsthand how preparation shapes ministry.

Dad graduated from college the same spring I graduated from high school. I then attended the same college, an invaluable help as the Lord led me into vocational ministry. During my junior year I wrote my first serious research paper. It was my first attempt to dig into the biblical text, deal with theological constructs, and put the ideas together. I loved the work.

After my professor read the paper, he suggested that I might want to think about seminary. I found myself drawn to the idea, but I didn’t want to wait to get into a real pastorate. That spring I met the president of a seminary in Colorado. He told me about his school’s one-year M.A. The program looked like it could satisfy my urge for further study without unduly delaying pastoral ministry. That summer I visited the seminary, then a year later moved to Denver to pursue the degree. I discovered that the level of instruction and mentorship was far beyond my college preparation. Within a week I knew that I wanted as much of it as I could get.

That fall I was called to a church as pastor of youth and music, a responsibility that I held through my M.Div. and Th.M. years. Then I taught briefly at the college affiliated with my seminary. My heart still leaned toward pastoral ministry, however, and after two years of teaching I took a full-time pastorate in Iowa.

This new ministry came with a greater weight of responsibility. I now had to answer for an entire church, establishing its direction and priorities. I discovered that one of a pastor’s greatest challenges is what his people think they know. Another is what they know they want. These two are connected. People who have been mistaught or untaught will want the wrong things, and they will expect their pastor to provide these things.

Some of my people had been mistaught. More than a few had accepted aberrant doctrines, or were living unruly lives, or were indulging disordered affections. What is more, this problem existed partly because the church’s previous leaders had either not seen fit to address it or because they had actually contributed to it. While trying to rectify these issues, I found myself asking, “How did we get here?” A large part of the answer was that some of the church’s leaders had been ineffective while others had been effective at the wrong things. In both instances, the core of the problem was a lack of adequate preparation.

I was not the only fundamentalist pastor in that community, but I am fairly sure that I was the only expository preacher. As I formed acquaintances with the other conservative pastors, I discovered that they didn’t think explaining scripture should be a significant pulpit activity. Most of them couldn’t do it anyway. One was a self-help guru. One was a feel-good motivational speaker. One was a screamer. But so far as I can remember, none helped their people to understand the Word of God. Furthermore, none seemed to have a clear idea of what the church was or what it was for. Most seemed convinced of two ideas: (1) the church’s duty was to attract the world, and (2) the way to do this was to be as much like the world as possible.

The same could be said of the preachers that my people were hearing on the radio or watching on television. These preachers were no help—they were part of the problem. So were the authors my people were reading. So was the larger evangelical network, including much of the fundamentalist network. All of these seemed to be conspiring to thwart New Testament Christianity. I didn’t want my people involved with this network. I wanted to protect them from it.

A few years later, while beginning doctoral studies in Dallas, I was treated to a year-long tour of Southern fundamentalism. My family and I visited church after church, hoping to find a congregation where whatever the pastor said for half-an-hour or forty-five minutes would have something to do with the text that he read before he began. We finally joined a church that almost met this minimal standard, only to discover that it was already disintegrating over issues of pastoral leadership.

When that church fell apart, we planted a new one. I found that the people who came to us (even the unbelievers) already had expectations about what a church ought to be, and these expectations were often unbiblical. We baptized a number of people during those years. Others came to us as refugees from other religious organizations that called themselves churches. Still others moved in from remote parts of the country. In every case, the ones who stayed were thirsty to hear the scriptures preached. Not much of that was going on around us.

I accepted my first pastoral charge in 1979. I did not become a seminary professor until 1998. Pastoral ministry convinced me that American Christianity has fallen on very hard times. The causes are multiple, but many of them come back to a common denominator. Most American pastors cannot understand the Bible for themselves. If they care at all, they rely on what others tell them it means. Their grasp of the system of faith is tenuous at best. Consequently, they cannot apply biblical principles to the challenges that arise in contemporary ministry. They cannot see how their theology ought to affect their philosophy of ministry, partly because they hardly have a theology to begin with. They are prey to every new trend and fad.

That is why I became convinced that preparation is the key. With rare exceptions pastors, even those with Bible college schooling, cannot learn what they need to know in less time than the traditional M.Div. offers. They need everything that the traditional curriculum includes—languages, hermeneutics, exegesis, biblical and systematic theology, counseling, preaching, and philosophy of ministry. They need to learn these disciplines from the right perspective. They need teachers who are skilled in their disciplines but who have spent years as pastors themselves. They need churches and seminaries working together to prepare them for the real challenges and choices of ministry.

I really would like to work myself out of a job. I love the idea of churches preparing their own future pastors. Nevertheless, I realize that most churches are years away from being able to offer everything that future pastors need. For now, the best alternative is a seminary under the oversight of a local church (or group of churches) that exists to assist local churches in equipping spiritual leaders for Christ-exalting biblical ministry. A young man who wishes to prepare for ministry should settle for no less.

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.

Round the Lord in Glory Seated

Richard Mant (1776–1848)

Round the Lord in glory seated, 
cherubim and seraphim
filled his temple, and repeated
each to each th’alternate hymn:
“Lord, Thy glory fills the heaven,
earth is with its fullness stored;
unto Thee be glory given,
Holy, holy, holy, Lord.”

Heav’n is still with glory ringing;
earth takes up the angels’ cry,
“Holy, holy, holy,” singing,
“Lord of hosts, the Lord Most High!”
“Lord, Thy glory fills the heaven,
earth is with its fullness stored;
unto Thee be glory given,
Holy, holy, holy, Lord.”

With His seraph-train before Him,
With His holy Church below,
thus conspire we to adore Him,
bid we thus our anthem flow: 
“Lord, Thy glory fills the heaven,
earth is with its fullness stored;
unto Thee be glory given,
Holy, holy, holy, Lord.”

Thus Thy glorious name confessing,
with Thine angel hosts we cry,
“Holy, holy, holy,” blessing
Thee, the Lord of Hosts Most High.
“Lord, Thy glory fills the heaven,
earth is with its fullness stored;
unto Thee be glory given,
Holy, holy, holy, Lord.”

Paul Greene was already into his mid-eighties before I met him. Our relationship remained distant and casual until I began to plant a church near Dallas, Texas. To my surprise Paul and his wife Mildred quickly identified with that small congregation, later becoming charter members of and pillars within the resulting church.

They had been married for nearly six decades. The two of them courted during the Great Depression, with Mildred working in Denver while Paul still lived in Texas. On Friday he would hop a freight train in Dallas, hobo his way to Denver, spend a day with Mildred, then hop another train back to Dallas to be home in time for work on Monday.

After marriage, both Greenes went into education. Mildred taught elementary school for forty years. Paul became a high school football coach, then eventually a principal. God gave them three children, one of whom became a pastor and evangelist.

The Greenes had a gift for encouraging people. I don’t mean simply that they encouraged their pastor, though they certainly did that. They were concerned for people whom they knew to be experiencing trials or who they knew had needs. Paul and Mildred could be counted on to seek these people out, to offer kind words and (as needed) tangible help, and to bolster sagging spirits.

That was partly because Paul was one of the most persistent and determined men I have ever known. I don’t mean that he was stubborn. The word stubborn connotes unreasonableness. Paul was an intelligent, thoughtful man who was always open to persuasion, but he was not a man who would allow obstacles to stand in his way. Once he decided that a thing was worth doing, he would keep after that thing until it was done. He simply did not quit, and he expected the same endurance from those around him. No circumstances, however bleak, could discourage him.

That mindset made him an irreplaceable member of the church planting team. After visiting our little congregation and becoming convinced that a new church was worth planting, he gave himself to the task. Sometimes the congregation lacked a meeting place. Sometimes it lacked resources. Sometimes it faced opposition or even betrayal. Whatever the challenge, Paul Greene would be part of the solution. He made it his mission to permit no discouragement within the church.

Paul also loved to fish, but given his age Mildred refused to let him take the boat out alone. Occasionally he would phone in an evening and ask, “Pastor, do you want to go fishing in the morning?” I always made it a point to accept. Fishing with Paul was an adventure. He knew every old bois d’arc snag in every lake around Dallas. We’d drop the boat in the water at dawn, then he’d be off from one drowned tree to the next. He didn’t just fish, he hunted the fish. And he caught them—enough of them that every year he would host the entire church to a fish fry, complete with his own hush puppies.

Those fishing trips were times when I got to know Paul, to hear his spiritual heartbeat. He would reminisce about the past. He would discuss the challenges of the present, whether for his family, himself, or his church. He would open his heart about his hopes and fears for the future. Those future concerns included his children and grandchildren. One son had a benign but debilitating brain tumor. The other had a proclivity to chase eccentric ideas and wild financial schemes—and that concerned Paul.

It also concerned me. That son was in ministry, and he exercised some influence over members of our church. At one point he tried to get us involved in the “unregistered church” movement, essentially a group of tax protesters. Another time he tried to get our church to “invest” its missions and building funds with a business that was doing arbitrage through offshore banks. Yet another time he encouraged us to donate our surplus budget to an outfit that was minting its own gold coins, assuring us that the mint would donate more than double the amount back to us within six months.

In every one of these connivances, Paul would seek me out and warn me against the scheme. He made it clear that he loved his son, but that he thought no good could come of such hare-brained stratagems. He worried that eventually these maneuvers would cause serious trouble.

That’s why a turn of conversation caught me by surprise one evening. Paul and I had been visiting about other things, when out of the blue he remarked that he had given his son five thousand dollars to invest in his latest obsession. To me, that was a huge sum. Astonished, I asked, “Do you think this one’s going to work?”

Paul replied, “No.”

“They why did you give him the money?” I asked.

“Well, he’s lost most of his own money on schemes like this, and it’s never taught him a thing. But I know he loves me. He’d never do anything that he thought would hurt me. I figure that if he loses my money—and lots of it—it might shake him up enough so he won’t listen to people like this anymore.”

Paul never told me what the result was. I do remember walking away thinking that this was an unusual demonstration of parental love. Here was a father who knew that his child was wrong, but who was willing to let himself bear the hurt so that his child could be made right. I’ve never forgotten it.

The last time I saw Paul and Mildred was when my wife and I stopped in to visit with them on our way through Dallas. We had been warned that he had Alzheimer’s, so we were prepared for the worst. Surprisingly, Paul knew who we were, even if what he said did not always make the best sense. Mildred was trying to protect him by carrying the conversation herself, but she needn’t have bothered. All we wanted was to offer encouragement to them as they had to us. We hoped to be a blessing even if only for a moment. To us, the time was not wasted.

Now they both are in heaven, and we will not see them again until death or the Rapture. Yet decades later, I still bear the marks of knowing Paul Greene. He was the man who showed me just how determined love can be.

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.

Hark! Ten Thousand Harps and Voices

Thomas Kelly (1769–1855)

Hark! ten thousand harps and voices
Sound the note of praise above;
Jesus reigns and heav’n rejoices,
Jesus reigns, the God of love.
See, He sits on yonder throne;
Jesus rules the world alone.
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

Sing how Jesus came from heaven,
How He bore the cross below,
How all pow’r to Him is given,
How He reigns in glory now.
‘Tis a great and endless theme—
O, ‘tis sweet to sing of Him.
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

King of glory, reign forever!
Thine an everlasting crown.
Nothing from Thy love shall sever
Those who Thou hast made Thine own:
Happy objects of Thy grace,
Destined to behold Thy face.
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

Savior, hasten Thine appearing;
Bring, O bring the glorious day,
When, the awful summons hearing,
Heav’n and earth shall pass away.
Then, with golden harps, we’ll sing,
“Glory, glory, to our King!”
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

(NOTE: This essay first appeared in August of 2016 under a different title. It is reprinted here because of the contribution it makes to the topic.)

Every once in a while, God sends a person into our lives whom He uses as a means of grace. A person like that is more than an acquaintance, more than a friend. By their mere presence such individuals show us that God is working in our behalf. They spur us toward greater sanctification and service. They change us, often without our even realizing it. Later on we can look back on such acquaintances and see ways in which God specifically used them.

Beach Whitson was that kind of person in my life. Actually, Beach was his middle name. His first name was Fred, but during the time I was his pastor I never heard anybody call him that. Beach and his wife Chloye were sent into my life at a challenging moment. I was, as it were, sojourning in Egypt, held captive in Babylon, doubting whether I would ever return to vocational ministry. In a very black moment, Beach was the one who said, “Brother Bauder, if you ever decide to start a church, would you please let us know?”

Not long after, the church that we were both attending simply disintegrated. I was left pondering what to do next. In the absence of any alternatives, I decided that the Lord wanted me to plant a church—and that is when I remembered Beach’s request. I could not possibly have envisioned then what the Lord was about to do.

Beach was in his seventies when I met him, and he had lived a colorful life. During the Second World War he had served in the Pacific, where he commanded a tank recovery crew. He also had a hand in raising the Zeros that had been shot down over Pearl Harbor.

At the time of the war, Beach was already a believer. He saw his military mission as more than combat. He used his tanks to transport chaplains to minister in the interior of the Pacific islands, especially New Guinea. Once, when he was reminiscing, Beach told me how a lone sniper began firing at his tank from a palm tree. Perhaps naively, I asked, “What did you do?” Beach replied, “We used the .50 caliber to coax him down.”

Unlike some Texans, from the moment I met him Beach welcomed me. I once asked Beach how he, as a Southern gentleman, could be so cordial to a Northern boy. He replied, “Well, I met a few Yankees when I was in the army. Some of them were alright.”

Because of his responsibilities, Beach came out of the war with a very high security clearance. His expertise gained him a job with Texas Instruments in Dallas. There he held multiple job titles, but his real responsibility was to courier papers and small parts to military installations around the world. He could never tell his family when or where he was going—he might leave for work one morning, then not return for days or even weeks. The one constant in his life was the orange-brown Samsonite brief case in which he carried his materiel. Decades after his retirement from TI, the FBI would still show up at his door. Beach remarked, “They just want to be sure I’m not losing my mind and blabbing any secrets.” He never did.

Among his other interests, Beach was a pilot. In fact, one of the perks of working at TI was that he could take off from work in a Cessna 150, then fly to his home in rural Wylie. He would land on the gravel road, enjoy lunch with his wife, and fly back to work. Beach flew bigger planes, too. He once landed a Convair 240 in Buffalo during the winter. The snow was piled higher than the plane on both sides of the runway. Beach commented, “It was like landing in a canyon.”

I never quite knew what story Beach might hint at. One day at an airshow we were standing in the cargo bay of a C-5 Galaxy. Marveling at the size of the thing, I remarked, “You could drive a truck through here.” Beach replied, “Well, I once had to turn a truck around in one of these things.” For a moment I thought I was listening to Hap Shaughnessy, but Beach was serious. I never did get the story, though.

When he retired from TI, Beach was far from finished with work. He bought a combine and a fleet of semis. His crew would start on the Mexican border and follow the harvest north into Canada. When I got to know him, he had retired a second time and was just selling off the last of his equipment.

Beach and Chloye were present for the second Sunday of what became Faith Baptist Church in Sachse, Texas. The little fellowship started out in northeast Dallas, then quickly moved to Garland. We met in homes for a few weeks, then in a community center for a couple of months. We finally found a small, vacant bank building in Garland. The owners were asking far more than we could afford, but Beach said, “Make them an offer.” We did, and they took it. The vault made a great nursery.

From the beginning, one of our concerns was to have a building of our own. Beach and Chloye donated ten acres in rural Wylie, which we were able to barter for five acres in the (then) small town of Sachse. The church moved into a strip mall in Sachse for a couple of years, then began to put up a church house. Beach was active in the project, swinging a hammer with the rest of us. His Dodge Ram with its Cummins diesel proved invaluable more than once. Beach personally towed the construction trailer to the building site. He even built a platform on the back of the pickup and we stood on it to put the first rows of shingles on the roof.

It was about this time that Beach started to experience heart trouble, which eventuated in bypass surgery. Through the whole process, he was a model of equanimity. That was typical. When crises came, whether in church or in his personal life, Beach was prepared to face them with endurance, faith, and hope. His trust in God had already been tested, and he knew that God was going to do what was best. That is why I knew I could always count on Beach—he was a godly, faithful man.

Two years ago, Beach Whitson went home to heaven. I don’t begrudge it a bit. That heart surgery was twenty years ago. He lived for two decades more than we thought he might. Beach was well into his nineties and ready to go home. He lived a long and colorful life. More than that, he lived what could be called a sacramental life. It was a life that ministered the grace of God to others. God used Beach to lead me into church planting, and I am grateful beyond words.

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, I Deserve Thy Deepest Wrath

Basil Manly (1825–1892)

Lord, I deserve Thy deepest wrath,
Ungrateful, faithless I have been;
No terrors have my soul deterred,
Nor goodness wooed me from my sin.

My heart is vile, my mind depraved,
My flesh rebels against Thy will;
I am polluted in Thy sight,
Yet, Lord, have mercy on me still!

Without defense to Thee I look,
To Thee the only Savior fly;
Without a hope, without a friend,
In deep distress to Thee I cry.

Speak peace to me, my sins forgive,
Dwell Thou within my heart, O God;
The guilt and pow’r of sin remove,
And fit me for Thy blest abode.

I met David Keith in January of 1974. He had just been discharged from the Army (where, as company clerk, he was reputed to have awarded his whole unit a Good Conduct Medal). He rode his Honda 350SL from Panama City up the Pan American highway through Central America and Mexico, then as far as Kansas City before the engine blew. We spent the spring semester rebuilding the engine in our dorm room. The last day of class, Dave rode that bike down College Avenue, standing up on the saddle and saluting with both hands.

Dave wasn’t really supposed to room with us that semester, but he just kind of moved in. There were already four of us in the room. Dave had a big pillow that he threw on the floor and used as a mattress. Around campus he made quite an impression, wearing an ankle-length, brown leather coat with a double row of brass buttons. For headgear he donned a long-billed straw cap that he’d found in Panama. In the dorm he would occasionally carry a pair of bright machetes that he’d picked up in Guatemala. None of us had ever seen anybody like Dave, but his grin, his quick wit, and his sheer audacity won us over.

I was eighteen and Dave was twenty-three. At that age, five years is a big difference, and Dave took it upon himself to tutor me in certain aspects of masculine maturity. He introduced me to cap-and-ball revolvers, one of which he kept in the dorm. He introduced me to Honda motorcycles and eventually sold me a 350SL—it was a great wheelie machine. He also demonstrated the value of a high quality stereo system with really big speakers, though the music I’ve played over those speakers has changed through the years.

We were in a Bible college, and Dave was training to be a pastor. Most of our peers—and most of the faculty—had trouble believing that Dave was serious about it. For that matter, they had trouble believing that Dave could be serious about anything. I knew better. During my sophomore year we had a room to ourselves, which meant that we had plenty of opportunity to observe each other’s priorities, struggles, and growth. I knew that Dave’s walk with God meant something to him, and I knew that he wanted to see me walking with God in a more consistent way than I was. Years later I came to understand that God was using him as an instrument of grace in my life.

Eventually we graduated, married, and moved in different directions. For a short time Dave was an assistant pastor in a small church. That turned into an unpleasant episode when Dave had to confront the dishonesty of his senior pastor. Dave never returned to the pastorate. I went away to seminary in Denver, then eventually returned to a pastorate in Iowa. During those years in Iowa I saw Dave regularly. He worked a succession of jobs. Among others he brokered equipment for machine shops, then sold accounts for a debt collection agency. He would often stop by my home or call on the phone (he’d always greet me with, “Hey, Kevvy!”) and we would discuss his dissatisfaction with the work he was doing. He seemed unable to find a job where he fit.

Dave took this matter seriously. He wanted to provide well for his family and he wanted a stable occupation. Then he hired on with FedEx Ground, where he discovered his vocation. He started out driving a delivery truck, eventually working his way up to terminal manager and region safety manager. As a driver he set a record for deliveries which, last time I asked, still stood unbroken. Within FedEx Ground, he was Super Dave.

With advancement in the company came moves to Oklahoma, Texas, and eventually South Carolina. During those years his daughters grew and married, his grandchildren were born, and Dave’s hair turned white. Through all the changes, Dave’s heart remained constant. Even though Dave was not a pastor, he never saw his biblical training as wasted. His relationship to God was his priority. Over time it came to be the organizing principle under which the rest of his life was conducted. It is what led him to be a faithful husband, a loving father and grandfather, a steadfast friend, and a loyal employee. David’s love for God permeated and redefined all of his other loves.

Dave had an odd sense of humor—like the time he swiped his wife’s favorite CD, gift-wrapped it, and put it under the Christmas tree. He said he wanted to give her a gift that she was sure to appreciate. On another occasion he joined a queue of husbands who were waiting for their wives in a women’s shoe store. After several minutes, he found a pair of red shoes and began to click the heels together, intoning, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

Did I mention that Susan was an exceptionally longsuffering wife?

Dave also loved to be the center of attention, and he wasn’t self-conscious about how he got it. He once decided to compete in a roping event at a local rodeo. On his way out of the chute, he managed to lasso the tail of his own horse. The crowd roared—it was the most memorable event of the day. Far from being embarrassed, Dave appreciated the humor of the situation and took his bow with satisfaction.

Over the last few years I heard from Dave less and less frequently. Something was wrong with his voice. Then on January 16, 2016 he texted, “Found out I have Stage 4 cancer. If anything happens to me I am requesting you to speak at my funeral.” My first thought was, “This is a really bad joke.”

Earlier, I had thought the same thing on the day he called and told me that he wanted to leave FedEx and open a hotdog stand. He had a plan to make big money. I thought he was joking then, but he really meant it. And he wasn’t joking about cancer.

Months later, on the day that Dave was told his cancer was terminal, he wrote these words to me: “One thing has not changed. I have always been in Our Father’s hands. As I look back over His grace and mercy in my life I am thankful.”

Dave passed away just over a year ago. He was more than a friend. God used him to challenge me when my Christian commitment had reached a low ebb. Then he was the person who showed me that a believer can be devoted to God, truth, and ministry while also thoroughly enjoying life. Dave was full of the joy of living, but he was even more full of the joy of the Lord. He taught me something about both.

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

I Hear the Words of Love

Horatius Bonar (1808–1889)

I hear the words of love,
I gaze upon the blood,
I see the mighty sacrifice,
And I have peace with God.

’Tis everlasting peace,
Sure as Jehovah’s name;
’Tis stable as His steadfast throne,
For evermore the same.

The clouds may go and come,
And storms may sweep my sky;
This blood-sealed friendship changes not,
The cross is ever nigh.

I change—He changes not;
The Christ can never die;
His love, not mine, the resting-place;
His truth, not mine, the tie.

My love is oftimes low,
My joy still ebbs and flows,
But peace with Him remains the same;
No change Jehovah knows.

Where is the line between ordinary and extraordinary men? A man may be quite ordinary in most aspects of life, yet quite exceptional in others. If the unique aspects of his life are seldom noticed, he may be remembered only as an ordinary person.

David Nettleton was such a man. I cannot claim that I was Nettleton’s friend—he was already a college president before I reached my teen years. I met him when I was 13 years old, delivered his newspaper for a couple of years, and attended high school with one of his daughters. I later enrolled as a student in the college over which he presided. By the time I had matured sufficiently to appreciate Nettleton’s perspective, geography had divided us. Our correspondence was sporadic and ad hoc (quotations in this essay are from his letters).

Still, I observed David Nettleton rather closely over a span of a quarter of a century. I saw him respond to both success and defeat. I watched him lead and I watched him follow. I witnessed his treatment of people during seasons of sweet agreement and upon occasions of sharp disputation. He embodied the essential qualities of Christian leadership more completely than almost anyone I’ve ever known.

David Nettleton never professed to be a scholar, but his study of the Scriptures gave him an exegetical depth and theological insight such as few pastors possess. He had a unique ability to communicate complicated ideas in simple ways. Those who chose to debate theology with him could rarely maintain the level of discussion that he set.

While Nettleton was not a scholar, he could recognize scholarship when he saw it. He valued the contributions that scholars could make. As president of a Bible college during a decade when student rebellion was widespread, he accepted the responsibility of turning muddleheaded teenagers like me into thoughtful people. He aimed to make his campus a stronghold for conservative Christian scholarship. The young professors that he recruited became the backbone of that institution for a generation.

Nettleton was a man of some culture. His appreciation of both creation and the human capacity for invention showed itself in his varied interests. He had a passion for chess and he collected chess sets. He loved sailing so much that he once planned to navigate the Bermuda Triangle alone (he was providentially hindered). One of my earliest memories of him involves his explaining some fine point of astronomy while allowing me to examine the magnificent telescope in his office. The fact that he played the saw (and played it well) did not preclude his communicating some sense of taste for serious music. At the very least he stood as convincing evidence that one did not have to be a yokel in order to be a good preacher.

Nettleton’s greatest strength was his preaching. Early in his ministry he apprenticed himself to the eminent Presbyterian pulpiteer, Clarence Macartney. Expository preaching became his passion. To declare God’s Word faithfully, to bring out the meaning of the text, to illustrate it gracefully, and to apply it so that it gripped listeners and led them to a decision—that was David Nettleton’s great love. He had few peers among fundamentalists as an illustrator, and none for decorum in the pulpit.

The pastorate was Nettleton’s life. Even when he was a college president he made himself a pastor to his students, and his special burden during those years was to equip men for pastoral ministry. He experienced the heartbreaks that come with leadership and ministry, but he never allowed those things to harden him. He somehow found ways to remain a gentle man even in the face of pressure, difficulty, and opposition. He learned from his failures and used them to make him stronger. After he left the academic world and returned to the pastorate, he became an effective counselor and encourager of younger pastors.

Rarely has fundamentalism produced a more irenic spirit. Nettleton prized the role of a peacemaker. He was grieved by the splintering of the various fundamentalist camps. He thought that leaders who believed the same great truths should learn to walk together peaceably, and he maintained that even the strictest fellowship could leave plenty of room for liberty. He refused to manipulate people or to abuse power to get his own way. That cost him the friendship of some who wished that he would exercise power in a fashion more favorable to their policies. His earnest endeavor was to behave himself as a Christian statesman rather than an ecclesiastical politician. He came near to succeeding.

That is not to say that Nettleton was irresolute in his beliefs. On the contrary, he held strong convictions and he argued for them eloquently. Yet he acted with such fairness and impartiality that he found himself repeatedly thrust into positions of leadership. As he put it, “I am strong on the sovereignty of God and wrote on it. Yet, they elected me as chairman of the [GARBC] council. I oppose cheap worldly music. . . . I try to make my speech as grace but not without salt.”

While strong in his beliefs, Nettleton was temperamentally opposed to adopting extreme positions. When he was a college president, he tried very hard to keep his school “in the middle of the right-hand lane.” But middle-of-the-road situations are hazardous, in whatever lane one travels. Nettleton knew as much. He recognized that a time might come when “healthy discussion is stifled and the only result will be more misunderstanding and even ignorance.” In fact, he lived to see the whole highway lurch to the left. Only his death spared him from having to decide whether he would take the exit ramp.

It would not have been an easy choice. On the one hand, he argued in print that, by the nature of the case, a Christian must limit either his fellowship or his message. On the other hand, he was firmly convinced that Christians should not stand alone. The only way he knew of to avoid isolation was to become involved in some form of organized fellowship. He understood that such fellowships necessarily involved an element of compromise, and argued against some of his peers that compromise was not always a bad word. “We must find enough common ground,” he wrote, “and then agree to disagree the rest of the way. But toleration does not mean silence. If something should be opposed, let us oppose it.”

It was this combination of strong convictions and commitment to toleration within defined limits that made him exceptional as a leader within his generation of American fundamentalists. One need not always agree with such a man in order to respect him. Many did disagree with Nettleton over a wide range of issues, but he held the respect of his friends and his opponents alike.

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.

Sing, My Tongue, the Glorious Battle

Venantius Honorius Clementianus Fortunatus (c. 540–600); tr. John Mason Neale (1818–1866)

Sing, my tongue, the glorious battle;
Sing the ending of the fray.
Now above the cross, the trophy,
Sound the loud triumphant lay:
Tell how Christ, the world’s Redeemer,
As a victim won the day.

Tell how, when at length the fullness
Of th’appointed time was come,
He, the Word, was born of woman,
Left for us His Father’s home,
Blazed the path of true obedience,
Shone as light amidst the gloom.

Thus, with thirty years accomplished,
He went forth from Nazareth, 
Destined, dedicated, willing,
Did His work, and met His death;
Like a lamb He humbly yielded
On the cross His dying breath.

Faithful cross, true sign of triumph,
Be for all the noblest tree;
None in foliage, none in blossom,
None in fruit your equal be;
Symbol of the world’s redemption,
For the weight that hung on thee!

Unto God be praise and glory:
To the Father and the Son,
To th’eternal Spirit honor
Now and evermore be done;
Praise and glory in the highest,
While the timeless ages run.

In the fall of 1979 I began my first semester as a student at Denver Baptist Theological Seminary. One day the missions professor, Dick Tice, asked if I might be interested in a pastoral staff position. I had been asking the Lord for something like that, and I told him so. That night he drove me two hours south to Woodland Park, where I met Pastor Garry Rhoades.

Garry was a graduate of Denver Baptist Bible College. He had served in a staff position with a prominent fundamentalist pastor in Colorado. The experience soured him on Baptist fundamentalism, so he accepted the pastorate of an evangelical community church. Once in an evangelical, interdenominational environment he began to discover how much of a Baptist fundamentalist he really was. He started to preach and teach along those lines, and he wanted an assistant pastor who could be counted on not to undermine his leadership.

Sitting at his table that evening he went through a verbal job description. He wanted somebody to do youth and music, but also to pitch in wherever needed. He envisioned that my wife and I would drive down after work on Friday and stay in his home through the weekend, returning to Denver after church on Sunday night. The church couldn’t pay much, he said, perhaps not even enough to cover expenses. Still he was convinced that God would make up the deficiency in other ways, perhaps ways that I might never even perceive.

Money was the last thing I was interested in. I was so eager for pastoral experience that I’d have paid the church to let me minister, and that’s what I told Garry. I still remember the surprised look on his face. It was the beginning not only of a staff relationship, but of a friendship that would endure until the Lord took Garry home.

In some ways Garry and I were opposites. He was extroverted and outgoing; I was (and am) an introvert who sometimes tries to act like an extrovert. He was big and tough: he’d trained as a Ranger and a Green Beret, and he’d fought in Viet Nam. I’d never served in the military and had never even been particularly good at athletics. His gifts lay outside the academic realm, while I was beginning to realize that I loved the life of the mind. Opposites though we were in some ways, each of us respected what the other represented. We each saw the opportunity to learn from the other, and we both treasured the relationship.

As my senior pastor, Garry treated me more like a kid brother than like an employee. My wife and I lived in his home every weekend. He took me with him everywhere and let me see everything he was doing. He was as completely transparent as anybody I’ve ever met.

That’s how I learned about giving. I’ve always understood that giving is part of the Christian life, but I confess to being naturally stingy. Garry was the opposite—if anybody ever had the gift of giving, he did. If he owned something and he sensed that somebody else needed it, he’d give it away. Sometimes he gave away money or other things that he really needed for himself. I was the only one (other than his wife) who knew that, but it taught me a lesson. People were blessed when the Lord used Garry to meet their needs. Garry was blessed when he was used to meet their needs. Then he was blessed again when the Lord met his needs. With so much blessing in the air, I decided that I wanted a piece of it—and began to give more, in imitation of Garry, than I’d ever given before. And God blessed.

That pastoral relationship only lasted for about six months before Garry left the church. Our friendship went on for decades. Garry was a Colorado native, and he showed how to make the best use of the Rocky Mountain State. He trained me to hunt coyote and antelope on the high plains. He taught me how to trek into the mountains after mule deer and elk. Later on, when he was a pastor in Alaska, Garry was the one who took me to Denali, then camping in the bush. He exposed me to a rough-and-tumble enthusiasm for life—especially life in the outdoors—that I have seldom encountered elsewhere.

Garry also taught me important lessons about being strong. I watched him when he was deeply hurt and treated contemptuously, saw him forgive, and observed him endure. He was a big man and a trained fighter, but he habitually exercised restraint in the face of challenges, opposition, insults, and even betrayals. There was a rough and tough side to Garry, but he deliberately chose to treat people with great gentleness.

I’d grown up in a fairly narrow circle of Baptist fundamentalism, but Garry introduced me to a wider ecclesiastical world. He was my first introduction to Jack Hyles (who was not yet all that he later became). He took me to my first conference with Bill Gothard. His best friend was evangelist Lloyd Spear. We would occasionally stop by the home of Charlie Clay, a singer whose records featured a Christianized version of cowboy music. It was through Garry that I got to know Bill Anderson, president of the Christian Booksellers Association, and Bob Cornuke, a police officer who would become something of a Christian Indiana Jones. While I don’t identify with the circles in which these people move, I am richer for having known them.

During his service in Viet Nam, Garry was regularly exposed to Agent Orange. As he entered middle age, it became clear that the chemical was beginning to affect him. He developed tumors in his lungs and he began to lose the use of his legs. For the last decade of his life, Garry spent most of his time being helped between his wheelchair and his bed. He continued to pastor and to serve as a Civil Air Patrol chaplain as long as he could. He attained the rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the CAP (the highest rank that chaplains could earn in those days), and his efforts in ministry were recognized with the award of a Doctor of Divinity diploma. He finally moved back to his home town, where I visited him a few times during his last years.

Garry died while I was traveling in Florida. I wasn’t even able to go to his funeral, which was preached by Lloyd Spear. He was laid to rest in his home town of Eaton, Colorado.

Not many people remember Garry Rhoades, but I’ll never be able to forget him. He was an ordinary guy, an average pastor, but his ministry made a tremendous difference in my life. He was a true comrade, the kind of friend one makes only rarely. Friendship with Garry changed me by helping me to refine my vision of what a Christian man and a servant of God ought to be. I thank God for ordinary men like Garry.

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 Song Is Love Unknown

Samuel Crossman (ca. 1624-1683)

My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take, frail flesh and die?

Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King:
Then “Crucify!” is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.

Why, what hath my Lord done?
To cause this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run,
He gave the blind their sight,
Sweet injuries! Yet they at these
Are why the Lord most High so cruely dies.

Here might I stay and sing,
Of Him my soul adores;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like yours.
This is my Friend, in Whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.