Monday, June 21, 2004
Esau and His Kin
My pastor preached a poignant and convicting sermon yesterday. The text was out of Hebrews 12; a continuation of last week's exhortation from the same chapter. The message came out of the sin of Esau (whom God hated), and consisted of a caution against allowing our lives to propogate his error.
Having been tutored in Arminian doctrine during my formative adolescence and early teenage seasons, I've struggled with the assurance issue for years. Coming in to Reformed theology, it was easy to grasp the sovereignty of God, the absolute helplessness of man in his salvation, etc. It was even relatively simple to make the jump from "God expects people to choose Him" to "God chooses people to follow Him." The concept of double predestination (i.e., God chooses vessels for redemption and vessels for destruction) wasn't that difficult to swallow either.
The rub, however, comes in the personal application of the last point. Having been a rank and abject sinner even after praying the prayer of salvation and making numerous attempts at rededication, the wrestling match occurs at a level of criticality: what has God chosen for ME?
On the surface, there is evidence of a redemptive work. I was born into a Christian family. I was raised in the church. I understand the plan of salvation, and believe Jesus died for my sins. I comprehend the fact that the power of God raised Him from the dead, and can acknowledge the truth that only that power is what raises a man from spiritual death to spiritual life. I understand that to love sin is to be at enmity with God, and to love God is to be at enmity with sin. It's all good.
Beneath the surface, however, it gets a bit more complicated. I'm confronted with the stark reality that I do not love God the way I should. I'm aware of the thoughts of my heart, and cognizant of the fact that those thoughts define my ontology: I am what I think. Like David, I have a deep desire for the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart to be acceptable in God's sight. But the actual thoughts and the actual words do not measure up to this acceptability. My past actions are no match for the Holy of Holies, even on a good day.
And then we come to Esau, who sold his birthright for a single meal. He was hungry, so he tossed his birthright on the table to get a bowl of soup. Later, when it came time to cash in on the birthright, he went to claim it; forgetting that day when his belly was full and his hands were empty. He had no chance to repent, because the transaction was complete. The inheritance he sold to his brother was cashed in, and there was nothing left for him to receive.
In Romans 1, those who knew God traded the truth for a lie. Their worship became idolatry, and God gave them over to what they were pursuing. They got their wish, in other words. He gave them full access to their depravity, and they exercised it with extreme prejudice. Their resistance to glorifying God put them in a position where they would not enjoy him forever, and they didn't mind the result. On top of that, they gave their approval to those who acted like them. Apostates cheering on the pagans and other apostates in a twisted dance of mutual admiration.
How many times have I sat at the same table, hungry for immediate gratification of my own selfish desires, or wanting to identify with the trappings of un-Christian thought and practice? How many times has my inheritance been thrown on the boards as guarantee for the acquisition of a bowl of lentils? The Arminian in me wants to claim that the transaction is complete; that there is no hope for me. The condemnation would say that I have paid the price to sup at the wrong table, and therefore the blessing will not be mine.
The error of the Romans 1 crowd (as I see it), is two-fold: first, they abandoned the counsel of God and stopped caring about His purposes. Second, they craved association with His antithesis - they wanted friendship with the world. They wanted the cool, hip pagans to approve of them, and they became convinced that they could have their inheritance and their mess of pottage too.
My impression from Sunday's sermon was not so much a matter of condemnation as it was conviction concerning this point. A man who is skirting the edge of the cliff should be concerned about falling off. If you are dancing on the pig fence, you can't be shocked when you go home smelling a tad ripe. Often we go running off into the darkness "just to see what's out there," only to find ourselves lost and alone, and wishing we had never left the light.
The oath that Esau swore to Jacob was a rash one. It was impulsive and based entirely in his fleshly desire for the moment; no more rash or impulsive than the sin of any other individual. In His sovereignty, God makes provision for those of us who allow our emotions to rule us, and who do what we feel, rather than what is right (Leviticus 5). The assurance is not found in the knowledge that God knows our frame, or even in the fact that He makes provision for it, but rather in the ability to choose the way of escape when we become aware of where we are.
We are not justified in right choices, nor are we sanctified in them. But in the moments when we make them, our assurance comes from our knowledge that without the power of God at work within us, we would be powerless to do what is right.
When we make wrong choices, our love of the world can quickly become a weight around our necks that drags us into the pit of condemnation. A friend of criminals is guilty by association, and it takes One that is greater than our hearts to convince us of anything to the contrary.
It is true that no good thing dwells in me. I am unable to justify my actions, thoughts or words in every case. Yet each time I fall down, I am compelled to continuing moving in the direction of my Creator. I recalll the fact that I have a joint Heir, one who is faithful and true when I am faithless and false. For this I am thankful.
Having been tutored in Arminian doctrine during my formative adolescence and early teenage seasons, I've struggled with the assurance issue for years. Coming in to Reformed theology, it was easy to grasp the sovereignty of God, the absolute helplessness of man in his salvation, etc. It was even relatively simple to make the jump from "God expects people to choose Him" to "God chooses people to follow Him." The concept of double predestination (i.e., God chooses vessels for redemption and vessels for destruction) wasn't that difficult to swallow either.
The rub, however, comes in the personal application of the last point. Having been a rank and abject sinner even after praying the prayer of salvation and making numerous attempts at rededication, the wrestling match occurs at a level of criticality: what has God chosen for ME?
On the surface, there is evidence of a redemptive work. I was born into a Christian family. I was raised in the church. I understand the plan of salvation, and believe Jesus died for my sins. I comprehend the fact that the power of God raised Him from the dead, and can acknowledge the truth that only that power is what raises a man from spiritual death to spiritual life. I understand that to love sin is to be at enmity with God, and to love God is to be at enmity with sin. It's all good.
Beneath the surface, however, it gets a bit more complicated. I'm confronted with the stark reality that I do not love God the way I should. I'm aware of the thoughts of my heart, and cognizant of the fact that those thoughts define my ontology: I am what I think. Like David, I have a deep desire for the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart to be acceptable in God's sight. But the actual thoughts and the actual words do not measure up to this acceptability. My past actions are no match for the Holy of Holies, even on a good day.
And then we come to Esau, who sold his birthright for a single meal. He was hungry, so he tossed his birthright on the table to get a bowl of soup. Later, when it came time to cash in on the birthright, he went to claim it; forgetting that day when his belly was full and his hands were empty. He had no chance to repent, because the transaction was complete. The inheritance he sold to his brother was cashed in, and there was nothing left for him to receive.
In Romans 1, those who knew God traded the truth for a lie. Their worship became idolatry, and God gave them over to what they were pursuing. They got their wish, in other words. He gave them full access to their depravity, and they exercised it with extreme prejudice. Their resistance to glorifying God put them in a position where they would not enjoy him forever, and they didn't mind the result. On top of that, they gave their approval to those who acted like them. Apostates cheering on the pagans and other apostates in a twisted dance of mutual admiration.
How many times have I sat at the same table, hungry for immediate gratification of my own selfish desires, or wanting to identify with the trappings of un-Christian thought and practice? How many times has my inheritance been thrown on the boards as guarantee for the acquisition of a bowl of lentils? The Arminian in me wants to claim that the transaction is complete; that there is no hope for me. The condemnation would say that I have paid the price to sup at the wrong table, and therefore the blessing will not be mine.
The error of the Romans 1 crowd (as I see it), is two-fold: first, they abandoned the counsel of God and stopped caring about His purposes. Second, they craved association with His antithesis - they wanted friendship with the world. They wanted the cool, hip pagans to approve of them, and they became convinced that they could have their inheritance and their mess of pottage too.
My impression from Sunday's sermon was not so much a matter of condemnation as it was conviction concerning this point. A man who is skirting the edge of the cliff should be concerned about falling off. If you are dancing on the pig fence, you can't be shocked when you go home smelling a tad ripe. Often we go running off into the darkness "just to see what's out there," only to find ourselves lost and alone, and wishing we had never left the light.
The oath that Esau swore to Jacob was a rash one. It was impulsive and based entirely in his fleshly desire for the moment; no more rash or impulsive than the sin of any other individual. In His sovereignty, God makes provision for those of us who allow our emotions to rule us, and who do what we feel, rather than what is right (Leviticus 5). The assurance is not found in the knowledge that God knows our frame, or even in the fact that He makes provision for it, but rather in the ability to choose the way of escape when we become aware of where we are.
We are not justified in right choices, nor are we sanctified in them. But in the moments when we make them, our assurance comes from our knowledge that without the power of God at work within us, we would be powerless to do what is right.
When we make wrong choices, our love of the world can quickly become a weight around our necks that drags us into the pit of condemnation. A friend of criminals is guilty by association, and it takes One that is greater than our hearts to convince us of anything to the contrary.
It is true that no good thing dwells in me. I am unable to justify my actions, thoughts or words in every case. Yet each time I fall down, I am compelled to continuing moving in the direction of my Creator. I recalll the fact that I have a joint Heir, one who is faithful and true when I am faithless and false. For this I am thankful.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
What Is the Sound of One Geek Talking?
My first audioblog. Listen if you dare. Or if you are fighting insomnia.
