It is interesting to see Catholics and Protestants sometimes argue about which tradition has a greater claim to Augustine’s legacy. This is especially true regarding the doctrine of justification, where he is a bright-shining luminary (or “fountainhead,” as McGrath puts it) on both sides of the ecclesial divide. In what follows, we won’t tackle that debate but rather try to summarize Augustine’s teaching on justification to clarify the central impulse of his thought. Such knowledge promises to enrich our discussions on salvation with Catholic friends and loved ones.

Augustine’s Doctrine of Justification in a (Small) Nutshell

Perhaps the most crucial concept to clarify concerning Augustine’s doctrine is that justification is a matter of being made righteous. With limited facility in and recourse to the Hebrew and Greek languages, he took the Latin iustificari as meaning “to make righteous.” This approach distinguishes Augustine from the Protestant Reformers, who understood justification to describe God’s activity of attributing or imputing righteousness to the sinner as the ground of acceptance.

As you would expect from the “Doctor of Grace,” such righteousness was recognized to come from God as a gift. So Augustine writes, “God confers righteousness upon the believer by the Spirit of Grace.” And, “This is the Spirit of God by whose gift we are justified.”[1]

Over and against the teaching of Pelagius, who argued that God offers grace to those who are worthy of it, Augustine insisted that justification is never secured by the autonomous merit of man. The notion that God imparts grace according to human works, he argued, denigrates justification as something owed—a debt—and therefore falls short of grace. Instead, human merit is regarded as a grace from God: “When God crowns our merits,” Augustine famously declared, “he crowns his own gifts.”[2] Protestants celebrate Augustine’s championing of grace against Pelagius, but we dissent from the idea that eternal life can be merited by human works (outside the finished work of Christ).

The justification process begins with baptism, the event in which sin is forgiven. From there, righteousness proceeds to grow in the life of a believer. Because it unfolds gradually (in the process of being made righteous) justification spans the length of one’s life. Here is how Augustine conveys the outworking of such righteousness:

It follows, as I see it, that in whatever kind of degree we may define righteousness in this life, there is in this life no man entirely without sin: there is need for every man to give that it may be given to him, to forgive that it may be forgiven him, and in respect of any righteousness he possesses not to presume that it has come of his own making, but to accept it as the grace of God who justifies; yet none the less to hunger and thirst for the gift of righteousness from him who is the living bread and with whom is the well of life—who so works justification in his saints that labor in the trial of this life….[3]

In Augustine’s doctrine, the Spirit’s enabling grace empowers one in the growth of justification. Such righteousness is not accessed by faith alone; instead, it is by faith and love. Bear in mind that for Augustine, “faith” describes the act of believing the gospel on the basis of the authority of the apostolic message. To be complete, such faith must be accompanied by love (particularly of God and one’s neighbor). Again, as Augustine put it: “The man in whom is the faith that works through love (Gal 5) begins to delight in the law of God after the inward man; and that delight is a gift not of the letter but of the Spirit.”[4]

A Central Impulse and Significance of Augustine’s Doctrine

A central emphasis of Augustine’s doctrine of justification is the believer’s ethically engaged participation in the life of Christ, a participation empowered by the Spirit that grows and manifests itself in greater levels of love. In Alister McGrath’s words, “For Augustine, it is love, rather than faith, which is the power that brings about the conversion of people.”[5] If I were to express this Augustinian impulse in terms that I hear from Catholic friends, it would be something like this: God, by his Spirit and according to his grace, fortifies the souls of believers with righteousness so they will increasingly embody the love of Christ and merit eternal life.

How then should Protestants think about Augustine’s doctrine, especially in conversation with Catholic friends? In what follows, I’d like to offer some thoughts.

Given the Catholic understanding of justification—that it is a process in which one becomes increasingly righteous—the assertion that God accepts us by “faith alone” often sounds like “cheap grace”(to borrow a phrase from Dietrich Bonhoeffer). It sounds like we’re saying, “Don’t worry about pursuing a life of holiness. Just say this sinner’s prayer, walk this aisle, and then you’ll be safe for all of eternity.” Thus, for Catholics, standing on the shoulders of Augustine, our doctrine of justification may appear to be a form of fire insurance that requires a minimal investment in exchange for an eternal payoff.

Our opportunity among Catholic friends is to explain what we mean by “faith alone,” that humanity is incapable of meriting the smallest amount of divine favor by performing acts of love, and that God therefore gives the gift of Christ’s righteousness as the basis of our acceptance, a gift that comes only through faith. But this should not denigrate the importance of tangible love in the larger outworking of salvation. As the Reformers put it, justification is by faith alone, but not by a faith that remains alone.[6] Or as John Calvin stated, “For we dream neither of a faith devoid of good works nor of a justification that stands without them.”[7] The same emphasis continued among subsequent evangelicals, as Jonathan Edwards wrote, “And one great thing he [Jesus] aimed at in redemption, was to deliver them from their idols, and bring them to God.”[8]

Relating Faith to Acts of Love

An old professor of mine liked to explain the need for tangible acts of love in salvation in terms of a “Costco Card.” Most parts of the country probably have a Costco or equivalent. It is a membership warehouse chain where customers enjoy discounts on various products because merchandise is purchased in bulk. The decisive transaction that provides access to Costco occurs when one becomes a member. You simply pay the fee, get your membership card with embarrassing photo, and shop to your heart’s desire. Whenever you visit the store, you must present your card to the nice lady at the door to verify that you have paid the requisite price of membership. This card-showing exercise, which is performed in all subsequent visits, simply confirms that you have already completed the membership transaction.[9]

So it is with works of love in salvation. Our virtuous behavior can never procure or somehow enhance God’s favor toward us. The cost of forgiveness and new life is infinite, and we are utterly bankrupt. Only Christ can complete the transaction for us, which he did by shedding his blood. By dying on the cross as our substitute and rising from the dead, Jesus enabled us to approach the throne of grace confidently. But not only do we have confidence, God has also sent his Holy Spirit to live within us and has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in heaven in order for the Church to walk in good works, which he prepared beforehand. Therefore, while we maintain that justification is by faith alone, we must regard salvation as much more than a sinner’s prayer that gets us into heaven. God’s unmerited favor must take the form of an obedient life of faith here and now, as Paul the Apostle writes: “Since we have these promises, dear friends, let us purify ourselves from everything that contaminates body and spirit, perfecting holiness out of reverence for God” (2 Cor 7:1). This Pauline notion is also deeply Augustinian.

Footnotes:

[1] John Burnaby, Augustine: Later Works, Library of Christian Classics, vol 8, (Philadelphia, Westminster, 1980), 15: 205.

[2] Eugene TeSelle, Augustine the Theologian. (Oregon: Wipf and Stock, 2002), 329.

[3] Burnaby, Augustine, 65: 249, 250.

[4] Ibid., 26:215.

[5] Alister E. McGrath. Iustitia Dei: A History of the Christian Doctrine of Justification. 3rd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 46.

[6] Or in the Westminster Confession: “Faith, thus receiving and resting on Christ and His righteousness, is the alone instrument of justification: yet is it not alone in the person justified, but is ever accompanied with all other saving graces, and is no dead faith, but works by love.” Westminster Confession of Faith. “Of Justification,” Chap. 11.2.

[7] John Calvin. Institutes of the Christian Religion, 2 vols., ed. John T. McNeill. trans. Ford Lewis Battles (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1960.) 1:798 (3.16.1).

[8] Jonathan Edwards, The Works of Jonathan Edwards, Vol 2, “Discourse: Men Naturally are God’s Enemies” (1834 reprint, Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 1998), 139

[9] Like all analogies, there are a few points where the Costco Card breaks down, like when your membership is complete you must purchase another one. You will also perform another monetary transaction when you buy products from the store. For some reason, I find these payments are always quite large.

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In the inaugural address of The Pascal Lectures on Christianity and the University, given at the University of Waterloo, Ontario, Canada, in October 1978,1 Muggeridge argued that people must not put their hope in earthly institutions, including Christendom (the predominance of the Church in territorial terms). Instead, believers must understand that Christ’s kingdom is not of this world; He reigns today in the hearts of those who have turned to Him in repentance and faith, untouched by the ebb and flow of temporal fortunes.

Christendom, like other civilizations before it, is subject to decay and must sometime decompose and disappear. The world’s way of responding to intimations of decay is to engage equally in idiot hopes and idiot despair. On the one hand some new policy or discovery is confidently expected to put everything to rights: a new fuel, a new drug, détente, world government. On the other, some disaster is as confidently expected to prove our undoing. Capitalism will break down. Fuel will run out. Plutonium will lay us low. Atomic waste will kill us off. Overpopulation will suffocate us, or alternatively, a declining birth rate will put us more surely at the mercy of our enemies.

In Christian terms, such hopes and fears are equally beside the point. As Christians we know that here we have no continuing city, that crowns roll in the dust and every earthly kingdom must sometime flounder, whereas we acknowledge a king [that] men did not crown and cannot dethrone, as we are citizens of a city of God they did not build and cannot destroy. Thus the apostle Paul wrote to the Christians in Rome, living in a society as depraved and dissolute as ours. Their games, like our television, specialized in spectacles of violence and eroticism. Paul exhorted them to be steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in God’s work, to concern themselves with the things that are unseen, for the things which are seen are temporal but the things which are not seen are eternal [1 Cor. 15:58; 2 Cor. 4:18]. It was in the breakdown of Rome that Christendom was born. Now in the breakdown of Christendom there are the same requirements and the same possibilities to eschew the fantasy of a disintegrating world and seek the reality of what is not seen and eternal, the reality of Christ . . .2

[I]t is precisely when every earthly hope has been explored and found wanting, when every possibility of help from earthly sources has been sought and is not forthcoming, when every recourse this world offers, moral as well as material, has been explored to no effect, when in the shivering cold the last faggot has been thrown on the fire and in the gathering darkness every glimmer of light has finally flickered out, it’s then that Christ’s hand reaches out sure and firm. Then Christ’s words bring their inexpressible comfort, then his light shines brightest, abolishing the darkness forever.3

Footnotes:

1 Malcolm Muggeridge, The End of Christendom (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980), vii.

2 Ibid., 52-53.

3 Ibid., 56.

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The Celtic saints of earlier centuries made much of the idea of peregrinatio, a difficult-to-translate word that suggests an open-ended journey. It was not uncommon for medieval Irish monks to set out with no destination; they left with only the simple impulse to go and seek, guided by the Holy Spirit. Unlike the pilgrimages to shrines common to medieval lore, writes Esther de Waal, “there [was] no specific end or goal such as that of reaching a . . . holy place that allows the pilgrim at the end of the journey to return home with a sense of mission accomplished.” Rather, the idea was to learn to live as travelers, pilgrims, “guests of the world,” as sixth-century Irishman Saint Columbanus put it. There was to be a creative openness, even if that meant living in a kind of exile so as not to hold too tightly to one’s ambitions and spiritual itinerary. The idea was to leave behind the known and safe to find a truer basis for security.1

As we enter the New Year, may we do so more keenly aware of the One whom we follow and, therefore, proceed with a greater measure of faith.

Happy New Year!

Footnotes:

1 Timothy Jones, A Place for God: A Guide to Spiritual Retreats and Retreat Centers (New York: Doubleday Image, 2000), 47.

The post The Journey appeared first on Chris Castaldo.

The old gentleman with piercing blue eyes proceeded to educate me: “I realize that you are studying biblical theology under the likes of Greg Beale and captivated by the amazing scope and sequence of redemptive history, but you can’t live at 30,000 feet. The canon’s overarching themes, running from Old to New and culminating in Jesus, are crucial, but there is more to the Bible than simply the ‘meta-level.’ In his incarnation, Jesus became a real man. He woke up in the morning, ate breakfast, walked on dirt roads, sweated, laughed, cried, and shed actual blood. Yes, there are wonders in the heavens above and signs in the earth below, but Peter and John also looked into the eyes of a broken leper sitting at a real temple gate before lifting him by the hand to stand upon strengthened feet and ankles. In other words, the redemptive drama must also include the sights and smells of human experience.”

The Texture of the Text

Not for a moment do I wish to impugn my esteemed professors who introduced us to biblical theology. The problem is not with their emphasis but with people like me who get so jazzed by redemptive history that we can overlook the human dimensions of a narrative. Our interpretive sensibilities naturally ascend to the upper stratosphere of inter-canonical themes, like a hot air balloon pilot who remains captivated by the bird’s-eye view. But there are also wonders on the ground below. For example, notice how R. Kent Hughes captures the earthiness of the incarnation of our Lord Jesus:

If we imagine that it was into a freshly swept County Fair stable that Jesus was born, we miss the whole point. It was wretched—scandalous! There was sweat and pain and blood and cries as Mary reached to the stars for help. The earth was cold and hard. The smell of birth was mixed into a wretched bouquet with the stench of manure and acrid straw. Trembling carpenter’s hands, clumsy with fear, grasped God’s Son slippery with blood—the baby’s limbs waving helplessly as if falling through space—his face grimacing as he gasped in the cold and his cry pierced the night.

Trees and Forest

There are two sides of the horse from which we easily fall. Preachers who tease out the existential dimensions of a passage without explaining the larger redemptive-historical context are soon in danger of reducing the Bible to a horizontal level. Examples of this approach—moralism, therapeutic deism, and theologically anemic pep talks—are common enough. While it may be unlikely that pastors and teachers in our corner of the ecclesial pond will drop anchor in these waters, we should not consider ourselves immune to interpretive imbalance. We are susceptible to another mistake, namely, tracing themes through the meta-narrative and never touching down upon the earth.

It can’t be an either/or. We must explain, as Paul says, that all the promises of God find their yes in Christ (2 Cor. 1:20), describing how the seed of Abraham is the Savior of the world. But it must simultaneously recognize that this “Seed” was also a red-blooded man, who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Such perspective enables us to go home from a sermon or Bible study struck by the miraculous coherency of salvation history and, at the same time, more deeply in love with our Savior, the first-century Jewish God/man, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary, and who bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness.

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For our friends (and other Christian parents who take their discipleship calling to heart), educational formation means much more than helping their kids create a solid academic record and succeed in their careers. They desire to see their children rooted in Scripture’s soil and drawing from the ancient well of wisdom found in literature, art, and philosophy. They want their children to love and serve God with all their heart, soul, and mind and stand courageously against the perilous currents of modernity.

But is Roman Catholic schooling consistent with those goals?

Roman Catholic Education

Many parents are choosing Roman Catholic classical schools (that prioritize a traditional, integrated approach to learning through the lens of classical education) or even parochial schools (that provide a broader educational experience). Both promise a rich intellectual tradition that prioritizes moral reflection and personal virtue. According to the National Catholic Educational Association, out of the nearly 1.7 million students enrolled in the 5,905 Catholic schools from pre-K to grade 12 in the United States, 21 percent are non-Catholic. Many of these non-Catholic students are Protestants, illustrating Catholic education’s broad appeal to families seeking a values-based academic experience.

Around the fire pit, our friends shared their insights from an informational meeting at a prospective Catholic school. They felt comfortable because it was on the classical end of the spectrum, emphasizing great books of the Western tradition, and was less like a traditional parochial school. The meeting emphasized the objective nature of truth, the triune God as its divine source, and the morally fortifying outcomes of such an education. Our friends then turned to me, their pastor-friend who has written frequently about Roman Catholicism, and asked, “What do you think?”

At once, a host of theological and practical issues jangled through my mind—how we understand the Catholic tradition; our different assumptions as Protestants concerning divine authority, salvation, and sacramental life; and sundry forms of spirituality, particularly those involving Mary and the saints. Then there were specific questions about the school itself.

Educational Vision

Let’s consider the basic ideals of a Roman Catholic school and then some theological and practical cautions for Protestant parents.

1. Catholic education often emphasizes the students’ holistic development. Drawing inspiration from figures like John Henry Newman and the liberal arts tradition, this approach extends beyond vocational training to cultivate the mind as a form of worship and calling. It seeks to nurture critical thinking and foster a well-rounded understanding of various disciplines. Through a broad curriculum, students are equipped with intellectual tools to navigate the complexities of modern life.
2. Central to this vision is the integration of theology with the academic curriculum. Unlike public schools, which tend to exclude theological study, Catholic schools excel in building on a biblically informed theological foundation, recognizing the complementary relationship between faith and reason. This framework enables students to explore essential questions about existence, morality, and God’s supremacy in all things.
3. The Catholic Church’s emphasis on continuous incarnation—the extension of Christ’s mediatorial nature and work through the Church’s sacramental life—fosters a robust community culture that can encourage warm-hearted dialogue, debate, and the sharing of diverse perspectives. This approach acknowledges that every aspect of education should reflect Christ’s presence and contribute to the formation of students in his image. Consequently, such an education emphasizes the importance of recognizing Christ in others, particularly the marginalized and disadvantaged, and engaging in tangible acts of compassion.

Be Prepared for Challenges

Catholic education cannot solve all problems. Often, there’s a significant gap, or even a yawning chasm, between a school’s intended vision and its actual implementation by teachers, administrators, and students.

Even at its best, Catholic education poses challenges for evangelical Protestant families.

1. Liturgy

Catholics believe in the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist and uphold that belief with the doctrine of transubstantiation, which insists the bread and wine truly become the body and blood of Christ. The Mass is therefore a focal point of their community. It was described by Vatican II as the “source and summit of the Christian life.” While Protestants hold various views on the sacraments, they agree that transubstantiation is a misguided doctrine. Therefore, Protestant parents should be prepared to explain the Eucharist to their children and ensure the school makes appropriate provisions for them to abstain from participating in the Mass.

2. Authority

Roman Catholicism emphasizes the authority of the Catholic Church, including the ongoing interpretation of Scripture and of its own tradition by the magisterium, the Church’s teaching office. While some Protestants recognize church traditions as necessary, all view Scripture as the sole infallible source of authority for Christian faith and practice. Consequently, Protestant students attending a Catholic school will need to scrutinize and reject a host of traditional Catholic ideas, such as the office of the papacy, the concept of justification through meritorious works, and the doctrine of purgatory.

3. Mary and the Saints

Catholics believe in the intercession of saints and the veneration of Mary, viewing them as part of the communion of believers who intercede on behalf of the living. Consequently, students in Catholic schools might pray the rosary, either individually, in religion classes, or during school-wide events. They may also celebrate significant feast days, such as the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, the Assumption of Mary, and Our Lady of Guadalupe. While Protestants highly respect Mary, they don’t venerate or pray to her. Instead, Protestants uphold the priesthood of believers, emphasizing that all Christians have direct access to God through Christ without the need for intercessors.

God’s Faithful Provision

Clearly, we face a dilemma. Do we want 14-year-old Sophie to be asked for her pronouns from her PE teacher? Or to attend activities for Pride Month? Or is it better for her to hear the Hail Mary every morning as it’s prayed by the principal over the intercom system?

If we send our children to a Roman Catholic school, do we risk undermining their biblically grounded faith? Catholic teaching can unsettle a son’s or daughter’s understanding of scriptural authority and assurance of God’s favor in Christ. However, if we keep our children in a public school, do we leave their tender souls adrift in a sea of post-Christian relativism?

Risk is inevitable, whichever decision we make. Facing this dilemma, many parents have opted for homeschooling or have even started their own Christian schools. Others have chosen to send their children to Catholic schools, expecting to be able to explain the doctrinal differences to their youngsters. However, as I suggested to my friends around the bonfire, we must first be clear with our children about our different beliefs—and why they matter.

The lofty and excessive self-understanding of Rome, which presents Jesus to the world through her sacramental organs and clerical ministrations, obscures the Bible’s emphasis on the direct, personal relationship that God intends to have with his children. We must never lose this emphasis, or we run the risk of losing the gospel itself.

As a pastor, I cannot give you a “Thus saith the Lord” about this choice, which I see as a matter of prudential judgment. Whichever option you choose, you should be prepared to patiently and diligently teach your children the doctrines of our most holy faith (Jude 20). There are many resources to help you.

It’s important to regularly engage with your children about their school experience and what they’re learning. Encourage them to ask questions and address their concerns honestly and thoughtfully. Listen attentively and don’t be afraid.

Education, like salvation, is pursued in faithful reliance on God’s provision and grace. By creating a home environment where Scripture is the guiding light, you’ll help your children navigate their educational journey and equip them to become the men and women God has called them to be.

* This article was first published by The Gospel Coalition.

The post Classical Education and Your Children appeared first on Chris Castaldo.

As my mouth began watering, the server asked for my order. To my chagrin, instead of ordering what I wanted, I asked for a Southwest salad and an iced tea. A desire to maintain peace and a fear of being canceled reduced me to a vegan impersonator.

Over the last 30 years, I’ve dreamed about returning to that moment for a redo. Instead of a salad, I wish I’d ordered a giant rib-eye steak and a large glass of whole milk. What would my lunch companions have done? Mocked me? Asked me to sit at another table? Or perhaps appreciated that I was unlike them? I don’t know.

This, it seems, is the dilemma pastors face in our current election season. They’re pressured by both the political left and right to align their preaching and ministry with partisan expectations. This sometimes consists of demands to endorse specific candidates or to denounce others. More often, however, it’s subtle expectations to speak out against political and cultural “enemies.”

The message pastors are hearing is clear: conform to these expectations or be labeled a coward. In today’s highly partisan digital age, pastors fear that a wrong or ill-considered word could jeopardize their ministries.

Navigate the Political Rapids

We pastors can fall off two sides of the horse during an election year. The first is to pretend we’re entirely disinterested in politics, as though theological and moral truth have nothing to do with how we order society for the common good.

This extreme ignores our calling to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God (Mic. 6:8). It also ignores Jesus’s commands to be salt and light (Matt. 5:13–16) and to love our neighbors as ourselves (Mark 12:31). Such supposed neutrality looks a lot like the priest and the Levite who, in the face of great need, passed by on the other side (Luke 10:25–37).

But then there’s the other side of the horse. In today’s fraught political moment, we pastors can become fixated on political events and personalities. They slowly become the lens through which we view everything. We check the news regularly to see how our political team is doing. We get multiple dopamine hits every time we scroll through the headlines. Politics becomes the topic of conversation with our friends—and even with congregants. Then, our growing partisanship seeps into our writing and teaching, maybe in thinly veiled (or not so veiled) references to specific candidates or their policies.

Some of us venture where even angels fear to tread, such as the pastor who endorses a political candidate on social media, only to foment a regrettable swirl of confusion and disillusionment. Or it may occur when we introduce video curriculum that claims to refocus political discussions on Jesus, but does so by featuring journalists or academics who hold deeply partisan views.

History is filled with painful examples of the church being co-opted or unequally yoked with the state, leading to disastrous consequences. We can recall the corruption and scandal of the Papal States under Alexander VI, the church’s support of chattel slavery in the Confederacy, and the compromised Protestant churches in Nazi Germany. Far too often, secular leaders have been eager to exploit Christians for their own sordid ends. This is the path to compromising our Christian witness before a watching world.

What’s a pastor who aims for biblical faithfulness to do?

Remember Your Pastoral Identity and Calling

The pressure pastors face isn’t only normal; it’s an immense privilege. It’s common for pastors to wake in the night, grappling in prayer over contentious issues, feeling broken and depleted, yet discovering the Lord’s merciful presence.

This cruciform experience is fundamental to our ministry calling. Paul declares, “I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:10, NIV).

Though pressure is common and necessary, we must remain resolute in our identity as ambassadors of King Jesus. For example, pastors often ask me, “What do God and the people I serve expect of me?” I suggest these are two distinct questions, and we must focus on the first: What does God expect of me?

Yes, we love our congregations and want to serve them well, but when the expectations of our community come first, we inevitably become domesticated prophets, employees of the church who resemble smiling greeters at Costco. We become anxious, complaining, and compulsive—eager to please our ever-demanding customers. We become like Martha, “troubled about many things” but ignoring the one necessary thing (Luke 10:41–42).

What’s the one necessary thing? It starts with fearing the Lord, for that’s the beginning of wisdom (Prov. 9:10).

In these turbulent times, our allegiance to Scripture and the gospel must be our defining characteristic. John Stott described this as living “between two worlds“—prioritizing the sacred text while thoughtfully applying its truth to contemporary hearers.

This commitment calls us to boldly proclaim God’s Word, ensuring we don’t allow our ministries to be reduced to partisan mouthpieces. It requires us to address vexing issues, even political issues, such as the abortion of millions of unborn lives, human trafficking, racial discrimination, gender identity, and sexual ethics, questions of artificial intelligence and human dignity, or the decline of schools into indoctrination centers that sexually exploit children.

Pastor with Kingdom Priorities

As the months and years unfold, such preaching may result in threats and persecutions. Nevertheless, we’ll confess the apostolic conviction: “I do not account my life of any value nor as precious to myself, if only I may finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God” (Acts 20:24).

This is our pastoral calling: preaching Christ, breaking bread, persisting in prayer and joyful song, serving our neighbors, showing hospitality, raising families, protecting the vulnerable, enduring hardship, proclaiming righteousness, suffering for Jesus’s name so that we may share his glory. And if that preaching sometimes seems to resonate with one political party over another, so be it, for we must confront evil in all its forms. We refuse to allow the lamp of truth to be hidden under a table—it must be displayed on a stand to challenge this world’s idols. God has promised to advance his kingdom through such sustained commitment of faith (Matt. 11:12).

Who is sufficient for such things? We certainly aren’t. Nonetheless, here we stand. As Martin Luther said at Worms, “My conscience is captive to the Word of God.”

Not everyone in the congregation will be pleased—and that’s OK. As a friend of mine once put it, “Pastoral ministry is the art of disappointing people at a rate they can absorb.”

So go ahead. Order the ribeye steak and glass of whole milk.

* This article was first published by The Gospel Coalition.

The post Pastors and Politics appeared first on Chris Castaldo.

This was no false humility. A video from a documentary of the tenor’s life showed him in the green room saying those words before he stepped on stage to sing the famous Nessum dorma, portraying a prince’s determination to win the hand of a cold princess—or die in the attempt. According to a profile in The New Yorker:

The tape provides a closeup that no audience member ever gets, and it reveals a physical exertion and fear of failure known at certain moments to aerialists, matadors, surgeons, and soldiers. Just before the aria’s climax—the B-natural scream—a look of terror sweeps across Pavarotti’s huge, sweating face. His eyes bulge, his jaw squares, and then, at the precise moment when he releases the final note—a direct hit—the eyes betray not pleasure but the most exquisite sense of relief. He has done it again.

Every gospel preacher can relate to this feeling of dread. Or at least we should. As one of my seminary profs used to say: “The most frightening piece of real estate on the face of the earth is the space behind a pulpit from which God’s servant proclaims God’s word.” It is holy ground, and therefore, it is not unreasonable to approach the pulpit, whispering, “I go to die.”

Death, it turns out, is central to the task of preaching. It is the crux, you might say. It’s not insignificant, for example, that pulpits are made of wood, like the Cross itself. Good, old-fashioned ones even resemble a casket—the place where one goes to be buried with Christ. But unlike the speechless corpse, the crucified preacher has something to say: “Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again!”

Maybe it was the rousing arias of a recent concert that brought Pavarotti to mind when I entered the pulpit last week. For some reason, I felt the familiar dread: How can my words possibly do justice to the wonder of Christ’s incarnation? It was then, as I grabbed my Bible and ascended the steps to the platform, that Pavarotti’s idiom flashed through my mind, “I go to die.”

Why is the preacher’s “death,” reaching the end of ourselves—the end of our cleverness and sufficiency—a necessary ingredient of gospel preaching? It’s because God’s word has the power to evoke faith. It conveys the dunamis of God, a regenerative potency that raises the dead. This is why Paul says in 1 Corinthians 2:2-5, “For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. And I was with you in weakness and in fear and much trembling, and my speech and my message were not in plausible words of wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, so that your faith might not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God.”

Gospel preaching differs from any other form of oratory or vocal performance. While “positive thinking” may be the stock-in-trade for managing fear and apprehension—the whimsical optimism that sets one’s jaw and shoots for the stars—gospel preachers have a different calling. The scandalous “word of the cross” leads us into the pulpit, embracing our weakness and inadequacy, to speak on behalf of the Crucified One.

Let us, therefore, go to die.

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First, you will often feel like an ice cube floating beside an iceberg. This is natural. A scholar with a Doctor of Divinity from Oxford and four decades of research on your subject will know some things. Don’t be surprised when he pokes holes in your brilliant idea. He probably had the same thought 35 years ago, and it’s no smarter today than it was then.

This reality shouldn’t cause discouragement; it should promote humility. Embrace it! Humility is a gift we must preserve, especially as our ice cube grows.

The second lesson emerged while my family and I reassembled our house after an extensive carpet installation. Here is how it worked: After weeks of evacuating rooms and placing furniture, clothing, lamps, books, etc., into every nook and cranny of our garage and family room, we suddenly found ourselves in a position of having to put everything back away. There I was, looking at utter chaos. You know the feeling. Where do you even start?

I grabbed whatever was closest to me, and the next thing, and the next thing. After a few hours, I lifted my head and found we had made a small dent. It was small, but at least it was progress.

As far as I can tell, this is the way to do research. Words like “speed” are foreign to the process. It’s a slow and steady march: two steps forward, one step back, and by God’s grace, we make progress. In a word, it requires patience, another gift from God that makes all the difference.

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The tangible faith of these godly men and women offers guidance for our current moment.

In his classic work Life Together, German theologian and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer lived during a time of political unrest, racial injustice, physical isolation, and palpable fear—a time eerily parallel to our own. Bonhoeffer identified the vital necessity of the gathered church: “The physical presence of other believers is a source of incomparable joy and strength to the believer.”

For Bonhoeffer, this was not simply rhetoric. Due to his involvement in the German resistance, Bonhoeffer knew the pain of involuntary isolation from his Christian brothers and sisters. He knew that the mere presence of other Christians has a fortifying effect on our souls, even if we don’t always recognize it consciously. That’s one reason the Bible exhorts us to gather. We are Christ’s body, organically connected, the life and strength of Christ Himself flowing into us through one another (1 Cor 12:27).  How remarkably relevant this is for us in our day.

Unlike any other community on earth, the church is the divinely given expression of Christ’s body. “Christian community is not an ideal we have to realize,” Bonhoeffer notes, “but rather a reality created by God in Christ in which we may participate. The more we learn to recognize that the ground and strength and promise of all our community is in Jesus Christ alone, the more calmly we will learn to think about our community and pray and hope for it.”

The English theologian and scholar John Henry Newman memorably struck this note. Stressing the importance of personal interaction, he described university life in Athens during Plato’s day, a period when learning among mentors and role models was of central importance. Newman writes: “It was what the student gazed on, what he heard, what he caught by the magic of sympathy, not what he read, which was the education furnished by Athens.”

Such an education holds great power because, as Newman explains, “persons influence us, voices melt us, looks subdue us, deeds inflame us.” How beautiful. In other words, the personal gathering of God’s people is crucial, for godliness is caught as much as it is taught (1 Cor 11:1).

In this fractured, tumultuous, and secular moment of history, it is tempting to regard the gathering of God’s people in worship, fellowship, and outreach as optional, only to be done if it’s convenient and safe. This stance shouldn’t surprise us.

But neither should it stop us. Let us not forget that Christians down through the centuries faced situations no less challenging than our own—whether they were living under Caesar or the Third Reich. Yet, by the empowering presence of the Holy Spirit, they recognized the church as irreplaceable (Heb 10:24-25).

“It is easily forgotten,” Bonhoeffer said, “that the community of Christians is a gift of grace from the kingdom of God, a gift that can be taken from us any day.”

My brothers and sisters, in Christ we are God’s gracious gift to one another—and to the world.

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The aim of our orator, then, when speaking of things that are just and holy and good – and he should not speak of anything else – the aim, as I say, that he pursues to the best of his ability when he speaks of these things is to be listened to with understanding, with pleasure, and with obedience. He should be in no doubt that any ability he has and however much he has derives more from his devotion to prayer than his dedication to oratory; and so, by praying for himself and for those he is about to address, he must become a man of prayer before becoming a man of words. As the hour of his address approaches, before he opens his thrusting lips he should lift his thirsting soul to God so that he may utter what he has drunk in and pour out what has filled him.¹

Footnotes:

¹ Saint Augustine, On Christian Teaching, trans. R. P. H. Green (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 121.

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