As a part of the process, many in my family are reading the entirety of the Catechism of the Catholic Church. This isn’t required of new Catholics — though it is recommended. Our Parish gifted us a copy of the Catechism along with the materials required by OCIA — the Order of Christian Initiation for Adults. The OCIA materials are a more summarized overview of Catholic teaching. Many in my family, however, wanted to go deeper in understanding what it is we are submitting to by becoming Catholic.

I’m not sure what I expected, but more than halfway through the Catechism, I am in awe. The first portion uses the Apostles Creed as a framework for a deep dive into foundational Christian beliefs. I have been impressed with the heavy footnoting, as statements are linked back to scripture, church documents, and so many Church Fathers, Doctors, and Saints. It doesn’t feel like I’m reading a book by an author or committee. It really does seem like reading the spiritual witness of millennia, the consensus of Christian truth revealed to and through God’s people.

As a lifelong protestant, I fully expected to find the Catechism challenging — I thought there would be positions I struggled to believe and accept. Perhaps that will still happen. So far, though, I have been impressed by how reasoned and balanced each position is. The catechism is clear and balanced on topics that Protestants have long debated and divided over — the timing and efficacy of baptism, free will and predestination, the baptism of the Holy Spirit, and so much more. Each section has been thoughtful and concise, covering a huge range of topics — from the trinity to the order of the liturgy.

As I have read, I have wished repeatedly that I had been introduced to it years ago. Of course, I have been aware of it — but it sounded so much more daunting than it actually is. Far from the overwhelming tome I expected, the Catechism is an accessible and systematic explanation of Catholicism. It is an incredible resource, for those who are considering Catholicism as well as those who just want to know what Catholics believe. Since learning more about Catholicism myself, I have realized how often Protestants misunderstand and mischaracterize Catholic teaching. The Catechism makes clear many of these understandings.

What I have loved best about the Catechism is how clearly it is aimed at love. The overt Christianity of the Catechism is truly such a gift. The more I have read, the more I have been invited into deeper love of God and my fellow man. I still have almost half of the Catechism still to read, but I already know I will read it again and again. In closing, I give you the first paragraph of the Catechism. Enjoy.

I. The life of man - to know and love God

1 God, infinitely perfect and blessed in himself, in a plan of sheer goodness freely created man to make him share in his own blessed life. For this reason, at every time and in every place, God draws close to man. He calls man to seek him, to know him, to love him with all his strength. He calls together all men, scattered and divided by sin, into the unity of his family, the Church. To accomplish this, when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son as Redeemer and Saviour. In his Son and through him, he invites men to become, in the Holy Spirit, his adopted children and thus heirs of his blessed life.

I will never forget the first time I attended the Catholic Mass. It was almost a decade ago now, but I still remember the surprise I felt as I listened to four substantial scripture readings. I had always been told that Catholics deemphasize scripture and rarely read it.

On the contrary, I quickly discovered that the Bible is used more in Catholic services than I had ever experienced in a Protestant service. Each Sunday, they read from the Old Testament, the Psalms, the New Testament, and finally, the Gospels. The priest then preaches a homily based on these readings. Indeed, I now know that The Liturgy of the Word is the first of the two parts of the mass (the second being The Liturgy of the Eucharist, which is celebrated second). This section is devoted to the reading and expounding of scripture.

As I’ve learned more about Catholicism over the years, I have realized how misinformed many Protestants are regarding the Catholic view of scripture. Scripture is foundational to Catholic tradition and teaching. Catholics not only hold scripture authoritative and inerrant — they venerate it as the very body of Christ. In this way, they seem to hold a higher view of scripture than most Protestants do.

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The Catechism of the Catholic Church summarizes its teaching on scripture In Brief:

134 “All Sacred Scripture is but one book, and that one book is Christ, because all divine Scripture speaks of Christ, and all divine Scripture is fulfilled in Christ” (Hugh of St. Victor, De arca Noe 2, 8: PL 176, 642).

135 “The Sacred Scriptures contain the Word of God and, because they are inspired, they are truly the Word of God” (DV 24).

136 God is the author of Sacred Scripture because he inspired its human authors; he acts in them and by means of them. He thus gives assurance that their writings teach without error his saving truth (cf DV 11).

137 Interpretation of the inspired Scripture must be attentive above all to what God wants to reveal through the sacred authors for our salvation. What comes from the Spirit is not fully “understood except by the Spirit’s action’ (cf. Origen, Hom. in Ex. 4, 5: PG 12, 320).

138 The Church accepts and venerates as inspired the 46 books of the Old Testament and the 27 books of the New.

139 The four Gospels occupy a central place because Christ Jesus is their centre.

140 The unity of the two Testaments proceeds from the unity of God’s plan and his Revelation. the Old Testament prepares for the New and the New Testament fulfills the Old; the two shed light on each other; both are true Word of God.

141 “The Church has always venerated the divine Scriptures as she venerated the Body of the Lord” (DV 21): both nourish and govern the whole Christian life. “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path” (⇒ Ps 119:105; cf. ⇒ Is 50:4).

This veneration of scripture is both liturgical and also part of the lay Christian life. Contrary to what I always heard — that Catholics didn’t really want lay people reading the Bible — the Catechism expressly encourages scripture study:

V. Sacred Scripture in the Life of the Church

131 “and such is the force and power of the Word of God that it can serve the Church as her support and vigour, and the children of the Church as strength for their faith, food for the soul, and a pure and lasting fount of spiritual life.” Hence “access to Sacred Scripture ought to be open wide to the Christian faithful.”

132 “Therefore, the study of the sacred page should be the very soul of sacred theology. the ministry of the Word, too - pastoral preaching, catechetics and all forms of Christian instruction, among which the liturgical homily should hold pride of place - is healthily nourished and thrives in holiness through the Word of Scripture.”

133 The Church “forcefully and specifically exhorts all the Christian faithful... to learn the surpassing knowledge of Jesus Christ, by frequent reading of the divine Scriptures. Ignorance of the Scriptures is ignorance of Christ.

I’ve been working my way through the catechism over the last few weeks. It’s a weighty book, so finishing it will take a while. The catechism is so rich, I can tell it will be the topic of many more posts. I had been listening to an audio version, as I’m often crunched for time, but I felt like I was missing things just listening. I’m so glad I switched to reading the print book. It is amazing to see the extent to which scripture references pepper each page. It is yet another example of the way the scripture is both theoretically and practically central to Catholic Christianity.

That doesn’t mean that the Catholic Church hasn’t been plagued by nominalism. It doesn’t mean that there haven’t been eras where the clergy were not as faithful to what they profess as they should have been. We in the Protestant Church have those very same problems, so we should understand. We, too, have issues with nominalism — with congregations that are scripturally illiterate. And how many of our leaders scandalize us because they do not live up to what their Christian traditions teach?

As a younger adult, I was wary of Catholicism because I loved scripture. Now, I realize that love for scripture is part of being a good Catholic. And as an Evangelical weary of all the Protestant disagreement on what the bible actually means, I so appreciate that Catholicism offers not only veneration of scripture — it offers an authoritative interpretation of scripture in Sacred Tradition.

Tradition, however, is a topic for another day.

I read the Epistles of St. Ignatius of Antioch first. I started with a cheap kindle translation, then purchased a copy of Early Christian Writings, translated by Maxwell Staniforth (an Anglican). Ignatius was a disciple of the Apostle John — making his writings just one generation away from scripture. His letters are wonderful, written very much in the same style as the epistles in the New Testament. I know I will revisit them in years to come.

Ignatius writes his letters near the beginning of the second century, when he is on his way to martyrdom at the hand of Emperor Trajan in Rome. Following the Apostolic tradition, despite his earthy trials, his concern is for the well-being of the Church.

For me, the most surprising element of Ignatius theology is the way he talks about church government. As a lifelong Evangelical Protestant, I was always told that the early church was very informal and decentralized. People met in homes. There were no official pastors — just elder folks who acted as shepherds (the meaning of the word bishop), of which each church had a plurality.

Reading Ignatius quickly dispelled me of this misunderstanding. He repeatedly refers to the bishops, presbyters, and deacons. It is clear that by the time of his writing, the Christian church is organized and centralized. Each city has one bishop, and under him are both presbyters and then deacons. These bishops are in communication — and communion — with one another. It was incumbent on lay Christians to obey these church leaders. To think or act independently, to Ignatius, is to lean toward the schismatic.

In his epistle to the Magnesians, Ignatius writes:

Allow nothing whatever to exist among you that could give rise to any divisions; maintain absolute unity with your bishop and leaders, as an example to others and a lesson in the avoidance of corruption. In the same way as the Lord was wholly one with the Father and never acted independently of Him, either in person or through the Apostles, so you yourselves must never act independently of your bishop and clergy. On no account persuade yourselves that it is right and proper to follow your own private judgement; have a single service of prayer which everybody attends; one united supplication, one mind, one hope, in love and innocent joyfulness, which is Jesus Christ, than whom nothing is better. (Staniforth, 6-7)

And similarly, to the Church at Philadelphia, Ignatius writes:

Every man who belongs to God and Jesus Christ stands by his bishop. As for the rest, if they repent and come back into unity of the church, they too shall belong to God, and so bring their lives into conformity with Jesus Christ. But make no mistake, my brothers; the adherents of a schismatic can never inherit the kingdom of God. Those who wander in outlandish by-ways of doctrine must forfeit all part in the Lord’s Passion. Make certain, therefore, that you all observe one common Eucharist; for there is but one Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and but one cup of union with His Blood, and one single alter of sacrifice — even as also there is but one bishop, and his clergy and my own fellow servitors the deacons. This will ensure that all your doings are in full accord with the will of God. (Staniforth, 3-4)

These two passages are only a small sampling of Ignatius’ emphasis on unity through submission to Church leadership. It is clear from his writing that he sees the seeds of division being sown throughout Christianity. The typical Evangelical Protestant response would be to tell people to study for themselves and choose what they think the best version of truth. Ignatius encourages nothing of the kind, however. Over and over, he urges Christians to follow their church leaders, implying a belief in the authority of those divine offices established by Christ himself and developed in the book of Acts.

Ignatius, though one man, isn’t alone in his opinion. I’ve read passages from St. Clement of Rome and St. Irenaeus of Lyons that display similar convictions. It is clear that these earliest Christians taught the authority of bishops as well as apostolic succession — that this authority was given to the Apostles by Christ and passed on to their successors. This is a very different style of church government from we find in Protestantism, where anyone can decide to become a pastor and start their own church based on whatever version of Christianity they personally find most compelling.

Reading Ignatius, there were times I had to just stop and shake my head. I would underline a passage only to immediately go and read it to a family member, telling them, “Just listen to this.” I don’t understand how these books aren’t standard reading for all Christians — especially Christians who study their faith at Christian institutions of higher learning. I took a year of seminary classes. My sisters both have degrees in Biblical studies, and my brother has a minor in the topic. Aside from little snippets in Church history textbooks, none of us was ever required to read the original writings of these earliest Christians.

A more comprehensive look at apostolic succession is a topic for another post. For now — I’m thankful to finally being listening to the Church Fathers. I’ve intended to read them for years, but life has been busy, and I have kept putting it off. To me, how the earliest Christians interpreted the teachings of the Apostles as well as scripture should have a lasting impact on our theology as Christians. I want to know what they have to say.

In the life of faith, there are moments that stand out — memories that, for reasons we may or may not understand, become permanent.

As someone who has known God’s love for as long as I can remember, such moments are plentiful, stretching back into early childhood. Love for God and for his Bride, the Church, was the lens through which I was taught to see the world and my place in it.

My parents were involved in ministry throughout much of my childhood and adolescence, so I saw both the good and the very ugly side of church life. My familial culture of perseverance despite ecclesial adversity made a lasting impression on my personality. As an adult, I got involved in lay ministry — small groups, hospitality, service, music, and library. I attended a Christian college, and I dabbled in seminary. I started writing for Christian publications.

The Church has been one of the great loves of my life. As someone who unintentionally found herself in celibate service to Christ (despite various boyfriends and dating site profiles), I have had fewer competing loves than most.

While I have always loved the Church, I have often struggled to know how to relate properly with her. American Christianity is messy. To borrow the phrase from Judges, everyone does what is right in his own eyes (17:6). We have more denominations than we know how to count. Real authority is non-existent.

It is within this life context that certain moments stand out.

There was the moment I first did a study on the concept of unity in the New Testament. I remember sitting at the family computer (I know I’m aging myself here), being shocked by the number of times unity is explicitly commanded in the New Testament. Paul is very firm on the topic in 1 Corinthians 1:10-13. I remember being touched particularly by Jesus’ high priestly prayer in John 17, asking the Father to make us all one. As I studied, I had an overwhelming sense of grief and shame that we Christians had so disobeyed Christ in this matter.

There was the moment, years later, I sat on my bed watching a video about Catholicism. It was an assignment for a seminary class. I don’t remember many specifics aside from an impression that the the way the Priest explained Catholicism was not what I had ever heard about it. Catholicism sounded much more sensible and reasoned than I thought it was, even while many aspects seemed foreign.

There were many quiet moments slipping into Mass by myself a few years later, battered by yet another Evangelical church meltdown. Of course, I couldn’t partake in the Eucharist as a Protestant, but I found profound comfort in the ubiquitous scripture reading and Christ-centeredness of the Mass.

While those moments and many others have always stayed with me, I have remained in the Protestant church. When I contemplated becoming Catholic, I was overwhelmed with leaving behind not only the familiarity of the Protestant landscape, but also friends and family who would not make the journey with me. Instead, I have tried to find a way to have intellectual and spiritual peace with the state of Evangelicalism.

Still, the more I have learned and studied over the years, the more I have found so much Protestant doctrine wanting. The only thing I could do is try to accept the cognitive dissonance. Sometimes I would think about the Catholic church, and I would pray that if God wanted me to take that path, he would show me. Most specifically, I didn’t want to do it alone.

And then, this spring, I had some new moments.

There was the moment my mom called my dad and I to see the white smoke going up from the Vatican on Newsmax. She was watching coverage of the papal conclave, and she wanted to share the exciting process with us. We quit our work on our new bathrooms to watch the announcement.

There was the moment we stayed home from church to watch the inaugural mass of Pope Leo XIV. It was touching to watch the uncountable crowds of so many ethnicities gathered to celebrate the Eucharist together. It was so catholic, in the truest sense of the word.

There was the moment my mom sent me a John Bergsma video she had watched with my dad. My dad has had his own experience attending and researching the Catholic church over the last several years, and he has been leaning towards Rome for some time. My mom had been touched by Bergsma’s testimony, and she wanted to know my opinion.

Since then, it’s been a summer of deep discussions and research. We’ve been reading the Church Fathers — primary source documents from the first century of Christianity. We’ve been enjoying YouTube videos featuring Scott Hahn, Jeff Morrow, Trent Horn, and so many others. We’ve been reading and watching Brant Pitre.

As I’ve tried to make sense of this process in my mind, I’ve decided to write about the experience. Writing always helps me clarify my thoughts. Over the last several years, I’ve done a lot less spiritual writing — in part, because I’ve been really busy. But partly, I feel like I’ve been a bit intellectually adrift. It has been such a gift to reengage my mind in my faith through this process. I’ve already learned so much that I didn’t know I was missing.

This morning, I went to Mass with my family. We slipped in a bit late. Despite the help of Google maps, we had driven past the church several miles before realizing our mistake. I picked up the missal, quickly finding our place so we could join into the corporate readings. It wasn’t long before the rhythms of the Mass came back to me.

When we recited the Nicene Creed, I spoke the familiar words with more solemnity than I ever had before. I’ve been reading Leo Donald Davis’ The First Seven Ecumenical Councils (325-787): Their History and Theology, which spends several chapters recounting the origins of the Nicene Creed. Before reading this book, I had only a very loose understanding of the history of the creed, let alone the councils themselves. Now, I realize how many early Christians dedicated their lives to developing the Nicene faith and protecting it from various heresies. Without heroes like St. Athanasius, St. Basil, and St. Gregory of Nyssa, we wouldn’t have the creed, nor the trinitarian faith we in Christendom — both Catholic and Protestant — have inherited. The creed is a gift from those who have gone before us — a gift not to be taken lightly.

One line, in particular, stood out this morning.

I believe in one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church.

I have long confessed this truth, but the more I have learned in the last few months, the more I am coming to believe that only one Christian tradition embodies the Nicene — and historically Christian — definition of the Church.

I’m looking forward to learning more.

When I turned the first pages of Anthony Doerr's Cloud Cuckoo Land, I wasn't sure what to expect. I had received the book, along with Kate Quinn's The Rose Code, as birthday gifts from my mom. She chose the titles from a list on The Gospel Coalition website: TGC Editorial Staff: Books We Enjoyed in 2022. Since she knows I can be picky, my mom had done her research. I studied English in college, so I prefer books with good writing. Also, as a Christian, I do my best to, in the words of the Psalmist, "set no wicked thing before my eyes" (Psalm 101:3, Coverdale Psalter 2019). Since my mom had found both novels on a TGC list, I was optimistic that they would both be well-written. At the very least, I assumed they would be clean.

I am sorry to say that my expectations were wrongly placed.

Neither book could be termed "clean." The Rose Code, in particular, was heavily peppered with sexual content. Cloud Cuckoo Land had similar, though less titillating, issues. At least Doerr's work was well written and interesting -- though there were "woke" threads of the story that felt forced and worked against the unity of the book. As for The Rose Code, it seemed to depend on sex and low-quality romance to carry the story.

When I finished reading Cloud Cuckoo Land earlier this year, I reached out to The Gospel Coalition. I never heard back. Part way through reading The Rose Code, I decided I would write this open letter. My hope is that TGC will remove these titles from their book picks. Mistakes happen -- especially when you have such a wide array of personalities and convictions running your website.

Before I go on, I want to make it known that I am no prude. I have read plenty of books with mature content -- especially in college (some of those American Literature classes made me blush). I've read content that was artistic and tasteful, and I've run into content that was titillating. I've read books recommended by friends that, after the fact, I wished I wouldn't have. I enjoy movies, and while I do my best to avoid inappropriate scenes (often using VidAngel these days), they are hard to avoid entirely. There are good movies with unfortunate scenes, and these I still recommend to friends regularly -- though I am always careful to warn them of content to be avoided. I can say the same thing about some books I've read. Sometimes it is worth pushing past an unfortunate passage or two.

My critique is that neither Cloud Cuckoo Land nor The Rose Code are appropriate recommendations for a Christian website. What is more, I don't believe either is proper recreational reading for Christians.

Quinn's The Rose Code

I will begin with The Rose Code, as its problems were more overt. The only positive thing I can say is that Quinn had a great story concept. Prior to reading her book, I knew nothing about Bletchley Park or the women who broke codes there during World War II. Yet, after reading The Rose Code, I still know very little. For, rather than digging deeply into this fascinating corner of history, Quinn uses Bletchley park as a setting for the soap-opera-like antics of three worldly young women experiencing sexual awakenings on various levels. I should have known that this would be the style of book, as almost from the first pages, vulgar topics set the tone of the story. Two of the main characters -- Mab and Osla -- first meet on the train to Bletchley Park because a man is "fondling himself" openly while looking at them (32). Osla gets rid of the man by teasing him about his anatomy, and the girls become fast friends.

The girls live together as boarders at Mrs. Finch's home, where they meet her daughter Beth -- who eventually becomes the third member of their trio. All three young women are drafted to work at Bletchley Park, where their escapades ensue. The various relationships the girls find themselves in are far from mature, and their interactions are anything but appropriate. There are several detailed descriptions of intimate encounters (some couples were married, others not) as well as references to male body parts in an, ahem, excited position.

Aside from the spicy scenes, the tone of the book is accepting of inappropriate relationships. Beth finds herself attracted to and eventually propositions a man in an open marriage. At one point, Osla is one half of an open relationship of convenience herself. Beth trades oral sex for information while she is in prison. While there were a few poignant moments of relational healing, particularly with Mab's marriage, those did little to combat the overt worldliness of the story.

Reading The Rose Code as a Christian, I was troubled by the way Christianity was caricatured in the book. Mrs. Finch, Beth's mother, is the only "committed Christian." She is a strict, abusive Methodist. She is judgmental, almost immediately labeling Osla and Mab as tarts, which offends them greatly. As a reader, I found it ironic that tarts is exactly what they are -- as they go on to corrupt Beth with their brazen ways. One part of the story is Beth's escape from her mother's control (an abuse situation so weird it seems artificial), only to explore her freedom by becoming the most sex-crazed of the three women. Her escape hardly feels like a victory when she uses it so ill. It seems like trading one sort of subjection for another.

All of these issues are couched in poor writing. The characters are flat, and their behavior is inconsistent. At times, the out-of-character behavior pulls the reader out of the story. This happens throughout the book, but it is especially evident in the way that Osla and Mab argue with each other after a falling out. Even after the reader discovers the cause of their disagreement, the almost comically snarky venom seems disproportionate and out-of-step with their prior friendship. Since The Rose Code is set during a war, you expect sadness -- but there were moments of what felt like gratuitous morbidity in this book. Even aside from the content issues, it isn't a book I would recommend.

Doerr's Cloud Cuckoo Land

I couldn't say the same thing about Doerr's Cloud Cuckoo Land. It is, indeed, a fine specimen of literary craft. The plot is original, spanning both historical fiction and science-fiction. The characters, for the most part, were believable. Positive themes echoed throughout the pages: redemption, the importance of accepting one's place in the world, and life's ability to overcome obstacles to name a few. Indeed, the theme of fertility against all odds seemed overt throughout the various stories -- that is, except for one.

One storyline follows a man named Zeno who grows up in the 60s, becomes a POW in Vietnam, and returns home to care for his ailing stepmother. Zeno suffers from same-sex attraction, a fact he discovers while reading ancient literature about mermen. He tries to outrun these feelings -- literally at one point, as he tries to exercise away his lust -- but he can't seem to have victory. Instead, Zeno's storyline follows the development of his relationship with another man in a POW camp, his feelings for the other man (including bizarre feelings of attraction), his life of random sexual partners, his exposure to the trans community, and the overall emptiness of his life. As a Christian woman, I felt uncomfortable spending so much time "in the mind" of a homosexual, reading visceral passages describing same-sex attraction. I hoped there would be some redemption, and while Zeno does good at the end of his life, some of his last thoughts are of the man he loved and his wish he had pursued the relationship with more abandon. Zeno's sterility seems a stark contrast to the theme of fertility in Konstance's story. It was so jarring, it felt like a piece of LGBTQ agenda marring a work of art.

Along with Zeno's story, there were other sexual issues with Cloud Cuckoo Land. There was some inappropriate humor with graphic sexual references. These fit the story (spoken by one soldier to another), but many Christians would find it offensive. Personally, these issues are something I could overlook in a book like Doerr's if it were not for the thematic issues. Still, I'm surprised TGC would recommend such a book without a content caveat.

Conclusion

When I was reading The Rose Code, I came to a point where I considered quitting the book and tossing it. It was getting smutty, and I try not to read things like that. But I thought -- how bad could a book recommended by TGC get? When it got worse, I again thought about tossing it. Then I prayed about it, and I made a decision -- I would finish the book in order to write this review. It has been a busy couple of months since then (anyone following my other blog knows we are building a house right now), so it took me a while to follow through. I have wrestled with some second thoughts -- I don't want to sound legalistic or preachy. I don't want to make friends who might have enjoyed these books feel judged. But when a trusted resource like TGC recommends books like these, I think someone ought to say something about it. It calls into question the ethics the TGC editorial team abides by. It makes me wary of other content available at the site. 

The book recommendations are a bad witness, for the TGC brand but also for Christianity itself. Our Lord calls us to holiness. Of course, none of us can ever be perfect, but God has given us simple commands to abide by. Just this week, I read Paul's familiar words to the Philippians.

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. (Philippians 4:8, ESV)

Doerr and Quinn's books fail on many points of this list, so I don't understand why any Christian would recommend them. When we read a novel, we think about it in a deep way. We spend hours getting into the minds of the characters, experiencing the story through their perspective. It's especially important to choose books that will not strain our walks with God or grieve the Holy Spirit (Ephesians 4:30). We should choose entertainment that is not only "permissible" but also "beneficial" (1 Corinthians 10:23). Of course, I realize that Christians may sometimes disagree about which books fall into which category. But I also wonder if the real problem is that we consume so much worldly entertainment that many of us have become desensitized. There have been times in my own life when I realized I had slowly relaxed my entertainment standards, and I had to prayerfully cut out some TV shows and movies from my library.

I hope that the editors of the TGC will consider their entertainment choices and pray about whether or not their recommendations encourage their readers in the faith (1 Thessalonians 5:11). Maybe no one from TGC will even see this, but if they do, I hope they look into my concerns. I hope they remove these book recommendations from their website. And in the future, I hope they vet the editorial book picks before suggesting them to unsuspecting readers. 

By now, I think most people have seen or heard about the He Gets Us commercials that aired during the Super Bowl. I found them refreshing. They were small moments of meaning in a parade of mainly shallow -- albeit funny -- messages.

While I knew there would be some backlash, I have been rather shocked at the amount and vehemence of criticism the ads have received from both Christians and those outside the Church. The commercials highlighted qualities of Jesus everyone should be able to get behind -- even those who don't believe he is God incarnate. So what's the deal?

I didn't know anything about the He Gets Us campaign, so I did some research. They have a website that is designed for seekers, where people can watch videos and explore topics surrounding the historic Jesus. The site directs people to ways they can learn more -- devotional and Bible reading plans, online discussion groups, and local churches.

For Christians who already know who Jesus is and want to know more about the group behind the He Gets Us campaign, there is another website. This site is for churches and individuals who want to get involved with the evangelistic aspects of the campaign. This site explains that He Gets Us is not affiliated with any particular denomination, rather "we generally recognize the Lausanne Covenant as reflective of the spirit and intent of this movement and churches that partner with explorers from He Gets Us affirm the Lausanne Covenant."

He Gets Us is partnering with recognizable Evangelical names including Christianity Today, Relevant, and the Wheaton College Billy Graham Center. Having confirmed that He Gets Us is broadly Evangelical and non-denominational, I was intrigued. Their mission is one I care about.

While the campaign is striving for unity around the person of Jesus, many unbelievers don't see it that way. Trying to google the commercials to rewatch them the day after the Super Bowl, I could hardly find the actual ads between the articles decrying them as anti-LGBT and anti-abortion. (Interestingly, when I googled the John Travolta commercial, that ad popped right up).

In case you haven't seen the ads that ran during the Super Bowl, I'm linking one of them here.

One commercial invites us to remember Christ's call to be like children (Matthew 18:1-4).

The other encourages us to love our enemies (Matthew 5:44).

On the Left, everyone from USA Today to BBC to People has weighed in -- People's headline promising to give the reader "The Real Story Behind the 'He Gets Us' Jesus Ads." Much of the criticism surrounds the donors behind the campaign. A.J. Willingham at CNN writes:

While donors who support “He Gets Us” can choose to remain anonymous, Hobby Lobby co-founder David Green claims to be a big contributor to the campaign’s multi-million-dollar coffers. Hobby Lobby has famously been at the center of several legal controversies, including the support of anti-LGBTQ legislation and a successful years-long legal fight that eventually led to the Supreme Court allowing companies to deny medical coverage for contraception on the basis of religious beliefs.

While the tone of the CNN article was outrage, as a conservative Christian my reaction was different. I am staunchly pro-life, and I think we need to speak truth into the LGBTQ lies so many in our culture are falling prey to. Knowing their donors are on the right side of these cultural battles made me like He Gets Us more.

In an interesting twist, some on the left criticized He Gets Us for spending money on the ads. I've seen AOC's Twitter post more times than I've seen the ads themselves, as her mocking Tweet has been shown on other media outlets : “Something tells me Jesus would *not* spend millions of dollars on Super Bowl ads to make fascism look benign”.

As AOC condones the more than 500 million taxpayer dollars being funneled into Planned Parenthood clinics every year, her comment smacks of Judas' criticism when Mary anointed Jesus feet with expensive perfume (John 12:5-6).

There is nothing wrong with thinking critically about spending, but we should realize we all make choices others may disagree with, even -- perhaps especially -- church-going Christians.

According to Tithe.ly, Christian churches received $124.52 billion in donations in 2018 alone. On average, only 11 percent of this money is spent on missions. The rest is internal -- 49 percent on personnel, 23 percent on facilities, 10 percent on programs, and 6 percent on dues. If those numbers are correct, in 2018 the American Church spent about $110 billion on itself, with $12 billion going to programs alone.

Our culture is increasingly saturated in mass media messaging. According to Forbes, most Americans are exposed to 4,000 to 10,000 ads each day. Making sure at least a few of those ads are about Jesus doesn't seem like a bad investment. At the very least, its worth trying. Compared to the $12 billion being spent on church programs, the $20 million spent on the Super Bowl ads seems like a drop in the bucket. Ultimately, when the Master returns, we each have to hope he is pleased with the return we have for his money (Matthew 25:14-30).

Along with concerns about spending, some Christians are concerned that He Gets Us isn't giving an accurate picture of Jesus.

This is a criticism I took seriously. I wanted to know for myself what sort of Jesus He Gets Us is preaching. The About section of the He Gets Us website states that "Jesus is the son of God, who came to Earth, died, and was resurrected, then returned to heaven and is alive today " as well as "fully God and fully man." How is this a worldly Jesus?

From discussions with friends, I think some people worry about how many videos feature social justice issues. This emphasis causes many to recoil, as it triggers the 20th century divides between theology-grounded conservatives and theology-lax liberals. This divide is tragic, and honestly -- the work of the devil to weaken both sides of the argument.

Jesus was theologically perfect, but he lived his theology in practical acts of mercy. We need rigorous doctrine, but it's just as important that we clothe the naked and feed the hungry. Faith without works is dead (James 2:14-17). It's worth noting that when Jesus discussed dividing the sheep from the goats, it was acts of mercy -- not theological precision -- that made up the dividing line (Matthew 25:31-46).

You can't give a complete picture of Jesus in a 30-second or even 1-minute video. I think this lack of completeness is what troubles people about the He Gets Us gospel presentation. But these videos aren't meant to be the whole story. He Gets Us isn't trying to catechize people or even fully evangelize people -- they are just trying to introduce people to the historic Jesus.

In Jesus' own day, the lost were exposed to him in down-to-earth ways. They saw Jesus heal a leper. They heard how he had protected a woman caught in adultery. They ate the bread he multiplied. Doubtless, they heard how he told off the religious hypocrites. At that time, there were no explanations of atonement theories. There was no Romans road. There was just a Man unlike anyone they had ever met. There were whispers that he was God.

How would we have heard about Jesus back then? How would we have told others about him? Would we have given a detailed presentation of our understanding of the gospel? Or, with the Samaritan woman, would we simply have said, "Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did. Can this be the Christ?" (John 4:29, ESV)

We might argue that with our fuller understanding of who Jesus is, we can give more complete pictures now. While this is true on one level, I think the original way people learned about Jesus still has something to offer. While a small treatise on the deity of Christ might turn a skeptic off immediately, a story about Jesus' mercy to an outcast might inspire interest. Perhaps in today's disillusioned world, before learning about who Jesus is, people need to know why they should care about him in the first place. Maybe they need to see his love, for "we love him, because he first loved us." (1 John 4:19, KJV).

For those of us who have grown accustomed to the divisions and sectarianism in contemporary Evangelicalism, spending time meditating on the historic Jesus might help us remember what once united us all in the beginning. There was a time when we weren't Baptists, Methodists, Pentecostals, or Presbyterians. We were just Jesus' followers -- people who felt loved by him and patterned their lives after his. Those in the secular culture mocked us by calling us Christians. The name stuck.

The concerns around He Gets Us are questions to wrestle with critically, but we should be careful not to condemn before we know the facts. Some in conservative circles seem quick to react negatively, and perhaps it's not without good reason. The last decades have been riddled with Christian denominations departing from historic orthodoxy to embrace the counterfeit gospels of tickling ears. Christian leaders we loved and trusted have simply turned and walked away -- from the life of faith and from Christ himself. When we see new movements like He Gets Us, it's tempting to react in fear. We see the intentionally un-churchy language, and it seems like a rebrand. We see the message of love, and we worry that the cost of discipleship will be ignored. To borrow a popular word, we are triggered.

If we can table our cynicism, we may find encouragement and a little hope. Researching He Gets Us left me optimistic. In an increasingly post-Christian culture, considering new ways to reach the lost is exciting. I felt reinvigorated to think intentionally about the way I am portraying Jesus to those around me. Those of us who love theology can easily bog ourselves down in doctrine and lose sight of the Jesus that gives it all meaning. We can forget our primary means of sharing the gospel is love (John 13:35). Having spent my whole life in the Church, I can attest that it can be a very unloving, unwelcoming place. Since we so rarely love like Jesus, we should appreciate that some are trying to repair our broken witness.

What if, instead of criticizing He Gets Us, we prayed for the campaign? What if we were intentional about asking the Holy Spirit to help us reflect the love of Jesus to our love-starved culture? Without compromising on holiness, what if we modeled Christ's empathy?

I wonder if in the 2000 years of worshiping the God-Man, we have forgotten the Man part of Jesus. He had a body like ours, and he lived in this same broken world. Hebrews 4:15 reads, "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin." We have read the verse so many times, I wonder -- do we remember what it means?

It sounds an awful lot like it's saying Jesus Gets Us.

Sing to the LORD, bless his name;

tell of his salvation from day to day.

Psalm 96:2

I started praying the Psalms as a spiritual discipline sometime in 2014. I had read Scot McKnight's Praying with the Church, and I was inspired to take on the Christian tradition of praying the prayers of the saints. I started with Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours, as this collection was recommended by McKnight. While I enjoyed these compilations, I wished they kept more of the psalms intact. The Psalms are beautiful and gritty and complex -- and you lose that when you pray only selections.

I experimented with the old monastic prayer cycles as well as with The Book of Common Prayer, which requires praying the whole Psalter once a month. When I started attending a conservative Anglican church in 2017, I started praying The Book of Common Prayer, 1928 as a regular practice. I fell in love with the prayer book tradition and especially with praying the whole Psalter monthly as a foundation for my spiritual life. Even though I currently attend a Southern Baptist church, I still start my days and end many of them with the Book of Common Prayer, 2019.

While I've been praying the Psalms for years now, I still feel as if I have just wetted my toes in their vast ocean. They are long and full of meaning, and I too often hurry through my daily readings. When I came across N.T. Wright's The Case for the Psalms: Why They are Essential while trying to use some Audible credits last year, I was excited. Wright is among my favorite authors, so I looked forward to hearing what he had to say about this ancient poetry.

I finally got around to listening to Wright's book this month. It was a great way to start the year. Wright examines the Psalms from three different angles, exploring what they have to say about time, space, and matter. He explains:

I have suggested in this little book that the Psalms offer us a head on challenge at the level of worldview in their assumptions about time, space, and matter. Time is not merely linear or merely cyclic. As time moves forward, the psalms by their content, but also by their poetry and music, invoke the past and anticipate the future. Similarly with space, heaven and earth really are designed to meet together in the temple, and the temple for which the psalms were written in the first place, is itself not there for its own sake, but because it is the bridgehead into God's whole new world. Similarly with matter, God delights in all that he has made, both as it is and as it will be in his new creation. That is what I have been trying to say, drawing on the Psalms not only as evidence but as God given ways by which those who use them in worship can enjoy this new time, can inhabit this new space, and can begin to celebrate this new matter. This is because, all through them, the Psalms offer us much more than simply an abstract theological treatise about all these things. Because they are songs for all of God's people to sing, they embody all of these points. They create, as perhaps only music can, the new world, or the new worldview, within which all kinds of new possibilities emerge -- not just new thoughts, but new actions, new habits of heart, mind, and body. The Psalms speak of change, but more importantly, they are agents of change, change within the humans who sing them and change through those humans as their transformed lives bring Gods kindness and justice into the world. (Chapter 6)

Wright completes his discussion by sharing what the Psalms have meant in his own life. As an Anglican, he has prayed through the Psalter monthly for most of his life, and he reflects on how often the daily psalms were God's means of speaking to him.

As I listened to Wright, I could relate with much of what he had to say. I have noticed how often daily psalms speak into my own life truths that are difficult to wrap words around. In particular, I have found my faith much less battered by trials, as the many psalms of lament have shaped my expectations of the Christian life. Life is hard, and the Psalms reflect this truth, even as they testify to the goodness of God in his creation despite the hardships.

That's the thing about praying the Psalms -- we are praying God's truth back to him. In a world where we are bombarded daily with lies, an antidote can be practically -- bodily -- reciting the truth. We do this whenever we read scripture. And the Psalms, in their breadth and depth, are like a microcosm of the Bible itself. When we pray them, we pray God's story, and we position ourself within that story. And Wright is right -- the more we do that, the more we see everything differently.

 Your statutes have been my songs

in the house of my sojourning.

Psalm 119:54

I first heard of Wendell Berry and his The Unsettling of America when I was a college student struggling to identify a study major.

I had enrolled with a plan to study agriculture. I loved animals and was thankful to land a job at the college dairy my first semester. But as I got deeper into my studies, I found myself a bit put-off by the big business emphasis of my classes. I was interested in small farming and homesteading — not agribusiness.

At the same time, I was feeling out of my element in my agriculture classes, I found myself pulled in the direction of English. My academic advisor at the time assured me that these passions were not mutually exclusive. He asked me if I had ever read any Wendell Berry, the agriculturist and novelist. I hadn’t, but I made a mental note to look the man up.

Eventually, I changed my major to English. To my surprise, professors in my new department also frequently referenced Berry. One had met him. Another proudly displayed his signed copy of Jayber Crow to his students. I even read Berry’s Remembering in my Comp II class.

But somehow or other, I didn’t pick up what is perhaps Berry’s most famous work for almost a decade. Finally, while on a road trip to Kentucky three years ago, I decided it was time. It seemed fitting, as we were planning our homestead venture and looking at property in Kentucky.

In one of the prefaces, Berry explains that he wrote his book from 1974-1977 during an agricultural decline that was being described, at the time, as a “boom.” He writes,

That the situation was not good — for farms or farmers or rural communities or nature or the general public — was even then evident to any experienced observer who would turn aside from the preconceptions of “agribusiness” and look at the marks of deterioration that were plainly visible. (xi)

Berry was worried then, but things have gotten so much worse since the ‘70s. His concern was with big agriculture and how it was leading to the disintegration of small towns and the destruction of the natural resources. Unlike many contemporary environmentalists, Berry doesn’t see humans as an enemy of nature but as part of the created order. The problems only develop when humans fail to live within their limits.

The question of human limits, of the proper definition and place of human beings within the order of creation, finally rests upon our attitude toward our biological existence, the life of the body in this world. What value and respect do we give our bodies? What uses do we have for them? What relation do we see, if any, between body and mind, or body and soul? What connections or responsibilities do we maintain between our bodies and the earth? These are religious questions, obviously, for our bodies are part of the Creation, and they involve us in all the issues of mystery. But the questions are also agricultural, for no matter how urban our life, our bodies live by farming; we come from the earth and return to it, and so we live in agriculture as we live in flesh. (101)

I think we too often forget that God created man and placed him in a garden. In God’s good creation, we are home. In Berry, I found the agriculture of my youth — the love of creation and my fellow creatures. As a kid, I couldn’t have put it into words, but I thrived living connected to creation. I’ve spent most of my adult years trying to get back to that life. It’s ironic that in a society that prizes itself on flouting limits, it can feel almost impossible to build a simpler life. For my sisters and I, part of this journey has been sacrificing traditional careers for a time and embracing more physical labor than we have ever experienced.

We have made it our overriding ambition to escape work [particularly any form of hand work], and as a consequence have debased work until it is only fit to escape from. We have debased the products of work and have been, in turn, debased by them. … We have taken the irreplaceable energies and materials of the world and turned them into jimcrack “labor-saving devices.” … But is work something that we have a right to escape? And can we escape it with impunity? We are probably the first entire people ever to think so. All the ancient wisdom that has come down to us counsels otherwise. It tells us that work is necessary to us, as much a part of our condition as mortality; that good work is our salvation and our joy; that shoddy or dishonest or self-serving work is our curse and our doom. We have tried to escape the sweet and sorrow promised in Genesis — only to find that, in order to do so, we must forswear love and excellence, health and joy. (14-15)

I have always loved working hard, and I have found joy in many of the jobs I have had over the years. But there is something particularly healing in the work of creating something new with your own hands. It is empowering to realize that you can walk out onto a piece of land and build a shelter and live there. Far from feeling limited, I feel free. It is ironic that the limitless existence Berry warns about actually leads people to dependency, as we rely on experts for life’s basic necessities — food and shelter. By accepting our true limits, we move towards real liberty.

I believe that the answers are to be found in our history: in its until now subordinate tendency of settlement, of domestic permanence. This was the ambition of thousands of immigrants; it is formulated eloquently in some of the letters of Thomas Jefferson; it was the dream of the freed slaves; it was written into law in the Homestead Act of 1862. There are few of us whose families have not at some time been moved to see its vision and to attempt to enact its possibility. I am talking about the idea that as many as possible should share in the ownership of the land and thus be bound to it by economic interest, by the investment of love and work, by family loyalty, by memory and tradition. … The old idea is still full of promise. It is potent with healing and with health. It has the power to turn each person away from the big-time promising and planning of the government, to confront in himself, in the immediacy of his own circumstances and whereabouts, the question of what methods and ways are best. It proposes an economy of necessities rather than an economy based upon anxiety, fantasy, luxury, and idle wishing. It proposes the independent, free-standing citizenry that Jefferson thought to be the surest safeguard of democratic liberty. (15-16)

There is some sort of poetry in the fact that I began reading The Unsettling of America while wandering, and I finished it once I was settled. We found our dream property right in our very own Ozarks, just down the road from where my great-great-great-great-grandpa settled in the 1830s. I finished the book in a tent near our spring, camping out while building a permanent dwelling.

Our country has been hurt by its unsettling. It’s time to resettle America.

I will keep up Incandescent Ink as my personal blog. But if you are interested in our homesteading adventure, jump over to Homestead Sissies and check it out!

I got off Facebook last November. I was tired of the blatant agenda, the in-your-face ideology filtering what felt like every interaction. I am a Christian and unapologetically conservative. My Facebook friends list once ran the gambit of religions and political leanings, and I enjoyed the free exchange of ideas. I wanted to share my opinions freely, and I wanted the same for those I disagreed with. Following the election of 2020, I felt like Facebook was no longer a place where free communication could happen. Friends and family members were censored for their conservative political opinion (one friend had a prayer for Donald Trump taken down). "Independent Fact Checkers" garbled conversations I had with friends -- something I still don't appreciate. I am an adult. I can talk to people myself -- I don't need help checking facts. So, following several friends having white-bread conservative posts removed during the election, I got off Facebook entirely.

To be completely honest, it was something I had thought about off and on for years. I don't really like what social media has done to us as a society. While it purports to connect us, it too often turns us inward on ourselves, as we become image obsessed, caring more about what we share than what is shared with us. I had long wearied of the competitive vibes in some posts, as people seemed to try to outdo one another in everything from their kids birthday parties to date nights to weight loss goals. I wondered what Facebook was adding to my life, if anything.

I joined Facebook in 2007, back when it was a college networking tool. I loved how it simplified keeping up with friends and classmates. We would often post our actual status back then, letting classmates know where we were studying for this or that test. I loved how easy it made organizing group events like Bible studies and movie nights. Facebook seemed to work better back then, helping us to connect more with one another in real life.

After college, things began to change. I loved that I could keep up with old friends, but over time, Facebook changed so I saw little of the updates from people I cared about. Over time, overcrowding of my friends list made it hard to keep up with anyone very well. And as I tended to see fewer and fewer of my friends offline, I began to wonder if they were even "friends" anymore at all. I tried some of those challenges that went around -- at one point deleting all friends I hadn't interacted with within a few months. I found tests like that didn't really work either -- what about friends who had really become like family, whether you talked regularly or not?

When I decided to leave Facebook, I had every intention of keeping up with people via the phone or email. And I did with several friends. But I moved that same month, and with Covid still making socializing difficult for much of 2021, I found I quickly became more isolated than ever. As I tried to make new friends in my new city, I struggled. I created a mainly empty Facebook page so I could continue talking to my grandma on her Facebook Portal, and I found myself using that page to check out churches and events. As I have looked for ways to connect with local like minded people, I have found over and over again that the place where that is happening is Facebook. Plus, there were major life events among friends and family that I missed for months, just because people announced on Facebook first.

So, after much thought and prayer, I decided to get "back on" Facebook, at least for now. As much as I disagree with its ideology (especially after the leaks earlier this year), Facebook really has become a utility of sorts. Trying to function "off Facebook" is a bit like trying to function without a telephone or without email -- it's just awkward these days. I still don't know if Facebook has been good for society, but it seems like its here to stay. Plus, I don't know if my absence really changes anything for the better. Maybe I can at least try to be a small force for good. At the very least, I can keep up with family and old friends better.

I'm still glad I took the time away. It was good to get out of the social media habit. And while I lost a good 12 years of Facebook history, the fresh start will be nice. All those old college photos were so fun at the time -- but really, do I need albums of college guys dressed in footie pjs forever? Plus, it's nice to be done with all those awkward old timeline posts from ex's and crushes of years past. Maybe someday Facebook will have an archive feature. For now, I'm just looking forward to starting over and catching up on everyone's pictures!

A couple weeks ago, my mom, dad, and I made a quick trip out to our land to flag the location of our new driveway. While we were there, we noticed the blackberries were ripe. We had known they would be ready soon, but hadn't planned to pick any this particular trip. Not to miss the moment, we grabbed a couple plastic baggies we happened to find in the car and went to work.

When I was little, we lived in a tiny logging town in the Oregon Cascades. On of my favorite memories of those years are the blackberries -- technically marionberries. They fought yearly to take over our backyard, and we kids enjoyed many a warm, sweet snack during our adventures among the brambles. The grownups were more intentional, and I remember happy picking expeditions, filling Tupperware bowls and cooking pots before the berries were baked into cobblers or frozen for winter treats.

Wild berries were just a part of life -- a simple pleasure I took for granted.

Our spontaneous blackberry harvest this summer brought back those memories. Only the Missouri sun was warmer, and we had to fight iridescent green June bugs for our spoil. We only gathered about a quart, and I have to admit they were not as sweet as I hoped. But they were the first berries we picked from our land -- a sort of first-fruits of long held dreams.

I steamed and sweetened the berries, then churned them into a batch of ice cream. Homemade ice cream is always a favorite, but this time it was different -- my brother called it almost spiritual. It tasted like home.

A collage of images from pop culture made up my earliest understanding of St. Mary – pictures picked up in the childish ways we begin to learn anything. There was the illustrated Mary in my Golden Book. There was the pink-robed Mary in the tiny children’s nativity my mom ordered from Avon. The image that would come to dominate all the rest was that of Olivia Hussey, who portrayed Mary in the 1977 mini-series, “Jesus of Nazareth.”

Growing up in a devout Evangelical household, these mental images matured only a little during my adolescence. I learned about the importance and implications of the Virgin Birth. About Mary herself, I learned nothing aside from what is written plainly in the New Testament. It was not until I took a few seminary classes and learned more about Roman Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy that I began to question the common, low-church Protestant position on Mary, wavering as it did between ambivalence and suspicion. I was intrigued by the ancient beliefs I read about: Mary as the Theotokos, the Ever Virgin, the Queen of Heaven. These images (or perhaps, icons) were weighty, powerful, and living. Once I started attending an Anglican church, I found that some of my church fellows, too, venerated Mary in the old catholic way. I asked questions, read articles, listened to lectures – but as interested as I was, I struggled with the lack of biblical support for so many traditional Marian doctrines. Then a Roman Catholic friend gave me Brant Pitre’s Jesus and the Jewish Roots of Mary last year, and I began to discover not only who Mary is in the great tradition, but who scripture itself says she is.

The key to understanding what the Bible says about Mary, according to Pitre, is to start in the Old Testament. He writes:

As I hope to show, far from being “unbiblical,” Catholic doctrines about Mary are deeply rooted in Scripture – if you interpret the New Testament in light of the Old Testament. Keep looking at the New Testament by itself, and you’ll never see them. Start looking at Mary through ancient Jewish eyes, and all will become clear. (12)

This is a bold claim, and Pitre does not disappoint. He balances engaging style with rigorous Bible study that any Protestant can appreciate, even if you don’t quite agree with all of his conclusions. He explains the method behind his thesis: “The key to understanding what the Bible teaches about Mary can be found in what is called ‘typology’: the study of the Old Testament prefigurations (or ‘types’) and their New Testament fulfillments” (10). Pitre structures much of his book around these types, spending a chapter on each. He explores Mary as the New Eve, the New Ark of the Covenant, the Queen Mother, the Perpetual Virgin, and the New Rachel. He also includes discussions about the birth of the Messiah and what happened at the foot of the Cross.

One of the more novel types Pitre explores is Mary as the New Ark of the New Exodus. Pitre begins his discussion by giving a brief history of the Ark of the Covenant in the Old Testament. He writes, “First and foremost, the Tabernacle where the Ark is kept is the dwelling place of God on earth” (45). Pitre highlights the coming of the glory cloud that descends from heaven to the Tabernacle (Exod. 40:34–35) and later the Jerusalem Temple once the Ark is brought to rest there (1 Kings 8:10–11). The Ark is later lost – or hidden by the prophet Jeremiah if you accept the record in 2 Maccabees. By the time of Christ, the Ark is no longer in the temple. Because the Ark is gone, so, too, the glory cloud of God in Israel. The cloud returns, according to Pitre, at the Annunciation. He demonstrates the parallel between the use of the Greek word for “overshadow” (episkiazo) in both Luke 1:35 and the Septuagint translation of Exodus 40:35. Pitre demonstrates further parallels between David’s bringing of the Ark to Jerusalem and Mary’s visit to Elizabeth – a connection I had never suspected but could not help finding persuasive.

Pitre uses these various types to discuss well known Marian doctrines that sometimes cause controversy. For instance, he grounds his argument for Mary’s bodily assumption into heaven in his discussion of her as the New Ark. It is in light of Mary as the new Eve that Pitre makes his pitch for the Immaculate Conception, arguing that if Eve was created without sin, that “it is reasonable to conclude that Mary, as the second Eve must also have been created without sin” (36). He bases Mary’s identity as Queen of Heaven on a biblical precedent: “In ancient Israel, the queen of the kingdom was the king’s mother. As the ‘great lady’ (Hebrew gebirah), she not only wore a royal crown and sat on a royal throne, she also reigned with the king and held an office second only to that of the king himself” (80). According to Pitre, Mary’s position as Queen Mother within the Kingdom of God explains the practices of veneration and invocation. While I personally did not find all of these arguments convincing, they were compelling.

Throughout the book, I appreciated how Pitre kept an ecumenical audience in mind. He cites early Church Fathers as well as contemporary theologians – many of whom are Protestant, which helped make clear how universal some of these beliefs are. He writes:

So, whether you’re a Christian who has always wondered what the Bible actually teaches about Mary; whether you’re a Jew or a Muslim who is curious to learn more about the mother of Jesus; whether you’re an agnostic or an atheist interested in the Jewish origins of Christianity—whatever your religious background or worldview—I invite you to come along with me on this journey and try to see the mother of Jesus through ancient Jewish eyes. (13)

The journey was well worth my time, as my views were deepened and challenged. I now have a much greater appreciation for the historic Marian doctrines, and I have more respect for Christians who accept them – even those doctrines I am still not sure about. And importantly, the flimsy images that once made up my understanding of St. Mary have been replaced by the robust icons of antiquity.

It's been a busy six months since my last blog update. After years of planning and hoping, our dream of a family homestead is about to become a reality. My parents, siblings (and their families), and I are on the brink of a new adventure -- and I cannot wait to begin!

We sold two pieces of property and purchased another a couple hours away. We are now the proud owners of 40 acres on a small, rural highway. It is mostly wooded -- tangled and brambly, full of black walnuts and wild blackberries. There are a couple small clearings and a pond. Best of all, there is a small, year-round spring bubbling out from beneath a large boulder. The possibilities seem endless.

We are all wintering in the city. I'm writing when I can, which means a lot one week and none the next. This season is crazy, but after years of feeling stuck, I am so very thankful.

If someone had told me at the beginning of 2020 what lay ahead, I would have thought they were paranoid and alarmist. Yet in just months, speculation became reality as life changed suddenly and dramatically. For me, the pandemic and cultural unrest — around everything from race to the economy to the election — have been made even more scary by the loss of clarity. No one is sure what is happening or what we should do about it.

Scrolling through Facebook is like treading through a verbal war zone as Christian friends virtually scream at one another for everything from wearing (or not wearing) masks to supporting (or not supporting) certain political candidates or social justice groups. These anxieties pile on top of those we already experience in a culture that is accelerating away from the Christian norms that once governed society. Our moment calls for a response — but what can we do?

John Stonestreet offers a caution. “As grave as our moment is, it’s just a moment,” he said. “We can never understand the story from the moment. We have to fight to understand the moment from the story.”^[1]

Stonestreet was speaking at the 2019 Touchstone Conference, prophetically themed “Fight or Flight? The Benedict & Other Options for Facing the World, the Flesh & the Devil.” Since it was published three years ago, Rod Dreher’s “The Benedict Option” has continued to spark conversation. Justice Samuel Alito even cited the book in his majority opinion for a Supreme Court religious liberty case in July of this year.^[2] Preserving our story so that we can respond to our moments is what “The Benedict Option” is all about.

Drawing from the example of Saint Benedict, the sixth-century monk who founded Benedictine monasticism in the face of Roman decadence, Dreher exhorts Christians, “If we want to survive, we have to return to the roots of our faith, both in thought and in practice. […] In short, we are going to have to be the church, without compromise, no matter what it costs.”^[3]

Throughout my reading of “The Benedict Option,” I was struck by its particular relevance to singles. As a group, we are most at risk for both the isolation and cultural assimilation Dreher warns about. And yet, as Paul said in 1 Corinthians 7:32-35, singleness can be a gift, offering us the opportunity to be focused on the things of God rather than the things of earth. Like the monastics, we can use our singleness to uniquely learn, live, and tell our story to the world.

Learning our story

The Christian classic “The Rule of Saint Benedict” was written to govern monastic communities. It begins, “Listen carefully, my son, to the master’s instructions, and attend to them with the ear of your heart.”^[4] Benedictine monks had to listen to their religious leaders, but also to the readings of Scripture and religious works. They had time set aside each day for reading and studying.

Dreher writes, “Education not only has to reset our relationship to ultimate reality, it also must reestablish our connection to our history.”^[5] In other words, the purpose of this education is rooting us into our story. This is historically part of Christian catechesis, a robust program of teaching to ground new converts and believers in the faith. Our grounding begins with knowing Scripture — both the Old and New Testaments. It also includes learning our Christian history. There are wonderful surveys available (like Justo L. Gonzalez’ The Story of Christianity volumes) or we can read the writings of Christians from ages past. I recently discovered the online community Read the Fathers, which links to online texts and provides a reading plan for ancient works. You can also go straight to the Christian Classics Ethereal Library and read anyone from Thomas Aquinas to John Wesley.

Living our story

Benedictine monks didn’t just learn their story; they shaped their lives around it — when they prayed, what they ate, when they worked, even how they slept (fully clothed, “always ready to arise without delay […] to arrive at the Work of God”).^[6] While our context is very different, some of these practices can still help us build life rhythms that will direct us to God. In my own life, I’ve found the following particularly helpful:

Praying the Daily Office.

Monastics like Saint Benedict stopped to pray seven times a day following the example of Psalm 119:164. Today, this is known as the Daily Office. It has been adapted over the years by different Christian traditions, but it still features set prayers and a cycle of Psalms. Right now, I use “The Book of Common Prayer,” 2019 ed.

Observing the Christian calendar.

Christians since the early church days have worshipped on Sunday to commemorate the Resurrection. By the fourth century when the Christian calendar became the official calendar of the Roman empire, annual holy days and seasons had been added, including Christmas and Easter. The Benedictines lived by this calendar, and recovering its richness has made these celebrations more meaningful for me.

Practicing spiritual disciplines.

The Benedictines made spiritual disciplines part of their routine. In his “The Spirit of the Disciplines,” Dallas Willard writes, “The secret of the easy yoke, then, is to learn from Christ how to live our total lives, how to invest all our time and our energies of mind and body as he did.”^[7] If Christ practiced spiritual disciplines — like fasting, solitude, and silence — how much more should we?

Telling our story

I’ve benefitted from some of these traditions on my own, but most are meant to be practiced in community. In 1 Corinthians 12, Paul explains that the Holy Spirit equips each of us as members of Christ’s body, gifting us “for the common good” (verse 7). Our lives are not our own. Dreher writes, “Unless you have the rare calling to be a hermit, obeying God and being true to our divinely given nature mean engaging in community life.” (123) Forming strong community in our fragmented world is hard. With the help of the Holy Spirit, we can apply some Benedictine wisdom to our own lives.

Shared commitment.

When joining a monastic community, Benedictines took a vow of stability (they could not move away unless ordered by their abbot).[8] Such commitment seems impossible in our culture where mobility has been elevated almost to necessity, and church-hopping is the norm. There are good reasons to change churches and relocate, but if we want to develop real community, we will have to commit to a local church and make her people a priority.

Shared table.

Benedictine monks ate together; eating alone was a disciplinary measure.[9] Stories of shared meals fill Scripture, culminating in the Lord’s Supper. God’s choice to communicate His love for us through a shared meal isn’t arbitrary; as Christine D. Pohl writes, “A sacred element infuses the shared meal of the Eucharist as well as ordinary communal meals.”[10] Since the pandemic began, my spiritual life has been nourished by more meals around my family table, and I look forward to when we can sit around larger tables again. A commitment to regular meals with fellow Christians — be they daily or monthly — is a Benedict Option step anyone can take.

Shared learning.

Saint Benedict prescribed reading aloud as a community. Learning in this way strengthens us as the body of Christ, as our knowledge is shaped communally and in dialogue with one another. We can start or join groups dedicated to adult catechesis — books, Bible study, or video/audio teaching. Local social distancing has inspired me to connect with the wider Christian family online in groups formed around podcasts, Church history and Scripture reading — including a group dedicated to discussing “The Benedict Option.” Likewise, Boundless fans can connect on Boundless’ social media pages to share experiences around young adulthood, singleness and other generational common ground.

Shared life.

Benedictine monks lived together in a shared space — something that seems radical in a society shaped by individualism. Yet Dreher shares stories about everyday people who take steps toward communal living — from church members moving into the same neighborhood to singles practicing regular, robust hospitality.[11] Though sometimes unavoidable, single-person households are a modern innovation; Christian singles historically lived with families or intentional communities. When we share physical space with other believers, it enables us to engage in Benedict Option practices more organically. I have friends who were blessed by spending their single years with Christian roommates, and my own life has been enriched by the choice to live with family.^[12]

When we live into these practices, we tell our story to one another, and we tell it to ourselves as a community of faith. As we are strengthened as a body, we are more able to share Christ with the world. Saint Benedict taught, “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, for he himself will say: ‘I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’”^[13] The monks had a detailed plan for hospitality that included not only a shared table but shared prayer and Scripture reading. In other words, the Benedictines told our story to all who would listen. Christ calls us to do the same.

Our moment in history

As I’ve tried to make sense of life this year, I’ve found myself leaning into Benedict Option principles. The U.S. Christian witness has been divided over cultural issues for some time, and 2020 has only provided more opportunity for confusion. In his own talk at the 2019 Touchstone conference, Dreher picked up Stonestreet’s theme:

It’s more urgent now for the church to tell itself its own story and its children its own story than it is to tell the outside world about the gospel.^[14] It’s not either/or; it’s both/and. But we have to reprioritize learning our own story and living our own story out because the knowledge of it has become dangerously thin.^[15]

This urgency is all the more relevant in today’s 2020 cultural moment. In the midst of so much uncertainty, I have found clarity by returning to our story. As we in the church learn and live our story, we tell it to each other and we remember who we are. And then, even in moments like this one, we have hope to offer to an uncertain world, because we already know how the story ends.

^[1] John Stonestreet, “Bene-Kuyper: A Modest Proposal,” Touchstone, filmed October 11, 2019 at The 2019 Touchstone Conference, Deerfield, IL, video, 15.58, https://www.touchstonemag.com/conferences/bene-kuyper-john-stonestreet.php.

^[2] Rod Dreher, “Big SCOTUS Win For Religious Liberty,” The American Conservative, accessed July 13, 2020, https://www.theamericanconservative.com/dreher/big-scotus-win-for-religious-liberty/.

^[3] Rod Dreher, The Benedict Option: A Strategy for Christians in a Post-Christian Nation (New York: Sentinel, 2017), 3.

^[4] Saint Benedict, The Rule of Saint Benedict in English, ed. Timothy Fry, O.S.B. (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1981), 15.

^[5] Rod Dreher, The Benedict Option, 152.

^[6] Saint Benedict, The Rule, 49.

^[7] Dallas Willard, The Spirit of the Disciplines: Understanding How God Changes Lives (New York: HarperCollins, 1988), 9.

[8] Saint Benedict, The Rule, 79.

[9] Ibid., 50.

[10] Christine D. Pohl, Making Room (Grand Rapids, MI: Eardmans, 1999), 30.

[11] See Leah Libresco Sargeant, Building the Benedict Option: A Guide to Gathering Two or Three Together in His Name (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2018).

^[12] See C.R. Wiley, The Household and the War for the Cosmos: Recovering a Christian Vision for the Family (Moscow, ID: Cannon Press, 2019).

^[13] Saint Benedict, The Rule, 73.

^[14] Robert Louis Wilken, “The Church as Culture,” First Things, April 2004, https://www.firstthings.com/article/2004/04/the-church-as-culture.

^[15] Rod Dreher, “St. Benedict: The Father of Us All,” Touchstone, filmed October 12, 2019 at The 2019 Touchstone Conference, Deerfield, IL, video, 34:55, https://www.touchstonemag.com/conferences/st-benedict-rod-dreher.php.

Originally published at The North American Anglican.

I still remember the first time someone explained the Anglican view of Baptism to me. It was 12 years ago, and I was an Evangelical college student, listening to a lecture on the Reformation. Our instructor was Anglican, and as a part of his discussion, he explained the early Reformed view of Baptism.

I don’t remember many particulars from the lecture, just that it was the most sensible explanation of Baptism I’d ever heard. But since I was a confirmed pedobaptist, I filed the topic away mentally until I could study it more carefully.

I finally made progress on that goal this summer when I read the Rt. Rev. Ray R. Sutton’s Signed, Sealed, Delivered: A Study of Holy Baptism. Sutton cites the need for a “substantial defense of a Biblical and classical Anglican view” of Baptism, explaining, “it seems there has not been a major analysis from this perspective in over a century and a half, even though there have been smaller studies to be sure” (4). Published in 2001, Sutton writes:

How appropriate to study the introductory rite of the Church as we start another thousand years in the life of the Church! Please recognize at the outset that we are not simply talking about a dusty, irrelevant doctrine. We are engaging a discussion about a practice that meets us at the very threshold of the Kingdom of God. We are approaching a subject critical to the mission, growth and nurture of the Church. (26)

Throughout his book, Sutton builds a case for a high view of Baptism. He explores his topic by tracing threads from Creation through Judaism and the ancient Christian Church while covering a wide range of topics — history, philosophy, and practical application.

Sutton begins his discussion with a chapter on sacramentology, from which he derives the book’s title. He writes: “No other words could better express the meaning of a Sacrament: signed, sealed and delivered” (30). He connects Sacrament with covenant theology, giving adoption as a contemporary example. He writes: “Sacrament is derived from the Latin, sacramentum, which was used by the Church to describe those special signs and seals of the covenant” (30). Sutton grounds his view in the Book of Common Prayer definition of “outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace,” as well as the 39 Articles (31).

Sutton’s view of sacramentology is rooted in the Old Testament, as exemplified in the Abrahamic Covenant sealed with the sign of Circumcision. He devotes a whole chapter to discussing Baptism’s connection to Circumcision.

Sutton then moves into the meaning of being Baptized into the triune God — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. As someone who grew up around the Evangelical controversies surrounding the Baptism of the Holy Spirit as something separate from water Baptism, I found Sutton’s take refreshing. Citing Acts 2:38, Sutton explains, “Peter does not say, may; he clearly uses a future tense verb without any implication of a subjunctive mood, which is normally used if may is intended. He informs the new converts that they will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit when baptized, water baptized” (88). Sutton’s view is objective, while not straying into the mechanical.

Sutton then spends three chapters on an in-depth discussion of Baptismal regeneration and its historical, Biblical, and theological aspects. This section would be especially helpful for those who are familiar with some of the disagreements surrounding Baptismal regeneration. As someone unfamiliar with the terms of these controversies, I still found these chapters enlightening. Sutton defines the term: “literally re (new) generation (birth)” (96), and then he traces the various definitions regeneration has had throughout the centuries. He indicates that equivocation of terms is behind some current disputes. Sutton has a strong ecclesiology and calls for a communal and covenantal understanding of Baptism, which, he writes, brings someone into the Church. Of course, faith of the individual is important:

One is in covenant with Christ through Baptism, which means that God’s promises apply to the recipient and faith is required for this covenant to have eternal benefit. It is possible to receive the sign and seal of the covenant without true, personal faith. Scripture clarifies that an unconsummated covenant sign with real faith nullifies the Sacrament. (120-121)

Due to the objective nature of Baptism, however, Sutton encourages a charitable assumption: “A baptized person should be treated as and counted as a true believer” (124).

Sutton then shifts his focus to the question of infant Baptism. He begins his argument with Jesus’ famous words, “Suffer the little children to come unto Me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God” (Luke 18:16). Sutton argues that the family as a whole is part of God’s salvific economy, stating: “The basic social unit of Scripture is the family, not the individual. From the beginning to end in Scripture, God reaches out to and through the family (160). Sutton describes that all fell with Adam — his family received the effects of his choice. Through Christ, families are again brought into right relationship with God. He writes:

God promises a seed to the man and woman (Genesis 3:15). When God deals with them He reaches through the first family to redeem mankind. This establishes an important principle of redemption to and through the family, making the family the basic unit of the kingdom of God. (162)

Sutton then unpacks the Baptism passages in the New Testament, and examines Church writings on the topic from ancient through the Reformation period. His evidence supports his strong assertion: “based on Scripture and its historic understanding by the early Church and the Church of the Reformation, infant Baptism is a Biblical practice” (172).

He then turns his attention to how to classify baptized infants before they have grown old enough to confirm their faith. After considering various alternatives, he proposes:

A baptized infant should be viewed as and treated as a believer because infants can have some kind of faith. The Psalmist clearly teaches that infants can trust in God, “But You are He who took Me out of the womb; You made Me trust while on My mother’s breasts. I was cast upon You from birth; from My mother’s womb You have been My God” (Psalm 22:9-10).

Sutton spends the final chapter of his book discussing the modes of Baptism throughout the ages. He explains, “There have generally been two methods of baptizing advocated in the history of the Church, sprinkling or pouring, and immersion” (199). He explores each of these practices throughout history in general and Anglicanism in particular. Sutton notes the unfortunate divisiveness around the issue of mode, but acknowledges the theological emphasis each method reveals (205). He acknowledges the Book of Common Prayer’s rubrics, which allow for either dipping or pouring, with dipping being preferred. He writes: “Dipping is prescribed in the Book of Common Prayer because it involved both modes. Normally the person’s head would be dipped, while the minister would also pour or sprinkle water on the head at the same time” (202). This, Sutton argues, best represents the Spiritual realities being expressed, since “water is associated with the glory cloud. The glory cloud of God effuses and sprinkles the world with the presence of God and His blessing, represented by the water sent from above. The prophets speak of a day when the glory cloud would sprinkle all the nations” (218).

Sutton includes two appendices, a commentary on the Baptismal Office in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, and a brief history of baptism, as well as study questions at the back of the book.

Throughout Sutton’s work, I often found myself questioning certain points, only to have my questions answered later on. I was impressed on how thorough his discussion of Baptism was — he seemed to cover almost every side of the issue. I also appreciated his gracious attitude and the general lack of legalism in his views. He writes that it is “possible for God to apply grace when a Sacrament is being administered invalidly or apart from the Sacrament altogether. In His sovereignty God may choose to give grace in ‘extraordinary’ circumstances” (54). This is important, especially considering the wide rejection of infant Baptism in Protestantism. We don’t have to fear getting it wrong since “Jesus is Lord of the Sacrament and His heavenly Father is the author of grace” (56).

I was so impressed with Sutton’s overall work that I was surprised and disappointed to realize that some of his scripture references and paraphrases were a little bit slipshod. This was particularly noteworthy during his discussion of the glory cloud, where some references lacked proper explanation. Isaiah 52:15 does reference sprinkling, but is it really the glory cloud (218)? Is Ezekiel indeed referring to the glory cloud in 36:25-27 (218)? To the lay person, the connection wasn’t clear. Sutton also paraphrases Paul’s conversion, writing “Paul had been blinded by Jesus and instructed to go to the house of Ananias” (224). Those of us familiar with the story in Acts 9 know that Paul was actually instructed to go on to Demascus and wait, which he did in the house of a man named Judas. Ananias was then told in a vision to go to Paul. Surely someone of Sutton’s caliber knows the story well, but the slip (which should have been caught during editing) undermines his credibility. I’d love to see a new edition of the book with these small issues repaired.

As a whole, I find Sutton’s work both helpful and persuasive. Since finishing it, I have recommended it to several family members and friends. I feel like I did after that first lecture on Anglican Baptism — what could be more sensible?

Originally published at Boundless.

“Hey, remember that new karaoke place I was telling you about?” my younger sister asked. “Well, listen to this event they just shared.”

She then read a social media advertisement aloud. Using vulgar language, the ad described a weekly event celebrating alternative sexualities (LGBT identification, non-binary, non-monogamous, etc.). The wording made fun of our small town’s old-fashioned values, and it was clear — the owners of this establishment wanted to change our local culture.

“Wow, I can hardly believe that,” I answered. “I can’t imagine something like that going well here. If it does, things really are changing.” Our town, a regional tourist destination, is known for Christian values and wholesome entertainment.

“I know,” my sister said. “And I had wanted us to go eat there. I’m glad we didn’t.”

After our discussion, my sister shared the event link privately with her social media friends. She worded her attending comment carefully, not wanting to offend those who think differently. The event language was so crass, she thought her heads-up was warranted, assuming most families she knew may want to take their business elsewhere.

Just hours later, she started receiving messages from people she didn’t know, mainly members of the local LGBT community. They were shocked at the opinion she had expressed. A few messages seemed kindly meant, but most were angry and even threatening. These messages blew up her phone for days. My sister later found out an acquaintance from church had taken a screenshot of her post and passed it around, leading to it being posted publicly in several places. My sister eventually made her original post public and tried to dialogue with her accusers.

Telling the truth

Our local LGBT community seemed entirely confident — emboldened even — by our culture’s increasing celebration of sexual sin. Prior to 1973, the American Psychiatric Association listed homosexuality as a pathology. Today, gay marriage has been declared a fundamental right by the Supreme Court and Drag Queen Story Hours are a reality in libraries across the nation. In this climate, it was clear that our local LGBT community was certain of the morality of their views.

Frankly, I couldn’t help but be somewhat impressed with how unified and bold they were. In contrast, my sister’s conservative Christian friends were cautious and passive in their response. Some wrote or spoke to her privately, showing support but also hesitation. Unlike the LGBT community, they seemed afraid. And I could relate. The topic of sexual ethics tends to be polarizing, even among Christians. I have friends and family members who are part of the LGBT community, and the last thing I want to do is alienate them from Christianity. Still, is this silence wise? Is it biblical?

The Bible tells the story of God’s loving interaction with His people. In love, the Holy Spirit calls God’s people out of behaviors that are damaging and contrary to His design. In 1 Corinthians, Paul is bold in this moral teaching:

Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God. (1 Corinthians 6:9-11, ESV)

And such were some of you. Paul’s no-nonsense teaching didn’t turn seekers away. The church, with its stringent moral teaching — including its guidelines for sex — grew to more than a million members in just over 200 years. Today, Christianity is the largest religion in the world — composing more than a third of the world’s population.

Debunking the lie

Why, then, are we so often afraid to be bold? I think in part we don’t really know what we believe or why we believe it; and we usually can’t defend it. We don’t realize how much we are influenced by cultural lies about relationships, marriage and sex. Romance novels, advertising, pornography, music — they tell these lies.

For example, in a lie of normalization, more than 10 percent of prime-time TV characters are members of the LGBT community — about double the amount in the general population. Lies become so pervasive that, without a robust understanding of truth in order to counter them, the lies chip away at our convictions and eventually win us over.

The redefinition of legal marriage changed not only the law but the meaning of the word itself. Phrases like “traditional marriage” have become necessary to communicate what the word “marriage” used to mean on its own — the lifelong, committed, monogamous union of a husband and wife.

Christians today are even pressured to lie by using preferred pronouns of transgender individuals — saying “she” where God has said “he.” Christian culture has become muddled as many pastors argue that the Bible doesn’t exclusively teach monogamous male-female marriage, casting doubt on interpretations we once took for granted. Those who claim Christianity’s historic teaching often face accusations of bigotry and intolerance.

With so much against us, it’s hard to feel confident. Yet we have every reason for confidence. In “Our Bodies Tell God’s Story,” Christopher West explores God’s design for sex in depth, detailing how as image-bearers of God, we are co-creators. While sex is about love, requiring the mutual self-giving of husband and wife, it is also about life — it is fundamentally procreative. While not every couple is able to conceive, openness to children is part of the Christian marriage tradition and the historic marriage vows. This Christian sexual ethic is good news, because living within God’s design bears good fruit. As West writes:

When sexual union is oriented toward love and life, it builds families and, in turn, cultures that live the truth of love and life. When it is oriented against love and life, sexual behavior breeds death — what we can grimly, yet accurately, describe as a “culture of death.”

This “culture of death” is very real, most violently displayed in abortion, but with effects touching almost every facet of human relationship. Divorce, misogyny, adultery, homosexuality, cohabitation, pornography, militant feminism, premarital sex, sex abuse, gender confusion — and in certain situations, extended and unwanted singleness — are just some of the fruits of disordered sexuality within our culture.

Thankfully, God has not left us in our brokenness. Through Christ, God restores every facet of our humanity. While this process of healing may last our whole lives, through the Holy Spirit we can begin to live the kingdom life now. This story of healing belongs to all of us who have found new life in Christ. None of us is without sin, so there is no place to “throw stones” at those whose temptations may differ from our own. Instead, we should follow Paul’s example and speak boldly about Christ’s love even as we speak just as plainly about the consequences of sin.

Living in love

In order to speak confidently ourselves, it’s helpful for Christians to rediscover biblical sexuality in all its fullness. We need to read the Bible and pay attention to the holistic teaching about sexuality throughout the Old and New Testaments. Outside of Scripture, a good place to start is Christopher West’s “Our Bodies Tell God’s Story,” quoted above. J. Budziszewski’s “On the Meaning of Sex” is also helpful, as is Juli Slattery’s “Redefining Sexuality.” Boundless readers can get started with some of Slattery’s Boundless articles and interviews on the topic.

A common objection to the Christian teaching goes something like this: “But how could God deny anyone love?” Thankfully, love is the very thing God offers — love so passionate that it overcame death. By surrendering to the love of God, we are free to turn away from counterfeit loves that leave us empty, lonely and broken-hearted. We are free to flourish in Christ — whether God leads us into Christian marriage or celibacy for the kingdom. Both paths require the pursuit of chastity as well as lifelong transformation of our broken sexuality. In Christ, we are surrounded by the family love of our Christian brothers and sisters, and most importantly, we are restored to right relationship with Love himself (1 John 4:8).

Those of us who are single and living kingdom celibacy — be it temporary or lifelong — know firsthand what a blessing and cross singleness can be. Instead of shrinking from the cultural conversation about sexuality, we can share our stories with boldness. In a culture that idolizes sex, I think our role is perhaps more important than ever as we demonstrate with our lives a heavenly reality. All romance on earth is momentary, but the wedding supper of the Lamb is eternal — and all who will come are invited.

Watching my little sister last summer, I was so proud of her. She dialogued with many of her accusers — turning the other cheek when insults were thrown and sharing the Scriptures and their historic understanding with anyone who would listen. It wasn’t easy for her — it hurts to be called names, and it’s scary to receive thinly-veiled threats.

She was disheartened by how little support she received from fellow Christians. But though the experience was difficult, she was thankful for the opportunity to be a witness of Christianity’s historic truths. It was clear that several people she talked to had never heard these truths presented in a loving and reasonable manner.

My sister’s experience inspired me to be bolder in speaking the truth in love. I hope it will inspire many more to do the same.

Originally published at The North American Anglican.

In a recent Mere Orthodoxy piece titled “Why Is Anglicanism a Gateway to Catholicism?”, M.H. Turner raises some important questions about why Anglicans swim the Tiber. For my part, I found Turner’s proposed answers wanting. Paul Owen responded with a solid historical defense of Anglo-Catholicism, but he left Turner’s questions about the motive of modern Evangelicals unanswered.

I don’t pretend to be any sort of expert, but this topic is a personal one for me in a roundabout way. I am one of those Evangelical expatriates Turner references, though I spent more than two years attending my local Roman Catholic church before I discovered a small United Episcopal church nearby. So my own path is rather backward of what Turner suggests — at least for the time being.

I think there are some important facts missing from Turner’s discussion. First, many of us don’t have access to an orthodox Anglican church in our own communities. And even those Anglicans comfortably settled in a church community too often lack access to services while traveling.

If you want to attend a church that gives primacy to the Eucharist, confesses the creeds, celebrates a form of the traditional liturgy, observes the church calendar, prays the Divine Office, practices apostolic succession — and in general isn’t another Evangelical group trying to sell you on their brand, for many of us the only option is the Roman Catholic church. Turner neglects the general lack of access to Anglican churches in his discussion, while — for me anyway — it is a primary issue.

Despite the near universal access to Roman Catholic parishes, certain beliefs and practices — such as Papal infallibility, the immaculate conception, and the granting of indulgences — can be too much for former Evangelicals like me to accept. For this reason, I was delighted when I found an Anglican church I could visit, as I (along with so many) was attracted to Anglicanism as a via media, a way to participate in the form and rites of the broader Church Catholic while avoiding those specifically Roman errors. Turner suggests the view “that Anglicanism is historically a via media between Catholicism and Protestantism, has been so often debunked it only lives on in potted histories for Anglican rookies.” This accusation of rookie status seems biased, as Owen demonstrated. Of course, Anglicanism is by nature thoroughly Protestant. But in practice, it doesn’t seem an unfair assessment to place Anglicanism between Evangelicalism and Roman Catholicism. In reaction to Roman Catholicism, Anglicans reformed the Roman rite in the development of their own tradition. In reaction to Anglicanism, Evangelicals (for example, Baptists) typically threw the baby out with the baptismal font. To Evangelicals, Anglicanism seems like a step toward the Tiber while staying firmly on Protestant ground. Anglicanism allows participation in what is recognizably the ancient Church without having to assent to Roman peculiarities.

And yet, Anglicanism’s nearness to Rome in vital aspects has opened the door to reunification. How many Protestant traditions have been welcomed into Roman Catholicism with their own Ordinariate? Yes, the groups within the Ordinariate have left their communions to join Rome, but Rome’s acceptance of their form of worship is telling. As offensive as this may be to staunchly “Protestant” Anglicans, the commonalities between Anglicanism and certain aspects of Roman Catholicism seem irrefutable — and very attractive to Evangelicals tired of continually updated modes of Christianity.

This rootedness in pre-Reformation Christian tradition is why Anglicanism as “mere Christianity” works. While Turner’s criticism of the use of this term is fair in regard to certain Anglican distinctives, he misses the comparative “mereness” when considering the denominational fatigue many Evangelicals experience. After all, Anglicanism has never been a denomination as we conceive of them today; it began as the Church of England. Anglicanism was mere Christianity for our cultural (and for some of us, our biological) ancestors. For me, the journey into Anglicanism is like a trek backward in Reformation history, taking my own small steps away from a Protestantism replete with disunity. From this perspective, the push back within the ACNA against denominationalism seems entirely natural, as the Anglican tradition cannot be compared to the factions du jour rampant within Evangelicalism.

These qualities drew me to Anglicanism — not ceremony and Scripture, as Turner suggests. Ceremony for ceremony’s sake is exactly the sort of thing to make an Evangelical wary. And as an Evangelical, I have been steeped in Scripture my whole life. Evangelicals don’t have the lectionary, but we have “read the Bible in a name-your-timespan” plans innumerable. In one church I attended, we did a summer Bible plan one year where we read the great book in just three months. I currently belong to an Evangelical-run Facebook group where we are reading the Bible in a year together with the organization providing daily commentary. Evangelicals have scripture.

And just as Turner’s summary of what draws Evangelicals to Anglicanism left something wanting, his understanding of why some continue on to Rome seems shallow.

First, he neglects the seeming trend of Episcopalians converting to Rome after TEC departed from orthodox Christian teaching. This seems to be the case with the likes of, for example, Andrew Petipren, J. Budziszewski, R.R. Reno, and Thomas Howard. Yes, they could have joined one of the small continuing Anglican groups, but after leaving one global communion, I understand why they joined another.

Second, Turner doesn’t seem able to see the genuinely appealing aspects of Roman Catholicism. For starters, Protestants may balk at the Roman church’s seeming ownership of the title “catholic,” but factually, most Christians are Roman Catholic — more than 50 percent. We Protestants can talk all we want about the “invisible catholic church”, but when we won’t sit in pews next to one another on Sunday mornings, and especially when we won’t sit at the Lord’s table together, our catholicity tastes rather hypocritical. Members of the Roman Catholic church, on the other hand, will sit with one another and break bread together anywhere around the globe. The Anglican Communion may be the third largest (after Rome and Eastern Orthodoxy), but fractures have developed around issues of Christian orthodoxy. As Paul said, there must be factions at times (1 Corinthians 11:19). But when Anglican’s respond by acting like sectarian Protestants, forming niche denominations and arguing amongst themselves, they make other global communions look more obedient to Christ’s call for unity.

What is more, there are certain historic Christian teachings that Protestants have abandoned. The Roman Catholic teaching on the sanctity of marriage is very attractive, as is their high value of celibacy. When surveying the damage wrought on our society by easy divorce and promiscuity, it’s hard to think we could over-emphasize fidelity and chastity. The historic Christian teaching against birth control is likewise difficult to find outside of Rome. Christopher West noted in Our Bodies Tell God’s Story that Protestants redefined marriage long before the Obergefell decision when they struck the lines about openness to children from the traditional marriage vows. Evangelicals (like myself) who grew up steeped in the values of the quiver-full movement, may admire Rome’s counter-cultural, Biblical stand on these issues.

Also, Turner notes Rome’s frankness regarding liturgy. While I haven’t found Anglican teaching about ceremony wanting, I have found Roman Catholics more transparent than Protestants in other ways. They tend to be clearer about the roles of tradition and Scripture in the life of the church, while Protestants try to insist their traditions are based entirely on scripture (when they clearly are not). Rome is also honest about what you will be excommunicated for. Protestants will excommunicate you as well — they just won’t admit they are doing it. Yes, it is difficult to have to assent to everything that Rome tells you to believe, but at least you know what you are signing up for — and what everyone else is signing up for. It is difficult to have friendships ruined because people disagree about an obscure Bible passage (something I would wager most Evangelical fundamentalists have experienced), so a church where people have a standard they are agreeing to sounds almost like a utopian myth.

And the legend can sound even more appealing when Evangelical pilgrims find in Anglicanism the same Protestant pitfalls they are trying to flee. When different tiny Anglican denominations refuse to unite over minor doctrinal differences, it’s unsettling. When Anglican teaching departs from historic truths, it’s troubling. When you see certain Anglican groups branding themselves and using advertising techniques, it feels fake. When Anglicans bicker about doctrine, exalting their own views while putting others down, it can feel like you haven’t really escaped anything. While I can appreciate Turner’s candor as a whole, his tone smacks of the same factious condescension I’ve grown to know so well as an Evangelical. Maybe there is no escape, but some of us hoped Anglicanism would offer a taste of actual unity — the sort Jesus prayed for in his High Priestly Prayer (John 17:21). But if Anglicans behave like just another Protestant sect, it is little wonder that some swim the Tiber.

I haven’t converted to Roman Catholicism — there are very real issues I haven’t been able to overcome. But as I’ve been getting ready to relocate later this year and researching the churches that will be available to me, I’ve wondered what I will do. I have sympathy for any Christian struggling to find a place in our very dysfunctional catholic Church. It’s something I’m praying about myself.

I finished listening to Anthony Esolen's Out of the Ashes: Rebuilding American Culture this week. I discovered Esolen reading Touchstone magazine, and I found his lecture at their Fight or Flight conference to be particularly compelling. When I heard he had a book out on a similar topic, I used an Audible credit to download it. The opening chapter is titled, "Giving Things Their Proper Names: The Restoration of Truth-Telling." Indeed, the entire book seems to be an exercise in truth-telling, as Esolen explores various cultural spheres -- including beauty, education, gender, and the common life -- decrying the height from which we have fallen. Esolen is an English professor, and it shows in his witty handling of a weighty topic. He pulls heavily from literary heroes, referencing Dante and Shakespeare freely, all the while staying accessible to the average reader. If you haven't read Dante or Shakespeare, you will have no trouble following Esolen's meaning -- though you may be inspired to give the classics a closer look. One of Esolen's themes throughout the book is how much of our Western cultural heritage we are losing and have already lost. In Chapter 9, Esolen makes one of the most memorable arguments of his book. Citing Homer, he draws a potent parallel:

Everyone remembers that a Cyclops is a hideous giant with one eye in the middle of his forehead, and that he is glad to devour human flesh. But the Cyclops is also one of the many examples, in the Odyssey, of people who are sub-political, and that is the first thing we are meant to notice about the [Cyclopes'] island. For Odysseus reckons up the place with the eye of a landsman and a leader. The Cyclopes have excellent bottom land for growing grain; the fields lie overrun with weeds. The Cyclopes have wild grapes growing everywhere; they do nothing with them. They have a harbor for ships; they do no sailing. They herd sheep, and that is all. They have no marketplace. They have no assemblies. Each Cyclops is the despot over his wife and offspring, and every family ignores its neighbors.

The Greeks had a name for someone who refused the opportunity to live a truly political life, that is, a life involved in local affairs that bear upon the common good. Such a person was all bound up in himself, his goods, his pleasures, his work. He was an idiotes, an idiot, and not because he was slow in the brain. He might be a quick-witted fellow and still be an idiot: still entirely focused upon himself. (168-169)

It's unsettling to take a hard look at the modern life, to see how much more like the Cyclopes we have become than the ancient Greeks. Individualism has all but destroyed truly political life in the U.S. Our common culture has been replaced by the entertainment industry and our communities by social networking websites. Still, there is hope. We have not totally forgotten our history. We can live again the way we remember, if we are willing to, as Esolen said, "clear out the rubble and rebuild."

Today is February 14 -- the day history tells us St. Valentine was martyred. It also marks 51 days since retail stores were stocked with heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, shiny red balloons, innumerable stuffed animals, and enough Hallmark cards to provide kitschy reading material for even the longest winter. Of course, since St. Valentine is the patron saint of lovers, such commemoration makes sense -- sort of. As the legend goes, Valentine was a Christian priest in Rome under Claudius II. When Claudius outlawed marriage as an incentive for men to join the military, Valentine continued to perform weddings in secret -- a defiance for which he was beheaded on this day around 270 AD. In 496, Pope Galasius instituted Valentine's feast day, some suggest as a replacement for the pagan fertility festival Lupercalia, which was celebrated February 15. In 1969, the Roman Catholic church removed the holiday from their liturgical calendar out of concern the saint may not have actually existed -- a concern C.C. Pecknold calls "dubious", explaining:

Since a basilica was built over his tomb just seventy-five years after his death by Pope Julius, and relics from his body were spread throughout the Roman Empire, the evidence of his existence seems manifest to me.

Considering how large a part of our secular liturgy Valentine's Day remains, I can't help thinking the distancing ourselves from its more sacred aspects is a mistake -- however tenuous the threads of history. For all our secularism, we can't escape the power of romantic love to transcend our humanity. Divorced from it's source, love exalts itself at our peril, as we cannot but bow before it. In his The Day the Revolution Began, N.T. Wright describes "the power of Aphrodite, the goddess of erotic love" in contemporary Western culture:

We are all now aware of the way in which vulnerable people have been and are being sexually exploited on a grand scale. What was until recently behind a screen has increasingly come to light. We wring our hands and wonder what we can do, as our children and grandchildren are exposed to graphic pornography, tricked into "sexting," and encouraged to regard as "normal" various practices that most of my generation had never even heard of. (394-395)

Indeed, this year #valentinesday was banned on Instagram due to obscenity associated with the hashtag. The solution, according to Wright,  begins with "clear reaffirmation of the early Christian teaching" (396). It will require repentance, which Wright notes "doesn't just mean feeling sorry [...] but an active turning away from idols one had been worshipping." Part of this repentance must include a rediscovery of rightly ordered romantic (or sexual) love, a topic J. Budziszewski turns to in Chapter 4 of The Meaning of Sex. Budziszewski lists what he calls eight "moments" of love and their parodies. Working through the list is beyond the scope of this article, but a theme that emerges throughout the chapter is humility -- toward God and the beloved. One of these moments, Budziszewski quotes Dante to title: "Behold a god more powerful than I" (80). The use of "god" here is a poetic recognition that love is indeed a master: "The lover is no longer his own center, his own circumference, the only being whose good he must consult. There is Another." Budziszewski writes:

We might hold that the immortal God is love, and that mortal love is his image; this thought runs like a golden thread through all of Dante's work. But instead we might hold that mortal love itself is God, and Dante wants us to understand that the temptation to such idolatry is inherent in all love. The soul who is ruled by love sacrifices himself for the true good of the beloved. That is not idolatry. But suppose he goes on to worship her. Is he still serving her true good? No, because it is no mortal good to be worshipped; it harms her. But if his worship harms her, then it is no longer loving at all. We might debate how common it is for someone to worship the beloved herself. But it is not at all unusual for him to worship his own state of adoration -- and that is not true love either. (81, emphasis added)

What is secular Valentine's Day if not the feast day of such idolatry? Does our culture not take the feeling of love and "fashion her into a sweet long legged icon?"¹ We worship our own states of adoration -- or, if we are single, bemoan the lack of such enchantment in our lives. Real romantic love, on the contrary, is realized not so much in feelings as in choices and promises. Budziszewski explains,

The natural habitat of romantic love isn't the fly-me-to-the-moon escapade, but the humdrum matrimony. So far is the married state from putting an end to romantic love that for many people, the first experience of it comes only after they have been married a long time and are well-practiced in charity. (78)

For love to become itself, it needs marriage and the humility marriage entails. Christian marriage has always been about more than just the man and the woman. It is a picture of Christ and his church, an echo in creation of God's own love. It is this sort of love for which St. Valentine died. Subordinated to God, Aphrodite becomes not a tyrant but, as C.S. Lewis conceived of her, Perelandra, a small-g goddess who brings fertility -- new life -- in this dying world, who unlocks love for those who are willing. In the final pages of Lewis' That Hideous Strength, when Mark returns to his wife, Jane,  he is welcomed by a "great lady standing by a doorway in a wall."

It was not Jane, not like Jane. It was larger, almost gigantic. It was not human, though it was like a woman divinely tall, part naked, part wrapped in a flame-coloured robe. Light came from it. The face was enigmatic, ruthless he thought, inhumanly beautiful. It was opening the door for him. He did not dare disobey. (380)

Godly love ought not to be disobeyed. To defy it is to defy the great Lover himself. I wonder at the coincidence that we denied the historical Valentine during the height of the sexual revolution -- despite evidence that he did live. We need to recover St. Valentine -- man or canonical myth. We need his dedication not to romantic fancy but to marriage. Without it, we risk the tyranny of Aphrodite, with our Valentine's Day becoming ever more like the old Lupercalia -- only today we lack even the latent goodness in the old pagan festival, for we reject fertility and embrace barrenness. As Wright said, to go forward, we must repent -- literally, turn around. The way, to quote Lewis, is "descending the ladder of humility" (380). Will we?

¹ "Love of Mine" by Nickel Creek.

I've been working my way through J. Budziszewski's On the Meaning of Sex over the last couple weeks in preparation for an article I'm planning to write. So far, it's packed with pithy phrases and too many quotable lines -- the struggle to not annoy my Facebook friends with too much information is real sometimes.

Yesterday, I finished reading Chapter 3, "The Meaning of Sexual Differences," in which Budziszewski offers definitions of manhood and womanhood. As he geared up for this feat, I became a bit wary. It's a hard thing, getting at the heart of masculinity and femininity, and some more traditionalist definitions have seemed more than wanting to me. But as with other aspects of this book so far, Budziszewski's no-nonsense naturalism was refreshing, if slightly uncomfortable.

He begins by defining women: "We can say that a woman is a human being of that sex whose members are potentially mothers" (54).

Reading these lines, as a single woman with no children, I was a bit taken aback. Budziszewski quickly explains what he means by "potentially" -- some women cannot or do not have children, but this does not make them any less "potential mothers". In fact, he notes that the peculiar sadness that childless women feel is rooted in this potentiality -- to not have children is to not have something deeply connected to our identity. He goes on to show that femininity itself is rooted in aspects of motherhood, describing how this natural telos of my sex shapes the way we interact with the world.

But what of men? As Budziszewski wrapped up the section on womanhood, I was eager to see how he would define manhood. I expected something a bit more, well, individual. I was surprised: "He is a human being of the sex whose members have [...] the potentiality for fatherhood" (58).

As with his definition of womanhood, "potentiality" is a key word here, as not all men will be biological fathers. He writes, "Yet just as all women are called to motherhood in a larger sense, so we may say that all men are called to fatherhood in a larger sense" (59).

While a grappled with Budziszewski's definitions, I was impressed with their simplicity and rootedness in creation:

"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. And God blessed them. And God said to them, 'Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.'" (Genesis 1:27-28)

God created mankind in his own image -- as creative beings. And he begins with the directive to "be fruitful and multiply," to be creative as fathers and mothers, and as such, rule over the world he made. Neither sex could obey without the help of the other.

What does it mean to be a man? To be a woman? Budziszewski's definitions seem like good places to start.