Mens Seminar: Roundtable Discussion (Grace Agenda 2018)
Warning: Undefined variable $author_nicename in /srv/users/christkirk-com/apps/christkirk-com/public/wp-content/themes/christkirk/functions.php on line 895
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Many people struggle with the problem of evil. If God is all powerful then he could eliminate evil. If God is all good then He would certainly want to. So then why does the classic Christian position teach us that God is both all powerful and all good, and yet evil continues to exist?
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field” (Matt. 13:44).
I want to work through this short little parable, and summarize it for you. What is the kingdom like? It is like hidden treasure. When a man finds it, he then hides it again, and in his joy he goes and sells everything in order to buy that field. This is a kingdom mystery—it is like the purloined letter in Poe’s mystery. The treasure in this instance is hidden in plain sight. The seller gives it all up, not knowing the value of what he is giving up. The buyer relinquishes everything he has elsewhere in order to obtain that which has value beyond reckoning? Who is the seller here? I take it to be the nation of Israel, not knowing the value of their field, or the treasure in it. Although they did not know the value, their ignorance was culpable. They ought to have known. The buyer abandons all he used to have, gives it up, and comes into his new possession, well knowing the value of what he has. Thus far the point of the parable.
But after that point, I want to step back a few paces and look at the mere fact of the parable.
“The kingdom of God is like a man who . . .” Time is mysterious, space is mysterious, people are mysterious, and story arcs are mysterious. In order to have a story that is interesting, there must be conflict. Perhaps we should qualify this by saying that in order for story in this world to be interesting, there has to be conflict. Presumably, we won’t be bored in Heaven, and we know that in the resurrection the kind of warfare that we now undergo has ceased. “Her warfare has been accomplished” (Is. 40:2). If the millennial age is one in which the swords are fashioned into plowshares, how much more will this be true of the eternal state (Micah 4:3)?
But in order to keep from becoming bored, there must be a placeholder for that conflict. In our resurrected and glorious condition, there will be no suffering, tears, bloodshed, or anything else like that. But there will be something. We just don’t know what it is yet. My nomination for that post is a little something called difficulty. Maybe God assigned you to the planet Jupiter, and charged you to grow giant turnips, fifty feet across. But all that is just speculation. We know that the resurrection life will be perfect, and that means not boring.
Whether or not the stories themselves grow increasingly gripping, we know that storytelling will finally come into its own. Perhaps the solution to this dilemma is found in the fact that in the resurrection, the glorious things that God accomplished here will finally find a narration that is worthy of the subject.
“And I beheld, and I heard the voice of many angels round about the throne and the beasts and the elders: and the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands; Saying with a loud voice, Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing” (Rev. 5:11–12).
God knows how to stack one choir upon another, and so myriads of angels ascend on the celestial risers. And they sing about the crucifixion, about something that happened here, in this life, in our history.
If you were making the perfect salad, you would take the garden slug out of it. If you were making the perfect wine, you would make sure to remove the battery acid. If you were decorating the living room perfectly, you would take the greasy engine block off the coffee table. If you were making the perfect flower arrangement, you would not drape a bicycle chain over the vase. But we are in danger of becoming the victim of our analogies.
But if you were telling the perfect story, would you remove the evil from it? Think for a moment. Would it have improved The Lord of the Rings if Tolkien had left out Sauron? Or Saruman? Or the Nazgul? Or Gollum? With the disappearance of each villain or antagonist, is the story getting progressively better? Or worse?
“The kings of the earth stood up, and the rulers were gathered together against the Lord, and against his Christ. For of a truth against thy holy child Jesus, whom thou hast anointed, both Herod, and Pontius Pilate, with the Gentiles, and the people of Israel, were gathered together, For to do whatsoever thy hand and thy counsel determined before to be done” (Acts 4:26–28).
God is the good author of the good story. God is the perfect author of the perfect story. God freely and unalterably ordains whatsoever comes to pass, “yet so as thereby neither is God the author of sin, nor is violence offered to the will of the creatures, nor is the liberty or contingency of second causes taken away, but rather established” (WCF 3.1).
God is not the author of sin, but He most certainly is the author of a story that has sin in it. This is not a defect in the story, but is rather the glory of it.
When the day of resurrection comes, it is not the case that God has mighty angels pick up big erasers in order to wipe out everything that was. The cosmos is not erased. The cosmos is reborn, and what went before is contained within, and glorified by, that resurrected state.
“Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now” (Rom. 8:21–22).
“Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord” (1 Cor. 15:58).
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Today we are remembering the outpouring of the Holy Spirit on the Day of Pentecost. We will be considering the convergence of all things in the Father, coming to Him through the Son, and enabled to do this by the Spirit. But though this must be our central focus, coming to the Father, we do not want to let this true scriptural emphasis become a superstition for us. Stephen addressed Jesus when he was dying—“And they stoned Stephen, calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit” (Acts 7:59). And if we invoke the presence of the Spirit now, we do so only because we want Him to fulfill His vocation, which is that of glorifying the one who brings sinners to His Father.
“Howbeit when he, the Spirit of truth, is come, he will guide you into all truth: for he shall not speak of himself; but whatsoever he shall hear, that shall he speak: and he will shew you things to come. He shall glorify me: for he shall receive of mine, and shall shew it unto you. All things that the Father hath are mine: therefore said I, that he shall take of mine, and shall shew it unto you” (John 16:13–15).
Jesus had many things to tell His disciples, but He knew that they were not up to it yet (John 16:12). But the Spirit will come, and He is called the Spirit of truth, and it is not surprising that He will guide them into “all truth” (v. 13). The Spirit will originate nothing on His own. He will not speak “of himself” (v. 13). Whatever He hears, that is what He will speak, and that is how He will reveal to the disciples what is to come (v. 13). This will glorify Jesus, because the Spirit will receive what He says from Jesus (v. 14). Then He will show it to the disciples. Everything the Father has is also Christ’s, and everything that Christ has will be passed on by the Spirit (v. 15).
As we have considered this topic in the past, we have noted that the Son’s mission is to bring us to the Father. He teaches us to pray our Father (Matt. 6:9). No man comes to the Father but by Him (John 14:6). If we have seen Christ, we have seen the Father (John 14:9). And in a similar way, the Spirit is given in order to bring us to the Son, glorifying Him, so that He might bring us to the Father. So we come to the Father by the Son through the Spirit (Eph. 2:18). The Father is the destination, the Son is the road, and the Spirit is the car. “For of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: to whom be glory for ever. Amen” (Rom. 11:36).
The Spirit of all truth is necessarily one who wields true authority, true power. And this is why the Scriptures describe Him this way. Jesus spoke with authority, and not like the scribes (Matt. 7:29), and it was because the Spirit was with Him. And the great things He did were because the Spirit of the Lord was upon Him.
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised,” (Luke 4:18).
Jesus therefore had anointed authority to preach the gospel to the poor, to heal the brokenhearted, to preach opened dungeon doors to the prisoners, to declare the recovery of sight to the blind, and to usher the bruised into liberty. This is a lot of authority; it requires a universal authority.
And at the day of Pentecost, the Lord Jesus shared His authority with His bride. He did this by pouring out His Spirit upon us.
“But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you: and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judaea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth” (Acts 1:8).
Our two fundamental duties are to repent and believe, and the Holy Spirit equips us for both.
“But truly I am full of power by the spirit of the Lord, and of judgment, and of might, to declare unto Jacob his transgression, and to Israel his sin” (Micah 3:8). This is a Spirit-given repentance.
The second way is for the Spirit to quicken our faith. “This only would I learn of you, Received ye the Spirit by the works of the law, or by the hearing of faith?” (Gal. 3:2). When the Spirit was given, one of the more visible consequences was that cloven tongues of fire rested on each of their heads. One reasonable interpretation is that this made each of them an altar, with the fire of consecration burning on them. Present your bodies a living sacrifice (Rom. 12:1-2), with a constant fire burning.
There are two ways that worship can wreck us. One is when our fire has gone out, and we go through liturgical motions in the dusty places, with a few broken bottles scattered around. That is when we have lost our first love, and our worship services do more harm than good (1 Cor. 11:17).
But there is another way that worship can wreck us. A really good way.
“When Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord” (Luke 5:8). “Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts” (Isaiah 6:5).
“For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight: but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do” (Heb. 4:12–13).
The word opened there refers to pulling the neck of the sacrificial animal back, right before you cut its throat. The sword of God’s Spirit cuts up the worshiper, and God carefully arranges the pieces on the altar. And then it is that we ascend into Heaven in a column of smoke.