This post has first been published on our Cor Deo site. To visit the us there please click here

Predestination is a topic that can end a pleasant conversation among otherwise sociable Christians in a nanosecond. I see it, put wryly, as our Enemy’s favorite antidote to Christ’s love.

There are a couple of ways to address predestination—the “P” word. One is combative: to set up opposed creedal havens. A second—one with lots of momentum today—is denial: a tacit agreement to act as if “P” isn’t in the Bible. But both approaches are wrong-headed.

Let’s consider some Bible realities that call us back to conversation on the subject.

First we need to talk about freedom. We are all free, biblically, and not “determined” by an imposed necessity—as if God presses his will on our will. Yet the realm of our moral freedom is often misread. The Bible locates moral freedom in our hearts. That is, our greatest love always guides us for good or for ill.

This view of the heart dismisses the most common alternative view: that our morality is based on a self-moved-will as Aristotle, Zeno, and Seneca all taught; and many Christians today affirm. This Greek portrayal presumes human autonomy—that is, a native independence from God. It also happens to be what the serpent proposed in Eden. We may want to avoid it!

The Bible teaches instead that we live as lovers, bonded by love either to God or to another master (Matthew 6:24).

This critical Christian insight—that the soul operates by love—sets out a heart-based version of life and faith. Somehow we begin to hear and respond to God’s love as he woos us. And we then realize there are just two ultimate options: God or self. The former love is what we were made for and what all humans are invited to enjoy. The latter is what Satan offered Adam and what has ruled the world ever since.

With this insight we can grasp the biblical portrayal of freedom: that God’s love is always freely offered but never forced on us. Love, instead, is our response to his attractiveness and not a duty we need to fulfill. As God’s created ones, made for love, the Spirit draws us to see him as attractive beyond all other options.

We gain another insight once the heart is treated as the base of morality: the problem we have with sin is not a disability—as in moral weakness, or poor education, or even an incapacity of the will. The problem, instead, is our disaffection: in our sin we simply don’t want God as he really exists. So we love what Satan offers: a vision for us to be “like God”. Sin in this context destroys our desire for the true God; and in his place a set of self-affirming ambitions or idols emerge.

Who falls for Satan’s deceit? Everyone. In Romans Paul tells us that all have loved self rather than God. He also tells us in Ephesians 2 that Satan manages his sin-captured hearts by stirring desires that lead away from God.

What can overcome such disaffection—given that by the very nature of desire we don’t “unwant” what we want in a given moment? God alone does it by calling all to himself; yet, despite his innate attractiveness, he only draws and captures some (see Matthew 22 here).

So who responds? Mainly those whom the world treats as unlovely: the poor, the weak, the blind, the lame, the shamed. And it is clear that God’s choosing is personal, not arbitrary; nor is it based on our moral efforts.

With all this in view let me restate the invitation for more conversation about “P”.

If God in his love has chosen some to himself—yet never forces us to respond—where do we find this in the Bible? In Abram? In Jacob? In David? In Isaiah? In Jeremiah? In Ruth? In Joseph and Mary? In the calling of the Apostles? In the Samaritan woman at the well? In Zachaeus? In Paul? In me?

Yes to all, and to many more. In each case these were “chosen”—and never forced—by God’s wonderful calling, promises, and captivating care. Do we notice how? By his winning our hearts in love.

I’m struck with the lack of overt humor in the Bible, especially given how often we readers tend to treat delight and laughter as one and the same. Yet the Bible avoids linking God to laughter even though it speaks of his delight and joy. So joy, yes, but laughter, no. Irony, yes, laughter, no.

There are, of course, references to God’s derisive laughter in the Psalms—references that target the arrogant sort of folks who dismiss his Son and his ways.

In Psalm 2, for instance, we see how the nations rage and plot against God and his anointed Son. His response? He laughs at them from the heavens where he sits with everything working out according to plan.

And in Psalm 37:13 the righteous man is despised by the sort of folks who think more of getting ahead in life than in pleasing God and caring for others. The collective Bible term for such ambitious and ruthless folks? Call such a person an “evildoer” or a “wicked man”. And what is God’s response to such folks? “The Lord laughs at the wicked for he sees that his day is coming.”

So this isn’t about any delight or levity: it isn’t God treating sin as some sort of jovial moment in a dull day. He, instead, laughs as a warning: “We’ll just see who laughs last, you, my arrogant foes.”

What we find far more in the Bible is that God grieves over our sins. The Spirit—who brings God’s love to us as a direct emissary—is grieved as stony human hearts despise his winsome overtures. And we find the Son calling out to Jerusalem to turn to him but he is, instead, crucified. God’s painful compassion keeps him from laughing, at least for now.

Yet here’s a guess: that God’s humor is behind our human humor. Here’s what I mean. We all love to laugh, especially when laughing expresses a release of joy. Think, for instance, of the moment in a surprise birthday when a person finds gathered friends waiting behind a door with a party cake, balloons and lots of affection. Laughter erupts.

Let me press my bit of speculation here. I think that the Triune relationship from before the time of creation—what Jesus references in John 17: 5 & 24 as his shared “glory” with the Father—was full of laughter. Surprises—with delighted laughter—are the fruit of creativity and we know that in the Godhead we have the ultimate font of creativity. So that in the distinctions of God’s being—as Father, Son, and Spirit—we can expect that mutual delight and discovery were present in God’s eternal and creative love.

If this is the case, when will get to see it? During the time of sin? That is, during the period that began with Adam’s fall in Genesis 3 and only ends with the final victory reported in Revelation 20? Hardly. God’s somber compassion is such that he meets our period of pain with a gravity appropriate to our shattered state. This is not a time for laughter.

So is a time for laughter yet to come? I think it is. Listen to Isaiah speak of the coming day of restoration: “And the ransomed of the LORD shall return and come to Zion with singing: everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.”

Will we laugh then? Will Jesus—God’s Son—be leading in joyous laughing? Yes, I’m sure he will be. And the Father? I think so!

But for now, most of the laughing in this world seems to be found among those who are prospering in their independence from God—with laughter as a sign of their successes.

Maybe we too will do well to stay a bit somber for now and wait to join the divine laughter in a day to come.

I want to get the word out on a couple of opportunities you may find useful so please forgive this ‘non-blog’ entry.

Some of you may be interested in my newly published book, Richard Sibbes – A Spreading Goodness. It’s a revision of my dissertation, a work that others have read and found useful (Rick McKinley drew on it, for instance, in his Kingdom of Desire and Mike Reeves spoke of it’s impact on him as he interviewed me for a Theologynetwork.org “Table Talk”).

Why read it? It offers an historical overview of two major themes we still face in the evangelical church today: whether to treat the gospel mainly as a call to salvation and the duties that come with it; or as God’s heartfelt call for us to enjoy his love in Christ. Sibbes was a 17th century Puritan with a remarkably clear eye for the Bible and God’s work in history.

It’s not a casual read yet it offers some transformative insights from major Christian figures like Augustine, Martin Luther, John Calvin, and others. I’ve used Lulu.com to publish it—you can order it through their site if you like (look for R N Frost as the author, or for the title).

Second—and just for my readers in the USA—we’re offering a Cor Deo weeklong “Intensive” in Portland this July that will feature some robust and satisfying Bible study, some training in outreach and applied ministry, and a happy dose of Christian history.

When we—Peter Mead and myself—first offered an Intensive in Chippenham, England, we were startled by the positive and continuing response: it really encouraged & benefited those who came!

We start each day at 9 and end at 4:30 (except for half-days on Monday and Friday). We have room for 15 men & women. Our ambition is to have as many present or potential ministry leaders join us as possible, so if applications outstrip available seats we’ll need to be selective. So let me encourage you, even if you just want to grow, to apply and apply soon!

When? July 23-27, beginning at 12:30 on Monday, finishing by noon on Friday.

Where? At the Imago Dei Community in downtown Portland, 1302 SE Ankeny Street.

Cost? Cor Deo offers its ministries as a gift to participants, yet we rely on donations to make ends meet.

Sign up? Send us an email to info@cordeo.org.uk with the heading “Portland Intensive” and give us your specifics: address, phone, and very briefly, your reason for wanting to attend.

This entry is also posted at the Cor Deo site: Cordeo.org.uk

In a talk at Saturday’s Delighted by God conference I mentioned my dismay with the “spiritual disciplines”. Later someone asked about it. It’s worth talking about.

In the Gospels—in Christ’s ministry—we just don’t find a promotion of the disciplines. By disciplines I mean a systematic elevation of spiritual exercises such as enforced silence; extended prayers; repeated prayers; meditations; fasting; denial of basic comforts; reduced sleep; and more. Jesus did, of course, have extended prayer times and experienced physically harsh settings, yet he didn’t promote such things.

His own devotion was, of course, robust: he once spent more than a month in the wilderness being tempted by Satan; he also spent full nights in prayer; and he often hiked long distances and slept in rough settings. Yet asceticism wasn’t a take-home lesson for his disciples. Even the followers of John the Baptist asked why Jesus didn’t insist on some fasting.

What Jesus did call for was love in response to his own love. For a love of both God and neighbors. And to love as he loved, with an other-centered devotion, even to death. Love, then, is more radical than a discipline scheme. Jesus reforms the heart and its desires by sending his Spirit. Behaviors then change as a fruit of his presence. Disciplines, on the other hand, seek to reshape behaviors by overcoming unchanged desires.

So love is greater than Stoic self-improvement in that it naturally produces what the disciplines seek to imitate. Love is spontaneous and heartfelt while duty is an artifice. Where the new desires of a new love quickly see needs and build bonds, duties remain blind and require spiritual directors.

But what about Hebrews 12:5-7? “‘My son, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord, nor be weary when reproved by him. For the Lord disciplines the one he loves, and chastises every son he receives.’ It is for discipline that you have to endure [suffering].”

What’s in view here? It’s a lesson that God works even when we suffer—whether we suffer for our faith or in our folly. And with that assurance we can handle hard times. The key insight is to notice the place of love here—God’s love is his motivation: “the one he loves” should grow in that love. And the order of events is also important: God initiates the discipline and we receive it. It’s not something we initiate and God rewards.

On this last point more must be said. If we initiate our own hard times to be self-disciplined we shift our focus from God to self. Paul warned against this in Colossians 2.

“Let no one disqualify you [from a life of faith], insisting on asceticism . . . not holding fast to the Head . . .” He went on, “why, as if your were still alive to the world, do you submit to regulations—‘Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch’ . . . according to wisdom in promoting self-made religion and asceticism and severity to the body, but they are of no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh.”

In other words, we need to be disciplined by what Paul wrote, and then dismiss the disciplines because they indulge in our “self-rightness” rather than in holding to Christ.

Jesus, as we noticed, went into the wilderness to be tempted, but why? Because the Spirit led him; and there he responded to the Father’s words in contrast to Adam’s failure. He also prayed all night at times because the burden of his love for the world called for long conversations with his Father. And he lived a hard life because it best supported his compassionate ministry to those who lived in hard places.

Isn’t it time, then, to take up Christ’s life? We can be sure God will discipline all who have the life of his Spirit within. He has the firmness and care of a loving Father. And he wants us to grow ever closer to his Son. He’ll do a better job of it than we ever will!

Years ago John Stott’s book, Christ the Controversialist, caught my attention. He put into words what I was finding in my regular tours through the Bible: Jesus, though gracious and loving, always produced chaos as he rejected the status quo.

He was, for instance, deeply spiritual yet without being either a Stoic or a mystic—both popular options in his day. Stoic spirituality revolved around logic and discipline. Yet the passionate Jesus strode through the villages and towns of 1st century Palestine with a life-changing love; offering transformation to all through a devoted love for his Father.

Nor did Jesus display the mystical spirituality of a monastic cell, circular mazes, or chanted prayers. Christ’s devotion to his Father was, instead, wholly dynamic: he knocked over money-tables in the temple, proclaimed woes against the arrogant educators of his day, and stared down the priestly leaders and the Roman rulers on his way to the cross.

In his prayers we find a man sweating drops of blood as he wrestled with the mission the Father had given him; and as a passionate caregiver he boldly called for his Father to protect and grow the beloved ones he had been given. He quickly interrupted a much-needed retreat with his apostles in order to feed his throngs of needy followers. He regularly irritated the religious figures of his day by using the Sabbath as a day to heal any lame, blind, or hurting people who came his way.

The obvious question, then, is what has happened to this lively, wonderful, and compelling Jesus? Is he at all present in today’s “Christendom”?

Perhaps here and there. But I’m afraid that for too many people he has been turned into an iconic figure whose main role is to bless our church growth campaigns and to promote petty ambitions for power, wealth, and wisdom. And with that he has been reduced to the status of a beggar looking around for someone willing to wear his name.

I think, for instance, of some of the heart-numbing choices made today that make him into such a modest figure.

Jesus called us to “abide in my word” but today we find churches promoting options to nibble at his word for a few minutes a day, if at all. Jesus also warned the self-glory-driven educators of his day to dump their doctoral robes in the nearest bin and to stop using their status-based titles; yet today even Bible colleges flaunt academic regalia and ask faculty members to bear their labels of “professor” or “doctor” of this and that.

In another realm, we treat self-indulgent entertainments as the highlight of a given day or week while ignoring those around us who would prosper if they were offered a shared meal or a thoughtful conversation—the sort of meals and conversations Jesus once freely offered.

And sexuality is too often treated as a passing stimulant rather than a sacred gift meant only for marriage; and biblical marriages are increasingly rare while serial marriages multiply. Jesus, by contrast, was devoted to purifying his bride, the church, as a faithful groom.

In too many cases we find a trajectory away from Christ, not towards him, not just in days of old, but also in our present day. And the Bible begins to sound like so much nonsense to those who have walked away from him.

But Jesus is still the powerful yet compassionate God-man who once walked among us with enormous presence and power. And his ways are utterly disruptive to any whose loves are misdirected.

So, is he still controversial? I certainly hope he is!

This post has also been published at the Cordeo.org.uk website.

In John 17 Jesus prayed for his own—for those the Father had given him. In praying for his own he offered a contrast between them and those who are in the “world”. The distinction can’t be missed as Jesus uses the term “world” seventeen times in his prayer! We will do well to pay attention.

The first reference, in verse 5, seems distinct from the others that follow as Jesus mentioned the glory he shared with the Father “before the world existed.” So it speaks here of the creation itself. All the following uses have a moral dimension: speaking of the world as the realm of the “evil one” (verse 15).

In the prayer Jesus linked his use of world with a second repeated term—“word”—to discriminate those who are “not of the world” from those who are of the world: the former are those who “have kept your word.” The world, on the other hand, represents those who reject Christ’s words and have “hated” all the word-centered people.

There’s more. Word is identified with “truth”—“your word is truth” (verse 16)—and is what sets the word-centered people apart (as a “sanctified” people) in Jesus just as Jesus himself was set apart to the Father. The imagery is of two separate trajectories: one group of people moving towards the eternal glory of God’s mutual love (verse 24) and the other group moving in the opposite direction. One group is aligned with God and the other group hates God and all he stands for.

As I considered this prayer recently with a group of friends it dawned on me that some things never change. Adam and Eve, just after the creation of the world, had the best the world could offer: a chance to walk with God in his special Garden. But they abandoned their privileged state by dismissing what God had told Adam in clear and unmistakable terms: don’t eat from a single prohibited tree lest you die! Yet Eve, followed by Adam, acted as if God’s words weren’t reliable or true. They ate the fruit anyway.

How did this remarkable shift come about? By accepting the serpent’s dismissal of God’s character and honesty: his “Did God really say?” followed by “you will not surely die!” In a moment of heart-change they shifted from trusting God to trusting the serpent. Yet God “really did say” and the first couple really did “die” in the moment they ate of the fruit.

The work of Christ, then, was and is to reverse the serpent’s lie by presenting God’s character as reliable and his word as true in terms we can grasp. In the beloved Son the Father unleashed his strongest and most attractive resource. And he so loved us that he allowed the Son to die for us so we can again live the life Adam abandoned.

It is striking, then, that God’s expressed word—now bound in a relatively small volume called the Bible—is the place where the living Word speaks to our hearts. And where the separation that Jesus prayed about is still taking place. Some are responding to him—reading and responding to the Bible—and others are ignoring it and him.

I like the way the prayer of John 17 ends as Jesus prays for those of us who find his words to be a delight: “I made known to them your name, and I will continue to make it known, that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.”

It’s an invitation that is literally out of this world and into a life of true love. It’s not to be missed!

Yesterday I was part of a small group of colleagues on a sightseeing trip in Goa, India. We visited the church where Francis Xavier, the founder of the Jesuits, is interred. Or, to be more accurate, displayed. His body is now partially visible in a windowed box on an elevated platform about fifteen meters beyond a railing.

It was a good moment for reflection. The Jesuit order, I knew, has been a strong force in the broader Christian community since Xavier founded it. His work in the sixteenth century helped to reform the Roman Catholic religion. And his first concern was to end the spread of the Protestant Reformation, an effort in which he was largely successful. As a soldier by training and a moderate mystic in his spirituality he offered a distinctive faith: his “soldiers of Jesus” were called upon to discipline themselves in their efforts to imitate of Jesus. The Jesuits were and still are exceptional students and activists. I’ve enjoyed meeting a few and without exception I’ve been impressed by their keen focus.

My thoughts turned to a sidebar note on Xavier in Michael Reeves’ recent book, The Good God. In his travels to Asia Xavier visited Japan (in 1549) were he met some Buddhists (the Yodo Shin-Shu sect) whose emphasis on trust reminded him of the Lutheran doctrine of free grace. While the ultimate goal of these Buddhists—personal enlightenment through a simple trust in Amida—differed from Luther’s devotion to Christ they still shared a notion of radical selflessness. Xavier, by contrast, held that self-discipline was essential to faith.

So the emphases of these religious efforts—the Jesuits, the Buddhists, and the Lutherans—were all different: one elevating the role of self-determination; another elevating the emptying of self by a trust in Amida; and another looking away from self and towards Jesus in the bond of a new relationship.

With that still in my mind our little sightseeing clan moved on to another setting. This time we visited an architecturally significant Hindu temple. As we climbed the steps to the entrance, with a still pond below us to the left and the temple towering to our right we were asked to remove our shoes and to wash our feet. We were, it seems, about to enter holy ground. My thoughts flashed back to the Old Testament where the LORD in varied theophanies became visible and called for men to take of their sandals because they were on holy ground, on ground where the LORD himself was standing (see Moses in Exodus 3 and Joshua in Joshua 5). In this case I was happy to take a look from our entryway patio, to keep my shoes on, and to head back to our van.

Later in the evening I was at dinner with my traveling companions and we had a lively conversation. One of our topics is a hot potato among Christians today—and I won’t mention what it was just to avoid making that the point—and my view was diametrically opposed to one of my friends. I pressed a face-value reading of the Bible after my friend insisted that we need to dismiss certain archaic Christian notions in light of modern realities. The conversation was lively but not angry and we all finished the day with a sense of having been stretched.

So what did I make of my day in Goa? Thinking broadly I realized just how religious we are, and that while the palette of religious colors—of life-devotion, personal piety, and spiritual duties—may be few, the possible ways to blend those colors are innumerable.

In particular, I could marvel at the vigor and piety of a Xavier while still grieving over his personal blindness to God’s free grace through a living relationship birthed by Christ’s love that he wittingly despised.

I could appreciate the Hindu devotion to external holiness—to the behavioral features that accompany the worship of a deity—but I turned away from Shiva whose shrine we viewed and instead prayed for Christ’s compassion to reach the hearts of the people around me.

And, after our dinner debate, I thought about the challenges we face as Christian who are immersed in a world ruled by the prince of the power of the air and are, perhaps more deeply influenced than we might realize by the religious impulses of the world.

Is the answer, then, to find a religious balance of some sort? No, not unless we mean the balance of Christ’s outstretched arms on the cross; and, after that, a focus on the emptied tomb of Easter. That’s where I want to live my life: in Christ’s resurrected life and in the Father’s love he reveals to us. Let’s call that a true religion.

This entry was offered a week ago, on March 26, on the Cor Deo website.

Jeremiah, the 7th century BC prophet, had a tough job. God called him to tell his family, friends, and neighbors in Jerusalem how wrong they were. Their views of God, destiny, and personal security were case studies in denial. They needed to face reality and Jeremiah was there to supply that reality. But they refused to listen. Instead they despised the message and, with that, the messenger.

Finally the prophet snapped: “Oh, mother, how I regret that you ever birthed me!”

He was hated for being God’s faithful spokesman—a position very rare in his day—and it was too much. He went on, speaking directly to God: “I did not spend my time in the company of other people, laughing and having a good time. I stayed to myself because I felt obligated to you and because I was filled with anger at what they had done” (Jer. 15:10).

Yet his complaint wasn’t against what God was telling him—and what God told Jerusalem residents through him. Instead God’s words were Jeremiah’s delight: “As your words came to me I drank them in, and they filled my heart with joy and happiness because I belong to you.” His challenge, instead, was in being alone because he stood with God. He was lonely in his faithfulness:

“Why must I continually suffer such painful anguish? Why must I endure the sting of their insults like an incurable wound? Will you let me down when I need you like a brook one goes to for water, but that cannot be relied on?” (verse 18).

These sharp words of pain and frustration were aimed at God. So how did God respond? Let’s listen in to God’s answer (verses 19 & 20).

“‘You must repent of such words and thoughts! If you do, I will restore you to the privilege of serving me. If you say what is worthwhile instead of what is worthless, I will again allow you to be my spokesman. They must become as you have been. You must not become like them. I will make you as strong as a wall to these people, a fortified wall of bronze. They will attack you, but they will not be able to overcome you. For I will be with you to rescue you and deliver you,’ says the LORD.”

In the end Jeremiah was faithful—though he remained both despised and lonely—and his warnings to his judgment-denying neighbors were soon fulfilled. He, in turn, continued to respond to God’s heart through messages that filled him with joy and happiness—and God sheltered him in the process.

What should we make of this exchange? Jeremiah’s complaint was honest. He was, indeed, in a very hard spot. Yet God’s response was unyielding.

A point we can take from the exchange is that there may be times when being faithful will be more painful than we think we can handle. Yet our own faithfulness and faithful witness may offer the sole prospect that others might hear of God as he really exists. Our family, friends, and neighbors must hear of our Triune, loving God, even as they may more often than not be antagonistic towards us and our words.

So in a fallen world we can hardly expect to be popular as we share reality to those deep in denial. Our words will be denied in return. Yet God still wants voices to speak of a nearing judgment with words of invitation to our own peace and joy in him.

Call it the gift of being like a bronze wall: faithfully caring and faithfully sharing even in the face of hostility and loneliness. In eternity we will find that standing with God and his word was a proper affection. We are not alone in the process. He loves and persists in sharing his delightful words to us and through us. Some will listen.

Success in living a spiritual life depends, not surprisingly, on the Spirit. Yet the Christian tradition has been very soft in addressing the Spirit’s place in the Godhead and in our lives as believers. That despite many strong advocates for him both now and in the past.

His role in both Old and New Testaments is pervasive and pivotal: he is first mentioned in Genesis 1:2 and finally noted in Revelation 22:17. Yet the early church never invested a robust effort to think through Scriptures about the Spirit in the way she wrestled with the Trinity and the nature of Christ at Nicaea, Constantinople, and the other ecumenical councils of the 4th & 5th centuries. That left open a door for confusion.

The ancient Montanists, for instance, held that the Spirit must have an overt and directive role in believer’s lives similar to what first century Christians experienced in Acts. Later Joachim of Fiore portrayed history as a Trinitarian progression—with sequential ages of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit—so that we are now in the age of the Spirit whose unique ministry displaces the prior ages of the Son and the Father.

And there’s a problem with both. Straightforward Bible reading doesn’t lead us to either option. That is, the apostles who either wrote or guided the writing of the New Testament did not promote Montanist or Joachimist-like themes. Instead they promoted a Christ-centered faith that elevates the Father’s love and relies on the Spirit to form and facilitate a faith in us that works through that love. The Spirit, in particular, does heart-to-heart sharing. In 1 Corinthinians 2, for instance, he reveals the Father’s heart with us; and in Romans 8 we find that he shares our hearts with the Father.

The church, in fact, was startled by the Montanist and Joachimist impulses. During the Protestant Reformation, for instance, leaders like Martin Luther and John Calvin had promoted the importance of the Spirit yet with the coming of spirit-radicals—the Zwickau Prophets visiting Wittenberg, for instance; or the leaders of the Munster rebellion in Germany; or the Familist movement in the Netherlands and England—soon ended that openness. Given the excesses of the spiritualists the church had good reason for their hesitation.

But here’s the rub: with this hesitation many theologians reduced the Spirit to an inactive personal status. In the Puritan “doctrine of means”, for instance, he was left—to use an anachronism—with a battery-like role of providing energy for human initiatives. So Puritans spoke of the Spirit “empowering” spiritual growth through the means of preaching, praying, Bible reading and the like. Thus any benefits from these activities were seen to be “of the Spirit” but any claims of his immediate presence were rejected.

And that, of course, will strike regular Bible-readers as more than odd. How, for instance, does the Spirit urge us to call the Father “Abba” if he is wholly undercover. And how does our experience of Christ’s work in us look anything like the Spirit’s work in the Son’s life on earth if he was active in the one case and passive in the other. We think of the Spirit coming upon Jesus, and his sending Jesus into the wilderness. We, too, are expected to walk by the Spirit and to bear the fruit of the Spirit.

I know, of course, that a post like this will have some modern day Montanists and Joachimists waving their hands to call us “over here, over here!” But that won’t do. Their focus is regularly on the “my” of “my experience” rather than on the proper (that is biblical) experience of hearing the Spirit share God’s heart in Christ with us.

Let us look, then, to the Spirit to urge us towards Christ. Let us invite him to make us more like Christ, growing from “glory to glory” in his likeness. Let us measure the quality of our experience of the Spirit not by any buzz we might get at a worship service but by the selfless qualities expressed as the fruit of the Spirit in Galatians 5. And let us love others with Christ’s love as the Spirit pours that love out in our hearts.

And never be shy about asking him to show you more of Christ: you’ll love his responses!

Years ago, on my first day at Kibbutz Dovrat in Israel, I was walking across the lawn to find my newly assigned room. Off to my right a young boy—probably 4 or 5 years old—shouted to a man who was walking ahead of him, “Abba, Abba!”

It was my first chance to hear a native Hebrew speaker use this intimate expression of loving dependence towards his father. It thrilled me as something I knew from my own experience of the triune God’s love but had never heard in audible words.

The full post is offered on my shared Cor Deo site. To continue reading at that site please click here.