2007, Paternoster.  Paperback, 197 pages.  Purchase here.

For any evangelical Christian considering the idea of house churches, JD Payne, pastor, professor, and now director of Southern Baptist Theological Seminary’s church planting center, sketches the defining contours of a missional house church.

After surveying 33 missional house churches from around the country, Payne presents his take on how these congregations are answering the most essential ecclesiological questions (growth, leadership, evangelism, membership, finances, etc.). He acknowledges that the DIY ethic of the house church movement may seem too avant-garde for most American churchgoers, but then counters this reluctance with concise summaries of the biblical foundations behind these approaches. He is also clear and gracious in his critique of those practices which fall short of biblical models.

Payne first establishes America’s growing interest in house churches then defines his terms. By “missional,” he is describing, “churches [that] have within their very DNA a passion to take the gospel to their Jerusalem, Judea, and Samaria, and throughout their world. They believe if they ever cease to be intentionally and regularly involved in evangelism, then they cease to be a church. Missional churches obey our Lord’s command to “go” into all the world rather than waiting for unbelievers to come to their church gatherings” (8-9).

While not wishing to demean congregations that operate according to traditional or mainline understandings of the local church, Payne draws a distinction between the well-known concept of church–a big worship service, lots of programs, highly specialized clergy, etc.–and what he calls “house churches.” This term is not used to refer to a location, but rather to a “whole range of topics about the church and how it should function” (10, Payne quoting Steve Atkerson).

This “range of topics ” is the subject of Payne’s opening arguments about the New Testament’s use of the word translated as “church” (ekklesia). He points out that in no instance is the word “church” used to refer to a physical structure, an event, or something a person attends–though these are the most common associations Americans make. Instead, ekklesia is consistently used to describe a community of people who have been regenerating by the Holy Spirit; who boldly love one another; and who live according to a “kingdom ethic” that causes them to preach the gospel and love outsiders and enemies.

This case is built on the constellation of metaphors used throughout the New Testament to describe the church: a family, a body, a priesthood, a fellowship, a sanctuary, a bride, branches, sheep, etc.–most of which highlight the organic nature of the church rather than an institutional identity. And this is probably one of the hallmarks of the house church movement: the “fear that institutionalization will begin to take precedence over genuine relationships, thus distorting the simple expression of faith” (39-40).

Payne, who is definitely a proponent of house churches–though he doesn’t think they’re a panacea by any means–identifies several intriguing characteristics of house churches. The most spectacular might be the ratio between members and baptisms. This common measurement of effectiveness in evangelism attempts to identify how many church members are needed to see one person baptized in a year (baptism being equated with conversion). For example, in a church of 200, if there are two people baptized in a year, then it took 100 members for each conversion (100:1). Payne admits that this measurement has its limitations but believes it to be the best one presently available.

The house churches that Payne surveyed averaged between 4.3:1 and 2.3:1. That is incredible when compared with traditional churches, many of which see no baptisms in a given year, while the best average only 86:1. If you’re not good at numbers, here’s another way to think about it: imagine sitting in your church of, let’s say 150 people. Over the course of the next year, 75 people get saved and join the church. You’re church now has 225 people!

When asked about how they approached evangelism (in other words, what makes them so successful?), house church leaders responded according to four categories:

• Use of relationships: 67 percent
• Invitation to church activities and use of relationships: 9 percent
• Community activities/special events: 9 percent
• Invitation to church activities: 6 percent (79)

Unlike many Christians, “they did not see the corporate worship gathering as the primary place when evangelism should occur” (80). Instead, these house church members were seeing conversions because they were constantly sharing the gospel within their sphere of influence with boldness and clarity.

Payne also applauds the way missional house churches raise up new leaders, as well as how they make use of time and money for evangelistic and benevolence endeavors rather than the development of complex infrastructure, specialized training, building maintenance, or corporate-style marketing. He also draws attention to some obvious shortcomings: the potential for isolationism; a bias against clericalism that sometimes slips into the erroneous practice of abolishing all forms of leadership; and a too casual approach to assimilating new members. Without a covenant or any sort of membership process there doesn’t appear to be a clear means of carrying out church discipline.

In his final chapter, Payne goes into preaching mode–though with professorial reserve. He cites several passages from two of the most influential missional writers–Roland Allen (an Anglican missionary with extraordinary prophetic insight who wrote during the turn of the last century) and David Garrison (whose more recent publications on the explosion of church planting movements around the globe have become standard reading among house church advocates). Payne uses some of their most piercing and inspiring writings to support his bracing assertion that “the most critical issue in North American church planting today is an ecclesiological issue” (150). At the heart of this issue are the many cultural adornments and extra-biblical additions that Americans believe to be essential to the expression of a local church: big buildings, lots of money, slick programs, talented musicians, sensational preachers, and so on.

These “extras” may seem good and helpful, but in many cases they may actually serve as massive obstacles to the rapid advancement of the kingdom. They are part of a model that takes years or decades to reproduce. This has been Payne’s point all along. These things really are bells and whistles, and they do not build the church, Jesus does. And we are obliged to remove every obstacle that could be preventing the spectacular move of his Spirit here in the US.

Mashall and Payne believe that there is a great deal of confusion between trellis work and vine work, and that many people focus so much on maintaining structures and programs that “the actual work of growing the vine falls to a very few” (9).  One possible cause for this abdication of responsibility is that trellis work is easier, less emotionally demanding, less personally risky.  For example, making a spreadsheet requires a few key strokes.  Inviting your neighbors over for dinner and sharing the gospel is entirely different.  Managing the trellis is also much more quantifiable; buildings, reports, and programs are visible signs of apparent progress.  At the heart of the ecclesiological transformation that Marshall and Payne hope to see is the realization that “structures don’t grow ministries any more than trellises grow vines, and… most churches need to make a conscious shift—away from erecting and maintaining structures, and towards growing people who are disciple-making disciples of Christ” (17).  This shift may take the following forms:

1. From running programs to building people
2. From running events to training people
3. From using people to growing people
4. From filling gaps to training new workers
5. From solving [urgent] problems to helping people make [sustained] progress
6. From clinging to ordained ministry to developing team leadership
7. From focusing on church polity to forging ministry partnerships
8. From relying on training institutions to establishing local training
9. From focusing on immediate pressures to aiming for long-term expansion
10. From engaging in management to engaging in ministry
11. From seeking church grown to desiring gospel growth

Many Christians are used to thinking about their role in the local church as spectator and financier, and if they’re really spiritual, and happen to be in the right place at the right time, maybe a staff member will give them a job to do: greeting people at the door, folding bulletins, counting the offering, singing in the choir, creating PowerPoint slides, and so on.  But if the real “job” is vine work—people work, what the authors describe as “prayerful speaking of [God’s] word by one person to another—then the jobs are never all taken.  The opportunity for Christians to minister personally to others is limitless” (27).   

The greatest biblical support for maintaining our focus on vine growing is Matthew 28:18-20.  In the moments before his ascension, Christ looks into the eyes of those gathered and gives them their life purpose: to make disciples who make other disciples.  One implication of this commission is that each Christian will stand before Christ to give account of how they obeyed it, and I believe this—in essence—is what he will ask each of us: “Did you proclaim the gospel?  As people were saved, did you teach them to obey all that I’ve commanded?  And did you walk with them so closely that they went on to make disciples as well?”  I’m reminded of the way Eugene Peterson paraphrases 1 John 2:28: “And now, children, stay with Christ. Live deeply in Christ. Then we’ll be ready for him when he appears, ready to receive him with open arms, with no cause for red-faced guilt or lame excuses when he arrives” (MSG).

Marshall and Payne end the first chapter with a discussion of the Great Commission.  One of the most insightful exegetical points they make is that the emphasis is not on the word “go,” but on what the all followers of Christ should be doing while they are going.  They explain that the “commission is not fundamentally about mission out there somewhere else in another country.  It’s a commission that makes disciple-making the normal agenda and priority of every church and every Christian disciple” (13).

Chapters 3-6 go on to provide the major theological framework to support this assertion.  You would expect that any topic with such universal importance would be easily situated in the broader scope of biblical theology, and Marshall and Payne go on to sketch this larger context with clarity and finesse, even tracing out the OT usages of the vine analogy (Ps. 80:7-13, Hos. 10:1-2, 14:4-7) before linking them to Peter’s powerful summary of redemptive history (1 Peter 1:10-12).

Within this context, they describe the current expression of God’s mission and means as “Spirit-backed gospel preaching leading to salvation of souls” (35).  The church is built through personal proclamation of the word in the power of the Spirit.  They even suggest renaming the book of Acts to, “The Acts of the word and Spirit of God through the Apostles,” and demonstrate how throughout Acts and in the writings of Paul, we see the emphasis being placed on how the “word of God” (the speaking of the gospel) increased, grew, multiplied, ran swiftly, and bore fruit.  There is very little discussion of systems, programs, or infrastructure.  When Jesus said he would build his church, he was not talking about another carpentry job, he was talking about building people, giving them life—the way a vine causes its branches to grow and bear fruit.

As for who should be doing this work of prayerful proclamation, the frequent commands of Jesus (Mark 8:34-35, Matt. 10:32-33, Luke 9:60) are cited in support of a single class of disciple.  All are called to abandon their lives to him.  In Acts we see all the believers praying for boldness in the speaking of the Gospel.  They have begun to live out the prophecy of Joel 2, and they will stand among the over-comers who fill the halls of heaven throughout the book of Revelation.  Not only are Christians given the commission of proclaiming the gospel, but they are also called to build each other up (Eph. 4:15-16).  Responsibility to and care for other believers is a foundational teaching of the New Testament (Ephesians 4-6; 1 Tim 3, Titus 1, Col. 3:16, Rom. 15:14, Heb. 3:12-13, 10:24-25, and especially 1 Cor. 11-14).  It cannot be delegated to the “professionals.”

Marshall and Payne devote chapter 5 to the most common objections leaders face when attempting to make the ministry mind-shift advocated in The Trellis and the Vine. We could start with the question, “Will this work in today’s church world?”  But the better question is, “Does the normal Christian life really include disciple-making?”  If the answer to that question is yes, then the original question changes from, “Will it work?” to “How will it work?”

To describe the normal Christian life, the authors cite Paul’s letter to the Philippians.  They show that Paul viewed all the Christians at Philippi—not just their leaders—as partners with him, partakers of grace, fellow sufferers for Chris, and citizens of heaven whose lives were to shine among the wickedness of this world as they held out the word of life.  That’s Christianity 101.

While the letter to the Philippians clearly demonstrates the normal Christian life, the greatest statements come from Christ’s own mouth, especially in the Great Commission, which is “the basic agenda for all disciples.  To be a disciple is to be a disciple-maker” (43).  Marshall and Payne admit that this is a radical demand, and that it describes something altogether foreign to the majority of Christians, who believe that regular church attendance, brief devotions during the week, and prayers before meals constitute Christ’s basic demands on his followers.  But being a disciple-making disciple is what Christ demands, and therefore it will work because it is the work, and is in fact, his work.  As head of the church, Christ, through the Holy Spirit makes it possible for such a daunting assignment to be fulfilled.

The greatest strength of their proposal is the way it steers us away from thinking that training is merely skills based, which throws back into the old paradigm of growth through program.  “In the New Testament, training is much more about Christian thinking and living than about particular skills or competencies” (70).  This Christian “thinking and living” is developed when faithful people impart sound doctrine, which results in sound living.  The transmission of sound doctrine is transformative because it is intensely relational, requiring most of the training to happen through imitation.  It is not simply information about Christianity; it is a way of life.  They seek to see the gospel grow.  This growth confronts us with three implications:

1. The growth of the gospel happens in the lives of people, not in the structures of my church.
2. We must be willing to lose people from our own congregation if that is better for the growth of the gospel.
3. We see… individuals each at their own stage of gospel growth. (82-83)

Marshall and Payne also help us think clearly about the way the gospel grows in someone’s life.  Each person needs one of the following: outreach, follow-up, growth, or training.  When we consider Christian growth along this continuum, we can minister effectively because we’ve identified where someone is at right now.  This means we can plan and pray towards the next steps that need to be taken so that they can move forward.

Another strength of the book is the authors’ willingness to examine even the most sacred and central traditions of evangelical ministry: the weekly sermon.  While the sermon is the foundational point of proclamation—the means by which the entire ministry is shaped and driven forward—it is only one particular form of delivery. It must be accompanied by small group discussions and individual conversations if truth is to penetrate into the deepest parts of a person’s life.  These all become effective avenues of ministry because change occurs whenever the word of God is prayerfully spoken into someone’s life.  (On this point, the authors’ references to Baxter’s Reformed Pastor were enlightening and compelling; I picked up my own copy just a few days ago.)

Finally, the strength of the book is ultimately derived from its unwavering exhortation that pastors should be raising up more pastors, more ministry partners, more co-laborers.  Marshall and Payne live out their philosophy by targeting the most important agents of change in a congregation and equipping them to make the most important changes to the way the congregation builds itself up and advances the gospel.  Pastors are encouraged to spend most of their time training a few select Christians to minister, and then let those empowered leaders shoulder their share of the care and nurture of the congregation.  If these mature members are not empowered and released, the will stagnate, many others will go unreached, and the vine will wither.

This pattern of plurality or “team” ministry was an essential feature of Paul, who had many associates (up to 100 people are linked with Paul, 36 of them worked closely with him).  From this paradigm, the authors explore the concept of “ministry apprenticeship” as is a crucial means to follow Paul’s instructions to test potential leaders before formally installing them.  My own development as a vine-grower and trellis-builder included two years of work at a church prior to beginning my theological studies.  This “in the trenches” experience raised so many questions and issues that I launched into my formal training with great abandon.  The information mattered to me because I could already see how crucial it was for my ministry to be biblical and effective.

Colin Marshall and Tony Payne have made a significant contribution to the way we think about God’s purposes for his people.  The image of the vine and trellis is a stunning analogy for the unique nature of what God has intended for the church, and I’m grateful to have encountered it so early in my life as a pastor.  May God grant us the skill to build useful trellises and the grace to stay focused on the nurture of a vine that bears much fruit.

For those of you who’d like to begin studying Edwards, here are a few recommendations:

1.  Start with A God Entranced Vision of All Things, edited by John Piper and Justin Taylor.  This collection of essays was published in 2004 by Crossway and Desiring God Ministries (graciously available as a free PDF at the DG website).  You’ll find a concise overview of Edwards’ life and legacy, the major themes of his writing, and explorations of his most important works.  Contributors include Mark Dever, J.I. Packer, Noel Piper (John’s wife), and Sam Storms.  Feel free to skip around and just read the chapters that grab your attention.

2.  At this point you may be keen to read more of Edwards sermons or theological treatments.  The most accessible resource is The Works of Jonathan Edwards, ed. Edward Hickman, 2 vols. (1834; reprint, Edinburgh: Banner of Truth, 1974, formatted to PDF by Christian Classics Ethereal Library).  Print versions can also be found for $70 to $100.  I recommend the Banner of Truth edition available at Amazon.  Though this collection is not everything Edwards ever wrote—he still has thousands of unpublished sermons, it contains everything you need to get started.  You might start with Edwards’ sermon, “A Divine and Supernatural Light.”

3.  If you’re interested in a portable selection of Edwards’ sermons selected from various points in his life, you might pick up the Yale Critical Edition, The Sermons of Jonathan Edwards: A Reader, Ed. Wilson H. Kimnach, Kenneth P. Minkema, and Douglas A. Sweeney (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1999).

4.  For understanding Edward’s life, I would recommend starting with the Memoirs of Jonathan Edwards written by his descendent Sereno E. Dwight.  It is included in The Works, and all the other biographers will generally assume your familiarity with it.  The most recent (and widely praised) biography is George M. Marsden’s Jonathan Edwards: A Life (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2003.  Marsden has also written a much more concise account, A Short Life of Jonathan Edwards (Eerdmans, 2008), that uses Benjamin Franklin, a contemporary and friend of Edwards, as a foil.

5.  If you’re surfing the Internet, you might also stop by the digital incarnation of Yale’s Jonathan Edwards Center).  They have most of his writings along with discussion boards and scholarly commentary.

Jonathan Edwards inspires me most because he reconciled what is often sharply divided in Christianity: the intellect and the affections.[1] He was a man with tremendous mental acuity but also an unashamed spiritual aesthete.  He found no incongruence between the exacting precision and rigor required for the life of the mind and the intuitive, unfettered flight of the heart in mystic contemplation.

Even this distinction between mind and heart as two totally distinct and separate faculties is something Edwards found difficult to maintain; they are so closely entwined that one does not act without the other.  The two are inseparable, representing the movement of the soul. And like all movement, there is velocity and direction, with either one being an inextricable aspect of the basic activity.

This basic activity, this God-ward movement of mind and heart—is what Edwards modeled in his life and championed in his writings. This is why he was used of God and why he continues to influence countless Christians around the world.  His mind and heart were overflowing with divine life, the life that Christ said that he came to give in abundance (John 10:10).  What else is He talking about, if not the full redemption of our beings demonstrated by the fullest engagement of mind, soul, heart, and strength?

Do our lives reflect this God-ward movement?  Have we merely been to church, or read words on a page?  Or are we brimming with the mindful vigor and holy vitality that come from meeting with God?  These are essential questions.  We are either dead or alive.  To be a Christian is to finally be alive.  Paul highlights this in the beginning of his Ephesians letter, “But you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked…but God, being rich in mercy…made us alive together with Christ” (Ephesians 2:1-5).

The great question of the human experience is, “Am I alive?”  By this we are honestly surveying the very core of our existence (2 Corinthians 13:5-6).  This candid self-examination is one defining features of Jonathan Edwards’ life and ministry.  It is one of the main points in his Treatise Concerning Religious Affections[2], in which he contends that holy passion—zeal for the things of God—is the natural result of a regenerated, Spirit-filled heart.  This is normal, historic Christianity.  This is the man or woman who longs to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and inquire in his temple (Psalm 27:4).  Notice the presence of both affections (gazing on beauty) and intellect (inquiring).  Here, at length, is one of Edwards’ strongest statements regarding the interplay between thinking and feeling.  He grants that strong emotions do not necessarily evidence strong spiritual vitality, but their lack is one of the clearest indicators of spiritual morbidity.  In other words, we can be passionate about things that have nothing to do with God, but we cannot have something to do with God and not be passionate.

For although to true religion there must indeed be something else besides affection; yet true religion consists so much in the affections, that there can be no true religion without them. He who has no religious affection, is in a state of spiritual death, and is wholly destitute of the powerful, quickening, saving influences of the Spirit of God upon his heart.

As there is no true religion where there is nothing else but affection, so there is no true religion where there is no religious affection. As on the one hand, there must be light in the understanding, as well as an affected fervent heart; or where there is heat without light, there can be nothing divine or heavenly in that heart: so, on the other hand, where there is a kind of light without heat, a head stored with notions and speculations with a cold and unaffected heart, there can be nothing divine in that light, that knowledge is no true spiritual knowledge of divine things. If the great things of religion are rightly understood, they will affect the heart. The reason why men are not affected by such infinitely great, important, glorious, and wonderful things, as they often hear and read of in the word of God, is, undoubtedly, because they are blind; if they were not so, it would be impossible, and utterly inconsistent with human nature, that their hearts should be otherwise than strongly impressed, and greatly moved by such things.[3]

This “blindness” must be challenged and healed. It should not be legitimized and emulated and enshrined.  It should not be allowed to continue under the banner of historic, orthodox Christianity.  “If the great things of religion are rightly understood, they will affect the heart.”  Conviction also comes to those of us who claim to see.  Or if not conviction, then an intensification of the desire to see more, because, along with Edwards and all the elect throughout history, we have heard Christ say, “Seek my face.” And our heart says to him, “Your face, Lord, do I seek” (Psalm 27:8).

Check back tomorrow for  some thoughts on continuing your exploration of Jonathan Edwards.

[2] The Works of Jonathan Edwards, ed. Edward Hickman, 2 vols. (1834; reprint, Edinburgh: Banner of Truth, 1974, formatted to PDF by Christian Classics Ethereal Library and available at http://www.ccel.org/ccel/edwards/works1.html) 1:1144-1434.

[3] Ibid., 1170-1171.

From two loose-leaf pieces of paper found among Edwards’ belongings:

5. Resolved, never to lose one moment of time; but improve it the most profitable way I possibly can.

17. Resolved, that I will live so as I shall wish I had done when I come to die.

28. Resolved, to study the Scriptures so steadily, constantly and frequently, as that I may find, and plainly perceive myself to grow in the knowledge of the same.

37. Resolved, to inquire every night, as I am going to bed, wherein I have been negligent, what sin I have committed, and wherein I have denied myself: also at the end of every week, month and year.

70. Let there be something of benevolence, in all that I speak.[1]

Written by the time he was 19, Edwards’ resolutions give us a glimpse of how, from the beginning, he fashioned his life always mindful of its end.

His self-discipline is legendary.  When people talk about Edwards, the conversation invariable turns to his tremendous dedication and zeal for continued “growth in divinity.”  Earlier this week I began reading a collection of essays on Edwards.[2] I couldn’t wait to get to chapter five, “Pursuing a Passion for God Through Spiritual Disciplines: Learning from Jonathan Edwards,” written by Donald S. Whitney.  At last month’s Re:Train session, Mark Driscoll dedicated several of his lectures to his practice of the disciplines.[3] I’m always invigorated and inspired when given the chance to look under the hood, so to speak.  A man is made by his daily habits.  And I have a lot of respect for Mark’s character and ministry.  Needless to say, I was primed for what Whitney would be discussing in his chapter.

I was not disappointed.  The essay is exceptional, tracing out each of the major practices that shaped and sustained Edwards over his lifetime—his dedication to scripture (see Resolution #28 above), his prayer life, his private worship (see my first post in this series), his love for solitude, his fasting, his journal keeping (more on this below), his commitment to learning, and his phenomenal stewardship of time (see #5 and #17).  Whitney makes sure to highlight the link between passion and devotion; he understands that above all else, Jonathan Edwards was a man fueled by holy zeal.  He quotes from one of Edwards’ sermons:

The enjoyment of [God] is our highest happiness, and is the only happiness with which our souls can be satisfied. To go to heaven, fully to enjoy God, is infinitely better than the most pleasant accommodations here: better than fathers and mothers, husbands, wives, or children, or the company of any or all earthly friends. These are but shadows; but God is the substance. These are but scattered beams; but God is the sun. These are but streams; but God is the fountain. These are but drops; but God is the ocean.

Whitney then explains, “All those indwelled by the Holy Spirit have desires that can be satisfied only in God himself. But how shall we satisfy these ever-thirsty longings for the ocean of God? The highways built by God to the ocean of himself are the spiritual disciplines.”  And lest we become enamored with the means of travel, he writes, “The highways do not exist for themselves. Our souls do not find satisfaction in the highways, but only in the ocean to which they take us.”[4]

Edwards demonstrated not only a great appreciation for the glory of God, but also displayed the diligence that such a pilgrimage requires.  His soul was transformed because he was so often placing himself on the paths that lead to Zion.

[2]John Piper and Justin Taylor, A God Entranced Vision of All Things: The Legacy of Jonathan Edwards (Wheaton, Ill.: Crossway Books, 2004).  Available as free PDF at www.desiringgod.org

[3] These talks were similar to his other “Reverse-Engineering” messages available at www.acts29.org.

[4] Donald S. Whitney,  “Pursuing a Passion for God Through Spiritual Disciplines: Learning from Jonathan Edwards,” in A God Entranced Vision of All Things: The Legacy of Jonathan Edwards (Wheaton, Ill.: Crossway Books, 2004) 109-128.

Yesterday I included a quote from Edwards’ journal.  That reflection on his adolescence was written nearly twenty years after the fact.  The tenderness of his words reveals that the sweetness of those experiences and the many that followed became—in the words of Edwards scholar, George Marsden—“the polestar of his life and thought.”  Marsden goes on to insist that, “without an appreciation of the intensity of these life-transforming experiences and their monumental implications for all else that he did, it is impossible to make sense of Edwards.”[1]

This gets at what, for me, is the most inspiring and compelling aspect of Edward’s life.  He was, as Mark Noll has famously described, “God entranced.”[2] While it’s true that Edwards is one of the greatest philosophical and theological minds that America has ever produced, it is here—at the point of raw encounter with God, that Edwards was defined as a man. These encounters are what shaped and sustained his life in God.  And I use that preposition intentionally, because it reflects what Edwards held to be the most essential and startling and wonderful truth of the Christian experience: that of being experientially united with Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit.  This is what the psalmist sings of in the line, “Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good!” (Psalm 34:8, italics added).

What God teaches us most of all through the life of Jonathan Edwards is that we must not confuse our intellectual understanding of Him, our “notions,” as Edwards would say, with actually knowing Christ, having a true “sense” of his glory.  Edwards uses a simple analogy to drive this point home:

There is a difference between having a rational judgment that honey is sweet, and having a sense of its sweetness. A man may have the former that knows not how honey tastes; but a man cannot have the latter unless he has an idea of the taste of honey in his mind. So there is a difference between believing that a person is beautiful, and having a sense of his beauty. The former may be obtained by hearsay, but the latter only by seeing the countenance. When the heart is sensible of the beauty and amiableness of a thing, it necessarily feels pleasure in the apprehension.[3]

Edwards invites us not to religious duty, but to divine delight—to join with Christians from all centuries who bear that name, not because of intelligence, power, or position, but because of God’s gracious calling, which allows us “to gaze with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, [as we are] transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another” (2 Corinthians 3:18).

[2] Quoted in John Piper and Justin Taylor, A God Entranced Vision of All Things: The Legacy of Jonathan Edwards (Wheaton, Ill.: Crossway Books, 2004) 13.

[3] Jonathan Edwards, “A Divine and Supernatural Light,” in The Works of Jonathan Edwards, ed. Edward Hickman, 2 vols. (1834; reprint, Edinburgh: Banner of Truth, 1974) 2:42.

This week I’ll be posting thoughts on the life and writings of Jonathan Edwards.  Like many of you, I first encountered Edwards in a high school textbook.  It was sophomore year and Mrs. Thompson dutifully walked us through what was supposed to be the most famous sermon in America: “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.”

It left almost no impression on me, except for a vague image of someone catching spiders and setting them on fire.  I do remember the odd detail included in the textbook’s preface—something about the congregation bursting into tears, falling into floor, crying out in terror, and then crawling under the pews.  Really? It was obvious that someone needed to invent the television.

I didn’t encounter Edwards again until college.  I had recently become a Christian during the Charismatic renewal of the mid 90’s (where I had seen people crawling under pews, and just about everything else Edwards wrote about!).  My bones were filled with holy fire, and I was compelled to read books about revivals and personal piety.  Edwards showed up frequently, noted for his pivotal role in The First Great Awakening.  Many writers also hailed him for his practice of the spiritual disciplines; he built his entire life around his devotion to God, dedicating entire days to nothing but study and prayer.  One day I stumbled across an excerpt from his journal:

I walked abroad alone, in a solitary place in my father’s pasture, for contemplation. And as I was walking there, and looking upon the sky and clouds, there came into my mind so sweet a sense of the glorious majesty and grace of God, as I know not how to express—I seemed to see them both in a sweet conjunction; majesty and meekness joined together: it was a sweet, and gentle, and holy majesty; and also a majestic meekness; an awful sweetness; a high, and great, and holy gentleness….

Before, I used to be uncommonly terrified with thunder, and to be struck with terror when I saw a thunder-storm rising; but now, on the contrary, it rejoiced me. I felt God, if I may so speak, at the first appearance of a thunderstorm; and used to take the opportunity, at such times, to fix myself in order to view the clouds, and see the lightnings play, and hear the majestic and awful voice of God’s thunders, which oftentimes was exceedingly entertaining, leading me to sweet contemplations of my great and glorious God. While thus engaged, it always seemed natural for me to sing or chant forth my meditations; or, to speak my thoughts in soliloquies with a singing voice.[1]

This impressed me so much that I decided to try it out.  It was already my habit to go on long walks, but now I began carrying a small Bible from which I would sing or chant the Psalms along with my own observations.  Turning thought to song is one of the most simple and pure pleasures, even—I’m convinced—for those who would never sing in front of anyone else.  St. Augustine said, “He who sings prays twice.”  And the Apostle Paul links the fullness of the Spirit to a life overflowing with psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, with singing and making melody to the Lord with our heart (Ephesians 5:19).

This spontaneous singing began to show up on Sunday mornings and evenings at the services where I was leading music.  It seemed (and still seems) to be a beautiful application of Paul’s advice.

So Edwards made an indelible mark on my life.  Though it was just a paragraph or two.  I went on to read other writers: Tozer, Lewis, Augustine, Tolkien, Joyner, Blackaby, Wigglesworth, Lake, Peterson, and Foster in particular.  But Edwards still made appearances, especially during prayer meetings, when someone would invariably invoke his name and legacy, asking God to bring about a Third Great Awakening.  Even this past week, here at the International House of Prayer, several have stood and prayed for modern-day New England, calling out for men and women, families, college students, youth, and children to be reborn and revived—just like the parishoners in Edwards’ day.

33 And [Jesus and the disciples] came to Capernaum. And when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you discussing on the way?” 34 But they kept silent, for on the way they had argued with one another about who was the greatest. 35 And he sat down and called the twelve. And he said to them, “If anyone would be first, he must be last of all and servant of all.” 36 And he took a child and put him in the midst of them, and taking him in his arms, he said to them, 37 “Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me, and whoever receives me, receives not me but him who sent me.”

42 “Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him if a great millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea.”

Mark 9:33-37, 42

Children have an important place in the Kingdom.  In many ways, our attitude towards them reveals our attitude toward Christ.  By taking care of them–being a servant (v35) to them–we are serving God himself, and he responds to this by giving us a place of greatness in his eyes.

When we ignore, mislead, neglect, or harm children, we earn his unqualified disgust (v42).  Don’t miss the harshness of Jesus’ remark.  It was so startling that the Gospel writer never forgot it.  Jesus says that those who harm children should have a cement block chained to their feet and then someone should throw them off a boat!  (Yes, this is dramatic hyperbole, sort of.  I would definitely not want to be standing near an unrepentant child abuser on judgement day.)

This passage echoes the last chapter of the Old Testament, Malachi 4.  The closing verses follow the same pattern of  blessings and cursing:

5 “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes. 6 And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers, lest I come and strike the land with a decree of utter destruction.”

Malachi 4:5-6

This “turning” is a beautiful thing.  I’ve seen it in the eyes of my own parents.  In school, I heard it in the voices of many teachers. In the summers, camp counselors showed it in their persistent joy and encouragement.  I’m also reminded of the way my friends evidence this turning, and the opportunities that still lie ahead.

As God delights in his own beauty, he must necessarily

delight in the creature’s holiness which is a conformity

to and participation of it, as truly as [the] brightness of

a jewel, held in the sun’s beams, is a participation or

derivation of the sun’s brightness, though immensely

less in degree.

Jonathan Edwards, The End for Which God Created the World

1977. I was born with horses. It was November and my parents lived on a ranch near the coast of Virginia. Around midnight they discovered that most of the 65 horses had broken through the fence and were headed towards the Great Dismal Swamp. No kidding. That’s what it’s called.

After finally getting the last mare safely in, my mother realized that her water had broken. They rushed to Norfolk General Hospital and some hours later I arrived (10 pounds and 24 inches). From Virginia, we moved to Columbia, South Carolina—affectionately known as the armpit of the South. We lived in a dilapidated trailer while my dad took seminary classes at Columbia International University. In 1981 we climbed into the pickup truck and headed up to North Carolina, where my dad would spend the next thirty years teaching Bible, filling pulpits, and speaking at summer camps.

The summer of my 10th year, the whole family travelled down to a camp on Lake Waccamaw (halfway between Wilmington and Myrtle Beach).  One night as my dad was giving the altar call, I noticed a rapid thudding in my chest. Something vague began to rise in my throat. My dad was saying, “If you’d like to receive forgiveness for you sins, then please, get out of your chair and come up to the front. We’d like to pray with you.” I knew that I needed to respond, but my hands were clenched around the raspy edges of my plastic seat. My mind raced. You need this. You need this.  But I argued back. No, I don’t. I’m not going up in front of everyone. I’m not that bad of a person. I haven’t killed anyone. Good grief. I’ll be fine. So I stayed put.

Seven years later I found myself driving a yellow VW bus (’71) with The Grateful Dead painted down one side and a giant blue star spangling the front. My highest ambition was to attend UNC Chapel Hill for a year, learn how to make acid, and then go follow the Dead. But in late 1995, something unexpected happened. A traveling preacher began holding services at the West ‘A’ Street Church of God. Eventually there were two or three thousand people coming out every night of the week. Rumors were spreading, even among my fourth period chemistry class. A smart brunette named Kelly leaned over and told me she’d pick me up at six. She was cute, so I said, ”OK.”

There were so many cars that we had to park in a field and walk over to the church. You could hear the music before we even got close to the building. As we walked into the sanctuary, I looked around in amazement. People were singing at the top of their lungs; the band was rocking; old ladies were jumping pews. I was Presbyterian and had never seen anything like this. But above all the noise and clamor I sensed something: the presence of a holy God–riding high, resting, just above the shouts and cymbals.

So I kept coming back. Night after night. Praying, singing, listening to the preacher. And then one night, as I was driving home in that old van, I came to a stoplight.  And suddenly I couldn’t see anything.  And a brilliant light shone out of the darkness.  And I heard a voice speak, ”I AM SAVIOR.” I sat there speechless at first.  Then I whispered, ”Yes.”

My sight returned. The light was green. I put the car in gear and puttered through the intersection.

And everything is different.