John Piper sparked quite a storm with his biographical message on the "frank and manly" J. C. Ryle. One of his conclusion was that Christianity is meant to have a masculine feel to it. Response to his message ranged from outrage to applause. I found myself perplexed and needed to give it some time to work itself out in my mind. For a while I gave up, but then decided that it would be worth the effort, so sat down and began to hash out my thoughts. It took a long time, but having done so, I find that I am pretty sure I disagree with Piper. I will tell you why, but first, a short refresher on his message.

After some introductory observations about the prominence of masculinity in the Christian faith--like the fact that God is revealed to us as a king and father rather than as a queen and mother, that Jesus came as a man, that all priests and pastors in the Bible are men and so on--Piper went on to define this "masculine feel" or "masculine Christianity" more precisely. A masculine Christianity is a Christianity in which,

Theology and church and mission are marked by overarching godly male leadership in the spirit of Christ, with an ethos of tender-hearted strength, and contrite courage, and risk-taking decisiveness, and readiness to sacrifice for the sake of leading, protecting, and providing for the community--all of which is possible only through the death and resurrection of Jesus. It's the feel of a great, majestic God, who by his redeeming work in Jesus Christ, inclines men to take humble, Christ-exalting initiative, and inclines women to come alongside the men with joyful support, intelligent helpfulness, and fruitful partnership in the work.

What Piper saw as characteristic of a masculine faith is the presence of these sometimes-paradoxical virtues, exercised in the Spirit of Christ and for his glory:

• tender-hearted strength
• contrite courage
• risk-taking decisiveness
• sacrificial leadership, protection, and provision
• humble initiative-taking

He went on:

... I conclude that God has given Christianity a masculine feel. And, being a God of love, he has done it for the maximum flourishing of men and women. He did not create women to languish, or be frustrated, or in any way to suffer or fall short of full and lasting joy, in a masculine Christianity. She is a fellow heir of the grace of life (1 Peter 3:7). From which I infer that the fullest flourishing of women and men takes place in churches and families where Christianity has this God-ordained, masculine feel. For the sake of the glory of women, and for the sake of the security and joy of children, God has made Christianity to have a masculine feel. He has ordained for the church a masculine ministry.

I find that I do not agree. For those of you who are given to over-reaction, just breathe—I am allowed to disagree and I’m sure Piper is just fine with people disagreeing. If you don’t have a category for charitable disagreement on secondary matters, you need to develop one! I still love the man, but want to offer an alternative to his masculine Christianity. 

An Alternative

I believe it is a category mistake to say that Christianity is either masculine or feminine just as it would be a category mistake to say that Christianity is Caucasian or African-American or young or old. It exists beyond or outside of such categories. I affirm that male headship is clearly laid out in the Bible, that God assigns church leadership to qualified men, and that God has given to men certain traits or virtues that allow them to lead well. However, it does not follow from these facts that the Christian faith ought to feel more masculine than feminine. 

A couple of weeks ago Carl Trueman posted a review of a new book from G.R. Evans. Trueman had read The Roots of the Reformation: Tradition, Emergence, and Rupture in the hope that he would be able to use it as a text for his Reformation History classes. Very quickly he came to see that it would not be suitable, saying, “The Reformation section is unfortunately replete with errors of historical fact, some of which are very serious, even if a few are possibly the result of typos. The sheer number of these errors renders the book a liability in the classroom and undermines its stated purpose as a textbook.”

After documenting a long list of errors—and even then only the errors that he noticed on the basis of one read—he came to this conclusion: 

Sadly, the multitude of factual mistakes it contains render it a complete classroom liability.  Pace the stellar jacket commendations from some of the most learned Reformation scholars alive, I cannot recommend it other than as a salutary lesson in what happens when one writes too quickly and too confidently outside of one’s own field of expertise.  As a teacher, I cannot use this book because it does not do that which I require of a textbook: provide a reliable guide to names, dates and events.

IVP, the book’s publisher, responded well, immediately taking the book out of print and getting to work on a revised edition that will correct the errors. They have also promised to provide a complimentary copy of the second edition to anyone who purchased the first. This is a praiseworthy response.

Well and good. Because The Roots of the Reformation is a scholarly, historical work, it is one that few of us would know of but for Trueman’s review. However, I find this situation interesting because I think it points to a wider issue, and one I have been meaning to discuss for some time. Trueman hints at this in the conclusion of his review:

In short, this is a very curious book: curious for the fact that a fine scholar such as Professor Evans would produce such a seriously flawed piece of work; and curious for the fact that highly respected scholars have given it their imprimaturs in the form of glowing jacket commendations. Sadly, in line with the old proverb, you cannot judge this book by its cover. 

It is curious indeed that several highly respected scholars—J.I. Packer, Timothy George, and others among them—wrote endorsements for this book. What do you make of a book that receives such accolades as “superb” and “remarkable” and “essential reading,” and yet contains such a multitude of serious errors?

You may well conclude that many of the endorsers had not read the book or, at the very least, had not read it closely. And without accusing any of the people whose names appear on the back cover, that may well be the case. 

Have you seen the video of the orchestral flash mob in the Copenhagen metro? A couple of months ago the Copenhagen Philharmonic Orchestra surprised a car full of passengers by setting up shop in the metro and performing Edvard Grieg’s “Peer Gynt” right there in the train. The video is not even two-and-a-half minutes long, so give it a watch.

Let me tell you why I find this a fascinating video. It begins with a crowd of people cramming into a metro car, just like they do every morning and evening, completely unaware that this ride will be different. A lot of them are plugged in to iPods or other devices, but as the orchestra begins to play, the headphones come off. Moments ago this was a train full of individuals lost in their own little media worlds, but in an instant it becomes a community joined together by their shared experience of this music. Each one of them instinctively knows that what they have the opportunity to experience here and now is better than what they may experience over their headphones or on their screens. Headphones are pulled off, blank stares are replaced by smiles. There is an immediate transformation.

But then something else happens. Many of those who turned off their music now exchange it for their video cameras. The device that pumped out music now captures video. They perceive that they are experiencing something remarkable and with the click of a few buttons they begin to record it. It seems unremarkable today; it is the expected action—you grab your phone and starting recording video.

But why? Why would they record this performance? They have an opportunity here to enjoy something entirely unique and something uniquely beautiful, but so many of them get only half of the experience because they now become reporters instead of an audience. My guess is that many of them don’t even have a conscious thought about what they are doing; they record it because that is just what we do today. We have trained ourselves to respond to great experiences by making sure we digitize them. If we can’t post it to Facebook and YouTube, if we can’t give evidence of what we’ve experienced, it’s like we haven’t experienced it at all.

Today my parents and brothers and sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and nephews are gathering in a little house in Chattanooga. Forty years ago today, the third of June of 1972, was a double celebration for my parents: my father marked his twenty-third birthday and he married my mother. Both had been born and raised in Quebec, one of the most unchurched areas in all of North America, yet against all odds both had recently encountered the gospel and been saved. Fresh out of university, they began life together. Andrew, my older brother, came into the world almost a year after they were married, and he was soon followed by me and then by three girls. By the time my parents celebrated their fifteenth anniversary, they had five children.

Today four of those children have settled in Atlanta or Chattanooga or somewhere between, while one, this one, remains in Canada. Four children are married and between us we have been blessed with children of our own--twelve grandchildren for my parents (with one of my sisters having recently announced that number thirteen is on the way). The Lord has been so kind to my family.

As I ponder forty years of marriage, more than thirty-six of which I witnessed either up-close or from some distance, I find myself wondering this: How do you measure success as parents? What is a fair and realistic measure? Is it subjective, based on thoughts and feelings and impressions? Is it objective, based on numbers and statistics and dollar figures? I don't know. What I do know is that the Bible provides a simple and overarching command to every parent: raise your children in the discipline and the instruction of the Lord. According to that measure my parents experienced an abundance of the Lord's grace and were successful. Today each one of the five children professes faith in Christ and each one is living as if that profession is genuine.

Yesterday I sat for some time and pondered their success. I looked to my own life and my own parenting to see what lessons I've drawn from my parents and applied to my own family. There are four that stood out.

Ann Voskamp sent me an email the other day. She invited me to bring my family to the Voskamp farm for a meal--they live just a couple of hours from us--to put people to the pixels, so to speak. It was a kind invitation and well-received. I am hoping that my family and hers can coordinate our calendars and make it happen.

Voskamp's invitation came just a day after I reviewed her book One Thousand Gifts. I have a long history of reviewing books at this site. I didn't set out to be a book reviewer--it just kind of happened. I love to read and I love to analyze what I've read. From there it is just a short step to put those thoughts into pixels and to post them for the world to see. I've done this five or six hundred times over the years, reviewing the good, the bad and the ugly of Christian publishing.

While I wouldn't classify One Thousand Gifts as one of those books that inhabits the full-out ugly side of Christian publishing, neither did I find that I was able to recommend it. In fact, in my review I went so far as to say that it could well prove to be dangerous to some readers. The thread of mysticism influenced by the likes of Nouwen and Manning and Willard, the language of sexuality and ecstasy--these are genuinely troubling and I stand by the concerns I raised. If Ann and I manage to get together, I hope we can discuss these things as I will gladly share my concerns in far more words than I could use in my review. From the little I know of her, I believe she will be eager to hear and engage.

It bears saying as well that I feel no moral quandary about reviewing her book or any other and even warning of potential weaknesses. Any author who releases a book acknowledges that it is entering into the public sphere and may receive both praise and criticism. This is an inevitable component of making writing available to the public and it is one that authors welcome; it is an honor that other people consider your ideas worth discussing.

Having said all of that, something happened inside me when I saw Ann's name in my inbox, and that's what has compelled me to write this little article. Seeing her name brought a sudden and surprising realization and with it a twinge of guilt and remorse. It has happened to me before, this strange feeling that comes when I suddenly realize that the name on the front of the book--"Ann Voskamp" in this case--is not some cleverly programmed, unfeeling robot that spits out blog posts and magazine articles and books, but a person. A real person. That should have been no great revelation, yet there have been too many times over the years that I have had to remind myself of this simple fact. I try to remind myself before posting a review; sometimes it only comes later.

As I read back over my review of One Thousand Gifts I could see that I had neglected to remind myself while writing it that Voskamp is a real person and, not only that, but a sister in Christ. As a writer myself, I ought to remember that words are meaningful and revealing and in some way a part of the person who writes them. Every word comes from somewhere deep inside. Every word of One Thousand Gifts is a part of Voskamp just like every word I write is a part of me. There are no idle words in her book, no words that aren't felt and meant. Yet in my review I had treated her as if her words mean less than mine, as if I was free to criticize her in a way I would not want to be criticized.

Near the center of every religion is a ledger. Every religion acknowledges, on one level or another, that people do good things and bad things and every religion then maintains a tally, supposing that one day there will come a reckoning. Every religion hopes that on the day of accounting, the day of the audit, the good will outnumber or outweigh the bad. There is hope for those who come to that day with a surplus and no hope for those who come with a deficit.

Islam acknowledges sin—deeds that contradict the will of Allah—and calls its adherents to do good that will outweigh the bad. Good deeds are repentance, prayer and certain acts of charity and kindness. Each of these go in the ledger as credits meant to balance the debits.

Judaism acknowledges sin—violations of God’s commandments—and calls on its adherents to make atonement, reparation of relationship with God, through the good work of repentance, through making right the wrongs done to another person, through prayer and devotion. Each of these is a black entry in the ledger that may outweigh the red.

Buddhism acknowledges sin, or something like it, and calls on its adherents to avoid it in favor of something higher and better. Bad deeds bring bad karma which must be outweighed by the good deeds that bring about good karma. When the accounting comes, the good must outweigh the bad, or fate will not be kind.

Hinduism acknowledges deeds that draw us toward and deeds that draw us away, though a Hindu would hesitate to describe such deeds as sin. Still, it calls on its adherents to repent of what they have done that is bad and to restore parity with repentance or acts of contrition.

In God’s revelation of himself to Moses on Mount Sinai, he says that he is “slow to anger” (Exodus 34:6). However, later in the Old Testament, in the prophecy about Christ in Psalm 2, we are told to “Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and you perish in the way, for his wrath is quickly kindled“ (2:12).

So which is it? Is God slow to anger or is he quick to wrath? It can’t be both, can it?

It seems to me that the answer lies in understanding that there is a distinction between “getting angry” and “kindling wrath.” Getting angry refers to the attitude God has toward his creation. Kindling wrath refers to the ways in which he acts out that attitude.

In this sense, we can affirm both: God is slow to become angry, as he tells Moses on Mount Sinai (and repeats throughout the rest of Scripture (see Nehemiah 9:17; Psalm 86:15, etc.). But after he is angered, his wrath, the means through which that anger is manifested, can be kindled quickly.

Romans 2:4-5 captures this distinction powerfully. After mentioning how the people have been presuming upon “the riches of [God’s] kindness and forbearance and patience” (referring to the slowness of God’s anger), Paul says that they are storing up wrath for themselves “on the day of wrath,” which, as we know from Paul’s words in 1 Thessalonians 5:2, will come quickly, “like a thief in the night.”

Ultimately, each of these is true and each of them is a blessing to us. The fact that God is slow to anger means that there is time and opportunity for us to repent of our sin. The fact that he is quick to wrath guards us against presuming upon his mercy and prolonging our rebellion.

(For a look at other apparent contradictions in the Bible, see Justified by Faith or Works?, Who Incited David?, and That Pesky Rooster.)

One of the more interesting sections of dialog in John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress has Christian and Hopeful discussing the danger of backsliding, of falling away from what had the appearance of spiritual life and growth. That dialog, drawn from the tenth stage of Christian’s journey, is important and instructive. Bunyan presupposes that such people have been awakened to their need for salvation by some combination of the fear of God and the danger of hell, but eventually fall back or fall away. Here are four reasons that people backslide:

The conscience is awakened, but the mind is not changed. Therefore, when the guilt and fear of God that motivated this awakening of conscience has passed, their desire for salvation cools and they return to their own ways.

Though the consciences of such men are awakened, yet their minds are not changed: therefore, when the power of guilt weareth away, that which provoked them to be religious ceaseth; wherefore they naturally turn to their own course again; even as we see the dog that is sick of what he hath eaten, so long as his sickness prevails, he vomits and casts up all; not that he doth this of a free mind, (if we may say a dog has a mind,) but because it troubleth his stomach: but now, when his sickness is over, and so his stomach eased, his desires being not at all alienated from his vomit, he turns him about, and licks up all; and so it is true which is written, "The dog is turned to his own vomit again." 2 Pet. 2:22. Thus, I say, being hot for heaven, by virtue only of the sense and fear of the torments of hell, as their sense and fear of damnation chills and cools, so their desires for heaven and salvation cool also. So then it comes to pass, that when their guilt and fear is gone, their desires for heaven and happiness die, and they return to their course again.

They are overwhelmed by fear of man. For a time the fear of damnation overcomes this fear of other people, but as the sense of danger passes, so too does their boldness.

Another reason is, they have slavish fears that do overmaster them: I speak now of the fears that they have of men; "For the fear of man bringeth a snare." Prov. 29:25. So then, though they seem to be hot for heaven so long as the flames of hell are about their ears, yet, when that terror is a little over, they betake themselves to second thoughts, namely, that it is good to be wise and not to run (for they know not what) the hazard of losing all, or at least of bringing themselves into unavoidable and unnecessary troubles; and so they fall in with the world again.

They are full of pride, unwilling to face the world-ward shame that comes with the gospel.

The shame that attends religion lies also as a block in their way: they are proud and haughty, and religion in their eye is low and contemptible: therefore when they have lost their sense of hell and the wrath to come, they return again to their former course.

And finally, they refuse to face their own guilt and the danger that will come to them if they do not receive forgiveness for wrongs done.

Guilt, and to meditate terror, are grievous to them; they like not to see their misery before they come into it; though perhaps the sight of at it first, if they loved that sight, might make them fly whither the righteous fly and are safe; but because they do, as I hinted before, even shun the thoughts of guilt and terror, therefore, when once they are rid of their awakenings about the terrors and wrath of God, they harden their hearts gladly, and choose such ways as will harden them more and more.

Many a father has held an infant son in his arms, looked at that child and declared his delight. Yet, sadly, many years later the delight has turned to disgust, the joy to mourning. The son has done something, he has become something, that has driven away his father's delight. I thought of my own delight in my children as I read God’s Word this morning.

There were two times that God the Father declared that he was well-pleased with the Son. At Jesus’ baptism a voice came from heaven to declare "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased." Later, as Jesus was transfigured before a few of his disciples, a bright cloud overshadowed them, and that voice spoken again saying, "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him."

The Father was well-pleased with the Son. He delighted in him. The Father and Son found joy and contentment in another. The Holy God looked to his holy Son and said, "He is my delight."

But this delight would not last. Not long after that second declaration, after the transfiguration, Jesus hung on a cross and as he hung there he cried out to the Father, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" The Father who had once delighted in his Son had now abandoned him and cursed him. What had become of that delight? How could the Son of his delight now be cursed and forsaken? Had Jesus done something to destroy that delight? No. Well, kind of.

It is among the most emotional--certainly one of the most stirring--scenes in The Lord of the Rings. The enemy forces have pressed hard against Helm’s Deep, they have approached in overwhelming numbers, they have raised the siege works and battered the gates and have slowly driven back the armies of the Rohirrim. Hope has grown dim and King Theoden takes to his horse to ride out for a final charge.

Lingering in every mind is Gandalf’s promise, “Look to my coming on the first light of the fifth day, at dawn look to the east.” He has not come, not yet. But the rising sun is only just beginning to brighten the sky. Then, just when all seems lost, heads turn, a hush settles over the two armies.

There he is at last, just as he promised. He comes riding over the crest of the hill, his staff blazing, leading a great company of riders. Down they charge into the confused ranks of enemy soldiers, cutting a great swath. And soon the battle is won, the citadel saved, its ruler victorious.

That is the kind of scene that moves us, a story where the people we love come to the brink of death, where they teeter on the edge of destruction, before being miraculously delivered.

A few days ago my morning reading took me to a very different battle scene. It is a skirmish, really, a brief foray between competing forces. Jesus is in a garden called Gethsemane, spending time with his friends, praying to his Father. A small army approaches in the darkness, led by a turncoat, a betrayer.