I suppose there are numerous misconceptions about Christianity. But whereas some of them can be brushed off as minor sundry details, others matter tremendously because they concern the very essence of what our faith is.
For instance, some people think Christianity is basically a belief system, but this is a mistake. Although Christianity produces beliefs, it’s not essentially about beliefs. Some people think Christianity is basically a way of life, but this is also a mistake. Although Christianity produces behavior, it’s not essentially about behavior. Some people think Christianity is basically membership in a group, but this, too, is a mistake. Although Christianity produces community, it’s not essentially about community.
See, you can believe new things without becoming a new person. You can do things a new way without becoming a new person. And you can join a new group without becoming a new person. But unless you do become an entirely new kind of person, you aren’t actually a Christian.
On not jumping to Biblical conclusions.
Did you know a person can actually know too much about the Bible to understand it properly. I know that may sound absurd, but allow me to give you an example.
In the Sermon on the Mount as recounted in Matthew 7, Jesus tells his audience that they will know true from false disciples “by their fruits” as if they are trees. Since this statement isn’t clarified, one naturally wonders what the “fruit” would be. Well, anyone familiar with the New Testament immediately thinks of Galatians 5, where Paul talks about the Fruit of the Spirit, which shows up as things like love, joy, and peace.
But here’s the problem. Reading the Bible this way treats it as a mystery scavenger hunt that can only be solved by people like us who happen to have the whole thing. When Jesus preached on that mountain, He meant His audience to understand Him even without the decoder ring of Paul’s writings twenty years later.
Although Paul was probably building on Jesus’s theme, the real question is whether the message Jesus delivered would have had this meaning in itself or not. Perhaps so, but we can be too eager to make that leap because, ironically, we know too much.
In the Sermon on the Mount as recounted in Matthew 7, Jesus tells his audience that they will know true from false disciples “by their fruits” as if they are trees. Since this statement isn’t clarified, one naturally wonders what the “fruit” would be. Well, anyone familiar with the New Testament immediately thinks of Galatians 5, where Paul talks about the Fruit of the Spirit, which shows up as things like love, joy, and peace.
But here’s the problem. Reading the Bible this way treats it as a mystery scavenger hunt that can only be solved by people like us who happen to have the whole thing. When Jesus preached on that mountain, He meant His audience to understand Him even without the decoder ring of Paul’s writings twenty years later.
Although Paul was probably building on Jesus’s theme, the real question is whether the message Jesus delivered would have had this meaning in itself or not. Perhaps so, but we can be too eager to make that leap because, ironically, we know too much.
An explanation that isn't.
One of the most fascinating (and frustrating) things about baseball is it’s essential unpredictability. Good teams lose to bad teams and weird things happen often enough that there’s actually an expression for it. We say, “That’s baseball.”
Oddly, although this feels like an explanation, it really isn’t. No team has yet lost a game because of some voodoo endemic to the game. Rather, they lose because of specific reasons on that particular day.
Also, there’s a bothersome asymmetry here. When good teams win, we don’t say, “That’s baseball,” since the more obvious explanation is, “They were the better team.” Thus, on those less likely days when poor teams play well, we actually rob them of the credit by chalking their win up to mischievous metaphysics.
Call it luck, call it the variables of individual contests, or call it the seductive deception of statistical reasoning. In the end, the one way to describe all of it including the silly propensity to come up with vacuous statements to explain it all is by saying, “That’s baseball.”
Oddly, although this feels like an explanation, it really isn’t. No team has yet lost a game because of some voodoo endemic to the game. Rather, they lose because of specific reasons on that particular day.
Also, there’s a bothersome asymmetry here. When good teams win, we don’t say, “That’s baseball,” since the more obvious explanation is, “They were the better team.” Thus, on those less likely days when poor teams play well, we actually rob them of the credit by chalking their win up to mischievous metaphysics.
Call it luck, call it the variables of individual contests, or call it the seductive deception of statistical reasoning. In the end, the one way to describe all of it including the silly propensity to come up with vacuous statements to explain it all is by saying, “That’s baseball.”
What's your consolation?
The term “consolation prize” was coined to describe something we give to a person who loses a contest as a way of consoling him in his sadness at failure. It may seem a bit silly, but everyone practices consoling, especially ourselves.
For instance, imagine a man who is worried about losing his job. Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I have a great wife.” But what about the unemployed who are divorced or single not by choice?
Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I’m in good financial shape otherwise.” But what about those who are in debt?
Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I have my children.” But what about those whose children have been lost, are angry at him, or were simply never born in the first place?
Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I have my health.” But what about those who are ill?
Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I have Jesus.”
When we get to the end of everything else we think is valuable, we eventually come to the consolation prize of knowing Christ. And when we do, we discover that what we thought was the littlest of consolations turns out to be the greatest prize of all. And, if the Bible is correct, one which we never need worry will be taken from us.
For instance, imagine a man who is worried about losing his job. Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I have a great wife.” But what about the unemployed who are divorced or single not by choice?
Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I’m in good financial shape otherwise.” But what about those who are in debt?
Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I have my children.” But what about those whose children have been lost, are angry at him, or were simply never born in the first place?
Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I have my health.” But what about those who are ill?
Perhaps he consoles himself by saying, “Well at least I have Jesus.”
When we get to the end of everything else we think is valuable, we eventually come to the consolation prize of knowing Christ. And when we do, we discover that what we thought was the littlest of consolations turns out to be the greatest prize of all. And, if the Bible is correct, one which we never need worry will be taken from us.
What's a moderate?
Words have meanings, which is why it’s so important to use them accurately. For instance, when we talk about Muslims, we generally refer to people who sympathize with Al Queda as “extremists.” But the large majority of the Muslim world which opposes them we label as “moderates.” But this is a very misleading word choice.
Having known a few Muslims, I don’t think I’ve ever met a moderate one. They pray, they fast, they study the Koran, they attend worship, and they live by a very strict moral code. Calling such devotees “moderates” is a sort of insult. I would hate for someone to call me a moderate Christian, since I prefer to think of myself as a committed or serious one.
The problem here is that our modern culture is fond of the error that devotion is danger. But as should be obvious by considering the Amish, the particular shape of devotion is vital in assessing its danger.
So, to make things clearer, perhaps we ought to distinguish between “violent Muslims” and “peaceful Muslims.” That way people are reminded that it’s not the depth of belief that matters, but the direction. After all, what would you rather have, a moderately violent Muslim or an extremely peaceful one?
Having known a few Muslims, I don’t think I’ve ever met a moderate one. They pray, they fast, they study the Koran, they attend worship, and they live by a very strict moral code. Calling such devotees “moderates” is a sort of insult. I would hate for someone to call me a moderate Christian, since I prefer to think of myself as a committed or serious one.
The problem here is that our modern culture is fond of the error that devotion is danger. But as should be obvious by considering the Amish, the particular shape of devotion is vital in assessing its danger.
So, to make things clearer, perhaps we ought to distinguish between “violent Muslims” and “peaceful Muslims.” That way people are reminded that it’s not the depth of belief that matters, but the direction. After all, what would you rather have, a moderately violent Muslim or an extremely peaceful one?
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