A Hill on Which to Lie

‘Going for the Jugular’ Does Not Wash Away Sin

A man named Paul Pressler warned us that a wrong view of authority would lead to debauchery and downgrade. He was right. What he didn’t tell us was that his vision for American Christianity would be one of the ways we would get there.

News did not break about the death of the retired Houston judge, the co-architect of the "Baptist Reformation" that we called "the conservative resurgence," until days after his demise, probably due to the fact that he died in disgrace.

My colleague Daniel Silliman explains excellently the paradox of Pressler’s public and private life. According to multiple serious and credible allegations by named people, with corroboration from multiple others and over a very long period of time, Pressler was a sexual molester of young men and boys. As reporter Rob Downen of The Texas Tribune summarizes in his thread, the nature of the corroborating evidence against the late judge is the size of a mountain.

It’s fair to say that most people—certainly most people in Southern Baptist pews—did not know about these reports of such a villainous nature for a long time. But it is also fair to say that almost everyone, at least those even minimally close up, could see other aspects—a cruelty, a viciousness, a vindictiveness—that displayed the means of Machiavelli, not the ways of the Messiah. His defining virtue—for all of us who retold the "Won Cause" mythology of the reformers who "saved the convention from liberalism"—was not Christlikeness but the fact that he was willing to fight.

And fight he did. At a meeting of pastors, he famously used the metaphor that conservatives would have to "go for the jugular" in defeating the moderate Baptist leaders of the time. Commentator Bill Moyers and I would have sharply divergent views on almost every major theological issue, but he accurately described Pressler, in the 1980s, as one who "rules the Southern Baptist Convention like a swaggering Caesar, breaking good men when it pleases him." Good men, and women, indeed were broken—and some are breaking still.

I write this as a biblical inerrantist—more convinced than ever that the Bible is the verbally inspired Word of God and that it contains, as an oft-repeated line of our confession of faith puts it, "truth, without any mixture of error, for its matter." There were genuine issues of what any honest observer would call theological liberalism in some places, especially in some sectors of the Southern Baptist academy. But, as I came to realize much later than I should have, some of those deemed to be "liberals" were not so at all. Riffing on a misattributed quote from Andy Warhol, I’d realize that among Baptists, everyone gets a turn at being called a liberal for at least 15 minutes.

And many others, I’ve come to see, liberalized precisely because they saw the mafia-like tactics of those such as Pressler and concluded that, since this "conservatism" was so obviously not of the spirit of Christ, whatever was its mirror image must be right. I don’t agree, as a Christian, that this is the correct response—but, as a human being, I can understand it.

Sometimes, when teaching theology at a Southern Baptist seminary, I would quote Pressler warning about what he called the "Dalmatian theory of inspiration."

"Once you say that the Bible could contain error, you make yourself the judge of what portions of the Bible are true and which portions are error," Pressler said in an interview at the height of the Southern Baptist controversy over biblical inerrancy. "It is a presumptuous thing for an individual to edit God. Somebody has called it the spot theory of inspiration. The Bible was inspired in spots, and we are inspired to spot the spots."

Even before the court actions and subsequent revelations, though, those of us in the conservative wing of Baptist life should have recognized the low view of biblical authority even in the actions Pressler did in full public view. Instead, we were told, and believed, that the stakes were too high—the orthodoxy of the nation’s largest Protestant denomination—to worry that the warlords leading the charge were not like Jesus. Many of us learned to tolerate the idea that one can do evil that good may result—a contradiction of the inerrant Word of God (Rom. 3:8).

The implicit idea is that, if the stakes are high enough, the usual norms of Christian morality—on truth-telling and kindness, gentleness, love, joy, self-control, etc.—can be ignored, at least long enough to fix the problem and return to normal.

This is not an unusual temptation: Let’s violate human rights in order to save human rights. Let’s terminate the Constitution to save the Constitution. Let’s elect sexual abusers to protect the family. Let’s disobey the Bible to save the Bible. Pressler warned (about other people in other situations) that what is tolerated is ultimately celebrated. That’s not always true, of course, but it certainly was in the case of conviction defined as quarrelsomeness.

Before one knows it, one ends up with a partisan definition of truth, all the more ironic for defenders of biblical inerrancy and—with a situational definition of ethics—for warriors against moral relativism. When this happens, the criterion by which the confession of faith is interpreted is through whatever controversy enlivens the crowd. Biblical passages that seem to be violated by one’s "enemies" are then emphasized, while those applying to one’s own "side" are minimized. To do this well, one needs some authoritative, if not authoritarian, leaders to spot the spots that are to be underlined and to skip over those to be ignored.

What difference does it make if one’s liberalism is characterized by ignoring Paul but quoting the Sermon on the Mount, or by ignoring the Sermon on the Mount but quoting Paul? How is one a liberal who explains away the Exodus but takes literally the Prophets, while that’s not true for the one who explains away the Prophets but takes literally the Exodus?

If the Bible is breathed out by God, then all of it is "profitable for teaching, for reproof, for training in righteousness" (2 Tim. 3:16, ESV throughout). A high view of biblical authority does not, by itself, guarantee orthodoxy.

As one of my (very conservative) professors in seminary once told me, "Biblical inerrancy, by itself, is just an agreed-upon table of contents." The work of interpretation must be done, and that requires the hard work of determining what matters are of "first importance" (1 Cor. 15:3) and what matters can be debated without ending cooperation. True enough.

But one can’t even debate those issues of interpretation in good faith if all sides are operating with their own secret canons-within-the-canon, determined by what to affirm or deny in order to stay in the tribe. That’s what the Bible calls being "tossed to and fro by the waves and carried about by every wind of doctrine" (Eph. 4:14). Whether those winds blow to the left or to the right or to the center, they leave us adrift.

Paul Pressler said he believed in biblical authority. He said that it mattered. It did, and it does. But the last 40 years should teach us that inerrancy is not enough. It does not matter how loudly one sings the words, "the Bible tells me so," if one’s life and character contradict the words, "Jesus loves me, this I know." Conviction without character destroys lives, and, in the long-term, reveals itself to have been something other than conviction all along. Sometimes, a battle for the Bible reveals itself to be a battle against the Bible.

It’s easy to see this in the tragedy of one man’s life, one denomination’s history. But the truth is that every one of us are vulnerable to the search for someone to spot the spots we are free to disobey. That’s a hill on which to die. It’s not the same thing, you know: going for the jugular and being washed in the blood.

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How to Stay Sane When Everything’s Crazy

I’ve heard from a lot of you over the past several weeks that you’re worried about how crazy things seem to be getting. Some of you commented on lamentable things at some of the denominational gatherings this summer. A lot of you are wondering how to live through this presidential election—and whatever comes after it. Some of you are looking at your social media feeds and wondering, When did everything get this insane? And how do I keep from losing my mind engaging with it?

Those are all good questions, and this week’s episode of the podcast tries to help. This is a kind of "best of" show featuring clips that specifically address what’s making us crazy, by some crazy smart but fiercely sane friends of mine.

I talk to Beth Moore on how suffering some dark things from men affected her view of God as Father … with Jen Wilkin on how churches don’t pay women fairly, and why we don’t ever even realize it … with Yuval Levin on how to keep our institutions from collapsing right when we need them the most … and with the late Tim Keller on how to forgive without neglecting justice and accountability.

You can listen to it here.

Every other week, I share a playlist of songs one of you says you’d want to have on hand if you were stranded on a desert island. This week’s submission comes from reader Lazar Naskov from Bitola, North Macedonia.

"You have readers all the way over in Macedonia," he writes. "Thank you for what you do. It can be so discouraging being a Christian in today’s climate, as it sometimes feels like we’re stuck either abandoning the church or just bowing to all the insanity. I really appreciate your speaking about how those aren’t the only options."

Here’s Lazar’s list:

"Dancing Circles" by Sampha: This song is one of the purest examples of poetry I’ve had the good fortune of experiencing, as with so little said and so little runtime it manages to get across a whole swath of ideas.

"Concorde" by Black Country, New Road: This entire album is drenched in the most tangible melancholy, but this song specifically stands out. The central metaphor of the Concorde jet as a failed relationship that you can’t quite seem to let go of is just so powerful, and the instrumentation is unlike anything I’ve ever heard.

"Giorgio by Moroder" by Daft Punk: Somehow, a nine-minute song manages to be both an entire documentary and a love letter to Giovanni Giorgio and the dawn of electronic music as a whole. Combine that with Daft Punk’s best-in-class production, and you get a song that is truly special.

"Etched Headplate" by Burial: If my soul were audible, this is what it would sound like. Somehow, Burial manages to paint a picture of a place I’ve never been but feels familiar and nostalgic. His music is like the sound of a warm hug from someone you know you’re never going to see again, or the feeling of visiting a childhood home and realizing it’s not nearly the same as it was when you lived there.

"Rayleigh Scattering" by acloudyskye: In an album that is often loud and full, the moment where it pulls back manages to be the most memorable.

"Jumpsuit" by Twenty One Pilots: This one is largely a nostalgia pick for me, as I was there and super involved with Twenty One Pilots when this song first dropped. The song itself is pretty clearly a call for help from his fanbase, and just a call for help in general. That call resonated with me, as at the time I myself was sort of calling out.

"Moon Song" by The M Machine: This one is less of an emotional pick for me, and more of a pick because it doesn’t quite sound like anything else I’ve ever heard. I get kind of bored when I listen to the same thing over and over again, so finding things that are a bit funky brings me joy.

"Opus 17 (Don’t You Worry ’Bout Me)" by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons: I’ve had a soft spot for the Four Seasons for a good part of my life, even more than the oft-cited Beach Boys and The Beatles, and this is my personal favorite. Something about the contrast between the bold and boastful instrumentation and the resigned lyrics just works for me.

"Mr. Tanner" by Harry Chapin: One of my greatest musical regrets is the fact that I was born too late to attend a Harry Chapin concert. He has such a fantastic way with words, and any of a number of songs could have made this list; depending on what day you catch me on, my answer here will change.

"Lovesong" by The Cure: Nothing less than one of the greatest songs of all time. Somehow, even today, it manages to sound fresh and modern. It’s hard to say anything fantastic about this song that hasn’t been said a million times, it’s just that good.

"The Invisible Man" by Maruja: This song, alongside having fascinating writing, has the most bizarre yet consistent sense of momentum of any song I’ve ever heard. I’ve only heard this song for the first time recently, but it’s fascinated me ever since.

"Raise Your Weapon" by deadmau5: If I’m going to be stuck on a desert island with these songs, I want at least one song where every time I listen to it, I hear something new, and "Raise Your Weapon" is that song. Everything about it is crisp and intentional in a way I rarely see in music, and it just makes me want to come back again and again.

Thank you, Lazar!

Readers, what do y’all think? If you were stranded on a desert island for the rest of your life and could have only one playlist or one bookshelf with you, what songs or books would you choose?

For a Desert Island Playlist, send me a list of up to 12 songs, excluding hymns and worship songs. (We’ll cover those later.)

For a Desert Island Bookshelf, send me a list of up to 12 books. If possible, include one photo of all the books together.

Send your list (or both lists!) to questions@russellmoore.com, and include as much or as little explanation of your choices as you would like, along with the city and state from which you’re writing.

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Onward,
Russell Moore