A Sword Drill at a Gun Show

A Christian Vocabulary for an Exhausted Age

Last week I was talking with a new believer in Christ—one who came from a thoroughly secular background—and she mentioned that some family members were really worried about her. “I can’t believe you’ve become an evangelical Christian,” one of them said. “How can you be for guns?”

Guns?

The family member assumed that her becoming an evangelical Christian meant she had joined a political tribe, complete with gun-culture views of assault weapons. But this new Christian happened to have the same political view on this issue as her family. Of all the things that changed in her conversion, her view on guns wasn’t one of them.

My shoulders slumped when I heard this—and it wasn’t because I agreed or didn’t agree with this family’s views on gun policy. My disappointment was because I had heard some version of this many times before—people who, when hearing about evangelical Christianity, think not of the gospel but of some extreme political identity.

It would be easy to blame that on the media portrayal of evangelical Christians in America (“All they pay attention to is the politics!”) or on this woman’s family members (“How religiously illiterate has America become that all these people see are caricatures?”).

There are ways that the outside world does unthinkingly caricature evangelical Christianity. That’s hardly a new development with secularization—note the many jokes about George Whitefield’s preaching in early American newspapers or the writings of H. L. Mencken, who didn’t mean “Bible Belt” as a compliment.

And yet, who can deny that the primary reason for this view of evangelical Christianity is due not to misunderstanding but to understanding all too well? Who can deny that the outside world defines American Christianity not by Christ and him crucified but by political tribal affiliation because of what we have shown them about ourselves?

Not long ago, I found myself re-reading Walker Percy’s essay, “Notes for a Novel About the End of the World,” on what he believed to be the double crisis facing the American church of his time. I was struck by how resonant his warnings are still.

Let’s start with the second crisis first, because it’s the one with which we’re most aware, what Percy called “the moral failure of Christendom.” Percy argued that despite all the warnings about liberalizing theology, that was not where the primary problem lay. Percy, of course, rejected all of that too—from Paul Tillich’s “Ground of Being” to “the death of God” on the cover of TIME magazine. But, he noted, most Americans are indifferent to theology and metaphysics. He also wasn’t referencing hypocrisy in personal behavior.

“But in the one place, the place which hurt the most and where charity was most needed, they have not done right,” he wrote. “White Americans have sinned against the Negro from the beginning and continue to do so, initially with cruelty and presently with an indifference which may be even more destructive. And it is the churches which, far from fighting the good fight against man’s native inhumanity to man, have sanctified and perpetuated the indifference.”

Anyone willing can see how this crisis faces the church at the moment. That’s no doubt why the new Christian’s mother doesn’t think first of the existence of God or the historicity of the Resurrection or the idea of heaven and hell when she hears “evangelical Christian,” but instead a monolithic, tribal, political faction. Even when we have what we call theological debates, they are, when you scratch beneath the surface, often really political wars.

Perhaps even more urgent, though, is the other crisis Percy warned about—that of a worn-out vocabulary. “The old words of grace are worn smooth as poker chips and a certain devaluation has occurred, like a poker chip after it is cashed in,” he wrote. “Even if one talks only of Christendom, leaving the heathens out of it, of Christendom where everybody is a believer, it almost seems that when everybody believes in God, it is as if everybody started the game with one poker chip, which is the same as starting with none.”

We ground our identity in culture wars because it’s much easier than bearing witness. It’s easier to find which of our neighbors are the “bad people” and to fear them than it is to actually speak to their consciences about atonement, grace, reconciliation, and newness of life. Is it any wonder, then, that the world expects to hear from us not the words of the Bible and the announcement of the kingdom of God, but simply a more extreme version of the political warfare that’s already invaded almost every aspect of our lives?

The way we recover that lost vocabulary is not by finding new words, but by falling in love again with the old ones.

The English literature scholar Michael Edwards, in writing of his own conversion, notes that what convinced him of the truth of the Bible was not proofs or arguments but the strangeness of the text itself—a strangeness that spoke to his intuitions that there might be another way of knowing than merely that of reason and sense perception. “What I needed in order to make a step forward was what I was looking for from the beginning, a different way of knowing, which I was powerless to bring about myself.”

Not long ago, I watched the film A Glitch in the Matrix, about people who believe the world around us is illusory—that perhaps we are in a hologram or even a video game being played by our descendants with avatars of their family tree. As you might expect, I did not find the arguments persuasive, especially since they are science-fiction versions of the old Gnosticism that the Apostle John warned us about. But the way I could actually understand their viewpoint was to “get inside” of it, to imagine what it would be like to see the world this way, to ask if it made sense of the questions we ask, if it could show us whether the questions are wrong.

I believe the gospel story does indeed speak—which is why a first-century Jewish sect of outcasts turned the world upside down. In telling that story, we invite people to consider a world in which Jesus announces, “The kingdom of God is among you” and “My kingdom is not of this world,” a story in which God rescued Israel from Egypt and raised Jesus of Nazareth from the dead. We can only do that if we ourselves come to the story—to our vocabulary—the way it intends us to do so: with astonishment and awe.

At our event in Houston a couple weeks ago, Beth Moore played “hymnal trivia” with me, reading the first lines from our shared childhood hymnbook, the Baptist Hymnal. I was struck once again by how many of those hymns are about astonishment. “Amazing Grace,” “I Stand Amazed in the Presence,” “And Can It Be.” The same is true, in different ways, in virtually every strand of Christian worship.

When we are bored with that, we turn to ways of knowing that are out of step with the gospel. We reduce everything down to machines or information or—even worse—we reduce our neighbors down to their positions on whatever political controversies our leaders say should differentiate “us” from “them.”

Indeed, I realized while talking with this new fellow Christian how worn my own heart had become to the vocabulary of grace. I was struck by the reaction she received—that summed up American Christianity as a political view on guns—to the point that it took me a moment to be struck by what was really momentous: The woman sitting in front of me had encountered the Person in whom the entire cosmos holds together. Her sins—and mine—are forgiven, and we stand before a reality we cannot see, united to a crucified and resurrected Christ. Jesus loves us.

It was as if I were standing in front of the Grand Canyon, complaining about the lack of adequate cell service to download a YouTube video.

Maybe if more of us were struck by just how strange and astounding these truths are, we would find the world around us startled by them too. This wouldn’t make people like us anymore—that’s not the point. The point is that people should hate us for the right reason. When we reclaim a vocabulary of wonder, perhaps more of our neighbors will gasp when people become Christians in order to say, “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?” (John 1:46).

And we will respond with what he taught us to say from the beginning: “Come and see.”

The Joy of Funerals

Last week I sat in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City at the memorial service of Tim Keller. As I looked around the room, I could see people whose lives, I know, were re-shaped by this pastor’s presence. I noticed something intangible that seemed to pulse through the sanctuary, even before the service started. By the end, it occurred to me that what we were experiencing was joy.

By joy I don’t mean happiness, of course. After the service, a friend said that he believed the most important part of the service was when Tim’s son was momentarily silent in grief. He expressed in that moment what everyone who’s lost someone they love has known.

I mean joy the way that C. S. Lewis defined it—as including a bittersweet longing, a recognition that the signposts are pointing us somewhere that we can’t find on our own. Bound up in that kind of joy is a certain kind of hope and happiness, but with it a sense of absence that’s meant to direct us elsewhere.

As I’ve mentioned here before, my wife Maria hates it when I say that I prefer funerals to weddings. “People will think that you mean you would rather people die than get married,” she says. And, of course, I don’t mean that. I also don’t really mean what anyone who’s ever served as a pastor knows—that funerals are far less likely than weddings to bring out the worst aspects of those who were expecting a “fairy tale”–perfect event—although that is certainly true. What I mean is that there is incomparable joy in the funeral of a life well-lived to the glory of God.

Sam Allberry made this point well in his eulogy. Of all the tributes and eulogies to Tim, he said, almost none of them had to do with anything Tim did. Almost all of them had to do with his character—how he loved his family, how he showed kindness to people, how he encouraged his friends, how he didn’t give up on people who disagreed with him.

I’ve consistently experienced this moment of joy at other funerals. We see the story of a life, and the way the grace of God shone through it. We pray, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life” (Ps. 23). We know that’s true because we’ve seen it in the resurrected life of Jesus—but in those good funerals we see a little glimpse of it, not in heaven hidden from us, nor in the future waiting for us, but in the completed story of a person who was indeed followed all the days of his or her life by that goodness and mercy. Often, we can think of how that person helped us see the goodness and mercy behind us also, prodding us homeward.

At funerals like that, there can be a confusing mix of grief and gratitude, the need to hug one’s loved ones closer and to ache for life in the resurrection dawn. That mix can be called many things, but one of them is joy.

Thank You for Your Encouragement

As I write this, I’m returning from a Losing Our Religion book launch event sponsored by The Trinity Forum in Washington, DC. Right before, talking with my friend Cherie Harder, president of The Trinity Forum, I realized that I had spent ten minutes venting about several aspects of awfulness in the country right now. Maybe it was because I had just seen yet another harbinger of what I fear to be a time of violence and authoritarianism in the country. Maybe it was because a friend had just sent me a supposedly God-ordained note, telling me that I’m a false teacher because of my views on a certain political personality and movement.

“I’m sorry Cherie,” I said. “I don’t know why I’m in such a dark disposition. I promise to be out of it by the time the event starts.”

Within minutes, spending time with these folks recharged my “Onward, Christian Soldiers” hopefulness. It’s been that way at all of these events over the past few weeks, such as our night with Living Proof and Beth Moore in Houston. I go to these things to meet in person, usually for the first time, so many of you who read this newsletter or podcast. Several of you who’ve submitted Desert Island Bookshelves or Playlists were also there!

In every case, God has used you to bless and encourage me. Thank you.

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 Nathan Bucci:

“Solsbury Hill” by Peter Gabriel: This song never ceases to inspire me—the feel of its instruments, as well as the lyrics. Here is what the songwriter suggests: “It’s about being prepared to lose what you have for what you might get, or what you are for what you might be.” This is an underlying gospel theme. I am glad to see it woven into this beautiful song.

“The Wanderer” by U2 and Johnny Cash: Just listen and enjoy; a reflective song that paints a powerful picture and nuances, written by two legends.

“I Hung My Head” by Sting: A humbling song that tells a story with powerful instruments and lyrics. Has a pleasant sounding buildup. I’ve listened to this song every day for years when I would run, because it humbles me and seems realistic. I think both of those traits would be needed on any desert island.

“The Crisis” by Ennio Morricone: A bit of a sadder vibe, but this instrumental song helped me to reflect on seasons of life that were particularly challenging, and to process it with this one playing in the background.

“I Shall Be Released” by Bob Dylan (Nina Simone version): Had to throw in another inspiring song that would get me mentally prepared to be stuck on a desert island and one that is hopeful.

“May I Have This Dance” by Francis and the Lights: A positive-sounding song that speaks to the commitment to another person. It may just be me, but I also believe it speaks to recognition and repentance and hope: “We are bound to inherit the sins of our parents.”

“Just Like You” by Keb’ Mo’: What a great song about racial reconciliation, and the songwriter sings as if to an old friend about the significance of what I see as imago Dei implications, and showing people compassion and empathizing with other’s situations. On a desert island, this one would remind me to be kind to myself and would remind me of memories of those I loved.

“Life by the Drop” by Stevie Ray Vaughn: Stevie sings about the sadness of losing a friendship, but also about cherishing and remembering those relationships. I love this lyric: “God, it’s good to be here walking together, my friend.”

“Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac: I had a friend who passed away some years ago, and this was her favorite song. It reminds me of her, and I think it would help me battle the mental challenges of navigating my life stuck on a desert island.

“Nothing Man” by Bruce Springsteen: The boss has a huge repertoire of music, but I believe this is one of his best and most relatable songs.

Thank you, Nathan!

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.

Michael Edwards, The Bible and Poetry (New York Review Books)

Jean Hanff Korelitz, The Plot: A Novel (Celadon)

Bill Goldstein, The World Broke in Two: Virginia Woolf, T. S. Eliot, D. H. Lawrence, E. M. Forster, and the Year That Changed Literature (Picador)

Shaun Hamill, A Cosmology of Monsters: A Novel (Pantheon)

David Pietrusza, 1960: LBJ vs. JFK vs. Nixon (Union Square)

Thomas Hertog, On the Origin of Time: Stephen Hawking’s Final Theory (Bantam)

Felix Harcourt, Ku Klux Kulture: America and the Klan in the 1920s (University of Chicago)

David Whyte, Still Possible (Many Rivers)

Join Us at Christianity Today

Founded by Billy Graham, Christianity Today is on a mission to lift up the sages and storytellers of the global church for the sake of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Why don’t you join us as a member—or give a membership to a friend, a pastor, a church member, someone you mentor, or a curious non-Christian neighbor? You can also make a tax-deductible gift that expands CT’s important voice and influence in the world.

Ask a Question or Say Hello

The Russell Moore Show podcast includes a section where we grapple with the questions you might have about life, the gospel, relationships, work, the church, spirituality, the future, a moral dilemma you’re facing, or whatever. You can send your questions to questions@russellmoore.com. I’ll never use your name—unless you tell me to—and will come up with a groan-inducing pun of a pseudonym for you.

And, of course, I would love to hear from you about anything. Send me an email at questions@russellmoore.com if you have any questions or comments about this newsletter, if there are other things you would like to see discussed here, or if you would just like to say hello!

If you have a friend who might like this, please forward it, and if you’ve gotten this from a friend, please subscribe!

Onward,
Russell Moore