Christ Our Hope Urges Us On - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Thursday • 9/26/2024 •

Today’s is the ninth of ten devotionals that treat Paul’s last three letters — those to his ministry proteges, Timothy and Titus. Last week, in the first three devotionals on the so-called Pastoral Epistles, 1 & 2 Timothy and Titus, we saw how God overcomes our lack of faith, hope, and love. Following those three meditations are four devotionals in which we show how God implants in us basic ingredients of human flourishing, what are often called the classical “cardinal virtues”: godliness and temperance (which we treated last Thursday and Friday), and justice and courage (which we treated Monday and Tuesday of this week). Finally, in these last three devotionals of this special series on the Pastorals, we see how Paul inspires us to faith, hope, and love. 

We close this series on the Pastoral Epistles where we started: with faith, hope, and love. These three are often called the “theological virtues.” And today we focus on hope. 

These days, hope seems like a fool’s notion. Words from W. H. Auden’s poem, For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio, ring true: “Nothing can save us that is possible, we who must die demand a miracle.” 

Imager: from "Clayton Moore as 'The Lone Ranger' on 1949 TV series" by Movie-Fan is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Indeed, “nothing can save us that is possible.” The reality of this world mocks the classical “cardinal virtues” and their portrait of the good and noble life. There’s no salvation there. Amid our communication revolution, wisdom and truth are drowned in an ocean of mis- and disinformation. Argue for Paul’s “good religion” (eusebeia) — only to find yourself contending against a spirit of Lone Ranger spiritualism, custom-designed Christs, and well-deserved suspicion of organized religion and the institutionalized church. 

Seek to advance justice — only to get dragged into irresolvable disputes over whose definition of justice is in play, that of libertarians or that of communitarians? All along fearing that self-interest is in the driver’s seat in most people’s definition of what is right and what is wrong. 

Argue that in a world that puts before us an infinity of choices, the first choice is to decide to curb our appetites — only to invite stares of incredulity and eyerolls that silently accuse: “What a prude!” Sociologist Peter Berger says we live with a “heretical imperative,” the demand that every value be chosen, not prescribed or given or assumed. It’s an imperative that says the only real heresy is self-limitation. It’s an imperative that scoffs at the suggestion that many of our social problems would dissipate if we tamed our lust and greed and ambition. 

But … the miracle did happen. Nonetheless, into a world not altogether different from ours, Auden maintains, the miracle that his characters demand did transpire. Indeed, the miracle became incarnate. Hope was born on Christmas Day and hope was confirmed on Easter morning. The characters in Auden’s poem recognize the shattering (Tolkien would call it “eucatastrophic”) wonder of what is happening to them and to their world through the birth of the Christ Child: 

Our sullen wish to go back to the womb, to have no past, no future, is refused … Tonight for the first time the prison gates have opened. Music and sudden light have interrupted our routine tonight and swept the filth of habit from our hearts. O here and now our endless journey starts.*

We live, therefore, in Auden’s “For the Time Being” — that period between the two great “appearings” (epiphaneiai) of God’s miracle. As Paul notes, Christ “appeared” in humility to redeem us (Titus 2:11; 3:4; 2 Timothy 1:10) and Christ “will appear” in glory to consummate all things (Titus 2:13; 1 Timothy 6:14; 2 Timothy 4:1,8).  

And so, we can note the hopefulness with which the apostle faces the prospect of martyrdom in 2 Timothy 4:1–8. He knows that God, “the judge of the living and the dead” will execute perfect justice in his own time and in his own way (verse 1). 

Meanwhile, knowing that hard times are ahead (verse 3), Paul urges the things that make for “good religion” — he wants the legacy he leaves to be one of heralding the gospel, convincing, rebuking, encouraging, and teaching — and these things “with all patience” (verse 2). 

And he models for Timothy a perspective of courage and self-mastery as he faces his own end with equilibrium: 

• a sense of completion and contentment (“I have fought the good fight; I have finished the race”), 

• a sense of having grown in his own faith (compare his former “I acted in faithlessness” with his final “I have kept the faith” — 1 Timothy 1:13b; 2 Timothy 4:7c), and 

• a hopefulness that death will yield to glory (“there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness” (2 Timothy 4:8a). 

Friends, we can resolve to let Christ-our-Hope urge us on to courage and to resolve in our own promotion of “good religion,” justice, and self-control. Because, despite everything we see around us that could bring despair, Paul boldly asserts the same crown of righteousness is reserved “not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing” (2 Timothy 4:8c). 

Be blessed this day, 

Reggie Kidd+

* I have taken the liberty of collapsing lines from various characters in Auden’s oratorio: chiefly shepherds and wise men. 

Enabled to Reach for the Stars - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Wednesday • 9/25/2024 •

Today’s is the eighth of ten devotionals that treat Paul’s last three letters — those to his ministry proteges, Timothy and Titus. Last week, in the first three devotionals on the so-called Pastoral Epistles, 1 & 2 Timothy and Titus, we saw how God overcomes our lack of faith, hope, and love. Following those three meditations are four devotionals in which we show how God implants in us basic ingredients of human flourishing: godliness and temperance (which we treated last Thursday and Friday), and justice and courage (which we treated the past two days). Finally, in these last three devotionals of this special series on the Pastorals, we will see how Paul inspires us to faith, hope, and love.

We close this series on the Pastoral Epistles, then, where we started: with faith, hope, and love. These three are often called the “theological virtues.” Here is perhaps the place to acknowledge my debt to the medieval Italian poet Dante for the structuring of these ten meditations. 

Image: "reaching for stars" by almostsummersky is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

The outline I’ve adopted mirrors Dante’s journey through heaven in his third volume of the Divine Comedy: the Paradiso. As he moves up through the planetary spheres, Dante sees bad faith (the Moon), misplaced hope (Mercury), and disordered love (Venus) being repaired by Christ. Next he goes through planets where Christ teaches his followers how to live up to the classical world’s four “cardinal virtues”: making us teachers of true Truth (the Sun), courageous warriors (Mars), just rulers (Jupiter), and masters of our appetites (Saturn). 

Finally, Dante shows both the integration of the theological and the cardinal virtues, as well as the primacy of the theological virtues. He does so by climaxing the pilgrim’s journey through the heavenly spheres with examinations on faith (by Peter, bearer of the keys of the Kingdom), on hope (by James, counselor to patience in suffering), and on love (by John the beloved disciple). Dante’s point, I think, is that Christ has come to ennoble human aspirations to the good life (wisdom, courage, justice, and temperance), but only through a redemption that begins and ends with faith, hope, and love. 

What makes the Pastoral Epistles so very special in the canon of Christian Scripture is the unique way Paul, the author of the three “theological virtues,” takes account of the four “cardinal virtues” of the classical and Hellenistic world. He claims them for Christ,  and incorporates them into a Christian vision of a good and noble life. 

Faith grounds us and gives us wings. Early in this final section of the Paradiso Dante muses over the irony of faith grounding us in reality by inviting us to believe in unseen things. Following the Latin translation of Hebrews 11:6, “Faith,” observes Dante, “is the substantia (that which “stands under” [sub + stare]) of things hoped for” (Paradiso 24.64). For our lives to mean anything, all of us believe in more than what we see — from the force of gravity, to the sun’s rising and setting; from the validity of principles of right and wrong, to the veracity of stories about our ancestors. The key to life is basing our lives on the right unseen realities. 

And faith in those unseen verities gives our lives wings. Interestingly, all three of the main books of the Divine Comedy, the Inferno, the Purgatorio and the Paradiso, end with the word “stars.” Faith lets you stand upon those things that are beneath the surface of things. And when you take your stand on them, then you can hope for things above — faith enables you to reach for the stars. 

In the Pastorals, faith enables us to reach for the stars. People on the island of Crete had an ancient belief that Zeus had originally been a human who ascended to deity by his righteous deeds. They were raised to believe that they too could live such virtuous lives that they could become gods themselves. If they reached for the stars in their mastery of themselves, in their practice of justice with other human beings, and if they did right by the gods — if they did so, they could become like Zeus. Their basic religious spirit amounted to something like an anticipation of Mormonism, the byline of which is: “What we are now the Father once was, and what the Father now is we shall become.” 

Cretans’ upside-down faith won them the mockery of non-Cretan Greeks, and the self-critical remark of “one of their own prophets”: “Cretans are always liars, vicious beasts, lazy gluttons” (Titus 1:12). The temptation for Cretans was to view Christ the way the 20th century novelist Nikos Kazantzakis, himself from Crete, was to envision him: as a man who rose to divinity by self-mastery, righteous living, and pleasing of the divine. 

Such “faith” would be entirely misplaced. Such reaching for the stars would fall far short. To counter such ideas and to encourage a faith that would ennoble us rather than finally degrade us, Paul pointed to Christ as not a man who had ascended to deity. Paul portrayed Christ for the Cretans rather as God’s very own attributes descended to us: “For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all, training us … to live lives that are self-controlled, upright, and godly” … and … “But when the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of any works of righteousness that we had done, but according to his mercy…” (Titus 2:11,12b; 3:4–5a).  

If, by God’s grace and by the Holy Spirit’s work within us, we humbly set aside our pride and humbly accept this Christ — the Christ who has come down to us — we can indeed reach for and attain the stars. 

In the Pastorals, faith grounds us. People from Ephesus had been shaped by a religious spirit opposite that of the people of Crete. They had been taught, not that people rise to deity, but that deity had come down to them … in the form of a lifeless rock. 

As a result, they prostrated themselves before things that degraded and belittled them. One of the smaller deities in Ephesus was Priapus, the god of the phallus. Ephesians were susceptible to sorcery and witchcraft (Acts 19:18–19). Paul feared they would worship their wealth: “As for those who in the present age are rich, command them not to … set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches” (1 Timothy 6:17a,c). And Paul was shocked that they were attracted to demonically-inspired, anti-humanistic, and slothful “disciplines”: dietary restrictions and renunciation of marriage and of domestic responsibility (1 Timothy 4:1–5). 

Paul counters the life-denying religious spirit of Ephesus by pointing to the vibrant humanity of Christ: “[T]here is only one mediator between God and humanity, himself a human being, Christ Jesus…” (1 Timothy 2:5b NJB). God grounds our lives in the one true human being, who mediates his life to us and makes us over into new people. 

That’s why Paul encourages Timothy to punch above his weight: not letting others intimidate him because of his age, not letting his own physical afflictions get the better of him (“take a little wine for your stomach” — 1 Timothy 5:23), rekindling the gift he had received at the laying on of hands by Paul and others, being courageous. In this posture of strength, Timothy will be able to model the “new self” which Paul had already taught in Ephesians 4 and 5, and into which God is forming his whole church. 

The faith that Paul encourages in all his letters, culminating in his counsel to Timothy and Titus, is extraordinary. 

We are called to have faith in the Christ who has brought heaven’s life down to us. He does so, as he taught the Cretans, by embodying God’s communicable attributes. He breaks us of a pride that we can build some sort of stairway to heaven, but then he lifts us up by imparting the very attributes of God — his own grace, kindness, and loving kindness — so that we can live heaven’s life in the here and now, and reach for and ultimately attain the stars. 

At one and the same time, we are called to have faith in the Christ who has down to us not as a dumb, lifeless, and life-denying rock. He has come not to make us subject to desires we cannot control — like lust and greed and occultism. He has come to ground us in our full humanity, molding us into new people, fully embracing our calling as men and women, full of life and of love. 

Be blessed this day, 

Reggie Kidd+ 

When God Hands You the Ball - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Tuesday • 9/24/2024 •

Today’s is the seventh of ten devotionals that treat Paul’s last three letters — those to his ministry proteges, Timothy and Titus. Last week, in the first three devotionals on the so-called Pastoral Epistles, 1 & 2 Timothy and Titus, we saw how God overcomes our lack of faith, hope, and love. Following those three meditations are four devotionals in which we show how God implants in us basic ingredients of human flourishing: godliness and temperance (which we treated last Thursday and Friday), and justice and courage (which we treat yesterday and today). Finally, in the last three devotionals of this special series on the Pastorals, we will see how Paul inspires us to faith, hope, and love. 

The word of the day is “courage.” When commentator Martin Dibelius came upon Titus 2’s claim that “Grace” (i.e., Christ) had come to teach us to live with self-control, justly, and in godly fashion (which, in these devotionals, we have have recast as living according to “good religion”), he noted with some surprise that these letters are engaging three of the basic virtues of Greek and Roman ethics. The Hellenistic ethical canon included a fourth virtue, “Courage.” And courage is what Paul takes up in 2 Timothy.

Image: Adaptation, "City Island Little League ASG 071" by Edwin Martinez1 is licensed under CC BY 2.0. 

“Either carrying it, or on it!” According to the Roman historian Plutarch, Spartan mothers sent their sons off to war with a pithy saying. Pointing to their sons’ shields, they’d intone: “Either carrying it, or on it” (Spartan Sayings 241.F.5). Let me give you my amplified version: “Son, I’ll know you fought bravely if you come home alive, carrying your shield. I’ll know you fought bravely if you come home dead, with your comrades carrying you on your shield. But if you come home alive without your shield, I’ll know you turned and ran from battle, dropping that heavy, clumsy thing so it wouldn’t slow you down. Don’t come home without your shield. Don’t come home a coward. Don’t shame your mother. Either carrying it, or on it.”

Paul to Timothy. At the end of his life — from yet another prison cell, aware that he may be about to take the blade, and abandoned by all but Luke, probably here his secretary — Paul writes what we have come to call 2 Timothy to his young protégé of some 15 years, back at Ephesus. 

Despite Timothy’s youth (and, alas, we simply don’t know how young he was), he’s been put in charge of what is surely one of the largest of the churches Paul had planted, certainly the church he had invested the most time in. Of late, Timothy’s authority in Ephesus has been challenged by strong local voices. Several years earlier Paul had warned the elders of Ephesus that not only would they be set upon by fierce wolves from outside that church, but that from among their own selves there would arise people speaking perverse things to draw away disciples after them (Acts 20:29-30). Indeed, that appears to be what has happened — strong and disruptive voices are maintaining that the resurrection has already taken place (2 Timothy 2:18), and that (oddly) marriage is forbidden, as well as are certain foods (1 Timothy 4:3). 

Commentator Gordon Fee suggests, and rightly so, I think, that the reason Paul casts 1 Timothy in terms of qualifications for leadership is that these are voices indigenous to the church — this is why Paul warns against setting up “neophytes” (that’s Greek for “spiritual rookies”) as “overseers” (1 Timothy 3:6). Explicit is the fact that Timothy’s youth is being held against him by the opposition (1 Timothy 4:12). Implicit is the fact that Timothy’s locus of power lies outside the community, in Paul’s “laying on of hands” (and remember Timothy is from Lystra — he’s an outsider to Ephesus). Thus, this new rival core of leadership has enough local social clout to intimidate Timothy. In 2 Timothy, Paul writes to a younger ministry protégé who’s been knocked off his game. He is playing back on his heels (2 Timothy 1:6). And no matter the sport — you start playing on your heels, you’re done. 

Paul’s message is precisely that of a Spartan mother to a son she is sending off to battle: “Either carrying it, or on it.” 

Courage: what it isn’t. Negatively, Paul tells Timothy: 1) don’t be ashamed of the gospel; 2) don’t be surprised at the opposition (it comes with living in “the latter days”); 3) don’t get sucked into controversies over unimportant matters; 4) don’t knuckle under when it comes to important matters; and 5) don’t over-react and let your own belligerence become just as big a problem as your opponents’ (for the particulars, read through 2 Timothy 1 and 2). 

Courage: what it is. Positively, Paul points to three gifts of the Holy Spirit (2 Timothy 1:7). The Spirit comes with power (we know the power to convince people lies not in ourselves). The Spirit comes with love (we, no less than Spartan warriors, will fight more than anything else because of the mothers and wives and brothers and sisters and children and friends we love). The Spirit bestows self-control (courage learns to overcome fear and to measure its responses). 

“Coach, I felt like I was going to die!” One night the Little League team I was coaching needed just three outs to get a win. We had been ahead by a whole bunch of runs. But one of our stronger pitchers had run out of gas. The other team had pulled closer, and was within two batters of bringing the tying runner to the plate. 

The other coaches and I turned to one of our smallest players, Patrick, to all appearances the least likely of closers — but a kid we knew could throw strikes — and we knew the rest of the team would make plays behind him. 

As soon as we put him on the mound his mother came running to the dugout: “What do you think you’re doing!?” We said, “Patrick’s just who we need with the ball right now.” Sure enough, he made good enough pitches and the other kids made good enough plays. Against the last batter Patrick was breathing so hard, his lungs were the size of a blimp. Afterwards, one of our assistant coaches asked him, “So, Patrick, how were you feeling out there?” 

“Coach,” he said, “I felt like I was going to die.” 

Courage says: “Here I am, and I’m going to do my best, even if it feels like I’m going to die. I sure hope my coach knows what he’s doing — anyway, here goes.”  

Know what? Your Coach does know what he’s doing when he gives you the ball. So, you just throw it. 

Be blessed this day, 

Reggie Kidd+

To Stay Engaged - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Monday • 9/23/2024 •

Today’s is the sixth of ten devotionals that treat Paul’s last three letters — those to his ministry proteges, Timothy and Titus. Last week, in the first three devotionals on the so-called Pastoral Epistles, 1 & 2 Timothy and Titus, we saw how God overcomes our lack of faith, hope, and love. Following those three meditations are four devotionals in which we show how God builds into us basic building blocks of human flourishing: godliness and temperance (which we treated last Thursday and Friday), and justice and courage (which we treat today and tomorrow). Finally, in the last three devotionals of this special series on the Pastorals, we will see how Paul inspires us to faith, hope, and love. 

“Let justice roll down…!” There may be nothing more primal than the cry: “Let justice roll down!” There may be nothing more basic to the question of how people live together than that of “justice,” in other words, of making things right. From the playground (“Mommy, Johnny took my toy!) to the #MeToo movement. From caged children on our border to students with bloated college loans. 

So important was the question of justice that Greeks wondered which came first, the gods’ decrees, or justice? Did the gods’ decrees establish justice, or did preexisting justice dictate the gods’ decrees? Hebrew prophets railed against prioritizing ritual sacrifice over social and person-to-person justice. Early Christian theologian Athanasius opined that the fall of humankind made it virtually necessary that God formulate a plan of redemption, because it would have been unjust for Him to surrender His creation to the devil. 

Throughout his correspondence, the apostle Paul shows himself to be keenly attuned to matters of justice, both divine and human. In one of his most elevated paragraphs (Romans 3:21-26) he celebrates the setting forth of Christ as covering for sin (hilastērion), the place where God’s demand for justice is satisfied. Paul realizes, perhaps in a way that he never could have pre-Christ, that all the sacrifices offered from Moses to Christ — all the blood spilled out, all the whole burnt offerings lit up, all the scapegoats sent out — all these had simply amounted to a “passing over of former sins.” They had never satisfied God’s demand for justice against our sins. 

Upon meeting Christ, Paul realizes this: now that the penalty for sin has been paid in full, God can “square” us without merely shrugging his shoulders: “boys will be boys” … “to err is human, to forgive divine.” No, that Christ is hilastērion means a just God can declare guilty sinners to be just, and still look himself in the mirror.

Image: Adaptation, Pixabay

Accordingly, Paul laces his earlier writings with instructions on how believers may live lives-made-just, tinged with the mercy they had received at the cross of Christ. Christ-followers are to outdo one another in bestowing honor (Romans 12:10). Paul wants Gentiles to exchange the abundance of their wealth for the abundance of Jewish prayers and thanksgiving (2 Corinthians 8 and 9). He wants fellow congregants to work out legal disputes among themselves without resorting to the courts, even if it means voluntarily forgoing one’s rights (1 Corinthians 6). He wants husbands and wives to do the right thing by one another even in the bedroom (1 Corinthians 7). He expects believers, as citizens, to honor rulers and pay taxes (Romans 13). 

Several aspects of Paul’s approach to justice come into full relief in the Pastoral Epistles — which, I think, is fitting, since these are his legacy letters. 

God is just and justifier. God remains, for Paul, a “just Judge” (2 Timothy 4:8) who “justifies” his Son at the cross and in his resurrection (1 Timothy 3:16). Then God graciously saves and “justifies” us not by virtue of any “justice” or “justification” we have provided (Titus 3:5–7). 

Prayers for just rule. In Romans, Paul says to honor rulers and pay taxes. In the Pastorals, he goes further. He says to pray for authorities, so that we might live in a climate of peace (1 Timothy 2:1–7). 

Note: he does not say pray to authorities, but pray for them. Contrary to a mid-1st century B.C. inscription in Ephesus, Julius Caesar is not “God manifest and savior.” Jesus is! And contrary to the early 1st century A.D. proclamation from the same region, Caesar Augustus’s birthday is not the “beginning of good news (euangelion) for the world.”* Jesus’s birthday is the beginning of good news for the world! Paul does not have messianic expectations of governing authorities; thus, it’s not about praying to them. Nor does he encourage cynicism toward those authorities; thus, it’s praying for them, that they might create a climate for human flourishing and gospel-advancement.

Readiness to participate in civic life. In Titus 3:1–2, Paul goes even a step further. Here he urges, not mere passive obedience to authorities above us, but active engagement in the political process itself. In the context of civic responsibility, Paul calls upon us to be not only obedient, but also “ready for every good work.” Those are significant words because in Paul’s day, some people who were in a financial and social position to serve their cities were abdicating their (often quite costly!) public responsibilities and heading for the countryside. 

Paul says: stay engaged. He goes on to specify how to do so. The word he uses for “be obedient” is probably better rendered here as “be persuadable” (peitharchein) — it means to listen, and to be ready to be convinced! (Even if that’s easier to do when some people are at the microphone, and harder to do when others are at the microphone!). He says that in the public square we are “to speak evil of no one, to avoid quarreling, to be gentle, and to show every courtesy to everyone.” My goodness! What a difference we could make if that’s what the world expected of Christians seeking justice in the corridors of power! May it be so!

Be blessed this day. 

Reggie Kidd+

* For both of these inscriptions, see Horsley, New Documents 4. 

The Merciful Invasion of Jesus - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Friday • 9/20/2024 •

For these two weeks, we are taking a thematic approach to Paul’s Pastoral Epistles, his letters to Timothy and Titus. The first three days of this week, we looked at the way the apostle addresses our deficits in faith, hope, and love. Today we are in the second of four days in which we take up the way Christ teaches us godliness, temperance, justice, and courage. And on the last three days of this special series, we will think about what Paul describes as the positive aspects of faith, hope, and love in these letters. Today: temperance, self-control, or self-mastery. 

Image: Pixabay

Growing up, I had a temper problem. A bad one. I’d throw my bat and helmet if I struck out in baseball. I could fly into a rage if my clothes didn’t fit just right. I had a favorite red striped shirt — I could count on getting into an argument when I wore it to school. I’d quarrel with a teacher to the point of tears if I didn’t like a test grade. 

Flying off the handle felt so … so, freeing. But eventually I came to see that when I lost control, I was, well, out of control. I was the definition of our Eucharistic Prayer: “when we had fallen into sin and become subject to evil and death.” There was part of me that was broken and in need of healing. 

One of the fantastic features of the Pastoral Epistles is the way that Paul (perhaps under the influence of his traveling companion the Beloved Physician Luke) talks about “sound teaching” (see, for example, 1 Timothy 1:9; Titus 2:1). The Greek for “sound” is an adjectival participle from the verb hygiainein, which means to make healthy. In part, Jesus came into the world to heal us of the out-of-control appetites that cripple and enslave us. He came to deliver us from: 

• Gluttony (“Cretans are … lazy gluttons” — Titus 1:12) and Drunkenness (“not enslaved to much wine” — Titus 2:3; also 1 Timothy 3:3). Instead, Jesus enables receiving “with thanksgiving … and consecration by the word of God and prayer” (1 Timothy 4:3-4)

• Avarice — “love of money” (1 Timothy 3:3; 6:5-10). Instead, Jesus enables receiving good things in life for enjoyment (1 Timothy 6:17-19)

• Uncontrolled tongues (“not to be slanderers” — Titus 2:3) and Anger. Instead, Jesus enables us to be “not quick-tempered… or violent … but … master of oneself” (Titus 1:7,8) so that we can promote “the good” (Titus 2:3-4)

• Being a lover of self and of pleasure (2 Timothy 3:2,4). Instead, Jesus enables us to be a lover of “the good” and of God (2 Timothy 3:3,4) … and in the case of younger wives, of husbands and children (Titus 2:4)

It’s as though there’s a certain madness, a sickness of soul, from which we must be delivered. Recalling, I suspect, his own emotional prison of hatred for the first believers in Christ, Paul describes the situation of all of us in Titus 3:3: “For we ourselves were once foolish, disobedient, led astray, slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, despicable, hating one another.” 

The only possible remedy must come from on high. It does so, as Paul says in the following verses. As we pointed out two days ago, these are verses the lectionary appoints for reading on Christmas Day: “But when the kindness of God our Savior and His love for mankind appeared, He saved us, not on the basis of deeds which we have done in righteousness, but according to His mercy, by the washing of regeneration and renewing by the Holy Spirit, whom He poured out upon us richly through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that being justified by His grace we would be made heirs according to the hope of eternal life” (Titus 3:4–7 in the NASB, emphasis added). 

God’s response to our enslavement “to various passions and pleasures” is the sending of his Son. The “kindness” that appears is Christ; you’ll recall that the term Paul uses here (chrēstotēs) would have sounded to the Greek ear like the title “Christ.” 

And the term Paul uses for “love for mankind” is philanthrōpia, (“affection for humankind”). Titus and his congregation would have been reminded of the story of Prometheus. To amplify our discussion of two days ago: Prometheus had given fire to people so they could turn darkness to light. Zeus punished Prometheus for too much philanthrōpia, affection for humans. By contrast, Paul is saying, God sees us in the darkness of our foolishness, disobedience, straying enslavement to desire, malice, envy, despicability, and mutual hatred — and God’s heart is softened toward us. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound! God sends his own philanthrōpia in person to rescue us — not by our works, but by his mercy — to wash us clean by baptism, to make us new by rebirth in the Holy Spirit, to make us right in his sight, and to make us members of his family, indeed heirs of his estate. 

The picture that the Beloved Physician Luke (along with Mark) paints of the formerly shackled and demon-driven Gerasene sitting at Jesus’s feet and “in his right mind” (sōphronein) is a picture of us! Jesus’s healing gift for the Gerasene was self-mastery, self-control, temperance. Jesus comes to give us ourselves back again. 

For most of us (certainly for me), the merciful invasion of Jesus into our lives brings a nearly instant healing of some disordered affections and unruly passions: anger dissipates, wanderings lose their allure. At the same time, for most of us (and again, certainly for me), the merciful invasion of Jesus means the Holy Spirit works over the long haul to bathe and rebathe, pushing back lingering areas of darkness within, giving us gradual control over besetting sins, and working an ongoing renewal that we know he will see through to completion on “the Day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:7). May you and I find him faithful to the end. 

Be blessed this day, 

Reggie Kidd+

Eusebia ("Good Religion") - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Thursday • 9/19/2024 •

For these two weeks, we are taking a thematic approach to Paul’s Pastoral Epistles, his letters to Timothy and Titus. Over the last three days, we looked at the way the apostle addresses our deficits in faith, hope, and love. For the next four days, we will take up the way Christ teaches us godliness, temperance, justice, and courage. And on the last three days of this special series, we will think about what Paul describes as the positive aspects of faith, hope, and love in these letters. 

Today, let’s think about Paul’s distinctive—I’d call it even countercultural—use of the language of “religion.” In the face of modern blather about how to be a “Christian” without being “religious,” Paul tells us he wants us to be practitioners of what he calls—heads up!—“good religion,” the Greek for which is eusebeia, etymologically “good” + “religion.” Translators usually render the term “godliness” or some such — but I’m afraid that terminology is misleading. I think we should call it what it is for Paul: “good religion.” 

The normal word for “religion” is simply sebeia. Without going into detail here, I will point out that in his earlier writings, specifically in his letter to the Romans, Paul offers a devastating critique of mere religion, bad religion, or irreligiosity. He calls it asebeia (“irreligion” or “godlessness” — see Romans 1:18; 4:5; 5:6). In their irreligion people reveal the wrath of God. Amazingly, it is irreligious people that God declares righteous, and he does so because it is for irreligious people that Christ died!

Now, in his last writings, as he prepares his trusted proteges to carry ministry into the next generation, Paul works to redeem the language of “religion.” To the term sebeia Paul adds the prefix eu-, which means “good.” For instance, aggelion is “message,” whereas euaggelion is “good message,” which is why we translate that term as “good news” or “gospel.” Paul’s not commending mere “religion.” He’s promoting “good religion” — and he’s doing so unapologetically and boldly — because for him, to know Christ is to have come into “good religion.” 

Image: Adapted from "the Sizzling Pepper Steak" by dbgg1979 is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Here’s the New English Bible’s rendering of a few phrases in which Paul speaks of eusebeia — in each case, you should mentally supply “good” in front of the boldface “religion”: “… that we may lead a tranquil and quiet life, free to practise our (good) religion with dignity … And great beyond all question is the mystery of our (good) religion: He was manifested in flesh, vindicated in spirit … Keep yourself in training for the practice of (good) religion; for while the training of the body brings limited benefit, the benefits of (good) religion are without limit…” — 1 Timothy 2:2; 3:16; 4:7–8. 

Good Religion is Christ-Religion. Good religion, in the first place, is Christ Jesus, fully human and fully divine. In Ephesus, Paul urges Timothy to promote Jesus as “the mystery of our ‘good religion.’” A fully human mediator between God and humans (1 Timothy 2:1–7; 3:16), Jesus Christ contrasts with Ephesus’s patron deity, a rock that fell from the sky. In Crete, Paul urges Titus to promote Jesus as “God’s grace … kindness and ‘man-lovingness’” (Titus 2:11–14;3:4–8). A fully divine savior, Jesus Christ teaches us to live “religiously well” (eusebōs, an adverb, Titus 2:12), thereby putting the lie to Crete’s romantic myths about humans-who-would-ascend-to-deity.*

In two stunning strokes of pastoral acumen—one in 1 Timothy and one in Titus—Paul slays the twin beasts of pride and sloth. “Good religion’s” fully human Mediator discourages the slothful anti-humanism that Paul detects in Ephesus. “Good religion’s” fully divine Savior discourages the pretentious narcissism that Paul detects at Crete. 

Good Religion Has Both Form and Content. One of the reasons people avoid the language of religion is that they associate it either with dry, empty formalism or with high-energy, but equally empty entertainment. Maybe they grew up with a lifeless liturgy, or maybe they grew up with smoke machines that covered manipulative messaging. Or maybe they grew up pointedly avoiding both! 

Like a prophet of old, Paul denounces “the outward form of ‘good religion’” minus its power (2 Timothy 3:5). Liturgy that does not transform lives is not “good religion.” Worship-tainment that is all sizzle-and-no-steak is not “good religion” either. 

“Good religion” offers “thanksgiving,” for which Paul uses the term eucharistia. In the ancient church, “thanksgiving” was the universal term for Communion or the Lord’s Supper. Paul denounces those who “forbid marriage and abstain from certain foods, which God created to be received with thanksgiving (meta eucharistias) by those who believe and know the truth. For everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected, provided it is received with thanksgiving, for it is sanctified by God’s word and by prayer” (1 Timothy 4:3b–5). In its Eucharist (Thanksgiving with a capital “T”), the church gives thanks for the Body and the Blood. Because by the offering of his own Body and Blood, Jesus has consecrated and blessed all of life, we receive (and rightly use!) all the good things of this life with thanksgiving (lower case “t”). In Paul’s vision of “good religion” there’s no break between the form of worship and the content of life. 

Good Religion Loves People. Another reason people avoid the language of religion is that they see religious people as phonies. “I don’t go to church because it’s full of hypocrites!” Truth is: the greatest saints harbor dark places of duplicity and deceit. That’s why they come to Christ in the first place. And Christ commits himself to the long and arduous process of making them over into something else: bearers of his own likeness. 

Paul is as impatient with pretend religion as are the severest of critics. He excoriates those who make a show of religiosity but refuse to take care of widows in their own family. Paul accuses them of failing to practice a fundamental duty of “good religion. “If a widow has children or grandchildren,” he says, “they should first learn their religious duty (their eusebeia) to their own family and make some repayment to their parents; for this is pleasing in God’s sight. … And whoever does not provide for relatives, and especially for family members, has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever” (1 Timothy 5:4,8). Paul is just like his Master, Jesus, who denounces those who hypocritically refuse relief to their parents because they are too busy fulfilling “religious” requirements (Mark 7:11). “Good religion” cares for people. 

Good Religion Practices Disciplines of Personal Piety. Spiritual self-care is “good religion.” Paul is concerned that Timothy’s youth, his ill-health, and his susceptibility to being bullied by rivals in Ephesus will prevent him from providing the leadership the congregation needs. And so, Paul counsels him to practices of personal piety: “Train yourself in “good religion” (eusebia), for while bodily training (gymnasia, that is, good things for your body through physical exercise) is of some good, “good religion” is of value in every way as it holds promise for the present life and also for the life to come” (1 Timothy 4:7b–8). 

Paul lays out the elements of “good religion” in the following verses. Those elements are living a life that is exemplary in speech and conduct, reading scripture, teaching, not neglecting the gifts which the Lord has given you …practice these duties,” he says, “devote yourself to them so that all may see your progress. Take heed to yourself and to your teaching. Hold to that, for by doing so you will save both yourself and your hearers” (see 1 Timothy 4:11–16). 

The way we keep ourselves spiritually alive and healthy is by practicing these disciplines. By immersing ourselves in God’s story through reading, meditation, prayer, and worship, we insulate ourselves from false choices (justice versus piety, faith versus works, forgiveness versus transformation). Spiritual self-care is “good religion.” 

Paul commends to us eusebeia, “good religion.” Eusebeia is “Christ-religion.” It consists of both form and content. It cares for people. And it practices spiritual disciplines. I commend it to you as well. 

Be blessed this day, 

Reggie Kidd+

* I explore Paul’s contrasting approaches to Christology in Ephesus and Crete in my essay, “Redeeming the ‘R-Word”: Paul against and for Religion,” in Justin Holcomb and Glenn Lucke, For the World: Essays in Honor of Richard L. Pratt, Jr. (P&R, 2014). 

Our Affections Change - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Wednesday • 9/18/2024 •

For these two weeks, we are taking a thematic approach to Paul’s Pastoral Epistles, his letters to Timothy and Titus. First, we are looking at the way the apostle addresses our deficits in faith, hope, and love. Second, we will take up the way Christ teaches us godliness, temperance, justice, and courage. Finally, we will think about what Paul describes as the positive aspects of faith, hope, and love in these letters.

Flawed Love in the Pastorals

One of the reasons Paul thinks it is important that we maintain a posture of “hope,” refusing to delude ourselves into thinking that we have arrived in the final state of blessedness, is that in this “not yet” period our “loves” can become confused. In the paragraph that begins at 2 Timothy 3:1, Paul characterizes his (and by extension our) times as “the last days.” In these “last days”—the final period of apocalyptic struggle (see, for example, Ephesians 6:12’s “we battle against principalities and powers”)—, Paul sees people losing sight of what it is that they should love: “For people will become lovers of self, lovers of money … not-lovers-of-good … lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God” (2 Timothy 3:2–4, my translation). 

Our loves—our affections, our appetites, our inclinations—make us what we are. “What the heart loves, the mind justifies, and the will chooses,” offers contemporary theologian Ashley Null, summarizing the theological heart of the architect of the English Reformation, Thomas Cranmer. Read that again: “What the heart loves, the mind justifies, and the will chooses.” Or as philosopher J. K. A. Smith puts it, himself crystallizing a basic insight of Augustine of Hippo, “You are what you love.” 

When we have settled in and made this world our home, our affections will be set here as well. But those loves—self, money, pleasure—they are too small. 

Image: Peter Paul Rubens , Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Repaired Love in the Pastorals

God counters with big love. Paul says that he found love “in Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 1:14; 2 Timothy 1:13). He explains what he means by that in Titus 3:4, a passage rightly read on Christmas Day in lectionary-churches: “But when the kindness (hē chrēstotēs) and lovingkindness (hē philanthrōpia, lit., “man-lovingness”) of God appeared, he saved us….” The lectionary’s instinct to make this a Christmas Day reading is sound. Paul’s term for “kindness” (chrēstotēs) would have sounded something like “Christ-ness.”* And his term for “lovingkindness,” is the Greek word from which we get the English “philanthropy.” Jesus Christ is the embodiment of God’s love for and his beneficent bearing toward humans.

Paul’s language here is unique and extraordinary. This is the only time Paul calls Jesus God’s philanthropia, literally “love for humanity,” “love for mankind.” What is worth noting, I think, is that the normal word for “love” in the New Testament is not this one. What Paul says he finds in Christ Jesus in 1 and 2 Timothy is agapē. In John’s gospel and in his letters, what moves God so much that he sends his son is agapē (John 3:16; 1 John 4:9–10). The lexicons depict agape as a deep, considered, volitional kind of love. But the stem that communicates the “love” part of philanthrōpia is the simpler phil-. This term the lexicons describe as a lesser kind of love, more like “friendship-love,” more like “fondness” and “affection.” It’s more tender, less volitional, closer to natural affection. And sometimes, less is more. As my friend Steve Brown of Key Life Network (https://www.keylife.org/) likes to say: “God doesn’t just love you. He is rather fond of you, and likes having you around.” Perhaps that’s why this stem underlies Paul’s critique of wayward loves in 2 Timothy 3—the terms there connote something more like “fondness of self,” “an appetite for money,” “lack of caring about the good,” “a taste more for pleasure than for God.” 

Remarkably, to my mind, God’s counter to the waywardness of our affections and appetites is his own fondness of the human race, his philanthrōpia. So he sent his Son to save us. The hero of Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound is tied to a rock on the side of a mountain, with a bird eating at his guts. Why? Zeus is mad at him because Prometheus brought fire to humans, showing too much philanthrōpia—too much affection for the likes of you and me. 

The Christian story is different: God’s amazing grace shows up in a stable in Palestine. And rather than a narcissistic deity sending a bird of prey after our Friend from heaven, the God of grace sends the dove of the Holy Spirit to wash, to regenerate, and to renew us (Titus 3:5). As a result, our affections change, our loves become obedient rather than transgressive—we become lovers of God (2 Timothy 3:4), lovers of strangers (Titus 1:8; 1 Timothy 3:2), lovers of goodness (Titus 1:8), lovers of family members (Titus 2:4). 

In these first three devotionals on the Pastoral Epistles, we have seen how our lack of faith gets overridden; how our misplaced hopes get redirected; and how our love for wrong things is compensated for by God’s love for us. 

In the next four devotionals, we will see how Paul understands God’s grace imparting a new life of godliness, justice, self-control, and courage. First, in tomorrow’s devotional, we will look at godliness, the relationship between faith and truth. 

Be blessed this day, 

Reggie Kidd+

* A word play that Paul exploits in his letter to Philemon, where he refers to Onesimus (whose name comes from a Greek word that means “useful”) as achrēstos (a word meaning “useless” that would have sounded like “Christ-less”) prior to coming to know Christ, but as euchrēstos (a word meaning “useful” that would have sounded like “well-Christ-ed”) after coming to know Christ. 

The One Certain Hope - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Tuesday • 9/17/2024 •

For these two weeks, we are taking a thematic approach to Paul’s Pastoral Epistles, his letters to Timothy and Titus. First, we are looking at the way the apostle addresses our deficits in faith, hope, and love. Second, we will take up the way Christ teaches us godliness, temperance, justice, and courage. Finally, we will think about what Paul describes as the positive aspects of faith, hope, and love in these letters.

Today, Paul addresses flawed “hope.” One way to think about his subject is: “Hope: what it isn’t.” 

My black Labrador retriever, Lipton (no longer with us), always reminded me that we are creatures of hope. Every morning was Christmas morning for Lipton! He woke up each morning thinking that day was going to be the greatest day—the greatest breakfast, the greatest walk, the greatest play session, the greatest car ride to the greatest destination! Lipton was inspiring for me—always keeping before me the way that hope motivates vibrant living. 

The Christian faith is nothing if it is not a life of great expectations. As Luke describes it in his gospel: that first Christmas morning infused life with anticipation of profoundly good things: “Glory to God in the highest, and peace to his people on earth!” 

Flawed hope. Paul is concerned that some Christians in Ephesus where Timothy is ministering have gotten hope wrong, however. 

Image: "It arrives!" by thetorpedodog is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Some of them are wealthy and are tempted to place their hopes in their riches. As Paul advises in 1 Timothy 6:17, “As for those who in the present age are rich, command them not to be haughty or to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches but rather on God, who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment.” In Luke’s gospel (and remember that Luke and Paul were traveling companions—they must have had lots of time to compare notes), Jesus warns about building bigger barns (Luke 12). In contemporary terms, maybe “building barns” means building an investment portfolio or living from one vacation to another. Maybe it’s the addiction of buying one thing after another, always anticipating a delivery from Amazon. It is all, as Paul sagely observes, so uncertain. A matter of misplaced hope. 

Some people in Ephesus, perhaps the same people, are declaring the general resurrection to be a past event. Paul denounces certain teachers “who have swerved from the truth, saying resurrection has already occurred” (2 Timothy 2:18). In the next generation, the apocryphal Acts of Thecla riffs on this theme, positing that “resurrection” takes place in having children — which is ironic, because in Paul’s day, the temptation was to denounce marriage. Paul was dealing with people who denied resurrection so they could have their “best life now.” Unencumbered by children, unencumbered by domestic obligations. Free, like Demas, to “love this age” (2 Timothy 4:10). 

It’s a problem Paul had countered earlier in his ministry with the Corinthians. Somehow the Corinthians had persuaded themselves that being in God’s “new creation” meant there was no resurrection still ahead, and so they also were demanding their “best life now.” They were suing each other, competing to show the superiority of their spiritual gifts, bragging about their spiritual mentors, letting the “haves” of the congregation display their dominance over the “have nots” at the “Lord’s Supper.” 

Fixed hope. In the very first sentence of his first letter to Timothy, Paul announces his intention to recalibrate Ephesians’ hopes, calling Christ Jesus: “our hope” (1 Timothy 1:1), a unique title in the New Testament. In Colossians 1:27, Paul uses similar phraseology: “Christ in (or among) you, the hope of glory.” But here in 1 Timothy it’s a straightforward title: our hope. It’s the opening of an inclusio he will close at the end the letter, with his warning about hope “in the uncertainty of riches.” Throughout 1 Timothy, Paul offers Christ himself as the one certain hope.

For Paul, not to have a resurrection to look forward to is not to have Christ. Plain and simple. Christ himself is our hope, says Paul.  

By referring to Christ Jesus as “our hope,” Paul mirrors the way the Greek translation of the Old Testament calls the Lord (Yahweh) his people’s hope (e.g., Jeremiah 17:13). Paul can do so because he presupposes Christ’s deity. This allusion to Christ’s deity is especially attention-grabbing at the beginning of this letter, because, as we shall see, it is Christ’s humanity (“one mediator between God and humankind, Christ Jesus, himself human”) that Paul feels he needs to stress to the Ephesians. More about that in next Wednesday’s devotional. But for now, Paul’s point is that Christ gives us so much more to hope for than anything or anyone else. All other hopes besides Christ himself are lesser hopes. 

Second, Paul wishes to insert an element of futurity into Christian existence. Hope that is seen is not hope, he says elsewhere (Romans 8:24). Hope hopes for what is not yet here. What the your-best-life-now Christians in Ephesus need to see is that living heaven’s life on earth now means patience, it means suffering, it means endurance, it means waiting, it means not insisting on your own way. Hope takes the long view in the now, gladly and patiently, if expectantly. 

So, yes, my black Lab Lipton was right. Every day is Christmas, because every day is filled with the hope of finding my “best life now” in the power of Jesus’s resurrection and the fellowship of his sufferings. 

Be blessed this day,

Reggie Kidd+

Including a Vicarious Faith - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Monday • 9/16/2024 •

Welcome to Daily Office Devotions. I’m Reggie Kidd, and every Monday through Friday, I offer devotional observations on some portion of that day’s readings for Morning Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer. Thanks so much for joining me this Monday following the 14th Sunday after Pentecost. Because of my travel schedule, for the next two weeks we are taking a detour in our devotionals

These next ten devotionals will treat Paul’s last three letters — those to his ministry proteges, Timothy and Titus. First, in three devotionals on the so-called Pastoral Epistles, 1 & 2 Timothy and Titus, we will see how God overcomes our lack of faith, hope, and love. Then, in the next four devotionals on the Pastorals, we will see how God implants in us basic ingredients of human flourishing: godliness, temperance, justice, and courage. Finally, in the last three devotionals of this special series on the Pastorals, we will see how Paul inspires us to faith, hope, and love. 

Paul shows us in the letters to Timothy and Titus how Christ compensates for our lack of faith. Paul wants us to know that Jesus meets us in our lack of faith. That’s what Jesus did for Paul. It’s what he does for us. It puts Paul in awe of God’s mercy. It puts me there too. 

Here toward the end of his ministry, Paul has reason to look back on his life and marvel at the way God set aside Paul’s flawed faith — his false or misguided faith — through Christ’s faith or faithfulness. In fact, as we will see, Paul claims that his life prior to his encounter with Christ had been animated by “lack of faith,” or in Greek apistia. In 1 Timothy 1:13, Paul says that it had been out of a lack of faith—or in unbelief—that he had persecuted Christ’s church. 

Flawed faith. In that self-reflective mood Paul contemplates the horrible prospect of other people losing their faith or living out of unbelief like his own. In striking metaphors and figures of speech, he warns Timothy about people:

• shipwrecking their lives by rejecting the faith (1 Timothy 1:12); 

• abandoning the faith (1 Timothy 5:12); 

• contradicting the faith by their lives (1 Timothy 5:8); 

• changing the teaching to something “other” than what it is out of conceit, showing themselves to be “pompous ignoramuses” (REB, tetuphōtai mēden epistamenos) who then promote envy, blasphemy, and base motives (1 Timothy 6:4); 

• allowing greed to make them wander away from the faith and “spik[ing] themselves on many a painful thorn” (REB, 1 Timothy 6:10); 

• reducing the truth of the faith to faux-knowledge and “empty and irreligious chatter” (REB), and thus straying from the faith (1 Timothy 6:21). 

Paul is so attuned to those dangers because these are the terms in which he views his own life prior to that fateful trip to Damascus in which Jesus revealed himself to him. That previous life had been one of a passionate championing of the faith of his ancestors, of defending the cause of his people, of protecting the honor of Israel’s God. But Paul had come to see all of it as an exercise in “unfaith” (apistia). 

“I used to blaspheme the name of Christ,” he asserts. “In my insolence, I persecuted his people. But God had mercy on me because I did it in ignorance and unbelief (apistia — 1 Timothy 1:13 NLT). 

In this verse, Paul names himself a blasphemer, because he mocked God’s name — by rejecting Jesus, he got God’s story entirely wrong. Paul labels himself a persecutor, because, in the name of God himself, he attacked the people God resided among, championed, and commissioned to represent him. Paul accuses himself of being excessively proud (hubristēs, a concept that weighs heavily in Greek tragedy).

In his old life, Paul had been doing his very best—but his very best was entirely wrong. That’s my biggest fear in life—mounting (metaphorically) a cool motorcycle, and racing off … in the wrong direction … right over a cliff. Paul found that his zealous, loyal service to God was its opposite: misguided, self-centered faithlessness. 

Image: Pixabay

Though less dramatically so, that was my experience too. Though raised by skeptical public educators, I was nonetheless raised in church. And I thought I had it figured out: if there was a God, that God was a projection of our best selves (à la Eric Fromm’s Psychoanalysis and Religion). If there was such a thing as justification, it was by virtue of attaining the best self-knowledge possible (à la James Michener’s autobiographical The Fires of Spring). If there was such a thing as sanctification unto glorification (as Western theologians put it), or such a thing as “divinization” (as Eastern theologians put it), it was by molding ourselves into our best selves (à la Nikos Kazantzakis’s The Last Temptation of Christ). 

Not only that, after I became a Christian, I flirted with theological ideas and ethical practices as dangerous as Paul warned Timothy about.

Fixed faith. But what rescued my wrong belief was exactly what rescued Paul. And, like Paul, I found it was a Who that rescued and redirected my faith. In 1 and 2 Timothy, Pauls says that the faith he could not find within himself, he found “in Christ.” He found that while he couldn’t believe rightly for himself, Another believed for him. “The grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 1:14). Again, in 2 Timothy 1:13, Paul says that the faith and love he couldn’t find in himself, he found “in Christ Jesus.” 

Christ’s vicarious life and death for sinners included a vicarious faith. When Paul couldn’t correctly confess the faith, Christ had confessed it for him: “…Christ Jesus … in his testimony before Pontius Pilate made the good confession” (1 Timothy 6:13). It was that confession that enabled Paul and Timothy, and that enables the rest of us, to make a good confession (1 Timothy 6:12). Christ’s prayer for Peter got Peter through his dark night of doubt and denial (“I have prayed for you that your own faith may not fail, and you, when once you have turned back, strengthen your brothers” — Luke 22:31). In all of us, Christ’s same prayer imparts and sustains faith. Praise be. 

Be blessed this day. 

Reggie Kidd+

Tenderness: Ours, and God's - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Friday • 9/13/2024 •

Friday of Proper 18

This morning’s Scriptures are: Psalm 40; Psalm 54; Acts 15:12-21; John 11:30-44

Job 42 (a departure from the Book of Common Prayer)

This morning’s Canticles are: following the OT reading, Canticle 10 (“The Second Song of Isaiah,” Isaiah 55:6-11; BCP, p. 86); following the Epistle reading, Canticle 18 (“A Song to the Lamb,” Revelation 4:11; 5:9-10, 13, BCP, p. 93)

As I noted on Monday, we are jumping ahead in our Old Testament readings to the last chapters of the Book of Job, today to Job 42.

Job is restored. Despite appearances, the happiest part of the happy ending of the Book of Job is not the restoration of the sufferer’s fortunes (42:10-17). I don’t mean to minimize Job’s receiving “twice as much as he had before” (42:10). However, the real climax of the story lies in Job’s words to the Lord, “But now my eyes see you” (42:5b), and in the Lord’s words to Eliphaz, “And my servant Job shall pray for you” (42:8b). 

Image: William Blake , Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

“But now my eyes see you.” In his striving for an audience with God his “tormentor,” Job had dared to hope that after his death he might “see” God, and in him see his Advocate and Friend (19:25-27). Yahweh has done so much more than that. Yahweh has pulled back the curtain between heaven and earth, if only to show Job his own limitedness and Yahweh’s incomprehensibility. In doing so, God has permitted Job to see as much of Yahweh’s own self as a human can stand. Job has taken his place alongside Abraham, Moses, and Isaiah as those who have “seen” the invisible, eternal, and almighty God. And for Job, that is more than sufficient. As Peter Kreeft puts it: “Here God answers Job’s deepest heart quest: to see God face to face; to see Truth, not truths; to meet Truth, not just to know it” (Kreeft, Three Philosophies, p. 92). 

“And my servant Job shall pray for you.” Throughout the Book of Job, his friends have mouthed many abstract truths about God. But the only person who has spoken directly to God is Job. Even if his thoughts have been confused, he has known to Whom to go with his confusion. God’s verdict is that Job alone has spoken truthfully. His friends, by contrast, have lobbed mortars of “truths” (we might say that they have fired off “Bible bullets”)—but they have not spoken truthfully. 

So, now, the second thing that makes for a happy ending to the book is that Yahweh calls upon Job to pray for his friends. Ministry flows out of a real relationship with the Living God, not out of a lot of head knowledge about the idea of God. Here is a powerful anticipation of the Apostle Paul’s discovery that it is the consoled who can console: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all consolation, who consoles us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to console those who are in any affliction with the consolation with which we ourselves are consoled by God” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4). 

Jesus weeps. The Job story’s tenderness towards the friends is its own indication that there’s more to the God of Job than the high and mighty Tester of souls, spinner-outer of the stars, and manufacturer of Behemoth and Leviathan. That is what makes today’s account of Jesus at the tomb of his friend Lazarus so wonderful. God-in-flesh has tears sliding down his cheeks as he beholds the grief of Lazarus’s circle of friends and family. His heart is breaking for them, but Jesus feels something stronger as well (John 11:35). God-in-flesh shudders within himself in rage at what death does to God’s image-bearers. (Here please note that the NRSV is entirely too tame, twice offering “he was greatly disturbed in spirit” when the Greek in this passage really denotes rage! — John 11:33,38). And God-in-flesh has come to do something about it. He will take it all into himself when he is lifted up on his Cross. In advance of that, he stands with weeping friends and makes their sorrow his. He will not let them weep alone. He will cry with them. 

What we learn from John 11 is that the God who weeps at the sadness of his friends, stays alongside each of us through burials, sicknesses, bouts of depression, spiritual turmoil, broken relationships, seasons of apathy or aloneness, sorrow at global unrest (as the date September 11 has reminded us ever since that blue-sky Tuesday morning in 2001)—and he weeps with us. He sighs as you sigh, shudders as you shudder, and matches you tear for tear. As Jesus wept on the way to the tomb of his friend, people exclaimed, “See how he loved him!” So Jesus loves you now. And just as he called then, “Lazarus, come out!” so will he do for you. 

Be blessed this day,

Reggie Kidd+

Right On Time - Daily Devotions with the Dean

Thursday • 9/12/2024 •

Thursday of Proper 18

This morning’s Scriptures are: Psalm 50; Acts 15:1-11; John 11:17-29

Job 41 (a departure from the Book of Common Prayer)

This morning’s Canticles are: following the OT reading, Canticle 8 (“The Song of Moses,” Exodus 15, BCP, p. 85); following the Epistle reading, Canticle 19 (“The Song of the Redeemed,” Revelation 15:3-4, BCP, p. 94)

Lessons on humility from Behemoth and Leviathan. As we saw yesterday, Yahweh is reducing Job to the realization that he does not have the capacity to defeat the powerful and the proud: “Look on all who are proud, and bring them low; tread down the wicked where they stand. … Then I will also acknowledge to you that your own right hand can give you victory” (Job 40:11-12). As final proof of Job’s incapacity, Yahweh brings forth two untamable monsters, Behemoth and Leviathan. 

Behemoth (literally, “Beasts”) is a huge vegetarian beast that lives in the marshes (40:15,21). It is powerful (“its limbs like bars of iron” … “if the river is turbulent, it is not frightened”), if not especially dangerous. Who could tame it (“can one … pierce its nose with a snare”)? Who would want to tame it? A strong strand of scholars’ commentary on Job suggests that the prototype for Behemoth is the hippopotamus. If so, the poetic imagery expands its proportions: “It makes its tail stiff like a cedar … It is the first of the great acts of God” (Job 40:19). The modern reader—well, this one, at least—can almost not think of a huge dinosaur like the brontosaurus or the stegosaurus. The Behemoth is an ancient curiosity of God’s inventiveness—its “why” and “wherefore” are beyond Job’s comprehension. 

Leviathan, the main topic of Job 41, appears in other biblical passages as a terrifying and dangerous sea dragon (Psalm 104:26; Isaiah 27:1; Psalm 74:13-14—see also Job 3:8; 7:12). It’s curious to me that Peter Kreeft credits J. R. R. Tolkien with translating the Book of Job for the Jerusalem Bible, when Tolkien himself says that the only translation he managed for that project was Jonah (Peter Kreeft Three Philosophies of Life, p. 62; Humphrey Carpenter, The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, p. 378). Still, the description of Leviathan in Job looks so much like Tolkien’s dragon Smaug in The Hobbit that it’s not difficult for me to imagine Tolkien finding inspiration from this text in Job: 

Can you fill its skin with harpoons? …
No one is so fierce as to dare to stir it up. …
Who can penetrate its double coat of mail? …
Its back is made of shields in rows, shut up closely as with a seal. 
Its sneezes flash forth light …
From its mouth go flaming torches; sparks of fire leap out.
Out of its nostrils comes smoke, as from a boiling pot and burning rushes.
Its breath kindles coals, and a flame comes out of its mouth.
Its heart is as hard as stone…
When it raises itself up the gods are afraid…
Though the sword reaches it, it does not avail,
nor does the spear, the dart, or the javelin….
The arrow cannot make it flee…
it laughs at the rattle of javelins. …
On earth it has no equal, a creature without fear.  

Many commentators find the prototype of Leviathan in the crocodile—but if so, the poetic imagery leaves that point of departure in the dust. Here is a monstrously terrifying creature. Tellingly, for the lesson in humility that Yahweh is impressing upon Job, the description concludes: “It surveys everything that is lofty; it is king over all that are proud” (Job 41:34). 

Image: "Time" by John-Morgan is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

“Four days late…” There is only One who is powerful enough to conquer Leviathan, the deadly dragon. There is only One who is ancient enough to comprehend Behemoth, God’s oddity. That is the One who, in John’s Gospel, comes for Lazarus—the One who comes, as the gospel song by Karen Peck and New River says, “Four Days Late … and Right on Time.” (songwriters: Aaron and Roberta Wilburn):

The news came to Jesus: “Please, come fast,
Lazarus is sick and without Your help he will not last.”
Mary and Martha watched their brother die.
They waited for Jesus, He did not come,
And they wondered why.

The deathwatch was over, buried four days.
Somebody said, “He’ll soon be here, the Lord’s on His way.”
Martha ran to Him and then she cried,
“Lord, if you had been here, You could have healed him.
He’d still be alive…

“But You’re four days late and all hope is gone.
Lord, we don’t understand why You’ve waited so long.”
But His way is God’s way, not yours or mine.
And isn’t it great, when He’s four days late
He’s still on time.

Jesus said, “Martha, show me the grave.”
But she said, “Lord, You don’t understand,
He’s been there four days.”
The gravestone was rolled back, then Jesus cried,
“Lazarus come forth!” Then somebody said,
“He’s alive, he’s alive!”

You may be fighting a battle of fear.
You’ve cried to the Lord, “I need You now.”
But He has not appeared.
Friend don’t be discouraged,
‘Cause He’s still the same.

He’ll soon be here, He’ll roll back the stone,
And He’ll call out your name

When He’s four days late and all hope is gone,
Lord, we don’t understand why You’ve waited so long.
But His way is God’s way, not yours or mine.
And isn’t it great, when He’s four days late,
He’s still on time.
God, it’s great, when He’s four days late
He’s still on time …

“If you had been here…” An underappreciated, but wonderful, part of the story of the raising of Lazarus is contained in our reading today in John 11. As Jesus arrives in Bethany, Martha (sister of Lazarus) comes to meet him. Yes, this is the whining, complaining Martha of Luke’s gospel (“Jesus, can’t you get my sister Mary to help me? I’m doing all the work here all by myself.”) In our reading today, Martha says to Jesus, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died” (verse 21). At first glance, this looks like another complaint from the familiar fault-finding Martha we know from Luke. But there’s something different here. Martha goes on to express a belief that Jesus can bring Lazarus back to life. She is hesitant to dare to ask outright for that miracle. She cautiously hints instead: “But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” (v. 22)

“Yes, Lord, I believe…” When Jesus tells her Lazarus will rise again, she’s not exactly sure what he’s telling her. It’s as if she can’t presume to hope for Lazarus’s death to be reversed. She hedges: “I know he will rise again at the resurrection.” And that’s when Jesus drops another of the “I AM” statements we find in the book of John. This one’s a bombshell: “I am the resurrection.” Those who believe in him, though they will die, they will live, Jesus says. He asks Martha if she believes this. And what we get from Martha is the clearest, most emphatic recognition of Jesus by anyone in the entire book of John: “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” To grasp the import of this statement from Martha, we only have to compare it to Peter’s declaration in Matthew 16, where Peter says, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven” (Matthew 16:16-17). 

Martha recognizes Jesus as God even when a miracle seems far-fetched. Job never loses trust in God even when his own restoration seems unrealistic. What gifts these stories of faith are for us!  Do we trust that he will always be “on time” for us? I hope we all do.

Be blessed this day, 

Reggie Kidd+