One of things I least expected when I published Jesus and John Wayne was the frequency with which I’ve been asked to speak to my personal religious convictions. Often the requests come from places of genuine curiosity. (Yes, I’m a Calvinist. IKR?) Sometimes, they are thinly veiled attempts to gather ammunition to use to discredit my scholarship. (My views on inerrancy, for example, or on theories of atonement, or, most recently, suggestions that I’m promoting “trans ideology,” whatever that might be.)
I don’t mind answering these questions, even when the intention is to discredit me. In the classroom, I long ago cultivated a habit of answering questions openly and honestly. Still, I’ve generally found myself somewhat reticent to lead with personal theological convictions, primarily because I see my role in public primarily as that of a historian, albeit one who happens to be Christian. When it comes to discussing the finer points of theology, Calvinist or otherwise, there are many people more qualified than I. Yet given my work on contemporary American Christianity, I’m frequently drawn into theological conversations, and so I try to be honest about what I believe, what I don’t know, and where I’m coming from.
All of this is just a long preamble to say that this post is going to be a little more religious than most.
For that, blame my pastor.
I attend Church of the Servant, a Christian Reformed Church in Grand Rapids, MI, just down the road from where I live. My family joined this congregation only around a year before the pandemic hit, so I still feel a bit like a newcomer. Before that, we had been members of a multi-racial, bilingual congregation that ultimately proved unable to survive deep-seated divisions. We’d attended there for more than a decade and our kids were baptized there, so the sense of loss was acute as we struck out to find a new church home.
We were drawn to this church because of its powerful preaching, liturgical worship, and its two services—a standard English and a basic English service. The basic English service draws many recent immigrants and refugees, many of whom live in the apartment complexes in our neighborhood. One of our pastors, Rev. Karen Campbell, is from Northern Ireland, and she has also served for several years in Kenya. Our other pastor, Rev. Andrew Mead, is from a small town in Iowa ten miles from my hometown of Sioux Center. Given my line of work, it has been a balm to attend a church that is deeply scriptural, confessional, grace-filled, and invitational.
Because as you may have observed, or experienced personally, it can be rough out there.
This past week I’ve continued to watch friends and fellow Christian scholars get publicly attacked and treated with contempt by their fellow Christians. Here in Grand Rapids, we are still reeling from the police killing of Patrick Lyoya. My own university is divided over what it means to do justice and love kindness with respect to our LGBTQ students, faculty, and staff. Nationally, we’re witnessing the erosion of democratic norms and practices with alarming speed. Frankly, I don’t see how any of this ends well.
In the midst of all of this, this past Sunday’s sermon resonated powerfully. For the Gospel reading we read the account in Acts 5 where Peter and the apostles were called before the Sanhedrin for disobeying the explicit command not to teach about Christ. In response, Peter defiantly told the high priest that “We must obey God rather than any human authority.” There, in front of the Sanhedrin, Peter again confessed Christ, enraging the religious leaders such that they wanted to kill the apostles. One member, however, urged restraint: “I tell you, keep away from these men and let them alone; because if this plan or this undertaking is of human origin, it will fail; but if it is of God, you will not be able to overthrow them—in that case you may even be found fighting against God!”
Reflecting on Peter’s bold claim that “We must obey God rather than human authority,” Rev. Campbell reminded us that “obedience in the Christian life does not guarantee earthly success.” We are Easter people, and like Mary we bear witness to the resurrection, but in this story we see that the old order has not passed away. We see instead the juxtaposition between the new resurrection order of freedom, and the old order of power, authority, and control. As Rev. Campbell put it, “The Sanhedrin are strenuously struggling to control the news cycle—trying to defend orthodoxy and cancel out Christ.”
While the Sanhedrin were concerned with protecting the old order—with defending what they held to be true—Peter doesn’t even bother to defend himself. Instead, he confesses Christ. The religious leaders were responding as though this new movement threatened their very existence, but Peter offered them a gift of transformation. Peter had moved from simply reciting confessions to confessing Christ.
There is a lesson here for those of us who find ourselves deeply disillusioned by systems of injustice, a way to find joy even at the darkest place. Even at the funeral of Patrick Lyoya. Jesus’ disciples were beaten and dishonored, but rejoiced in a dishonor that binds them more tightly to Christ.
There is more to the sermon. More on Patrick Lyoya, words from Willie Jennings, and a remarkable story from the church in Zaire. I’d recommend taking 20 minutes to listen to the sermon in its entirety:
And in the end, there is a word of strength for the weary: “Now is not the time to give up.” Now is the time to be both confessional and confessing. The time for rejoicing in the darkness, and for liberation.
Also this week…
I had the pleasure of talking with Wajahat Ali and Danielle Moodie on democracy-ish.
I’m very much looking forward to attending Calvin’s Honors Convocation this evening, with two of my research assistants. And on Saturday, I’m honored to be giving the commencement address at Western Theological Seminary. (Here’s how that was going):
Finally, to end on a lighter note, this is hands-down the funniest thing I’ve seen all week. (And Michael Bird has a Substack you can sign up for more more of this quality content.)
Thank you for a glimpse of this side of you. I will definitely watch the sermon later. I think we’re all tired of the “little foxes” that eat the grapes. (Proverbs) My faith gets simpler and more inclusive as I get older.