The Apostles Creed.

Whenever I bring up the Apostles Creed to Christians, I tend to get one of two reactions: Positive and negative.

The positive response tends to come from Christians who grew up in formal, liturgical churches. Most of ’em can recite the creed right along with me… though the version I memorized is the Book of Common Prayer version, and most of ’em tend to know one of the Roman Missal versions. There are minor wording differences, but it’s the same creed.

Third Day and Brandon Heath perform Rich Mullins’ “Creed.” Heath’s YouTube channel

If they didn’t grow up in such churches, or their churches never taught it to ’em, they might still know it. ’Cause they learned it as lyrics from a Rich Mullins song. Or someone else’s cover of that song. Or John Michael Talbot’s song, though that’s lesser-known.

Negative responses typically come from anti-Catholics who get weirded out whenever I dare bring up any form of ancient Christianity their churches never taught. They don’t see the point of creeds. Yet at the very same time, they’ll go on and on about the need for necessary foundational beliefs… which is precisely what creeds are.

The Apostles Creed (often spelled with an apostrophe; it doesn’t need one) is Christianity’s simplest, most basic creed. Here it is… in my translation from the Latin. As far as I can tell, the Latin’s the original.

I believe in God,

the Father, almighty, creator of heaven and earth.

And in Christ Jesus, his only Son, our master.

He was conceived by the Holy Spirit;

born from the virgin Mary.

He suffered under Pontius Pilate,

was crucified, died, and was buried.

He descended to the afterlife.

The third day, he was resurrected from the dead.

He ascended to heaven;

he sits at the almighty Father’s right hand.

From there he will come;

he is judging the living and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Spirit,

the holy catholic church,

communion of saints, forgiveness of sins,

bodily resurrection, and eternal life.

Amen.

A creed, like this creed, is a faith statement. Unlike the faith statements drafted by denominations and individual churches, creeds were written long before the Great Schism and denominational divisions—all the way back when Christians still considered ourselves only one church. Whenever preachers tried to pass off innovative ideas and hypotheses as authentic Christianity, and instead created division and disharmony, church leaders throughout the Roman Empire and the world would gather, discuss, check the scriptures, and write creeds to reflect the orthodox point of view. Every true Christian should be able to say the creeds and mean ’em. Only heretics get tripped up by them.

Tradition has it the Apostles Creed is the very oldest of the creeds—even that it was written by the Twelve. It’s certainly old, and consistent with other creeds, but the oldest full copy we have of it comes from St. Permin’s Dicta Abbatis Pirminii/“Sayings of Abbot Permin,” written after 710. It looks far more like it’s a short version of the Nicene Creed—probably drafted by someone who couldn’t remember the full creed, but could remember the basics.

The Nicene Creed.

If you consider yourself an authentic orthodox Christian, you should be able to read the following creed, and easily agree with it 100 percent. If not… well, you gotta work on that.

I believe in one God:

The Father, the almighty,

maker of heaven and earth,

of all things, visible and invisible.

I believe in one Lord, Christ Jesus,

the only-begotten Son of God,

begotten of the Father before all ages.

God from God, light from light,

true God from true God, begotten not made,

of one being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation

he came down from heaven;

by the Holy Spirit was incarnate from the virgin Mary.

He was made man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate.

He suffered death and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in accordance with the scriptures.

He ascended into heaven.

He’s seated at the right hand of the Father.

He’ll come again in glory to judge the living and the dead.

His kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit,

the Lord, the giver of life.

He proceeds from the Father [and the Son].

He, with the Father and the Son, is adored and glorified.

He’s spoken through the prophets.

I believe in one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church.

I recognize one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.

I look forward to the resurrection of the dead

and the life of the world to come.

Amen.

When we Christians define orthodoxy—the doctrines Christians oughta hold to, as opposed to heretic beliefs which lead us away from God—we often do it subjectively. We presume we get to define what’s orthodox and what’s not; we have bibles and the Holy Spirit, so shouldn’t we easily able to do this? We fix the standard.

I know; loads of us are gonna claim it’s not really us who fix the standard; the bible does. Which sounds humble enough, but it’s tommyrot: Our interpretation of the bible sets the standard, and since its ours, it ultimately comes back to us. Still subjective.

Others point to their denomination or individual church’s faith statement. Sounds slightly less subjective, ’cause most of the time they had nothing to do with the writing of these faith statements; they started going to their churches, and later agreed to the churches’ faith statements. Thing is, unless we live in a Christian nationalist country (say, Russia) where there’s an official state church in which we’re automatically enrolled, and we’re obligated to abide by that church’s beliefs whether we ever attend that church or not… we get to choose our churches. We get to accept, or reject, those churches’ faith statements. We can pick a church based on its faith statements; we can decide, “I don’t like what that church believes; I’m going to this one, which believes as I do.” Still subjective.

So this is why I point to creedal Christianity. They define Christian orthodoxy. The ancient Christians hammered ’em out in the first seven centuries of Christianity, way back before Christianity split into Orthodoxy and Catholicism and all the other denominations. They predate me by about 1,650 years, so I can’t claim I define them.

And the very first formal faith statement is this one, written in Níkea, Asia Minor, Roman Empire (today’s Iznik, Türkiye) in the year 325, and updated in 381. We call it the Nicene Creed, although the Orthodox and Catholic churches call it the Symbol of Nicene Faith (Greek Σύμβολο της Πίστεως της Νίκαιας/Sýmbolo tis Písteos tis Níkeas) or Nicene Symbol (Latin Symbolum Nicaenum), or Faith Symbol. Nearly every other creed is based on it.

Creedal Christianity.

Whenever I talk about the creeds, certain Evangelicals flinch, ’cause they think creeds are a Catholic thing. No; they’re an ancient Christian thing, and therefore they’re a present-day Christian thing. Creeds existed centuries before the Roman Catholic Church did.

Creeds are faith statements. The ancient Christians were trying to sort out what was orthodox and what was heresy; what was consistent with Jesus and scripture, and what wasn’t. And once their councils sorted it out, they published their faith statement—which, in Latin, began with the word credo, “I believe.” If you believe this too, you’re orthodox; nobody’s gonna doubt whether your Christianity is authentic based on your theological beliefs. (They might still doubt it based on your fruit, which counts for more… but fleshly Christians really hope you never notice. Sad to say, may don’t.)

And churches still have faith statements. And still require their members to sign off on ’em. Not always declare “I believe…” etc.; but if you don’t believe what they do, it’s gonna create problems. So they’re still practicing a form of creedal Christianity; it just doesn’t take the very same form as the ancient creeds. But man alive, are they similar.

For one thing, most faith statements include just about everything that’s in the creeds. Usually that’s because they’re just duplicating their denomination’s faith statement… and the denomination took its faith statement from the creeds. For those churches who independently get to come up with their own faith statements, you realize the leaders of that church simply duplicated the statements of the churches they grew up in, or admire most. And if you work your way back to what inspired those churches, and the churches they imitated them, and the churches those churches imitated… yep, we’re back to the creeds again.

Face it: The creeds are pretty much at the back of all orthodox Christianity. And if they’re not—if, like many an Evangelical, you claim you got your beliefs directly out of the bible, not the creeds—okay, maybe you think you did. I certainly thought I did. Believing Jesus is both fully God and fully human is based on what the bible teaches, isn’t it?—and yes, it absolutely is. But recognizing it’s okay to believe both things simultaneously—even that we should believe both things, and try not to prioritize one over the other—ultimately stems from creedal Christianity.

More precisely: Stems from the ancient Christians who realized, “Oh, we gotta emphasize how Jesus is both, ’cause too many heretics are claiming Jesus is more one than the other, or is only one but not the other.” Who realized overemphasizing Jesus’s divinity at the cost of his humanity, or humanity at the cost of his divinity, gets him wrong. Who realized this wrongness undermines our relationship with him in a big way, so we’d better get this part right, at least.

And generations of Christians thereafter have taken up the ancient Christians’ cause. Including Christians who have no idea this cause didn’t originate with the Christians who wrote the bible, but the Christians a few centuries later who began to realize how important it is, gathered with other Christians across the civilized and uncivilized world to hash it out, and came up with the creeds.

Bad theology: When it’s not based on revelation.

The starting point of theology is revelation, the stuff God reveals to us.

Problem is, not everybody agrees. They think the starting point is us: We have questions about God, the universe, whether we can have a relationship with God (or at least get stuff out of him), death and the afterlife, good and evil and karma, and salvation. And people figure theology is when we seek answers to these questions, and get wise-sounding answers from the smartest gurus. Or even become a guru ourselves, ’cause guruing doesn’t look all that hard.

Yep, even Christians do it. Years ago, at another church, my pastors began to invite a lot of clever guest speakers to come preach to us. These guys would regularly tell us what they think they’ve figured out about God. Some ideas were based on actual personal experiences with God—which I’m not knocking, but I wanna remind you our God-experiences need to be confirmed long before we start developing ’em into theology. These guys were not so scrupulous. They felt these God-experiences were so profound, so emotional, they didn’t bother to ask the usual questions we oughta pose when such things happen. “God showed me,” they figured; they believed it, and that settles it.

Me, I know enough bible to seriously doubt God showed them a thing.

Problem is, most Christians don’t. And when they have their own God-experiences, they do the same thing as these preachers: They never have ’em properly confirmed. They’re so sure their personal insights are revelations; they certainly feel like revelations! And when someone else stands up, claims to have an insight, and present ’em with something which feels right to them… well, they had religion questions, here’s someone who purports to have answers, and the answers sound like stuff they oughta believe. Stuff they wanna believe. So they do.

But is this because the Holy Spirit tells ’em, “Yep, that came from me,” or because their flesh tells ’em, “Oh that sounds so much easier than holiness”? And should we really trust our inner impulses, urges, and desires when it comes to theological ideas? Most of us are pretty darned selfish, and that’s the deciding factor in our lives, not the Spirit. That’s what makes us feel these ideas are correct, not a lifestyle of actively following Jesus. We might imagine it’s the Spirit, but we still don’t know the difference between him, and the way the surprise ending of a clever mystery novel makes us feel.

So that’s how we practice bad theology: We’re not getting it from revelation, and therefore not getting it from God.

Special revelation in the present day.

Most Christians understand that God continues to reveal himself to humanity. I would say he constantly reveals himself; he’s constantly talking to people. Plenty of Christians have a conversational prayer life with God. As for those who don’t: He works around our hesitancy or ignorance. He’ll drop an idea in our heads, and we might think it’s one of ours, but it’ll be way better, way more fruitful, than any of ours. He’ll give you a dream you can’t forget, or one of his many prophets will tell us something that pokes us right in the conscience… along with the Holy Spirit, who pokes us there an awful lot too.

Every time God answers a prayer, every time he performs a miracle, every time he gives out a message for another person—whether it’s encouragement or divine knowledge—in every interaction, we see more examples of what God can do, and God’s good character. We learn more about God.

True, there are cessationists who insist God stopped doing all that stuff in bible times; who insist the only way we can learn about God is by reading and quoting and studying bible. And I’m not gonna discourage getting to know that bible; it’s how we confirm the God who’s actively doing stuff among us, is the very same Holy Spirit whom Jesus promised to send us. But what evidence do cessationists have that God doesn’t specially reveal himself anymore—that instead he’s forsaken us—other than out-of-context bible verses?

Well none. Just their own prejudices against people who claim they had God-experiences. Just their terror of the very idea that Christianity isn’t under their control at all; that in fact the Holy Spirit has his own agenda, and because they’ve been denying his activity they don’t actually know him as much as they’ve been claiming; and because some of ’em have been calling his activity devilish, turns out they’ve been blaspheming him.

Funny thing is, I grew up among cessationists. And even they will talk about God’s current activity. They’ll talk about looking at nature and deducing God from it. Awesome discoveries from the Hubble and Webb telescopes reveal what God made. Awesome scientific breakthroughs reveal God’s intelligent design. A newborn baby or a really cool sunset both reveal God’s current activity. So if God’s continually revealing himself through nature… then he is continually revealing himself, isn’t he? Gotcha.

The bible as a source of revelation.

Many Christians firmly believe the only way God reveals himself to humanity, is through bible. Which contradicts what we find in the bible.

In the scriptures, God first reveals himself to humans with a God-appearance: He hangs out with Adam and Eve. Ge 3.8 It’s special revelation through regular personal appearances. Now yeah, the humans ruined those visitations… but no, their sin didn’t drive God away; sin doesn’t do that, because God is infinitely mightier than sin. The scriptures tell us God still appeared to people from time to time. And of course he became human, and interacted with people that way.

Likewise there were other forms of revelation—all of which we see in the book of Genesis:

• We got creation, for those folks who insist nature’s a type of revelation.
• We got miracles.
• We got God having conversational prayers with people. (Including, of all people, Cain, the first murderer.)
• We got prophetic dreams. (And the first guy to have one is neither Abraham nor one of his descendants; he’s a gentile.)
• We got prophets.

And the bible is a product of all these sources of revelation. People interacted with God, recorded these things, preserved them as best we can, and that’s our scriptures. That’s bible.

The difference between bible and other forms of revelation, is the bible’s been repeatedly confirmed as reliable. In its day, and many times since. Yes, even Revelation—even though its apocalyptic visions talk about the very end of history, plenty of it is about its then-present day, and that stuff came to pass. It’s why ancient Christians kept it. I can’t help that “prophecy scholars” make tons of wild claims about what they think it means, that people buy their books and believe ’em, and that their wild claims regularly don’t come true. They know not what they do, and their fans are wasting their time and money on ’em.

The fact the bible’s been confirmed is why we kept its books: Why keep supposed “revelations from God” which were unproven or disproven? Why seek similar God-experiences for ourselves? But since we’ve sought those experiences and found ’em valid, and since we’ve thus far confirmed many of the bible’s historical events in history, we Christians consider the scriptures faithful and reliable revelations of God. If you wanna fact-check it again, go right ahead; we’ve found it can stand up to scrutiny. Archaeologists still keep digging up stuff which confirms it—sometimes in ways they never expected, ’cause their discoveries put a whole new spin on the scriptures.

Now, with every other source of revelation, we still have to confirm them. We gotta watch miracles to see whether they produce the sort of good fruit we oughta see in God’s handiwork. We gotta confirm prophecy, prayer messages, and dreams, lest people were mistaken, or were tricked, or are lying. But with bible, not so much. From the time the very first books were written, all the way to today, God’s followers have confirmed and re-confirmed and re-re-confirmed the scriptures are solid. Trustworthy. Relevant. Consistent with who God is.

Special revelation: God’s gotta tell us about himself.

Last week I posted a piece on general revelation, the idea we can deduce God, and what he’s like, by looking at his creation. And, of course, why that’s largely rubbish: Every religion tries to deduce a bit of what God’s like by looking at nature. In so doing, every religion gets God wrong. In a thousand different ways.

Yeah, I know, “The heavens declare the glory of God,” etc. Ps 19.1 might be one of your very favorite verses. You’ve got framed posters of photos from the Hubble or Webb telescopes on your wall, captioned with that very memory verse. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy about how you can love both science and God. And… big whoop. The glory of the heavens suggest the glory of their Creator… and that’s all.

Nothing about the Creator’s motives. Nor his character. Nor his love. Nor whether the mighty power he used to make the Big Bang go bang, has any limits on it. Obviously it’s vast, but how vast? Many a Christian will insist the infinity of space clearly reveals an infinite God, but… does it? ’Cause it’s empty infinite space; the Creator apparently didn’t put anything in it! Does empty space—truly empty, containing nothing whatsoever—even properly count as a thing God created?

True, the heavens declare a mighty Creator. Yet more than one pagan myth actually claims the Creator expended all his energy in the act of creation, and completely burned himself out. He created the universe… then ceased to be. Faded away. Is no more. Leaving behind his creatures; the mightiest of which, whom the pagans called gods, warred over who might rule everything the Creator left behind. Again, in these myths, nothing about the Creator’s motives for creating. Nor character, love, anything. His only purpose in these stories is to make the cosmos, then vanish.

Or, according to the 18th-century deists, God made the cosmos, then went away. Didn’t die… but he’s not around anymore, for he’s chosen not to interact with humanity (or at least they’ve rejected all the testimonies of those who had God-experiences). We might encounter him in the afterlife, but they were entirely sure we oughtn’t expect to in this life.

Bluntly, creation tells us what God made, but we know no more about his person than we know about Thomas Edison from incandescent light bulbs. So how are we to learn about God?

Duh—he’s gotta tell us.

And that’s what we Christian theologians mean by special revelation—the stuff God deliberately, personally reveals to humanity. What we know about God does not primarily come from looking at his handiwork and making (really, jumping to) conclusions. It comes from God himself.

General revelation: How to (wrongly) deduce God from nature.

GENERAL REVELATION 'dʒɛn(.ə).rəl rɛv.ə'leɪ.ʃən noun. The universal, natural knowledge about God and divine matters. (Also called universal revelation, or natural revelation.)

2. What the universe, nature, or the human psyche reveal to us about God.

A number of Christian apologists love, love, LOVE the idea of general revelation. And I always wind up on their bad side, because as a theologian I have to point out it’s a wholly unreliable form of revelation. It’s so useless it actually does pagans more good than Christians.

This, they really don’t wanna hear. Because they’ve pinned so many hopes on it.

Y’see, apologists love to debate nontheists—people who don’t believe there’s such a being as God, and therefore are mighty sure he’s never interacted with them. Apologists try to prove God has so interacted with them. If the nontheist can’t remember any particular events, the apologist will often point at nature and claim, “See, that’s a way God interacted with you!” God created a really impressive sunset! Or God not-all-that-supernaturally cured ’em of a disease. Or God created one of their kids. Or they had any sort of warm fuzzy feeling which kinda felt divine.

Or, if we’ve got a more philosophically-minded apologist, they’ll try to argue certain cultural or scientific beliefs in a westerner’s brain can’t properly work unless there’s a God-idea somewhere deep in that brain. Absolutes of right and wrong supposedly can’t exist unless there’s an absolute authority (like, say, God) to define these absolutes. Or the unfulfilled desire for a higher power has to be based on an actual Higher Power out there somewhere.

Apologists like to regularly tap the idea of general revelation, then use it to springboard to special revelation—the stuff God has personally revealed about himself, particularly through Jesus.

Me, I figure all this general revelation stuff is quicksand. That’s why I prefer to leapfrog it and straightaway talk about Jesus. Apologists waste way too much time trying to argue in favor of God’s existence by pointing to nature, reasoning, and the human conscience. And while they’re busy trying to sway skeptics—often unsuccessfully—you realize we coulda just prophesied over the skeptic, proving there’s a Holy Spirit who knows all and empowers prophecy, and suddenly we’re talking about the Jesus the Spirit points to. While the prophesied-upon skeptic’s head is spinning from this unexpected, dumbfounding new revelation of a God who loves her… the apologist is still trying, and failing, to convincingly explain why intelligent design isn’t merely wishful thinking.

Why is general revelation quicksand? Because every religion does general revelation. Every religion says, “Look at the universe!—how beautiful and complex it is! Surely it proves there’s a creator behind it!” Then they try to point to the being they consider the creator—but they’re not talking about the LORD. They’re not talking about Jesus. It’s a whole other god. Ọlọrun, perhaps. Or Ahura Mazda, Brahma, Amun-Ra, etcetera.

Likewise people try to deduce God from creation. We begin with the assumption creation kinda resembles its creator; that it has his fingerprints all over it, so we can sorta figure out what God’s like. Look at the people he created, and the way we think and reason. Look at the intelligence which had to go into some of the more complex things in the universe. Look at the attention to detail, the intricacy, the mathematical and scientific precision, the way everything all neatly fits together. Tells you all sorts of profound things about the creator, doesn’t it?

Well… not if you’ve read your bible. You forget this universe isn’t as God originally created it. It fell.

Systematic theology.

My very first theology class in college was titled “Systematic Theology.” It was an orderly overview of all the important doctrines of Christianity, and all the major topics Christian theology touches upon. Didn’t hit every topic, ’cause there simply wasn’t time. (The upper-division theology classes went into much more detail.) But like I said, the main topics:

• God and his existence.
• Revelation and how God can be known.
• The scriptures and how to base theology upon ’em.
• The trinity and God’s mighty attributes.
• Jesus’s nature, person, and work.
• Jesus’s self-sacrifice and our salvation.
• The Holy Spirit and his activity in his church.
• The church’s governance and purpose.
• Death, afterlife, resurrection, and New Jerusalem.

On this blog, I am obviously not going through theology in any systematic way. Largely I’ve been discussing topics as they come up—either going into detail about theological issues in other articles I’ve written, or prompted by someone sending an email.

So if you want an overview of all the main topics of Christian theology, you might wanna buy a systematic theology book. They tend to be written by Calvinists, ’cause Jean Calvin wrote the first Protestant systematic theology, Institutes of the Christian Religion, and systematizing theology has kinda become a big deal to Calvinists ever since. They really like presenting all their doctrines in a tidy, logically consistent package. Makes God sound all orderly and quantifiable!

Is he really? Nah. God’s way bigger than the human mind can grasp. Even bigger than the scriptures can present. Jn 21.25 Systematic theologies can only tell us so much—and same as my theology class, try to hit all the major topics, but can’t get to all of ’em.

Some of ’em try! And, when they’re trying to be intellectually honest, they also try to cover all the major Christian viewpoints about these topics, ’cause Christians aren’t universally agreed on everything. (And, unless we joined a cult, don’t have to be.) Hence some systematic theology books are huge. One of my college textbooks, Millard J. Erickson’s Christian Theology, most definitely is; the current edition clocks in at 1,200 pages. He’s thorough.

Anyway, when Christians get it into our heads to study theology, some of us want this kind of overview. I certainly did; I wanted to make sure I filled in all the gaps in my knowledge. (Or at least learn where the gaps were.) So, there y’go: Systematic theology.

Liberal and conservative theology.

If you’ve heard of theology, you’ve likely heard of “conservative theology” and “liberal theology”; of “conservative theologians” and “liberal theologians.” And you might presume you know what those mean: A conservative theologian is probably one who respects tradition and the bible, and a liberal theologian doesn’t.

Roughly that’d be accurate. Very, very roughly.

Properly, liberal theology is the same thing as unitarianism or deism: There’s one God, Jesus isn’t him, miracles don’t happen and never did and are myths (and therefore the bible is pure mythology), and those who consider themselves “spiritual” have gotta find a way to recontextualize Christianity for the present day. So, how you develop liberal theology is by following the present day’s lead: What do the people of today need to hear? What’s gonna make ’em feel spiritual, and feel good about themselves?

But how Christians typically use the term “liberal theology” is simply as a pejorative. Doesn’t always even mean liberal! An arch-conservative Jehovah’s Witness theologian, who interprets bible so strictly it gets ridiculous, who thinks God’s gonna smite everyone in the world but him, would be called a “liberal theologian” simply because he’s heretic. Liberal bad, conservative good.

Everybody’s kinda decided where they are on the theological spectrum. So, some woman might consider herself a theological conservative because she upholds the bible’s authority so very, very much. And most of us would agree, ’cause believing the bible is an infallible theological authority, is what we’d consider theological conservatism. But another person, a sexist man, might insist absolutely not; she’s obviously a liberal theologian. Why’s this? Well, she’s a woman. He insists the practice of doing and teaching theology is only for men, ’cause only men can teach, ’cause bible says so. She’s defying bible; ergo she doesn’t consider it an infallible theological authority, ergo she’s a liberal theologian.

I likewise consider the bible an infallible theological authority. I’d call myself a conservative theologian for this reason. But of course I’ve been called a liberal theologian—for a number of reasons. I believe the scriptures fully support women in Christian leadership, but sexists insist they fully don’t, and I must be twisting them to come to my conclusions; ergo I’m a liberal theologian.

Or I’ve expressed political views which they consider liberal. I was raised by political conservatives (and they’re still conservative), but as I became an adult and followed Jesus further, I chose to adopt a few “liberal” views because I think they’re consistent with Jesus’s teachings, and my former conservative views are not. I’m certainly not “liberal” across the board, ’cause I think my conservative views are likewise consistent with Jesus. It’s a hodgepodge of positions. But to political conservatives, any political heresy—for that’s what civic idolaters consider it—automatically makes me a “liberal theologian,” and untrustworthy when I discuss religion. Their partisanship takes priority over their Christianity. Or mine. Or yours.

Or it’s simply because I’m Pentecostal and they’re not; or because I uphold the ancient Christian creeds and they don’t. And you’d think upholding the creeds would make me considered more conservative than they, not less. But they covet the label “conservative,” and if I’m in any way wrong in their eyes, I get the label “liberal.” That’s my punishment for believing things they don’t.

So yeah—in practice “liberal theologian” means “more liberal than me,” and of course wrong and heretic.

What is “theology”?

THEOLOGY θi'ɑl.ə.dʒi noun The study of God, his nature, and related religious beliefs.

2. One’s religious beliefs and theories, when systematically organized and developed.

[theological θi.ə'lɑ.dʒə.k(ə)l adjective, theologian θi.ə'loʊ.dʒən noun, theologist θi'ɑl.ə.dʒəst noun]

As you can see, theology has two definitions—and I find people mix ’em up all the time.

I talk about theology as Christianity’s collective study of God, and people think I’m talking about their theology, their beliefs about who God is. Or I’ll ask people about their theology, and they’ll respond, “Well it’s not what I believe; it’s what all true Christians believe”—as if other Christians aren’t permitted their own opinions. (Too often, to their minds, we’re not.)

And then there’s how pagans get confused about the word. I talk to them about theology, and they’ll say something like this:

SHE. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don’t do theology.”

ME. “You don’t have beliefs about God?”

SHE. “I do, but I don’t do theology.”

ME. “What do you think theology is?”

SHE. “Dogmas. Doctrines. Whatever you call them. I don’t have those. I don’t do those.”

ME. “Okay. That’s not what I mean by ‘theology.’ Theology is either the study of God, or your own personal beliefs about God. And you do have personal beliefs about God, so you have a theology.”

SHE. “Personal beliefs about God? What, I have a theology and you have a theology?”

ME. “And everybody else has a theology. Which may or may not line up with some church’s doctrines or dogmas.”

SHE. “I don’t think that’s what anybody else means by ‘theology.’ ”

ME. “Check a dictionary. I’m going off the dictionary definition. If people believe ‘theology’ means something else… well that’s their theology.”

You’ll notice this hypothetical pagan is kinda wary about doctrines and dogmas, and it’s because most of the pagans I encounter are the “spiritual, not religious” type—they don’t wanna be told what to believe, and think “theology” is all about doing that.

And okay, figuring out what to believe is indeed the purpose of theology. We’re studying God because every single one of us is wrong about him, and wanna correct that, and are studying God so we can fix our theologies.

There are a number of ways we go about that study. First, we pick a religion. Usually it’s the one we grew up in; I grew up Christian, so I went with Christianity. Sometimes it’s the one we adopt later in life—I didn’t grow up Pentecostal, but I was going to a Pentecostal church, and figured if I was gonna study theology it should be at a Pentecostal seminary, so off I went. (And, as it turned out, all their theology professors were Calvinist, so I wound up learning a ton about Jean Calvin’s theology, which is mighty useful even though I myself am not Calvinist.) For some people they don’t pick a religion; they’re just fascinated by religious anthropology, and try to study them all. In so doing they often become religious: They like one religion better than the others, and become that. But just as often, they remain either theist or agnostic—but appreciative of all religions; or they join a religion which tries to include all the other ones, like the Unitarians or Baha’i.

Next we determine what, in that religion, is authoritative. For some it’s the leadership, or the current heads of the religion. For others there are traditions and scriptures. In Christianity, the current head of our religion is Christ Jesus. (He’s not dead, you know!) We gotta follow him—and there are scriptures containing his teachings; plus the writings of the apostles he trained; plus the prophets who wrote their own God-experiences, provided Jesus his cultural background, and of course foretold him.

And, depending on your sect in that religion, there are various traditions which influence how you understand things. My Pentecostal traditions admittedly, definitely affect how I understand the scriptures. Other traditions—fr’instance a cessationist or dispensationalist—is absolutely gonna spin the scriptures differently than I do, and make it consistent with their traditions. I would argue their traditions are making ’em read the scriptures wrong… and they would argue my traditions are making me read the scriptures wrong. And now you see why we’re in different sects.

The 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘴.

Most movements have slogans; they help promote the movement. The Protestant movement is no different. When it began in the 1500s, the Reformers came up with slogans. Back then the international language of Christendom was Latin, so of course the slogans are all in Latin.

The three I’m writing about today are called the solas—because they all start with the Latin word sola. You’re probably more familiar with the masculine form of it, solo, which is also an English word and means the very same thing: Alone, only, unaccompanied, done by one person without assistance. Anyway, the three slogans are:

Sola fide, “by faith alone.”

Sola gratia, “by grace alone.”

Sola scriptura, “by scripture alone.”

In the 20th century, various Christians created two more slogans which they claim are also part of the solas: Solus Christus, “Christ alone”; and soli Deo gratia, “glory to God alone.” I have no problem with people coming up with new slogans, but they aren’t part of the original solas, so I won’t talk about them as much.

So… why am I bringing up some five-century-old Latin slogans? Because sometimes you’re gonna hear Christians quote them, talk about them, use them… and use them wrong. The early Reformers had specific reasons for coining these slogans, and we gotta know what they meant by them before we just quote ’em haphazardly.

And even if people don’t use the Latin words—if they use the English translations “by faith alone,” “by grace alone,” and “by scripture alone,” or translate ’em into any other language and teach Christians about ’em—again, let’s know what the Reformers meant by them.

We are not saved by our faith.

From time to time I’ll hear a Christian unthinkingly state we’re saved by faith. And I’ll correct them: We are not. We’re justified by faith. We’re saved by grace.

The usual response is they give me an annoyed look: Why are you correcting me?

Not that they disagree with me! They don’t. They’re aware we’re saved by grace. But they figure we’re saved by grace through faith—

Ephesians 2.8 KJV

For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God:

—so faith is in the formula somewhere; so they figure they’re not wrong either. That’s why they’re gonna forget what I just said about being saved by grace, and continue to say we Christians are saved by faith. I’m just nitpicking, and they don’t care.

In online discussion groups, I can’t see their annoyed looks in person, but I have no doubt they happen. And their usual response is to ignore my response. Again, they don’t disagree with me; they’re aware we’re saved by grace; but saved thorough faith, and is there any real difference between by and through anyway?

While most discussion-group folks will debate anything and everything at the drop of a hat, they never choose to debate my statement, “We’re justified, not saved, by faith; we’re saved by grace.” After all, it’s true.

There are rare exceptions—I think I only experienced two of ’em—where people respond, “Yes; I misspoke; we’re saved by grace.” The rest of the time, in a rare exercise of online self-control, they simply ignore the fact I said anything. They move along.

And I guarantee you they’re gonna say or write “We’re saved by faith” again.

Yet I persist.

Universalism: Isn’t God gonna save everybody?

UNIVERSALIST ju.nə'vər.səl.əst adjective. Believing all humanity will (eventually) be saved.

Generally, pagans believe good people go to heaven, and bad people to hell. There’s a minority among them who believe there is no hell—not even for genocidal maniacs; everybody goes to the same afterlife, and if you’re a westerner that’d be heaven. There might be some karmic consequences to the afterlife, like you might find yourself in the suckier part of heaven; but it’s all heaven, so it’s not that bad.

The reason many pagans believe this, is because they believe the universe is benevolent, or believe God is love. Which he is! 1Jn 4.8 And he does love everyone; “for God so loved the world” Jn 3.16 and all that. So they figure a loving God would never throw people into hell, especially for something so minor as not believing in him—which is an honest mistake, most of the time. Hardly sound loving of God to toss someone into hell simply because they were born in a part of the world where they were never taught God properly, be it North Korea, Nepal, Mali, or Mississippi.

Now I agree God’s unlikely to smite people for honest mistakes. But I also seriously doubt the bulk of humanity’s mistakes are honest ones. Face it: Lots of us embrace our God-beliefs purely out of convenience, pragmatism, or selfishness. That Iranian who’s never gonna hear the gospel: He already wouldn’t listen to it if offered. If he honestly wanted to hear the gospel, it doesn’t matter what filters his nation puts on the internet; he’d track down Christians (there actually are some in Iran) and ask questions. Or Jesus might personally appear to him, as he does throughout Christian history, beginning with Paul. (No, that wasn’t just a one-time deal.)

Or that American whose parents raised her a militant atheist: No matter how skeptical and free-thinking she claims to be, she honestly doesn’t wanna challenge her parents’ claims, and examine whether there’s anything to this God stuff. If she did, the first miracle she experienced would shatter her atheism like a cinderblock through safety glass.

Honest mistakes are like Calvinism: People try to defend God’s sovereignty, go overboard, and wind up teaching God’s secretly evil. But if they’re honest mistakes, these people are nonetheless pursuing God despite their errors. And the Holy Spirit’s still producing love and patience and kindness in them, and still letting ’em into his kingdom. (Unless they’re only pursuing clever arguments, producing no fruit, and wind up some of those poor souls who’re mighty shocked Jesus doesn’t recognize ’em. Mt 7.23) The whole “honest mistakes” cop-out is a convenient excuse to ignore God, avoid obeying him, and dodge religion, church, and Christians.

It’s a risky little game they’re playing, for Christ Jesus says not everyone’s getting saved.

Matthew 7.21-23 GNT

21“Not everyone who calls out to me, ‘Lord! Lord!’ will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Only those who actually do the will of my Father in heaven will enter. 22On judgment day many will say to me, ‘Lord! Lord! We prophesied in your name and cast out demons in your name and performed many miracles in your name.’ 23But I will reply, ‘I never knew you. Get away from me, you who break God’s laws.’”

That’s the people who really thought they were Christian. How much chance does the “honestly mistaken” nontheist have? Well, God is gracious, so we’ll see.

Though God absolutely does wants everyone saved, 1Ti 2.4 he knows full well many people want nothing to do with him. Nor his kingdom. They don’t want saving. Since God did create ’em with free will, he permits them to tell him no. He won’t force ’em into his kingdom. They don’t have to enter. But man alive are they gonna hate the alternative.

Jesus’s resurrection: If he wasn’t raised, we’re boned.

Of Christianity’s two biggest holidays, Christmas is the easier one for pagans to swallow. ’Cause Jesus the Nazarene was born. That, they won’t debate. There are a few cranks who think Jesus’s life is entirely mythological, start to finish; but for the most part everyone agrees he was born. May not believe he was miraculously born, but certainly they agree he was born.

Easter’s way harder. ’Cause Jesus the Nazarene rose from the dead. And no, he didn’t just wake up in a tomb after a two-day coma following a brutal flogging and crucifixion. Wasn’t a spectral event either, where his ghost went visiting his loved ones to tell them everything’s all right; he’s on a higher plane now; in time they’ll join him. Nor was it a “spiritual” event, where people had visions or mass hallucinations of him, or missed him so hard they psyched themselves into believing they saw him.

Christians state Jesus is alive. In a body. A human body. An extraordinary body; apparently his new body can do things our current bodies can’t. But alive in a way people recognize as fully alive. Not some walking-dead zombie, nor some phantom. Jesus physically interacted with his students, family, and followers, for nearly a month and a half before physically going to heaven.

That, pagans struggle with. ’Cause they don’t believe in resurrection. Resuscitation, sure; CPR can keep a heart going till it can beat on its own, or doctors can revive frozen people. Returning from the dead happens all the time. But permanently? In a new body? Which he took with him to heaven? They’re not buying it. They’re more likely to believe in the Easter Bunny.

But that’s the deal we Christians proclaim on Easter: Christ is risen indeed.

It’s not the central belief of Christianity; God’s kingdom is. But if Jesus didn’t literally come back from the dead on the morning of 5 April 33, it means there’s no such kingdom, and Jesus is never coming back to set it up. And nobody’s coming back from death. There’s no eternal life; at best an eternal afterlife, which ain’t life. There’s no hope for the lost. The Sadducees were right. Christianity’s a sham. There’s no point in any of us being Christians.

No I’m not being hyperbolic. This is precisely what the apostles taught.

1 Corinthians 15.12-19 KWL

12 If it’s preached Christ is risen from the dead,

how can some of you say resurrection of the dead isn’t true?

13 If resurrection of the dead isn’t true, not even Christ is risen.

14 If Christ isn’t risen, our message is worthless. Your faith is worthless.

15 Turns out we’re bearing false witness about God: We testified about God that he raised Christ!

Whom, if it’s true the dead aren’t raised, he didn’t raise.

16 If the dead aren’t raised, Christ isn’t risen either.

17 If Christ isn’t risen, your faith has no foundation.

You’re still in your sins, 18 and those who “sleep in Christ” are gone.

19 If hope in Christ only exists in this life, we’re the most pathetic of all people.

No resurrection, no kingdom, no Christianity. Period.

Trusting God… versus trusting doctrine.

I’ve posted before about the “doctrines of grace,” as Calvinists call ’em—the things they believe about God and how he saves us. The doctrine they focus on most is God’s sovereignty, which they believe is so absolute, it overrides everything else: Everything in the universe happens because God decreed it.

Not merely allowed it to happen, even though he could totally intervene if he wants, ’cause he’s almighty and unlimited. Determined it would happen. Everything happens because God has a singular plan for the universe, meticulously decided what’d happen and what wouldn’t, and it’s playing out right now. It’s all part of the plan. Trust the plan. Trust God.

Calvinists call this “the doctrine of sovereignty”—doctrine being one of Christianity’s formal fixed beliefs. It’s something they insist Christians must believe. Not should believe; not can believe, ’cause it’s optional. To them, it’s not. You must believe it, if you call yourself Christian. If you don’t—if in fact you teach otherwise—you’ve gone wrong. You’re heretic. Or worse, you’re not even Christian.

So since I dare to say the “doctrine of sovereignty” is fatalistic rubbish which comes more from Platonism than the scriptures, certain Calvinists are convinced I’m heretic. Or, again, not even Christian.

One of ’em put it to me thisaway recently: “I trust God. You don’t.”

No, you trust your doctrine. Which isn’t God. Although you might not recognize the difference. There is one, y’know.

Word!

John 1.1-5.

I’ve written previously about when God became human. Now let’s look at God before he became human. Beginning with the beginning of the Gospel of John.

John 1.1-5 KWL

1In the beginning is the word.

The word’s with God,

and the word is God.

2This word is in the beginning with God.

3Everything comes to be through the word,

and not one thing, nothing, comes to be without him.

4What came to be though the word, is life.

Life’s the light of humanity.

5Light shines in darkness,

and darkness can’t get hold of it.

“The word” which the author of John wrote of, exists at the beginning of creation. Is with God. Is God. And is the means by which everything is created.

And round 7BC, this word became a human we know as Jesus of Nazareth. Christians recognize him as the Christ.

Why’d the author of John (and for convenience we’ll just assume he’s John bar Zebedee; he probably is) use “word” to describe the pre-incarnate Jesus? You realize this passage is the reason so many Christians are hugely fascinated by the word “word” (and its Greek equivalent λόγος/lóyos, which they mistransliterate logos and pronounce all sorts of ways; and sometimes its Syriac equivalent ܡܐܡܪܐ/memrá), and have written endless things about the Word of God. Some of it is extremely profound and useful… and some of it is sour horsepiss. I grew up hearing a lot of both.

This John passage tends to get translated in past tense. The KJV famously renders it, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Which is fine; the beginning of time and creation of the cosmos did happen in our past. But most of this passage was written in the aorist tense, a verb tense which is neither past, present, nor future. It has no time connected to it. You have to figure its time from other verbs in the passage, or from context. Well, there is a verb in this passage with a time-based tense; the present-tense ἦν/in from καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος/ke Theós in o lóyos, “and the word is God.” He is God, present tense. God at creation, and never stopped being God.

Okay, now to the concept of λόγος/lóyos. It literally means “word.” Why’d John use it?

For centuries, Christians presumed lóyos comes from ancient Greek philosophy. Blame ancient gentile Christians. As non-Jews, they had no idea what Pharisees taught about the lóyos of God—or as the Syriac-speaking Pharisees called it in Jesus’s day, the memrá of God. They usually figured whatever the Pharisees taught was wrong, hypocritical, and heresy, so they ignored it altogether.

Instead they interpreted bible through the lens of their own culture. Which was wrong then, and is wrong now. Yet Christians still do it. But that’s a whole other rant; let’s get back to criticizing ancient Christian gentiles.

Ancient Greek philosophers had written a whole bunch of navel-gazing gibberish about the word lóyos. ’Cause they were exploring the nature of truth: What is it, how do we find it, how do we prove it, how do we recognize logical fallacies, and what’s the deal with words which can mean more than one thing? For that matter, what’s a “word” anyway? Is it just a label for a thing, or is it a substantial thing on its own? Maybe that’s why God can create things by merely saying a word. Ge 1.3 And so on.

Follow the Greek philosophers’ intellectual rabbit trails, and you’ll go all sorts of weird, gnostic directions. Which is exactly what gentile Christians did.

Now let’s practice some actual logic. John wasn’t a gentile; he was a Galilean Jew who grew up attending, and getting the equivalent of a middle-school education in, Pharisee synagogues. So let’s look at that culture: What’d Pharisees teach about what a memrá is and means?

Turns out Pharisees had a lot of interesting ideas attached to it.

Proud heretics.

Some months ago a coworker asked me what “heretic” meant. Apparently there’s a brand of wine called Heretic, and a northern California microbrewery called Heretic Brewery, and she wanted to know whether it’s a liquor term.

I was kinda curious about that myself later, so I looked it up. It’s not. But my internet search led me to a company called Heretic Spirits, who had this on their website:

HER·E·TIC /'herəˌtik/ a person holding an opinion at odds with what is generally accepted.

Heretics are driven by new ideas and experiences. They possess a soul that yearns for the nourishment of new and exciting sensory experiences. We call this the Ravenous Soul and it represents the core of all that we do.

Okay, you will find their definition in a typical dictionary. But it’ll be the second definition; the one developed much later than the original definition, which is “a person or belief which differs from established religious orthodoxy.”

The word descends from the Latin hæreticus and the Greek αἱρετικός/eretikós, “able to choose.” Over time, Christians used it to describe those who’d chosen poorly. Wrongly. Incorrectly. Dangerously so, ’cause if you believed some of the junk Christian heretics taught, you could profoundly undermine your relationship with God, if not destroy it.

But to be succinct, I usually refer to heretics as people who are wrong. And that’s what I told my coworker “heretic” means: Wrong.

“Wrong?” she said. “Why would you name your wine ‘wrong’?”

Because heretics don’t think they are wrong.

Anti-theology: How’s it working for you?

If you’re the sort of person who groans inwardly whenever I write yet another one of these theology articles, you’re likely anti-theology: You consider theology to be useless speculation about who God is, and about how salvation works, and you wish Christians would just stop it with all the guesswork. Get to the practical stuff!

Which practical stuff? Depends on the Christian.

• We got the sort who thinks Christianity is meant to soothe people. Agitated because you’re not sure God loves you?—relax; he does. Agitated because of some deficiency you think you have?—relax; God’ll fix that or cure you. Agitated because you’re not sure you’re going to heaven?—relax; you are. Agitated because the world is crap?—relax; Jesus is returning.
• We got the sort who thinks Christianity’s primary job is to denounce sin. Loudly. Angrily. Because we gotta warn sinners away from hellfire! We gotta tell them hell is real, and they’re going there unless they repent! If we don’t do something about the sin, God’s gonna smite America with tornadoes and atmospheric rivers and plague and critical race theory! I forget which of the horseman that was, but it’s one of them.
• We got the sort who thinks Christianity is meant to make us blessed and highly favored, and wealthy. Who thinks we learn the secrets of prayer, God will answer every request with yes and amen, and we’ll get everything we ever wished for, like Aladdin’s genie but with infinite wishes. Pity nobody seems to know the secrets of prayer but Pastor, whom God gave the mansion and the Gulfstream jets. Maybe if we give him money he’ll clue us in.
• We got the sort who covet power, and heard the Holy Spirit grants supernatural gifts to Christians, so they want some. How do we activate these gifts? How can we become prophets, or faith-healers, or do mighty miracles? How can we get a revival started in our churches, and use it to boost our attendance, boost donations, and finally afford some of the things our churches have always wanted to buy? Let’s get a swimming pool!—we can use it for baptisms and youth group pool parties!
• We got the sort who thinks Christianity is meant to take over our country like its Founders always intended, and the reason they go to church is to network with fellow party members. Shh, don’t tell the IRS that’s what we’re really up to. And don’t tell the FBI, lest they find the stash of guns in the basement. If the guns make you anxious, don’t be!—they’re for the End Times.
• We got the sort who wants to know which current events are actually part of the End Times. They want our preachers to start interpreting the news this way. They wanna know whether the rapture’s coming, and how soon. They wanna know who the Beast is. (But don’t you dare tell ’em it’s Donald Trump. It’s not. Though yeah, he frequently acts beastlike.)
• And we got the sort who just wants to be left alone. They just wanna go to church, sing nice songs, hear nice sermons, take holy communion, and be under no obligations whatsoever to do anything further. Don’t have to donate money; rich people can fund the church without ’em. Don’t have to share Jesus with their neighbors; they can mass-mail flyers. Don’t have to change their lives at all. Salvation’s a free gift, after all.

And so forth. I used to attend a church which regularly held self-improvement classes of all sorts: How to improve your marriage. How to handle your finances better. How to rein in your out-of-control kids. (More spanking, apparently.) How to deal with the Jehovah’s Witnesses when they came to your door. All these classes were supposedly based on “biblical principles”… and yeah, some of these principles were acquired in some very iffy ways. But people really appreciated these classes. Self-help books are really popular with just about everyone, y’know… and whenever you Christianize them, Christians just love them.

So yeah, many a Christian would much rather have that than theology. Certainly much rather I blog about that than theology.

But how do you know I’m even giving you good advice? How do you know I’m not just taking the same old philosophy you find among pagans, slapping Christian labels all over it, and pretending it’s biblical? You know, like Christian counselors who paste Christian stickers over Freudian psychology of the self, and tell people the id body, ego soul, and superego spirit are how God actually created us to think. Or like when John Eldredge took the Mythopoetic Men’s Movement, added a bunch of bible stories and verses, and tells men it’s right and biblical to indulge their fleshly human impulses to be sexist and bossy… and kinda toxic.

How do you know I’m not just leading you utterly astray with my “proper Christian worldview”?

Didja guess I was gonna answer “Theology”? Goody!

Fruitless theology.

If Christian theology doesn’t produce good fruit, it’s either worthless or wrong.

Felt I’d better not bury the lede. Because, sad to say, Christian theologians too often go the fruitless route. And that’s why so many Christians dismiss theology as irrelevant, as nothing but a bunch of philosophers trying to reduce the Christian life to a bunch of navel-gazing theories which have no practical use. In the hands of fleshly Christians, that’s precisely what it becomes.

I was reminded of this recently, ’cause I read a dialogue between two Christians debating politics. (If you really wanna suck all the Jesus out of Christianity, watch Christians debate politics sometime. Better yet, don’t.) These guys didn’t just condemn one another’s beliefs; they condemned one another. Full-on ad hominem attacks. Both accusing one another of being depraved, selfish individuals; the conservative claiming the liberal only wanted the freedom to sin, and the liberal accusing the conservative of lacking God’s love for humanity. As conservatives and liberals usually do.

I wrote on this same subject years ago for another blog; at the time it was a debate between a Calvinist and a Catholic. Again, personal attacks instead of substance. Both of them felt they were right, and it justified them punching away at one another.

It’s typical depraved human nature. But it drags Christianity, and Christian theology, through the mud.