Pentecost.

Our word Pentecost comes from the Greek τὴν ἡμέραν τῆς πεντηκοστῆς/tin iméran tis pentikostís, “the 50th day” Ac 2.1 —the Greek term for שָׁבֻעֹת֙/Šavuót, which falls 50 days after Passover. It’s also called the Feast of Weeks; it’s when the ancient Hebrews harvested their wheat. Ex 34.22 On 6 Sivan in the Hebrew calendar, they were expected to come to temple and present a grain offering to the LORD. Dt 16.9-12 Oh, and tithe a tenth of it to celebrate with—and every third year, put that tithe in the community granary.

Why do Christians celebrate a Hebrew harvest festival? (And have separate “harvest parties” in October?) Well we don’t celebrate it Hebrew-style: We consider it the last day of Easter, and we celebrate it for a whole other reason. In the year 33—the year Jesus died, rose, and was raptured—the Holy Spirit descended upon Jesus’s new church on Pentecost. Happened like so:

Acts 2.1-4 NRSVue

1When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. 2And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. 3Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. 4 All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.

The speaking-in-tongues part is why the 20th century Christian movement which has a lot of tongues-speaking in it, is called Pentecostalism. Weirdly, a lot of us Pentecostals never bother to keep track of when Pentecost rolls around. I don’t get it. I blame anti-Catholicism a little. Anyway, Luke goes on:

Acts 2.5-13 NRSVue

5Now there were devout Jews from every people under heaven living in Jerusalem. 6And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. 7Amazed and astonished, they asked, “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? 8And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? 9Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, 10Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, 11Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.” 12All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, “What does this mean?” 13But others sneered and said, “They are filled with new wine.”

Christians like to call this “the first Pentecost.” Obviously it wasn’t; the first Pentecost, or Šavuót, or Feast of Weeks, was after the Exodus. It’s when every devout Jew on earth was bringing their grain offerings to temple on that very day, 25 May 33. And suddenly a house full of Galileans broke out in every language they knew—spoken to as if to them personally.

Got their attention.

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.

Different kinds of grace.

GRACE greɪs noun. God’s generous, forgiving, kind, favorable attitude towards his people.

2. A prayer of thanksgiving.

[Gracious 'greɪ.ʃəs adjective.]

Had to start this article by reminding you of the definition of grace.

Yeah, plenty of Christians are gonna insist grace means, and only means, “unmerited favor.” But I consider that definition insufficient. I knew a dad who’d let his daughter get away with loads of stuff… and not out of grace; out of apathy. He didn’t care enough to check up on her, and he really should have—she was spending an awful lot of his money on stupid stuff! It may not have occurred to you that apathy can also be a type of unmerited favor. But it lacks love, and the most profound component of God’s favor is his love—exhibited by his favorable attitude. God is gracious because God is love.

When Christians talk about God’s grace, every so often one of us starts listing and detailing different types and kinds and forms of grace. Fr’instance I’ve written on prevenient grace. Other Christians are gonna talk a whole lot about God’s saving grace. And his common grace. Or preached grace, provisional grace, sustaining grace, enabling grace, serving grace, and miraculous grace. Or God’s justifying grace, his sanctifying grace, and his glorifying or eternal grace. There’s more than a dozen of these types of grace.

Except there aren’t really a dozen types of grace. There’s just grace. There’s only God’s generous attitude towards his people.

Since there are dozens of effects of God’s generous attitude, people regularly think it makes God’s grace into multiple graces. Theologians call ’em “kinds of grace.” But they’re not. God’s attitude is consistently the same. He still loves us, still forgives us, still does for us, still offers us his kingdom. It’s just sometimes we notice, “Hey, when it comes to salvation, God’s grace does [THIS COOL THING]… so I guess that’s what ‘saving grace’ is!” Nah dude; you’re just noticing different facets of the same infinitely valuable gem.

God’s grace is superabundant. It’s in way more places than we realize. When we find it in a place we weren’t expecting, sometimes we’ll foolishly think, “Oh this is a different kind of grace for this particular circumstance!” And again: Same God. Same love. Same grace. Different circumstances don’t turn it into a new thing.

Yep, this is yet another instance of us humans overcomplicating something that’s really not complicated. It’s a case of Christians thinking, “Wow, lookit all the different kinds of grace!—and how wise of me to know about each and every one of them.” Don’t get too full of yourself, chum. You didn’t really learn anything new about God; you only learned he applies grace in more places than you thought. And y’know what? He applies grace in way more places than even that. Like I said, superabundant.

The other problematic thing about compiling a big ol’ list of types of grace: You might lose sight of the fact grace is God’s generous attitude, and start thinking of grace as a substance which can be separated from the God who has it. Like magic dust which you can sprinkle on things to make ’em forgiven. Grace is not that; it can’t be divorced from the person who grants it. Divine grace without God behind it, ceases to exist. Human grace without a generous person making sure it’s effective, likewise ceases to exist—“What do you mean Dad canceled this credit card? No, don’t cut it up!” Any “type of grace” always has a grace-Giver at its center, and we should never take him for granted.

The prayers of repentant sinners.

Far too often I hear Christians claim God doesn’t answer the prayers of sinners.

I’ve read loads of books on prayer, and I find this is a recurring theme in just about all of them. For some of the writers, it’s their favorite theme: “The reason people don’t get their prayers answered, no matter how much they pray, is they won’t stop sinning. You gotta stop sinning!”

For proof, they quote verses like this one:

Isaiah 59.1-2 CSB

1Indeed, the LORD’s arm is not too weak to save,

and his ear is not too deaf to hear.

2But your iniquities are separating you

from your God,

and your sins have hidden his face from you

so that he does not listen.

Or this one:

Proverbs 15.29 CSB

The LORD is far from the wicked,

but he hears the prayer of the righteous.

Or this one:

Micah 3.4 CSB

“Then they will cry out to the LORD,

but he will not answer them.

He will hide his face from them at that time

because of the crimes they have committed.

Or this one:

John 9.32 CSB

“We know that God doesn’t listen to sinners, but if anyone is God-fearing and does his will, he listens to him.”

There are loads more, and I can easily go on, but you get the gist. It’s not at all hard to find bible passages which straight-up say God refuses to heed the prayers of evildoers.

There is, however, a vital element to all these scriptures which authors and preachers routinely skip. Some of ’em do in fact point it out. More often they just don’t. It’s the fact that when the writers of the bible say God won’t listen to sinners, they always mean unrepentant sinners. People who sin, expect to sin again, and never intend to stop.

Not people who sometimes sin, but strive to sin no more. You know, repentant sinners. Like every saint in the bible. Like you—I hope!

Jesus and divorce.

Matthew 5.31-32, Matthew 19.3-11, Luke 16.18.

The Fundamentalist churches I grew up in, didn’t believe in divorce—because, they claimed, Jesus doesn’t believe in divorce. Their proof texts are usually today’s passages:

Matthew 5.31-32 KWL

31“We’re told,

‘Whoever divorces his woman:

Give her a divorce document.’ Dt 24.1

32I tell you:

Everyone who divorces his woman,

apart from a matter of unchastity,

makes her adulter.

And whoever might marry a divorcée,

adulters.”

Luke 16.18 KWL

“Everyone who divorces his woman

and marries another, adulters.

And one who was divorced from her man:

One who marries her, adulters.”

Hence most Fundies are pretty adamant that there’s one, and only one, reason for divorce: Πορνείας/porneías, unchastity. The KJV translates it “fornication,” and the NIV “sexual immorality.” Depending on your favorite bible translation, there are plenty of ways Fundies have found to spin what porneías means.

For most, it’s any and all nonmarital sexual activity. Sex before you’re married—porneías. Sex with anyone else while you’re married—adultery of course, and porneías. Pornography both before and during marriage: You’re looking at another person lustfully, adultering with that person in your mind, Mt 5.28 and Jesus bluntly forbids that, so that’s porneías too. Yep, porn is considered valid grounds for your spouse to divorce you. Doesn’t matter if your spouse is watching it with you.

Okay, but is our cultural definition of “sexual immorality” what the scriptures mean by unchastity?

Well, if you’re looking for me to say, “Nope!” so you can get away with stuff, I’m gonna disappoint you. Our cultural definitions, of course, aren’t the same. But they’re similar. Similar enough for there to be a bunch of overlap.

The people of Jesus’s day were still operating with a patriarchal idea of relationships between men and women. It’s an idea which in many ways is wholly inappropriate for Christians, ’cause it inherently turns women into second-class citizens, into the property of their patriarchs, and Jesus means for men and women to be equals in his kingdom. Husbands are not the masters of their wives, and any man who says so is usurping Christ Jesus’s rightful authority over his wife.

But in his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus isn’t teaching that particular lesson. He’s dealing with the culture as it was. Which isn’t our culture! So we gotta understand where they were coming from, before we can see just how this teaching applies to us.

Ascension: When Jesus took his throne.

This happened on Thursday, 15 May 33—if we figure Luke’s count of 40 days Ac 1.3 wasn’t a rough estimate, but a literal 40 days.

Acts 1.6-9 NRSVue

6So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” 7He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. 8But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” 9When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight.

I usually translate ἐπήρθη/epírthi (KJV “he was taken up,” NRSV “he was lifted up”) as “he was raptured.” ’Cause that’s what happened. Jesus got raptured into heaven.

From there Jesus ascended (from the Latin ascendere, “to climb”) to the Father’s throne—to sit at his right hand, Ac 2.33, 7.55-56 both in service and in judgment. We figure Jesus’s ascension took place the very same day he was raptured, so that’s when Christians have historically celebrated it: 40 days after Easter, and 10 days before Pentecost Sunday.

Some of us only focus on Jesus’s rapture—“Yay, he’s in heaven now!” And yeah, there’s that. But the way more important thing is Jesus taking his throne. When we say our Lord reigns, you realize his reign began at some point. Wasn’t when he died, and defeated sin and death; wasn’t when he rose from the dead, and proved he defeated sin and death. It’s when he took his throne. It’s his ascension day. Which we observe today.

Excommunication: Getting kicked out of church.

To a lot of people, excommunication is a scary word. Mainly because they get the definition wrong, and think it means damned: If a church excommunicates you, they figure it means they took back your salvation, and now you’re going to hell. They just gave you the eternal death penalty.

Which seems… well, mighty unchristian of them. Isn’t salvation and un-salvation up to God? Aren’t we, instead, supposed to be pointing to him, his grace and forgiveness, and supposed to be practicing some of that grace ourselves? What business do we Christians have in damning anyone?

Whoa, hey, calm down little hypothetical buckaroo. That’s not what it is, or means. Excommunication means, and only means, a church has kicked someone out. They don’t consider that person part of their church anymore. That person can no longer worship God with them—they can no longer share holy communion, which is where the word comes from. Someone you can share communion with is a “communicant,” but they are an “ex-communicant.”

Other churches don’t wanna use the word excommunication because they worry it does mean you’re un-saving someone, and they don’t presume they have the power to do that—or don’t wanna do that. So they call it other things. “Disassociation” or “disfellowshipping” or “expulsion” or “removal.” Whatever you wanna call it, it all means the same thing: They were in the church; now they’re not.

Why would we kick someone out of church? A number of reasons. The most obvious being they’re a dangerous person: They bring weapons to church, or pick fights, or can’t be trusted with children. For everybody else’s safety, they need to go away—sometimes in handcuffs, escorted by police.

More often it’s because of egregious sins, and they don’t care to repent of them. They’ve stolen stuff from the church; they’ve been promiscuous or abusive, and ruined relationships between church members; they’ve otherwise been a lousy Christian. Some of those sins are understandable when they’re new believers, but not when they’re longtime Christians, and definitely not if they’re in any position of authority or leadership.

Quite often, it’s because of heresy. They’ve been teaching stuff that goes against the church’s faith statement, or which violates historic Christian beliefs: Claiming Jesus isn’t really God, or God isn’t really a trinity, or there’s no resurrection of the dead, or Jesus isn’t ever coming back. They’re in a church which accepts miracles, yet they’re insisting miracles stopped in bible times, and every “miracle” since is devilish; or they’re in a church which forbids tongues, yet they’re insisting everyone should speak in tongues. They’ve been told to cut it out; they won’t, so out they go.

Also quite often, it’s voluntary. These people choose to disconnect themselves from their church. They think the leaders have gone wrong, or the church is heretic, or the members are sinners and hypocrites. Sometimes they even quit Christianity and left Jesus too. And sometimes it’s not even this particular church; they just don’t wanna go to any church anymore, for various reasons—none of ’em good.

Praying before bed.

When I was a kid, Mom would have us say our prayers before bed. We’d get in bed, the lights would go off, and we’d pray something along the lines of, “Dear LORD, please bless Mom and Dad and [big list of every family member and friend we could think of] in Jesus name amen.”

She didn’t have to make us do this; we wanted to. In fact we’d get really upset if we didn’t get to—and sometimes we didn’t get to. Mom would be busy, or Dad would require her attention and he’d tell us, “Just go to bed,” and since we were little kids we’d cry about it, and Dad would yell, “GO TO BED DAMMIT,” and we’d flee before he’d blaspheme further, or get out the paddle. But still cry.

As we got older we were kinda expected to do bedtime prayers on our own… and I got out of the habit. Mostly because my prayers weren’t short and simple anymore, and I kept falling asleep on God, and felt guilty about that. Even though there’s nothing wrong with falling asleep when you’re praying. Like Pope Francis used to point out, fathers love it when their children fall asleep on their lap; it’s the same deal with God. Besides, if it’s something we actually need to tell him, we’ll bring it up to him later.

But really, because of that irrational guilt about regularly falling asleep on God, I stopped praying before bed. I pray after I wake up.

Whenever I tell people this, I regularly hear, “Oh, you should really pray before bed. Otherwise you’ll have bad dreams.” Okay, maybe you’ll have bad dreams; I rarely do. If you think God will smite you with bad dreams because you don’t pray, or think evil spirits will invade your dreams because you didn’t ask God to put any hedge of protection around your sleep, do you have an unhealthy understanding of God. Honestly, if you’re having regular bad dreams, that’s a mental health problem. You need to talk to a therapist, not try to pray the problem away.

Other times, Christians will get super legalistic with me about bedtime prayer—as if we have to do it. Gotta pray when we wake up; gotta pray before bed; gotta say grace before meals; have to, or we’re bad Christians. That’s likewise an unhealthy understanding of God. Of course we Christians need to talk to our Father on a regular basis, but mandatory prayer times are our idea, not God’s. If I don’t pray before bed, even if it were my usual practice, I’m not in trouble with God!—and he’s not gonna smite me for missing prayer time. Nor is he gonna smite me for skipping grace, skipping my morning prayers, nor skipping all my usual prayers. I’ll feel weird about it—and that’s all.

So nope, you don’t have to pray before bed. But I will say if prayer calms you down—as it should, ’cause you’re thinking about God instead of your usual worries—it can be a healthy way to wind yourself down before bedtime. So can meditation and worship and other positive God-things we do. When we’re doing ’em right, they naturally drive out negativity.

Cutting it off.

Matthew 5.29-30, 18.8-9, Mark 9.43-46.

When I was a kid, I watched a Little House on the Prairie episode (“A Matter of Faith,” season 2, episode 15) where Caroline injured her foot, it got infected, and she was delirious from fever. At one point she read her bible—specifically, today’s passage, in which Jesus tells you to lop off an offending foot. So she got out a knife and got started.

Freaked me out a little. Because even as a kid, I knew this teaching is hyperbole. Jesus is saying something outrageously extreme in order to make a point: Sin is so awful, you’d be better off amputating your limbs than letting your sins destroy you. Especially destroy you eternally.

As a result he uses this teaching more than once. Once in Mark and twice in Matthew—and one of those times is in his Sermon on the Mount, which is why I bring it up here.

Matthew 5.29-30 KWL

29“If your right eye trips you up,

pluck it out and throw it from you!

For better for you

that you might destroy one of your bodyparts

and might not have your whole body

thrown into Gehenna.

30If your right hand trips you up,

lop it off and throw it from you!

For better for you

that you might destroy one of your bodyparts

and might not have your whole body

go off to Gehenna.”

Γέενναν/Géhennan is a transliteration of the Aramaic word ܓܗܢܐ/Gehenna, the wadi of Hinnom, just outside Jerusalem, where the people of the city burnt their trash. The fires burned day and night—same as hell, which is why Judeans used Gehenna as a euphemism for hell. When Jesus talks about Gehenna, he might only be talking about negative consequences, like getting dumped in society or history’s trash heap. But most of us Christians are entirely sure he’s talking about the lake of fire at the End, Rv 20.14-15 the “everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and its angels.” Mt 25.41 There are four words translated “hell” in the bible; Gehenna refers to that one.

This story is where some Christians get the idea of mortal sins, sins which are so bad, committing ’em means you’re guaranteed hell. This belief is not biblical; there are no such sins. Only a lifestyle of unrepentant sin in defiance of God is gonna put people in hell.

But certain things, certain temptations, are gonna nudge us ever so slightly towards that lifestyle. I knew plenty of kids in my high school youth group who wanted to fornicate so badly—as kids do, ’cause they’re full of hormones. Certain people in our Fundamentalist church told ’em if they did, they’d be unrepentantly defying Jesus; they’d be apostate. (No, they actually wouldn’t, but you know how certain Fundies get whenever people go against their “God’s” will.) You can kinda guess how things turned out: Super horny, and presented with this false dilemma, the kids sadly chose to quit Jesus. Some of ’em came back to him. Some still haven’t.

And no doubt there were certain Israeli kids, certain Pharisees, in Jesus’s day, who figured either they had to obey Pharisee teachings, or they were going to hell… and they were greatly tempted to choose hell. Yes the Pharisees offered tons of loopholes for God’s laws… but there was no getting around Pharisee customs. Break a Law and there’s forgiveness; break tradition and there’s not.

Fundies are the very same way, which is why whenever Jesus broke Pharisee custom (as he regularly did) some of ’em actually claim Jesus broke God’s laws. No he didn’t; that’d make him a sinner! He only broke traditions which God never implemented; which might be “biblical principles” but they were never God’s principles.

So what Jesus is talking about here, are actual sins. Deliberate violations of the Law of Moses. And yes, God forgives those sins too. But if you’re tempted to enter an unrepentant lifestyle of those sins, however you justify it to yourself: Better you stop lopping off bodyparts.

Backsliding. We all do it… 𝘪𝘧 we’re following Jesus.

BACKSLIDE 'bæk.slaɪd verb. Relapse into bad ways or error.

[Backslider 'bæk.slaɪ.dər noun.]

Most people imagine the road to sanctification isn’t level: It’s uphill. A bit of a climb, too. Paved with gravel instead of asphalt. So on the particularly steep parts, if you haven’t got enough forward momentum, the ground’s gonna slip under your feet just a little. If you’re standing still, it’s gonna slip a lot. It’s the natural consequence of gravity, y’know. You can’t just stand still. Keep moving!

In this metaphor, the gravitatonal pull represents our natural human tendency towards selfishness, self-centeredness, and sin. When we stop striving to follow Jesus, even for a second, we’re gonna backslide.

Okay, if the pursuit of Jesus is actually like this, shoudn’t we Christians be way more gracious, generous, and sympathetic towards backslidden fellow Christians? ’Cause I used to hike several times a week. (I lived in the Santa Cruz mountains; it was kinda unavoidable.) On every unpaved hill, there’s always backsliding. It’s unavoidable. On wet days, even with the best shoes, you can always make a misstep and fall on your face. I came back from many a casual hike covered in mud, simply becaue I tackled a hill which looked deceptively easy to scale.

The Christian walk—when we’re doing it right—will have way bigger challenges than wet hills. We’re gonna fumble. A lot. But we get back up again. Kinda have to; the road home leads up that hill.

Problem is, because of the massive convenience of living in a predominantly Christian country, we American Christians really don’t struggle with our Christianity much. If at all. (And most of us don’t go hiking either.) So maybe we’ve not thought this “backsliding” metaphor all the way through.

Or even really know what we’re talking about. Fr’instance: Back in my high school youth group, one of the girls became pregnant. The church gossips were mighty quick to comment how she’d so obviously “backslidden.” Thing is, I was friends with the boyfriend who’d impregnated her: She hadn’t backslidden at all. She had no relationship with Jesus. She attended the youth group ’cause all her friends, and her boyfriend, were there. She sang in the church’s choir because she was a good singer, and the music pastor appreciated her talent. The gossips assumed her church attendance, and her public on-stage praise of Jesus, meant she was Christian. Nope! Outside church, she was as pagan as anyone. She was no backslider: She wasn’t even climbing.

I find the very same thing to be true of most “backsliders.” They’re not following Jesus any. They’re going to church for other reasons. They’re friendly enough at church; they know what’ll offend conservative Christians, and avoid that. They know how to behave.

Of those who are Christian, they’re not following Jesus because they figure they’re saved, and once saved always saved. So they’re good. Why make an effort?—at all?—’cause that’s just works righteousness, and doesn’t save us, so it’s not worth doing.

The rest aren’t. They’re not hypocrites—they’re not pretending to be Christian; they’re not doing anything. Ask ’em about their beliefs about God, and they’ll admit they believe as pagans usually do. They figure there’s a God; Jesus is his son, but not uniquely so, and not also God; the Holy Spirit is either an impersonal force or one of God’s nicknames; and you go to heaven if you’re a “good person,” which they’re pretty sure they are… which is why they don’t follow Jesus; they’re “good.” Nor following the Christian crowd either. Following their own hearts, if that.

So “backslider” is the wrong term for such people. Which is why I use “irreligious.”