What a Calvinist Isn’t

I've heard a lot of misconceptions about Calvinism from my non-Calvinist friends, and so I finally decided to write something about it. I don't write a lot about Calvinism–mainly because I take it for granted–and I am not a lover of fruitless theological arguments. But I am tired of being misrepresented, so I'd like to set a few things straight.

• A Calvinist is not a fatalist. A true Calvinist believes that God's sovereignty and man's responsibility are both clearly taught in scripture. We do not entirely understand how they correspond, but we trust that they do. We know that we are called to behave as free, responsible agents. God's hidden will that brings some things to pass and frustrates others is none of our business. We trust scripture, but do not go further than scripture teaches. Interestingly, most critiques of Calvinism by Arminians are based on philosophical, not scriptural proofs (ie, God cannot be completely sovereign and completely good, because He would have to be the author of evil, etc).

• A Calvinist is not opposed to grace. I'm not sure where this one came from, but it keeps popping up, maybe because people mistake hyper-Calvinists (see item 1) with true Calvinists. A Calvinist believes we are saved by grace alone, and that grace upholds us even now. 

• A Calvinist is not opposed to evangelism. Many assume that since God has elected some (not all) for salvation, we may as well forget about evangelism, but this is not what Calvinism teaches. It goes back item one: we do not know who God, in his wisdom, has chosen, so we preach to any and all.

• A Calvinist is not a worshipper of Calvin, any more than an Arminian is a worshipper of Arminius. Calling someone a Calvinist is simply a way of saying they are a Reformed, Orthodox, Augustinian Christian. I have no allegiance to a term, but please stop saying you are neither Arminian nor Calvinist, but simply Christian. You have a view of soteriology. You can call it what you like, but I guarantee you: it's not new.

Ok, I feel better. In a later post, I'll talk more about what a Calvinist is. 

Prayer Before Eating Fast Food

Lord,

Bless this food-like matter, designed to fill me up,

dope me on fat, sugar, and salt,

and help me forget my hunger–

help me forget that hunger is natural,

that my stomach will always growl,

my heart always yearn for love and hope,

my mouth will always be an open wound

A Punk Preaches On

You can listen here. 

The God of Awkward Conversations

What makes a conversation awkward? 

Well, me, for one thing. I've got a talent for making otherwise comfortable conversations awkward. And not in that endearing, geeky, hipster way. Just a knack for asking the wrong questions, or not asking them, or completely blanking on what to say. 

I'm a communication professor.

Anyway, I just got off the phone with a guy who's a friend of a friend. He wanted another friend's phone number. As is protocol, both of us asked what the other was doing. I asked if he was still in Knoxville (he's in South Carolina). He asked if I was still in South Carolina (I'm in Virginia). There was a minute or two of that awkwardness. Then I gave him the number. He thanked me. I don't know why, but I waited a moment.

"Um, do you want to talk some more?" he asked.

And I didn't. And I'm fairly sure he didn't. Don't get me wrong; he's a nice guy, but if we were ever going to be friends, we would be already. So I made an (awkward) excuse and ended both of our pain.

I wonder if there's a theological construct for awkwardness. Am I awkward because I don't care enough about people, and it shows? Do I take myself too seriously? Do I take them too seriously? Or shall I chalk it up to my fundamental oddness? 

Is God is the God, not only of harmony and life, but of awkward conversations? How would we think biblically about that?

A Punk Preaches Again

Check it out here.

Prayer While my Computer Boots

I live between Arabic numerals,
between the integers
1 and 0,
between doubt and electricity.

To receive a pause as a gift,
an instant of clarity:
Lord, how to begin?
How to breathe?

How did you endure, Lord of calm,
those anxious moments between
rebooting Lazarus
and the light spreading over his face? 

Half-hearted

There is nothing especially good or bad about my life. Let
me explain. I don’t mean I do not enjoy blessings, like a loving wife, a sturdy
house, dependable car, good church, fulfilling employment…I do. I do not mean
that I do not endure hardship from time to time. I simply mean that, on
balance, my life is bland.

I’m neither spectacularly sinful nor improbably righteous. I
don’t do drugs or have affairs or torture my dogs. I pay the mortgage and do my
work and try to be a nice guy. The problem is that it seems that this is as
high as my aspirations go.

I used to smirk when the students would replay the old harangue
about apathy. Stop being apathetic! Do something! Help children in Africa! Plant trees in South America!
It seemed so perennial that I had trouble taking it seriously. It seemed as
though they periodically shook themselves awake from their Facebook stalking
and noticed their lives slipping away.

Which is exactly what I’m doing.

I spend most of my time at home playing Wii or watching
television. There is nothing wrong with Wii or television, but I’m beginning to
suspect that my life’s goal may be to work hard enough and advance high enough
so I can spend even more time playing Wii or watching television. Not exactly
an inspiring story.

Story. I just finished reading A Million Miles in a
Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing my Own Life by Don Miller. It’s all
about a couple of filmmakers who show up at his house wanting to make a movie
out of his bestselling memoir, Blue Like Jazz. Miller agrees, and this becomes
an excuse for the rest of the book to talk about the mechanics of story, and
how we inhabit our own stories, and how we can block God (the Writer) from
making them more interesting.

How are they made more interesting? Hardship. As Miller
writes, but joy costs pain. The
beautiful stories involve risk and pain. Now, Miller is not a theologian—he’s a
writer who loves God—and there are a few eyebrow-raising sentences in this book,
but as usual, his words cut deep and expose truth. Is my story hard? No. Is it
risky? No. Does it involve joy? Not really.

I wept last night as I realized that I needed to repent…not
only of my daily missteps (which are legion), but of my boring life. I have
anesthetized myself with comfort and television. I work hard, but only to get
more comfortable. I play it safe. I avoid risk. And as a result, I am, as C.S.
Lewis wrote, a half-hearted creature.

Lord, what would it look like to live toward the ending of
the story, to live into shalom? What would a life of risk and adventure entail? And who will deliver us from this body of death?