Books
Excerpt

They Might Be Giants. (Or Angels. Or Superhuman Devils.)

Who, or what, are the Nephilim? We don’t know—and maybe we don’t need to.

Daniel Olah / Unsplash

So are you going to write about the Nephilim? This was the question several friends asked me after I signed a contract to write The Characters of Creation, a book about the first few chapters of the Bible. I didn’t think I could avoid writing about them, given how they show up in Genesis 6, one of Scripture’s more bizarre chapters.

The Characters of Creation: The Men, Women, Creatures, and Serpent Present at the Beginning of the World

As someone who has confidence in the authority and inerrancy of God’s Word, I was a bit intimidated. I consulted scores of commentaries, sermons, and scholarly papers to figure out how to interpret this passage. Still, it excited me to dig in, because I believe our world needs the underlying message of Genesis 6: the reality of evil, the judgment of God, and the promise of salvation and redemption. Every day, injustice scrolls across our social media timelines, offering fresh reminders that the world of Genesis—depraved, evil, unjust—is not as removed from our own as we’d like to think.

Enter the Nephilim. They may be the most peculiar creatures in the Bible, and we are not even sure what they really are.

They’ve been featured in literature for thousands of years and popularized in culture. The Nephilim have made appearances in The X-Files, Shadowhunters, and Noah. Video games like El Shaddai, Tomb Raider, and Payday 2 feature them, as does literature such as House of Night, Fallen, and Atlas Shrugged.

What’s more, since the dawn of time, human legends and myths have imagined a kind of half-man, half-god figure, from the Babylonian Gilgamesh to the demigods of Greek mythology. But who are these strange characters who make their way onto the pages of our Bibles, who appear during a time of downward descent into human depravity—a period, as described by Moses, when “every inclination of the human mind was nothing but evil all the time” (Gen. 6:5, CSB throughout)?

The answer is, well … complicated.

The ‘sons of God’

The Bible introduces the Nephilim in Genesis 6:

When mankind began to multiply on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of mankind were beautiful, and they took any they chose as wives for themselves. And the Lord said, “My Spirit will not remain with mankind forever, because they are corrupt. Their days will be 120 years.” The Nephilim were on the earth both in those days and afterward, when the sons of God came to the daughters of mankind, who bore children to them. They were the powerful men of old, the famous men. (vv. 1–4)

Wondering what’s going on here? You’re not alone. Christians have wrestled with this story for all of church history, and faithful scholars and Bible teachers find themselves on two sides, both holding their positions with little certainty.

The first position is held by many church fathers—figures like Ambrose, Tertullian, Cyprian, and Clement of Alexandria—as well as many Jewish scholars. They argue that the term sons of God, in this context, refers to fallen angels who have illicit sex with human women.

One of the more compelling reasons to think this way is that the term refers to angels elsewhere in Scripture (Job 1:6; 38:7; Ps. 29:1; Dan. 3:25). Furthermore, the New Testament writers seem inclined toward this view. Take Peter’s second epistle, for instance:

For if God didn’t spare the angels who sinned but cast them into hell and delivered them in chains of utter darkness to be kept for judgment; and if he didn’t spare the ancient world, but protected Noah, a preacher of righteousness, and seven others, when he brought the flood on the world of the ungodly … (2:4–8)

Or the Book of Jude:

The angels who did not keep their own position but abandoned their proper dwelling, he has kept in eternal chains in deep darkness for the judgment on the great day. (v. 6)

These statements remain open to interpretation, but the idea of “angels who sinned” and the judgment of Noah’s flood seem to point back to Genesis 6 and the relationship between the sons of God and the daughters of men. In this view, the wickedness between angels and humans was so great that it required God to cleanse the earth with the Flood and lock up these fallen angels until the time of judgment.

This fits with a key theme of Genesis: God’s gracious provision set against the human inclination to exploit that provision by grasping for power and godlike abilities. We see the same problem in Genesis 11, where humans attempt to reach God by building the Tower of Babel. We see it in the Serpent’s lie from Genesis 3: You can be like God (v. 5).

Perhaps it’s hard to imagine fallen angels cohabitating with humans and creating these warlike, depraved, evil monsters. But that could be a function of the way our minds, in a secular age, are conditioned to downplay the supernatural and underestimate how demonic powers might prey on God’s people. Throughout Scripture, we see angels take on human form and human characteristics.

The mysterious nature of the Nephilim and the sons of God should also be a somber warning that our struggle for faith is not merely a human struggle.

Yet there is another way Christians have read Genesis 6 throughout the ages, one shared by Augustine, John Calvin, and Martin Luther. According to this view, the “sons of God” are human beings rather than fallen angels.

Proponents cite Jesus’ explicit teaching that angels “neither marry nor are given in marriage” (Matt. 22:30) as evidence that they are unable to procreate. What’s more, there are instances in Scripture where “sons of God” refers to human beings (Ps. 73:15; Hos. 1:10). Seeing the sons of God as descendants of Seth weaves Genesis 6 into the context of the entire book, with the seed of the Serpent and the offspring of Eve playing out in the dual genealogies of Seth and Cain.

As we reach Genesis 6, we see even the righteous line being overtaken by the depravity of the unrighteous. “Sons of God,” in this context, could refer to Seth’s righteous line intermarrying with the daughters of the heathen Cainites. Some even read Genesis 6 as referring to the sexual perversion of Lamech, a descendent of Cain who took multiple wives.

Those who see the “sons of God” as the family of Seth, then, capture something essential about the trajectory of the Old Testament: Even the most righteous are inevitably corrupted and must be saved. This, of course, matches a wider pattern throughout Israel’s history.

Again and again, God’s chosen people yield to the temptations of intermingling with the pagan nations, blurring their witness and abandoning God for false idols. In Genesis 4, Seth and his descendants “began to call on the name of the Lord” (v. 26). Their growing perversion serves as a stark warning for the people of God in every age that we can easily fall away from the righteous path.

Supernatural and nefarious

So what, exactly, are the Nephilim? Are these mysterious creatures related to the sons of God and the daughters of women? Are they the raging rock-monster, half-devil offspring of an illicit relationship between angels and humans?

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Fall of the Rebel AngelsWikimedia Commons
Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Fall of the Rebel Angels

There are multiple theories here. Most who hold that the “sons of God” in Genesis 6 are angels consider the Nephilim their offspring. The word Nephilim has an obscure meaning. It can mean “fallen ones,” but the early Greek Septuagint translates it as “giants.”

Even more mysteriously, it doesn’t appear that the Genesis flood wiped them off the face of the earth. As Genesis 6:4 says, “The Nephilim were on the earth both in those days and afterward.” And they show up elsewhere in the story of Israel, such as when the spies sent to explore Canaan returned to give a pessimistic report to Moses: “We even saw the Nephilim there—the descendants of Anak come from the Nephilim! To ourselves we seemed like grasshoppers, and we must have seemed the same to them.” (Num. 13:33).

In Deuteronomy, Moses confirmed the existence of these rather large creatures (1:28; 2:10). And as a 2019 article in the online journal Knowing Scripture explains, some have linked the Nephilim to the giants driven out of the land by Joshua, or even to Goliath.

All of this, of course, is difficult to sort through with any great clarity. On one hand, it’s hard for me to imagine the idea of fallen angels having relations with human women and bearing half-human, half-angel supervillains. It raises all kinds of questions: Can humans, who bear God’s image, give birth to anything other than fellow image-bearers? Can angels procreate? Scripture seems to indicate that these things are outside of what God allows in creation, though that is not entirely clear. And the pattern of “sons of God” representing the line of Seth and “daughters of men” representing the line of Cain seems to fit with the overall thrust of Genesis.

Yet I can’t escape the fact that a plain reading of Genesis 6 seems to indicate something supernatural and nefarious taking place. Nor can I ignore the passages in Jude and 2 Peter that seem to point to God’s judgment both of humans for their escalating depravity and wickedness of the fallen angel host.

What’s more, in a world profoundly shaped by modern scientific thinking, it’s hard to wrap our minds around this strange mixing of the human and supernatural realms. However, these kinds of myths have circulated among us since the beginning of recorded history.

According to scholar Gordon Wenham in his commentary on Genesis, “Stories of superhuman demigods like Gilgamesh were a commonplace, and intercourse with the divine was regularly sought in the fertility cults of Canaan and the sacred marriage rites of Mesopotamia.” And these myths and legends have echoed down through history, from the demigods of Greek mythology to our own modern pop-culture and literary imagination of the divine and supernatural.

None of us can interpret every subtlety of Genesis 6 with too much certainty. But whether you think the “sons of God” are angels or descendants of Seth, or whether you think the Nephilim are big, hairy warriors or superhuman devils, we can agree that God is using this passage to communicate two important truths: Humans, left to their own devices, descend into chaos, depravity, and wickedness. And because of this, we need a Savior, a righteous seed, to come and rescue us from ourselves.

Corrupted seed

In a way, the two most common theories of the Nephilim and the sons of God both offer important lessons. Genesis makes clear that there have always been two groups of people: those who fear God and those who rebel. Those who live in the way of Seth and those who live in the way of Cain. The righteous and the unrighteous. This is the epic clash predicted in Genesis 3:15, when God promises “enmity” between Eve and the Serpent (NIV).

Regardless of how you interpret Genesis 6, it’s clear that even the good seed, the righteous remnant, is being progressively corrupted. Consider that only Noah’s family, by the time of God’s judgment in the Flood, was found with faith.

Even the good seed gets corrupted: This is the story of the Old Testament. Who, among its procession of characters, is righteous enough to save humanity? Not Seth. Not Enoch. Not even Noah, who fell into sin after the Flood. Not even Abraham, who lied about his wife and had a child with his servant. Not even David, who exploited Bathsheba and murdered her husband. Not even Hezekiah, whose life ended in disgrace, as did Gideon’s. Samson, the strongman, saved Israel from the Philistines, but he couldn’t save himself.

Gustave Dore, The Fall of the Rebel AngelsDuncan1890 / Getty
Gustave Dore, The Fall of the Rebel Angels

Failure is the story of God’s people in the Old Testament, and it’s our story as well. We all fall short of righteousness. Isaiah 53:6 says that at the end of the day, we “all went astray like sheep,” while Romans 3:10 says there is “no one righteous, not even one.”

We need someone from the righteous “branch”—a son of Eve, a son of David, who is also a Son of God. This, according to the New Testament, is what we have in Jesus of Nazareth: the one who endured temptation, went to the cross, and with his life and death saves humanity and the cosmos.

Our most important response to Genesis 6 is not identifying the Nephilim, but identifying the state of our own souls, recognizing that we cannot save ourselves, and looking to Christ for salvation before we face God’s judgment.

And yet the mysterious nature of the Nephilim and the sons of God should also be a somber warning that our struggle for faith is not merely a human struggle. Satan did not take the curse from God in Eden lying down. Satan and his demon horde would strike again and again, throughout the story of Israel and in the life of Christ.

And today, though Satan has been defeated, we’re assured he will do what he can to thwart God’s plans. Though his sentence was pronounced in Jesus’ words on the cross—“It is finished”—Satan still roams around like a lion, seeking whom he may devour (1 Pet. 5:8). As Paul reminds us, we struggle continuously “against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this darkness, against evil, spiritual forces in the heavens” (Eph. 6:12).

As Christians who have trusted God to rescue us from our sinfulness, we stand in the victory God has already secured. We can pray against the powers of hell. We can arm ourselves with the truths of Scripture. We don’t need to fear superhuman devil-creatures like the Nephilim. We don’t need to fear the underworld of spiritual warfare. In the power of the Spirit of the one who has crushed the Serpent, we are “more than conquerors” (Rom. 8:37).

Daniel Darling is director of the Land Center for Cultural Engagement at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. This article is adapted from his book The Characters of Creation: The Men, Women, Creatures, and Serpent Present at the Beginning of the World (© 2022). Published by Moody Publishers. Used by permission.

Books
Excerpt

Is There a Tiny Puritan Living in Your Head? Tell Him to Get Lost.

God has set a feast for us in the world, and we shouldn’t feel guilty about savoring it.

Illustration by Mallory Rentsch / Source Images: WikiMedia Commons

I am convinced that most of us have a Tiny Puritan who lives in our heads. He sees all pleasure as temptation. He thinks the safest way to stay morally pure is to be chronically wary of one’s own enjoyment. When we find ourselves enjoying something (be it a particularly overripe peach, an amazing piece of music, or a first kiss), he furrows his brows, grumbling, “Sinner! Be careful! You might get carried away!” The Tiny Puritan is a nuisance, but we’re afraid to get rid of him, because we really do want to be good.

Aggressively Happy: A Realist's Guide to Believing in the Goodness of Life

Aggressively Happy: A Realist's Guide to Believing in the Goodness of Life

BETHANY HOUSE

224 pages

The Tiny Puritan believes all pleasures are guilty pleasures. Did you enjoy that movie? The Tiny Puritan suggests you could/should be doing something more productive or spiritual. Did you love those donuts? The Tiny Puritan suggests that you are a glutton.

We all handle the Tiny Puritan in our own special way. Some people learn early in life to lock the Tiny Puritan in a box and bury him somewhere deep in their subconscious, boldly enjoying pleasures both innocent and salacious. Some of us try to bargain with the Tiny Puritan, enjoying some small pleasures, but not without being flattened slightly by his derisive scoff. We end up trying to follow all the Puritan’s demanding rules, just so he’ll shut up.

It reminds me of one of my favorite films: Babette’s Feast. The 1980s Danish film follows the life of two sisters (Martine and Filippa), the children of a sincere but austere Lutheran pastor, who live a strict and pleasureless life on a barren and remote coast of Jutland. Each, in her turn, falls in love but turns the suitor down out of a misguided sense of duty and piety. They justify their self-denial as a triumph over worldly temptation, but regret haunts their quiet moments.

After their father dies, they do their best to tend to his dwindling congregation. Out of the long wasteland of their lives comes Babette, a refugee from France. She brings life and beauty to the dour daily grind of the sisters—simple pleasures, good food, flowers in the window. After many years, Babette wins the lottery and resolves to move back to France, but before she does, she has one request: that she might cook a feast for the sisters and their friends. Though circumspect, they accept.

Babette embarks on a conspiracy of excess. She sends her nephew on a mission to procure special ingredients—fish, fruit, wine, even a turtle. Like Lady Wisdom in Proverbs, she sets her table beautifully, mixes her wines, and prepares a feast unlike anything the self-denying Jutlanders have ever seen.

When the night of the feast comes, the sisters and the old villagers attend the feast but privately agree not to talk about the food. Only one guest truly appreciates its greatness: Martine’s former suitor Lorens. A true connoisseur, he appreciates every facet of the feast, each carefully curated morsel, and cannot understand how the guests around him seem bent on ignoring the sensuous masterpiece unfolding before them. They have been given pure grace, needing nothing of them other than enjoyment, but they treat it as temptation.

Try as they might to resist the beauty and bounty of Babette’s table, the guests experience a transformation. Old pettiness is confronted and resolved in magnanimity. Shameful sins are confessed and forgiven. Love is rekindled, and the evening ends with all the guests rejoicing together beneath a canopy of stars. It is revealed that Babette has spent all her money on the feast, and that she will stay in Jutland after all. Martine sobs, “Now you will be poor the rest of your life.” Babette responds, “An artist is never poor.” Babette knew what the sisters did not—that God’s world is a gift of grace, that God is the artist who is always pleased with his good work, and that we honor him by loving and enjoying his good gifts.

I sometimes wonder how often we behave like the suspicious Jutlanders. God has set a feast for us in the world. He invites us to taste his love in every perfect apple pie, to feel our souls brush infinity in the consolation of human love, to be drawn through music into worship. In each generous pleasure, each plucking of the strings of desire in our hearts, the Holy Spirit whispers of the new creation. So I dare you to take great pleasure in things. Tell the Tiny Puritan to get lost. Eat the feast.

Joy Marie Clarkson, Aggressively Happy, Bethany House, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2022. Used by permission of the publisher. www.bakerpublishinggroup.com.

Books

New & Noteworthy Books

Compiled by Matt Reynolds.

A Concise Guide to the Life of Muhammad: Answering Thirty Key Questions

Ayman S. Ibrahim (Baker Academic)

What can we know about the Islamic prophet Muhammad—about his historical profile and his religious teachings? In a follow-up to his 2020 volume A Concise Guide to the Quran, Ayman S. Ibrahim—an Egyptian-born scholar who directs the Jenkins Center for the Christian Understanding of Islam at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary—points curious Christians to the range of answers given by Muslims themselves. “It is imperative,” he writes, “to understand and evaluate the life of the man [Muslims] revere. This one man directly influences the lives of one-fifth of humankind and, indirectly, a significant portion of non-Muslims all around the world.”

The Discerning Life: An Invitation to Notice God in Everything

Stephen A. Macchia (Zondervan)

Perhaps without intending it, many believers treat spiritual discernment as a skill to call upon only as needed: at a crossroads in life, say, or at times of confusion and uncertainty. By contrast, Stephen A. Macchia, who directs the Pierce Center for Disciple-Building at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, views spiritual discernment as an all-encompassing way of life. “It’s the choice of the bold and courageous to know God intimately,” he writes in The Discerning Life. “It’s an invitation to all who desire a lifestyle that continuously seeks God’s presence, power, peace, and purposes … in good times, hard times, major inflection points, and everyday moments too.”

50 Ethical Questions: Biblical Wisdom for Confusing Times

J. Alan Branch (Lexham Press)

If you’ve ever wondered what Christians should say or think about an especially tricky moral or political quandary, chances are you’ll find your question addressed here. In 50 Ethical Questions, J. Alan Branch, ethics professor at Midwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, walks readers through a biblically grounded process of ethical reasoning before applying its precepts to the most challenging dilemmas related to marriage, sexuality, medicine, and the sanctity of life. As Branch reminds us, “Christians must not forget that ethical questions are fundamentally spiritual questions. The process of ethical reflection both affects and is affected by our relationship with Jesus Christ.”

Books
Review

Don’t Ignore Race. Or Alienate White People.

Sociologist George Yancey outlines an alternative to colorblindness and antiracism.

Illustration by Rick Szuecs / Source Images: RawPixel

For a long time, Americans committed to fighting racism have rallied around the ideals of colorblindness. Both legally and culturally, they have sought to build a society where, in Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous words, people are judged not “by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

Beyond Racial Division: A Unifying Alternative to Colorblindness and Antiracism

Beyond Racial Division: A Unifying Alternative to Colorblindness and Antiracism

IVP

224 pages

Over time, however, the persistence of racism has raised doubts about the colorblind approach. In response, groups like Black Lives Matter have seized on the rival paradigm of antiracism. Instead of aspiring to colorblindness, its proponents say, we should acknowledge that America is plagued by deep-seated racism—and then take aggressive steps to stamp it out.

In Beyond Racial Division: A Unifying Alternative to Colorblindness and Antiracism, Baylor University sociologist George Yancey seeks a new way forward, one grounded in a vision of healthy interracial communication and community. As Yancey argues, both colorblindness and antiracism result in “racial alienation,” which prevents us from working out our racial issues together in a way that honors the dignity, value, and worth of every individual.

In different ways, Yancey sees colorblindness and antiracism erecting barriers to this goal. As he puts it, colorblindness ignores the realities of racial injustice, past and present. As for antiracism, he faults it for exacerbating racial division, in part by issuing an implied permission slip to disrespect white people and creating a clear expectation that whites “defer to nonwhites.”

What can succeed where colorblindness and antiracism have failed? Here, Yancey emphasizes an ethic of mutual accountability and a reliance upon moral persuasion. This means, for starters, that when it comes to conversations on race, “everyone is allowed to participate, and everyone’s ideas are taken seriously.”

It also means an openness to having our opinions changed and our blind spots exposed. As Yancey remarks, collaborative conversations allow “those we disagree with to hold us ‘accountable’ to their interests [so that] we are forced to confront the ways we have fashioned solutions that conform to our own interests and desires.”

Much of Yancey’s argument is compelling. He’s right that too often in conversations on race, we neglect a range of perspectives. And I appreciated his critique of secular frameworks, like antiracism, for expressing a naive confidence in human perfectibility.

I am, however, left with certain questions and concerns. One relates to Yancey’s appeal to his own racial background. “When you are a Black man in the United States,” he writes, “it is difficult to escape your racial status.” Yancey’s personal experience may be relevant, but his statement seems to imply that his skin color gives him special insight into racial issues, which undercuts his emphasis on conversations where everyone gets a say.

I also would have preferred greater clarity on the standards that help determine what counts as racial progress. Yancey’s vision for moral suasion is built on a premise of shared morality: “Once people become convinced the new action is the moral thing to do,” he writes, “then change will likely occur.”

But this invites the question of which moral standard is in play. Is it pragmatism? Group consensus? Divine revelation? And if the parties involved disagree, by what standard will their disagreements be arbitrated?

To be sure, Yancey affirms that Christians must place “biblical truth above all other efforts to gain knowledge.” Yet elsewhere he states, “Christians cannot propose new directions for society as if they were given to us from God and expect everyone else in society to obey.” It’s true that we can’t expect our culture to embrace Christian standards of righteousness. Yet we are obligated to explain how the gospel offers a truly transforming vision of racial unity. Out of the nations, God has called out one new people to be a big spiritual family. Calling the nations to discipleship is the only hope for lasting transformation.

Ultimately, I appreciate Yancey’s effort to reach across divided racial lines from a Christian perspective. His language of mutual accountability adds a needed component to our conversations on race: a competition of ideas. Simply put, we need more models for pursuing these conversations well. But we should always weigh our models against the truths of Scripture.

Monique Duson is a cofounder of the Center for Biblical Unity.

Books
Review

Let the Modern World Make You Uncomfortable

Jake Meador challenges the church to rethink its attachment to the American way of life.

Illustration by Simone Noronha

For all the talk these days about the dangers of Christian nationalism, there seems to be scarcely any consensus among believers on what building (or restoring) a genuinely Christian nation would actually entail. This makes Jake Meador’s new book, What Are Christians For?: Life Together at the End of the World, especially noteworthy, in that one could characterize it as a quest to envision a country truly guided by biblical beliefs.

What Are Christians For?: Life Together at the End of the World

What Are Christians For?: Life Together at the End of the World

IVP

192 pages

Mind you, this is no attempt to “take America back for God” or to portray the Land of the Free as Christ’s chosen nation. Instead of pining for a lost golden age, Meador charges the church today to live by the biblical values we say we exalt, even at the cost of leaving behind our culture’s golden calves. As he puts it, “What would it mean for America to be an authentically Christian nation? It will mean a repudiation of the beliefs and views that assail the cause of life and threaten justice.”

Meador, editor in chief at Mere Orthodoxy, has written a hard-to-pigeonhole book, one that does not fit easily along any simplistic ideological spectrum. He is less interested in seeking a moderate balance between the warring poles of Left and Right than in rejecting the “inhumane and deeply anti-Christian” assumptions of our tribalized thinking.

Plenty of readers will appreciate Meador’s strong defense of the family or his careful and compassionate explanation of the classical Christian position on sexuality and marriage. But his not-so-subtle criticism of the American way of life will not sit well with those seeing the world through red-white-and-blue-colored glasses. You could say that he does not play nice with others, but he provokes in the nicest way possible.

Surveying various elements of contemporary life, Meador challenges us to consider our ways. He examines our views on history, race, economics, nature, farming and eating, and family and community, among other subjects. He questions—or perhaps asks us to question—whether today’s church has imbibed too deeply from cultural waters without pausing to consider the consequences.

The abstract and the ordinary

At 170 pages, this is a fairly short book, with chapters running at around 10–15 pages each. That said, its pages contain great depth. Meador has thought carefully about the issues he addresses, and he has a way of explaining his point that impresses it upon the reader humanely, almost gently.

Meador is a skillful writer. At times his prose is so beautiful you almost wish he would try writing fiction next. There is nothing flashy about it; he simply shares his illustrations in a quietly vivid manner. His evident joy in recollecting the difficult labor he performed during his time at L’Abri, his portrait of the simple beauties of growing up with a bow-hunting father, and his tender description of long days and nights watching that same father suffer from sickness—each of these is a novella in the making.

Perhaps the book’s greatest strength is Meador’s masterful blend of the high and the low, of abstract theological principles and the beautifully commonplace practices of ordinary believers working them out in their day-to-day lives. Meador is incredibly well-read, and his knowledge of theology, philosophy, history, and politics flows from his pen with grace and ease.

No book is without its flaws, including this one. Boiled down to the essentials, the problem here is not that Meador is telling the wrong story but that he sometimes fails to tell the whole story. The book shines when it probes philosophically into the unasked questions of how we live our lives. And Meador applies these ideas effectively on an individual level. For me, however, the tale misses a beat when it moves to the middle ground—when it considers, in other words, how Christian ideals might be brought to bear on the larger society.

Part of the problem, in my judgment, is that the book could use a little less Wendell Berry (a hugely influential figure for Meador) and a bit more Tom Holland, the atheist British historian and journalist known for tracing the development of Western values back to the influence of Christianity (more about Holland later). Granted, within certain Christian circles, Berry is all but a saint, and it’s easy to see why. His appeals to the agrarian ideal are a welcome alternative to the hectic uncertainty of modern consumeristic society. And yet, as pleasing as such thoughts are to read and to contemplate, bringing them into being on any large scale is no easy feat.

Meador rightly praises intentional Christian communities like L’Abri and the Bruderhof, an Anabaptist movement that stresses nonviolence, simplicity, and the sharing of possessions. And indeed, these are amazing glimpses of what can be when believers are deliberate about organizing their lives around Christian principles. But here’s the rub: These communities are extraordinary—as in outside the ordinary flow of life. It is one thing to glean from them some insights and practices to apply in our own contexts and in our own way; it is quite another to look to them as a template for the whole of society.

Here is where Tom Holland comes in. In his book Dominion: How the Christian Revolution Remade the World, Holland reminds us just how brutal a place the world can be without the influence of Christianity. This is, in fact, something Meador himself emphasizes at points, describing at some length the repellent nature of pre-Christian sexual ethics. In reading his book, I found myself wishing that this theme had been extended further. There are times when Meador’s rhetoric passes over the difficulties of living life as it ought to be lived in a world where little is as it ought to be. In this second act of the human story, between Eden and the New Jerusalem, our best endeavors will be tainted by what Isaiah 64:6 calls the “filthy rags” (KJV) of our human frailties.

At several points throughout the book, he points to historical events to buttress his argument, but without the full context they become little more than anecdotes marshaled to make a point rather than episodes to be understood on their own terms. Take, for instance, his brief allusion to the Anglo-American air raids in the Second World War. For one thing, it is rather unsettling to see the Allied bombing of the Axis powers unconditionally placed alongside the Nazi Holocaust as examples of the 20th century’s brutality. But more importantly, it brushes aside some of history’s complexities. Yes, American and British bombers burned German and Japanese cities to ground, killing hundreds of thousands in the process. Yet they did so to stop something else, a campaign of conquest that killed tens of millions in Russia and China, not to mention the horrors of the Holocaust.

This one example points to a larger issue in the book. Meador rightly calls out the ill effects of industrialization, corporate agriculture, and the isolation of suburban neighborhoods. These things have created problems we will be dealing with for quite some time. At the same time, they have created conditions where our standard of living has risen to the point that the poor of today enjoy a lifestyle beyond the dreams of all but the wealthiest in the past.

The same intellectual ferment of the 18th century that crafted some of the worst obscenities of American slavery also fostered the ideas of absolute abolitionism, the then-radical contention that no human should ever be a slave. The industrialization that tore away the beauties of agrarian society also gutted the appeal of Dixie’s “peculiar institution.” The same capitalism that, as Meador observes, can strip any job of its joy also provided the tools needed to face down the totalitarian tyrannies of the 20th century.

Be unsettled

How, then, should we receive this book? My answer is that we should receive it much as its author intended, as a challenge to the church to consider its ways. At times Meador’s analysis could bear some added complexity and context, yet the critiques are worthy of serious reflection.

I noted above that it was unsettling to see Meador link the American effort in World War II with the Holocaust. But that’s as it should be. No matter the justification, we should find it unsettling to wage war in such a way that so many would die. We should be troubled by the way 19th-century business barons ran roughshod over rivals, whose formerly independent workers were then given little option but to work for those who had broken them. On a whole host of matters, we absolutely should be unnerved by how the world’s way of thinking enters our lives without our even noticing.

My counsel is this: Read this book. Recognize that it is a partial answer to a complicated problem, but read it just the same. Let it make you feel uncomfortable about the way our world has been built and the cost to others. But, more than this, think about Meador’s examples of ordinary people in their ordinary lives doing their best to live out the eternal truths of the gospel. They might not have changed the world. Yet in some small but discernable way, they have changed their world.

This might not seem like much, but in reality it is everything. Despite what the history books seem to say, the world was not turned upside down only by famous preachers and theologians, as important as their work was and is. The most radical thing that we can do to cleanse our world’s “filthy rags” is to emulate in our homes and communities the sort of intentionally realized Christianity that Meador has so beautifully shared.

Timothy D. Padgett is a resident theologian at the Colson Center for Christian Worldview. He is the author of Swords and Ploughshares: American Evangelicals on War, 1937–1973.

Books

Secularism Doesn’t Have to Be Bad

Understood rightly, it offers the best hope of keeping pluralistic societies peaceful and free.

Illustration by Rick Szuecs / Source images: Envato Elements / Jacky Watt / Samuel Schroth / Diogo Fagundes / Unsplash / Cottonbro / Pexels

Most Christians have a negative impression of the word secularism. Can it be rescued from its association with antireligious animus? Michael F. Bird, a theologian teaching at Ridley College in Melbourne, Australia, attempts this balancing act in Religious Freedom in a Secular Age: A Christian Case for Liberty, Equality, and Secular Government. Natasha Moore of the Centre for Public Christianity (also in Australia) spoke with Bird about the place of faith in pluralistic societies.

How has religious freedom become such a contested ideal?

In the West, we’ve long assumed that Christianity was the default setting and Christians were the chaplains for Christendom. But now, as we enter a more post-Christian era and even a time of radical de-Christianization, new fault lines are emerging. And that’s going to affect the way we think about competing rights between different groups. It’s going to call for some very, very interesting management of diversities in our multicultural democracies.

What do you wish Christians—and secularists—knew about secularism?

I wish Christians knew that secularism is not a bad thing. It’s actually a good thing. Secularism is what stops a country from becoming a theocracy, where the government politicizes religion and religion becomes culturally shallow. Secularism is what protects you from government attempts to regulate, define, or interfere with your religion.

I wish secularists knew that secularism is a very broad term. There are different types of secularism that exist in France, Thailand, Japan, or Australia. And it doesn’t mean deliberately marginalizing people or communities of faith. Secularism is about creating space for people of all faiths and none.

In contrast to this benign form of secularism, you describe the rise of a more militant alternative. What options are there for countering it?

Certain segments of the media and the political sector see people of faith as a threat to a progressive agenda. In their minds, religious freedom must be restricted at every point possible. It should alarm us that a small, vocal segment of our society seems to want that.

Yet we have every reason to support legal and constitutional arrangements that safeguard religious communities of all types. Everyone has a vested interest in religious freedom, not just the minority of active religious people. Religious freedom is part of an interlocking body of rights—you cannot reduce religious freedom without also reducing freedom of association and freedom of speech. Religious freedom is often one of the best litmus tests for how truly free and pluralistic any given jurisdiction is.

Some of the fiercest religious-freedom clashes involve the rights of sexual minorities. But you’re optimistic about the prospects for a workable resolution. Why?

I’d like to envision a settlement where LGBT people are not subject to harm or discrimination, but there are reasonable accommodations made for religious communities to live out their own understandings of family, marriage, and sexuality. There are examples in places like Utah where religious and LGBT groups have tried to create an atmosphere of mutual respect. Neither side gets everything it wants, but they get what they need to live in peace together. That’s what it will take, in the long run, to sustain our pluralistic societies.

You lay out a set of behaviors and responses called the Thessalonian Strategy. What is that about?

The idea comes from something an angry mob said about the apostle Paul and his gang when they arrived in Thessaloniki: “These men who have turned the world upside down have come here too” (Acts 17:6, CSB). In the case that we do have a progressive government that wants to be more coercive toward religion, then we will need to turn the world upside down. We’ll need to seek means of resistance, but in a very Christian way. Not the way of Christian nationalism, not the way of civil religion, but instead finding new ways of living at peace with others and loving our neighbors, even if the default setting of government and media is one of hostility.

What are some of these “new ways” to love our neighbor in a hostile climate?

One, I think, is being more invested in the welfare of the religious communities among us. We need associations that bring people together and encourage a shared interest in promoting religious liberty. The cause of religious freedom could present a major ecumenical and interfaith opportunity. Because if I don’t want the government coercing Christian churches, then the same applies to synagogues, Sikh temples, and Muslim mosques. What happens to one group obviously affects others as well.

You dedicate the book to Tim Wilson, an Australian politician. Why is that?

Tim Wilson is a member of Parliament and a former human rights commissioner. Several years ago, he convened a roundtable discussion about religious freedom and LGBT rights. The idea was to arrive at a settlement where LGBT people wouldn’t be subject to harm, harassment, or unfair discrimination, but where we also allow the Muslims to be Muslims, let the Jews be Jews, and let the Christians be Christians.

Tim is a gay man who is married to another man. But he has been a voice of reason, sanity, and fairness in these discussions. He’s shown us how to have healthy, nonadversarial conversations in a context often filled with accusations and hateful hypotheticals.

Tim has noted that Australia is not a secular country—it’s a multicultural democracy with a secular government. That’s a good way to put it. Having a secular government (as opposed to being a secular country) might mean sacrificing certain customs to protect that secularity. So maybe, for instance, we shouldn’t have the Lord’s Prayer recited at the beginning of parliamentary sessions, which is an example of religious privilege, not religious freedom.

You quote a remark from the author Os Guinness that we’re entering “a grand age of apologetics.” How do apologetics relate to religious freedom?

If we want to defend religious freedom, we have to defend the concept of religion itself: Why is religion worth defending? What does it do for society?

There’s one side of our politics that loves religion because it represents a demographic to be weaponized for political ends. And another side treats religion as something to tolerate begrudgingly. With those extremes, we need to learn to defend religion as something that genuinely contributes to human flourishing.

If you could peek forward decades down the road, what would you consider a good outcome when it comes to religious freedom?

Beyond reaching an accommodation on LGBT rights and religious freedom, we need to develop a generous secularism, which means a context where government and religious communities can work together in areas like education, police chaplaincy, hospitals, and the armed forces—areas of mutual interest where cooperation makes sense.

That said, we want to avoid a religionized politics, where religious communities are weaponized for political ends, and where people prey on religious differences as a means of sowing division. Achieving that equilibrium is what success looks like to me.

Ideas

Tribalism’s Awful Antidote

Columnist

We’re made to have a herd. Made to transcend it, too.

Illustration by Rick Szuecs / Source images: Tomas Anunziata / Shane Aldndorff / Pexels

“This is awful.”

That’s what a pastor said to me recently about the tribalization he sees not just in the culture but in his own church. The angriest debates are not over whether a claim is true, but over what side a person has pledged allegiance to by affirming its truth. Red state or blue state? Cracker Barrel or Whole Foods?

The pastor is right that this is a lamentable state. But it’s not “awful.” Not awful enough, anyway.

The Christian church learned in the first century that fragmentation was a question of sorting before it was a question of splitting. In saying “I am of Paul” and “I am of Cephas,” one was swearing a loyalty and merging one’s own conscience into a herd defined by something short of Christ (1 Cor. 1:10–17, NKJV).

Biologists and psychologists would find that unsurprising. Many would say that humans evolved with a need to differentiate between “in group” and “out group,” the familiar and the strange. It’s “natural,” some would tell us, to ask, “Who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29).

All of us would agree that this sort of hive mind is a necessary function at times. If a fire breaks out in your Sunday morning service, you don’t want a thoughtful discussion about possible means of escape. You want the whole gathering, as one, to suspend their personal judgments and move. The problem that we see right now—ratcheted up to an unprecedented level by social media—is that there seems to be no off switch for the hive mind.

Social psychologists Jonathan Haidt and Dacher Keltner have found that one factor is most important in shifting people away from hive-mind tribalism. This factor works by allowing a person to shut down the self. It is awe.

Haidt and Keltner define awe as an emotion triggered by two experiences: One of them, Haidt describes in The Righteous Mind, is “vastness,” in which “something overwhelms us and makes us feel small.” The other is “accommodation,” in which the trigger is so outside of our normal mental structures that we must change to make room for it.

Human beings are meant to have these moments of self-transcendence. They allow people to contribute to the survival of the group in ways quite different from lining up into warring tribes.

One can see in these moments, Haidt notes, that life is about more than just the seen and the material. This encounter with transcendence, he says, can cause people to be kinder, calmer, and less anxious—almost, one might say, “born again.”

Almost. Haidt suggests you don’t need God to experience awe: Ecstatic collective dancing and psychedelic drugs can be gateways to such an experience. But those examples claim transcendence without actually achieving it. Still, what if Haidt is right that there seems to be a built-in antidote to tribalization in a sense of awe?

Jewish philosopher Leon Kass writes that at the burning bush, Moses experienced something beyond “Egyptian wonder”—curiosity leading to mastery over a subject. In “Hebraic awe,” he writes, there’s both a drawing (Moses is called by name) and a distance (Take off your shoes and come no nearer). In such a moment, Kass argues, we want to approach and to stand back, to hide our face but hold our ground. In this kind of awe, he says, we both feel small and then feel less small, afraid and then able to transcend fear.

Isaiah saw the glory of God, felt his own sinfulness, and then was brought near. John wrote that the glory the prophet saw was not an abstraction but a person (John 12:41). This awe showed Isaiah the sin of his self-striving and responded to it with atonement, showed him the inadequacy of his tribal identity and replaced it with genuine communion (Isa. 6:1–13).

Maybe the reason we as Christians find our loyalties in tribal factions and ideologies is because we’ve lost that sense of worshipful awe before a God who is not a set of doctrines or a motivation for institutional survival or a national deity or a political mascot. Maybe our clamoring for those sorts of hive minds is because we’ve become bored—unsurprised by joy, un-amazed by grace.

Maybe those of us seething with resentment toward those who make us feel small haven’t yet felt small enough. Maybe for the tribalism of our time, only a more awe-full church will do.

Russell Moore is Christianity Today’s chair of theology.

Ideas

Seven Trials, Two Dangers, and One Underappreciated Book

Columnist; Contributor

Church leaders care too much about numbers and too little about Numbers.

Sources: Wikimedia Commons / Getty / Halfpoint Images

It is widely recognized that pastors are too interested in numbers. Buildings, budgets, baptisms, bums on seats: If it can be measured, church leaders will count it. Many define their success by it—or at least they used to, until COVID-19 made the exercise somewhat less reassuring.

It is less recognized, however, that pastors are not interested enough in Numbers. At dozens of leadership conferences over the past 15 years, I have only heard two passages from the book referenced: Aaron’s blessing (Num. 6) and the boldness of Joshua and Caleb (Num. 14). Otherwise, crickets.

In itself, that is not a problem. But Numbers is a gold mine of pastoral wisdom, with more to offer church leaders today than perhaps any Old Testament book besides 1 and 2 Samuel. For pastors in particular, it richly repays careful study. I say that for three reasons.

One is typological. From the apostles’ perspective, the wilderness period is where the church lives now (1 Cor. 10; Heb. 3–4; Jude). We have been rescued from slavery, redeemed by blood, and baptized in the waters, but we have not reached the land flowing with milk and honey. We have all the blessings found in Numbers—the presence, provision, and promises of God—but we face similar problems: grumbling, pride, idolatry, immorality, opposition, and death.

Another benefit is illustrative. Other than David, no leader in Scripture is presented quite like Moses, with his inner life exposed, his family rivalries laid bare, his faults, fears, failures, and frustrations made plain. If David shows us the struggles of waiting and the temptations of money, sex, and power, Moses shows us the mundane challenges of ordinary congregational life: the arguments about decision-making and leadership succession, the high points of blessing, victory, and miraculous provision alongside the everyday tedium of conflict resolution, moaning, and sin.

But perhaps the most striking feature of Numbers, when it comes to pastoral ministry, is the way it warns of opposing dangers at both ends of what we might call the confidence spectrum. Throughout Israel’s history, and indeed the history of the church, God’s people have tended to oscillate between overconfidence (pride, arrogance, self-importance) and underconfidence (unbelief, timidity, fear). Generations typically swing from one to the other, as young people see the flaws of their parents and overreact. Our generation is currently witnessing this sort of pendulum swing, prompted by high-profile examples of abusive and heavy-handed leadership.

Numbers highlights both dangers in a remarkably intricate way. Scholars identify seven major trials in Numbers. The first and last ones see Israel grumbling about their misfortunes (11:1–3; 21:4–9). The second and sixth ones involve a lack of faith that God will provide food (11:4–34) and water (20:2–13). The third and fifth see challenges to Moses’ leadership, from Miriam and Aaron (12:1–16) and from Korah, Dathan, and Abiram (16:1–17:13). And in the fourth and central test, Israel fails to enter the land because of unbelief (13:1–14:38).

Laid out like that, the twin dangers become apparent. In the second, fourth, and sixth trials, the problem is underconfidence: doubt, unbelief, timidity, and fear. In the third and fifth, the problem is overconfidence: defiance, pride, arrogance, and the desire for power. The way the narrative bounces back and forth suggests that both dangers will characterize Israel, and the church, well into the future.

There is a warning for pastors here: In responding to unbelief and fear, don’t overcorrect and become domineering bullies—and in responding to domineering bullies, don’t overcorrect into fear and unbelief. But Scripture is not fatalistic about this, as if we are forever doomed to swing between unhealthy extremes. In Luke 4:1–13, Jesus himself will endure the central trials of Numbers. He will be tempted to not trust God for provision in the wilderness, to perform miracles just to show off, and to seize power and authority before his time. Yet he defies the Tempter and leads in humble faith with neither fear nor pride. In his grace and by his Spirit, so can we.

Andrew Wilson is teaching pastor at King’s Church London and the author of God of All Things. Follow him on Twitter @AJWTheology.

Testimony

I Plant Secret House Churches Because I Was Saved into One

How an Iranian teenager found Christ and launched a mission to equip persecuted believers.

Photo by Jillian Clark

I was raised in a Muslim family in Tehran, Iran. My mother was a teacher and the principal of an elementary school. She knew a lot about Islam and did her best to follow its teachings. She helped me learn to read the Qur’an, taught me to pray at least three times a day, and encouraged me to fast during Ramadan.

As a Muslim teenager, I remember being full of fear—specifically, the fear that my parents would die. This was because my Islamic beliefs gave me no sense of security on whether they, or any other practicing Muslim, would be saved. I had big questions about the afterlife experience that my faith couldn’t answer. Thoughts of losing my parents would scare me to the point where I would go into their bedroom late at night just to ensure they were still breathing.

Medicine for my soul

One day, when I was 17, a relative of ours came to visit. She had recently become a Christian through her relationship with a missionary working in Iran. And so she decided to come to our house and attempt to share the gospel. “Jesus is Lord!” I recall her saying. “And he has come to save us from our sins!” She supported her claims with several Bible verses, including John 3:16 and John 8:32: “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

As a young Muslim, I had been taught that the Bible was corrupted, that the version we read today is a distortion of its original contents. But as I listened to this woman read from Scripture, I felt something of its power—and I felt sure that a book capable of grabbing my heart that intensely couldn’t be corrupted after all.

Typically, my mother would get offended if someone disagreed with her Islamic values. On that day, however, something surprising happened. Instead of fighting back, she listened peacefully and asked questions. There wasn’t a trace of defensiveness; it appeared that she simply wanted to know the truth. (Later on, our relative revealed that she had been praying for our family before coming to share the gospel, and I’m convinced those prayers worked to soften my mother’s spirit.)

Something else in our relative’s gospel presentation stood out: her claim that “Jesus can set you free from fear and save you from eternal death.” These words were medicine for my soul and food for my hungry heart. I had never heard such words of peace and reassurance from any spiritual leader in the Islamic world. In some strange but powerful way, I thought I could sense God’s presence and authority in what she said.

At the time, I had no understanding of anything like praying a salvation prayer. I didn’t know how to repent of my sin or receive Christ as Savior. But as I went upstairs to my room, I couldn’t stop reflecting on the idea that Jesus held the key to eternal life. Suddenly, I found myself on my knees. As I looked up, I said, “Jesus, I know you are Lord. Save me and set me free from my fears!”

Initially, I was reluctant to tell my mother I had become a Christian, because I feared her reaction. As it turns out, however, she was experiencing her own spiritual awakening at the very same moment. Soon enough, when she confessed having come to faith, I dared to tell her I had done the same. Remarkably, my father and younger brother converted to Christianity as well.

When we informed our family member of our decisions, she rejoiced with us and immediately connected us to a secret house church in Tehran. Sometimes it was scary to think that the Islamic government could arrest us and sentence us to long prison terms or even death. But the Holy Spirit gave us extraordinary courage and a growing desire to share the gospel with Muslims.

Over the next ten years, to deepen my walk with the Lord, I began traveling to Christian conferences outside of the country. I would study subjects like discipleship, church leadership, and church planting, and then I would bring those courses back to Iran and teach them to my cell groups. I was so passionate about God’s mission that I would pray on my knees, every day, for God to use me as a full-time minister.

After years of prayer, I had a dream in which God told me I would go to another country. He didn’t reveal the name of the country or even the region—only the year in which I would make my journey, the year 2013. As it happened, in that very year I became stuck in Turkey as a refugee. Two years earlier, the Iranian secret police had arrested one of the leaders in our church network, leaving me no choice but to flee the country.

I remember my last day in Iran, driving with tears in my eyes to say a final goodbye to all my family members, knowing I would never be able to return. I can still feel the pain of that separation. But God was faithful in fulfilling his promises, working through the United Nations to secure my passage to the United States, where I live today. He gave me a great church and a great Christian family who cared for me. He gave me wonderful, godly mentors who have poured blessings and wisdom into my life, coached me, and prayed with me in hard times.

For nearly 21 years, I have been involved in ministry for the persecuted church. I have planted several house churches and taught discipleship and leadership courses within them. After moving to the United States, I discerned a call to equip the Persian church through social media platforms. My goal is to use the power of online education and social media to train new leaders. I store all my teaching and videos on my social media platforms. And I mentor all my trainees online, meeting with them in person a few times a year in a safe country in Central Asia.

Meanwhile, my wife and I host a weekly Christian fellowship on Instagram for Persian-speaking people in secret house churches in places like Iran, Afghanistan, and Tajikistan. People tune in from all over the world, and we worship God together and pray for each other. We have the chance to share the gospel with Muslims who live in regions we could never hope to visit.

Set free from fear

One year after I gave my heart to Jesus, my father died of cancer. It was a great sadness for our family. But he had become a great believer, and in his last days, he was praising Jesus on his bed, even during the toughest moments of chemotherapy. I remember sitting by his bed and reading the Bible for him. Afterward, I would pray for God’s healing touch. And my father would raise his hands to show that he was praying and worshiping alongside me.

When he went to be with the Lord, the Holy Spirit gave my family and me an incredible sense of peace. I realized that God had healed me and set me free from the fear of death, both my parents’ and my own. And I rejoiced in the certainty that because of Christ, someday soon we would all be found in the presence of the living God forever.

Nathan Rostampour is a church planting pastor and a leadership coach and serves with The Summit Church in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina.

News

Levites, Whores, and Demoniacs: Here’s How the New NRSV Has Changed

A look at five updates to the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible.

Wikimedia Commons

The official Bible translation of the National Council of Churches, commonly used by academics and mainline Presbyterians, Lutherans, and Episcopalians, has been revised for the first time since the fall of the Berlin Wall. The NRSVue—which stands for New Revised Standard Version updated edition—has about 20,000 edits. The changes incorporate new scholarship on the Dead Sea Scrolls as well as stylistic changes to keep up with the evolution of English.

SOURCE: National Council of Churches

addApple PodcastsDown ArrowDown ArrowDown Arrowarrow_left_altLeft ArrowLeft ArrowRight ArrowRight ArrowRight Arrowarrow_up_altUp ArrowUp ArrowAvailable at Amazoncaret-downCloseCloseellipseEmailEmailExpandExpandExternalExternalFacebookfacebook-squarefolderGiftGiftGooglegoogleGoogle KeephamburgerInstagraminstagram-squareLinkLinklinkedin-squareListenListenListenChristianity TodayCT Creative Studio Logologo_orgMegaphoneMenuMenupausePinterestPlayPlayPocketPodcastprintremoveRSSRSSSaveSavesaveSearchSearchsearchSpotifyStitcherTelegramTable of ContentsTable of Contentstwitter-squareWhatsAppXYouTubeYouTube