UNTREATED CANCER almost always means death to the affected individual. There are times when the diagnosis is made too late to institute effective treatment, or it is possible that inadequate measures may spell doom. Fortunately, where an early diagnosis is made and proper procedures are carried out, a high percentage of cures may be expected.

Sex obsession is a moral and spiritual cancer which has fixed itself on America and which is designed to destroy us as surely as untreated cancer destroys human life.

The diagnosis is open to all who can see. Our literature, stage, screen, and accepted standards of life literally reek with an obsession about sex that has now reached unbelievable proportions.

Now, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with sex. It is a God-given force in which, within the mutual bonds of wedded love, there is both righteousness and joy.

Our trouble today is that “sex appeal” is in large measure a determining factor in our way of life. It is the promotion of, acquiescence in, and submitting to this godless concept of life that is destroying America.

If this diagnosis be correct—and it is obvious that it is—then our great concern must be the instituting of an effective counterattack.

The basic cure lies in our acceptance of God’s standards for sex conduct, and not those of the world.

The Seventh Commandment states categorically: “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” and this has never been abrogated. In addition, our Lord makes it clear in speaking on the subject that the lustful thought or look are involved in this commandment.

For this individual and national problem, the Christian has the answer, and it is not found in the standards of the world but in the Bible itself.

The best course on sex education in the world is to be found within the pages of Scripture. Here we find the subject treated in a completely outspoken and uninhibited manner. That which is good and that which is evil in connection with sex is made abundantly clear.

In the Bible sex is treated in its wholesomeness, while at the same time its abuse is handled without gloves. The writer is convinced that the child who is brought up in a Christian home where the daily reading of the Bible is a normal part of life needs no further “sex education.” He is further convinced that the present demand for “sex education” for children is psychologically unsound, for it places in the child’s mind an emphasis on sex that is unwholesome, and eventuates in more, not less, sex experimentation on the part of those so trained.

I am perfectly aware of the large and long limb I am climbing out on, but I am convinced that the solution to our sex problems is not to be found in the present biological and social approach. Only as God is recognized and honored as both the source and arbiter of moral law, will people, young and old, look at sex in its right perspective.

One immediate reply is that only a minority of children come from Christian homes, that only a few hear the Bible read in the family circle, or read it for themselves; and thus a more universal approach must be had.

This can be easily answered. Across America there is promoted the school lunch program by which children coming from underprivileged homes can have at least one hot meal a day. This is a good program and it is meeting a real need.

If, therefore, children are being fed in school to supplement an inadequate diet at home, why do some people object when it is suggested that children receive some spiritual instruction in school? Nothing more clearly illustrates the folly of unregenerate man. We are concerned about the bodily welfare of our children—and rightly so—but we look on spiritual instruction as “controversial”—outside the pale of public education.

To teach sectarian religion in the schools would be contrary to our established principles, but the Ten Commandments are a part of the religious heritage of Jews, Roman Catholics, and Protestants. Why should not the Ten Commandments be read before all students at the opening of school every day? Here we have God’s moral law. It is not Christianity, but it is a part of the Christian faith. Let the words and the teaching of the Ten Commandments sink into the hearts and minds of young people—and for many this would be inevitable—and part of the moral problem of our day will be on its way to a solution.

Let every child hear daily, “Thou shalt not steal,” and the wrongness of dishonesty will become increasingly clear. Let each child hear daily, “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” and the evil of impure conduct will become real to many.

For that atheistic and godless minority who profess no religion and who would loudly protest against the reading of the Ten Commandments as an infringement of their constitutional rights and those of their children, let their children be excused from the room while the Commandments are being read. Further than this, there should be no concession to freethinkers, atheists and the like; otherwise, the overwhelming majority of Americans will find themselves checked by and at the mercy of a godless minority.

We are not for one moment suggesting that this is the final solution to the sex delinquency rampant in our country today. But it is one step in the right direction. Moral and spiritual concepts must be taught a generation of adult delinquents. It is parents, not children, who are to blame for the present situation. It is parents who have lost their sense of decency and moral responsibility to a degree unknown in the history of America and who have now transmitted to their children a laxness of attitude to sex which is reaping a whirlwind of sex obsession.

Believing there is but one ultimate solution, and that it is found in the God-given standards revealed in the Holy Scriptures, I would suggest an experiment to parents and for their children: Take the book of Proverbs, and in it you will find 31 chapters, one for each day of the month. For one year read one chapter a day (beginning with the corresponding chapter for the date begun), and I will promise on the basis of personal experience, the professional background of 40 years as a practicing physician, and yet more years as a Christian, that every problem of youth will be found and met in that one book.

In Proverbs one will find the evils of inordinate sex made clear. In this same book one will find the joy of married love set forth. Furthermore, any and all of the problems out of which juvenile and adult delinquency are spawned are clearly delineated—so much so that one will either stop reading out of sheer conviction and rejection, or cry out, “God be merciful to me a sinner,” and ask his help and guidance in the way of life.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth (Matthew 5:5).

Meekness is first of all a state towards God, not man. It is that tameness of spirit which ensues on the death of self-righteousness or self-assertion before our heavenly Father. Hence one of old called humility, “the mother of meekness”; and one of the moderns has said, “It grows out of the ashes of self-love and on the grave of pride.” It holds itself ready to fall in with anything, the least or the worst which God may give.

The expression here used is derived from Psalm 37:11. The Hebrew word for meek and that for poor are from the same root, and certainly meekness is akin to poverty of spirit. Our Lord declares that not the ambitious and arrogant, the irascible and violent, such as usually become prominent in the outbreak of revolutions, are the happy under Messiah’s reign, but the meek.

To view the Christian in the exercise of meekness, let us look at him in his conduct towards God. He no longer, like others, disputes against the word of God, or murmurs on account of the dealings of his Providence. Whatever God requires, appears, in his eyes, to be right: and whatever He does, though for the present it may be dark and inexplicable, is considered as wise and good. He dares not on any account to “reply against God.” Instead of objecting to any declaration, command, or threat, as “an hard saying,” he trembles at it; and receives it with meekness as an engrafted word, “able to save his soul.” He may have many and great trials; but instead of “fretting against the Lord,” he bows with humble submission …: “Not my will, but thine be done.”

Such is the foolishness of worldly wisdom! The wise of the world had warned them again and again. “That if they did not resent such treatment, if they would tamely suffer themselves to be thus abused, there would be no living for them upon earth; that they would never be able to procure the common necessaries of life, nor to keep even what they had; that they could expect no peace, no quiet possession, no enjoyment of any thing.” Most true—suppose there were no God in the world; or, suppose he did not concern himself with the children of men. But “when God ariseth to judgment, and to help all the meek upon the earth,” how doth he laugh all this heathen wisdom to scorn, and turn the “fierceness of man to his praise!” He takes a peculiar care to provide them with all things needful for life and godliness.

There is a natural meekness of spirit, springing from love of ease, defect in sensibility and firmness, and the predominancy of other passions, which should be carefully distinguished from evangelical meekness. It is timid and pliant, easily deterred from good, and persuaded to evil; it leads to criminality in one extreme, as impetuosity of spirit does in another; it is often found in ungodly men; and it sometimes forms the grand defect in the character of pious persons, as in the case of Eli, and of Jehoshaphat. Divine grace operates in rendering such men of an opposite temper more yielding and quiet. The meekness to which the blessing is annexed is not constitutional, but gracious: and men of the most vehement, impetuous, irascible, and implacable dispositions, by looking to Jesus through the grace of God, learn to curb their tempers, to cease from resentment, to avoid giving offense by injurious words and actions, to make concessions and forgive injuries.

Inherit The Earth

The promised land is for the tribes of the meek: before them the Canaanites shall be driven out. He has the best of this world who thinks least of it, and least of himself.

CHARLES SPURGEON

If we believe at all that the Saviour foresaw the fulfillment of the kingdom which he founded, we can entertain no doubt that he had it before his eye when he spoke these words. Accordingly, we see that in this promise humility and meekness are by him pronounced to be the truly world-conquering principle, with reference to their ultimate victory … in history.

A. THOLUCK

On the promise, compare Isaiah 57:13–15; 60:21; 1 Corinthians 3:22. That kingdom of God which begins in the hearts of the disciples of Christ, and is “not of this world,” shall work onwards till it shall become actually a kingdom over this earth, and its subjects shall inherit the earth: first in its millennial, and finally in its renewed and blessed state for ever.

HENRY ALFORD

They shall inherit the earth as it is to be when it becomes, for theocratic purposes, a new earth wherein dwelleth righteousness. The cosmical riches and enjoyments which God has so munificently provided and stored up for his moral creatures belong to the meek, and will in due time be conferred upon them. This is the real idea that underlies the 37th Psalm, from which the Saviour has drawn this particular beatitude.

JAMES MORISON

There is nothing lost by meekness and yieldance. Abraham yields over his right of choice: Lot taketh it; and behold, Lot is crossed in that which he chose, Abraham blessed in that which was left him. God never suffers any man to lose by an humble remission of right, in a desire of peace. “The heavens, even the heavens, are the Lord’s; but the earth hath he given to the children of men” (Ps. 115:16).

JOHN TRAPP

To “inherit the land,” is to enjoy the peculiar blessings of the people of God under the new economy; it is to be “heirs of the world,” “heirs of God, joint-heirs with Christ Jesus.” It is to be “blessed with all heavenly and spiritual blessings in Christ”; to enjoy that true peace and rest,—of which the rest of Israel in Canaan was a figure,—which a man enters into on believing the truth, and which will be perfected in heaven.

JOHN BROWN

With inconceivable grandeur does the promise which corresponds come forward, in order to allure our proud and stubborn natural mind to submit to that death from which it shrinks: for they shall, they will possess or inherit the land, the earth! Is not this worth the sacrifice of self, to be enriched with the free gift of such a possession, of such riches? It is in an Old Testament promise, which, while it there clings to the typical land of Canaan, extends much further in the design of the Holy Ghost (Ps. 37:11; 25:13; Isa. 57:13; 60:21) even to the new earth which with the new heavens, God declares that he will make (Isa. 66:22). It is the ultimate and full meaning of the promise to Abraham—to be the heir of the world (Rom. 4:13).

RUDOLPH STIER

In one of those contemplative moments which the dog and his need for a matutinal walk has brought to harrassed man, I sat this morning on the hilltop over the broad, bright sweep of the Manukau and reflected that next year is my fortieth as a teacher. And how wrong is the school song which alleges that, “forty years on” we look back “and forgetfully wonder what we were like at our work and our play.” How well I remember the back gate of the noisy wooden school, the gravel path to the headmaster’s study where I was to report, the leaden stomach of that first day’s duty.

But that is no theme. It was a verse of Edith Lovejoy Pierce passing through my mind which determined me to put some thoughts in writing. The lines were:

The Season of Questions is over,

The winter of asking is done.

Now is the hour for the answer,

The spring of the world has begun.…

Of the last line I can say naught. I am not even certain whether the middle fifties are anything but autumn. I am, however, sure that many of life’s questions are answered. These answers may interest some.

In A Shattered World

I should have been glad, I know, when I first became a Christian in my first year at the University, had someone convincingly assured me that the faith I had embraced would not narrow my mind and cabin my life. In 1921 faith was not easy. The old world of confidence lay shattered by the war. Authority of all sorts tottered. Cynicism was rampant. A liberal religion which served the Church so ill was reducing Christianity to the Golden Rule, Christ to a bright Apollo or a mistaken martyr, and the Bible to a sorry farrago of mere poetry and myth.

I found my faith in a traditional medium. Scotland and New York, as well as New Zealand, remember Joseph Kemp, and there was no surrender in his manly preaching to the rationalism which was seeking in the Church to salvage some pathetic remnants of a discredited Christianity. But it was difficult for a young man, who had felt the warm appeal of Kemp’s simple uncomplicated faith, to go back on Monday to a world which appeared less and less Christian, and to an academic society which took it for granted that religion was played out.

The world since that lamentable decade has learned some lessons. A vigorous Christianity has come to terms with learning, and has demonstrated that faith need not be obscurantist. The Bible has been most richly vindicated. A vigorous Christian witness in the universities is not confined to those who fail in their examinations. But it took the ’thirties, the challenge of communism, a second global conflict, much patient thinking, and much discovery to reveal the follies of the ’twenties. To become a Christian in those years felt like stepping out of the joyous stream of life, shutting the mind, and abandoning culture.

I had a deep conviction that such could not be the case, but it was a conviction against which doubt hammered daily. It was in 1948 that Herbert Butterfield remarked that belief in God actually gives “greater elasticity of mind.” I should have been glad of such assurance as an undergraduate. Now, rising forty years on, I know that a Christian faith has opened vistas and illumined understanding. When I see in the class before me some intelligent face light up with new insight as I show what Vergil meant in Rome or means today, I know that any touch of life that I can give to ancient poetry has its spring in those deep apprehensions of truth which faith in Christ can alone open in the mind. It was Ramsay who stressed the unerring accuracy and certainty of touch with which the simple men who first followed Christ turned to face and solve the problems of the world, and questions which had baffled all philosophy. We may share the same source of understanding.

“They put a lot of their own ideas on paper, and think they have discovered something,” said a colleague of mine. I smiled, because I think he was thrusting a little at my book on Euripedes. It is, of course, difficult to imagine what sort of book could be divorced from the writer’s own ideas, unless it be the sort of literary criticism some folk are lately endeavouring to extract from computing machines. Literary criticism must always reveal the impact of another on the critic’s mind, and to be effective it must find echo there and resilience. I frankly admit that I could not have written on Euripedes save from a Christian point of view. The Alcestis and the Bacchae, the first play and the last, make sense when seen from that angle which a Christian faith has made common and clear. And who can understand Aeschylus without the Christian insights on sin and grace?

Straight Thinking

But this rides a hobby horse rather off the path. I set out to make clear my conviction that Christian thinking is straight thinking. It is, on the other hand, “bent” thinking, to borrow Hopkins’ and Lewis’ adjective, which has produced the frustration of modern philosophy, the distortion of modern art, the jangle of today’s music and poetry, and the sheer folly of much which passes around us for psychology and sociology. No young Christian need fear that his faith will cramp him as a student or teacher of the humanities, of literature or thought, in any form or fashion. Nor will it spoil him as a scientist, or baffle any search for truth. But, one against the crowd, for so it seemed, I should have been glad of that assurance when the ’twenties began their foolish decade.

Yes, as Mrs. Pierce continues in the poem which haunted me today:

The Questions were searching and painful,

Ruthless and bitter and hard,

The answer is very costly,

And it has the scent of nard.

One of the rewards of life’s summit is the backward look. Struggling up the lower slope one is tempted to find no meaning in the road, no engineering in the frustrating steep. I should have been glad of the calm assurance of a plan. One of the strongest and most sustaining convictions which have emerged and taken shape on the surface of middle life is the certainty that Perfect Love and Perfect Wisdom can jointly integrate a life, however timidly surrendered. The pattern becomes clear as the years pass, those puzzles of unanswered prayer find solution, meaningless disappointment, burning injustice, loss and suffering, are shown to have been permitted in ultimate wisdom. God never “sends” ill or evil on a life. Let that horrible thought be forever put aside. We are tangled with a world where ill and evil swarm. God, after the eternal fashion mirrored in the life of Christ, permits his children to suffer, but out of all suffering brings good, and by some alchemy transforms all pain.

I have seen so far, over this span of life, that the many darker threads have meaning in the tapestry, and that what I thought was evil has turned mightily to good. I am slowly learning to wait with confidence when ill befalls. I write those words with hesitation, for the lesson is slow in learning, but I could wish I had found the conviction in tense days of the past when I lacked such assurance, and was tempted to the private exercise of a species of Christian Stoicism, which contained little comfort. I prayed in those days only for endurance. I have since found a simpler faith, and in serener hours wait for the answer to prayer with fascination knowing that God seldom answers according to expectation but infinitely more subtly, wisely, and well.

A Sturdy Faith

Of all my teaching years more than thirty have been spent in the university. More than thirty times I have seen the corridors fill with new, eager, impatient life, and have perennially wondered at how little youth changes. Each year new life talks its drastic nonsense and stages fresh rebellion, sums up its teachers, recognizes sincerity, merit, wisdom, and derides the lesser breed which struts and shams. Each passing year I see some find fulfillment in a sturdy faith. And if there is difference between today and yesterday it lies in this. It is easier and less lonely now to be a Christian than when I took my fresh decision stumblingly back to the classroom. Faith and scholarship have found their union. That dichotomy between religion and culture, between faith and learning which I sought to disregard because I felt it must be an illusion, no longer presents a problem to faith. Christian students seem more easily to hold their life as one, without compartments, tensions, and inhibitions … as easily as I who find no incongruity on Thursdays when I address a roomful of students, curious or Christian, on Paul, the Old Testament, Christian ethics, or theology, in the same place where, all through the week, I carry Catullus, Horace, Vergil, or Homer to the desk and talk of literature, history, and philology.

END

Inasmuch

O Thou who givest food and stars

In daily fare

Of bread and beauty, touch our lives

That we may share

Thy gifts with one whose board or heart

Is bare.

LESLIE SAVAGE CLARK

E. M. Blaiklock has been Professor of Classics in University of Auckland, New Zealand, since 1942. He is author of many books, among them The Decline and Fall of Athenian Democracy, The Christian in Pagan Society, and most recently, Historical Commentary on Acts. He has been an editorial writer for the daily and weekly press in New Zealand since 1935, and is also a former president of Inter-Varsity Fellowship.

The last entry in his pocket diary was on Saturday, June 21. His rotary desk calendar was set for the last time to Saturday, June 28. His last checks were drawn July 17, just a week before his death, and the check book balance tallied to the penny.

Most of the old, familiar things are still here—the escritoire at which he sat conning his Greek New Testament or the Hebrew Old Testament; the Glove-Wernicke sectional bookpresses handy; the Nestle and the Polyglot Bible and his various lexica within easy reach; the copper etched plaque on the wall over his desk with a windmill and a stream on it, and, beneath, the motto:

“All my thoughts go blithely home,

All my hopes are centered there,

Though the scenes through which I roam

Oft are splendid, often fair.

Yet my fancies fondly stray

Back along the homeward way.”

The chair is now empty. Instead, on the desk, there stands a miniature brass frame with his photograph in color. The cuckoo has just called from his vine-clad house, the big colonial grandfather clock has boomed out the hour, and the old clocks tick away the minutes that have passed since father slipped into the realm where there is no longer time—on the early morning of July 24, last year.

He had lived here with mother and me for the eight years of his retirement, and it is difficult to realize that he is not here now. Coming back from the funeral parlor after viewing his body, I wanted to tell him about the woman from the city where he had been pastor for so many years—a woman who, standing at the casket, had told me how he had cheered her during her long convalescence.

Father had a passion for knowledge, and his quest for facts remained keen to the end. What he didn’t know he was determined to learn. So often, it was more convenient to ask him than to consult a work of reference. If he didn’t know, he would look it up, and if he didn’t have the answer immediately I would usually have it within a few minutes.

Not being up on the fine points of Greek grammar, I would inquire, for example, “Why does Scripture say pasa graphe theopneustos? The genders don’t seem to agree.” But now he is not here. I felt his absence keenly one evening, when, having forgotten his reply to this philological inquiry, I stayed up until the early hours one morning searching out the answer before I finally found it right under my nose. Arndt and Gingrich had provided clues, and so did Thayer, but I missed the point. Finally, after much leafing through New Testament grammars I found it in an elementary text: “Some adjectives, especially compounds, have only two endings, the masc. and fem. having the same forms.” But what an advantage it had been to have a father who solved such riddles for me in a trice.

Now there is no opportunity to share with him the theological and other reading matter that comes to my desk—the big old roll-top which he had inherited from his father and given to me upon his retirement.

Such a change is hard to get accustomed to. Especially do I miss his ripe judgment in the practical affairs of the ministry. He had been in pastorates for 49 years, and was a district official part of that time. His father had also been a pastor and an administrator, and so there was little in the line of professional problems to which my father did not have a prompt solution in a few, well-chosen words, the distilled experience of two generations in the ministry.

Pastoral problems never rode him. It often seemed to me that he could turn his mind off and on at will. He knew his call was from God, and he depended upon the Almighty to sustain him. Had not the Lord said, “Thou art my servant. I have chosen thee and not cast thee away. Fear thou not, for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee. I will help thee. Yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness”? True, he had had all the usual problems of the ministry, plus some unusual ones, but he could commend them to the Lord and go to sleep after the most trying days.

Father was, above all, an all-around pastor. He did not aim, as so many nowadays do, to be a hard-driving administrator who can get the people into the church and get the money and work out of them. He had no use for miscellaneous activities that did not help forward the work of the Kingdom. The modern approach to church work I am sure he regarded as shallow in its essence, not prompted by the Spirit, and in some cases even treasonable to the divine call.

Nor did father specialize in homiletics. He would write his sermon in an hour or two on Friday evening in Gabelsberger shorthand, and then commit it to memory in twenty minutes. Saturdays, when it was feasible, he would relax and putter around in the house. Sunday morning he would awake with joy, eager to proclaim God’s word.

Lutheran pastors have more classes to teach than most ministers, and they have evening Lenten services at the low ebb tide of the year when sickness is rife and funerals prevalent. But while his strength held out, he never shunned effort. For years he preached three times on Sunday mornings—twice in English and once in German, and the services were in two different places. When he preached only twice, he had a Bible class between services.

Yet he found the time and energy to take an active part, as an official, in the work of the church at large, and to serve other congregations besides his own. For a considerable time he preached regularly on Sunday afternoons in a church 30 miles away while he straightened out the affairs of that and a neighboring congregation from which it had split. For one whole year he had charge of a large city church in addition to his own moderate-sized one.

Father took all such things in his stride, and when others became flustered or harried under pressure he remained calm.

Father was painstaking even beyond what I have indicated, conscientious almost to a fault, a Puritan, perhaps, in the minds of many, or a Spartan, or an ascetic; but always was he genial, a real shepherd of souls, one who knew what the Lord called him to do and endeavored to do that and nothing else.

But “the old order changeth, giving place to new.” There are not too many pastors left, I suppose, who are not entangled in so many secondary activities that they preclude the proper exercise of being real Seelsorger, curates of souls, fathers in Christ.

“If a man earnestly ponders God’s Word in his heart, believes it and falls asleep or dies over it, he sinks away and journeys forth before he is aware of death.” Thus wrote Dr. Martin Luther. And so it was with father.

From an old commonplace book I read, in his handwriting, this from Thomas Moore’s “Lalla Rookh”:

“Joy, Joy forever! My task is done.

The gates are passed, and heaven is won.”

Father is home at last.

END

Eldor Paul Schulze is Pastor of the Lutheran Church of Our Redeemer, Peekskill, New York. The above tribute was written as a memorial to his minister-father, Gustave Albert Schulze, who passed on to his heavenly reward, July 24, 1958.

In the first article which appeared under the above title, it was pointed out that the religion of the Bible is pervasively supernatural. A second and no less important feature of biblical religion is its claim to uniqueness. In fact, the two go together. If the religion of the Bible is truly supernatural and heavenly, then it is unique. There are, B. B. Warfield has reminded us, three general types of religion which men have made for themselves, according as the intellect, sensibility, or will predominates in them. But there is “an even more fundamental division among religions than that which is supplied by these varieties. This is the division between man-made and God-made religions. Besides the religions which man has made for himself, God has made a religion for man. We call this revealed religion; and the most fundamental division which separates between religions is that which divides revealed religion from unrevealed religions” (Biblical and Theological Studies, 1952, p. 445). In saying this, Dr. Warfield was in a sense simply expounding the words of John who said of Jesus: “He that cometh from above is above all: he that is of the earth is earthly and speaketh of the earth. He that cometh from heaven is above all. And what he hath seen and heard, that he testifieth” (John 3:31 f.).

This is a most important distinction. We are living in an age which makes much of comparative study. Comparison figures more or less prominently in every field of scientific research, especially in that of religion. Archaeology has been widening our perspective of the past. We are no longer dependent on the classical writers for our knowledge of ancient peoples, their beliefs, and their practices. We have much firsthand information regarding the religions of the Egyptians, Sumerians, Babylonians, Hittites, and Persians. It is natural and proper to compare them with the religion of the Bible. This comparison can be helpful and illuminating, provided only it does full justice to the differences and does not stress resemblances to the neglect or at the expense of that which is distinctive and unique.

Since we have discussed Dr. Albright’s attitude toward the supernaturalism of the Bible, we shall now consider his attitude toward the question of the uniqueness of the religion which it sets forth.

In his Introduction to the latest edition of From the Stone Age to Christianity, Dr. Albright severely criticizes Toynbee for his “repeated onslaughts on the alleged intolerance of ancient Israel, to which he traces the intolerance sometimes found in subsequent Christianity and Judaism.” He tells us: “Actually nearly all peoples, both primitive and sophisticated, claim uniqueness, while intolerance—which is only one facet of the basic human drive for power—is universally human” (p. 6).

As a result of the new knowledge of ancient religions which the archaeologists have supplied, there has been a growing tendency not only to compare these religions but to construct a pattern which will fit all of them more or less fully. This has been done in recent years by the British Myth and Religion school and by the Scandinavian (Uppsala) Traditio-historical school. That all of these ancient religions should have much in common is only to be expected. But the significant thing is that a vigorous attempt is being made to fit the religion of Israel into this pattern, to find for it a common origin with them, and to regard the unique ethical monotheism of the Bible as the product of the genius of the Jew for religion.

The Faith And Other Faiths

What, we may ask, is Dr. Albright’s attitude toward the question of the relation of biblical religion to the ethnic faiths? In speaking of the world which the archaeologist has been making known to us, he states: “But though the Bible arose in that world, it was not of that world; its spiritual values are far richer and deeper, irradiating a history which would otherwise resemble that of the surrounding peoples.” Again, he writes: “Since Israel was not only a rarely endowed people, but was also affiliated by blood and by cultural ties with all surrounding nations, it was able to select the most vital elements in their religious literatures, and to combine them into a new and richer synthesis” (p. 65). Speaking of “The Bible and Recent Discovery,” he tells us: “Climaxing and transcending all ancient religious literatures, it represents God’s culminating revelation to man at the latter’s coming to the age of maturity” (p. 132).

On the one hand, Dr. Albright speaks of the rich endowment of Israel and her ability to adapt and improve the best in the ethnic faiths. On the other hand, he speaks of Christianity as “God’s culminating revelation to man.” Is there any real difference in Dr. Albright’s thinking between what we may call the genius of Israel for religion and the special and unique revelation made by God to Israel through those “men of God” by whom he “spoke” a message which was unheeded by the people as a whole?

The Psalms And Pagan Poems

A few examples will help us to find the answer. One of the most remarkable discoveries of the present century was the finding of the city of Ugarit (Ras Shamra). This ancient Syrian city occupied a strategic position on the Orontes river on the route between Mesopotamia and the Mediterranean. It early developed a relatively high culture; and it was discovered that an alphabetic system of writing was in use there at least as early as the time of Moses. Much of the material written in this script is of a mythological nature; and portions of three elaborate poems have been published. They throw light on the nature of the language spoken not far from Palestine in the days of Moses, and on the character of its religious poetry.

This discovery has led to an extensive comparison of the biblical Psalms with these “Canaanite” poems. According to Dr. Albright, “We find that early Psalms contain so much Canaanite material that they may safely be treated as Israelite adaptations of pre-Israelite hymns and lyric poems, apparently all composed between the thirteenth and the tenth centuries and swarming with archaic expressions only recently explained by Canaanite parallels” (Religion in Life, 1952, p. 544). Consequently Dr. Albright and others are now arguing for the early date of many Old Testament psalms. But surely it is a heavy price to pay for their early date if we are to regard them as adaptations from the Canaanite, a religion which the Israelites were commanded utterly to abhor!

Let us look at one of these adaptations. Dr. Albright is especially insistent that Psalm 29 is “adapted from the Canaanite.” In this psalm the name of Jehovah (Yahweh) occurs 18 times. The adapting must then have involved the changing of 18 occurrences of Baal to 18 occurrences of Yahweh. The alleged adaptation is particularly noteworthy because it is admitted that no such poem has actually been found in Ugaritic. So the changing back of the psalm to its “original” form results in a new type of Canaanite poem.

Why, we ask, if the Hebrews had such superior religious ideas, should they have been obliged to borrow from the Canaanites a psalm which is assigned by its heading to David? Elsewhere Dr. Albright has told us: “The sedentary culture which they [Israel] encountered in the thirteenth century seems to have reflected the lowest religious level in all Canaanite history, just as it represented the lowest point in the history of Canaanite art. Against this religion the Israelites reacted with such vigor that we find only the scantiest traces of it surviving in Yahwism—many of these traces belonging, moreover, to later waves of Canaanite (Phoenician) influence” (Archaeology and the Religion of Israel, p. 94).

There is of necessity a certain similarity between Hebrew and pagan psalmody. They both speak the language of religious devotion. We do not have to go to Ugarit to find religious poems which somewhat resemble those in the Hebrew Psalter. We can find them among the Egyptians, the Sumerians, the Babylonians. But the similarities are all external and superficial. These hymns are all the expression of natural religion. They are addressed to gods who could not save and who have long since passed into forgottenness.

Prohibition Of Idolatry

The religion of the Old Testament is a spiritual religion. Idolatry of every kind is emphatically prohibited. But the tendency of Israel to fall away into idolatry is referred to again and again. One of the most notable examples is the case of Jeroboam and his golden calves. That this was idolatry pure and simple is indicated as plainly as language can express it. We read that Jeroboam “made two calves of gold” and said to the people who had made him king, “It is too much for you to go up to Jerusalem; behold thy gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt” (1 Kings 12:28). We are told further that “this thing became a sin”; and nearly every king of the Northern Kingdom is judged and condemned because, whatever else he did or left undone, he followed in the sin of Jeroboam the son of Nebat, “who made Israel to sin.”

In the great arraignment of 2 Kings 17, the people of the Northern Kingdom are accused of both idolatry and polytheism. “And they left all the commandments of the Lord their God, and made them molten images, even two calves, and made a grove, and worshipped all the host of heaven, and served Baal” (v. 16). Dr. Albright is largely responsible for the now popular attempt to “whitewash” Jeroboam. He tells us that Jeroboam did not intend these calves to be representative of Deity, but to be merely the animals upon which the invisible Yahweh stood or sat enthroned, like the cherubim of the mercy seat. He tells us that “Among Canaanite, Aramaeans, and Hittites we find the gods nearly always represented as standing on the back of an animal or as seated on a throne borne by animals—but never themselves in animal form” (p. 299). So he argues that Jeroboam was merely attempting to reproduce as far as possible the cultus of the Temple at Jerusalem.

There are several things to be noted regarding this novel theory. There is not the slightest intimation in the biblical narrative that Jeroboam did not intend the calves to be themselves objects of worship. If Jeroboam really intended to introduce a spiritual worship corresponding to the worship described in the Pentateuch, he is one of the most misjudged and maligned men in history. It is to be noted especially that Jeroboam fled to Egypt from the wrath of Solomon. In Egypt many of the gods had animal heads; and the cult of the bull (Apis) goes back to ancient times. It is highly probable that Jeroboam conceived the idea of the calf worship in Egypt; and he may have heard of the calf which Aaron made and have forgotten the severe rebuke which Aaron received for making it. That Jeroboam should set up an idolatrous cult in Northern Israel is not to be wondered at when we read of Solomon’s idolatries in 1 Kings 11. Both are described and condemned as grievous departures from the true religion of Israel. Finally, Dr. Albright’s explanation completely stultifies the prophets in their protest against this most reprehensible worship. When Hosea denounced the calf worship with the words: “the workman made it; therefore it is not God; but the calf of Samaria shall be broken in pieces” (8:6), it is clear that he regarded the calf worship as idolatry. Were Dr. Albright’s theory correct, we might expect Hosea to have received the devastating answer: “You are a fool. We don’t worship the calf, but the invisible Jehovah who stands on the calf. You don’t understand that our worship is spiritual.” But where is there the slightest evidence in Scripture that such an answer was made or could be made? There is a vast gulf between the true religion of Israel and the idolatrous worship of the calves.

Dr. Albright tells us that a “return to Biblical Theology” is imperatively needed. What we are concerned to know is whether, according to Albright, this return involves the acceptance of Peter’s declaration regarding Jesus: “Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved” (Acts 4:12), or whether he regards Peter’s words as representative of that “intolerance” which he tells us is “only one facet of the basic human drive for power” and which he describes as “universally human.”

END

Oswald T. Allis, Ph.D., D.D., author of a number of volumes and articles in the Old Testament field, was formerly professor at both the Princeton and Westminster Theological seminaries.

The hundred years that have elapsed since the first publication of Origin of Species have by no means abated the interest which Darwin kindled. As evolutionary theories have multiplied, so evolutionary principles have been applied almost promiscuously to all areas of human culture.

The tension between Christianity and the descendants of Charles Darwin is usually discussed in terms either of technical details in the evolutionary mechanism, or else of variant interpretations of the biblical record. While the relevance of these issues cannot be denied nor their importance minimized, yet one does suspect that the underlying philosophical conflict is far more crucial. It is this which guides both the selection of data and the formulation of hypotheses. The purpose of this article is accordingly to define the basic issues in the perennial conflict between Christianity and what we shall call “scientific naturalism.” While passing allusion will be made to what may be considered the deciding factors, the primary intent is to clarify the problem, not to resolve it. Such clarification is a necessary prelude to evaluation; often, as in the present case, it settles the issue for one who, like the evangelical, has established to his own satisfaction certain key beliefs. But it settles only the philosophical issue, for technical scientific and exegetical problems may persist indefinitely.

To begin, it is important to define historic Christianity neither too narrowly nor too broadly. For present purposes, we may note three essentials. First, historic Christianity is clearly theistic. It regards the constant activity of a personal Supreme Being as both necessary and ultimate in giving an adequate account of the existence, nature, and process of the world, and in meeting adequately the intellectual, moral, and spiritual needs of man. To understand either the universe in general or man in particular, it is claimed, we need to look beyond both the universe and man to the eternal God. Theism by definition implies supernaturalism: the existence of One greater than finite nature.

Second, historic Christianity is rooted in the historic person and work of Jesus Christ. This in itself implies the supernatural in the Incarnation and Resurrection and in the work of revelation and redemption. Further, revelation implies that there is an absolute divine truth to be revealed, and redemption infers that there is an unchanging moral law to be upheld. The Christian therefore sees all ultimate moral values as epitomized in Jesus Christ, and all valid religious experience as focusing on Him. In Scripture this is the testimony especially of the Johannine writings.

Third, whatever explanations of human origins scientific or exegetical data may or may not allow, the unique natural endowment of man is plainly a corollary of the fact that he alone is the recipient of divinely provided revelation and redemption. Historic Christianity therefore insists on the uniqueness of man both in the universe and in relation to God. The imago dei marks man off from the beast; it marks him off for God. Chancellor Hutchins of the University of Chicago is supposed to have remarked that cats and dogs do not build cathedrals. They have neither the engineering skill nor the architectural ability, neither the aesthetic appreciation to express, nor the moral values to preserve; above all they have no religious life.

The Naturalistic Revolt

Scientific naturalism stands in vivid contrast to historic Christianity thus defined. Preliminarily, let it be repeated that we are concerned not with natural science—an objective discipline—but with a brand of philosophical naturalism which purports to understand things in scientific terms alone. This attitude is not new. It found its classical expression in Lucretius, the Roman, who deemed the motion of atoms in a void sufficient in itself to account for the greatest cosmic processes and the tiniest cultural or individual differences. Darwin gave added impetus to scientific naturalism. He systematized the evolutionary account of origins, and in so doing laid the foundation on which his successors have built their diverse explanations of life and mind, culture and religion.

Scientific naturalism poses its first essential in direct antithesis to the theism of historic Christianity. The universe is both self-sufficient and self-explanatory. No more ultimate explanation is necessary than may be given by describing the natural processes involved. Nor is it necessary to satisfy man’s intellectual, moral, and spiritual needs by adducing a God, for these needs may well be meaningless and irrelevant. The supernatural is entirely excluded.

Second, scientific naturalism explains the person and work of Jesus Christ otherwise than in historical and supernaturalist terms. He is regarded as just another product of the evolution of human morality and religion. His revelation becomes a myth and his redemption the crude superstition of the Judaic mind. Whereas men may respect and apply his precocious ethics, Christian religious experience is neither more nor less real than any other. It may all be explained in naturalistic psychological terms.

Third, scientific naturalism insists on the continuity of man with the rest of nature. Biological and psychological similarities to other animals overshadow cultural differences. Evolutionary selection and adjustment alone have brought us to where we are, and they alone can offer prognoses for the future. For a while this suggested unlimited opportunities for inevitable progress, but in more recent years naturalistic optimism has given way to that querulous gloom characteristic of the nuclear age. As early as 1902 Bertrand Russell expressed the new naturalistic outlook:

That man is the product of causes who had no prevision of the end they were achieving; that his origin, his growth, his hopes and fears, his loves and beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms, that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling, can preserve an individual life beyond the grave; that all the labours of the ages, all the devotion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, and that the whole temple of Man’s achievements must inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruins—all these things, if not quite beyond dispute, are yet so nearly certain, that no philosophy which rejects them can hope to stand.

The Restless Spirit Of Man

It appears, then, that historic Christianity and scientific naturalism stand as two incompatible options diametrically opposed on three of their basic essentials. This is not to say that they have nothing in common, for both may value technological advance and scientific research, and recognize the moral and sociological functions of religion. It is rather to say that as philosophies the two are utterly irreconcilable. The man who is convinced that the heavens declare the glory of God cannot forsake his faith and embrace any alternative explanation. He cannot rest content with the Freudian or Marxian interpretations of his religious experience. He cannot avoid thinking that the inference from partial similarity between man and beast to a total identity is a hasty generalization, and that the inference from historical sequence and partial similarity to a direct genetic relationship may well be just another post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy.

Canon Bell was reported in 1952 to have asserted that the trouble with the common man is that “he has not learned to see life in all its possible richness … has lost contact with that which is greater than himself, from which (or Whom) he might gain courage to escape the crowd.” Another observer, one who makes no claim to Christian faith, traces the loss of the joie de vivre in much contemporary thought to the exclusion of God. Words such as these indict scientific naturalism. They echo the answer of the Westminster divines that the supreme end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy him forever. They relay the discovery of Augustine that our hearts are restless until they rest in Him.

Basically, this is the conflict which underlies the evolutionary philosophies of the past century. In a sense, it is simply a modern version of the conflict that has raged in the West for over two and a half millennia. Yet while the problem must be faced at this level and a decision made on the essential points in question, it must never be forgotten that a philosophy often expresses personal moral and spiritual involvements. To the extent that this is so the philosophical battle becomes the theoretical side of a more personal and even more fundamental struggle in every man.

He Came With Music

He came with music. But the angel’s song

Receded into heaven. Long, oh long,

Man strives to catch the music of the spheres;

But faint, remote, elusive to the ears,

Nor art nor science can prevail to bring

To earth again the music of the King.

He came with music. But the restless heart

Can find Him not in music, as an art.

When man’s endeavors cease with tongue and pen,

When earth’s foundations totter, then, oh then

All heaven waits to loose the lofty strain

For which the earth-bound struggle all in vain.

He came with music. And with music He

Will rock the rafters of eternity

When all of heaven rises to proclaim

The august splendor of His rightful name.

Then man will find his music, his lost chords,

In Christ, the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords.

HELEN FRAZEE BOWER

Arthur F. Holmes is Associate Professor and Director of Philosophy at Wheaton College, Illinois. Born in Dover, England, he holds the A.B. and the M.A. (Theology) from Wheaton College and Ph.D. from Northwestern University.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: … a time to weep and a time to laugh; … (Eccles. 3:1,4).

Our Puritan forefathers were more than suspicious of humor. Life for them just was not funny. For example, Richard Baxter, who authored A Serious Call to the Unconverted—and several hundred other items—never penned a light line. The archives of homiletics not only reveal that the Puritans did not joke when they preached, but they preached against jokes. Jesus’ warning that every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment (Matt. 12:36); Paul’s ban on “foolish talking” and “jesting, which are not convenient” (Eph. 5:4); these and other texts were deemed sufficient to indict laughter as a sin worthy of repentance. “Laughter,” said Edward Irving, “is a kind of bacchanalian state of the mind, just as drunkenness is a bacchanalian state of the body. It is a rather violent change in the law and order of nature to which it is not willingly inclined if sanctified” (Charles Stanford, The Wit and Humor of Life, London, 1886, p. 64).

Augustus Toplady, the Calvinist, and John Wesley, the Arminian, shared a common dislike for the lighter side of life. Watching some children frolic, full of pranks, Toplady is said to have called them “bubbling fountains of iniquity.” Wesley gave it as his opinion that children, as a rule, ought not to play. These, perhaps, are extreme exhibits of the “stern mien” of classic Puritanism. There is not wanting evidence that for all their sobriety, the Puritans knew how to smile. A case in point is Matthew Henry’s commentary which sparkles with genuine wit; and it remained for us moderns to alter the lines of “Old Hundredth” to the Geneva Psalter, from “Him serve with mirth, his praise forthtell,” to “Him serve with fear, his praise forthtell.” Yet, undoubtedly, these men did err in failing to realize how many situations in life there are when it is “time to laugh.”

Comedy Becomes A Business

In our day, it is hard to believe anyone could make such a mistake. Our humor has become big business. The highest paid single attraction of TV in 1956 was the comedian, Jackie Gleason, whose efforts netted him $3,000,000 in one year (Look Magazine, Feb. 7, 1956). We laugh about everything; we feed on flippancy; we are convulsed in one unending guffaw. But laughter is not the final solution to life’s problems; and to use it as though it were, is like beating drums in battle to drown the groans of the dying.

Now it appears to me that our text sets before us a golden mean: “… there is a time to laugh.” This cannot mean that we should never laugh, nor can it mean that we should always do so. But like other rules of conduct in Scripture, this one treats us as adults who are able and responsible enough to make decisions for ourselves. It is ours to develop the fine ethical sense to know when it is time to laugh and time to weep.

Life And Laughter

Herbert Spencer, in his Physiology of Laughter, argued that a sense of the incongruous caused by certain unexpected contrasts will be followed by an involuntary contraction of certain facial muscles. I was once at the performance of La Traviata. As Violetta sang her beautiful swan song, she paused before the last notes, and in that sad, sweet, silent moment, the trumpeter in the pit dropped his instrument. Why is it that under such circumstances we will laugh? Why is it that man only, of all the creatures in the world, can laugh? I would answer: because God has made him so. The various orders of humor presuppose reason, the light of God in the soul. Without it we could never laugh, for the incongruities of life would escape us. Milton is bold enough in Paradise Lost to put a jest on the lips of Deity. When Lucifer and the angels revolted, with grim humor, the Almighty declares:

Nearly it now concerns us to be sure Of our omnipotence, … (V, 721–722)

And the Bible itself, on at least two occasions (Psalms 2:4; 59:8) ascribes laughter to God. Why then should we suppose that tears are pious and smiles vain? In fact, tears, it would seem, are a more direct result of sin than smiles, for the seer tells us that in heaven God will wipe away our tears (Rev. 21:4), but not our smiles.

Furthermore, our Maker has not only endowed us with the capacity for laughter, but he has placed us in an environment which has a touch of the comical. Some animals look funny and some act that way, too. Mark Twain once described a camel as an “ostrich with an extra set of legs.” Who is not amused to see a kitten stalk a windblown leaf like a tigress her prey, or to watch the antics of the apes?

Stewards Of Humor

But if we are committed to humor as a part of our inheritance from the Creator, then we must one day give account of our stewardship; and, I must say, some ministers will have a sad account to render. What we laugh at is a window to our minds. Dr. Johnson once observed, “… no man is a hypocrite in his pleasures.” Yet the choice of entertainment via the radio, television, and the theater, on the part of many ministers, falls so far short of grace that it is hardly up to the standard, even of enlightened nature. All too often this blemish on our personal piety intrudes itself into the pulpit, which is lamentable. Let me conclude then, with a few canons of procedure, that as ministers of Christ we may know when to laugh—and when not to.

We need, first of all, to develop a taste for excellence in humor, much as we would in art. Leaving behind those depraved expressions of so-called humor which appeal to the mind of the flesh, we should press on in the exercise of our sensibilities to appreciate the best by reading the masters. We should realize that there is something more in our heritage of humorous literature than the comic strip. Shakespeare’s Falstaff, Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and the Hunting of the Snark, Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad—the best passages in works like these are achievements of pure intellect; and it takes intelligence, unjaded by an overdose of cheap imitation, to appreciate them.

Appreciation is also stimulated by analysis of the various types of humor and their proper function. Highest on the scale of humor, many would place wit. Real wit is a flash of genius. Pope Alexander VI once pressed an ambassador of Venice to tell him who gave the Venetians the prerogatives of the sea, whereupon the ambassador answered, “If your Holiness will only please to examine your charter of St. Peter’s patrimony, you will find upon the back of it the grant made to the Venetians of the Adriatic” (Morris Corbyn, An Essay toward Fixing the True Standards of Wit, London, 1744, p. 6). A poet named Waller presented a copy of congratulatory verses to King Charles upon his restoration, following the fall of Cromwell’s house. The monarch read them and observed, “Mr. Waller, these verses are very good, but not so fine as you made upon the Protector”; whereupon Mr. Waller replied, “Your Majesty will please to recollect that we poets always write best upon fictions” (Ibid. p. 7).

Most of us, to be sure, can only aspire to this level of achievement. At best it comes to us as an afterthought, as something we should have said, if we had had our “wits” about us.

However, other forms of humor, such as satire and ridicule, are much more within our reach, but their proper use requires real skill and—for ministers—not a little sanctification, lest they be used as a substitute for answering the arguments of an opponent. How tempting it is, when setting forth our own opinions, to make those who hold other views appear ridiculous, when in actuality we know that the truth may be more on their side than ours. The great satirist Mr. Addison, of Spectator fame, once made an observation which we should all bear in mind as clergymen. Tracing the genealogy of wit he said, “Truth was the founder of the family, the father of good sense.” We might also emulate Cervantes in this regard, who Don Quixote gives us many chuckles, but in the process no bones are broken and no malice is borne.

No discussion of kinds of humor would be complete without mention of the pun. It is probably the meanest member of the family. Samuel Johnson regarded it as a kind of verbal vice. In his Dictionary he defines it as follows: “To pun is to pound or beat with a pestle.” Boswell gives this account:

I have mentioned Johnson’s aversion to a pun. He once, however, endured one of mine. When we were talking of a numerous company in which he had distinguished himself highly, I said, “Sir, you were a Cod surrounded by smelts. Is not this enough for you? at a time too when you were not fishing for a compliment?” He laughed at this with a complacent approbation. Old Mr. Sheridan observed, upon my mentioning it to him, “He liked your compliment so well, he was willing to take it with pun sauce.” For my own part I think no innocent species of wit or pleasantry should be suppressed: and that a good pun may be admitted among the smaller excellencies of lively conversation.

Milton, in the ninth book of Paradise Lost, made Adam, immediately after the fall, a punster—the counterpart of a present day TV comedian. Yet Paul may have given the pun canonical status. In Philippians 4:2 he exhorts two women, one of whom is named Euodia, to oneness of mind. Later on, in the same chapter he refers to the gifts which the Philippians had given him as an “odor of a sweet smell,” literally an odor of “euodia.” It has been suggested that this is a pleasant pun on the name of the lady whom he knew to have been influential in preparing the gift for him.

Propriety In The Pulpit

Along with an appreciation for the types of humor, as ministers of the Gospel, we need especially to develop a sense of propriety in humor. This is because we are constantly handling that which is sacred. Someone has defined humor as the clever association of unlike things. But many ministers, especially youthful ones, are too clever by a half. Their association of the sacred and the profane is more perverse than funny. Such humor is as misplaced as Nero’s fiddling while Rome burned. Jokes about sprinkling and immersion, pearly gates, and hell fire are crumbs which we do well to leave to dogs. Bishop Jeremy Taylor once said, “All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, but not for jesting.”

If, however, we avoid these pitfalls, a sense of humor and the use of that sense is an invaluable asset to every minister of the Gospel. Erasmus, in his introductory epistle to The Praise of Folly, pointed out to Sir Thomas More that the greatest minds of classical antiquity (Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Seneca and Plutarch) not only wrote on light subjects, but wrote lightly, because they knew that many readers would reap more advantage from such a form of treatment than from some more big and stately argument. Like the sugared coating of a healthful pill, a bit of humor helps people digest solid theology. Furthermore, a sense of humor will help the minister and missionary more than any psychiatric therapy, for it palliates disappointments and alleviates tensions. People who did not know Lincoln well sometimes felt he was more of a jester than a sage. But those closest to him realized that his joking often provided a necessary relief.

The Religion Of Joy

But humor has its roots deeper than any expediency or need of venting pent-up emotions. Christianity is the religion of joy. The promised seed of Abraham was named Isaac which means “laughter,” for Sarah said, “God hath made me to laugh, so that all that hear will laugh with me” (Gen. 21:6). Now the true seed of Abraham is Christ; he is the Son who was given to save us from our sins. If we know the Saviour and his salvation, if through faith in him we have been justified from all things, then we should above all else be a happy people and, among other ways, express this happiness by entering into the wit and humor of life.

Preacher In The Red

WHOSE CAR?

I had arranged to go to a denominational committee meeting with another committee member who lived not far from me. On the phone I suggested we go in my car. “No, we can take mine.” Jokingly I said, “We’ll fight it out when I get to your place.” Arriving there I saw a car at the curb, its motor running, and decided that my fellow committee member had made the choice for us. We would go in her car. I met her at the door of her home. As we headed for the parked car she said, “You can drive.” I thought to myself she was being very gracious! As we drove along I made some comment about her car. At the time it seemed to me her answer was rather vague, but I thought nothing more of it. After the committee meeting we started home. I made some further comment about how well her car handled. She looked startled. “This isn’t my car. I thought it was yours!” “Then whose car is it?” I said, “I thought it was yours.” I headed for the nearest phone to discover that for two hours the car had been listed as stolen.—The Rev. JOHN ANDERSON BARBOUR, Minister, St. Paul, Minnesota.

For each report by a minister of the Gospel of an embarrassing moment in his life, CHRISTIANITY TODAY will pay $5 (upon publication). To be acceptable, anecdotes must narrate factually a personal experience, and must be previously unpublished. Contributions should not exceed 250 words, should be typed double-spaced, and bear the writer’s name and address. Upon acceptance, such contributions become the property of CHRISTIANITY TODAY. Address letters to: Preacher in the Red, CHRISTIANITY TODAY, 1014 Washington Building, Washington 5, D. C.

Paul K. Jewett is Professor of Systematic Theology at Fuller Theological Seminary. He holds the B.A. degree from Wheaton College, Th.B. and Th.M. from Westminster Theological Seminary, and the Ph.D. from Harvard University.

Anew Barth has been discovered by some theologians. They date this change from 1952, when Barth’s famous article on Rudolph Bultmann appeared.

Barth accused Bultmann of being too subjective (Theologische Studien, Heft 34), and of being concerned only with man’s understanding of himself (Idem, p. 37). In opposition to Bultmann, Barth urges us to interpret man, not in terms of himself, but in terms of Christ. This Christ addresses us in his Word, the Scriptures, telling us that in Christ we are reconciled to God (Christ and Adam, p. 21, in Theologische Studien, Heft 35), and that our salvation is “objectively complete” in Christ (Idem, p. 23). We are told that faith cannot be subjective only, that faith must not project itself “Prometheus-like into the void” (K.D. IV: 1, p. 375); it “must spring from the Christ-Event. The decisive element in the texts of the Gospels is surely that the disciples did find themselves faced with an incontrovertable fact, a fact which led to the awakening and development of their faith” (Idem, p. 374).

It is in Geschichte rather than in Historie that Barth looks for the objectivity that he seeks over against Bultmann. What he means by Geschichte as against Historie is difficult to define. Barth tells us that it is the realm where our ordinary understanding of space and time has no application (IV:2, p. 370). Geschichte has a space and time of its own. For Barth Geschichte overlaps and in some measure enters into Historie but always with the understanding that fully real transaction between God and man takes place in Geschichte, not in Historie.

Barth On The Resurrection

The resurrection event, says Barth, must explain our faith. Bultmann puts the cart before the horse when he would have our faith explain the event. But this is not all. Our faith must be based on the memory of a datable time (I:2, p. 127). If Christ is not risen in the same concrete manner in which he died, then our faith is vain (IV: 1, p. 389; cf. also IV, p. 377). The resurrection is an event in time and space (p. 371).

At this point, evangelicals might assume that, over against Bultmann, Barth defends Christ’s resurrection and believes in the resurrection because he submits himself to the teaching of the Scriptures.

The fact is, however, that Barth does not submit himself to Scripture as a direct revelation of God.

And, likewise, he does not think of Jesus Christ as a direct revelation of God. He is still devoted to his basic principle that, while revelation is historical, history is not revelational. The resurrection of Jesus Christ is therefore not that on which he relies for an answer to subjectivism; to do so would for Barth be a denial of one of his most basic principles.

To some readers, this may seem confusing. Either Barth believes, or he doesn’t believe! But the matter is not so simple. It is true that Barth seeks a resurrection in space, and time, and that he seeks the Christ and his resurrection in Scripture. But he finds the resurrection in a Scripture which he asserts to be “full of obscurities and indissoluble contradictions” (IV: 1, p. 377). He finds the resurrection to be an actual event in history even though in all history God is said to be wholly hidden as well as wholly revealed. When, in opposition to Bultmann, Barth seeks for an actual Easter-Event from which faith must proceed, he is not for one moment proposing to find this where evangelical theology finds it. Why was it necessary, Barth asks, to attest the concrete objectivity of the Easter narratives? He answers very plainly: “Certainly not in order to explain the resurrection of Jesus Christ as a historically indisputable fact” (IV: 1, p. 388). The “incontrovertible fact” which led to the resurrection faith is primarily an event in Geschichte rather than in Historie, in this ‘real’ history as against ordinary history. The resurrection may, perhaps, best be said to have taken place in Prae-historie (IV: 1, p. 371). Usually, Barth speaks of Geschichte.

Here we deal with a peculiar sort of history. When we turn from the passion narratives in the Gospels to the resurrection accounts Barth says we sense that we are “led into a historical sphere of a different kind” (IV: 1, p. 369). “The death of Christ can certainly be thought of as history in the modern sense, but not the resurrection” (Idem, p. 370). The resurrection happens “without our being able to ascribe a ‘historical’ character to it” (Idem, p. 331). When we deal with the resurrection, we do not deal with something that happened in the past (Idem, p. 345), for, says Barth, if we did we would be back in historical relativism. This is indeed a strange dilemma: to escape subjectivism, we must avoid an objective resurrection! To escape relativism in history, we must avoid history!

History As Presence

Barth therefore turns to the idea of Geschichte in order to avoid what he thinks of as the relativities of Historie. If we were to speak of the resurrection as taking place in Historie, Barth argues, we should have to say that the resurrection is an event in the past and not in the present. We would then have to say that Jesus went from the Jordan to Golgotha. But this is not sufficient for our need. What we need is a God who in Christ is present with us. And this idea is expressed in the notion of Geschichte. In terms of Geschichte we can say that God goes with us now from Jordan to Golgotha (Idem, p. 345). In Jesus Christ as man’s substitute with God, his time is made into the time “That always was where men lived—always is where men lived, and always will be where men will live.”

The facts are plain. Barth does not seek objectivity for the Gospel message by the method of evangelical orthodoxy. Barth says clearly that what he cannot understand in Bultmann is what he cannot understand in the “entire old orthodoxy” (Bultmann, p. 14).

Barth wants neither the old orthodoxy nor Bultmann, neither the objective historical revelation of the one nor the subjectivism of the other. How then can subjectivism be overcome?

In the very volume in which he seeks to establish a true objectivity against the subjectivism of Bultmann, Barth insists on discarding the calendar. To answer Bultmann, Barth is apparently convinced that he must also destroy evangelical orthodoxy.

To fail to place Barth’s view of the resurrection of Christ in the framework of his theology as a whole is to misconstrue it. If Barth were to identify the resurrection of Christ with an event in ordinary history, as Luther and Calvin did, he would have to take into the bargain the whole orthodox scheme of things which he abhors as much today as ever. And he would have anything but the kind of objectivism that he wants in order to answer Bultmann.

Objectivism

Barth needs an Easter-Event in which God is wholly revealed. It must be that, in order to be the Event that lights up all other events (IV: 1, p. 331). Precisely for this reason, Barth says it cannot be identified with any fact of ordinary history (Idem, p. 333). For history is not revelation. God is wholly hidden as well as revealed in history.

To have the true objectivity of grace set forth in the resurrection, we must say that the being of Christ as God, as man, and as God-man consists in his work of having completed the work of reconciliation of all men (Idem, p. 139). And that can only be if the resurrection is primarily an event in terms of which Christ is present to all men, past and present, in the divine Presence. “God allows the world and humanity to take part in the Geschichte of the inner life of his Godhead, in the movement in which from and to all eternity He is Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and therefore the one true God” (Idem, p. 236). “The resurrection of Jesus Christ makes that to be true which is real in his death; the turning of all men to God in him” (Idem, p. 349). To do this the resurrection cannot be identified with a fact of ordinary history.

If, in conclusion, we ask whether Barth has found a really objective basis from which to answer Bultmann, the answer must be in the negative. On his own basis, all history hides as it reveals. On his basis history is utterly ambiguous.

Worse than that, it must be plainly stated that Barth’s position is as subjective as that of Bultmann.

In Barth’s theology, no less than in that of Bultmann, faith must, Prometheus-like, cast up its anchor into the void. Barth’s theology, no less than that of Bultmann, is a reinterpretation of the Gospel in terms of the self-sufficiency of man.

To say this is not to judge the personal faith of either Barth or Bultmann. Bultmann is no less anxious than Barth to bring the Gospel to modern men. But neither of them has any Gospel in the evangelical sense of the term. Rejecting the “old orthodoxy,” they continue still in the wastelands of consciousness theology with its relativism and subjectivity.

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Cornelius Van Til is Professor of Apologetics at Westminster Theological Seminary, Philadelphia. He holds the Th.M. degree from Princeton Seminary and the Ph.D. from Princeton University. He is the author of The New Modernism (1947), Common Grace (1954), The Defense of the Faith (1955).

To be an evangelical minister or layman ought to mean one’s giving Christ the place of honor. In the New Testament, in the writings of the Church Fathers, and in our noblest hymns, the Lord Jesus towers above all the sons of men. “Crown Him with many crowns!” Yet, it is disconcerting to see in our time a tendency among religious people to let other good men and causes take the place that should be accorded to Him. To a certain extent this inclination prevails among us who call ourselves evangelical.

To deal with the matter adequately, one would have to write a book, a well-documented book. In an article, however, one can only attempt a sort of “cake mix,” and leave the reader to supply the plentiful ingredients. Perhaps in order to keep the matter simple, we may think about it only as it relates to the four Gospels.

The Christ Of The Gospels

Every reader knows that throughout the Gospels, Christ has the place of honor. It is for him—the Son of God and Redeemer of men—that the Gospels exist. The earliest of them, for example, begins this way: “The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” Each of the others also, in a fashion all its own, presents a Christ-centered beginning. Every one of the four stresses Christ at the end; and between the opening and the closing words, it would be hard to find an important paragraph that is not mainly about him as central Figure.

In a painting by Michelangelo or Raphael, Christ may be made to appear walking or sitting with other men, but always it is on his face that the light falls most strongly. So in the Gospels, with the sort of art that does not call attention to itself, the Lord Jesus stands as the focal point of every scene in which he appears. Other men emerge only as they have dealings with him. Herein lies the idea, for all evangelical preachers, writers, and teachers.

We note that two of the evangelists, for example, deal with the birth of the Lord Jesus. In paragraph after paragraph the light falls chiefly upon him, not upon Mary, the shepherds, or the wise men. In the pivotal chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (16:13–28), the discussion has to do with Christ’s Person, his Church, his coming Cross, his disciples, and his later Glory. With the hand of a master, the evangelist here shows how the Lord Christ dominates every situation.

So in the account of the Transfiguration, Christ stands out in relation to Moses and Elijah, as well as young Peter, James, and John. Little by little these other persons fade from view, so that the beholder, now as then, sees no man but Jesus. By faith being “lost in wonder, love, and praise,” the onlooker ought to be changed into his likeness, “from glory unto glory” (2 Cor. 3:18). What a way to read the Bible! The interpreter does more for his lay friends by introducing Christ than by talking about them to those callow young men on their way down to the valley of service.

At the Passion play in Oberammergau the action starts with the Triumphal Entry on Palm Sunday. Throughout 40 successive scenes Christ stands forth as the dominant Figure. Ideally, no man ought ever to act the part of Christ. While witnessing the Passion play two different years, many of us learned to “see” as well as think about the dying Redeemer. One year we felt that “Judas” had overshadowed the Christ; the other time, Christ himself stood out almost as clearly and superlatively as in the Gospel records. “No mortal can with Him compare.”

We may observe that same truth in glancing through the pages of a good hymnal. I was going through our standard Presbyterian book of praise and found a few poems such as Washington Gladden’s “O Master, Let Me Walk with Thee,” which I seldom use, and James Russell Lowell’s “Once to Every Man and Nation,” which I never have sung in worship because I do not believe in a succession of “new Calvaries,” nor in any modern cause as “God’s New Messiah.” But to my delight I found that among the 513 hymns in the book, nearly all of those about Christ accord him the place of honor he has everywhere in the Gospels. These Christ-centered hymns nearly all come from earlier times.

In the pulpit and in Bible classes the trend of late has changed. Even with evangelicals, other persons and interests tend to overshadow the Lord Jesus, both in his Deity and in his humanity. A glance through the index of any religious journal today will show that other good men of Bible days and Church history receive from writers more attention than the Lord of Glory. In a laudable endeavor to promote Bible reading among church women, leaders in certain circles promoted wide use of an able book about Luke. Many of the women imagined that they were learning how to read and enjoy the Bible.

But what are the facts? The author of the third Gospel and the “Fifth Gospel” never refers to himself directly. In every paragraph he presents a truth, a person, or persons in relation to Christ. Christ is the central Figure. Nowhere is the attention called away from him. As for the other writers, as well as Luke, their purpose for writing was not to exalt themselves.

The Christ Of Today

An unintentional humanization seems to appear in much of our reading and preaching about the Christ of the Gospels. At Christmas we stress Mary as the ideal mother, or put a caption underneath the shepherds to emphasize ourselves: “The Christ of the Common People.” A little later we show the wise men: “The Christ of the Uncommon People.”

In preparing a sermon or a Bible lesson about the Transfiguration (Matt. 17:1–21), how many of us attain to artistry like that of Raphael? At the top of one of his paintings he shows the scene on the mountain with the heavenly visitants and astonished disciples. Then at the foot of the canvas he portrays a scene of the multitude in the valley. But gazing up at the Lord of Glory are the eyes of a demoniac lad. Here in this painting we see many lines converging on the Christ, with the light full in his face. How did Raphael bring unity out of these two contrasting scenes? He used imagination, the God-given power to see. Then he used lights and shadows in order to make the truth about Christ stand out. Again, this is the way we ought to preach and teach about the Christ of the Gospels! On behalf of the preacher or Bible teacher, the dearest friend ought often to intercede: “Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes that he may see” (2 Kings 6:17b). Then the man of God will see his Lord, and enable his friends to see him as Redeemer and King.

In the days that lead up to Easter, modern misinterpreters of Holy Writ seem to insist on preaching or teaching mainly about “Personalities Around the Cross.” All of them have their place, but only with reference to Christ as the central Figure. Even on Good Friday an ingenious preacher or teacher can deal with the “Seven Last Words” in a way that makes them seem to be about those for whom the dying Redeemer prayed—such as, the penitent thief whom Christ forgave, the impenitent one who refused to plead for mercy, or the mother of Jesus with her adopted son John. No one could correctly present the facts without showing these human aspects as well as the divine, but surely the stress ought to fall on the facts about Christ, for he alone can redeem.

One Good Friday the Protestants of Trenton, New Jersey, filled the largest local assembly hall for a union service. As their speaker they had invited a widely-known and gifted evangelical divine from a large city nearby. He “rose to the occasion” with a brilliant study of “Dreams that Disturb” (Matt. 27:19). With no special reference to Christ as the dying Redeemer, the speaker dealt ably with various sorts of dreams that disturb us today. In a way, that semi-secular address could have qualified as a masterpiece. And yet more than one hearer felt that if he had gone over to the Roman Catholic church he might have heard or seen something about Christ and his Cross.

Before any critic casts a hasty aspersion on such a speaker, let him examine his own record. Did he, as a preacher or teacher, stress God the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit on the preceding Lord’s Day? During the last few months has he often presented the Gospel as it centers in some one Person of the Triune God? Surely we ought never to ignore the way God reveals truth by means of Peter, James, and John; or Pilate, Herod, and Judas. But no less surely this truth can save and sanctify us only as it relates to Christ, the “central Sun of all our seeing.”

Man-centered preaching and teaching have become so common in some cities that an evangelical can give way to the contagion without knowing that he has fallen short of his early vows. For instance, a young man of ability came from a city church to the seminary for study. One day in class he preached an able man-centered sermon from a text and topic about Christ as Saviour. By appointment he came to the study that same afternoon to discuss his sermon. Before we began I asked if he had any questions. Indeed he had!

“Why do you have us fellows read the sermons of Fosdick?” he asked. “Surely you know that he is a humanist, and that he almost always deals with a subject horizontally.”

I answered that every young man going into the ministry ought to know about the pulpit work of the most widely-read pulpiteer of that decade. Personally I did not agree with Fosdick, but I had learned from him a good deal more than from many writers with whom I agreed.

“Before I answer your question more fully,” I went on to say, “let us look at your sermon, which is good of its kind. Please glance over it, a paragraph at a time, and when you find a unit of thought about Christ, God, or anything else that you call vertical, mark the paragraph D(ivine). If the paragraph is mainly about us or other persons and things not calling for an upward look, mark it H(uman).”

The young man started with alacrity. He had grown up “determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ, and him crucified” (1 Cor. 2:2). He was sincere and high-minded. After he had glanced at the first paragraph he went back and read it through again. With a frown he wrote in the margin “H.” And so it was with all the paragraphs that followed. Then he exclaimed, “Why, professor, here I am doing what I have found fault with Fosdick for doing!”

“Yes,” I replied, “the difference between you and many other young evangelicals is that you now know what you have been doing. You have time and opportunity to learn how to present the claims of Christ Jesus.” Would that we who hold a different theory of preaching than that of Harry Emerson Fosdick could present our way with as much human interest and practical effectiveness as he does in dealing with human problems on the basis of human experience, much of which he draws from the Bible.

A Closing Word

We have not yet faced “the preacher’s forgotten question, How?” “How can I preach or teach so as to give Him the place of honor?” The answer calls for hard thinking. I am going to do what many men do when they come face to face with a problem they cannot solve. They ask, “What do you think?”

If you preach or teach the Bible, you ought to face this question “How?” Think about it and pray. If by grace you come to the right answer, and accept it, you will learn to present Christ the way he appears in the Gospels. Then those to whom you introduce him will exclaim to one another, “Did not our heart burn within us, while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the scriptures?” (Luke 24:32).

END

Andrew W. Blackwood is Professor Emeritus of Princeton Theological Seminary and is at the present time engaged in writing. Author of many books, he has served most recently as compiler and editor of Evangelical Sermons of Today.