Category Archives: Devotional/Practical

A Few Thoughts on Origen-al Prayer

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Several weeks ago a friend of mine discussed his feelings toward the passing away of his wife’s grandmother. Besides the loss of a loved one, he especially lamented the loss of a strong believer who had prayed for his family every day for years. Yet when he said this, I immediately began to wonder whether the passing of that dear saint into the presence of the Lord was a loss or a gain. Are the souls of departed saints—once ushered into foyer of heaven—muzzled from intercessory prayer?

Without sounding like a proponent for the Roman Catholic or Eastern Orthodox “cult of the saints” (which I am not), let’s explore whether or not departed saints may, in fact, continue to pray together with the saints on earth for the spiritual blessings of the body of Christ and the accomplishment of God’s will “on earth as it is in heaven.” We do know that Christ, the God-man, intercedes for us (Romans 8:34). The Spirit, too, intercedes on our behalf (Romans 8:26–27). Yet the Son and Spirit—as members of the Triune Godhead—hear our prayers and know our circumstances and needs even better than we do ourselves.

In the book of Revelation we see an example of the souls of departed saints petitioning God relative to events on earth. The “souls of those who had been slain” under the heavenly altar in Revelation 6:9 cry out to God for His judgments to begin. And because the angel of judgment later gets his prayers from the same altar (Revelation 8:3), many commentators believe the answer to the prayer of the departed saints is found in Revelation 8:4–5, when God casts judgments on the earth.

Of course, there is no evidence that departed saints are aware of our lives on earth. And if they are, it is only by mediated knowledge, not by omniscient awareness. Contrary to popular folk-theology, human beings never cease to be finite beings. Only God is infinite; all creatures are finite. Thus, they will forever and always be subject to the creaturely limits of knowledge. (No, grandma’s probably not clucking her tongue at you every time you sin.)

So, to me, prayer to or through departed saints seems neither biblical or reasonable. The same can be said about living believers praying for the souls of departed saints—an idea that makes no sense biblically or theologically. Because we believe that redeemed humans are immediately with the Lord upon physical death, and because we believe a person’s eternal fate is determined here—not in a post-death state—then praying for the dead is pointless.

However, this does not answer the nagging question about the spirits of saints once on earth, but now in heaven, offering up prayers and intercession for the living saints on earth. This is not the same as praying to or for dead saints. It is a question of whether or not the church universal, spiritual, and invisible unites together in prayer for the will of God to be done.

In the third century, the renowned Christian scholar, Origen, wrote a treatise on prayer, dealing with such issues as prayer and providence, the proper attitude of prayer, the purpose of prayer, and so forth. In On Prayer 11.2, he wrote:

And as knowledge is revealed to the saints now through a glass in a dark manner, but then face to face, so it would be unreasonable not to employ the analogy for all the other virtues also, which if prepared already in this life will be perfected in the next. Now the one great virtue according to the Word of God is love of one’s neighbour. We must believe that the saints who have died have this love in a far greater degree towards them that are engaged in the combat of life, than those who are still subject to human weakness and are engaged in the combat along with their weaker brethren. The saying: If one member suffer any thing, all the members suffer with it; or if one member glory, all the members rejoice with it, does not apply only to those who here on earth love their brethren.

In short, Origen taught—with many in the early church—that the departed pastors and saints, many of which were martyred for the faith, continued to pray for the churches with an even greater love and clearer sense of God’s purpose and will. Though he cites a number of apocryphal texts to support his claim, his primary arguments for the prayers of the departed believers are drawn from biblical principles, reason, and a keen conviction that departed saints are conscious and active before God . . . and, yes, still active members of the universal church.

Personally, I see no inherent problem with Origen’s reasoning on this matter. It seems reasonable that when I pass on into the presence of God and await the full redemption of my body, that I would pray for God’s perfect will to continue to unfold on earth, that I would pray for those still living for whom I promised to pray in this life, and that I would pray these things with greater sincerity and greater perfection. If I were to die tonight, I suspect the Lord would have to personally stop me from praying for my wife, children, and friends left behind.

Yet what practical application would this conviction have for we who are alive? It would not imply that we pray to or through saints, that we petition them to intercede for us. I don’t see how this would be possible or beneficial. Even if it were possible for them to hear our prayers, how would this change the fact that our temporal prayers are just as imperfect and riddled with sinful motives and limited knowledge as those offered directly to the Father, through the Son, and in the power of the Spirit? And, by the way, even Origen, who believed the saints in heaven continued to pray for those on earth, taught that Christians should pray only to God the Father, through the Son (On Prayer 15–16).

But I see no good reason to biblically, reasonably, or theologically reject the idea that the grandmother of my friend’s wife continues to intercede for her loved ones still caught in the throes of the spiritual battlefield of this present darkness. She promised to pray for them everyday in this life. What would prevent her from keeping her promise in heaven?

However, because we have no example from Scripture, we are here asking questions it does not clearly answer. If we answer at all, we rely on biblical, theological, historical, and experiential reasoning, which seems to allow—but does not demand—that our loved ones in heaven may still be praying for us here on earth.

But how would you answer this question? Did my friend lose a prayer warrior with the passing of that faithful saint . . . or did he gain a prayer victor who could continue to offer up more perfect prayers before the very presence of God?

Or is the question too speculative and irrelevant to even ask and answer?

Thorns and Thistles

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Broken dishes, broken parts / Streets are filled with broken hearts / Broken words never meant to be spoken / Everything is broken. / Seems like every time you stop and turn around / Someone else has just hit the ground. (Bob Dylan, Everything Is Broken)

Bob Dylan and I both grew up on the Iron Range of Minnesota. And we both left in search of something better than the drab drudgery of small town life in the upper Midwest. But it didn’t take long for me to learn what Bob Dylan had discovered years earlier: It doesn’t matter where you go. The brokenness of the world is already there.

Thorns and Thistles

“Cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life. Both thorns and thistles it shall grow for you; and you shall eat the plants of the field; by the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground.” (Genesis 3:17–19)

Anybody who has ever planted a garden knows that the curse is still in full effect today. But you don’t have to be a farmer or gardener to be pricked by the thorns and thistles of the curse. Every vocation has them. Whether you’re a doctor, lawyer, or parent; a pastor, teacher, or president—your labor and toil are frustrated with “thorns and thistles.” There are no exceptions.

But it seems like many of us act like we don’t believe this. Instead, we often embark on the foolish quest for the greener grass. We seem to believe that somewhere the soil will be just a little less cursed. Admit it. You’ve been through it, just as I have: The church down the road doesn’t look like it has the problems we have, does it? That woman at the office doesn’t have the blemishes my wife has. The new position I’m applying for has to be better than the job I’m in now. This politician . . . that restaurant . . . this new car . . . that new school . . . this new zip code . . . that new supermarket . . .

But every one of these quests for something better will inevitably end in disappointment. Because wherever you go, brokenness is there.

Inward Groans

For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now. And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body. (Romans 8:22–23)

Within each of us lingers the idea that things just aren’t the way they’re supposed to be. And we’re right! Everything is broken. Thorns and thistles have invaded. And now believers especially groan for something better. But if we start seeking the redemption of creation somewhere in the here and now, we’ll begin a vain quest for Shangri-la that will only end in dissatisfaction and discontentment.

When we fail to grasp Bob Dylan’s maxim that “everything is broken,” discontentment reigns. When we fail to realize that the thorns and thistles of life are everywhere, we begin to believe we can avoid or minimize them by moving on to something new.

I know people who change jobs every year or so, spend a few months in the new “dream job,” then start whining and searching for a better one. I know others who have left their church because they were dissatisfied with the leadership or the worship. They felt things would be better somewhere else. I’ve seen others flutter like aimless butterflies from one educational philosophy to another—homeschool . . . no, private school . . . no, public . . . no, home . . . Yet in all these examples of pursuing the greener grass to graze, reality quickly sets in: No matter where we go, we will always discover that the thorns and thistles of life have already beaten us there.

We Were Meant to Live for So Much More

Maybe we’ve been livin’ with our eyes half open, / Maybe we’re bent and broken. . . . / We want more than this world’s got to offer. / We want more than the wars of our fathers. / And everything inside screams for second life. / We were meant to live for so much more. / Have we lost ourselves? (Switchfoot, Meant to Live)

Frustration with the thorns and thistles of this fallen world is normal. Believers especially know things aren’t supposed to be like this. We long for a time when the weeds will be pulled, the thorns crushed, and the thistles preened. We groan inwardly for our redemption, the resurrection of our bodies, and the renewal of this world (Romans 8).

How, then, should wise believers handle the thorns and thistles that aggravate every facet of our lives—from marriages to jobs to churches? Above all else, we must exercise contentment. Be aware that the thorns and thistles are everywhere, that you cannot escape them. Then deal with it. Put up with the imperfect job. Stay committed to the disappointing church. Make the most of a mediocre marriage. More fruits of the Spirit prepare us to tough it out than to flee (Galatians 5:22–23). Have you ever considered that God is more concerned about molding your character through tough situations than meeting your desire for comfort?

The world is teeming with thorns and thistles. While we try to keep our balance in this time between the fall and the redemption, mediocre to poor is sometimes all we can expect from this life. But don’t get cynical. Don’t become jaded. Through His death and resurrection, Jesus Christ has overcome the world and when He returns to reign His blessings will drive out the curse and the thorns and thistles will be no more. Until then, we have just enough foretaste of the coming age to make us frustrated with the age we’re in.

So, let’s keep our hearts on the way things ought to be . . . and our hands on the way things really are.

Putting the Sabbath to Rest

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Lately I’ve been encountering Christians from both denominations and “home churches” who are meeting on Saturday (the Sabbath) to worship, rather than on Sunday. When asked why they do this, the responses are diverse. Some believe the regulation in the Ten Commandments requires the observance of the Sabbath day. Others claim that this was the day the New Testament believers and the ancient church assembled for worship, and they want to return to that original practice.

Obviously, if the earliest Jewish believers (that is, the apostles and their first and second-generation converts) worshipped on Saturday, somewhere along the way the Christians changed from Saturday to Sunday. In fact, in The Da Vinci Code, this was one of the charges the dreadful fictional historian laid at the feet of Emperor Constantine and the “paganizing” of Christianity. He claimed that the earliest Christians worshipped on Saturday, but that when Christianity “sold out” to the world, they started worshipping on Sunday, the day the Roman and Greek pagans worshipped the sun.

Because this question comes up all too frequently, I wanted to debunk the myths and set things straight as a historian who actually knows what really happened. And unlike many biblical and historical issues, this matter is an open-and-shut case. The historical evidence is clear.

The Bible says the earliest Christians gathered together on “the Lord’s Day.” By AD 95, the phrase “the Lord’s Day” (Greek kuriake hemera) had apparently become a common term for the day of Christian corporate worship centered on preaching and the Lord’s Supper (called the “eucharist” or “thanksgiving”). We see that the Apostle John so used it in Revelation 1:10, assuming his readers in western Asia Minor would know immediately what he meant by “the Lord’s Day.”

Prior to that, the apostles referred to Sunday as “the first of the week,” on which Christ rose from the dead (Matthew 28:1; Mark 16:2, 9; Luke 24:1; John 20:1). Jews at the time regarded Saturday (the Sabbath) as the seventh or “last” day of the week.

We see indications already in the earliest days of the church that the apostles and their disciples gathered together for worship on the “first day of the week,” that is, Sunday, in commemoration of the resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ. In Acts 20:7, we read: “And upon the first day of the week, when the disciples came together to break bread, Paul preached unto them, ready to depart on the morrow; and continued his speech until midnight” (KJV). The practice of “breaking bread” is an early reference to the corporate worship of the believers, centered on the Lord’s Supper and fellowship around the preached Word. We also see Paul addressing the issue of the collection of money for the churches in 1 Corinthians 16:1–2, instructing the Corinthians to make the collection “upon the first day of the week” (16:2). Because this was a collection from among members of the church, it indicates that this was the day they gathered together as a corporate body.

Now, we do know that on the Sabbath the apostles would go to the Jewish synagogues and preach about Christ to the Jews and God-fearing Gentiles. This is absolutely clear (Acts 13:14; 13:42; 13:44; 16:33). But this evangelism is not the same as gathering together for the apostles’ teaching, the breaking of bread, and prayer—characteristics of early Christian worship.

So, from the New Testament we see that there’s an early emphasis on Sunday, the “Lord’s Day,” the day the Lord rose from the dead, also called the “first of the week.” When we move forward in church history to the very next generation of Christians—to people who actually sat under the teachings of the apostles and their disciples themselves—the picture becomes even more clear.

In Didache 14.1, a church manual which, according to an emerging consensus of specialists, was probably written in Antioch in stages between AD 50 and 70, the instruction is simply, “And on the Lord’s own day gather yourselves together and break bread and give thanks.” The “Lord’s own day” is the same phrase used in Revelation 1:10 by John.

At about the same time (around A.D. 80 or so), an anonymous but highly-respected letter later attributed to “Barnabas” makes it clear that Christians intentionally worshipped not on the “seventh day” (the Sabbath), but on the “eighth day,” as a memorial of the resurrection:

Further, He says to them, “Your new moons and your Sabbath I cannot endure.” Ye perceive how He speaks: Your present Sabbaths are not acceptable to Me, but that which I have made, namely this, when, giving rest to all things, I shall make a beginning of the eighth day, that is, a beginning of another world. Wherefore, also, we keep the eighth day with joyfulness, the day also on which Jesus rose again from the dead. And when He had manifested Himself, He ascended into the heavens. (Barnabas 15.8)

This evidence is important, because it comes to us from a very early and respected Christian document that helps us understand historically when the earliest Christians worshipped. It was the “eighth day” of the week, the day Jesus rose from the dead: Sunday. Clearly th

Around AD 110, Ignatius, the pastor of Antioch, wrote a letter to the church in Magnesia of Asia Minor while on his way to martyrdom in Rome. In that letter he addressed the problem of Judaizers infecting the church with divisions and false doctrine, and found himself having to explain the Christian practice of worshipping on Sunday rather than on the Sabbath:

If, therefore, those who were brought up in the ancient order of things [Judaism] have come to the possession of a new hope [Christianity], no longer observing the Sabbath, but living in the observance of the Lord’s Day, on which also our life has sprung up again by Him and by His death—whom some deny, by which mystery we have obtained faith, and therefore endure, that we may be found the disciples of Jesus Christ, our only Master . . . (Ignatius, To the Magnesians 9.1)

Before you dismiss this evidence as “outside the Bible” and a later corruption by the church fathers, remember that Ignatius was not just some monk from the Dark Ages. He was an old man already by AD 110, which means he was middle aged when the apostles themselves still lived and as pastor of Antioch would have known some of them. Further, history tells us that he was close friends with Polycarp, pastor of Smyrna, who was himself ordained into the pastoral office by the apostle John himself. So, the teaching about Sunday worship by Ignatius almost certainly came from the apostles and their disciples, whom Ignatius knew. Furthermore, note that Ignatius was not pushing for a new day of worship, nor was he defending it. Rather, he was simply explaining why the original Jewish disciples of Jesus switched from keeping the Sabbath to worshipping on Sunday, the Lord’s Day, the day of His resurrection.

The biblical and historical facts are clear: every bit of evidence we have shows that from the apostles themselves throughout the early church up until this very day, the true church met together for worship on the Lord’s Day, the first day of the week, the day after the Sabbath, Sunday. On this day they commemorated week after week the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Therefore, any teachers or traditions today that seek to establish Sabbath observance or corporate Christian worship on Saturday are not in keeping with the apostolic practice or the most ancient practice of the church, but are, in fact, deviating from the teachings of the apostles.

But what about Emperor Constantine in the fourth century? Didn’t he make Christianity the official Imperial religion, establish the State Church, and change Christian worship to Sunday? No! First, Constantine legalized Christianity (which had previously been outlawed). He did not make it the official state religion (that came later by future emperors). Second, his program of funding the construction of church buildings and the copying of Scripture was to replace the buildings and Bibles that had been destroyed or burned in the last great persecution. Those acts of Constantine were matters of restitution for wrongs inflicted on the church. Third, with regard to Sunday worship, Constantine simply decreed that Christians would be allowed to take Sunday mornings off for worship, making room in the laws for Christians to observe legally what they had already been observing illegally, that is, Sunday morning worship. Constantine did not, in fact, change Saturday to Sunday worship. (This myth, by the way, has been thoroughly debunked by patristic scholars, and I have recently attended meetings of patristic experts who were amazed that anybody would still allege such an indefensible version of history.)

Let’s briefly return to the reasons I’m often given for changing Christian worship to Saturday. 1) “Because the regulation in the Ten Commandments requires the observance of the Sabbath day.” If this were true, then the apostles and their original disciples themselves broke the Sabbath and set a bad precedence. This is unacceptable. 2) “The Sabbath was the day the New Testament believers and the most ancient Christian church assembled for worship.” This is simply not true and there is no evidence that it ever was. Those who maintain this claim are guilty of revisionist history.

Fact: from the days of the apostles themselves Christians have celebrated the resurrection of Jesus on Sunday. So, let’s stop this nonsense about “ancient Saturday worship” and put the Sabbath to rest.

When the Good Fight Goes Bad

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A new book came across my desk this morning for me to “review.” The title? From This Day Forward: Making Your Vows Last a Lifetime. The authors? Ted and Gayle Haggard.

Let me be the first to confess it. My Christian life has all the ingredients of a moral fall. And so does yours. For even the most godly Christians periods of growth seem to be disrupted by stagnation, fermentation, regression, repentance, and reformation . . . over and over again the cycle repeats itself.

But I’ve discovered that in those moments of stagnation—when I start to let the good fight go bad by dropping my spiritual fists lazily to my sides—God cries to me from the corner of the ring, “Get those gloves up! This fight isn’t over!” And many times the reviving bucket of icy water splashed in my face comes in a chilling form: the news of a moral fall.

If I reach the end of my life without losing my ministry and family to sin, it will be due in part to a hundred men and women who fell. Every time I hear or see a fellow soldier of Christ succumb to the sniper’s bullet of temptation, I instantly drop my head and inspect my own spiritual helmet and armor. I inevitably find that I’ve loosened the chin strap a little too much. Or I’ve stripped myself of the clunky flack jacket and donned a flannel shirt. Or I’ve exchanged my combat boots for Birkenstocks. Sadly, I sometimes get so used to the buzzing bullets of lusts and temptations that it takes the hideous carnage of somebody else’s moral fall to shock me back into combat mode.

In short, when we witness another Christian’s good fight go bad, we should fear. The words of 1 Corinthians 10:12 should nag us: “If you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don’t fall!”

You see, I have no doubts about whether or not I can withstand the barrage of trials and temptations leveled against me by the flesh, the world, and the devil. I am completely confident that left to my own strength, I will fall. When I see a spiritual giant take a mammoth tumble, I fear. Why? Because I know that in some dark, musty closet of my life—unvisited for months by God’s cleansing breathe—some toxic black mold spreads along the walls. And in the life of a fallen giant the mold’s poison was allowed to cultivate in the heart until the viscous spores consumed every chamber of his life.

When I discover the deterioration in my own life, I have a choice—to heed the warning God has placed before me through the downfall of one of his beloved saints . . . . or to pretend like the infection is minor, that it will heal itself, or that it isn’t the same kind of growth that takes a man down. If I choose the latter, stagnation becomes fermentation. Then fermentation leads to regression. Soon I will be drunk by my own self-deception, losing all discernment, tripping inebriated through life with blurred vision and muffled hearing, unable to judge right from wrong. I know that without God’s rude and intrusive call to repentance, my fate will be like the giants who have fallen before me.

Because I know the depravity of my own heart, I also know that the possibility that my good fight could go bad is very real. Given the wrong set of circumstances and left to my own devices, I would find myself up against the ropes reaching for the white towel. Or worse, I would find myself knocked out on the mat with the count of ten ringing in my ears.

So, when I see a book on marriage by Ted Haggard, the last thing I do is cluck my tongue and shake my head, pretending not to understand how a towering giant can stoop so low. I need only reflect for a moment on my own dark depravity for a simple explanation.

So, where are you in the cycle? Is your fellowship with God and His church in a period of stagnation? Are you fermenting in a sour odor of indulged sin? Are you regressing in your Christian life—neglecting family, skipping church, canceling accountability, shelving your Bible?

Or are you at the point of a decision? Has the moral fall of a giant shocked you into examining your own life? We all have a choice today. Either take a leap over the edge and plummet into shame . . . or turn around and run back to the arms of the Savior. He’s ready to grant repentance and revival to all of us who are stuck in a spiritual stupor (see Revelation 2:5; 3:3; 3:16–20).

Yes, another good fight has gone bad. But if we heed the warning of a fallen giant, it can be turned to our good.

Ahhhh . . . the Good Life of Faith!

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For time will fail me if I tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets, who by faith conquered kingdoms, performed acts of righteousness, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, from weakness were made strong, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight. Women received back their dead by resurrection. (Hebrews 11:32–35)

Ahhhh . . . the good life of faith! That’s the kind of good news we like to hear, isn’t it? That’s the good life promised by the televangelist, the fruits of righteousness fertilized by the prosperity preacher. That’s our “best life now,” obtainable, we are told, by three simple steps to success . . . seven principles for happiness and joy . . . ten laws of abundant living. Filter the Bible’s story through the sieve of the American dream and that’s what you get: obtain promises, conquer kingdoms, escape the sword, be strong, successful, and victorious. Who wouldn’t want to live the good life of faith?

Years ago, at the beginning of my Christian life, I hung out with the Copeland-Hagin crowd, the famous “Word of Faith” peddlers of the prosperity gospel. I’ll be honest . . . there was something exciting about laying hands on anybody with a sniffle, interpreting every stray thought as a Word from the Lord, or warning Lucifer that we’d take him out to the woodshed and give him a holy whupping. Most of the time we treated Jesus like our own personal vending machine of blessing. If we said the right words, inserted the right amount of faith, pushed the right buttons, then we’d get what we wanted. Want a Cadillac? Name it and claim it. Want a bigger home? Gab it and grab it. Want to live in the lap of luxury? Confess it and possess it.

I recall one instance when I commented in passing to a particularly odd “prophetess” that I was starting to go bald. She instantly intervened, placing her hand on my head and shouting, “No you’re not in the name of Jesus!” Until that point I had no idea that balding was such a sickness, or that admitting it was such a sin. But in our “look good, feel good” culture, going bald was an unacceptable effect of the fall that Jesus died on the cross to reverse. (Incidentally, her magic spell obviously didn’t work on me and I suppose she would say it’s either Satan’s fault or mine.)

It was shortly after this incident that I escaped from that purgatory of Christian greed and its damnable prosperity “gospel.” It was out from under its spell that I saw the other side of the biblical witness, the life of faith those gurus and their goons had hidden from my eyes—the biblical and historical epics of those who, “having gained approval through their faith, did not receive what was promised.”

…and others were tortured, not accepting their release, in order that they might obtain a better resurrection; and others experienced mockings and scourgings, yes, also chains and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were tempted, they were put to death with the sword; they went about in sheepskins, in goatskins, being destitute, afflicted, ill-treated (men of whom the world was not worthy), wandering in deserts and mountains and caves and holes in the ground. And all these, having gained approval through their faith, did not receive what was promised. (Hebrews 11:35–39)

Note those last words well: they gained approval through their faith, but did not receive what was promised.

Now, we may think that as a non-charismatic, non-prosperity evangelicals, we’re off the hook. But think again. Though the means and method may be different, often our priorities and pursuits in the American evangelical subculture are exactly the same.

Take some time to scan the shelves of a Christian bookstore. Once you’ve gotten past the spiritual coffee mugs and inspirational key chains, you’ll soon be surrounded by positive-thinking, self-help, and moral development. Authors present the Christian life as an ascending ladder—seven steps to this, three keys to that, the one prayer that will revolutionize your world, expand your influence, fulfill your desire for happiness! The kind of dung stinking up the shelves of Christian bookstores is passed off as “Christian Living,” but it’s mostly useless psycho-babble or shallow pragmatism that assumes a few simple pointers and a couple encouraging words will solve fallen humanity’s most desperate problem: fallen humanity.

The real problem with many of us Christians today is that we think too highly of ourselves, that we are actually entitled to the “good life of faith.” We think our prayers will stop God in His tracks. We think God applauds us for accomplishing our personal goals. We think we were saved from sin to enjoy a big house, fancy car, and a great retirement (or at least that these things are neutral benefits that have no relevance to our spiritual life). In short, we think it’s all about us. But we’re wrong. It’s not all about us; it’s all about God. I’m convinced that many in the American evangelical church are in need of a change of heart and mind. We need to repent, not necessarily for what we have done, but for what we have become—a country club of soothsayers that have sold out to the American dream. We have gathered around us teachers to tickle our ears . . . and it feels too good to stop (see 2 Timothy 4:3–4).

We’ve exchanged the true life of faith with a false “good life” of faith. Yes, God prospers . . . but He also takes away. God heals . . . but He also afflicts. God delivers from adversity . . . but He also brings us through the crucible of suffering.

Trusting God doesn’t mean believing that He will bless, fix, or rescue us. Trusting God means accepting whatever His hand brings, knowing that all things are ultimately for our good and His glory.

That’s the good life of faith.