Christendom

Preface: I wrote the following article in January of 2011. I attempted to have it published in a Christian webzine with a broad audience, but the editors barely even glanced at my query e-mail. (Although disappointed, I was not surprised.) Since then it has lain dormant in my files. I’ve held it sacred because it is the last piece of weighty nonfiction that my overtaxed brain has been able to crank out. (I’m not entirely sure why, but the flow of words and inspiration has receded to a faint trickle and is clogged more often than not.) I’m posting it now for want of anything else to contribute, and because I’m striving to turn the tide of this blog. I didn’t intend for it to lean so far in the direction of humor.

Oddly enough, the issue I decided to address all those months ago seems comparable to the problems we (the authors of A Threefold Cord) have recently grappled with. As I worked on reviving the article, dusting it off and airing it out, I was struck once again by the intensity with which I originally formulated the text. Perhaps I should not be so presumptuous as to bring the article forth at this time, because I am feeling much weaker faith-wise, but what better opportunity have I to demonstrate that God is sufficient and I am not?
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      “I am a Christian.”
      That statement earned the prisoner another slap across the face from one of the nearby soldiers. The Roman proconsul leaned forward, his gray eyes smoldering, and repeated the question: “Who are you, and from where have you come?”
     “I have already told you, my good sir, that I am a Christian,” the prisoner replied. He lifted his head and dared to stare directly into the governor’s eyes. “Thereby you know my homeland, lineage, occupation, and everything else besides. What more do you expect me to say?”
      The governor was silent for several long moments as he tapped his fingertips along the arm of his chair. The crowd murmured restlessly. Finally, he stood and addressed the entire court.
      “Send him to the amphitheater. He shall renounce his faith or die.”
      But the young man never broke. He was subjected to unspeakable torture and perished with the words “I am a Christian” on his breath. Such was the fate of many early believers. By the second century A.D., Christianity was illegal and believers throughout the Roman Empire faced imprisonment, torture, or execution. Round after round of interrogation afforded their accusers the same unchanging response: “I am a Christian.”* Though intended to mock followers of the Way (John 14:6), the epithet “Christian” was quickly transfigured—it became the sole insignia believers wore. It identified them as sinners cleansed by the Messiah’s blood, justified and bowed in loyal, loving service to Him. Because their association with Jesus Christ held serious implications for how they lived and died, to assert faith meant to deny self. The Name above all Names defined who they were and who they strove to imitate. 
      Today the term “Christian” has deteriorated to a mere religious label, a behavioral analysis, a bumper sticker. People who conduct themselves contrary to Biblical standards treat Jesus’ name as an abracadabra-type confession that magically grants them admission into heaven. They give lip service—not heart service—to God, and are neither hot nor cold but lukewarm. Worse still, we know it. Daily we encounter superficial believers at work, at school, at the supermarket, on television, in church, online, and via literature. It’s disturbing and, also, saddening.     

      I’m reminded of a conversation I had with a friend years ago. She was nine and I was ten, and our parents had enrolled us both in day camp. Aside from those summer classes I doubt we would’ve ever met, much less initiated a friendship. Our lifestyles were wholly diverse.
      One afternoon she brought up the subject of religion. I suspect this was due to a boy in our class named Justin, the son of two local youth leaders. He was always spouting Bible verses and painted the star of Bethlehem all over each of his projects. When he started “witnessing” to a fellow classmate, she turned to me and popped the question.
     “So, what religion are you?”
      I can’t recall my thoughts at the time. I do remember feeling caught off guard. Nobody had ever asked me that before and I wasn’t sure how to respond or what reaction I’d receive.
      “Christian,” I said.
      Her lips formed into a silent O. She returned to cutting shapes out of construction paper.
      “What about you?” I prodded.
      “Catholic.”
      My comment matched hers. “Oh.” Then the discussion ended. We remained friends for five years; in 2003 her family relocated to Florida and we switched to pen-palling. I never once shared the gospel with her. Looking back, I realize my behavior and actions weren’t enough. She seemed to expect very little of me. And, frankly, I did nothing to prove the faith I somewhat offhandedly professed. Probably my most distinctive attribute was that I shunned Harry Potter.

      Jesus cautioned His disciples to expect hostility (John 15:18-21). He explained that He came not to bring peace, but a sword (Matt. 10:34). Hence, as His ambassadors, if our very presence does not rouse indignation in others, we have cause to be concerned. Don’t buy the myth that half of America has been Christianized and almost everyone is in mutual agreement about God, life, and eternity.     
      All evidence of godliness and common morality has been removed from public schools; our government is corrupt; violence, profanity, and occultism pollute the media and print industries; practices that scripture condemns are legal and celebrated; and scientific propaganda claims the universe was the result of a “big bang.” So what do we do about it? Nothing, absolutely nothing. We’re too busy constructing cottages on the beach, oblivious to the approaching storm (Matt. 7:24-27).
      Unbelievers aren’t repulsed by us or our values because we’re just like them. We fit in. We’ve grafted ourselves into the world’s system by compromising our principles—God’s principles. We foolishly suppose we’re shining our lights when in reality we’re learning how—and teaching our children—to be wolves and hypocrites. (See Prov. 12:26, Matt. 5:13, 1 Cor. 15:33-34, James 4:4, and 2 Peter 3:17’s warning.) We’ve diluted the gospel; doctrines such as sovereign election, the total depravity of man, lordship salvation, etc. have been replaced with free-will, prosperity, and self-worth theology to please sensitive ears. Instead of heaping coals onto people’s heads, we’re tossing burnt marshmallows—and the effect isn’t quite the same.
     (Please take note: I’m confronting the majority here, not the small, ever-present remnant that does adhere to practical holiness. I’ve been hesitant to adopt the title “Christian” because, first, it imparts only the shallowest connotations anymore. The standards have been lowered to a one-time acceptance of Jesus as Savior; henceforth the individual is free to continue on their merry way, no commitment required. I would rather be a nameless, born-again believer than associated with a bunch of phonies.** Secondly, I shouldn’t be telling others I’m a Christian. I ought to show them. Works do not earn salvation; works affirm salvation, are the result of salvation, and allude to inward transformation. Cf. Matt. 7:16-21; Romans, chapter 6; Eph. 2:8-10; 2 Tim 1:9; Titus 3:3-7; James 2:14-26; and 1 John, chapter 2.)
      We’ve all received the story about the gunmen and the prayer meeting in our e-mail inboxes, or seen it posted on a blog. Several armed persons, masked and clad in black, burst into a church and command anyone unwilling to die for their faith to leave. Immediately, a large portion of the group exits the room. As soon as they’re gone, the lead gunman drops his weapon, removes his mask, and quips, “Good. The hypocrites have defected. Now we can really start the meeting.” The account closes with a summons to choose between the two ultimatums and a charge to pass on the message. Far too many Christians forward the e-mail without stopping to consider what’s at stake, or the high cost of believing (Luke 14:26-33).
      The formula is not: Christ + me + whatever habits and material items I’m attached to = God’s approval. But it is: Christ + the Holy Spirit’s tender handiwork – me = regeneration (Ezek. 36:25-27; Luke 9:23-26). The cliché, What would Jesus do? is underrated. If you truly love Him, you’ll keep His commandments (John 14:15, 21; James 1:22-25). It’s that simple.
      Spiritual lethargy is dangerous—deadly, in fact (Rev. 3:15-17). I don’t care what you’ve done and haven’t done, or how insignificant it may seem. Whether you’ve listened to unholy music, gossiped behind a friend’s back, dressed immodestly, nurtured a feminist viewpoint, watched/read inappropriate movies/books, supported an ungodly institution, used course language, neglected to study the Bible, had an improper relationship with the opposite gender, or any number of “lesser” transgressions (i.e. not murder, theft, or dishonesty)—it matters. Repeated, habitual sin poisons the Christian walk and especially the Christian testimony (1 John 3:4-9). You need to set the record straight, because people are watching. We are called to be “blameless and harmless, children of God without fault in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom [we] shine as lights in the world” (Philippians 2:15). A light shrouded by a cloak of darkness cannot shine or even twinkle, and left unattended, will eventually die.
      Examine yourself (2 Cor. 13:5). Are you of the faith?

*J. Spencer Northcote, Epitaphs of the Catacombs or Christian Inscriptions in Rome during the First Four Centuries (London: Longman, Green & Co., 1878; repr., Whitefish, MT: Kessinger Publishing, 2007), 139. Reference cited in John MacArthur, Slave (Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2010).
**As advised in 2 Thess. 3:6, 14