Antinomians, Antitheses, and Accusations ~ Comments on Tullian Tchavidjian's Jesus + Nothing = Everything

I've just finished reading Tullian Tchividjian's little book, Jesus + Nothing = Everything. As I read I was encouraged and strengthened by his careful articulation of the gospel and its benefits, and my confidence in my freedom in Christ was bolstered by the unapologetic proclamation of what Christ has done for me.

Tchavidjian has been accused by some reviewers of creating antitheses between law and gospel and between rest and work. Some have asserted that in Jesus + Nothing = Everything, Tchavidjian denies the work and struggle against sin in the Christian life and some have charged that he is flirting with antinomianism. I would argue, however, that he articulates helpful (even indispensable) distinctions and relationships between these elements of Christianity and that he does not encourage the believer to do away with or devalue either God's law or the struggle against sin.



LAW and GOSPEL

In Jesus + Nothing = Everything, Tchividjian (in the good company of Calvin, Luther, and many others) makes a clear distinction between the imperative and indicative, the law and the gospel. This distinction is often criticized as if the distinction itself creates an antithesis or an opposition, as if there is embedded in this distinction the further claim of LAW = bad/anti-gospel and GOSPEL = good/ anti-law.

However, the relationship between law and gospel, as understood by those who would insist on a clear distinction between the two, would be better stated as LAW = God's good, righteous and holy standard and GOSPEL = God's free gift of Jesus, the perfect fulfillment of the holy standard.

Gospel fulfills law, it doesn't replace it or oppose it. What is important is to understand the relationship between these two good things given by God, and not to either conflate them into one thing or set them in opposition to each other. When law and gospel are not understood as distinct from each other, the result is usually a weakened law--a standard that we think we can fulfill, and also a weakened gospel--Jesus plus something (that we do) equals everything. Tchavidjian goes to great lengths to keep law and gospel distinct in his book.



REST and STRUGGLE

The question then comes down to this:  How are we as Christians to understand Christian growth or progress in sanctification? I believe Tchividjian has been wrongly accused by some who claim that he teaches there is no real work (aside from the work of resting in the gospel) in the process of sanctification or in living the Christian life. Again, his distinction has been misunderstood to be an opposition or antithesis.

Tchavidjian argues that as we believe more and more deeply and fully that the Gospel (the perfect, free, fulfillment of God's law given to us in Christ) is true, we then live out of that reality more and more freely. That the gospel itself (our security and standing in Christ) affects change within believers causing us to cling less to our sin, to desire to live obedient lives, and to love God and others more.

He also acknowledges that in life we constantly face temptations to sin and we need a strong foundation, we need stable ground to stand on when we struggle against those temptations. He asserts that our own resolve, or our fear of condemnation, or our methodologies are ultimately insufficient and lacking the real power needed to struggle against sin and to persevere in faith. In fact, only the reality of the gospel--that is, our identity as justified children of God--has the power to motivate us to continue struggling against sin and to endure the inevitable failures we will encounter.

Ultimately, the gospel is the stable ground we on which we stand (and where we can rest) when we fight sin in our lives and also when we (inevitably) see our failure to measure up to God's standard. Without that stable ground, it doesn't matter what weapons we bring to the fight (striving, lists, fear), we will fail and (apart from the gospel) we will lack assurance and peace. We may work hard to prove our right standing with God to ourselves, but we will always be insecure and eventually we will be worn out, worn down by trying to carry the heavy burden of the law on our own shoulders.

However, resting on the unshakable foundation of the gospel, we can fight against sin (and this will involve our own resolve and perhaps methods and other "weapons") and when we fail we will be better able to get up and keep trying.

We can continue to struggle because we have rest.

Though we falter, we will not be defeated because we will know that the victory over sin has already been won and is already ours in Christ. We gain confidence and assurance and perseverance primarily as we believe the truth of the gospel more, not as we achieve more and more success in our struggle against sin.



Tchavidjian describes the relationship (not the antithesis) between resting in the gospel and struggling against sin near the end of his book:

If you're a Christian, then even in the most heated moments of temptation, what you actually desire most deeply is God, not sin, because of the transforming work God has done in you. He's changed you at your core. You're a different person now because of the hard surgical work he's done inside you.

That's why such an important part of fending off temptation--whether it be something Paul lists in verses 5 and 8 of Colossians 3 ("sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry," or "anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk"), or something else--what's important is simply to first come to terms with who you are, what you've been remade to be. Bring that reality into the moment of temptation, and be reminded by the gospel of who you are now, and of what you want most, even in the face of sin's deception about what you really desire. Identity (who we are) precedes practicality (what we do).

If we would just stop and remember the gospel, we would realize that God really is what we want most, even in our worst moments, no matter how strong the temptation we're battling.

Lasting behavioral change happens as you grow in your understanding of the gospel, and then as you learn to receive and rest in--at your point of deepest need--everything Jesus secured for you. (179)

Notice that in this passage he is describing a relationship between gospel and struggling against sin, not an opposition:

"what's important is simply to first come to terms with [your new identity in Christ]" (italics mine).

"Identity (who we are) precedes practicality (what we do)."

"Behavioral change happens as you grow in your understanding of the gospel" (italics mine).

Tchavidjian is clarifying an emphasis, establishing a priority in our sanctification: It is of foremost importance that we believe the gospel. This priority doesn't  preclude effort, struggle, or battling against temptation. But it does establish the foundational necessity of believing in (and resting in) the gospel in order to grow and mature in faith.

Clearly, Tchavidjian sees growth in maturity, and struggling against sin as desirable realities in the Christian life. And clearly he upholds God's law as a good guide for Christian living. The accusation that he advocates a kind of anti-nomianism is unfounded, arising from a misunderstanding of the law/gospel distinction and the relationship between resting in the gospel and following God in obedience.

Michael Horton sums up the relationship between justification and sanctification more clearly and succinctly than I in his discussion of Philipians 2:

Bottom line: The gospel is not the enemy of good works, unless one is seeking justification by obedience, as Paul makes clear in chapter 3. In fact, the gospel is the ground of good works. The goal is both to be clothed with Christ’s alien, perfect, and complete righteousness and to be more and more “filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ, to the glory and praise of God” (1:11). So not only when we are resting in Christ for justification, but when we are going out of ourselves to love our neighbors in sanctification, the Triune God has it all under control. We’re only working out that which he has worked for and within us according to his gospel. Holding fast to the word of life, we work out our salvation in the knowledge that “he who began a good work in you will bring it completion at the day of Jesus Christ” (Phil 1:6).

The bottom line of my comments here: I encourage those who would seek a fuller understanding of the gospel and of the freedom they have in Christ to read Jesus + Nothing = Everything. You may just find yourself resting in the gospel a little more fully and struggling toward obedience a little more faithfully.

The Old Ennui

I've been on a bit of a binge lately. A reading, thinking, longing kind of a binge. Sometimes things coalesce in just the right (or wrong) way to bring about the old ennui. Or, The Old Ennui, I should say. A familiar sort of friend. Do you know about ennui? You must.

It's a French word. The French are perhaps more inclined than we are to dwell long enough on a particular vague experience or feeling to call it out of the shadows and give it shape. Years ago, in reading Kate Chopin's The Awakening, I came upon the word and something previously felt but unnamed became clearer. The naming helps I think.

But as she sat there amid her guests she felt the old ennui overtaking her; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It was something which announced itself, a chill breath that seemed to issue from some vast cavern wherein discords wailed. There came over her that acute longing...

(p. 232)

Perhaps Chopin overstates the experience with some hyperbolic drama. Her allusion to the pounding, pulsing, emotional cacophony that is Coleridge's "Kubla Khan" might tip the balance that way. But still,

The Old Ennui arrives, unasked, perhaps overwhelming, but at the very least insistently tugging at the edges of the day, in the quiet moments or in the ones that are so busy and loud and full that you turn inside for just a moment of respite and there you find it, the intangible, unarticulated longing brought on, no doubt, by some half conscious reverie.

For me, this time, brought on by reading an analysis of neuroscience and culture (Nicholas Carr's The Shallows) alongside quiet stories of lost simplicity, unspoken commitments, and joyful work (Wendel Berry's That Distant Land). Add to that a long solitary airplane flight with time to be still, a daily infusion of laundry and dishes, and a disposition bent toward . . . well, toward ennui. Deadly, I tell you.

It's a struggle, with a kind of sweetness. To pull oneself up out of the romantic vision and see, engage, and enjoy or endure the real moments. To know that the longing yearns toward what cannot be attained, and that it can lead one onward always into discontentment and worse. However, to recognize also that it speaks of something better, the way things ought to be. C. S. Lewis knew this pull mingled with promise and called it "joy." And he found, finally, that it hearkens toward heaven. In the sharpest moments of ennui, in the caverns wherein discords wail, it is good to have these names, and to have this hope held out.

Opening the Door ~ Some Thoughts on Cultivating a Love of Reading and a Few Recommendations

 I grew up loving to read, stacks of books, late into the night. 

Before Elizabeth was born I taught high school English--especially literature, 

hoping to communicate some of the joy that books have brought me. 

And now, as a mom supervising my kids' incremental exposure 

to the mysteries and wonders of the world, 

books remain a primary means of opening the door 

to adventure, imagination, beauty, and critical thinking. 

 This is Van's bookshelf. 

We love all sorts of books, but for picture books 

I look for that perfect combination of great text and beautiful artwork.

Some of my favorite illustrators are 

Michael Hague, Barry Moser and Trina Schart Hyman.

I love Margaret Hodges' version of Saint George and the Dragon, illustrated by T. S. Hyman.

Other favorite picture books are Cynthia Rylant's When I Was Young in the Mountains, 

Barbara Cooney's Miss Rumphius, and Kim Lewis' Days on the Farm.

We read together every night before bed, and throughout the day as time allows. 

As they have grown in what they are able to understand 

some of our favorites have been Kenneth Graham's The Wind in the Willows, 

C. S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia, J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan, 

and Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons.

The stories, even those words and details that go over their heads, 

fill them with all kinds of matter for play--

battles to fight, journeys to travel, discoveries to make.

I often overhear Jack or Elizabeth narrating his or her own play 

(or even narrating something they are playing together),

 "...and then, in the dark of night, the wicked dragon swooped down and snatched up the knight...."

They listen to me read as much as I will and then they listen to audio books. 

I think this is how they've been perfecting their English accents.

You can download free audiobooks from these sites:

Children's Records and More 

(Charlotte's Web, read by E. B. White)

StoryNory 

(they have The Wizard of Oz and Kipling's Just So Stories, among others)

LibriVox 

(everything from Little Women and Peter Pan 

to Homer's Iliad and Odyssey and The Poems of Robert Frost)

How do you cultivate a love of reading?
What are some of your favorite books, illustrators and resources?

Happy reading!

On my mind...and in my front yard...

 Spring and Fall: 

to a Young Child

 Margaret, are you grieving
   Over Goldengrove unleaving? 

 
   Leaves, like the things of man, you
   With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

 

 Ah! as the heart grows older
   It will come to such sights colder 

   By and by, nor spare a sigh
   Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
   And yet you will weep and know why. 

   Now no matter, child, the name:
   Sorrow's springs are the same.
   Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
   What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed: 

   It is the blight man was born for,
   It is Margaret you mourn for.  

 

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Empty Space

I’ve been reading Maggie Jackson’s book, Distracted: The Erosion of Attention and the Coming Dark Age. In it she describes a modern world in which people take a “perverse pride in their busyness.” So, I am asking myself if this is true of me. Is it even possible for me not to be busy? Not to fit every good thing in to my schedule that possibly fits?
Empty space must be filled. I know this is true in my house. As soon as my countertops are cleared and cleaned they seem instantly to attract stuff.

My calendar does the same thing. An empty white square…with no little notation of a plan, no commitment to connect, no project to accomplish…quickly vanishes. And something in me nods approval—this is efficient, I think, this is exciting, encouraging, and productive. Even the act of writing (or typing) in the future task feels satisfying. And so, usually I don’t stop to question, I don’t hesitate and wonder—what would have been?

What would that evening have been if we hadn’t gone?

What would my child’s afternoon have held if the playdate hadn’t been scheduled?

What would we have said to one another if we weren’t in a hurry?

What does boredom feel like?

When will I reflect on that slight anxiety, or wistfulness, or that thought I keep meaning to get back to—those buried, half-formed bits of me that I am only aware of in that split second before I turn on the car radio or check facebook?

When my “now" is always underscored by the urgency and anticipation of “next,” how am I changed? Am I the same wife, mother, friend, am I the same self at all?

In Wendell Berry’s Hannah Coulter, the title character ruminates on the fleeting moment and the accumulated life that living in the present creates—

“You think you will never forget.

“You think you will never forget any of this, you will remember it always just the way it was. But you can’t remember it the way it was. To know it, you have to be living in the presence of it right as it is happening. It can return only by surprise. Speaking of these things tells you that there are no words for them that are equal to them or can restore them to your mind.

“And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment, in this presence. (148)

And so I am trying, against the tide of a world that “takes a perverse pride in busyness,” against the pull of countless distractions, activities, possibilities and opportunities, I am trying to preserve empty space.

Who knows what I will find there?

...the rue way...

Lately, I have loved reading Wendell Berry’s books and poetry. There’s something to what he’s saying about life. He’s reminding me of truths.

In this poem (which alludes to characters from Shakespeare’s King Lear), I am reminded of God’s goodness and his providential care.

(From A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997)

I think of Gloucester, blind, led through the world

To the world’s edge by the hand of a stranger

Who is his faithful son. At the cliff’s verge

He flings away his life, as of no worth,

The rue way lost, his eyes two bleeding wounds—

And finds his life again, and is led on

By the forsaken son who has become

His father, that the good may recognize

Each other, and at last go ripe to death.

We live the given life, and not the planned.

Berry’s poem ends with a simple statement, “We live the given life, and not the planned.”

But I love to plan.

It is a hard thing to hold loosely to my plans, to recognize that I am not in control. But here, Berry gently reminds me that this life is a gift. As unplanned as it may seem, this life is given to me by a sovereign God who gives good things to those he loves.

Too often, I am Gloucester, blind, unable to see my own path. My heart grumbles at those closest to me; I am ungrateful—more—I am dissatisfied, disappointed, even at times despairing.

Read the poem again. See how Gloucester “flings away his life…the rue way lost”?

This word “rue” has layers of meaning—literally, in French, it means the road or the way. In English it suggests sorrow, grief, regret, and repentance.

Chaucer once used it to describe God’s compassionate mercy on the sinner’s soul.

I love this use of “rue” embodying all at one time my failures and God’s forgiveness. It is in this path we walk daily—“the rue way”—that we recognize our frailty, we know regret, and we are humbled in repentance. And it is in this way that God pours out his compassion on us. Even when we might fling it away—mercy upon mercy, gift upon gift—He protects us from ourselves and our own blindness. In his great mercy, by his creative, sustaining, compassionate grace, he preserves this thing that he has given.

The reality is that despite my blindness, I am attended by my closest friend. God is my ever-present help. He sees all things and knows all things, and while this life may at times seem to me a rocky, barren path, I can trust his strong arm, the sureness of his promises, the goodness of the life he gives and preserves.

Edgar tells Gloucester, “Thy life’s a miracle!” and so it is. This path we often rue is given to us. And it is the way to life. May we walk with our eyes open, trusting in the goodness of God and treasuring the given life.