Category: Book Reviews

A Review of Andrew DeCort’s ‘Blessed Are the Others: Jesus’ Way in a Violent World’

Recently I have been trying to read more in the area of “peacemaking” literature. I seem to be bumping up against this topic a lot in my circle of friends.

So here is my brief review of the newest book in this field of study:

A review of Andrew DeCort, Blessed are the Others: Jesus’ Way in a Violent World (Bittersweet Books, 2024, 178 pp., $19.95)

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

–Yeats, “The Second Coming”

Andrew DeCort has an amazing, horrific story to tell, and he tells it well in his new book Blessed are the Others: Jesus’ Way in a Violent World. Civil war breaks out while Andrew and his wife are living and developing Christian ministries in Ethiopia. As Christian workers committed to serving in the kingdom of God and following the nonviolent way of Jesus, the DeCorts begin bravely to advocate for peace and reconciliation in a variety of important ways among the various parties in Ethiopia’s bloody conflict.

Eventually, they are branded as traitors by those in power. They receive death threats from authority figures who could easily carry out their threats at any time. If the enemy of your enemy is your friend, then the peacemaking enemies of warfare make themselves the enemies of warmongers who will eventually seek to eliminate you.

By the time the DeCorts leave Ethiopia for their own safety, Andrew is (unsurprisingly) experiencing serious emotional and psychological upheaval. Though he never uses the term, he undoubtedly experienced full–blown attacks of PTSD, complete with the entire range of physical and psychological symptoms involved. These experiences of warfare, trauma, peacemaking and persecution become the setting for DeCort’s exposition of the Beatitudes found in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 5:3–12); this is the subject matter of Blessed are the Others.

There can be no doubt that DeCort’s experiences have equipped him to provide wise, first–hand insights into the dynamics involved in the beatific states of poverty of spirit, meekness, peacemaking and being persecuted for the sake of righteousness. In circumstances where many would have abandoned Christian faith altogether, DeCort has persisted in wrestling with questions of faith all throughout his dramatic journey.

Yet, it is the power of DeCort’s storytelling that also raises several problems for this reviewer. For instance, a reader cannot help but feel deep sympathy and admiration for DeCort while reading his story. Much of this book reads like a series of journal entries kept during the author’s counseling sessions. Taking the step to risk such public transparency lends DeCort a moral authority, at least for the sensitive reader, that is easily transferred from the confessional sections of the book to the expository sections dealing with scripture. Thus, the reader is invited to embrace DeCort’s explanations of the biblical text with the same quality of sympathetic acceptance as the reader has already extended to DeCort’s dramatic storytelling.

But is this a wise step to take?

Throughout the book, DeCort reminds his readers that the Beatitudes are God’s recipe for becoming “humanely happy.” But for all their value in illustrating how and why DeCort has arrived at his theology of peacemaking and humane happiness, there is a difference between telling powerful stories to illustrate biblical teaching and telling stories to determine the intent of biblical teaching. For DeCort, his authority for explaining the specifics of humane happiness appears in the therapeutic lessons he has discovered throughout the long process of coming to grips with his trauma. The meaning of the biblical text ultimately becomes subservient to his lived experience, not the other way around (as it should be).

At the end of the day, Jesus’ experience on earth is reflected in DeCort’s; and DeCort’s life of trauma becomes the very image of Jesus’ experience. When answering the question, “How did Jesus make peace in society?” DeCort answers, “It’s clear that Jesus’ peacemaking began with himself. Having survived acute trauma (i.e., Jesus was traumatized by his parents’ flight into Egypt), there is no other way. He went out to the wilderness, wrestled with his demons . . . He took time to rest and to grieve his suffering” (129). Note that Jesus was not recovering from his suffering on the cross, but from his childhood trauma. That was Jesus’ therapeutic path to peacemaking. Thus, Jesus has been conformed to the image of DeCort, and DeCort has become the model for Jesus.

Earlier in the book, DeCort rooted our humane task as peacemakers in God’s role as Creator, rather than in God’s work as Redeemer—where I believe it belongs. Therefore, Jesus’ model of suffering is exemplary for all humanity, just as “God is actually our parent” who “calls us all beloved children” (147). The natural relationships forged within creation have priority. DeCort introduces his perspective early in the book: “Jesus of Nazareth invites us into a strange wisdom as ancient as the pillars of creation. He promises that opening ourselves to our pain is the beginning of the Beatitudinal Way. Paradoxically, this is the path of humane happiness” (11).

Note that, for DeCort, the Beatitudes describe a natural process rooted in creation. The key to learning the Beatitudes is therapy, opening ourselves to our pain. How the eschatological arrival of God’s kingdom may be subverting the natural relationships of a fallen creation is never discussed. I find this surprising given that the Beatitudes describe kingdom citizenship, not the natural order of things. The kingdom does not arise from within creation! It invades creation from without. But this oddity becomes understandable once we recognize that, for DeCort, the therapeutic has overwhelmed the exegetical.

An obvious sign of this unfortunate interpretive move appears in the way Moses and Joshua are turned into Old Testament villains. As the people of Israel emerge from their own four–hundred–year period of trauma in Egyptian bondage, Moses undermines the possibility of Israel’s healing by instituting the Sinai Covenant—a series of obligations and blessings based on the misbegotten notion of Israel’s election as God’s chosen people (24, 27, 38, 100, 108, 127, 130). This retrograde idea of chosenness then sets the stage for Moses’ (and Joshua’s) horrific calls for Israel to ethnically cleanse the land of Canaan (25). It also presents us with a wrathful, nationalistic God of vengeance who is hardly the kind of deity who calls his people to become peacemakers, opposing civil wars and working for reconciliation.

In effect, DeCort is presenting us with another form of Marcionism. Marcion was an early church father/heretic who taught that the Old and New Testaments told the stories of two different gods: an OT god of wrath and warfare, and a NT god of love and peace. For Marcion, the OT god had to go. DeCort appears to follow suit.

In making this interpretive move, DeCort follows an old, old pathway. This method is sometimes called Tendenz Kritik. In other words, the interpreter fixes upon a certain tendency or theme which takes centerstage in the interpretive process. This theme is made canonical. Any texts or theological implications that appear to diverge from this preferred theme are downgraded or excised from the Bible in one way or another. Enlightenment Rationalists eliminated the supernatural from scripture because it conflicted with their elevation of human reason. Rudolf Bultmann developed his program of demythologizing for the same purpose. As he famously said (my paraphrase), “No one who uses an electric light can possibly take the NT miracle stories literally.” DeCort is offering his readers his own form of Tendenz Kritik. Anything that does not cohere with his understanding of a peacemaking Jesus activating principles rooted in creation must be rewritten or rejected outright.

When everything else is said and done, I cannot help but conclude that Andrew DeCort is offering us another version of Walter Rauschenbusch’s rationalistic, nineteenth–century Social Gospel filtered through the lens of the Ethiopian civil war and the personal trauma it created for the author. As Rauschenbusch explained, Jesus’ exemplary life is intended to reveal the universal Fatherhood of God and the universal brotherhood of humanity. The Beatitudes lay out Jesus’ instructions for “humane happiness” in this world where divine, universal love is not taken seriously enough. DeCort is clearly reading from this script.

DeCort’s idiosyncratic version of the social gospel also reminds me of the classic work by Philip Reiff, The Triumph of the Therapeutic: Uses of Faith after Freud. In that book, Reiff details the extent to which the processes and benefits of psychotherapy have replaced the historic liturgies, traditions and authority of religious (Christian) faith in modernity. Reiff explains that:

Any religious exercise is justified only by being something men (sic) do for themselves, that is, for the enrichment of their own experience . . . What then should churchmen (sic) do? The answer returns clearly: become, avowedly, therapists, administrating a therapeutic institution—under the justificatory mandate that Jesus himself was the first therapeutic. (215)

DeCort’s “exposition” of the Beatitudes closely conforms to Reiff’s prescription for modern religious leaders. It is, indeed, the triumph of the therapeutic.

But this is nothing new; it is an old, old story.

In 1906 Albert Schweitzer published his important book, The Quest for the Historical Jesus. After surveying every scholarly effort to recover the Jesus of history from the accumulated traditions of two–thousand years of Christian development, Schweitzer concluded (I am paraphrasing): “After peering down history’s well, searching for the historical Jesus, all that researchers have discovered is their own reflection staring back at them.”

Reading about DeCort’s reflections on himself, superimposed onto the Beatitudes, is not without some interest; the human story is compelling. But the theological conclusions he draws, concerning Jesus and the Beatitudes, must be taken with a large block of salt. I’d like to see more of the incarnate Jesus who suffered on the cross in order to make peace between his heavenly Father and fallen human beings, and less about the power of therapeutic empathy to perfect human happiness through “peacemaking.”

That difference is stark.

A Review of Eric Metaxas’ New Book, Religionless Christianity

Review of Eric Metaxas, Religionless Christianity: God’s Answer to Evil (New York: Regnery Faith, 2024, $24.99)

Religionless Christianity is Eric Metaxas’ follow–up to his best–selling book, Letter to the American Church (see my review here). As in the earlier work, Dietrich Bonhoeffer remains Metaxas’ paradigm of Christian cultural engagement striving to effect societal transformation. By going so far as to participate in a plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler, Bonhoeffer exemplifies the kind of pious extremism expected of all truly radical Jesus–followers. (Yes, let the irony of that statement sink in.) According to Metaxas, Christians must reject “the idol of purity” (79). “Daring to act” (i.e. trying to kill Hitler), even if it means “making some mistake” (i.e. committing the sin of murder) is Metaxas’ exemplary motto for faithful Christian living (100).

Metaxas’ tone is strongly apocalyptic in response to the spreading “horrors” he believes have been encouraged by the Biden administration. What a difference four years of Democratic governance can make! (I say this with tongue firmly planted in my left cheek.) The dangerous implications of Metaxas’ valorization of Bonhoeffer’s decision to embrace violence are clear. Killing political opponents because they are judged to be God’s horrific opponents continues to be an important part of Metaxas’ message.

According to Metaxas, American society has become the resurrected analog of Nazi Germany complete with the demonic evils (and Metaxas means this literally) of socialism, cultural Marxism, critical race theory (all terms he never defines) as well as transgender advocacy. To his mind, one of the premier examples illustrating America’s slide into the pit of demonic thought and action is “the insane lie of the 1619 Project” (57). According to Metaxas, the 1619 Project’s lessons about the history of American slavery and the ongoing challenges of institutional racism are “lunatic,” “wicked,” “intentionally malevolent,” “dark and accusing,” and “diametrically opposed to God’s idea of grace” (58). In Metaxas’s mind, his political opponents are not well–intentioned human beings who hold different opinions or draw different conclusions from the historical evidence. No. Metaxas insists that all Democrats, liberals (whatever that label now means), progressives and left–wing social activists are involved in a dark, Satanic conspiracy.

According to Metaxas, the main instrument used to propagate this demonic, Nazi–like degeneration is the promotion of “cancel culture” (chapters six and seven). By this he means the suppression of one set of ideological voices by those on the opposite side of the debate. Metaxas warns that “at the dark heart of the evil we are seeing in our time lies that hideous thing called ‘cancel culture’” (55). His primary example of cancel culture concerns Christian voices being criticized or condemned on social media platforms. Combatting cancel culture is elevated to the status of spiritual warfare since “the spirit of cancel culture always operates in environments that are openly anti–God” revealing nothing but “a satanic spirit of accusation and cursing” (59).

In Metaxas’ worldview, only conservatives suffer the oppression of cancel culture. He remains blind to the many instances where either conservative and/or establishment forces have worked to “cancel” progressive/liberal voices in public conversation. (For instance, notice the absence from mainstream media of: anti–Zionist critiques of Israel’s war against Gaza, or any discussion of the war in Ukraine that places primary responsibility not on Russia but on the provocation created by NATO expansion. My political opinions are never represented in mainstream media. Yet, I restrain myself from imagining I am a victim of demonic forces.)

Metaxas’ believes that it is the church’s responsibility directly to attack such demonic phenomena as cancel culture and the 1619 Project. An obedient, socially active, politically engaged church that explicitly promotes conservative policies via Christian nationalism (120–25) is the only hope for national transformation.

The Christian church controls the tiller of society, according to Metaxas. A degenerate society, such as ours or Nazi Germany’s, reveals an apostate church. Bolstering his case by way of analogy to the German church prior to World War II, he lays the largest portion of blame for the rise of Naziism at the feet of the German church—a church that had surrendered to the demonic powers of secularism and religion.

This is where Dietrich Bonhoeffer reenters the picture. During Bonhoeffer’s imprisonment (for plotting to assassinate Hitler) he began writing about the need for “religionless Christianity.” Though I am not a Bonhoeffer scholar—by all academic accounts, neither is Metaxas—I understand Bonhoeffer’s call for a religionless Christianity to be a doubling down on his condemnation of “cheap grace” made so thoroughly in his book The Cost of Discipleship.

Rejecting the empty formalism and pietistic trappings of religious posturing, which includes the brand of rationalism that excludes the possibility of supernatural miracles, Bonhoeffer called for a thoroughgoing surrender to the Lordship of Jesus Christ in every dimension of life. This would be religionless, i.e., authentic Christianity which is exactly what both Germany and America require(d). A truly religionless American Christianity would lead to the final victory of conservative values in a Christian nation worthy of America’s Christian heritage.

This brief review of Metaxas’ arguments in Religionless Christianity has already indicated the book’s major problems. A little elaboration will fill in the picture.

Sections of this book sound as if the author has recently emerged from a time capsule. He seems to have missed the decades–long history of political activism instigated by America’s Religious Right movement, including such organizations as the Moral Majority, the Christian Coalition, Focus on the Family, the Family Research Council and more. The problem, obviously, is that acknowledging this piece of American history undermines Metaxas’ insistence about the ability of a politically active church to control the tenor and direction of American society. Why hasn’t the Religious Right’s decades of religious, political activism created a more moral, Christian society? Metaxas ignores the question because the answer undermines his thesis.

Metaxas also fails to grasp the internal problems of the German, Christian church in the early twentieth–century. Thus, his comparisons to American society consistently miss the mark. The German church’s two principal problems were theological before they were pragmatic.

First, the German church adhered closely to Martin Luther’s two–kingdom theology in which secular, political leaders—including a man like Adolf Hitler—were believed to be divinely installed by God’s providence. The Christian’s duty was to obey government leaders not to dissent; for civil disobedience was rebellion against God.

The second issue was closely related to the first. The Christian church in 1930s Germany wholeheartedly embraced its own form of Christian nationalism. Germany was God’s exceptional nation, carrying out God’s purposes in attempting to conquer Europe. Germany was establishing the kingdom of God on this earth, on both the eastern and the western fronts.

The supreme irony of Metaxas’ book resides in his failure to notice the overlap between his own political views and those of the Nazi, German Christian church which he criticizes. Though he calls upon the American church to follow in the footsteps of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, he fails to recognize that he is defending the very political positions— [1] Christian nationalism and [2] seeing God’s “blessing” on one’s preferred political leader, i.e., Donald Trump—that Bonhoeffer condemned. Metaxas’ partisan applause for Trump, especially as Trump promises evangelicals that he will protect Christian dominance throughout America, are mirror images of the theological posture taken up by the German church. THIS was the “secularism” condemned by Bonhoeffer’s call for a religionless Christianity. Yet, it is the very brand of American civil religion propounded by Metaxas.

But Metaxas is too busy promoting his own right–wing political ideology to notice that in riding the wave of today’s MAGA movement and blatantly manipulating Bonhoeffer’s legacy, he has styled himself as one more political hack pretending to write as an historian–theologian. Unfortunately, I suspect that Religionless Christianity will become another bestseller for Metaxas. But then Naziism was also a bestseller among members of the German Christian church.

A Review of “Jesus and the Powers” by N. T. Wright and Michael F. Bird

A Review of N. T. Wright and Michael F. Bird, Jesus and the Powers: Christian Political Witness In an Age of Totalitarian Terror and Dysfunctional Democracies (Zondervan, 2024, $22.99)

As I begin this review, I must admit that I am not a dispassionate analyst. I do have some skin in the game since this new book by Wright and Bird covers very similar ground as does my book, I Pledge Allegiance. I have some firm opinions in this area of study.

Having put my cards on the table, however, I can say that Wright and Bird have given the church a very helpful book providing biblical guidance on how followers of Jesus are to deal with the practical matters of church–state relations. Can a Christian be involved with politics? What is the proper relationship between church and state? How are disciples to conduct themselves as responsible citizens? What guidance does scripture offer for answering these types of questions?

All this and more is tackled here with the deft biblical–theological hand one has come to expect from Wright and Bird.  With numerous historical examples illustrating the strengths and weaknesses of alternative approaches to such matters.

The first three chapters lay out the church’s relationship to world empires, beginning with Rome’s domination of Jesus’ homeland, up to the church’s contemporary interactions with the Soviet Union, China and the United States. The spiritual backdrop to these interactions is helpfully cast in terms of the spiritual, cosmic powers always at work behind the temporal authorities we see in our national, international, global relations. Thus, Wright and Bird endorse Walter Wink’s important three–volume work on Christianity and the Powers.

Chapter four, “The Kingdom of God as Vision and Vocation” begins the turn to a more pragmatic description of what exactly Christian disciples ought to be doing, and how we ought to be thinking, about our place in secular society. Here they thankfully emphasize the vital unification of both gospel proclamation and social justice activism as equally vital, and ultimately indivisible, kingdom activities for the local church. Across the entire spectrum of Christian, kingdom activities we are reminded that “the whole purpose of Christian influence is not the pursuit of Christian hegemony but the giving of faithful Christian witness,” thereby endorsing James Davison Hunter’s concept of the Christian church offering a “faithful presence” in the world (93).

The book’s second half focuses on matters of church–state relations in the modern day. There is an excellent critique of Christian Nationalism,” as well as the vigorous defense of liberal democracy, pluralism and secularism as the political venues most conducive to religious freedom.

The book’s conclusion reminds its readers that “we are called to be disciples with a theo–political vision of the gospel” (174) meaning that “a kingdom perspective requires prophetic witness, priestly intercession and political discernment” (175). The church cannot build the kingdom of God, only God can construct his kingdom on earth as it is in heaven (176).

This is a fine piece of work. And I am happy to encourage my subscribers to read this book by Wright and Bird, although I encourage you to do it in tandem with my book, I Pledge Allegiance: A Believer’s Guide to Kingdom Citizenship in 21st Century America (Eerdmans, 2018).

Now I must turn to my critical analysis of the work.

Wright and Bird have written a handbook of sorts dealing with the questions of church–state relationship and Christian political involvement. Biblical references are treated as proof–texts cited in footnotes with no close reading or interpretation provided along the way. Since both of these men are fine New Testament scholars, this was obviously a deliberate decision. But this  omission leaves the reader with yet another book on politics and theology where we are simply expected to take the authors at their own authoritative word.

The problem with this decision appears most obviously in the discussion of Romans 13. Despite the fact that Paul never uses the vocabulary of “obey” or “obedience” in these verses, Wright and Bird repeat the frequent mistake of taking Paul to say that Christians are responsible “to obey” their secular, civic authorities (105, 109, 110). But this is not the case, and I explain why at some length in my book, I Pledge Allegiance (55–62). Granted, the authors redeem themselves by eventually, and quite rightly, explaining that it is “only good government can claim the mantle of a divinely appointed authority. Accordingly, God brings order through government but does not ordain every individual ruler” (112). Thus, Paul does instruct us to submit to the divine ordering of government, but we are not responsible to obey every person or directive in authority.

Again, Wright and Bird finally reach this conclusion themselves in their section discussing civil disobedience (107–121). They agree that unjust laws may be resisted or disobeyed by believers, although, while admitting that “one needs to have criteria for determining unjust laws,” no specific guidance is offered (119).

They draw a distinction between civil disobedience and uncivil disobedience, the latter being “reserved only for violent authoritarians.” In the face of authoritarianism, Christians are justified in resorting to violence in their efforts to overthrow an oppressive, unjust government. In my view, this is where their argument and methodology go off the rails. Not only is there no biblical evidence on offer, but even the biblical footnotes disappear. Instead, the authors appeal to traditional just war theory, a few notable philosophers, and the example of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s involvement in a plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler.

I obviously disagree strongly with these (less than compelling) arguments justifying a Christian’s turn to violence in civil war. (Again, check out the extensive argument in my book insisting that Christians must always embrace non–violence in every circumstance.) Actually, Bonhoeffer’s own turn to violent anti–Nazi resistance is, in my opinion, the great tragedy of his otherwise exemplary life. For, when all is said and done, Bonhoeffer did not die as a martyr for Jesus Christ and the gospel. He died as a violent insurgent helping to plot a violent murder.

Here we come, perhaps, to the principal problem with Jesus and the Powers. For all the discussion of the kingdom of God and the need for Christian ethics to direct our political engagement, there is no extended discussion of the upside–down nature of Jesus’ kingdom ethics; no exposition of what numerous scholars have called the “kingdom reversal.” In my opinion, this is not only a major oversight but an inexplicable omission in a book like this. Jesus makes it clear, that living out the seemingly upside–down values of the kingdom of God — in every dimension of our public and private lives, political and apolitical — is THE means of demonstrating that the “not yet fulfilled” kingdom of God is, nevertheless, “already present” in this world. Living a non–violent life as Jesus lived a non–violent life, even in the face of the most authoritarian, bloodthirsty injustice exhibited on the cross at Calvary, is our gospel–kingdom mandate.

Similarly, a great deal of additional instruction in political directives could be added, but first we must immerse ourselves in a new way to think, a new way to view life in this world, a new way to live: an upside–down way, a contrarian way in all of life, whether the government is democratic or totalitarian. Unfortunately, Jesus and the Powers gives little attention to this crucial piece of the church and politics pie.

Book Review: “The Case for Christian Nationalism” by Stephen Wolfe

My pastor recently asked me if I had read Stephen Wolfe’s book, The Case for Christian Nationalism (Canon Press, 2022; 475 pages, $24.99). I assume that he asked because of my book, I Pledge Allegiance (Eerdmans, 2018), where I not only criticize all forms of nationalism but strongly condemn Christian nationalism, in particular.

Dr. Wolfe’s book was sitting untouched on my bookcase. So, I returned home from my conversation with my pastor determined to read a volume that seemed to be “making the rounds” in certain circles.

Sparked by the January 6th assault on the US Congress, decorated as it was with Christian imagery like a large wooden cross and handmade signs declaring “Jesus Saves,” there has been a recent flurry of books about Christian nationalism.

Some are for it. Some are against it.

Wolfe is very much in favor of overhauling America in order to make Christianity the national religion, the norm for public behavior and civic engagement, thus producing a thoroughly “Christian nation.”

Let me begin by putting my cards on the table: this book has so many serious problems, it made my head hurt to read more than short snippets at a time. A thorough review would require more space that I can give to it here, so I will focus my attention on Wolfe’s methodology and his consequent justification for viewing nationalism, especially Christian nationalism, as God’s plan for humanity.

A major part of the problem with The Case for Christian Nationalism arises from the fact that the author does not see its problems as a problem. In fact, he almost immediately dismisses any challenges to his approach as irrelevant or misplaced.

From the outset, Wolfe immunizes himself against any scripturally-based criticism by announcing that he “make(s) little effort to exegete biblical text (sic)” (16). Confessing that he is “neither a theologian nor a biblical scholar” with “no training in moving from scriptural interpretation to theological articulation,” Wolfe instead is content to draw from the work of 16th and 17th century, “very Thomistic” Reformed scholars such as John Calvin, Francis Turretin, and the English Puritans, trusting that their theologies have already told us everything we need to know about the New Testament, Christian theology and their intersection with political theory.

Consequently, Wolfe’s method also excludes any engagement with alternative political theologies and traditions. He regularly refers to “the” (Reformed) Christian tradition as if alternatives such as the Anabaptist heritage, an important political/theological strain that differs radically from that of his Reformed icons, never existed. Thus, Wolfe not only immunizes himself against any biblical analysis but also from any divergent theological debate, as well.

It all makes for a safe way to write an extremely odd book.

Having established his presuppositional background, Wolfe then proceeds along the lines of natural theology, building on “a foundation of natural principles” (18); a predictably scholastic move. Finding natural, universal, theological principles in our world today means that Wolfe sees substantial lines of behavioral and structural continuity between the contemporary world of human affairs, on the one hand, and the human situation prior to Adam and Eve’s Fall into sin in Genesis 3, on the other.

Hypothesizing backwards, from the way things are today to the way things would have been had sin never entered creation, Wolfe constructs his own imaginary picture of human development. He fantasizes about human society dividing itself as different family groups migrated, separated, and moved apart from each other.  Different linguistic dialects would have evolved, creating numerous, distinct communities increasingly distinguished from each other by geography, language, and cultural evolution.

“It follows,” Wolfe declares, “that Adam’s progeny would have formed many nations on earth, and thus the formation of nations is part of God’s design and intention for man (emphasis mine). . . the formation of nations is not a product of the fall; it is natural to man as man. . . The instinct to live within one’s ‘tribe’ or one’s own people is neither a product of the fall nor extinguished by grace; rather, it is natural and good” (22-23).

Notice how the imaginary elements of Wolfe’s theoretical, pre-Fall reconstruction are elevated to the status of God’s original design and intention for humanity. Tribalism is not an unfortunate expression of human divisiveness, antagonism, competition, or prejudice. Rather, it is “natural and good,” according to Wolfe. More on this in a moment.

This is a very old line of political argument following the dictates of natural theology. It is an important feature of the Dutch Kuyperian theological tradition that prevails, for instance, at Calvin University, the place where I used to teach. I have encountered it many times. But before we decide to join in with this Reformed theological mind-game, let’s be sure we understand the kind of game we are being asked to play.

For, remember, it is a fictitious game that makes up its own rules, leading to highly questionable results. Looking at “natural” human behavior today, Wolfe assumes a wide swath of unbroken continuity. He assumes that the contemporary modes of behavior we witness now would be equally natural and good for perfected humanity as originally designed by the Creator. In fact, it is the very behavior God originally intended! Thus, “the natural inclination to dwell among similar people is good and necessary (emphasis mine). Grace does not destroy or ‘critique’ it” (24).

In other words, God’s grace would never work to overcome segregation, the separation of the races, class divisions, or ethnic antagonism? Really? Wolfe can try to sugar-coat his whole-hearted embrace of divisive tribalism all he wants, but no amount of hemming or hawing will hide the fact that he offers a far-reaching theological hypothesis that opens a very wide door to the worst sorts of prejudice and discrimination.

Wolfe also leaves us wondering how he happens to know these things? He obviously assumes that we will share his faith in the power of fallen human reason rightly to discern the divinely ordained, robust continuity between the way things are and the way things would have been.

However, I, for one, cannot share his faith . . . or his naivete. For the fact is that Wolfe does not, because he cannot, know any of these things.

He is making it all up on the fly.

And he is making it up while perching precariously on two erroneous assumptions. We’ve touched on them already, but let’s make them explicit: one, he assumes that his fallen human mind can accurately discern God’s original intent for humanity by observing human behavior today; and two, he assumes that he does not need to read scripture for himself; the Reformed scholastics have already done all the necessary work for him.

Of course, this is all standard fare for those who embrace natural theology and theological scholasticism. It also illustrates why I have always rejected both.

Now, let’s try a different thought experiment – and unlike Wolfe, I will not posit any divine authority or normativity to my “mind game.” I offer it merely as a hypothetical alternative scenario.

Let’s dial down the continuity switch on our imaginary thought experiment and turn up the discontinuity dial as we compare the way things are today with respect to the way things might have been before sin entered the world.

Perhaps human beings would have recognized that they were inextricably bound together by the image of God, the distinguishing component of humanity which they all held in common. Perhaps, they would have invested deliberate energy – or perhaps it would have come naturally without any special effort at all – in maintaining loving, hospitable connections, no matter how widely their different family groups ranged across the planet. Maybe they would have wanted to maintain their common language in order to secure tight lines of communication, mutual understanding and trust, no matter the physical distance between them. New discoveries and developments would be shared so that everyone enjoyed the benefits equally, and no one could slip into isolation. As a result, nationalism would never develop. In fact, it would be antithetical to the Creator’s intentions.

I could go on, but you get the picture.

There are no logical or theological reasons to prefer Wolfe’s reconstruction over mine. On the contrary, I would argue that the biblical doctrine of original sin demands a much greater emphasis on behavioral discontinuity than Wolfe’s reconstruction allows.

More than that, aside from the fact that I would prefer to live in my pre-Fall creation than in his, Wolfe’s reconstruction (for biblical reasons that Wolfe prefers to ignore and that I cannot go into here) strikes me as the least likely of all pre-Fall worlds. I cannot help but conclude that Wolfe employs natural theology to sanctify human sinfulness when he should be using biblical theology to critique our sinfulness while holding out the ideals of God’s redemption.

The fact that The Case for Christian Nationalism contains chapters that seriously defend both the “great man” theory of government (chapter seven) – what he calls “a measured and theocratic Caesarism” – and the legitimacy of violent revolution (chapter eight) provides further evidence of how far astray a rationalistic, naturalistic theology can wander when it deliberately severs itself from biblical constraints.

The many Anabaptist martyrs who died at the hands of Reformed, theocratic Caesars shout a loud, uniform condemnation of Wolfe’s brand of theocratic nationalism. It should never be resurrected.

And I pray that God, and liberal democracy, will save us from all those, like Dr. Wolfe, who disagree.

Eric Metaxas Encourages Violence While Dietrich Bonhoeffer Rolls Over in His Grave

Are American church/state relations in 2022 comparable to German church/state relations in 1933 when the Nazi party began its rise to power?

Eric Metaxas thinks so, and he wants to warn the American church of the existential threat it now faces.

Metaxas’ new book, Letter to the American Church (Salem, 2022; 139 pp., $22.99), begins by declaring that “the parallels [in the American church] to where the German Church was in the 1930s are unavoidable and grim” (ix). These “parallels” are most clearly seen as the evangelical church remains silent in the face of America’s own Nazi-like atrocities.

America’s atrocious sins, which are allowed to flourish in the face of evangelical silence, are comparable to Nazi preparations for the Holocaust. These sins are listed as abortion, globalism, Critical Race Theory, transgenderism, creeping communism, and the state-directed church closures ordered during the covid-19 pandemic, all of which express an “atheistic Marxist ideology” otherwise known as cultural Marxism (xii, xiii, 13-15, 91).

The only solution to society’s slide into increasing moral chaos, according to Metaxas, is for a new crop of Dietrich Bonhoeffer-like church leaders to rise up and protest – violently, if need be (more on this below) – against the country’s drift toward cultural oblivion. Metaxas’ biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer figures as the major source for this book’s political arguments, despite the very negative reviews Metaxas’ biography received from Bonhoeffer specialists. (see here, here, and here).

According to Metaxas, Bonhoeffer described a three-point solution to both Germany’s and America’s problems in his essay, “The Church and the Jewish Question.” They are [1] as the conscience of the state, the church must loudly protest against government wrong-doing; [2] the church must assist the victims of immoral state policies; and [3] if the state refuses to change its course, then the church must embrace political activism, shoving “a stick in the spokes” of the “rumbling machine of the state” (39).

The body of Letter to the American Church excoriates evangelical leaders for withdrawing from their obligation to agitate for public morality and, instead, cocooning themselves in an exclusive focus on evangelism. Metaxas’ attacks against “the idol of evangelism” (75-85) provide an important reminder (very positively, in my view) of the inherently offensive nature of the gospel and how easy it is for preachers to avoid difficult subjects like sin and judgment in order not to “offend” their listeners.

Unfortunately, Metaxas conflates his (a) justified critique of timid preachers who knowingly compromise the gospel message with (b) a highly dubious attack against evangelical leaders who will not rally their congregations to become outspoken, right-wing, Republican political agitators. Aside from Metaxas’ remarkable blindness to his own political, as opposed to truly Christian, partisanship, his apparent ignorance of American church history is surprising.

I can only assume that in wanting to write “a book for the moment,” Metaxas has restricted the horizons of his historical interest to the rise of Donald Trump and events subsequent to the 2016 presidential election. His complaints about evangelicalism’s political lethargy not only ignore the long, activist history of the Religious Right – a movement that finally threw its weight behind Trump’s campaign and carried him to victory – but seems to know nothing about the long history of evangelical activism in progressive politics, represented by people like Jim Wallis and the Sojourners’ community.

But then, Metaxas suggests that all Christians with a progressive political bent have been deceived by Satan, so their activism only contributes to the cultural Marxist dangers threatening America.

Metaxas also appears to be unaware of the wide stream of American dispensational evangelicalism-fundamentalism, going back at least to the early nineteenth century, that actively discourages Christians against political activism. Shunning politics hardly originated with those contemporary pastors now intent on putting out the fires of political divisiveness consuming their congregations.

But Metaxas is clearly in favor of churches dividing over partisan politics. In an obvious reference to MAGA-enamored churchgoers leaving congregations where their politics are not sufficiently affirmed, Metaxas says, “Many Christians are abandoning such churches for the few that are alive to the situation, where the pastors are less timid about saying what needs to be said” (36).

Certainly, the most disturbing aspect of Metaxas’ book is its subtle yet clear justification of violence for political ends. The argument is carefully, if subtly, constructed.

First, Dietrich Bonhoeffer is Metaxas’ model of Christian virtue not only because he openly criticized the Nazi regime – along with many others; Bonhoeffer was not alone in doing this – but because Bonhoeffer participated in a plot to assassinate Hitler. It is Bonhoeffer’s willingness to embrace violence as a political weapon, the very definition of terrorism, that makes Bonhoeffer a hero to Metaxas. And this is the exemplary aspect of Bonhoeffer’s life that Metaxas clearly wants his readers to emulate, for “Bonhoeffer understood that to eschew violence whenever possible did not mean that it was always possible” (109).

Though he never says it explicitly, the unavoidable implication of Metaxas’ argument, from beginning to end, is that faithful Christians will do whatever it takes to change society and move it in the right-wing direction of Metaxas’ preferred political agenda. This includes resorting to violence, if need be.

Metaxas lays the “biblical” groundwork for his call to violence-when-necessary with several specious arguments.

He begins by describing his Manichean view of the world. Everything is black or white. Anyone who dissents from his verdict on the evils destroying American society is categorized as “demonic,” a tool of Satan (96, 101, 113-114, 117). The American culture wars are a fight of good against evil, of divine forces against demonic opponents. As Metaxas draws up the battlefield, people like Jim Wallis (a Christian active in progressive politics) and Andy Stanley (a pastor combatting political division within his church) are on the Devil’s team.

Furthermore, Metaxas seems convinced that if society is in decline, then it must be the church’s fault. A faithful, protesting, politically active church would presumably carry the day and turn the tide of spreading immorality.

Metaxas anticipates the inevitable objections to his promotion of political violence by distorting the biblical view of God with his own (ironic!) version of “cheap grace,” the very problem Bonhoeffer famously attributed to the German church under Hitler.

According to Metaxas, God is not looking for believers who concern themselves with purity. Rather, God is seeking courageous, even reckless devotees who are willing to risk incurring guilt as they sin on God’s behalf. This component of Metaxas’ argument is so shocking that a few quotations are warranted to make the point:

Page 110 – To love unreservedly – which is God’s call to us – is to risk everything, our lives and our reputations. Bonhoeffer’s view of God’s real grace made it possible for him to trust Him completely. As long as he earnestly desired to do God’s will and acted from that motive, he knew the God of the Bible would see his heart and grant him grace, if it happened that he had erred.

Page 118 – (Bonhoeffer understood that) God was calling His people to something far above merely avoiding sins and keeping their noses clean. . . Being a Christian is not about avoiding sin, but about passionately and courageously serving God.

Page 120-21 – God is not a moralistic fussbudget or nitpicking God who is lying in wait. When we tell a lie for a larger good, He does not swoop in and say “Aha!” and condemn us. If we know who God truly is, we know that He is not against us, but for us. He is not Satan the accuser, looking for what sins He can find to condemn us. He is the gracious and loving God who sent His own Son to die so that we could be forgiven and saved. And when He sees us act in a way that is not calculated to protect ourselves but that is rather magnanimous and self-sacrificing for the sake of another, He rejoices.

In any other context, Metaxas’ words might sound innocent enough. But tied as they are to Bonhoeffer’s willingness to commit murder, Metaxas’ urgings for courageous Christians to behave radically, even to the point of knowingly engaging in sin, take on an ominous significance.

Since Bonhoeffer believed that God would forgive his role in Hitler’s attempted murder, Christians today should also understand that God will forgive them for whatever violent acts they commit in their “godly” efforts to redeem our society.

There is much more to criticize in Metaxas’ new book, but these are the most salient problems, in my view. I am sure that Metaxas would insist that I am wrong when I accuse him of fomenting political violence. He has constructed his book in such a way as to provide himself with “plausible deniability.”

But in today’s world, more specifically, in today’s America, my mind is not the only one that will read Metaxas’ book as a call-to-arms with a get-out-of-jail-free card neatly included.

So, beware the author who tells his readers that political violence can be the answer, describing it as a courageous act of the truly spiritual person who will be forgiven by God.