The Continuity of Public Worship.

“In the realm of worship itself, Jesus taught that postures and expression[s] which may be appropriate in private prayer are inappropriate in public because they draw attention to oneself. The setting, the street corner versus the closet, is crucial (Matthew 6:4–6). The Apostle Paul regulates the preaching, praying, singing, and sacramental practices of the church at Corinth in 1 Corinthians 10–14. He gives specific directions for when they ‘come together as a church’ (1 Corinthians 11:18). Special rules that apply when the church gathers that don't necessarily apply in ‘all of life.’ That which may be done in one's house may not be done in the assembly. In connection with the Lord’s Supper, the Apostle Paul asked directly, ‘Do you not have houses in which to eat and drink?’ (1 Corinthians 11:22). The eating which would have been appropriate at home was inappropriate in public. Also, there are questions which might be asked at home which should not be asked in the public assembly (1 Corinthians 14:35). A form of the phrase ‘when you come together’ (vv. 17–18, 20, 33–34) is used five times in 1 Corinthians 11:17–34. He cites the practice of ‘all the churches.’ He insists that the Corinthian church conform to the universal standard of the church. ‘We have no other practice,’ he says, ‘nor have the churches of God’ (1 Corinthians 11:16; cf. 14:23; 1:2; 4:17; 14:23). These rules for public worship ensure substantial continuity between the churches in there public services” (Reformed Worship, Johnson, pp. 11–12).

A Ridiculous Question.

Here's a little ol' thought experiment on the topic of God's sovereignty and man's responsibility.

Consider the following story.

Sam had a choice to make: let the innocent girl go or squeeze the trigger. He lined up his shot, steadied his breathing, and fired. She fell dead.

Riddle me this. Who is culpable for murdering the innocent girl?
Sam, of course.

Entirely?

Yes. In the story—within the confines of the creative work—Sam is 100% responsible for his actions. The miserable wretch murdered that poor lass.

But I'll ask you this. Did I, as the writer, actually become a murderer by writing about a murder?—or a murderer murdering?
No, of course not.

As the creator of the story, I am not automatically bound by the story because I am other than the story; outside of the story, I exist fully. As the author, I have the ability to pull myself—at least in part—into the confines of the story . . . or not. As for Sam, he was the one who pulled the trigger; he was the murderer.

Note, though, that Sam's very existence, his choices, his decision, the innocent girl, the gun, Sam's aim, his breath, the operations of the gun, ignition, gravity, culpability, the rule of law—the course of the story and all of its constituents—are all my creation. So why am I not culpable for the murder? Because I didn't make myself culpable. As the writer, I can do that. What I write is other than me; it operates under me on the plane of my story, and I, in the first order, do not.

So who created the innocent girl and created her innocent?
I did.

Who created Sam, and the gun, and Sam's actions?
I did.

Who determined that the girl would die?
I did.

Because I wrote the story, are Sam's choices not really his own? Have I restricted his choices by determining what they will be? No. In fact, the more things I write about Sam—the more freedom I give his character—the more freedom he actually has. As I expand his world, his opportunities expand. Notice, however, that the only freedom he has is the freedom I give him. Conversely, the less freedom I give Sam the less freedom he actually has. Sam—the very existence of this “Sam” guy—is fully dependent upon me in every way and at every point.

So did Sam have a choice? Of course he had a choice: I gave him one. But notice that he only had a choice because I gave him one.  Sam's freedom in the course of the story is real freedom. But the story and all of its constituents—including the genuine freedom contained within it—are completely, exhaustively dependent upon the free choices of the creator: me. Is there any chance—any chance at all—that the characters of the story could alter the course of the story apart from my creative efforts? No, none whatever. The characters, their entire world, their history—everything—only exists because I chose to make it, and I made it, and I made it the way I chose to make it. Was any part of the story unforeseen by its creator? Of course not. Beginning, middle, and end—every strand, every element—were my doing. Everything that did exist, existed because I wrote it; and everything that didn't exist, didn't exist because I didn't write it.

But let's shift the situation a bit.

Sam was about to put his gun away, but Mike came up behind him, pointed the weapon in Sam's hand at the innocent girl, and squeezed Sam's finger against the trigger! The gun fired, and the innocent girl fell dead.

Poor girl.

Now in this scenario, I am directly responsible for the death of the innocent girl. Sam didn't choose to shoot the girl, I did. My free choices actually operated against Sam's will. Sam was just my puppet; he only did what I made him do. But notice that, as the creator, the only way I can actually be culpable for murdering the girl is if I write myself into the story as her murderer.

But, of course, I wouldn't really want to keep that version of the story, would I? (Like I said: poor girl.) If I am just—righteous—and, say, wished to reveal myself to the characters in the story, then I would only do it in such a way that consistently reflected my true nature; in a way that accurately described my actual being, my values, my character. I could write a good story that contains all manner of things that I condemn and maintain a morally sufficient reason for doing so. That's what good writers do.  And if that is the case with me, a sub-creator, then how much more is it the case with the Creator and how He reveals Himself in His story: all of created reality?

So let us apply the analogy. Let us ask ourselves this: Is man responsible for his own actions, or is God exhaustively sovereign?

Let me suggest that the answer must be a resounding, Yes. Not a mix, not parts of each, and not one or the other—both. Without God's exhaustive sovereignty, there are no men, no actions of men, and no responsibilities of men. All of those things are genuine—us, our wills, our actions, and our responsibilities—but only because God has already established every bit of it (Isaiah 46:10; Romans 8:28; Ephesians 1:11; Hebrews 1:3). It's inescapable. (Indeed even the concept of escapability is a component of what God has established. See? Inescapable.)

So is this—this universe, this history, this reality—just a mindless machine grinding away? No, it's the living, breathing Story. It's the Story that contains you and me and our choices and the favor—or disfavor—of the Author. It contains Heaven, and Hell, and a tree that the Word died on. It's a story pregnant with resurrection; pregnant with reconciliation.

“For of a truth against thy holy child Jesus, whom thou hast anointed, both Herod, and Pontius Pilate, with the Gentiles, and the people of Israel, were gathered together, for to do whatsoever thy hand and thy counsel determined before to be done” (Acts 4:27-28; cf. 2:23, John 19:11).

Let that sink it.

The worst crime in human history was committed by wicked men who were fully responsible for their actions . . . and the whole thing went off exactly according to God's plan. All of it.

So in light of what we've just considered, I'll ask: Did I write all of the story in which Sam murdered the innocent girl, or was Sam culpable of murdering her?

See? It's a ridiculous question.

Clap.

To the choirmaster. A Psalm of the Sons of Korah.
Clap your hands, all peoples!
Shout to God with loud songs of joy! (Psa 47:1).

Interesting.

I just noticed that the call to “clap your hands” isn't a call for simple applause or the happy-clap-along clapping one might envision. The word translated “clap” here is “taqa',” and it is elsewhere used as a way of signaling judgment, warfare, triumph, or a call to worship (often blowing a trumpet); driving a sharp object into something (like a tent peg through Sisera's head); and striking hands in a pledge.

Given the context of the entire Psalm, it seems that the people of God are called to express indignation over their enemies; the enemies of God. This clapping is perhaps both a warning and a call to worship for every nation; a call for repentance; a call for ratification or renewal of covenant with God; a signal that the battle has come to them.

After the people have “clapped” with God, they are called to “Shout to God with loud songs of joy!” The word for “shout” here is a war-cry.

So what are our marching orders? How are we to conduct ourselves in this war?

And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Mat 28:18-20).

That's how.

Notice that our goal is not to make disciples of some from every nation; baptize some from every nation; teach some from every nation. No, on the grounds of Jesus Christ having all power in heaven and earth, and on the grounds of us being in Him, we are to set our sights on the entire world; “for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the LORD, as the waters cover the sea” (Isa 11:9).

Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the LORD of hosts will do this (Isa 9:7).

Clap.

 

Mr. Barylambda.

The stocky pantodont, Barylambda.

Cheers!

(And yes, its name does mean "God tooth." Don't ask.)

The bizarre litoptern, Theosodon sp. One of the smallest members of the family Macraucheniidae, Theosodon looked like a hodge-podge of camelid, tapirid, and rhinocerotid features. In other words, it was stinkin' awesome.

For more information about macraucheniids, check out this blog on the Ark Encounter website.

An Entelodont Blog About an Entelodont Blog.

Witness the mighty entelodont, Daeodon shoshonensis!

Now click here and read what pops up.

Cheers!

On Smelling Like Jesus.

"Now thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and through us diffuses the fragrance of His knowledge in every place.
"For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.
"To the one we are the aroma of death leading to death, and to the other the aroma of life leading to life. And who is sufficient for these things?
"For we are not, as so many, peddling the word of God; but as of sincerity, but as from God, we speak in the sight of God in Christ" (2 Cor 2:14-17).

Faith Without Rocks is Dead.

"Faith is the substance of fossils hoped for, the evidence of links unseen" (Lunn, The Flight from Reason).

Worthy of the Table.

Is a man worthy of the bread and the wine?

Well, we know that the autonomous man—the man who remains in his sins, living according to his own laws—is not worthy of the body and blood of Christ. No, he is only worthy of death, judgement, and the eternal wrath of God.

But what of us? Are we worthy of the table? In and of ourselves, we are not still; you know we are not. Rather, in partaking, we are being made worthy. And this is the point of Christ's invitation: we need to be worthy. The table is for us and we must partake; we are commanded to partake (Luk 22:19). We did not deserve or merit our place at the table, but the Father, through Christ, in the Holy Spirit, has invited us anyway. 

This means that we are either completely and in every sense unworthy of the bread and wine, or we are being made worthy of the bread and wine in the partaking of it.

Grace is for you; the table is for you. So with thankfulness in your hearts, together with the Body, come and welcome to Jesus.

The Evil Stratagems of Problem Passages.

“Illegitimate systematics is done by the kind of people who put together jigsaw puzzles with a pair of scissors and mallet handy. The solution is not to abandon systematics, which is not possible anyway. Everybody in this discussion has a system because everybody wants to understand what the Bible as a whole teaches. Our task is nevertheless to guard ourselves against Procrustean interpretations, and we do this best by acknowledging frankly that every school of thought will have such temptations. This happens when we get certain passages ‘down’ and then feel impelled to protect that understanding against the evil stratagems of problem passages” (Wilson, Against the Church, p. 54).

Too Glad, to be True.

"Relief and buoyancy are the characteristic notes . . . It follows that nearly every association which now clings to the word puritan has to be eliminated when we are thinking of the early Protestants. Whatever they were, they were not sour, gloomy, or severe; nor did their enemies bring any such charge against them . . . Fore More, a Protestant was one ‘dronke of the new must of lewd lightnes of minde and vayne gladness of harte’ . . . Protestantism was not too grim, but too glad, to be true . . . Protestants are not ascetics but sensualists" (Lewis, English Literature in the 16th Century, p. 34).

Puritan Indulgences.

"But there is no understanding the period of the Reformation in England until we have grasped the fact that the quarrel between the Puritans and the Papists was not primarily a quarrel between rigorism and indulgence, and that, in so far as it was, the rigorism was on the Roman side. On many questions, and specially in their view of the marriage bed, the Puritans were the indulgent party; if we may without disrespect so use the name of a great Roman Catholic, a great writer, and a great man, they were much more Chestertonian than their adversaries" (Lewis, Selected Literary Essays, p. 116).

Let Him Be Nourished!

There once were four men; to each man was born a son.

The first man, when handed his child, said, "I neither know nor care if this babe is family, but since it is here, and we all eat, let it eat as well."

The second man, when handed his child, said, "This babe is not family, but perhaps when it is of age it will become family. If it proves that it is family, then we will let it eat."

The third man, when handed his child, said, "This babe is family! When he is old enough to reason and demonstrate that he knows what being a member of this family is about, then we will let him be fed."

The fourth man, when handed his child, said, "This babe is family, so let him be nourished!"

A Desperate Romance.

"If our life is ever really as beautiful as a fairy-tale, we shall have to remember that all the beauty of a fairy-tale lies in this: that the prince has a wonder which just stops short of being fear. If he is afraid of the giant, there is an end of him; but also if he is not astonished at the giant, there is an end of the fairy-tale. The whole point depends upon his being at once humble enough to wonder, and haughty enough to defy. So our attitude to the giant of the world must not merely be increasing delicacy or increasing contempt: it must be one particular proportion of the two–which is exactly right.

"We must have in us enough reverence for all things outside us to make us tread fearfully on the grass. We must also have enough disdain for all things outside us, to make us, on due occasion, spit at the stars. Yet these two things (if we are to be good or happy) must be combined, not in any combination, but in one particular combination. The perfect happiness of men on the earth (if it ever comes) will not be a flat and solid thing, like the satisfaction of animals. It will be an exact and perilous balance; like that of a desperate romance. Man must have just enough faith in himself to have adventures, and just enough doubt of himself to enjoy them" (Chesterton, Orthodoxy).

The Murder of All Men.

"I put these things not in their mature logical sequence, but as they came: and this view was cleared and sharpened by an accident of the time. Under the lengthening shadow of Ibsen, an argument arose whether it was not a very nice thing to murder one's self. 
"Grave moderns told us that we must not even say 'poor fellow,' of a man who had blown his brains out, since he was an enviable person, and had only blown them out because of their exceptional excellence. Mr. William Archer even suggested that in the golden age there would be penny-in-the-slot machines, by which a man could kill himself for a penny. 
"In all this I found myself utterly hostile to many who called themselves liberal and humane. Not only is suicide a sin, it is the sin. It is the ultimate and absolute evil, the refusal to take an interest in existence; the refusal to take the oath of loyalty to life. The man who kills a man, kills a man. The man who kills himself, kills all men; as far as he is concerned he wipes out the world. His act is worse (symbolically considered) than any rape or dynamite outrage. For it destroys all buildings: it insults all women. The thief is satisfied with diamonds; but the suicide is not: that is his crime. He cannot be bribed, even by the blazing stones of the Celestial City. The thief compliments the things he steals, if not the owner of them. But the suicide insults everything on earth by not stealing it. He defiles every flower by refusing to live for its sake. There is not a tiny creature in the cosmos at whom his death is not a sneer. When a man hangs himself on a tree, the leaves might fall off in anger and the birds fly away in fury: for each has received a personal affront. 
"Of course there may be pathetic emotional excuses for the act. There often are for rape, and there almost always are for dynamite. But if it comes to clear ideas and the intelligent meaning of things, then there is much more rational and philosophic truth in the burial at the cross-roads and the stake driven through the body, than in Mr. Archer's suicidal automatic machines. There is a meaning in burying the suicide apart. The man's crime is different from other crimes—for it makes even crimes impossible" (Chesterton, Orthodoxy).

One of the Commonest Signs of a Rotter.

"Thoroughly worldly people never understand even the world; they rely altogether on a few cynical maxims which are not true. Once I remember walking with a prosperous publisher, who made a remark which I had often heard before; it is, indeed, almost a motto of the modern world. Yet I had heard it once too often, and I saw suddenly that there was nothing in it. The publisher said of somebody, 'That man will get on; he believes in himself.' 
"And I remember that as I lifted my head to listen, my eye caught an omnibus on which was written 'Hanwell.' I said to him, 'Shall I tell you where the men are who believe most in themselves? For I can tell you. I know of men who believe in themselves more colossally than Napoleon or Caesar. I know where flames the fixed star of certainty and success. I can guide you to the thrones of the Super-men. The men who really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums.'
"He said mildly that there were a good many men after all who believed in themselves and who were not in lunatic asylums. 'Yes, there are,' I retorted, 'and you of all men ought to know them. That drunken poet from whom you would not take a dreary tragedy, he believed in himself. That elderly minister with an epic from whom you were hiding in a back room, he believed in himself. If you consulted your business experience instead of your ugly individualistic philosophy, you would know that believing in himself is one of the commonest signs of a rotter. Actors who can't act believe in themselves; and debtors who won't pay. It would be much truer to say that a man will certainly fail, because he believes in himself. Complete self-confidence is not merely a sin; complete self-confidence is a weakness. Believing utterly in one's self is a hysterical and superstitious belief like believing in Joanna Southcote: the man who has it has "Hanwell" written on his face as plain as it is written on that omnibus.' 
"And to all this my friend the publisher made this very deep and effective reply, 'Well, if a man is not to believe in himself, in what is he to believe?' After a long pause I replied, 'I will go home and write a book in answer to that question.' This is the book that I have written in answer to it" (Chesterton, Orthodoxy).

Love is Bound.

"The devotee is entirely free to criticize; the fanatic can safely be a skeptic. Love is not blind—that is the last thing that it is. Love is bound. And the more that it is bound, the less it is blind" (Chesterton, Orthodoxy).

We are the New Eve.

“And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;

“And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.
“And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.
“Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh” (Gen 2:21-24).

God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam—a sleep like death (Mat 27:50; Mar 15:37; Luk 23:46; Jhn 19:30)—and while he slept, the Lord stretched out His hand and divided the man's side (Jhn 19:34) like He divided the waters of the Red Sea (Exd 14:21). The Lord then passed a rib out of the midst of the man and closed up the flesh of his side—just as the Israelites passed through the Red Sea on dry ground and the Lord returned the waters to their place, overthrowing the Egyptians who pursued (Exd 14:22ff). From the man's bone and flesh (1Cor 10:16, 11:29, 12:12-27; Eph 2:16, 4:12, 16; Eph 5:30), the Lord built (1Cor 3:9, 16, 17; 2 Cor 6:16; Eph 2:20-22, 1 Pet 2:5) a woman—the bride (Rev21:2, 9; 22:17), the wife (Eph5:23ff; Rev 19:7, 21:9), the mother of us all (Gen 3:20; cf. Gal4:26)—and He brought her to the risen man (2Cor 4:14, 11:2; Col 1:22, 28)—blemishless, without spot or wrinkle (2 Cor 11:2; Eph 1:4, 5:27; Col 1:22, 28; 1 The 5:23; Hbr 12:23; 2Pet 3:14; Jud 1:24).

Christ is the New Adam and we are the New Eve.

Coverings for Sin.

“And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons” (Gen 3:7).

“Unto Adam also and to his wife did the LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them” (v. 21).

. . .

“And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto the LORD.
“And Abel, he also brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof. And the LORD had respect unto Abel and to his offering:
“But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell” (4:3-5).

Evolution Really is Mistaken for Explanation.

"But this little incident has always lingered in my mind as a sort of parable. Most modern histories of mankind begin with the word evolution, and with a rather wordy exposition of evolution, for much the same reason that operated in this case. There is something slow and soothing and gradual about the word and even about the idea. As a matter of fact, it is not, touching these primary things, a very practical word or a very profitable idea. Nobody can imagine how nothing can turn into something. Nobody can get an inch nearer to it by explaining how something could turn into something else. It is really far more logical to start by saying ‘In the beginning God created heaven and earth’ even if you only mean ‘In the beginning some unthinkable power began some unthinkable process.’ For God is by its nature a name of mystery, and nobody ever supposed that man could imagine how a world was created any more than he could create one. But evolution really is mistaken for explanation. It has the fatal quality of leaving on many minds the impression that they do understand it and everything else; just as many of them live under a sort of illusion that they have read the Origin of Species" (Chesterton, The Everlasting Man).