I am deeply committed to the historic Christian faith. I am part of a theological tradition that stretches through the centuries from the Apostles, through St Augustine, through John Calvin, and to the 21^st century through believers like Abraham Kuyper and Francis Schaeffer. Essential to my faith is a conviction that in the Scriptures we find not just wisdom from the past (though there is plenty of that), but the very word of God.

That being the case, when I read and interpret Scripture, to try to determine what the text means, I do not want to be creative. Instead, I want to be orthodox. By that I mean I want to understand the Bible correctly, and do not believe I have the right to determine my own meaning for what it teaches. St Paul teaches that God has graciously given teachers to the church (Ephesians 4:11-16). So, I check my interpretation with the commentators and preachers who have gone before me in this great stream of orthodox belief. The biblical text is rich and multi-faceted and deep, but its meaning is not thereby up for grabs. When I interpret the text, my concern is for orthodoxy, not novelty.

Creativity comes into play, however, when we seek to apply the text, faithfully finding ways to flesh out the teaching of Scripture in our life and culture. We live in a postmodern, globalized, pluralized world that is very different from the world that existed when the patriarchs, prophets, and apostles received God’s revelation. The truth remains the truth, but how we speak about and live out that truth can change over time, over cultures, and over generations. The basic issues remain unchanged, but the questions raised can change radically. One expression of faith can appear devout to one generation but ludicrous to another.

It can be hard for the church to face this reality. Since we’ve always done something one way, raising doubts about continuing the practice can seem like an attack on the faith. Perhaps the person raising the difficult question is slipping doctrinally—after all, since the underlying belief hasn’t changed, shouldn’t our practice remain unchanged as well?

So, for example, since the biblical understanding of homosexual behavior is that it is one more tragic example of the brokenness that inflicts us all in a fallen world, and since the biblical pattern for marriage is one woman and one man in a covenantal relationship of oneness, does it not follow that Christians must politically oppose any effort to legalize gay marriage?

The difficulty with even raising this question is that civility quickly gets frayed. Old arguments are trotted out and repeated, as if doing so settles the issue. And when they don’t settle the issue, voices get raised, accusations begin, and soon the evidences of love listed in 1 Corinthians 13 are in short supply.

Let’s think the issue through—carefully, calmly, prayerfully, and charitably. The interpretation of Scripture is not at stake; how we speak about and live out the truth winsomely in a pluralistic world is what we need to consider. It’s hard work, I know, and we are all busy people, I know that too. But if we desire to live faithfully before the face of God, there is no escaping the issue.

So, here is my proposal. Review what the Scriptures say about homosexuality. And then let’s think through what this means for how we respond in the public square to the political and legal issues surrounding homosexuality.

An online resource that will help is the honest, thoughtful writings of Misty Irons. I commend both her web site (Musing on Christianity, Homosexuality & the Bible) and her Blog (More Musings on Christianity, Homosexuality & the Bible) to you. I do not know her, but wish I did. As I read what she writes I sense in her a kindred spirit, a fellow believer who is unwilling to sacrifice either biblical orthodoxy or holy spirited faithfulness—and that is a precious combination.

My good friend John Eddy sent me a link to a program in the archives of This American Life. Hosted by Ira Glass, this weekly broadcast from Chicago Public Radio consists of essays and stories around some common theme. I don’t listen to it regularly, just when I happen to be in the car driving somewhere when it’s on, but I’ve never regretted tuning in. Sometimes humorous, often poignant, always thoughtful, the contributions reveal something real about American life and human nature in a broken yet beautiful world.

John sent me the link to the program titled, “Pray,” and I recommend it to you.

There’s a lot on it about prayer, but the program is really about something else. It’s about whether devout Christians and serious skeptics can ever really understand one another. Or, more specifically, whether Christians can talk about their faith in a way that non-Christians can understand.

The program is in three parts. A Prologue in which a married couple, he a Christian she an atheist, talk about their beliefs and life together. Act I, in which commentator Alix Spiegel travels to Colorado Springs to interview people at a mega-church who have launched a massive prayer effort to pray for every person, place, and business in their city. And Act II, which is a personal story by Scott Carrier, a carpenter, who wonders if a person needs to be a Christian to be good.

“Pray” could be a good discernment exercise for Christians to listen to and discuss—and though I suspect the questions for discussion will be pretty obvious, here are a few to get you started:

1. Can Christians and skeptics find common ground?

2. Is the prayer-walk in Colorado Springs a good idea? Why or why not?

3. Who did you identify with the most in Act I? In Act II?

4. Should Christians be able to explain to skeptics what they believe about the spiritual world?

5. If you could produce an Act III for the program, what would you include?

Source: “Pray” is episode #77 in the archives of This American Life (10.12.2001).

I’ve never made New Year’s resolutions. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ve never recorded any resolutions that I’ve made, and so have never felt particularly exercised when I’ve discovered (not that it was exactly a surprise, mind you) that I didn’t manage to keep them. I’ve always felt that failure is enough a part of my life without setting myself up for more.

In church the first Sunday of 2009 the prayer during the Eucharist came from The Valley of Vision, a rich compendium of prayers penned by various Puritan divines. The prayer is titled, “Christ Alone,” and contained a stanza that moved me:

Thou hast helped me to see and know Christ, / though obscurely, / to take him, receive him, / to possess him, love him, / to bless him in my heart, mouth, life.

It was the word “obscurely” that brought me up short.

Until he returns to bring his kingdom to consummation my seeing and knowing Christ will always be “obscurely.” We can see and know, by grace, his reflection in Scripture and Creation, but always as “through a glass darkly,” as St Paul put it so well.

Still, it is one thing to accept this necessary shadow, it is quite another to not be disciplined in waiting quietly, expectantly for the glorious glimmers of light that God’s revelation provides. Why am I too busy for unhurried prayer? Why do I find meditation on Scripture too inefficient in my productive day?

As we read that prayer as a congregation, speaking to our Father in one voice and one heart, that stanza seemed to invite a resolution. Resolved, that by God’s grace I will in 2009 make more regular use of the spiritual disciplines of prayer, Scripture reading, and meditation on God’s word so that I might see and know Christ a little less obscurely.

Some people dismiss mysteries as light reading, perhaps good enough for the beach, perhaps, but not really the sort of literature that serious readers will embrace. And Lord knows, grocery stores are chock full of novels that achieve mystery status only by a trick. The trick is a cheap one, and consists of simply withholding one essential bit of information from the reader until the very last moment when the crime is solved. Others trade on the trick of having a detective so quirky that the novels are enjoyed primarily because readers want to know what new weird eccentricities will be revealed as the plot unfolds. Others trade on the trick of glorifying the crime, and the criminal element, appealing to our prurient interests.

Still, finely crafted mysteries are a delight. And for good reason.

We yearn for justice in this sad world, and a good mystery satisfies that, making our hope that much more plausible. Good mystery authors probe the deep questions of life, of meaning, evil and redemption. They help us face reality as it really is, and show that no matter what learned arguments can be drafted in favor of some sort of postmodern relativistic meaninglessness, a certain sense of right and wrong is essential to living life.

Given all that, it is not surprising to find that three of the finest mystery writers of our age are Christians: Dorothy Sayers, G. K. Chesterton, and P. D. James. Their faith produced in them a confidence in justice that extended beyond the limited boundaries of human history. The God of Scripture is not just theoretically committed to justice, but entered human history to guarantee its victory. So we wait, yearning for the justice that will be revealed, hoping that the final justice will, as promised, not merely solve the crime but transform the tragedy into shalom.

P. D. James is now 89 (she was born in 1920), and in The Private Patient we can sense she is drawing things to a close. Her detective Adam Dalgliesh, is engaged to be married, and his specialized squad of investigators is about to be disbanded. I always finished her previous Dalgliesh mysteries with the sense that another would be forthcoming—I don’t have that sense this time.

In this novel, a patient of an expensive cosmetic surgeon is strangled the night after her surgery. The inhabitants, servants, and medical personnel in the country manor house that day all have secrets they would rather not have revealed, and as the story unfolds the wickedness of the human heart is laid bare. Even those innocent of the murder are not innocent. The ending reminds us that human justice is always partial, never fully satisfying even when the murderer is caught.

I don’t think this Dalgliesh mystery is James’ best novel (her best, I think, is Children of Men). A detail near the end strained plausibility, and the notion of a murder in a large manor in the English countryside strikes me as a bit stereotyped. Still, I have enjoyed P. D. James’ books, especially The Children of Men (1992) a story that so clearly demonstrates her profoundly Christian world and life view. So, I was glad to read this one. Glad to be reminded that it is right to yearn for justice, and that when the hope of justice is gone, something essential to our humanity has died.