Pastors Aren’t Born But Formed

Cruising through Bruce Gordon's masterful biography on Calvin, I've been struck to see that pastors aren't born but formed. It's easy when reading the final edition of the Institutes or the later commentaries, at such a historical remove, to forget the development and the formative influences involved in turning the proud young legal scholar into a mature churchman and theologian.

As a young pastor myself, one theme that caught my attention was the formative influence of mentors and friends. In what follows I'd like to highlight three lessons on mentorship for both younger and older pastors drawn from Calvin's early years.

Choose Your Mentors Wisely 

First, choose your mentors wisely, with an eye to their weaknesses and strengths. Early on Calvin came under the mentorship of the fiery reformer William Farel. Farel was a strong voice for reform with solid theological credentials and a gospel heart, but he was overaggressive, and, at times, downright rowdy. In fact, Farel initially drafted the young Calvin into the work of reform in Geneva by threatening him with divine judgment on his studies and life if he refused to stay and help.   Continue at Derek Rishmawy

Why You Can't Pit Jesus Against His Bible

Every so often, the champions and foes of "Red Letter" Christianity break out their arguments, sharpen them up, and take to the internet. Champions say we've ignored the words of Jesus—highlighted in some modern Bibles with red lettering—for far too long. They want us to take up the radical call to discipleship Jesus issued in the Sermon on the Mount. The foes say that even printing these words in red creates a false, canon-within-a-canon that distorts the Scriptures.

Of course, there is a good sense in which we ought to give heightened priority to the words and deeds of Jesus. Unfortunately, some other self-described, "Red Letter" Christians do more than them priority. Instead, they contrast and even set in opposition the words of Jesus from the writings of Paul, or some other similarly ill-tempered and unprogressive disciple. While problematic, that approach is even less concerning than the tendency to pit Jesus against the Bible he grew up with: the Old Testament. Jesus' words and character are contrasted with the Old Testament law, or the various commands of God scattered throughout the narrative sections of the Torah. So where Jesus and the Old Testament seem to conflict on violence, neighbor-love, sexuality, or some other hot topic, go with Jesus, they say. If you have to pick between red or black letters, go with red.

At the risk of kicking off another round of 'robust dialogue', here are three reasons why that approach doesn't really work.   Continue at Derek Rishmawy

Abuse Does Not Take Away Use

In my online forays, I've observed it's increasingly common for people to explicitly reject a doctrine, or the notion of orthodox teaching in general, on the basis of its abuse. You'll often read something along these lines: "I grew up in a church that had a heavy emphasis on doctrine X (depravity, judgment, sola scriptura, etc.). My pastors and elders used that doctrine to berate people, cow them into submission, or excuse horrible evils." So now, whenever they hear doctrine X, they can't accept it because they know (feel) it's a tool being used to control them or bring about another harmful result. In fact, some will go further and elevate this reaction into a principle of theological methodology: if a doctrine could be or has been used to hurt or damage, it must be rejected out of hand.   

I understand the impulse. For those who have been beat down with the Bible like it's a weapon, or doctrines like they're billy clubs, when they see someone pick them up—even as agents of healing—some post-traumatic stress makes sense. It can be hard to distance or differentiate a doctrine from its uses, especially if that's all you've ever known. It doesn't matter if someone's trying to offer you an oxygen mask; if someone used one to choke you out in the first place, you're going to flinch when you see it.    Continue at Derek Rishmawy

I Am Not Abraham's Mistake

September 11 was a weird day for me. I was a sophomore in high school and distinctly remember thinking to myself, Oh God, I hope it wasn't Arabs, as soon as I heard a plane had crashed into the first tower. I'm three-fourths Palestinian and at times have a distinctly Arab cast to me. My last name is Rishmawy. Admittedly it was a selfish thought, but I just didn't see that going well for me in high school. And I was right.

That afternoon in football practice, upon discovering I was of Arab descent—a "Palestilian" according to one educated linguist on the team—a teammate of mine took it upon himself to spear me in the back. Twice. For those of you who've never played, that sort of thing hurts. Thankfully, my coach caught on quickly and put an end to it. Still, for the next few years I was lovingly called "dune-coon," "sand-nigger," "Taliban," "Osama," and the like by a good chunk of my teammates and friends. And yes, I do mean lovingly. It was wrong, and I don't really get it, but for some reason racial slurs were a way of bonding in the locker room. Still, it grated on me at times.

As frustrating and awkward as being an Arab high-schooler in post-9/11 America could be at times—given garden-variety prejudices, fears, and ignorance—none of those slurs frustrated me so much as what some of my well-meaning, evangelical brothers and sisters ignorantly implied: that my entire ethnic heritage was an unfortunate mistake—Abraham's mistake to be exact.   Continue at Derek Rishmawy