Book Review: The Creedal Imperative by Carl R. Trueman

It's no secret that I'm fond of the writings of Carl Trueman. Admittedly his sardonic wit is one of the things I enjoy about him; but what I appreciate even more is that he is a clear-eyed historian and brings strongly pastoral sensibilities into all of his work. While his latest book, The Creedal Imperative, ummistakably bears Trueman's voice, and his careful contextual work makes my historian's heart happy, it's the pastoral aspect that is most in evidence.


Dr. Trueman doesn't hide the fact that he is out to persuade those whose churches adhere to "no creed but Christ." While it's clear that he holds the latter to be an untenable position, he doesn't spend the book ruthlessly tearing into it. Instead, he invites such Christians to embark on a thought-experiment. In chapter 1, he lays out several cultural forces which militate against historic, creedal faith and have influenced parts of modern evangelicalism -- such as devaluation of the past, anti-authoritarianism, and pragmatism ("the notion that truth is to be found in usefulness"). Trueman invites readers to "reflect critically on the cultural forces that are certainly consonant with holding such a position [anti-creedalism] and ask yourself whether they have perhaps reinforced your antipathy to creeds and confessions in a way that is not directly related to the Bible's own teaching. . .[S]etting aside for just a moment your sincere convictions on this matter, read the rest of this book and see whether creeds and confessions might not actually provide you with a better way" of adhering to and communicating biblical faith. (p. 49) I really appreciate this approach.

Dr. Trueman goes on to present a positive case for creeds and confessions. He begins by arguing for, among other things, the adequacy of language to convey theological truths, the importance of the institutional church, and the Pauline precedent for holding to "form[s] of sound words." Next he launches into two quite delightful chapters on the creeds and councils of the early church and the Protestant confessions of the early modern period (including the Anglican Articles, Lutheran Book of Concord, Three Forms of Unity, Westminster Standards, and London Baptist Confession). What I enjoyed about these chapters is that Trueman takes care to describe the historical circumstances that gave rise to the councils, the theological questions the church sought to answer through the creeds, and the further questions prompted by this linguistic and conceptual fine-tuning. Even though I've studied historical theology for several years, I found Trueman's discussion of theology as a "cumulative and traditionary exercise" so informative. The only quibble I had was on p. 99, when he mentions the Coptic Church's rejection of the Chalcedonian definition -- shouldn't other "monophysite" communions be mentioned here as well, such as the Ethiopian, Syrian, and Armenian Orthodox churches? (It might be that other non-Chalcedonians get grouped under the "Coptic" label, and I'm just unfamiliar with that terminology.)

The book wraps up with excellent chapters on "Confession as Praise" and "The Usefulness of Creeds and Confessions." The latter includes some of the more hard-hitting conclusions of the book: "The standard evangelical objection to creeds and confessions is simply not sustainable in light of. . .the Bible's own teaching and the history of the church. [Creeds] actually fulfill a vital role in a function that Paul makes an imperative for the church and her leadership, that of the stable transmission of the gospel from one generation to another. Thus, if you take the Bible seriously, you will either have a creed or a confession or something that fulfills the same basic role." (p. 161) Trueman suggests that all churches have a creed, whether they put it into writing or not. If churches don't put their creeds into words available to public scrutiny, then, ironically, it becomes harder to test the church's teachings against the ultimate authority of Scripture.

I do remember what it's like to have a visceral discomfort with written creeds. I actually rejected them for about the first half of my life as a believer. Now that I've worshiped in creed-affirming churches for most of the past decade (first Anglican and now Presbyterian), I'm not sure how I would have received this book when I was younger. Because Dr. Trueman's arguments are strong and his approach is charitable, I earnestly hope that believers who reject creeds would give his thought-experiment a fair shot. Even for confessional Christians, I commend this book as an immensely helpful resource. No matter which side you identify with, I think you'll find it a compelling read.

A little more on Secret Thoughts

I've been pleased to discuss the book The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert, which I blogged about back here, with a few of my friends in recent months, and yesterday I learned of this interview with Dr. Rosaria Butterfield which took place last week at Patrick Henry College. At first I had little intention of watching it (I have a weird aversion to multimedia on the Internet; I like text, if you please), but I decided to watch "just a few minutes" while having coffee this morning, and pretty soon an hour had elapsed. Dr. Butterfield is a wonderfully compelling communicator in every way.

Unsurprisingly, the interview overlaps closely with the book, but it also has a lot of neat moments that I think you'll find insightful whether you've already read the book or not. This week, I was talking with a friend about how intimidating we both found the author to be. She's so grounded and comfortable with who she is in Christ, and that gives a real freedom in the way she communicates and lives out the gospel...all ways in which I've felt constrained of late. But in the interview she reminded me so much of the intelligent, articulate women who've taught and mentored me over the years. That didn't lessen the intimidation factor a great deal, but it did remind me of the loves and struggles (and nerdiness!) we have in common, even where our personalities likely differ. Christ knows exactly how to use all these things in the most beautiful way and in His time.

Anyway, if you can set aside the time, watch it; you'll probably enjoy the additional glimpse of the personality that went into the book.

Muddled Instincts About Home

Yesterday's drive from Pittsburgh to St. Louis might have been my weepiest trip ever. I have a couple of guesses why, but the main reason, I think, is that after more than a decade of living elsewhere and spending only brief stints with my family, I'm beginning to feel stretched thin.

I've had the opportunity to live in several cities while pursuing different levels of education -- four years in Roanoke, Virginia, three years in New Haven, two in the San Francisco Bay area, and now over three years in St. Louis. I rarely thought twice about moving somewhere new. It just came with the territory of my chosen field. Not to mention, it was fun, and an unusual privilege, to get to live in such diverse regions throughout my 20s. I have good memories and have found something to love about each place that I've lived.

In the past couple of years, though, my tolerance for distance seems to have sharply declined. In fact, I am tired of moving, and the adventure of relocation is beginning to feel lost on me. I guess that's fitting, in a sense. It's a good thing to want to put down roots, and for them to grow deep instead of staying shallow. And there's no denying that practically all of my roots, dating back many generations, are in Western Pennsylvania. It makes sense that my longing for a stable home would be directed there, and it accounts for why, each time I leave, I start to feel sadder and sadder as the topography grows flatter and the names less familiar as we head southwest. I feel like there is less of me available to stretch so far, that I won't last very much longer if I have to keep doing it. I'm not so sure I'm built for this.

Of course, as I think about it, it's ridiculous to grumble about 12 years away; many people have sacrificed so much more to spend decades serving in farther-flung locations, seeing the people they love more rarely than I do, and perhaps never getting to return. It's not as if this is an exile! I have so little to complain about.

At the same time, I seem to have absorbed a notion that my status as a Christian disciple is measured by the extremity of the location in which I end up. While I should be willing to gladly go wherever I am called, that surely can't be right. At the very least, it shouldn't be right that I feel guilty for longing to move back home. Is it? It doesn't seem right to feel ashamed of wanting to live near the people who have given the most to me and within the landscape that is most familiar and formative for me. (Note that I am not even necessarily wanting to move back to my hometown. I am thinking in terms of, say, serving a rural church in an adjacent county. I could even be okay with teaching at a small college in the West Virginia panhandle or eastern Ohio. Even an hour's distance would be less wrenching.)

I guess this is an instance where balance is needed; just the thing I so often lack. I do know that blood ties are not the ultimate good. If I cast aside everything in the belief that a move home would supply what feels lacking and make me content, I might very well find it to have been a false and empty hope. I know that I will never feel fully at home anywhere in this life.

Part of me wants very much to pray that a door will open up in the next few years to allow us to move closer to my childhood home. I hope that isn't wrong. I know I need to be willing to go wherever the Lord will send us, trusting that He will provide for us there. He has always done that for me, and for us as a young household; He is our constant. But, if I'm honest, I'm not yet able to pray sincerely that I am willing to go wherever God would have us. A lot of messy work will need to happen in my heart before I can.

Reflecting on 2012

On the whole, 2012 is a year I'll remember as having been pretty difficult.

Academically speaking, there have been considerable highs and lows. Spring semester was unbelievably stressful, yet I was proud of myself for accomplishing everything I set out to do: completed coursework, passed my Greek exam, passed comprehensive exams.
On the other hand, since June, I've watched (almost) my worst-case scenario play out. Carving out a dissertation topic has proven even more difficult and frustrating than I'd thought it would be. At some points, I've had doubts about my vocation. Reluctance, at any rate. I haven't seriously considered quitting; I've just lost much of the excitement and drive I came in with, and I can't foresee how I'm going to win that back. But I will keep working.

My grandmother's death in August was not unexpected, but obviously very difficult. It was the first time I experienced a loved one's death from hundreds of miles away. That has made it harder for reality to sink in, and I miss her.

There have also been personal difficulties throughout the year. Looking back over some of my private journaling from the year, I struggled with confidence on a level I hadn't for awhile. I truly hope this is something that will change as I look toward turning 30 in 2013! At various points, I also felt great anxiety over future unknowns. I've been working on gathering the resolve to face things that scare me, and I expect there will be more of them in the coming year. (Maybe that also has something to do with turning 30.)

However, there have been so many blessings as well. As in past years, church life was an absolute highlight. We continued participating in small groups in the spring and fall, every member of which I've come to love. I also branched out a little by joining the women's Bible study in the fall -- so many good people there, such as my gifted friend Susan, whom I look forward to getting to know more. Sometimes I still struggle to know where I fit in the church, what I have to contribute, since I'm shy, most of my abilities are overwhelmingly cerebral, and many areas of ministry don't seem to interest me. Some of that, though, probably just means I need to be willing to try more things. I've never felt anything but loved in our church, that's for sure.

Related to that, our friends have been a great gift of God this year. I don't know where I'd be without my friend Coralie and her family, who always make us feel so welcome and loved. Good talks with my sweet friend Rebekah have been a highlight, too. As an introvert, I've never been someone who has or really even desires to have a lot of friends, but I cherish the ones who are given to me.

Of course our awesome family is always a joy as well. We had the opportunity for a wonderful trip to California in March, as well as several trips to Pittsburgh. Thanks to my parents, we were able to buy a new car this November, something we didn't expect to happen for a very long time! I missed my three goddaughters a lot, but am holding out hope of being able to visit their families in New York and Maine in the coming year. Kevin and I celebrated four years of marriage this summer; we continue to do very well on the whole, and I'm so grateful for him.

Perhaps my biggest takeaway from this year, though, is a deepened belief in God's sovereignty. I've felt that God has pushed me beyond myself to greater dependence on Him, which allows me to learn more of His provision and faithfulness to His promises. That in itself is a great mercy. I know He has shown me more gentleness than I'm even aware of, and certainly more than I deserve.

Happy new year to all of you! Thank you so much for reading. My prayer for you in 2013 is this verse that's been on my heart a lot lately: "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope." (Romans 15:13 ESV)

State of the Dissertation Update (December)

If someone asked my advice about entering a PhD or other research-based degree program, I might suggest that they not do so unless they already have a fairly solid idea of what they hope to write their dissertation or thesis on. This is because you can't assume that, in as few as four semesters of coursework, you will be assigned to write a paper that develops organically into a viable dissertation topic. It certainly could happen, but it doesn't for everyone. Or it might happen that your best paper is written for a course outside your main field of research (in my case, seventeenth-century Scottish Puritanism), and it is effectively too late to backtrack and re-tool your entire program to accommodate a new focus.

Of course, entering a program with a topic in mind is no guarantee, either. Even if you are able to satisfy admissions committees that you have a good, general idea percolating (as I obviously did), that doesn't mean the idea will bear fruit three years later.

In short, there's no foolproof approach to tackling a dissertation. Either way, you aren't going to realize how difficult it is until you're actually at that stage.

I drafted most of a topic proposal this semester, as I had planned, but after he read it last week, my advisor's opinion was that there is still too much guesswork involved. As I had sensed myself, it's not close to flowering into a full, focused argument that I can build a book-length project around. He isn't saying I need to scrap what I've got, by any means; there is good material there to work with, but it is still pretty raw. So it isn't really as if I'm having to start from scratch. That's a good thing. Still, I've been kicking around this set of ideas for six months, and I'm not sure where to dig next. It's discouraging, because I had hoped to defend the proposal and be ready to start writing chapters next semester.

Being fairly low on the self-confidence scale, I didn't think academics was an area where I particularly needed to be humbled further, but that seems to be what is happening. I already knew that identifying problems and asserting opinions about them was my weak point, so in that way, it's no surprise I'm feeling stuck. I still believe I can and will achieve this; right now, I just don't have a clear picture of what that's going to look like.

It does seem that the burden of discontentment has been lifted somewhat recently. Not that I won't struggle with it again, but it is at least shifted to the backburner, for now. I know I can only struggle with what's been placed in front of me for this moment. I'm thankful for that, since I'll accept whatever mercies I can get.

Some Peculiar Temptations of Academia

An obvious temptation for a good student is the temptation to define oneself by academic success. Especially for a graduate student, life is a series of checkpoints and comparisons—which programs did you get into? Have you passed comps yet? How many conference presentations are listed on your c.v.? Long before reaching this level, the pursuit of a certain grade point average and class rank can become all-consuming. I remember the sheer weariness of trying to excel and distinguish myself in high school. I believed my academic standing was the only thing I had going for me; if that were taken away, I was afraid there wouldn’t be anything valuable left. Certainly many people in higher education are motivated by those same fears; the stakes only get higher, and the competition more cutthroat, as one advances.

This isn’t the only temptation, however; indeed, it sounds perverse, but I almost wish this were the one I struggled with the most. (Then, at least, I'd be getting more work done!) As I’ve progressed through college, a master’s degree, and now a doctoral program, I’ve observed a shift almost to the opposite extreme. I’m not sure quite when it started. At some point, I recognized that the higher you go in academia, the more you will encounter people who are smarter, more accomplished, and more driven than you. These are people who have been motivated by the same desires to impact the academy, the church, or the world that first prompted you to gamble on grad school—and they will probably do that work better than you ever could.

This can be a freeing realization. It can allow you to loosen your grip on the idol of success and no longer be mastered by the constant fight to prove yourself. It lessens the guilt of having a life outside of study. For example, I have often prioritized home, church, and friends over academic work, because I’ve felt that ultimately, these are the important and lasting things in my life. Even if grad school proves to have been a big mistake, or I never secure a dream job or publish a book, those people and values will still be there. Moreover, it’s unlikely that the world would miss my contributions that much.  (If you want to get a better sense of what I mean, I recommend this essay by Carl Trueman, which has had a big influence on me over the past couple of years. Yes, I recognize that Trueman’s comments are directed to middle-aged men. I still think the piece has much to say to my generation.)

I’ve worried, though, that this attitude shift—and the shrinking of my goals that has accompanied it—has opened me up to a different set of temptations. From believing that academic ability was the only thing I had going for me, I’ve gone to doubting that I have much worth contributing to academia. Is it just a different form of hubris? It’s sinful to make too much of oneself, but is it any better to make too little of what the Lord is doing? Maybe, deep down, I think that if I'm probably not going to be one of the elite scholars known for their impact on the field, then it isn't worth this much effort to attain a middling sort of career. At any rate, perhaps I don't trust God to do anything worthwhile (by whose measure?) with the likes of me.

In other words, as I’ve moved towards fitting academia into unobtrusive crannies of my life, of downplaying its importance, am I disdaining the gift God has given me through the rare privilege of getting to pursue this work? It’s one thing to refuse to define myself by academic achievement. My fear is that I’m using that attitude—which, at heart, may be good—as a pious cover for my unwillingness to work hard. I’m burnt out, and I’m tired of putting everything on the line for a career that may have little payoff (something I glossed over as an idealistic 24-year-old).

I’m not sure what words to give to this temptation. (Maybe “laziness” or “entitlement,” for starters?) Or how to address it. I sense this is the place where I’m supposed to describe a God-honoring balance that the realistic grad student should observe. But I’m not sure what that is, or how attainable it might be.

I know that God’s grace gives me the freedom to be defined neither by my successes nor my failures. But here’s how I tend to interpret that truth on a daily basis: if I loved God enough, then I would work harder. If I really “got” grace, if I were grateful enough, then all of this would click, and I’d be cheerfully persevering through the latter stages of my degree.

Obviously, there’s a disconnect here.

Maybe it’s not a question of whether I love God enough, but the fact that He loves me and is pleased with me regardless of the practical outcome of this program. That won’t change whether I succeed or fail. Even if I proceed through all the academic hoops for mistaken reasons or ungodly motivations, He’s given me this opportunity for a reason, for the sake of His plan and purpose that are larger than me. If I mess up, or I earn a Ph.D. that never yields material success or fulfillment, or I do become one of those blessed few who “live the dream” within academia, what’s important is that my actions are transparently full of Christ for everyone else to see.

I’m not sure I do believe this. I know I am not yet at a point where it's changing my heart attitude and the way I work. My fear is that it’s another set of pious justifications for having made a poor life decision. But it’s what I have to go on, and these are the temptations I’m learning to pray through.

Book Review: Christ and the Desert Tabernacle by J. V. Fesko

I have had a growing conviction that one of the keys to Christian discipleship is solid biblical hermeneutics. This is just a funny way of referring to the practice of interpreting Scripture. The notes in the ESV Study Bible (p. 2567) state that "Scripture is no ragbag of religious bits and pieces...rather, it is a tapestry in which all the complexities of the weave display a single pattern of judgement and mercy, promise and fulfillment." As a believer learns to discern that pattern, trust in God's promises throughout Scripture, and hence the believer's assurance in walking with Christ, grows ever deeper.

The interwoven nature of Scripture was a basic interpretive principle for much of church history, for the Fathers of the first few centuries as well as for the seventeenth-century Puritans. More recently, however, critical biblical scholarship has led to a more cautious and even suspicious stance toward such interpretation. My own seminary training, for instance, often favored a more fragmentary approach; my sense of where Christ could be found in the Old Testament grew confused.

Because of this, I was pleased to review Christ and the Desert Tabernacle by Dr. J. V. Fesko, Professor of Systematic and Historical Theology at Westminster Seminary, California. Dr. Fesko aims to help ordinary readers recognize the "entire world of references, allusions and foreshadows of Christ and the church" to be found in descriptions of the Old Testament tabernacle. Surveying the building materials, the Ark of the Covenant, the various furniture, and even the consecration of the priests, Dr. Fesko describes the purpose and function of each element of the Tabernacle, then examines it again in light of the New Testament. He shows how each element not only provided the means by which God dwelt among his people in the long-ago desert, but may also be read as shadowing forth the future realities of Christ and his church. Each chapter concludes with reflections connecting aspects of the desert tabernacle with our Christian lives, both individually and corporately. A few examples that I found especially striking:

• The blood-smeared horns of the altar represent the costly sacrifice of Christ to which we cling for mercy.
•  The priests' garments point to those of Christ, our High Priest, who robes us in His own righteousness.
• The altar of incense reminds us of Christ's ongoing intercessory prayer for us.
• The bronze basin is a figure of the waters of baptism and the washing of regeneration by the Holy Spirit.

My favorite chapter, however, was the final one on the Sabbath--the subject with which Exodus' tabernacle instructions end. The cessation of labor on the Sabbath was meant to be a visual sign that God had placed himself in the midst of his people and was sanctifying them, making them holy. It showed that the Israelites could not enter God's eternal rest by their own labor, but only by the labor of another. For Christians, the Sabbath continues to serve as a sign. Through the work of Christ, we have already begun to enter into the Sabbath rest of God (Hebrews 4:3). Just as God was present among His set-apart people in the desert tabernacle, so His Holy Spirit dwells among believers in Lord's Day worship, conforming them to the image of the Son. "When we absent ourselves from church. . .we are tacitly admitting that we do not need the sanctifying work of God in our lives [...] How often do we long for heaven itself but pass by the Lord's Day as an opportunity to get a taste of heaven?" (131)

Dr. Fesko's book made me better appreciate both God's otherness and how close He has come to us in Christ. The sights and smells of the tabernacle are mostly quite foreign to us--animal blood, burnt offerings, incense, golden cherubim. Yet they are assuredly part of our story, because they show the lengths to which God has always gone to dwell among His people--first in the desert tabernacle, later incarnate in Jesus Christ, and now in us, through His Holy Spirit. And the layers of that story are already embedded in these seemingly obscure passages of the Pentateuch.

I thought the book would have been much enriched by examples drawn from the church's long history of Old Testament interpretation. The connections Dr. Fesko draws are part of a centuries-old tradition; even though this is not a study in historical theology, I would have loved to hear more of his expertise in that area. Also, it should be pointed out that there is not a simple, one-to-one correspondence between Old and New Testament in every case. But, particularly for Christians unfamiliar with these passages of Exodus, the book serves as a helpful introduction and could be used profitably for individual or group study. Learning to read the Old Testament in this way, "We can look forward to the day when faith will give way to sight. Christ will not only indwell us spiritually but we will dwell for all eternity in the presence of our triune Lord...[W]e will know completely and fully what Israel only knew in shadows and in a manmade tent. . .the eternal abiding presence of God." (56)

The publisher provided me with a review copy of this book, and I was under no obligation to give a favorable review.