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The Holy Spirit is No Skeptic

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At the men’s Bible study in my home two weeks ago, we wandered into a momentary discussion concerning the necessity of sound doctrine. I don’t remember how it happened. We’re currently studying the Book of Acts, and I think it came up while making our way further into Chapter 2. I do remember that it stirred something from Luther’s Bondage of the Will, which I did my best to recall. Here’s what Luther wrote:

“Christians must know for sure what they believe and must witness to their belief. Therefore, if you take away that certain affirmation so that Christians are no longer sure of what they believe, they have ceased to be Christians, and you have taken away their faith. For the Holy Spirit is given to them from heaven in order that He may sanctify the hearts of the faithful and make them firm and sure in their witness to Christ so that they will live and die for it. And is not this the greatest certainty if I stand so firmly by my yes that I am ready to die for it? Yes, it is. The Holy Spirit is no skeptic. He has not written an uncertain delusion in our hearts, but a strong, great certainty, which does not let us waver, and may it please God, will not let us waver, but praise be to God, makes us as sure as we are that we are now alive and that two and three make five.”

My favorite line in the paragraph is, “The Holy Spirit is no skeptic.” Of course, He isn’t. When you know truth in its entirety, there are no in-between spaces of uncertainty. You can move along unfettered, assured that what’s true is true and what’s false is false.

Indeed, the Holy Spirit does not wrestle with ambiguous skepticism.

Part of Luther’s essential point was, first of all, that Christians are only Christians because the Holy Spirit has been given to and abides in them for faith. That said, the faith the Holy Spirit brings isn’t a garment sewn from flimsy fabric. It isn’t a wobbly dwelling built from fragile materials. It certainly isn’t formed from ever-shifting human opinion. It is constructed from divine, knowable, and affirmable doctrines that, no matter the world’s erratic ideas, remain steady and true. Take these doctrinal foundations away, and faith becomes shaky. In fact, Luther warns that without them, faith ceases to exist entirely. That’s what he meant when he said, “Therefore, if you take away that certain affirmation so that Christians are no longer sure of what they believe, they have ceased to be Christians, and you have taken away their faith.”

What does this free-floating anti-dogma ignorance look like in real-time?

Well, it translates into a societal context in which people are susceptible to beliefs that sound Christian doctrine steers to avoid. They become capable of believing pretty much whatever they want while still considering themselves faithful. And I’m not just talking about some of the more ridiculous things, like thinking that people become angels when they die, which I intend to mention during this morning’s sermon. I mean some truly dreadful things that separate them from God altogether—like denying the Holy Trinity or rejecting the premise that Christ was God in the flesh.

Self-constructed Christianity has other dreadful potentials, too. It produces people who believe abortion is something about which Christ smiles. It mistakenly prattles on social media that Jesus forbade judging anyone or anything. It heralds innumerable genders while encouraging irreversible surgeries for children. Speaking of children, it produces a pope fit for a millstone (Matthew 18:6) as he tells a young boy in Singapore that “all religions are a path to God… and each of us has a language to arrive at God. Some are Sheik, Muslim, Hindu, Christian, and they are different paths to God.”

Regardless of how Pope Francis’ handlers are spinning what he supposedly meant to say, his actual words measured against sound biblical doctrine proved themselves the heresy of religious pluralism, which rejects the essential teaching that Christ is the only way of salvation (John 14:6). Christians do not subscribe to religious pluralism. However, there may be one young boy in Singapore who does now, especially since he heard it from someone who’s supposed to know for sure.

Thinking about last week’s Epistle reading from Ephesians 4:1-6 appointed for worship here at Our Savior, I think Saint Paul indirectly weighed in on these things when he wrote, “I, therefore, a prisoner for the Lord, urge you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called…” (v. 1). Paul says three things here.

First, he insists on faithful abidance in “the calling to which you have been called.” In other words, you’ve been called to something—the Christian faith. That something has a walkway—faithful doctrine. Walk accordingly in it. When you wander past its edges, repent, and go back because the terrain beyond ends in destruction (Matthew 7:13-14).

Second, the walking is to be done in a worthy way. In one sense, it is demonstrative. People will see and hear. A young boy in Singapore saw and heard. Therefore, Paul instructs Timothy, “Watch your life and doctrine closely. Persevere in them, because if you do, you will save both yourself and your hearers” (1 Timothy 4:16).

Finally, Saint Paul already implied from his own situation, which he mentions specifically in Ephesians 4:1, that walking according to our calling could get a Christian into trouble. Behold, Paul was a prisoner for doing what he was even now urging his readers to do.

But here’s the thing.

Neither ease nor trouble affected the stepping stones of sound doctrine for Paul. The path was the path. What’s true was true, and what’s false was false. And so, he walked, and his faith was secure. In fact, it was armor-like. It could lean into and withstand the enemy’s thrusts along life’s way. It became fortress-like. Its resident could stand at the walls and confess truth before the barraging legions that surrounded it, even when standing where the enemy could see him meant imprisonment and eventual death.

Luther’s life was similar. Our lives are, too. And yet, together we have, as Luther described, a faith that is not an “uncertain delusion,” but instead, is a “strong, great certainty, which does not let us waver….” We can bear whatever the world brings our way, even a death sentence, and still retain the same kind of unshakeable trust in Christ that’s as simple as believing that “two and three makes five.” Indeed, that’s a simple analogy Luther made. And yet, it’s profoundly powerful. Even better, it’s unarguably true.

No Need that Anyone Should Teach You

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We’ve been studying Saint John’s first epistle every Tuesday in this year’s seventh and eighth-grade religion class. We started back in August, and yet, we’re only halfway through what is a relatively short book of the Bible. Some would say we’re moving slowly. I would argue we’re plugging along at just the right pace. There’s a lot to be mined from John’s words. And besides, the students remain thoroughly engaged.

We ended this past week’s class at 1 John 2:27, which reads: “But the anointing that you received from him abides in you, and you have no need that anyone should teach you. But as his anointing teaches you about everything, and is true, and is no lie—just as it has taught you, abide in him.” 

This was a challenging but rewarding way to end the class. It consumed the final ten minutes of our time together. In short, John wrote that his readers received an “anointing” (whatever that is), and because they have it, there’s “no need that anyone should teach” them because it “teaches you about everything.” If this is true, what on earth were these seventh and eighth-grade students doing in school, and why was I standing in front of them teaching them? They could be out somewhere doing something else. 

Well, not so fast.

Essentially, John is deeply concerned about keeping his readers secure in the true faith. He does not want them duped into unbelief by false theology, namely, by the Gnostics intent on poisoning Christian doctrine. Occasionally, along the way, John references his readers’ “anointing.”

I can’t even begin to tell you how the word “anointing” is grossly misused in modern Christendom. In the Greek, the word is χρῖσμα. In its simplest form, it means to be assigned a task. Unfortunately, today’s folks apply it to just about every wacky theological idea they have, eventually granting themselves license to massage it apart from God’s Word. “I’ve been anointed to run for office,” or “She’s such a great speaker. She’s definitely anointed.” Well, whatever. John doesn’t use it that way. When he talks about a Christian’s anointing, he means the faith at work by the Holy Spirit through the Gospel (v. 24). He doesn’t consider it a special sanction uniquely given to a select person. The Holy Spirit’s work for faith is the divine “something” that’s been given and is available to all believers.

John goes further in verse 27, explaining that the anointing actively teaches the one it inhabits about everything. This is to say faith handles everything through the lens of the Gospel. It sees, discerns, and interprets the world this way. And to what end? That the believers would always have a heart and mind guarded in Christ. To explain further, I shared with the students the first thing that came to mind. It was a casual example, but an example nonetheless.

I told them how my world is filled with stories. Theirs is, too. Take a look around, and you’ll see. At every turn, even the things we see are speaking. For me, one particular proof is that I’ve been able to write an eNews message like this one every Sunday morning since 2015, having written well over six hundred in total. How can I do this? Because each Sunday morning, I reflect on my week. When I do, there they are—the stories! And they exist in various forms. Carrying the point further, I picked a relatively familiar voice for storytelling: metaphor.

A metaphor is a comparison between two things that are nothing alike. Writers employ metaphors to enliven language. The example I used in class was that instead of saying my daughters’ eyes are beautifully blue, I prefer to call them sapphires. Their eyes are stunning, and all but the colorblind among us will experience just what I mean when these gems are turned in one’s direction.

I use metaphorical language a lot. It’s perfect for narrative communication. Relative to 1 John 2:27, John would say that faith is actively intercepting and interpreting these narratives and, as a result, teaching the viewer lessons. To demonstrate, I shared a recent experience.

Two objects caught my eye before leaving my house early one Sunday morning. The first was the scale-shaped clock sitting atop our refrigerator. Glancing at it while putting on my shoes, I had a thought. Time weighs things differently. Some of what we say and do is relatively weightless and easily forgotten. Others are heavier. Even though it’s only decorative, the scale clock was a consolidated reminder—a metaphor—teaching me to weigh my words and deeds carefully as I go about the next twenty-four hours of my life. As a Christian, I am distinct from the world (1 Peter 1:15), and as such, I demonstrate faith through word and deed (1 John 3:18), and this happens in incredibly weighty ways—the kind that can move people to consider the God I trust (Matthew 5:16).

But the scale clock didn’t teach me this. With faith as its handler, the Gospel did. God’s Word was the curriculum (1 John 2:24). 

I shared another example.

A glass vase holding about fourteen or fifteen lemons is not far from the clock. It sits on the island in our kitchen. As the saying goes, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Looking at the lemon-filled jar while putting on my coat, I had another thought. Actually, I had two thoughts. The first was that everyone makes mistakes, and I’m no exception (1 John 1:8; James 3:2). Still, a Christian can keep the lemons (life’s mistakes and misfortunes) in a separate container apart from everything else (Psalm 103:12). When another lemon comes along, God promises to put it with the rest. As humans, we can sometimes see them—as if our failures are displayed prominently. Still, we know not to dwell on the lemons. Alternatively, we behold them and remember the lessons learned (Philippians 3:12), all the while giving thanks to the Lord for His grace (Psalm 136:1).

The second thought was that making lemonade takes a lot of lemons. That’s not a license to make mistakes; instead, it is a way to remember one’s genuine frailty and the overwhelming need for Christ’s forgiveness. And for the one who knows his need for Christ’s thirst-quenching rescue, His divine forgiveness is the sweetest and most refreshing beverage there is. (Certainly, Lutherans will know that’s not necessarily a metaphor.)

As you can see, before leaving my house one morning, I was already learning from the great professor, Faith. And it really wasn’t all that hard. As believers—as the Lord’s anointed—we are already enrolled in the Holy Spirit’s classroom. We’re anointed to exchange information in ways that accomplish what John set out to preserve: “Beloved, I am writing you no new commandment, but an old commandment that you had from the beginning. The old commandment is the word that you have heard…. I write these things to you about those who are trying to deceive you…. Little children, let no one deceive you” (1 John 2:7, 26; 3:7).

Seated securely in the Lord’s holy Word, faith is a brilliant instructor. Following this lead, indeed, we can and will “abide in [Christ]” (1 John 3:27). I challenged the students to maneuver this way throughout their week, paying attention to faith’s lessons relative to everything they see. I look forward to circling back around to them this Tuesday. I’m sure there will be stories because, as I said, they’re everywhere. One only needs to look around.