GOSPEL BOUND WITH COLLIN HANSEN
What I'm Seeing
Faithfulness amid the Culture War
Faithfulness amid the Culture War

Later tonight I’ll participate in a public discussion over the legacy of Tim Keller. Peter Leithart will host for Theopolis Institute with James Wood offering appreciative critique of Keller.

Especially since the assassination of Charlie Kirk, criticism of Keller has proliferated on some of the most popular and influential evangelical podcasts. I don’t understand why Kirk’s supporters choose the contrast with Keller, whose calling as a pastor bore little resemblance to Kirk’s overt political activism and organizing.

Nevertheless I’m sure we’ll discuss Keller’s public theology and priority on evangelism, which Wood has critiqued. (See J. D. Greear’s recent entry into the debate.) Keller saw Christianity as the cure for renewing a truly pluralistic society in the West—but not through dominance of political power. And certainly not through any compromise with left- or right-wing versions of identity politics.

As a pastor primarily concerned with the health of the church, Keller championed both special and common grace—that is, evangelism as well as service for our neighbors, regardless of their belief. Today’s epidemic of identity politics hinders both causes. As Keller predicted and practiced himself,

Polemics are sometimes necessary—but they are medicine, not food. You can’t live on medicine. In the long run constant polemics are exhausting and they don’t build us up spiritually. The movement will succeed that becomes the most famous for preaching and writing and teaching and pastoring that is astonishingly good and that spiritually nourishes and changes the readers or listeners right in their seats.

This is not a third way between left and right. It is following the way, the truth, and the life, Jesus Christ. Because Jesus is risen from the dead, we are optimistic about what God is doing in the world. Because Jesus has not yet returned, we are pessimistic because we know the creation remains subjected to futility under sin (Rom. 8:20). Yet we know with all confidence that Jesus is coming quickly (Rev. 22:12). He is the hope who holds all things together (Heb. 1:3). Keller wrote,

[W]e believe Christianity is relevant to society because it is true—it is not true because it is relevant. Christians do not believe in and promote the faith because it brings so much hope (though it does), or because it fills you with joy (though it will), or because it creates deep and strong community (though it can), or because it can heal our society of many ills (though it might). Rather, Christians seek renewal of the church as a way to love and serve the One who saved us. . . . There is . . . a great need for a new Christian church movement that practices love and justice, that equips its members to do enormous good in society, YET at the same time resists the forces seeking to make it a political instrument; that speaks to and answers the great questions of the human heart and of the human race—of purpose, meaning, hope, happiness, guilt and forgiveness, identity—questions to which the secular culture cannot speak as powerfully.

Some may dismiss this church movement as naïve. Its leaders may be despised by identity-branded politicians and partisans. Maybe their efforts will be ignored by the broader world, even by other Christians. But this kind of church can endure the deeper challenges of the cultural crisis we have entered after Christendom, after the Enlightenment. This kind of church—because it’s based in Scripture, empowered by the Spirit, and ruled by Christ—can even become the catalyst for an unexpected, mighty movement of God in our day.

COLLIN HANSEN
Editor in Chief
 
What I'm Hearing
How an Australian Church Is Changing Christian Songwriting
How an Australian Church Is Changing Christian Songwriting

Last Sunday I sat with my family in the front row of West Center Baptist Church in Madison, South Dakota, a church whose leaders were instrumental in my coming to saving faith nearly 30 years ago. Behind me I heard the lovely voice of the worship leader’s daughter as she sang along to “Yet Not I But Through Christ in Me” from CityAlight.

Last month I sang this song in downtown Copenhagen, Denmark, before I preached for a Lutheran congregation. Both groups sang this simple and profound hymn with gusto. Though modern, “Yet Not I But Through Christ in Me” has achieved the status of a classic sung across the years.

As evangelicals we don’t share an institutional hierarchy. You couldn’t get all of us to share a theological confession. But you’ll often be able to identify us when you hear our song selection. And whether I’m in the suburbs of Kansas City, the farm country of South Dakota, or the urban core of Copenhagen, I can hear when I’m in the presence of fellow believers.

Likewise, you can travel across the centuries, from Charles Wesley in England to City Alight in Australia, and recognize the similarity in this new song to “And Can It Be, That I Should Gain?” I love this stanza and refrain from CityAlight:

No fate I dread, I know I am forgiven
The future sure, the price it has been paid
For Jesus bled and suffered for my pardon
And He was raised to overthrow the grave

To this I hold, my sin has been defeated
Jesus now and ever is my plea
Oh the chains are released, I can sing: I am free!
Yet not I, but through Christ in me

Late last year Sarah Zylstra profiled CityAlight and the unique way they compose songs that will endure. What’s not unique is their evangelical theology, which testifies to the same gospel no matter when or where you’re singing.

 
What I'm Reading
Haymaker in Heaven
Haymaker in Heaven
Edvard Hoem

This week I finished reading this novel, only translated to English in 2022. The recommendation came from a Norwegian friend as we discussed his online ministry in this vast, breathtaking Nordic country. He learned I grew up in South Dakota, so he recommended this book written from the Norwegian perspective on the immigrants who settled in my native state during the late-19th century. Those immigrants included my great-grandmother, whose family settled near the farm where I grew up.

The timing was poignant. I read Hoem’s novel in the only bedroom I knew as a child. My wife and children came along to South Dakota to participate in our family’s last harvest on the farm. My brother and I, along with my cousin from next door, have moved away and taken up other careers. My uncle and father set this year as their final before retiring.

In vain I fought off tears during the novel’s final pages. The haymaker’s son, the one expected to take over the farm, decided to cross the Atlantic and join his extended family on the South Dakota prairie. As father and son walked to the pier, they comforted each other with promises that the son would return, perhaps with money from his American labors. He might still take over the family place and care for his aged parents. But they knew this outcome to be unlikely. The parents would probably never see their son again. They wouldn’t know his wife. They would never meet their grandchildren.

As the father says goodbye, he offers spiritual encouragement. The father looks forward to a day when their sorrow will turn to joy. The son is surprised. Typically, the father leans on his childhood faith, not the born-again variety his teenage son adopted. “Goodbye, in Jesus’s name,” the father offers.

I’ve long dreaded the end of our family farm, a process set in motion more than 25 years ago when I followed God’s call into ministry. From here, our family will scatter. And we may never all see each other again. We’re no longer tied together to the place where we grew up, over four generations.

This novel gave words to my grief. When the father returns home to his wife, he shares hopes for his son in South Dakota. “And when the Lord arranges things so well for young people, parents shouldn’t get in the way,” he said to his wife. “They couldn’t think about what would bring them the most joy. True parental love asked what was best for the children, and how could they find a living to support themselves and their families.”

My parents made that sacrifice when I left the farm. So did my great-grandmother’s grandparents back in Norway more than 125 years ago. This sacrificial love fills me with appreciation. Still, I carry the immigrant’s guilt that I will never be able to assuage.

“It is good that we don’t live forever,” the father reflects on the day he lost his son, “and that that there is one who can ease our loss and sorrow.”