James W. Skillen, God’s Sabbath with Creation: Vocations Fulfilled, the Glory Unveiled. Eugene, Oregon: Wipf & Stock, 2019.

If you are reading anything else at the moment, put it aside and read this book! Yes, it’s that good. James Skillen, who has written several works on the implications of Christian faith for political life, has now turned his attention to a foundational eschatological theme. In so doing, he has managed to produce an intriguing argument that is fresh yet remains faithful to God’s revelation in Scripture and in Jesus Christ, the incarnate Word of God. This is not a book to be rushed through. It is not difficult reading, but it should be read and considered carefully and, I’m tempted to say, savoured like a fine wine. Do I exaggerate? I don’t think so, but do read it yourself and make your own judgement.

For more than a millennium and a half Christians have confessed in the words of the Creed: “We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.” Because Jesus was raised from the dead, the Scriptures promise that we too will be raised bodily to new life in the next age. But what will this look like? What will our life be like in the new heaven and new earth spoken of in Isaiah 65:17-25 and Revelation 21:1-5? Theologians, preachers and even hymn-writers have been grappling with the relationship between this world and the next, generally affirming both continuity and discontinuity, differing on how to balance the two. Some commentators think that we will be swept up out of the world into an ethereal realm above, while others appear to think that the world to come will simply see us picking up where we left off at death. Skillen does not accept either of these extremes, opting instead to focus on the sabbath rest mentioned throughout the scriptures in such passages as Genesis 2:2-3, Psalm 95:11, and Hebrews 3-4.

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Once upon a time, decades ago, I fancied myself a democratic socialist. I had recently become aware of those passages in the Bible commanding the Israelites to care for the poor and to defend them from those who would oppress them. I read in Leviticus (chapter 25) about the year of jubilee, a kind of primitive bankruptcy protection law that would prevent debts from accumulating endlessly and returned land to its original owners periodically. I was impressed by the law reserving the edges of cultivated property for the poor (Leviticus 19:9-10), and that prohibiting imposing interest on money lent to the poor (25:35-38). I marvelled at how these commands to defend the poor were reiterated in the Psalms (e.g., 72, 82) and the Prophets (e.g., Isaiah 1:16-17, 10:1-2; Amos 5:24; Micah 6:8). Based on these and other passages, I came to the conclusion that the Bible favours democratic socialism, and I happily wore this label. For about six months, that is.

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He was an unlikely convert. Hated by the Jews as a traitor who extorted his own people, tolerated and backed by Rome to collect taxes, Levi (or Matthew) was in a special class of wicked in the eyes of society. He was an outcast; a rich outcast, but an outcast nonetheless. He didn’t fit in with any group among his people, especially those who were eagerly anticipating and preparing themselves for the kingdom of God. Luke tells us how he became a disciple of Christ (Lk 5.27-32).

Jesus obviously didn’t understand social dynamics when he called him to be a disciple. This guy’s tax booth was on the north shore of the Sea of Galilee, close to where Simon, James’, and John’s fishing businesses were located. They had probably been extorted by this guy. What a band of disciples this would make!

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I recently received an email from a friend asking for advice on writing, specifically whether or not I thought he could be a professional writer. After sharing my reply to him on FaceBook, a few friends suggested I post it here as well.

I should offer a disclaimer before starting. I’m only mildly qualified to offer an opinion; I’m no expert! In seminary, I edited a theological journal and after that I was a ghost writer for about a year. I’m thankful nowadays to have a biweekly column for BreakPoint and contribute to a few other places, including Kuyperian Commentary.

For me, however, writing has always been an extension of what I understand to be my real calling, teaching and pastoring. That said, I do have some advice to offer. Specifically, I think there are three questions you should ask yourself before deciding whether or not you’re called to write: Can I write well? Can I write often? Can I write well often?

Can I write well?

I know when I ask myself this question, the answer is always “no.” I learned this from Ira Glass: to be a writer, you have to be a good reader. To be a good reader, you have to have good taste, for lack of a better word. If you have good taste, you should be able to recognize the disparity between the quality of your work and the quality of a true master. When I read Ross Douthat’s column, I feel like I’ve never written an original piece. But, I know there’s a way—one way, in fact—to narrow the gap between my writing and his, which brings me to the second question you should ask, Can I write often?

Can I write often?

When George Will was given a weekly column, he was nervous he wouldn’t have something to say each week. “Surely there’s something that makes you mad once a week,” Bill Buckley told Will, “You mustn’t squander the anger!” Don’t waste a creative thought. John Stott slept with a notepad by his bed just in case he wanted to capture a worthwhile thought he had in a dream! Everyone has these creative thoughts, a writer is just one who writes them down. Dennis Miller has this illustration: everyone is watching water drip from a faucet. A comedian is one who cups his hands underneath it, pours it in a bottle, and sells it. That’s being a writer.

Can I write well often?

In his autobiography, Steve Martin makes the point that lots of performers can be great. Being good is the hard part. Being great one night is a fluke, it’ll happen occasionally to everyone who sticks at their trade. The trick is being consistently good, week after week, year after year.

The reality is, you wouldn’t be thinking about being a writer if you hadn’t written a great piece at least once. But the question isn’t whether or not you can write a great piece, it’s whether or not you can write good pieces consistently. In the genre I write in, Jake Meador is the gold-standard. What makes him remarkable isn’t that his best pieces are particularly dynamite (though they are!), it’s that his worst piece are still good.

Having read the piece you sent me, I think you can write well, and I know you have the grit to write often. But, neither of us can answer the third question, at least not yet. There’s only one way to find out if you can write well often: you have to try. For what it’s worth, I’m betting the answer will be “yes!”

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The scene must have been somewhat frightening at first and then somewhat comical as it unfolded. Several determined men wanted to bring their paralyzed friend to Jesus. They learned he was at a house on the north shore of the Sea of Galilee, so they picked up their friend on the bed on which he was lying and took him to the house. When they arrived, the place was packed. There was no room for four men carrying a paralyzed man on a bed to squeeze through the crowd. But they were not deterred. They took the steps up to the roof, began removing the tiles, and lowered their friend right in front of Jesus.

The whole scene points to the seemingly hopeless situation of the man. Luke depicts the paralyzed man as a dead man. His body is lifeless, laying on a bed which might as well been a bier. His friends are digging through the earth—clay tiles—in order to lower this man down. There is a symbolic burial occurring. But they are lowering this man into the grave where Jesus is. As Luke makes clear at the end of his Gospel, Jesus turns the grave into a place of life; a place through which we are healed in resurrection.

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