Petrus Van Mastricht: So here we are. I recently watched an ad for some Reformed book being sold, and now I’m getting ads from Reformation Heritage Books, complete with new titles, glowing endorsements, and men assuring me that my spiritual life will be better if I buy the right theology. I usually tune out and move on, but for whatever reason, this time I decided to listen. The book they were selling was Petrus Van Mastricht’s Theoretical-Practical Theology. I’ll give them this much: that’s a hard title to ignore.
The man introducing the book refers to Van Mastricht as a Dutch Further Reformation “divine,” and I’ll admit, that kind of language always makes me wince a little. I know it’s probably just a historical term, and I’m not trying to make a federal case out of it, but calling a man a divine seems like a pretty inflated way of speaking about someone who, for all his learning, was still just a man. Why do we feel the need to drape these old writers in titles that make them sound like a class above ordinary believers? Scripture’s language is much more grounded than that. It speaks of saints, brethren, believers, servants, and sinners. It doesn’t seem terribly interested in giving men elevated religious labels that subtly place them on a pedestal before they’ve said a word.
Maybe Van Mastricht was a gifted writer. Maybe he was thoughtful, useful, and in his own generation trying to say something true about Christ. Fine. But I have a hard time imagining he was anything other than what the rest of us are – weak, needy, often mistaken, and entirely dependent on the mercy of God in Christ. “Divine” just feels like too much. I can’t imagine he introduced himself as Petrus Van Mastricht, Dutch Further Reformation divine. At least I hope not.
Then came the description that the book “combines religious experience with godly piety,” and I’ll admit, I didn’t find that especially comforting. Maybe that sounds overly suspicious, but phrases like that always strike me as a little too polished, as if I’m being sold not simply a book, but an atmosphere – something deep, serious, reverent, and spiritually weighty. And perhaps that’s the point. “Religious experience” and “godly piety” are the sort of pairing that sound impressive before you’ve even had time to ask what on earth they actually mean. It has a nice ring to it, I suppose, but it also sounds like the kind of phrase that can easily move the center of gravity away from Christ and back toward the believer – his inner life, his seriousness, his depth, his feelings, his devotion, and whether his Christianity has enough visible weight to justify the language being used.
But even there I found myself wondering why “godly piety” was being presented as such a selling point in the first place. In one sense, aren’t Christians supposed to be promoting Christ, not promoting piety as if that were the great object before us? Of course, if by piety we simply mean reverence, gratitude, love, and devotion, no one is going to object to that. I’m certainly not arguing for carelessness, worldliness, or indifference. But the moment piety starts being spoken of as a kind of spiritual product to be cultivated, displayed, recommended, and quietly admired, something in me immediately recoils. It begins to sound less like a simple fruit of faith and more like a religious commodity – a quality serious Christians ought to be pursuing and exhibiting. And once that happens, the attention is no longer fixed on Christ, but on the believer and the condition of his inner life – his devotion, his maturity, his seriousness, his progress, and whether his Christianity has enough visible weight to justify the language being used.
The next thing we discover is that Jonathan Edwards said this man’s systematic theology was the best thing ever written in any language other than the Bible. That certainly gets your attention. Apparently some people, even very smart ones, found this man’s work extremely helpful in teaching believers to love Christ. Fair enough. I’m not opposed to strong recommendations, and I’m certainly not scandalized by the idea that Edwards admired the man. But there is something about that kind of praise, especially in a sales pitch, that makes me instinctively pull back a little. Before you’ve even heard what the book actually says, it has already been placed under glass and introduced to you as one of the great treasures of Christian thought. The effect is subtle, but real. You’re no longer simply being told about a book. You’re being ushered into an atmosphere where reverence for the recommendation starts doing some of the heavy lifting.
Then the speaker, with a fair amount of urgency, went on to say that anyone involved in ministry needs to obtain a copy of this book. I had to stop and rewind that part because I wanted to make sure I heard it correctly. It’s one thing to say a book has been helpful. It’s another thing to speak as though Christian ministry itself is somehow incomplete without this particular volume on the shelf. That kind of language always fascinates me. We are forever building little canons around the canon, complete with must-have authors, essential systems, and books that no serious Christian worker should be without. And to be fair, Theoretical-Practical Theology is a pretty good title. It sounds sturdy. It sounds substantial. It sounds like the kind of book that ought to improve a man merely by sitting near it. Add to that the promise that it “combines biblical teaching, heartfelt experience, and godly piety,” and by this point the book has begun to sound less like a helpful resource and more like one of those volumes no serious Christian is supposed to be without.
Maybe that’s why all of this started bothering me more than it probably should have. Beneath the recommendations, the endorsements, and the piety language, I can hear a familiar note creeping in again – the idea that Christianity is gradually turning us into a more impressive sort of people, less needy, less weak, less sinful, less dependent, less conflicted, less recognizably human. And I just don’t get it. Why are we always trying to become a different species from everyone else, when inside we know perfectly well that we are really no different than anyone else?
The older I get, the less convincing that whole atmosphere becomes. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, probably because my own little world has felt like it’s been unraveling a bit. And whatever else may be said about me, unraveling has a way of clearing the room of certain illusions. We are still needy people, still weak people, still unstable people, still sinners in constant need of mercy. And the more aware I become of that, the more suspicious I am of any version of Christianity that seems more interested in showcasing the progress of the believer than the sufficiency of Christ.
And then came the line that ruined my evening. Not only will your soul be fed if you buy this book, but “you will grow” – no doubt about it – and then, right on cue, the phrase I should have known was coming: “You will grow in holiness.” Grow in holiness? I know that language is common. I know most Christians probably wouldn’t even blink at it. I know there are ways people try to explain it. But the more I hear it, the less comfortable I am with it, because I honestly think it creates confusion at the very point where the gospel is supposed to bring clarity.
How exactly does one “grow in holiness”? That is the part I can never quite get past. Is holiness our standing in Christ, or is it a personal quality we are expected to cultivate and increase? Are we holy because we have been sanctified by the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all, or are we holy because we are slowly becoming better Christians through the right theology, proper devotion, and sufficiently pious habits?
That is not a small distinction to me. In fact, I think it is the distinction. Because once holiness is detached from Christ and turned into something that can be measured in us, talked about in us, expected from us, promoted to us, and increased by us, the whole tone of Christianity changes. It may still use the same words. It may still speak of grace. It may still say “Christ” often enough to keep everyone comfortable. But the emphasis shifts. The eye is no longer fixed on Christ crucified as the sinner’s whole acceptance before God. It begins turning inward, toward progress, growth, seriousness, fruit, consistency, devotion, and all the other things religious people love to inspect.
If holiness is something growing inside me as a spiritual quality, then I am left with the impossible task of trying to discern whether enough of it is showing up to justify the language. But if Christ Himself is my holiness, then the matter is settled entirely outside of me. I may be a mess. I may be weak, inconsistent, confused, ashamed, and painfully aware of how unlike Christ I still am in a thousand ways. But my standing before God is not suspended over the progress report of my inner life. My holiness is not a moving target. My holiness is Christ. And that, to me, is where the whole matter either stands or falls. MPJ
PostScript: Christian biographies – Thanks. That makes a lot of sense to me. I’m not prepared to throw Christian biographies overboard altogether, because I can imagine them serving a good purpose. If they are honest, they can remind us that the Lord’s people have always been weak, fearful, conflicted, and dependent, and that the same Christ who upheld them is the ONE who upholds us. In that sense, they may strengthen faith by showing that we are not dealing with some different species of Christian from another age, but with sinners who stood in need of the same mercy we do.
But I do think there is a real danger in them. The danger is that they stop functioning as testimonies to the mercy of God and start functioning as showcases of spiritual attainment. And once that happens, the reader is no longer simply being encouraged by the Lord’s dealings with one of His people. He is now being invited to compare, to measure, and to feel the distance between his own life and the life being held before him. If that leaves a man more despondent than comforted, I can understand why. There is enough in me already to drive me inward. I don’t need a biography to help with that. I need Christ. Marc
PostScript 2: Growth in Grace – Yes, I think that’s a fair and important distinction. “Grow in grace” is certainly scriptural language, and I probably wouldn’t want to treat it as identical to the kind of holiness language I was pushing back on in the post. Even there, though, I think the question becomes: what do we mean by it?
If by growing in grace we mean growing in the awareness of our need of grace, growing in our dependence on Christ alone, growing in our appreciation of what He has actually accomplished for us, and growing in our ability to see through the endless machinery of religious self-measurement, then yes, I have no problem with that at all. In fact, I think that is probably much closer to the reality of Christian growth than the usual language of becoming increasingly holy, as though holiness were some inward quality steadily accumulating inside us.
In other words, if “growing in grace” means I become less impressed with myself, less confident in my flesh, more suspicious of my own religion, and more thankful that my entire standing before God is outside of me in Christ, then I’m happy with that language. That seems very different to me than being told I am growing in holiness in a way that subtly turns my eyes back onto my own progress. Marc