The only way to grow

“Faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Proverbs 27:6).

Francis Schaeffer spoke as a friend when he risked wounding brothers in Christ with these words in his 1971 book True Spirituality: “There is a reality of faith to be acted on consciously after justification. This last point is the point of ignorance of many who stand in the orthodox and historic stream of the Reformation” (italics his).

Ouch. Does the shoe fit?

How do we “of the orthodox and historic stream of the Reformation” typically conceive of living “after justification”—that is, every day of our lives subsequent to conversion? There are two possible ways, methinks. One I will call the organ transplant or hip surgery model.

It goes like this: They wheel you into the operating room and knock you out with general anesthesia, and in a few hours you wake up with a new kidney or hip. You slept through the whole thing; the doctors performed a miracle on you without your conscious cooperation. You are the passive recipient of a wonderful makeover.

The second possible way to conceive of sanctification is the full-engagement model. In this model, you are fully involved in your renewal. God performs the miracle of transforming you into the likeness of His Son, but He expects your cooperation—what Schaeffer calls a faith “to be acted on consciously.”

Examples may help: Let’s say you are doing pretty well in most of your Christian life. You go to church, take care of your children, bring soup to sick neighbors, pay your taxes, read your Bible (sometimes). There is just this one little area that is fairly rotten: your relationship with your husband. You feel sincerely bad about that, and would like to do ­better. But what can be done unless God changes your heart?

That is the question posed by hip surgery model proponents. They are waiting helplessly for God to perform an operation on their hearts, a spiritual surgery in which they see themselves as not able to lift a finger. But are we really so helpless?

I remember the story of a woman listening to the radio, and Elisabeth Elliot suddenly comes on and poses the question, “Is your husband your enemy?” The woman, hands deep in dish suds, stops in her tracks to listen, whispering under her breath, “Yes, my husband is my enemy.” Elliot continues: “What does God say to do with our enemies?” The woman groans but keeps listening. Mrs. Elliot recommends doing one kind thing a day for the husband, and seeing what happens.

Reluctantly at first, the wife considers and remembers that her husband likes apple cake and bakes him one. She is pleasantly surprised by his reaction. The next day—and the day after that—she thoughtfully considers another kindness, until (you may have guessed) after a while she finds her heart has changed toward her husband.

I have a second example: Again, there is a woman whom everyone in town thinks well of, but she has this dirty little secret: She cannot seem to go a whole day without berating her husband; he brings out the worst in her. She herself is sick and tired of this spiritual rut of decades’ duration, and now and then will toss off a prayer, but she feels there is nothing to be done unless God decides to help.

What if the woman were to adopt a faith that is “acted on consciously”? She might ask herself seriously, perhaps for the first time, where this bad attitude toward her husband comes from. This might lead her to recall the verse in James that diagnoses quarrels as coming from frustrated desires. This in turn might lead to ruthless self-examination about what desires in her are being frustrated. She might even take out pen and paper.

All this consciousness business is a thrilling new experience for the woman! She may come to realize that her desire for X, Y, or Z is actually an idol, or lack of trust in God’s provision. Recognizing this as sin, the woman might get on her knees and ask forgiveness. She might then resolve by the grace of God to make a conscious choice, every time she is tempted to resent her husband, to instead say “Get thee behind me” to the Tempter, and “I will trust in You” to the Lord.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend. I have loved Francis Schaeffer since the old days in the Chalet les Mélèzes in the Swiss Alps where I first heard with joy the words of life. Now as then I want to say, “Let a righteous man strike me—it is a kindness; let him rebuke me—it is oil on my head” (Psalm 141:5).