Remarkable: Living a Faith Worth Talking About - Hardcover

Brady Boyd has served as the Senior Pastor of New Life Church for over ten years. Under Brady’s leadership, New Life Church has grown to six campuses, and its unique team teaching method has become a model for churches around the world. Boyd is the cohost of The Essential Church Podcast and hosts conferences like New Life Conference, the Desperation Conference, and The Gathering. He lives in Colorado Springs with his wife, Pam, and their two children.

Remarkable 1

Corinth, U.S.A.

What’s in a Name?

Drinking beer is easy. Trashing your hotel room is easy.

But being a Christian, that’s a tough call.

That’s rebellion.

ALICE COOPER

Two thousand years ago—first in Asia, and then in the Roman Empire and throughout Europe—if you wanted to know about someone’s life, you simply asked them about their name. For instance, if you were speaking with someone in China who said that his surname was Wang—meaning king—then you’d know that person hailed from a royal line. If you met someone named Li—meaning a follower of Taoism—then you’d know that person was a descendant of that particular religion.

Spreading into Europe, if you happened upon sisters Antonia Major and Antonia Minor, you’d immediately know (a) that they were the daughters of an Antonius and (b) which was the older child. Later, to encounter Joe Smith or Sam Potter or Ed Taylor or Fran Webster was to know what these people did for a living: blacksmith, potter, tailor, weaver. During the Middle Ages, resourced people ate fine, white bread, while under-resourced people ate coarse, dark bread, and so to meet someone with the surname Whitebread—or, later, Whitbread—was to know their socioeconomic standing in life.

A man surnamed Andrews was Andrew’s son. A man surnamed Stevenson was Steven’s son. A man surnamed Richardson was Richard’s son. “Atkins” came from “Adkins,” which meant Adam’s kin. “Dawkins” came from “Davkins,” which meant David’s kin. “Jenkins” came from “Jankins,” which meant Jan’s kin.

Julia who lived by the village green was dubbed Julia Greene.

Malik who lived by the holly trees was dubbed Malik Hollis.

Louis who lived in the town’s longest valley was dubbed Louis Longbottom.

Robert who lived by the town’s walls was dubbed Robert Walls.

If a person was arrogant, he might be surnamed Prince.

If a person was strong, she might be surnamed Armstrong.

If a person was surnamed Swift, guess how he walked?

If a person was surnamed Makepeace, you automatically knew how she conducted herself on the heels of a misunderstanding.

There were the Shorts and the Smarts, the Longfellows and the Youngs, the Blunts (blondes) and the Reids (redheads), but—regardless of the specific designation—one thing was certain: a person’s name told you much about him or her. A person’s name revealed who they were.

More than two thousand years ago, in a town called Antioch, people who followed Jesus, people “of the Way,” were given a special name. “Christians,” they were called (from the Koine Greek word Christos)—those who were following the teachings of Christ. In Acts 11:26 (KJV), after Paul encountered Jesus and showed up in Antioch to disciple believers there, the designation was introduced: “The disciples were called Christians first in Antioch.”

Later, when the apostle Paul is pleading with Herod Agrippa to come to Jesus and surrender his life, the king interrupts him, asking, “Do you think you can persuade me to become a Christian so quickly?” (Acts 26:28). Then, on the subject of suffering for the gospel, the apostle Peter reminds us that “it is no shame to suffer for being a Christian” (1 Peter 4:16).

To be known as Christian was a meaningful thing. Whatever else was true about you—where you grew up or where you lived, whose son you were or else whose father, whether you were tall or bald or brilliant or old—this was the truest thing, this name that said, “I am not attached to the mission and values of Rome but rather the mission and values of Jesus Christ.”

Throughout history, God has looked for a group of people who would give themselves wholeheartedly to the idea of radically following him. He has longed for a people who would push aside all other preferences and priorities for the sake of knowing and loving him. “The eyes of the LORD search the whole earth,” 2 Chronicles 16:9 tells us, “in order to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him.”

This divine strengthening was reserved for believers.

It was reserved for those serious about following him.

It was reserved for those who answered joyfully to “Christian.”

It was reserved for those whose hearts were fully his.

What God has been searching for since the beginning of time, he searches for still today: a people whose core identity centers on his Son, Jesus; a people remarkably distinguishable from the rest of the world.

A recent study from The Barna Group, a market research firm that statistically scrutinizes the intersection of faith and culture, says that 82 percent of believers polled don’t know what the “Great Commission” is. Technically, only 51 percent acknowledge having “never heard of it.” But the other 31 percent I lumped into my sum responded either “I’m not sure” or else “I’ve heard of it, but I can’t tell you what it means.”1 No matter how you parse the data, a significant number of people who self-identify as “Christian” and “believer” and “churchgoer” can’t quite put their finger on the seminal task that Jesus asked us churchgoers to achieve.

In Matthew 28:18–20, just before he was to leave his disciples and ascend to the presence of his Father, Jesus commissioned his followers with a specific task. “I have been given all authority in heaven and on earth,” he says. “Therefore, go and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Teach these new disciples to obey all the commands I have given you. And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

Clearly, Jesus had an expectation of his followers that the faith that saved them and was transforming them wouldn’t get stuck with them alone. He dreamed of a reality in which lovers of God would reach out to those struggling to feel loved—both those who know Christ and those who have never encountered him before—and love them as Jesus loves them. In this paradigm, Christ’s followers would possess such strength of character and such compassion that they would shine like “bright lights in a world full of crooked and perverse people,” as Philippians 2:15 not so subtly puts it. They would be remarkably optimistic. They would be remarkably unoffendable. They would be remarkably forgiving whenever they were wronged. They would be remarkably faithful, remarkably patient, remarkably generous with their resources. They’d be remarkably encouraging, remarkably gracious, and remarkably loving to all.

And perhaps most astounding, by their admirable attitudes and actions they would compel others to do the same.

The challenge in achieving this goal, I’m finding, is simply getting out of my own way.

I took my teenage son, Abram, to breakfast at McDonald’s one Saturday morning not long ago. We walked up to the counter, placed our order, waited for the nice lady to hand us our tray of saturated fat, and headed off to find a booth. After we sat down and unpacked our bags of food, we realized that the order taker had gotten our order totally wrong. I plunked the food back into the bags, loaded the bags back onto the tray, scooted my way out of the booth, and headed for the counter with a head full of steam.

Here is what my posture was shouting as I approached: What kind of idiot can’t get a simple breakfast order right? Was it the extra Egg McMuffin that threw you off? It’s early. I’m irritable. I haven’t had coffee. I don’t even know why life is happening at this hour. Can you try again and this time not screw up?

Thank goodness there was someone ahead of me in line. I was forced to stand there, errant order in hand, and breathe. By the time I reached the lady, I’d come to my senses again. “Ma’am,” I was able to say gently, “I think my son and I got someone else’s order by mistake.”

This was an especially fortuitous turn of events, given that her reply was “Oh! My mistake. Let me fix that for you. And by the way, my family and I sure love being part of your church.”

What is that thing that seems to overtake us between the goal for kind, loving living and our faithfulness to act on that goal? Where is our patience when our spouse forgets to pay a bill? Our forgiveness when someone cuts in front of us in line? Our love when someone gets our breakfast order wrong? Our kindness when a friend says a hurtful word? Our faithfulness when it seems like doing the right thing isn’t rewarded like we expect?

Last year, I did a deep dive into the apostle Paul’s first recorded letter to the Corinthian church in preparation for a sermon series I wanted to write. I approached my research with curiosity: Was the culture in ancient Greece somehow more conducive to living like Jesus than the one we find ourselves in today? Was it easier to choose righteousness in the year 50 than it is here and now, today? In various places in 1 Corinthians, the apostle exhorted believers to practice what in my estimation are truly amazing feats. A sampling, for our review:

· Live “free from all blame” (1 Corinthians 1:8).

· “Live in harmony with each other” (1 Corinthians 1:10).

· “Let there be no divisions in the church” (1 Corinthians 1:10).

· “Boast only about the LORD” (1 Corinthians 1:31).

· “Don’t you realize that all of you together are the temple of God and that the Spirit of God lives in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:16).

· “Stop deceiving yourselves” (1 Corinthians 3:18).

· Stop associating “with anyone who claims to be a believer yet indulges in sexual sin, or is greedy, or worships idols, or is abusive, or is a drunkard, or cheats people” (1 Corinthians 5:11).

· “Run from sexual sin!” (1 Corinthians 6:18).

· “Do not deprive each other [as married couples] of sexual relations, unless you both agree to refrain from sexual intimacy for a limited time so you can give yourselves more completely to prayer” (1 Corinthians 7:5).

· Practice the type of love that is “patient and kind . . . not jealous or boastful or proud or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, . . . keeps no record of being wronged, . . . and does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance” (1 Corinthians 13:4–7).

· “Let love be your highest goal” (1 Corinthians 14:1).

Surely there were no incorrect fast-food breakfast orders in Corinth. It was probably much easier to be holy there.

I was having a conversation this week with an acquaintance of mine who was lamenting all that is wrong in our culture today. “We’re losing our way,” he said soberly. “It’s everywhere . . . teen drug use, mass shootings, vitriol spewed 24/7 on social media, everyone demanding instant gratification, zero attention span, soaring suicide rates . . . Everything is hypersexualized . . . TV commercials sexualize hamburgers, for crying out loud . . .” The guy had a point, but—given my immersion in ancient Greece these last twelve months—instead of joining his lament, I said, “You think it’s bad now? Compared with Corinth back in Paul’s day, we’re Main Street at Disney World.” (The next time you’re at a Disney theme park, toss a piece of trash on the ground. It won’t lie there three seconds before a “cast member” swoops in to whisk it out of sight. The place is immaculate—almost sterile.)

To understand the allure of Corinth, we need only to be reminded of its distinct location on the map. Harkening back to middle school geography, you’ll recall that an isthmus is a narrow piece of land surrounded on two sides by water. But not all isthmuses are created equal. The sole link between Greece’s two highest-profile cities, Athens and Sparta, as well as the central land route for traders needing to trek back and forth between the Aegean and Adriatic Seas, the isthmus of Corinth was a highly coveted piece of land. Eventually, in the nineteenth century, a canal would be dug, but even without it the city boomed. Boats were lugged across giant stones from one side to the other, which meant sailors could avoid the lengthy, often treacherous journey around the Peloponnese. There were plentiful freshwater springs and mounds of fertile soil, making the town highly desirable to prospective residents and merchants alike. And there existed an overemphasis on entertainment, success, and pleasure, which drew the hungry, the greedy, and the lustful . . . in other words, a whole lot of people in that day. Corinth was Vegas before Vegas.

Adding to the draw were the biannual Isthmian Games. Second only to the Greece’s Olympic Games in popularity, the Isthmian Games were a celebration both of athletic and musical performance, the grand prize being a crown of wild celery. (I hope competitors were in it for more than the prize.) But if you think about the effect of such games on a culture, the licentiousness of Corinth begins to make sense.

In our day, whenever a city is chosen to host, say, the summer Olympics, massive efforts are under way years before the Games arrive. Athletic facilities and a giant main stadium are built or at least repurposed at quite an expense. Hotels, conference centers, and restaurants are erected. Some sort of Olympic Village to house athletes is constructed. Transportation options get sorted out. Sochi spent $51 billion when it hosted the Summer Games, the highest in history, with Beijing a close second at $44 billion. Those outliers help explain why, on average, a city will spend more than $5 billion to host the event, which is still a lot of coin. This kind of resourcing wasn’t around in Paul’s day, of course, but, relatively speaking, the Games were big. Every two years, people flocked to Corinth to compete and to spectate, and to make money off all those competitors and spectators. The reason Paul himself was thought to have been able to stay in town for as long as he did—eighteen months, by nearly all accounts—was that he was a skilled tentmaker. “Olympic Village” in those days was little more than a glorified tent city. But the carnival vibe of it all . . . imagine such grandiosity, such an adrenaline rush, such a festive atmosphere, not once in a city’s lifetime but rather every twenty-four months.

The city had been decimated by Roman warriors two hundred years before the apostle Paul’s arrival on the scene, during which time the Games were relocated to Sicyon, a neighboring town to the west. In 44 BCE, Corinth was rebuilt by Julius Caesar to be a port town, a key to Grecian trade. It makes sense, then, when Paul arrived in AD 51 that he found all the shine and slickness of new money, which, as most Americans know, can quickly lead to shortsightedness, self-centeredness, and greed.

Spiritually, Corinth was a mixed bag. A melting pot of hundreds of nationalities, both male and female, both enslaved and free, both rich and debilitatingly poor, Corinth seemed unified by the occultic worship of pagan gods. The big deal in the area was the temple of Aphrodite, and to our earlier point about our modern United States reality being like Disney by comparison with Corinth, just imagine having to have sex with a sanctioned “temple prostitute” prior to entering the temple each week to worship.2 Things here may be bad, my friend, but they aren’t that bad.

It’s telling that people who properly assim...