Gentle and Lowly

I’ve had more conversations with friends about Dane Ortlund’s book Gentle and Lowly than I’ve had about any other book in the last several years. (Full disclosure: Gentle and Lowly is a Crossway title and I am an acquisitions editor for Crossway. I did not have any editorial, creative, or other role in that project.) Most of the conversations are identical: one of us expresses appreciation for the book, then superlatives spill out, and then we quote our favorite sections and tear up talking about our pasts and why the message of the book felt “new” even to people like us, raised in evangelical Christianity. I’ve seen very few books have this kind of emotional impact on readers.

And here’s the thing: There’s absolutely nothing new in the book! Dane is a wonderful writer and his style is indeed beautiful and comforting, but you will search its pages in vain for a bombshell principle or a groundbreaking framework. The book is page after page after page of quoting Scriptural passages that tell us how much Jesus Christ loves his children. A book like this should feel simple, repetitive, and predictable. The fact that it is flying off the shelves and ripping open so many heart wounds means something.

I’ve been telling people that I think it means something about the evangelical church right now. When I first read the manuscript for the book, months before it published, I knew its message was not something I had grown up regularly hearing. Again, it’s not a new message or even a new interpretation, but the emphasis of Gentle and Lowly—the idea that the heart of Jesus is irreparably bent toward and not away from his always-failing people—hit my soul as a radical message. I told a friend the other day that the unblushing way Dane describes the affection of Christ for Christians felt almost like covert liberalism the first time I read it. How ridiculous! And as I went on through the book, I realized that this feeling of being fed covert liberalism was a result of having never authentically tasted the love of Christ. It sounded wrong not because it sounded unbiblical or unorthodox, but because it sounded new. Why did it sound new? WIth all my decades of cultivating knowledge of the Bible through Sunday school, preaching, Bible drills, Bible college, and a lifetime spent in evangelical culture, I never once gained a comfort or familiarity with the ideas of this book. I think that’s probably worth thinking about.

Dane’s book argues that the dominant emphasis of a Christian’s life and thought should be on the way Christ feels about us. By contrast, the dominant emphasis in the evangelicalism I know is on our duties, in light of what Christ has done for us. A theology of sanctification premised on the latter sees the former as a threat, because taking the emphasis away from Christian obligation and giving it to Jesus’ love seems to denigrate the motivation to live a godly life. Everything in my Christian education pointed away from this kind of deep reflection on the heart of Christ. Rather than immersing myself in the promises that Jesus gives to me, my “method” of growing in Christ has been to identity each day my various obligations and try to keep them so as to keep my heart aligned with His. Most of the friends I’ve talked to about the book say this describes their life in evangelicalism as well. Yes, we know what grace is. Yes, we know Jesus loves us. But those aren’t the point. They are nice to have, but the point is what we do about it.

You don’t realize how exhausted and defeated and discouraged you are by this mentality until you get exposed to an alternative.

One last point. My friends and I have been wondering why the message in this book escaped us in our years spent in conservative Christianity. You could probably write another book just on that, but one answer I’ve confronted is that the performance-centered sanctification of much evangelicalism is very effective at giving a sense of control over other people. If we whole-heartedly accept the premise of Gentle and Lowly, it would transform the way we see other people, but in so doing it would rob us of comparison, legalism, and anger. If you’re like me, when you hear someone talk about the problems of judging and legalism, your guard automatically goes up! “Liberalism alert!” But that’s my point. Something in our theology and practice has conditioned us to resist what the Bible really says about how we treat others, the same way they’ve conditioned us to miss what the Bible says about Jesus. We sense heterodoxy here where there is none, not because the Bible is wrong but because our education was wrong and our intuitions are ill-formed. When we’re constantly on guard against people undermining the Bible’s moral commands (and that’s a real problem we ought to confront), we relegate other truths to irrelevance or toss them aside entirely. I don’t know if a culture warrior posture is incompatible with drinking deeply of the heart of Christ. I think for me, at least, the one has excluded the other.

The message of Gentle and Lowly is not just meant for individual relationships to Christ. Logically, it completely repaints how we see each other in our struggles, sins, and shortcomings. If the Jesus of this book is the real Jesus, then he’s the real Jesus for everyone, not just me. I think a church that really, authentically embraced this would look very strange, and probably threatening, to our religious eyes.