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No one is harder to convert than a religious expert.
In response to the teachings of influential, radical Anabaptist preachers, Martin Luther was once asked if people who fought wars (and therefore were in the business of shedding blood) could ever receive enough forgiveness to merit eternal life. This is the topic of his booklet, Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved (1526).
Luther answered by wrenching salvation away from human vocation and placing it squarely into the hands of Christ. The soldier is not saved by the sword, just as a monk is not saved by their cowl or their piety. Sinners are saved by Christ alone.
The other day, as I listened to the Rod Rosenbladt Legacy Podcast, I heard the late Rod Rosenbladt revive the question again, this time applying it to theologians. Rod asked, ironically and sarcastically: “Can theologians, too, be saved?”
Behind the humor was something deadly serious. Rod knew that theology exerts a peculiar power over a person. The study of God can become a substitute for trusting in God. Theologians can hide behind books, languages, systems, arguments, and orthodoxy—real or imagined—while quietly avoiding the scandal of the cross. They can spend decades speaking about grace while living as though their standing before God depends on being correct.
And that was precisely the point of Rod’s question. “Can I, a theologian, also be saved? Even me? Me, with all my learning, my doubts, my arguments, my endless study? Can I be saved?”
Somewhere along the way, we begin loving mastery more than the handing over of Christ’s gifts.
Gross public sinners usually know they are in trouble. If you have an affair, you will at some point (if not immediately) realize you have done something wrong. If you spend your days acting like a jerk, someone has likely informed you of the fact. But theologians face a subtler temptation. They can mistake the information they’ve collected, analyzed, and communicated about the faith for faith itself. They can confuse theological precision with trust in Christ. They can speak eloquently about justification while quietly justifying themselves.
Rod warned students about this because he had taught enough theology students—and enough future pastors—to know exactly what happens. People often begin theological study because they love God and desire to serve their neighbor. But before long, another love is discovered: the thrill of the argument, the contest, the “iron sharpening iron” of theological sparring. Somewhere along the way, we begin loving mastery more than the handing over of Christ’s gifts.
Theology can become intoxicating. You learn how to win arguments, marshal sources, quote confessions, and correct everyone else. You discover the pleasant sensation of being the smartest person in the room. Rod understood this temptation because, if truth be told, he knew it himself.
What theologians often do not learn in all their theological training is how to die. The old Adam wears clerical collars and academic regalia just as comfortably as leather jackets and blue jeans.
Theologians know how to protect themselves from exposure. They know the vocabulary of repentance without ever repenting. They know how to discuss justification while quietly justifying themselves. They know how to speak of grace while secretly believing God owes them something for all their labor.
No one is harder to convert than a religious expert. The Pharisees in the Gospels were not secularists. They were trained theologians. They were the respectable ones—the white hats, the men you wanted your daughter to marry. They knew Scripture. They knew tradition. They knew the arguments cold. They could identify doctrinal error from a mile away.
And yet, when the Messiah stood before them in the flesh, they wanted him dead. That possibility should terrify every pastor and professor.
Luther certainly understood this because he, too, had lived it. Before discovering the comfort of the gospel, he was a theologian attempting to save himself through theology. He climbed the ladder of religious achievement only to discover that the ladder never reached heaven.
Then he read Romans 1:17: “The righteous shall live by faith.” Not by scholarship, ecclesiastical standing, publication, or theological precision. By faith. And even faith is not a human accomplishment presented for God’s inspection. Faith is given; it is received. Empty-handed, created by the proclaimed Word and the Holy Spirit, faith looks away from itself and clings to Christ.
Theology becomes deadly, however, when it no longer delivers Christ to sinners.
That is difficult for theologians because they are trained to analyze, define, categorize, defend, and hold systems together. None of these is a bad thing. Theology matters because truth matters. False doctrine destroys consciences. Bad teaching leaves sinners either proud or despairing.
Theology becomes deadly, however, when it no longer delivers Christ to sinners. One of Rod’s great gifts was that he had developed an ear for the difference between law and gospel, even when everyone else in the room was impressed by the scholarship. He could hear when a sermon contained Greek exegesis, historical references, confessional citations, and theological nuance and still left terrified sinners without Christ.
“Placard Christ!” he would bark. In other words, “Don’t waste my time with theological brilliance that forgets to preach Jesus.” He often emphasized that Christianity is not fundamentally advice but announcement. It is not a report about what you must do for God, but a proclamation of what Christ has already done for you.
Theologians, however, are tempted to reverse the order. A theologian can preach sanctification in a way that leaves people staring at themselves instead of Christ. He can preach obedience in a way that turns sermons into spiritual progress reports. He can preach discipleship in a way that makes assurance impossible. And he can do all of it while remaining impeccably orthodox on paper.
Even so, a theologian is saved the same way a soldier is saved. By grace through faith on account of Christ alone, God pardons and receives sinners. He does not ask whether they carry swords or academic degrees or whether they labor in fields or seminaries. The theologian stands before God exactly as every sinner does: in need of mercy that Christ alone freely gives.
Rod had a remarkable ability to reduce everything to this central point. He knew the difference between theology that creates confidence in Christ and theology that creates confidence in oneself. The first is Christianity. The second is religion. And Rod hated religion.
The theologian who trusts in his theological ability is not fundamentally different from the Pharisee thanking God that he is not like other men. The theologian who despairs of himself and clings to Christ goes home justified.
That is the scandal of the gospel. The scandal of the cross. The scandal Rod spent a lifetime reminding us not to forget.
The kingdom of God is filled with forgiven sinners. Some carry swords. Some carry Bible commentaries. Neither enters by merit. Both enter through the shed blood of Christ alone.
So, can theologians, too, be saved? Yes. But only on account of Christ alone. So, stop wasting time. Placard Christ.
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