Book review: Death by Love, by Mark Driscoll and Gerry Breshears

by Dan Phillips

I already shared what it has been like reading the Olive Tree software version of this book on my iPhone. Now to the contents of the book — though first, I will remark that a disadvantage of reading an iPhone version is that I can't easily refer to page numbers.

My reaction to this book is very varied, as I've come to expect from Driscoll. And that isn't, in itself, a good thing.

First, I think the premise is absolutely brilliant (and was supported by a terrific ad-campaign). Driscoll takes a pastoral approach to number of real-life counseling encounters, describes them, and then writes "letters from the cross." That is to say, in each situation, Driscoll takes an aspect of Christ's atonement and applies it to each situation, each human need or brokenness or sin.

In this, the book reminds me of a book I read years ago named Search for Significance, by Robert McGee. Without rabbit-trailing on that particular book, what I liked about it was that McGee took fundamental soteriological truths and applied them to human need — as opposed to saying, "Everyone wants to feel loved and lacks confidence, God loves you, just keep repeating Philippians 4:13 to yourself," as many do.

So I love where Driscoll and Breshears start with this book. It's exactly the sort of thing we all need to do. We say, "Preach the Gospel — not just to the unsaved, but to the church, and to yourself," and we insist that the Gospel bears on all of life. But then do we do it, do we work it out, do we bring the Gospel? Or do we content ourselves with moralizing advice? Driscoll makes a manly effort to do what we all say we should do.

Does he succeed? Largely, I'd say yes. Driscoll gets into a wide range of aspects of the Gospel, not in the least shrinking from controversial facets such as penal, subsitutionary atonement and propitiation. In issue after issue, he comes down on the Biblical side. With solid Biblical support, some good documentation, and earnest applications of the many facets of the one brilliant gem (such as Christus Victor, Christus Exemplar, etc.)

All this Driscoll and Breshears do well, forcefully, persuasively, wholesomely, and articulately.

And boy oh boy, you're just waiting for that "but," aren't you?

I'm genuinely sorry to have to say that there's more than one "but." The first, elephant-in-the-room "but" is Driscoll's deliberately-crafted image. By his own insistent and repeated behavior, Driscoll has put a pall over his ministry through his readiness to do anything for a laugh, for a shock, for being seen as "Reformed Theology's Bad Boy!" The way Driscoll has dealt with brotherly and fatherly reproof just can't be shrugged off, and that's a pity. It's a pity because this book shows Driscoll is capable of some truly good, effective work.

But that same baneful taint spills over into the book as well. Really, Mark, does everyone you meet have primarily sexual problems? Chapter after chapter, we have to read about naked bodies, fondling, and sex of various kinds. The word "sex" occurs 27X, "sexual" another 26X, along with other related terms and uncomfortable modifiers. It's not always graphic, it's just there... and there, and there, and there, and....

True: the chains and harm of sexual sin are out there. True: we  must deal with it. True: the message of the Cross is needed and relevant. But really — is it that prevalent, requiring this degree of specificity? Two millennia of Christian pastoral writing, and only now it has to be gone into over and over?

Don't try putting the "prude" label on me. It won't fit. But I'm okay with the "not-everything-that-can-be-said-should-be-said," Ephesians 5:3-12 label.

Plus, there's Driscoll's obsession with being perceived as a big, tough, chest-thumping, manly-man. Why is it so important to Mark to convince everyone how tough and manly and rude and crude he is — so much tougher and manlier and ruder and cruder than all us pantywaists?

For instance, in chapter nine, Driscoll counsels a wicked, sinful old man who (Driscoll keeps impressing on us) really makes him angry. Driscoll hates this guy. He writes that "everything in me wanted to ...give him the beating of his life." Because, you know, beating up a dying old man is the manly thing to do.

Driscoll wants us to know that "I did my job and decided to assault the old man with my words instead of my fists." Driscoll metaphorically grabbed this old, dying man by the neck and rubbed his face in his own feces. (BTW, that isn't an exaggeration: Pastor Mark judged that the man "needed to sit in his own feces for a season until he smelled his filth.")

What's more, Driscoll wants us to know that he cussed at the old man and called him horrible names — employing, Driscoll adds coyly, "some other  words I won't write because some good church folks could not handle it."

Got that? Nothing wrong with the words. Driscoll isn't apologetic about them. See, they're not a problem. We're the problem. Because, don't you know, we're not real, and gritty, and tough, and manly-men — like Driscoll is! He's real. He's 100% first-class male. We're just "good church folks" — girly-men? — who can't "handle" those big, bad manly words.

Manly words, by the way, that The Man never found the need to use.

So this (wretched, sinful, wicked, repellant — it's all true) old man breaks down and weeps. Does Pastor Mark apologize or soften? No, it just makes him mad. Because he's so tough! And manly! In fact, when Driscoll finally gets around to granting that the old sinner might find forgiveness in Christ, it seems to be with palpable reluctance.

In chapter six, Driscoll criticizes church guys who don't teach what he does (about anger) as "flaccid." In fact, Driscoll uses that word again and again in that chapter: "flaccid... flaccid... flaccid...."  Huh, Mark; what are you trying to say about guys who don't teach what you teach? Maybe your point's just too subtle.

Also, Driscoll dabbles in trendy notions of doing battle with demons by seeing them behind some temptations, talking to demons, ordering them about and the like. His exegesis is weak, but he stays well-shy of obsession.

And hey, turns out Driscoll's an Amyraldian. His argument is made with great confidence, Driscoll calls it the "unlimited-limited-atonement" view, and he tries hard to distinguish it from your daddy's Amyraldianism — but his case falls far short of convincing. Driscoll provides no answer for the question of how people suffer eternally (as he affirms) because of sins for which Jesus already made full atonement. So for all his vaunted "Reformed" cred, Driscoll's yet another four-pointer.

Back to the positive. Driscoll goes toe to toe with universalism repeatedly. In his letter to his dearly-loved little son Gideon, Driscoll tells him that as much as he loves his son, he loves Jesus more. If his son grows and apostatizes, Driscoll pledges to oppose him. It's bracing and instructive, in this Franky-Schaeffer day, to see Driscoll's commitment to God's truth, to loving Jesus more than he clearly loves his son.

Driscoll also seriously smacks down nonsense such as finding self-esteem in the Gospel. This is also good.

So in sum: the book is like what I've heard of Driscoll's preaching. He communicates sharply and articulately. There's a lot of good, but it is marred by elements seemingly reflective of personal issues, and by the reputation Driscoll has crafted and earned and kept, and has chosen not to mortify.

The former simply renders the latter all the sadder.

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