David Baddiel’s punchy little book The God Desire is an apologetic for atheism—not the kind of unbelief that disrespects religion and its benefits (Baddiel is Jewish), but still, a naturalist’s take on the world that says we’re better off dispensing with fantasies intended to shield us from death.

“I desperately want to believe in God,” he writes. “That’s why I know He doesn’t exist.” This is, in a way, the inverse of the argument we find in writers such as C. S. Lewis, who contended that the human longing for something beyond the material world suggests the existence of a transcendent reality that fulfills these innate desires. The experience of hunger indicates the reality of food.

Baddiel acknowledges his desire for God but leans on this experience to arrive at the opposite conclusion:

In other words, desire doesn’t provide the frame for reality. “The God Desire should not have to lead to the God Delusion,” he says (8). Your desire for water in the desert, after all, is what leads you to fall for a mirage.

Shield from Death

So why is the desire for God so widespread, Baddiel wonders. Why is it so strong?

We could point to what a divine being provides for human psychology. God offers story. “He storifies life,” Baddiel writes. And with story comes meaning—“a sense on an individual level, that your own narrative has significance: that it matters in some way” (9).

But these benefits flow downstream from the real reason the God desire is so strong: we’re scared to death of death. As we shrink back from death, we reach out to God as “an archetype, a super-projection, of a parent who can be both blissful and terrifying.” All the other psychological benefits are “spin-offs” from this primary reason. “Oblivion is the issue. Nothingness is the issue” (11). And Baddiel admits nothing freaks him out more than the thought of no longer existing—the extinguishing and annihilation of his life.

People are swayed by religious faith because of their fear of death. He mentions the Jewish funeral service that speaks of God swallowing up death, making it “disappear in the most visceral way, like a parent sucking a poisonous bite from a child’s arm.” He admires the idea that God would swallow up death forever even as he assumes this description of God’s power implies “the fragility of the belief underneath”—that perhaps death could reemerge to taunt us again (44). Christianity is effective because the story of Jesus is the “Greatest Story Ever Told”—a tale that “hits a lot of the correct commercial storytelling beats” (69).

In the end, though, we’re better off dealing with the bleakness of our future decay in the aftermath of death. We should plant our flag on this naturalist terrain. Believers find comfort in the idea of God, but does anyone really believe? When asked about atheists who are said to have recanted on their deathbeds, Baddiel shrugs: “It’s just a scream in the dark” (56). Religious or not, we’re all terrified of death, and so we cope in one way or another.

Wonder and Morality

What about religion’s other benefits—the beauty of the world, the moral frame of good and evil, or a sense of wonder at the mysteries of the world? Baddiel believes wonder is a distraction from a better path—being “obsessed only with truth.” Wonder is, like God, merely a projection, something we use to fill in the gaps when we lack understanding (51).

The more we progress in knowledge, the fewer mysteries remain. We’ll eventually understand even something as strange as dark matter, including its cause. In any case, “the fact that we don’t know stuff doesn’t mean that the stuff we don’t know is God” (48), he says.

Here, Baddiel’s line of thinking resembles that of the 19th-century French philosopher Auguste Comte who imagined the story of human ascent in various stages:

• In the first stage, people attributed mysterious events to the gods.
• The second stage was metaphysical, with abstract entities replacing the gods.
• The third stage is interpreting the outworking of nature in terms of natural laws.

As you can see, at each stage of human development, a supernatural explanation for something was replaced with something else. There used to be a “God gap,” but as those gaps continue to shrink, we’re right to hold out for a purely naturalist explanation for whatever we find mysterious.

Baddiel realizes the nonexistence of God undermines the basis for morality in our world. He doesn’t deny the societal implications of naturalism. He’d agree with Yuval Noah Harari and others who admit there’s no metaphysical grounding for an idea like “human rights.” Such a notion exists only in the fertile imagination of human beings. It’s an invention. Human rights are neither self-evident nor endowed by any transcendent Creator.

Yes, the denial of a transcendent source for morality might lead to moral collapse, Baddiel says, yet he takes pride in insisting on the truth anyway. Severe as the consequences may be, the truth is still the truth, whether we can handle it or not.

“Basically we’re all going to die and there’s no point to life and yes, The End,” Baddiel says. “I am bound to the truth. And the truth hurts. We can’t handle the truth” (86). All we can do is “laugh at our own futility,” to laugh in the face of our eventual nothingness, knowing that “the living are just the dead on holiday” (88).

‘You Can’t Handle the Truth’

David Baddiel is a terrific writer, with a penchant for smooth turns of phrases and a chatty, breezy style. He makes his case with panache and verve, never taking himself too seriously, perhaps partly because there’s no point in taking anything too seriously (with the world’s inevitable demise and everything).

And yet I see nearly every point of evidence Baddiel offers for his atheism as a reason for God.

• The nearly universal desire for God is merely an attempt to evade the horror of death, he says. But what if the nearly universal desire to evade death is an indication we were made for eternal life?
• We’ve invented God to shield us from the face of death, he says. But what if the modern world has invented atheism to shield us from the face of God?
• Our thirst leads us to fall for a mirage under the illusion that water is there, he says. But what if our thirst is so powerful that we can be fooled by a mirage when there really is a flowing stream somewhere?
• What was mysterious in the past has now been explained by science, he says. But what about all the new questions that every discovery elicits? How, the more we know, the more wondrous and intricate we see the world to be?
• Christianity is compelling because it’s just a great story, he says. But what if the story is compelling because it’s true, and what if we find it great because this is the truth we were made for?
• It’s best to come to terms with our mortality and laugh at the futility of life, he says. But how much better to laugh in the face of death, to taunt a defeated foe who has lost its sting?

David Baddiel’s The God Desire is a good-natured expression of what, as Charles Taylor pointed out, has become an axiom today: religious belief is childish, and the truly courageous will stare into the abyss of nothingness. “We can’t handle the truth!” But what if an obsession with truth, no matter the consequences, leads not to opposition to wonder but to wonder as its ultimate end? What if wonder isn’t a projection but a Person?

In a secular age, perhaps the greater courage comes not from the naturalist determined to stare down death but from the believer who peers into an empty tomb in Jerusalem and shivers at the incredible implications.

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The “Be true to yourself” and “You do you” slogans of expressive individualism show up everywhere these days. Even dangling from a tea bag.

One morning last week, I heated the kettle and got out my mug, tea, and stevia packet, preparing my first cup of the morning, and I noticed a small note attached to the string of the tea bag. “Trust your identity,” it said. “Be in touch with your reality.” An inspirational call to action, I suppose, with a little philosophy to kick off the day. And it got me thinking.

Tea Bag’s Call to Faith

“Trust your identity” is the tea bag’s call to faith. I’m the one who must decide what my identity will be. I must trust my decision, and I should express my faith in my identity to the world.

It’s interesting the tea bag didn’t say “Trust yourself,” which is the more common slogan. Self and identity may be similar these days, but the command implies they can be distinct in some way, separated from each other. We’re to choose our identity and trust we’ve made the right choice. It’s as if, after we’ve created the Instagram persona we feel most comfortable with, we’re told to trust the image we’ve decided to project.

The second piece of instruction on my tea bag provoked more thought than the first. “Be in touch with your reality.” This means I’m supposed to discover and remain connected to my reality. But what about, well, just reality? To lose touch with reality is to lose your mind. The deranged man is very in touch with his reality. It’s the real world—the reality outside himself and his own perspective—he’s lost contact with.

Ancients vs. Moderns

My tea bag exemplifies the contrast between ancient wisdom and contemporary thinking. The ancients believed the goal of life was to seek knowledge of the truth. Our choices in life are an important aspect of conforming our souls to a reality that’s bigger than and apart from us. There’s objective truth, goodness, and beauty. We grow as we pursue these realities.

Common sense today is the other way around. The goal of life is to seek your truth. Your choices in life are an important aspect of conforming reality to whatever you feel. The idea of bringing your identity in line with the real world has morphed into bringing the world in line with the real you. Gone is the notion you would conform yourself to the nature of things or submit to a revelation that comes from outside yourself. Your reality is at the center, and nature and religion must bend the knee.

Tea Bag Philosophy in Real Life

The clearest example of this way of thinking today is the debate over sex and gender. Trust your identity. (You are whatever you say you are.) Be in touch with your reality. (Don’t let anyone disconnect you from your own thoughts and experiences.) The only reason the term “gender confirmation surgery” makes sense is because so many people view the world through the framework of the tea bag’s philosophy: the alteration of the human body is a “confirmation” of the identity you’re called to trust, a medical attempt to conform the natural body so you can stay in touch with “your reality.”

Controversies about sex and gender may be the most obvious outworking of the tea bag philosophy, but we do ourselves a disservice if we fail to see its influence in other areas.

Take the diminishment of persuasion, for example. Civil debate has fallen on hard times. We’re increasingly mired in conflict without any tools to navigate the new world. How can we resolve conflict or discover creative solutions when everyone is striving only to be in touch with “their reality?”

Or consider the therapeutic impulse to privilege your interpretation of whatever takes place in a social setting. What matters most is your truth (a strange synonym now for your experience), even if your interpretation of reality is incorrect. If you feel someone has slighted you with the intention of causing harm, then your reality says this must be the case, even if the slight was truly unintentional. If you feel others are out to get you, then your reality will lead you to interpret all interactions with this defensive posture, even if the reality is the reverse. We become bound by our experiences, slaves to feelings that can’t be bothered by facts.

The tea bag philosophy has an effect on the church too. This way of thinking doesn’t make us give up on God. Instead, God gets roped in as a divine source of support for the identity we trust and the reality we want to be in touch with. God doesn’t go away. He blends into the decor, just one more item in the personal project of identity we’re building. Instead of conforming ourselves to God and his Word, we seek to bring his revelation into conformity with the desires of our hearts. We want him in the mix, but on our terms, as a bit player in our reality rather than the blazing center of all things—absolute reality itself.

Lost in a Haunted Wood

The tea bag philosophy is popular as an approach to life, but it’s powerless in helping us achieve lasting satisfaction. Trusting your identity doesn’t provide a strong enough source of self. Being in touch with your own reality doesn’t satisfy the longing to know a true, good, and beautiful reality—something bigger and better than anything you could dream up.

No wonder we see more and more people asserting their identities with ever more force, demanding recognition and affirmation. It’s because they feel their fragility. It’s as if we want to feel alive, to feel our own reality, and some of today’s controversies—even the pain we experience—at least give us the illusion of significance.

For others, the way to escape the world marked by the tea bag philosophy is one of distraction, a burrowing into our own individual “reality” so we don’t have to be confronted with the real world in all its glorious danger. And thus we become like those in W. H. Auden’s poem “September 1939”:

The tea is steeped now, the fragrance wafting through the air on this chilly morning. And as I take my usual place, kneeling on my prayer bench, with God’s Word in front of me, I sense the heart of Jesus: Trust me. Find your identity in me. Lose yourself and find yourself in me. I loved you into existence. I loved you all the way to the cross. I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. You want to be in touch with reality? I AM reality. Be in touch with me.

My thirst is slaked, and not from the tea.

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A few years ago, I was in London for a conference in honor of the greatest Baptist preacher of the 19th century, Charles Spurgeon. A highlight of that trip was visiting Spurgeon’s grave together with Susannah Spurgeon and her children.

Susannah is the great-great-granddaughter of Charles Spurgeon. She’s a faithful believer whose family loves God and cherishes his Word. At the conference, as she addressed those in attendance, she revisited her great-great-grandfather’s account of his conversion, nearly choking up as she read about the night he was saved.

Visible Answer to an Old Prayer

As special as that moment was, nothing could have prepared me for the power of what came next. It was August 1. There we were in London, nearly 130 years after Spurgeon died, and Susannah decided to read one of the prayers he had composed for a devotional, dated that very day. Here’s what Charles Spurgeon prayed:

This was a prayer of Charles Spurgeon for his offspring, for his descendants yet unborn. When you read these words out loud, you can’t help but sense his yearning for the spiritual well-being of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He was praying for future generations.

Years have passed. Decades. More than a century. But there, in London, I listened to those words read by Spurgeon’s great-great-granddaughter—the living embodiment of God’s answer to those prayers from the 1800s.

For Future Generations

One of the Christian songs of the 1990s that has stuck with me is 4Him’s “For Future Generations.” It’s about the importance of holding on to the faith, no matter the cultural winds that blow, not only for the sake of those alive today but also for the generations to come.

Another song of that era expressed a similar sentiment—Steve Green’s “Find Us Faithful.” The lyrics paint a picture of those who have gone before us, the cloud of witnesses surrounding us as we run the race, cheering us on. The chorus then imagines the moment we’ll be in that cloud and the legacy we’ll leave for those who run the race in the future.

Both these songs are striking for the responsibility they place on the believer today. We must be a light. We must be faithful. How we live today matters for tomorrow. All this is true. But the emphasis in Scripture falls more on a holy desperation for God to be faithful to keep us and our descendants. Any faithful example we leave is due to the faithfulness of God in preserving us. And that reminds me of a song we find in Scripture.

Song of Zechariah

In Luke 1, the song of Zechariah (the father of John the Baptist) expresses joy in and gratitude for God as the One who keeps his promises. He celebrates God’s promised salvation through the line of David, singing for joy as if he’s fist-pumping the air because God is good to save his people from their enemies and from the hands of those who hate them. God is dealing mercifully with the people of Israel out of love for their ancestors.

Zechariah’s name means “God remembers.” Fitting, isn’t it? That’s why Zechariah praises God. God remembers you and keeps his promises to you. Even better, he keeps the promises he made to our ancestors, to those who’ve gone before us. God remembers every prayer your mom prayed over you, every prayer your grandfather made on your behalf, all the prayers godly men and women of old have prayed for their descendants.

In the late 300s, when Ambrose, the bishop of Milan, saw the fervency and tears with which Monica prayed for her son, he was so moved that he told her, “It is impossible that the son of so many tears should perish.” God answered Monica’s prayer and not only granted her son salvation but gave the church one of the greatest and most influential theologians to ever live: Augustine of Hippo.

Pray for Those Yet to Be Born

Even today, when we sing songs like “The Blessing,” with its call for God’s favor “to be upon us, and a thousand generations, and your family and your children, and their children, and their children,” we’re laying hold of the promises of God, trusting him not only for today but for those who will come tomorrow. And even for those of us whom God may not bless with children, we can still be fathers and mothers in the faith, making disciples who make disciples, with spiritual grandchildren and great-grandchildren who leave an eternal legacy.

If it’s true that God answers prayer, if it’s true that he keeps his promises, if it’s true that—in the words of the Puritan pastor Thomas Boston—“his promise chains mercies together,” perhaps we should widen our horizons, lifting our hearts to the Lord on behalf of all those who will follow in our footsteps. Like Spurgeon, we can pray not only for those alive today but for those who will run the race in the decades and centuries after us. We pray for those yet unborn to one day be born again. O Lord, save our children and our children’s children!

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I’ve been told by many an aspiring author they’ve got a book brewing inside them. More often than not, they’ve got a chapter. Or a blog post.

Sometimes it’s other people who’ve told them they should write a book. Someone has given them a great book idea. Still, this doesn’t mean there’s a book there.

Maybe that’s you. There’s something about the idea or practice of writing that’s appealing. You wonder if you’ve got something to say, maybe a book to write or an article that shares an insight you’ve not seen elsewhere. How do you know if you should write?

I’ve been in these conversations many times. When I sit down with writers, I either put on my publishing hat or my author hat. Sometimes, I switch between the two, having been on both sides of the conversation. I try to help them understand what goes into the writing process so they can uncover whether their idea would make sense as a book or perhaps as a good column, essay, or blog post.

Writing Starts with Reading

If you want to write and publish a book, you need to realize you’re entering a new world. That world must begin with a terrific proposal. And a proposal begins with other books.

Writing starts with reading. If you’re going to write well, you have to read, a lot. Samuel Johnson said, “The greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book.”

Once you read up on a topic of interest, you may start to see the outline of a book coming together. It’s not enough to see it in your mind though—you’ve got to see it mapped out in a proposal. And this is where you discover if you have enough content to fill a book.

For many, the book idea goes away at the proposal development stage. You find you’re not ready to write a book yet. But don’t fret. The growth you’ve experienced—the capacity you’ve cultivated in working on a proposal—isn’t wasted. Keep reading. Keep thinking.

The Platform Question

Most people I talk to aren’t interested in writing a book for their own sake. They want to write a book people want to read. The problem is, people are highly unlikely to pick up a book from someone they don’t know, someone without a track record. That’s why, especially these days, most writers have to go through the hard work of building a platform or establishing credibility before entering into a publishing agreement. Like it or not, publishers look for a platform or for credibility for an in-demand topic.

This can be the most discouraging aspect for a first-time writer, but it’s also where developing a rhythm of writing can make a difference. If you engage the habit of writing and start publishing your work to a blog or on social media, it’s possible you’ll serve a small audience. You may make connections with other writers or perhaps branch out to other online platforms. Your motivation, however, has to be service to others, not getting published.

Get Started; Keep Going

When I talk to aspiring authors, I never want to discourage them from writing. But I do want them to know what they’re getting into. I want to help them see if they have a good book idea or maybe an article instead. I also want them to understand the stamina required.

When a writer asks me about starting a blog or website, or posting brief thoughts on Facebook or Instagram, I respond with the same advice: plan out your first month prior to the launch. If you want to write three times a week, remember consistency is what matters. For a blog create 9-12 posts, two or three for each week of that launch month. Create your posts and schedule them as drafts before you launch a website. For other sites, create at least 15-20 examples of what you are hoping to do, long-term.

I could count on one hand the number of people who have actually gone through with this. Most find they have a couple of good articles in them, or a couple of Facebook or Instagram reflections, not the 10–12 articles a month they’d hoped for.

Oftentimes, writers start out with big aspirations for a big project. They want to blog twice a week from now on. Or they want to write a book in a couple months. They come to the work like first-time runners who set their sights on running a marathon before they’ve tried running a mile or two. It’s true in writing as well: you must walk before you run.

To write well, you’ll first write poorly, and you’ll write a lot. Training is required. Regular rhythms of writing matter.

Let’s face it: most of the time, writing is a slog. If you don’t see great metrics on your posts, you may get discouraged. Remember this: the point of writing regularly is the discipline, not the audience. It’s what it does for you as a writer that matters over the long haul. The point isn’t to go viral (bad writing can do that) but to grow in your skill. It’s like trying to run a marathon—you can’t hit the major goal without hitting a bunch of smaller goals first. You’ll become a better writer the more you practice and try to improve your craft.

Leverage Your Learning

Nobody sets the pace for your writing. Don’t compare yourself to the more prolific person you see over there. You’ll always find someone who writes better, or more frequently, or for more people than you do. Not everyone has to fulfill the same calling in writing frequency or length. Don’t normalize one writer’s output. Some are like Alexander Hamilton (“Why do you write like you’re running out of time?”), while others make one or two contributions and yet may still change people’s lives through what they’ve put on paper.

To sum up then, if you’re an aspiring author: (1) read everything you can on the subject that interests you; (2) begin writing often, even if few are reading your work; and (3) develop a full proposal with chapter outlines, summaries, and knowledge of other books in the same field. See where your discoveries take you. Keep honing your craft and remember: writing is learning. So don’t stop.

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C. S. Lewis died on November 22, 1963, a few days short of his 65th birthday.

We tend to see Lewis’s death at a relatively young age as a tragedy, especially when considering the longer life of his older brother, Warren (Warnie), who survived him by another 10 years. But Lewis, fully aware of his failing health, didn’t see his demise in tragic terms. The last months of his life provide a model of Christian contentment in anticipation of eternal happiness.

Decline

Lewis faced challenges to his health throughout his life, but in June 1961, he experienced nephritis, which resulted in blood poisoning, and this setback kept him from teaching during the autumn term at Cambridge that year. Though he returned in the spring of 1962, he wasn’t well. To one of the students under his supervision, he wrote,

Biographer A. N. Wilson blamed Lewis’s friend, the doctor Robert Havard, for his early death, claiming he failed to treat his maladies properly. But other biographers disagree with that assessment. Aside from the dietary restrictions Havard recommended throughout the 1950s (which Lewis never followed for long), there wasn’t much else a doctor could’ve done at the time.

Lewis drank an inordinate amount of black tea, and the correlation between caffeine consumption and high blood pressure hadn’t yet been established. Now-typical treatments for an enlarged prostate weren’t developed until after his death. And though some reports were sounding the alarm about the deleterious health effects of tobacco, there was no consensus at the time.

Summer of 1963

It’s a mark of human beings, Lewis once wrote, that they’re “wise enough to see the death of their kind approaching but not wise enough to endure it.” By the summer of 1963, Lewis was wise enough to see he wouldn’t enjoy a long life. He wrote a letter to Mary Willis on June 17, appealing to the Christian’s hope. “Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave it with regret?” he asked. “There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.” He signed the letter as “a tired traveller near the journey’s end.”

Later that month, Lewis wrote Mary again, painting a picture of one’s earthly time running out:

Lewis’s health worsened over the summer. His kidneys were no longer functioning properly. Blood transfusions helped, but dialysis treatment was still uncommon back then. Alarmed at his fatigue and loss of mental concentration, he went to the hospital for evaluation on July 15. As soon as he arrived, he suffered a heart attack and fell into a coma. The next morning, he was thought to be near death, and he received extreme unction.

But Lewis surprised everyone when he woke up at 2:00 that afternoon and asked for tea. In the following weeks, he slowly recovered, though he was sometimes confused.

Maureen Blake, the daughter of Mrs. Moore and the sister of his friend Paddy, visited Lewis in the hospital. The two had known each other ever since she was a little girl, and she had lived at the Kilns for a time. They’d not seen each other since Maureen had become an heiress—a surprising turn of events due to her unexpected inheritance of the estate of Sir George Cospatrick Duff-Sutherland-Dunbar, Baron Dunbar of Hempriggs, in Caithness, Scotland.

Lewis hadn’t recognized any visitors on the day she visited, so she entered quietly and said, “Jack, it’s Maureen,” to which he replied, “No. It’s Lady Dunbar of Hempriggs.”

Stunned, Maureen said, “Oh Jack, how could you remember that?”

“On the contrary,” he said, grinning, “how could I forget a fairy tale?”

Back to the Kilns

Once discharged from the hospital, Lewis returned to the Kilns. He was forbidden from using the stairs and was thus cut off from his bedroom and study. A bed was set up in the common room, and a male nurse stayed in the Kilns for six weeks as Lewis regained some of his strength.

Lewis was clearly too weak to continue teaching. He resigned his post at Cambridge with great sadness, and when he wrote his lifelong friend, Arthur Greeves, in September, he expressed disappointment in his brother Warnie’s absence. He “has completely deserted me,” he wrote. “I suppose, drinking himself to death.” He described himself as “an invalid” but also as “quite comfortable and cheerful.” His last letter to Arthur concludes with a cry: “But oh Arthur, never to see you again! . . .”

As summer turned to fall, Lewis described himself in letters as “an extinct volcano, but quite cheerful.” He seemed surprised and perhaps a little sad to have been so close to death only to be pulled back from the brink. He connected his experience with that of Lazarus, whom he’d earlier described as the protomartyr, the man who had to die twice. Looking through Lewis’s correspondence, one finds candid acknowledgment of his pitiful health alongside continual declarations of his “cheery” and “contented” spirit.

In The Screwtape Letters, Lewis had imagined evil forces at work in keeping people from facing their frailty. “How much better for us,” writes one devil to another, “if all humans died in costly nursing homes amid doctors who lie, nurses who lie, friends who lie, as we have trained them, promising life to the dying, encouraging the belief that sickness excuses every indulgence, and even if our workers know their job, withholding all suggestion of a priest lest it should betray to the sick man his true condition.” There was no such deception with Lewis. He faced his frailty and death in a manner consistent with his principles.

Warnie returned in October, taking responsibility for his younger brother during the last weeks of his life. Friends would sometimes stop by and visit or take Lewis for a ride somewhere. On a cool and sunny day that month, his friend George Sayer drove him along the London Road, up Beacon Hill, to see the beech trees in full fall color. “I think I might have my last soak of the year,” Lewis said as he stepped out of the car. A “soak” was the term he used to describe the joy of stopping to rest and soak in the beauty of creation after walking the countryside.

The Kilns as a Waiting Room

In his last weeks of earthly life, Lewis puttered around the Kilns (“I rarely venture further afield than a stroll in the garden,” he wrote), answering letters and revisiting his personal library. “I doubt whether I can ever leave this house again,” he wrote on October 29. “What then? I’ve just re-read the Iliad and never enjoyed it more, and have enjoyed to the full some beautiful autumn weather.” The next week, he reread Charles Dickens’s Bleak House and Tennyson’s In Memoriam.

The Kilns had turned into a waiting room, a quiet refuge of refreshment as Lewis prepared to make the journey from this life to the next. He penned his last letter of spiritual direction on October 31, answering questions about the virgin birth, the glorified body of the risen Christ, atonement theories, and the wrath of God. In the days that followed, he kept up his correspondence, writing a young Kathy Kristy (later the wife of Tim Keller) twice in the weeks leading up to his death.

Last Week

Lewis’s last week of life was one of quiet activity. He met friends on November 15 at the Lamb and Flag (the pub across the street from the Eagle and Child), and Roger Lancelyn Green came to the Kilns that evening in time for dinner. Lewis was busy correcting the proofs for what became his last essay, “We Have No ‘Right to Happiness’” for the Saturday Evening Post, a remarkably prescient analysis of society’s turn toward privileging “sexual happiness” above all else.

Later that week, J. R. R. Tolkien and his son John came by for a visit, choosing not to dwell on Lewis’s failing health in favor of a conversation about Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur and the lives of trees. Lewis went to the Lamb and Flag for the last time on November 18, where he visited with Colin Hardie. Mostly, he stayed at the Kilns, awaiting his earthly departure and enjoying the company of his brother.

“The wheel had come full circle,” wrote Warnie later, harking back to those early years in which the brothers as little boys had clung to each other in sorrow, having experienced the painful loss of their mother:

On November 21, he wrote a kind and warm letter to a child, praising him for his “remarkably good letter,” thanking him for saying how much he enjoyed the Narnia books and promising to pass along a correction in one of the reprints.

November 22

Friday, November 22, 1963, followed the now-established routine. Lewis and Warnie enjoyed breakfast, dashed off a few letters to well-wishers, and then did the daily crossword puzzle.

After lunch, when Lewis fell asleep in his chair, Warnie suggested he’d be more comfortable in bed. Across the hall, the “music room” had been turned into Lewis’s bedroom now that he was no longer allowed upstairs. Warnie took him some tea at 4:00, finding him drowsy but comfortable.

At 5:30, Warnie heard a crash. Arriving in the bedroom, he found Lewis lying unconscious at the foot of the bed. “He ceased to breathe some three or four minutes later,” he wrote.

The news of Lewis’s death that afternoon was overshadowed by another event taking place at almost the same time—the assassination of John F. Kennedy in Dallas, Texas. Aldous Huxley, the author of Brave New World also died that day. This strange confluence of deaths became the backdrop for Peter Kreeft’s magnificent Between Heaven and Hell, an imaginary conversation with all three men, standing in for three divergent worldviews, on the outskirts of heaven.

Legacy of Lewis in Dying

On November 26, 1963, a funeral for Lewis was held at Holy Trinity Church, where he attended most frequently. He was buried in the churchyard. A decade later, Warnie was buried with him.

The last months of C. S. Lewis, the renowned Christian apologist and storyteller, give us a poignant picture of the hope he championed with ardor: the promise of eternal life in the arms of God.

Lewis said goodbye to his closest friends, perhaps like Reepicheep as he headed over the wave in his coracle in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader—“trying to be sad for their sakes” while “quivering with happiness.” The joy—the stab of inconsolable longing—that animated his poetry and prose was on display in how he died, in those weeks of quiet rest, as he endured his physical maladies with patience and good humor, in full faith that this earthly realm is just a prelude to the next chapter of a greater story, a new and wondrous reality suffused with the deep magic of divine love.

Further up, and further in!

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One of my heroes in the faith, John Stott, made popular the idea of “double listening.” What we need, he claimed, is a Christian mind that’s “shaped by the truths of historic, biblical Christianity and also fully immersed in the realities of the contemporary world.”

Stott framed this call for double listening within the context of a “double refusal.”

Double Refusal

First, we refuse to escape from the world. We must not become so absorbed in our Bible study that the Word never comes into contact with the world. Second, we refuse to conform to the world. We must not become so enamored with contemporary events, trends, or theories that we fail to judge the world by the Word (or, worse, start to judge the Word by the world’s standards).

This double refusal means refusing the path of escapist retreat and the path of syncretistic conformity. Stott’s vision resembles the “missionary encounter” espoused by the missionary theologian Lesslie Newbigin. Both aspects—missionary and encounter—matter. Conformity with the world will lead to encounter without the missionary edge. Retreat from the world will lead to the illusion of purity but without an encounter with those we’re called to reach.

Need for Double Listening

Stott describes double listening as the positive side to the double refusal. He writes,

We listen first to the Word, but we listen also to the world so we become aware of how best to bring the Word to the world. Stott explains,

At his best, Tim Keller was a model of double listening. Rooted in Scripture, steeped in theological reflection from his reading of the Puritans and his engagement with the wider Reformed tradition, ever-curious about trends in society, and well-versed in literature and analysis from non-Christians, Keller brought biblical truth into contact with contemporary idolatries in ways that cut to the heart. It was double listening—careful attention to the Word and curious analysis of the world in light of the Word—that made Keller so effective.

John Webster’s Crucial Reminder

If I hesitate at all when it comes to Stott’s proposal for double listening, I do so not because of Stott but out of concern for the way the phrase can be misused. Listen to the Word and to the world can easily turn, for some, into the notion that one must do extensive study of the world before knowing how to hear and apply the Word. Whereas Stott’s vision begins with the Word and then seeks to apply the Word to the world, those who talk about double listening can assume a pastor or teacher is steeped in Scripture but then focus primary time and attention on the cultural analysis. The world gets more attention.

Here’s where John Webster, in his “Discipleship and Calling” lecture, offers a crucial reminder. He’s singing Stott’s song but in a different key, reminding us that our task must always begin with and continue an emphasis on the Word, not the world. The faithful church, he writes,

If the church is as trendy and excitable as the changing culture around it, the church will lose the ability to offer something truly distinctive—a stable steadfastness that comes from gazing at Jesus. As if to immediately anticipate the other pitfall Stott’s “double refusal” seeks to avoid, Webster clarifies,

No escapist retreat here! Webster’s point is that in listening to the world, the faithful church “will not be mesmerized or overawed by what is said.” The gospel is what mesmerizes us and fills us with all.

Attending to Jesus

Webster goes on:

This is why double listening is a never-ending process. We should never think we’ve completed the task of listening to the Word so we now can engage with the world. We must always return, again and again, to the Word, because it’s there we hear the gospel. We’re ever-learning the Word, ever-listening to the voice of the Shepherd. Listening to the Word is what will reveal the truth about the world.

The world spins. The Word stands.

The world is light and fleeting. The Word is weighty and everlasting.

For double listening to work, we must give the Word not only temporal priority but our steadfast attention. We look to the world but we gaze at Jesus, so that when we do engage the world, it’s truly the Word we bring.

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Often when we talk about temptation, our minds run to certain attitudes and actions that exert a magnetic pull on our hearts. We know the experience well: what it’s like to lash out in anger, to indulge a lustful fantasy, to take pleasure in words that cut down someone else, or to dwell on a wrong done to us, nurturing and nourishing a root of bitter self-pity.

When we think of temptation, we think of sin. We think of selfish impulses. And we hope to fight sin and temptation with the truth of God’s Word in the power of the Spirit.

Overlooked Temptation

But I wonder if, in all our good and godly resistance to particular sins, we sometimes overlook a far greater and all-encompassing temptation, a deeper source of selfishness, a disposition that matters for the direction of life. This temptation lies at the heart of other transgressions, with consequences far more profound than those of individual sins or petty attitudes.

It’s the temptation of godlessness.

I’m not referring to the atheist’s refusal to acknowledge God’s existence. Nor am I referring to spiritual or religious people who deny certain biblical teachings about God. I’m talking about the temptation to elbow God out of daily life, to push him out of the center, to live without reference to our Creator. We may still nod to him, of course, but he’s secondary. We shrink the Author of life to a footnote in a story we write ourselves.

It’s fitting to name this temptation “godlessness” because, even if we don’t deny God, we can live as if he doesn’t exist. He simply isn’t relevant for most of what constitutes daily life.

Absence of God

In our secularizing society, it isn’t the presence of sin that defines our culture but the absence of God. We’ve constructed a human-centered world where God is peripheral, flitting here or there at the edges of life, waiting to be summoned as a source of therapeutic benefit or comfort in distress but otherwise safely ensconced in a different realm from our day-to-day. We let God out of the prison of personal and private religion on occasion, but always on our terms. We’re safe from his bothering us, his impinging on our freedom, his interfering with our aspirations.

This is the great temptation of life in a secular age—to live as if God doesn’t exist, or to live as if the God who’s there is who we’ve made him out to be, not who he’s revealed himself to be.

Temptation for the Christian

If you’re a Christian reading this, you may nod and think, Yes, how terrible it is that so many in our world live as if God is irrelevant! But we mustn’t shield our eyes when the spotlight turns back on us. This temptation applies to the Christian and non-Christian alike.

How often do I as a Christian live as if God were absent? How often does the all-powerful “I” crowd out the Great I Am at the center of my thoughts and aspirations? How much of our worship, our gatherings and goings, our service and ministry is done without any real thought to the presence and power of God?

The church in a secular age faces the ever-present temptation to busy ourselves in all sorts of activity in the name of a God we rarely invoke aside from the pleasantries of our normal Christian lingo. We recite the Christian creed . . . as functional secularists.

Prayerlessness

The clearest sign we’ve succumbed to the temptation of forgetting or sidelining God is prayerlessness. The absence of prayer is what exposes and unmasks our self-sufficient spirit. The absence of prayer is what proves we see the “real world” as one of power, of politics, of work and leisure, or even of ministry—that we’ve accepted a dichotomy between the spiritual realm of churchiness and the earthly rough-and-tumble.

Meanwhile, the One who is realer than real—the God who strips away our illusions of grandeur and self-dependence—is set aside. Were we to truly see our need, our dependence on the One who has called us, we would summon his presence with quiet desperation, begging that he might allow us to taste and see his goodness, to experience the freshness of his tender touch alongside the white-hot fire of his holiness.

Sidelining God

The deadliest temptation in a secular age, for the Christian and non-Christian alike, is the sidelining of God. The more we push God to the periphery, the more we take center stage. It’s our activity that matters. Our goals and aspirations. Our strategies. Our techniques. Our purposes. Our plans. We lose eternal perspective because the Eternal One plays only a supporting role. And thus the things we think are most important in life are never shown up as the nothings they are, and the One who is everything remains hidden.

The sidelining of God, as demonstrated by the absence of fervent prayer—surely this is the great temptation of our times.

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It goes without saying these days. The church should be a place of mercy and kindness in a world of constant judgment, a refuge of compassion in a world of cruelty, a source of clemency in a time of canceling. Yes to all this. It’s a mark of the church to embody a fierce commitment to welcoming sinners and exalting the Father who lavishes grace on the prodigal.

But what form should mercy take? What does mercy look like? What does it require?

In an era of expressive individualism in which the purpose of life is to find and express yourself, and in a time when we often turn to therapy to help us sort out the problems we face or look to our past and environment to better understand the sins we’ve committed, the aspiration to “be a place of mercy” or to “show compassion to sinners” is vague. Only the sinner fits into the frame. Mercy toward the sinned-against disappears. And even mercy toward the sinner gets diluted.

Sinful Split

Consider a local church where a small group leader leaves his wife for another woman in the congregation. His wife is heartbroken, his children crushed. Nothing is done in the church. There’s no response to the man’s sin. When asked, the pastor talks about the need to extend mercy toward those who mess up.

Later, the man goes through counseling and attributes his adultery to his environment growing up. He regrets the hurt he’s caused, but he doesn’t think he’s to blame. Two years go by, and the man and his new wife attend the same church, and he’s hoping to lead his small group again. The pastors in the church want to show compassion, so they celebrate the new marriage and reinstall him as a teacher.

Meanwhile, the children dealing with the aftermath of their father’s sin watch him across the aisle, an upstanding church member once again, sitting every Sunday with a woman who isn’t their mother. The woman whose life was upended sits alone. Anyone who questions the injustice of it all is told to be more compassionate—less rigid when it comes to discipline and moral standards.

In this case, Christianity has been reduced to “mercy” for the sinner, absent the corresponding call to holiness and Christlikeness. The cross that’s preached is one nobody is ever called to carry.

Dostoevsky and the Environment

Gary Saul Morson points to an essay from Fyodor Dostoevsky titled “Environment,” in which the Russian novelist opposed the idea that “mercy” means tracing all sins and crimes back to one’s environment. Blame-shifting for sin is a perennial challenge: Society is at fault for forming me this way. The wounds of my past are the reason I’ve wounded others. My wrongdoing is the result of my circumstances.

Dostoevsky described the state of Russian juries that exhibited a “mania for acquittal.” He mentions a peasant recently acquitted after brutally beating his wife in front of their daughter. The man’s humiliating treatment of his wife was sadistic. He’d starve her while leaving out bread and forbidding her to touch it. He’d hang her upside down in the house as he beat her. After enduring such ghastly torture, the woman hung herself. “Mama, why are you choking?” asked their little girl.

The jury found the peasant guilty of the crimes, yet still recommended clemency. Why? Because the poor peasant must be understood in context, as a product of his environment. It was the “backwardness, ignorance, the environment” ultimately responsible for his egregious behavior. Therefore, the jury said to show the peasant “mercy,” and his daughter was returned to him.

Dostoevsky was appalled. How could environment alone explain such behavior? After all, millions of peasants in poverty don’t treat their wives this way, he said. What kind of mercy is this?

Ennobling Mercy

Dostoevsky contrasts the jury’s clemency with Christian teaching about the nature of man. Yes, we can acknowledge and account for someone’s social environment and circumstances when considering their wrongdoing. And yes, a fuller understanding of someone’s background, or the wounds and suffering in the past, may lead us to sympathize at some level. The environment matters. But Christianity “still places a moral duty on the individual to struggle with the environment, and marks the line where the environment ends and duty begins.”

It isn’t merciful to reduce someone’s choices to their environment or upbringing. “The doctrine of the environment reduces him to an absolute nonentity,” Dostoevsky writes, “exempts him totally from every personal moral duty and from all independence, reduces him to the lowest form of slavery imaginable.” This kind of “mercy” dehumanizes the sinner, removes moral agency, and reduces one’s choices to social formation.

By contrast, Christianity—in holding people responsible for their actions—ennobles the sinner. Christianity affirms the value of human life and the reality of human freedom. Holding someone accountable is an aspect of showing mercy, of saying, You are a man and not a beast.

Takeaway for the Church Today

Self-righteousness carries a stench, and we’re right to root it out of our hearts and communities. The church is to be a place of mercy and love. The Bible’s vision of mercy and love, however, is expansive, not reductionist. We don’t pit mercy against justice, or compassion against doctrine, or grace against morality.

Christianity teaches that we’re designed by God. We have a destiny, a telos. We make choices within a moral framework designed to help us become what God has called us to be. Mercy doesn’t suspend morality. Compassion doesn’t dispense with doctrine. Kindness doesn’t attribute all our sinful acts to wounds in our past. Grace doesn’t keep us from making judgment calls.

True mercy extends forgiveness toward those who have engaged in real moral wrong. True mercy treats people as more than products of their environments. True mercy doesn’t excuse or minimize sin. True mercy ennobles us, reminding us of our glorious calling toward righteousness, while taking into account the need for compassion toward those who’ve been hurt by our sin.

Beware the mercilessness that masks itself as mercy.

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A few weeks ago, a video clip made the rounds on social media of John Piper responding to a question about a believer who says, “I’m not walking away from Jesus, but I’m done with the church,” after an experience of church hurt or failure in leadership. While not ruling out the choice of a believer to walk away from a particular congregation, Piper stressed the impossibility of thinking someone could follow Christ and leave the church altogether. “To walk away from the church is to walk away from Christ,” he said.

That this statement was controversial says something about our contemporary, individualistic context. It’s true we’ve experienced a season of rot and corruption being exposed in a number of high-profile churches, so it’s not surprising that some might conclude a personal relationship with Jesus is what matters most, to the exclusion of organizational Christianity in all its messiness. In a survey from a decade ago, a minority of self-identifying Christians claimed the church was essential to one’s faith.

Church as Mother

But if you zoom out of our contemporary Western setting, you find that Piper’s comments about following Jesus and belonging to the church are standard fare for nearly all Christians around the world today, as has been the case for nearly all of church history. Cyprian of Carthage (AD 210–58) is the one who said you cannot have God as your Father unless you have the church as your mother, a statement reiterated by the reformers, including John Calvin who pointed to the motherly terminology as a sign of “how useful, indeed how necessary” the church is for believers (Institutes 4.1.4).

We can go back even further, to the New Testament itself, to see this connection between following Christ and belonging to his people. The church is the body of Christ (Rom. 12:4–5; 1 Cor. 12:12; Eph. 1:23; Col. 1:24). It’s impossible to cling to the head of Christ without doing the same to his body.

The apostolic letters assume the first Christians were committed to each other in covenantal fellowship, and since the author of Hebrews commands believers to gather (Heb. 10:25), it’s a contradiction to claim to follow Jesus and yet disregard the apostolic instruction. An unchurched Christian, as John Stott pointed out, is “a grotesque anomaly. . . . The New Testament knows nothing of such a person.”

Disappearing Agency in Dechurching

The recent dustup over Piper’s comments on walking away from the church has helped crystallize some thoughts I’ve entertained for a couple of years now, an aspect of the discourse on dechurching that bothers me. I discussed it briefly on an episode of Reconstructing Faith with Megan Hill.

In the way we talk about dechurching, it seems like personal agency disappears. We talk as if dechurching is a phenomenon that just happens, much like a snowstorm or hurricane blowing through and leaving the landscape changed. The reality is, dechurching is the result of personal choices extended over time. Dechurching doesn’t happen to someone, as if people are passive spectators. Leaving the church is something people do.

The statistics in The Great Dechurching demonstrate that the decision to leave the church, for many, isn’t always conscious. For a good number of people who’ve dropped out of church, the process is like a slow leak in a tire, or drifting away due to a change in life circumstances, inconvenient schedules, and superficial relationships. There may never be a conscious choice to “walk away.”

Still, dechurching requires decisions. We choose to invest our time in something other than our local congregation. We put off the decision to join a local church when we move to a new town. We prioritize other activities over worship with other believers. We leave a fellowship if we experience hurt and distress there, and we choose not to look for another church where spiritual healing might be found.

Dechurching doesn’t just happen to us, as if we have no moral agency. Thinking you can pursue the Christian life on your own, apart from a local body of believers, isn’t only wrongheaded; it’s wrong. It’s disobedience to King Jesus. By removing the moral frame of dechurching, we do a disservice to believers who need to be wooed back into community.

Moral Problem of Churchlessness

I can hear the howls of protest already—as if insisting on church membership is just another way to minimize, justify, or excuse the abominable behavior of some who claim the name of Christ. Let’s be clear about the rot in the church. God will not be mocked. He will deal justly with bad shepherds who misuse his name to commit atrocities and prey on his precious flock. No sin against his people goes unnoticed.

I sympathize with those whose experience in the church has left them spiritually battered and bruised. But most of today’s dechurching is the result of our wayward hearts, not church leader scandals. The human heart tends toward sin, and when we walk down a disobedient path, we’re inclined to rationalize our direction and decisions. “Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,” the old hymn goes. Most of us haven’t borne the brunt of church scandals, at least not personally, which means if we rely on these stories as the reason for our churchlessness, it’s likely we were searching for the slightest justification to do what we wanted in the first place.

Road to Unbelief

Matthew Lee Anderson points to a letter J. R. R. Tolkien wrote his son who had written to him about his “sagging faith.” Tolkien acknowledged the church’s sins and failures and how corruption might weaken a believer’s devotion, but he warned against the temptation to find in the church’s scandals a “convenient” opportunity to “turn our eyes away from ourselves and our own fault to find a scape-goat.”

Leaning on the work of historian Philip Jenkins, who claimed it wasn’t the church’s transgressions that sped up secularism but a rapid secularization that looks for more church scandals, Anderson comments,

We think people are leaving the church today because of all the church scandals. But it’s possible we hear more about church scandals today because people seek to justify their decision to leave.

Church as Glorious and Complicated

Why is the New Testament so insistent on gathering with believers in covenant fellowship? Perhaps it’s one way we’re inoculated against the Docetist heresy that said Christ only appeared to have a body when he was actually just a spiritual being.

C. FitzSimons Allison writes,

The Christian needs the church. Working out our salvation with fear and trembling is a corporate exercise (Paul’s instruction is plural), not an individualistic pursuit (Phil. 2:12–13). We must not lose sight of worship as the most important thing we do—our duty and our joy. To gather and celebrate the risen Lord on the morning of the first day of the week is to say something about the nature of the universe, to align our hearts with the wonder at the heart of the world, to give testimony to the still-glimmering truth of King Jesus crucified and raised.

Jesus remains committed to us, no matter our many sins. Perhaps it’s our call to match today’s church scandals with a scandalously determined commitment to Christ’s people.

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In Christianity Today, Sophia Lee has written a 5,000-word essay, simultaneously inspiring and illuminating, on the migration crisis in Colombia. She describes the Simón Bolívar International Bridge from Venezuela and the thousands of migrants making their way into Colombia since 2015, and she reports on how churches have responded to the humanitarian needs at their doorstep.

Lee’s report focuses on a pastor who sensed the Lord telling him to feed the hungry and give water to the thirsty, and who did just that while also renting a bus to bring them to church. In spite of their financial hardship, the pastor and his wife followed the Lord’s prompting, and they’ve seen a thriving ministry of compassion at the border, where they meet physical needs and share the gospel.

C. René Padilla and Holistic Mission

What makes Lee’s article compelling isn’t just the firsthand stories of churches meeting the needs of neighbors in distress but also the additional context she provides. The dominant perspective on the breadth of the church’s mission among evangelicals worldwide (what’s often called holistic or integral mission, encompassing both evangelism and social ministry and justice) is due in large part to the influence of Ecuadorian theologian C. René Padilla, who argued that evangelism and social responsibility are “inseparable” and “essential” to the Christian mission.

Padilla came of age as a migrant in Colombia, and in an era of social unrest, he urged evangelicals worldwide to develop a social ethic that would neither compromise with Marxist solutions nor accept a dichotomy between “spiritual” and “earthly” mission that leaves pressing political and cultural questions unanswered.

Although the holistic understanding of the church’s mission, as expressed by the Lausanne Movement, has become dominant, tensions remain among evangelicals globally. John Stott and Billy Graham, though disagreeing at one point about what the focus should be for Lausanne, believed Christians were called to both evangelism and social action, with the priority given to evangelism.

David Hesselgrave describes this position as “restrained holism” because it attempts to preserve the traditional priority for evangelism while elevating social action. Evangelism and social action are made to be more or less equal partners, although a certain priority is reserved for evangelism.

Other analogies and words have been adopted to describe the relationship between evangelism and social work. If the right word for evangelism isn’t “priority,” then “ultimate” might be best to describe the aim for personal conversion. Or we might say evangelism is like the hub of a wheel, with the spokes representing the different ways gospel faithfulness is worked out in compassion and justice as the church engages with the world. Shift the frame in a temporal/eternal direction and you see why, in Cape Town in 2010, there was discussion at Lausanne about Christians working to alleviate all human suffering and especially eternal suffering (thereby putting weight on the need for evangelism with eternal stakes).

Maintaining Emphasis on Evangelism

The worldwide evangelical consensus on holistic mission differentiates the movement from the dichotomies and dualism of fundamentalists who, in response to the “social gospel” of modernism, gave nearly exclusive attention to Word-based evangelism and saw social ministry as a possible distraction from the church’s true mission. But the evangelical view of holistic mission also stands out from the World Council of Churches and other mission movements that eventually baptized humanitarian aid and sociopolitical agendas with Christian lingo and a quasi-universalist or inclusivist position that displaced evangelism altogether.

Yet the tension remains. At times, some evangelical churches fail to address the situation of neighbors in need, thinking their only task is to speak to spiritual maladies. To this, in the 1970s, Padilla said, “There is no place for statistics on how many souls die without Christ every minute if they do not take into account how many of those who die are victims of hunger.” Meanwhile, other evangelical churches devote themselves to ministry among the needy but eventually lose sight of proclaiming the cross and urging people to trust in Jesus and follow him.

Some thinkers wish the differentiation could be done away with altogether, with the Christian responsibility to evangelize and do works of mercy being seen as equally vital, with no distinction between obedience in meeting spiritual versus physical needs. In his essay “Evangelism and Social Responsibility: The Making a Transformational Vision,” Al Tizon laments the tendency among some evangelicals to affirm social ministry “with a caveat.” He thinks prioritizing spiritual needs or qualifying our call to meet physical needs only perpetuates a dichotomy that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

I disagree. While we should take care not to set forth a reductionist understanding of humanity by splitting up “body” and “soul,” as if the needs of one could be divorced from the other, we find biblical warrant for prioritizing the eternal over the temporal. In Jesus’s ministry, we see him meeting needs both physical and spiritual. He feeds people in the wilderness yet then delivers the Bread of Life discourse and distinguishes between the bread that perishes and the bread that lasts (John 6). We see him healing a paralytic yet then forgiving sins (Mark 2:1–12). We hear him warn about gaining the world while losing our souls (8:34–38).

We Can’t Assume Evangelism

Sophia Lee’s article is commendable in how it shows Christians meeting needs. The latter two-thirds of her report shows churches getting more involved in compassion and relief work and thus rejecting the dualistic tendency to focus only on “saving souls.” Yet most of Lee’s report covers the economic uplift for migrants and the personal sense of spiritual transformation and purpose that believers experience when they get involved in social ministry.

I’ve seen this happen before: a Christian or church that failed to serve the community well gets a vision for making a difference, discovers a newfound spiritual enthusiasm for serving in Jesus’s name, yet over time loses the earlier emphasis on calling people to personal faith. It’s as if once the holistic vision is embraced, the “saving souls” part of Christian mission gets assumed while the social ministry aspect gets attention.

This is an ongoing concern I have for evangelicals (like myself) who agree with the evangelical consensus and espouse a holistic vision of mission, even if it’s the restrained type that prioritizes evangelism. Unless we continue to give weight to gospel proclamation in our understanding of the church’s mission, we’re likely to lose our prophetic and evangelistic urgency.

Padilla was right. If we fail to meet the physical needs of neighbors in distress in favor of keeping a spiritual-only mission of gospel proclamation, we run the risk of being like the priest and the Levite who passed on the other side of the wounded man left for dead. But Padilla’s critics had a point too when they warned about the possibility—as demonstrated throughout Christian history in multiple churches and movements—of social work and action sidelining personal evangelism and urgent calls to repentance and faith.

We’ve been given a holistic mission that secures our eternity and frees us to invest in the temporal world. But we can never allow our attention to temporal compassion ministry to supplant our concern for the eternity-focused ministry of gospel proclamation.

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Across the left-right spectrum today, we find commentators chattering away about the crisis of manhood—a quest for significance and identity among men who seem lost and lonely in our strange new world. In Of Boys and Men, cultural observer Richard Reeves calls out the negative views often associated with masculinity. “The problem with men,” he writes, “is typically framed as a problem of men. . . . It is men who must be fixed, one man or boy at a time.”

Many today seem to view masculinity as a problem rather than a gift. Masculinity is a word now synonymous with descriptors like “toxic” and “problematic” instead of a glorious and courageous calling—leadership that comes from an inner sense of security and steadfastness.

Questions for Our Time

What happens in a society where markers of manhood, the passing from adolescence into adulthood, become obscured, where men stagger forward without mentors or friends?

What happens to a society that pathologizes competition, achievement, roughness, and the aggression required to protect the weak or pursue what’s good?

How does it make sense to push back against toxic expressions of masculinity without a clear picture of actual manliness, a positive vision that shatters the caricatures?

Role of the Church

In the third episode of season 2 of my podcast Reconstructing Faith, “Boys to Men, for Mission,” I point out how some churches seem to have fallen for a self-centered script of manhood, dressing up all sorts of wrongheaded, worldly notions of masculinity with Christian wrapping paper so as to make the church more attractive to men.

Meanwhile, other churches can rail so much against wrongheaded notions that they fail to offer a better vision, leaving men with the impression they’ve got to sacrifice something of their true, God-given masculinity at the door to be a faithful Christian. As if imitating Jesus makes you somehow less of a man.

The church could take a different path, giving our ailing culture a vision of a positive, glorious, biblical masculinity that’s in harmony with man’s nature. Yes, masculinity gets twisted and distorted by sin, but there’s a real and enduring good there—an aim to pursue. If the church is going to respond wisely to the challenges facing men today, we’ll need to get a better picture of what masculinity is aiming for.

Characteristics of a Holy Man

John Seel and I have sparred on different topics over the years, yet even amid disagreement, I always come away from our discussions sharpened. John has been pondering the crisis of masculinity in our society, and I found his recent article with Jeremy Schurke compelling. They’re doing constructive work as they think out loud about what it means to be a holy man.

Not everything in their list of 18 characteristics applies only to men, of course, but I appreciate their tentative proposal—their desire to paint a picture of a consecrated man of God on a mission. We’re going to need more imagination, not less, as we seek to offer a compelling vision for Christian men in the future. I’ve summed up the characteristics below.

• A Holy Man possesses wild eyes. As a citizen of another world, he takes initiative as a difference maker—unsettled, yet with an entrepreneurial drive that sees beyond what is to what can be.
• A Holy Man moves mysteriously. His pervasive dependence on God and his otherworldly orientation demonstrates he’s “set apart,” or as was said of Dallas Willard, “he lives in another time zone.”
• A Holy Man reveres the sacred everywhere. Life is an adventure of holistic not compartmentalized discipleship, with the purity of heart to “will one thing” (as Kierkegaard said).
• A Holy Man establishes rituals, disciplines, and traditions. He gives attention to daily routines and details, recognizing how habits shape his life and character.
• A Holy Man walks a spiritual pilgrimage. He trusts that his destiny as a man, joined to Jesus his King, is a story unfolding by the sovereign hand of God.
• A Holy Man abides in God. He seeks a consistent and transformative friendship with God, who provides power for the Christian life.
• A Holy Man seeks a spiritual father. He deliberately chooses close friends and a mentor—all of whom speak into his priorities and direction.
• A Holy Man fulfills a life mission. His life is an ongoing answering to God’s call, direction, and authority over him. His life mission is to uncover God’s calling and faithfully walk in it, exercising godly authority in the spheres where he has influence.
• A Holy Man leaves a legacy. He invests time, talent, and treasure in and for others, seeing his life within the larger story of God’s kingdom advancing.
• A Holy Man seeks kindred spirits. He draws close to others who call him up to his best self and spur him on as he experiences the burden and responsibility of his calling.
• A Holy Man catalyzes a tribe. He relies on others by creating a dense network of people who share in the causes that animate his life.
• A Holy Man is a savage servant. He leads by serving, putting others first, sacrificing himself, and committing his best to a team.
• A Holy Man fosters emotional intelligence. He works effectively with others through increased self-awareness, empathy, and interpersonal sensitivity.
• A Holy Man burns with the fire of a poet and walks with a limp. He ignites the imaginations of others, casting vision while being honest about his failings, leading from a place of love and suffering.
• A Holy Man is a perpetual student. He embarks on a quest for knowledge and wisdom that expand the mind and heart.
• A Holy Man takes his body seriously. He’s comfortable in his own skin—committed to taking care of his body, in pursuit of the virtue of chastity, determined to treat others with honor in a world where people are too often objectified.
• A Holy Man is consciously countercultural. He appreciates the goodness of creation and mourns the distortion of sin, and he’s willing to take a lonely, courageous stand for truth, goodness, and beauty.
• A Holy Man becomes a saint. He’s committed to a lifelong process of growth, formation, and development, being consciously set apart for God as a poet, warrior, and monk. He has a vision of becoming like Jesus by being an apprentice of Jesus—to walk in his ways and love as he loves.

This is a good start in painting a portrait of a man committed to Jesus Christ. We do well to imagine a positive vision of manhood; to appreciate and encourage men in the silent yet heavy burdens they carry; to paint a picture of fatherhood, both physically and spiritually; and to help men step into their inheritance as sons of God who carry the mantle and high calling to serve the world that Jesus gave his life for.

Men must aim at this vision: to love our neighbors and fight for their good, to love our wives self-sacrificially and without restraint, to instruct our children in the fear and admonition of the Lord, to set aside the sins that entangle us and run the race with endurance, trusting that the Lord will help us leave a legacy for those who come behind us.

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Not long ago, I was preaching a portion of Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, and because in the passage Jesus talked about eternal judgment, I did too. I didn’t patronize the congregation by tiptoeing around the uncomfortable truths that came from the lips of our Lord. If he thought it mattered to warn his listeners away from the broad path that leads to destruction, to insist we can’t serve both God and money, and to remind us that anger and lust lead to hellfire, then how could I as a follower of Jesus and a preacher of his Word do anything but pass on the message—no matter how terribly it falls on contemporary ears?

After the service, a woman visiting the church told me it was the first time in forever that she’d heard any pastor anywhere mention hell. She thanked me for saying it out loud. She almost whispered the word, as if it had lost its power due to overuse as a curse word but still remained something of a secret, a reality the faithful know is part of orthodox Christianity yet that remains a destination of which we must not speak.

All this made me wonder, How can anyone preach Jesus without mentioning judgment? How do you deal with his parables? With his constant and consistent warnings about perdition? With his either-ors and contrasts? Even if you fashion yourself a “red-letter Christian” who waves off Paul and the other apostles, you can’t miss the red letters that warn about destruction and losing your soul, images of a worm that won’t die and a fire that never goes out.

Goodbye, Satan

Closely related to the absence of hell is the disappearance of Satan. In many circles, it’s rare to hear a word about the Devil or demons or powers and principalities that wage war against God and his people. Satan has gone missing. Yes, he shows up in charismatic or Pentecostal churches, but in evangelical denominations whose ranks are increasingly affluent and educated, we squirm when we encounter what Jesus and the apostles say about the Accuser.

I know there are pastors who want to avoid the exaggerations prevalent in other faith traditions, where demons peek out behind every problem, where Satan’s influence gets overstated in ways that warp the biblical witness. Better to go the way of understatement, right? The only obstacle to this approach is the Bible. Well, not just the Bible, but also church history. And, well, our brothers and sisters in the global South. So basically, the Bible . . . and all believers before us and most believers around us.

We’re the outliers, our silence supposedly sophisticated.

Ripple Effects of Satan’s Disappearance

Here’s the problem. If you’re not talking about Satan, you’re probably not talking about sin and salvation in ways that go beyond therapeutic, secular categories of doing whatever’s good for you versus what’s bad for you.

If you never mention hell, you’re probably not sharing the gospel with any sense of urgency but just calling people to a better and more fulfilled way of life, which is basically what everyone everywhere is doing too, from the Instagram influencer to the Buddhist down the street.

If you never talk about demons, you probably don’t think often about angels either, which signals an impoverished imagination, a disenchanted view of the universe that rarely considers the spiritual and unseen realm that the Bible says is real, the ancient church affirmed, and the global church insists still matters.

What’s more, an anemic view of angels, demons, Satan, and hell puts us at a disadvantage when we fight sin, when we seek to worship God aright, and when we pursue the purity of heart by which we come to know and love God more. The loss of Satan means a change in the context of the Christian life, a transfiguration of the spiritual battlefield into a place of peacetime comfort and fulfillment.

Diminishing of Eternal Stakes

The problem with lowering the eternal stakes of Christianity is that we wind up raising the stakes on lesser matters. If we don’t accept the life-or-death urgency that Jesus and the apostles convey in their teaching, we’ll insert life-or-death urgency into other challenges, making earthly problems appear bigger than they are.

And that’s just what we see in the church in the West. When we lose a cosmic perspective, and when we stress only those aspects of life that involve “this world” and downplay the reality of future judgment, we lose the hope of eternal justice, which means earthly justice is all that’s left. Unless we achieve total justice here and now, we’ll never see it, which makes every pursuit of justice in this world a life-or-death struggle. In search of something to care deeply about, we’re enthralled by a myriad of lesser battles rather than the main war that rages on. Once we lose sight of the great drama, the earthly stakes of little dramas are raised.

Do We Sound Like Jesus?

I don’t recommend we speak about Satan, hell, angels, and demons with no self-awareness, giving little thought to how these realities might come across to people today. Contextualization matters. That’s why God gave us preachers to expound on his Word rather than just read it out loud. What’s needed is a careful explanation of what the Bible teaches, acknowledging the cultural distance while inviting people into a different way of seeing the world.

But even when we show great care and consideration, we will not remove the weirdness of it all. Nor should we try. The strangeness is what stands out.

If we’re to be heralds of Jesus who imitate and proclaim him, then we must grapple with everything he said, even the parts that make us uncomfortable today—his double offensiveness toward anyone whose self-righteousness fails to extend the grace and mercy of God or anyone whose sophistication sneers at warnings about judgment.

It’s possible for a church to be orthodox and adhere to a sound confession of faith yet fail to give weight to what the Bible emphasizes. It’s possible to check off the right doctrines yet fail to treat them with the gravity they deserve.

One of the easiest ways for the Enemy to dull the senses of believers today is for pastors to preach true things about Jesus while failing to ever sound like him.

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“Guilt has not merely lingered. It has grown, even metastasized, into an ever more powerful and pervasive element in the life of the contemporary West,” writes Wilfred McClay in his seminal essay “The Strange Persistence of Guilt.” This growth of guilt has taken place “even as the rich language formerly used to define it has withered and faded from discourse, and the means of containing its effects, let alone obtaining relief from it, have become ever more elusive.”

One might think in an increasingly secular society that when God goes away, so does guilt. But the reality is the reverse. When God goes, guilt has nowhere to go. It pools. Like a patient with internal bleeding, there may be no signs anything is amiss. But the danger remains.

Idealism and Identity Politics

As a fan of long Russian novels (Dostoevsky is my favorite, alongside Tolstoy, Turgenev, and the more recent writers Solzhenitsyn and Vodolazkin), I’ve been working my way through Gary Saul Morson’s new book Wonder Confronts Certainty: Russian Writers on the Timeless Questions and Why Their Answers Matter. This is Morson’s lifework, the capstone after decades of teaching Russian literature, hours of study and wisdom now distilled into a textbook.

Early on, Morson describes three types you often find in Russian literature: the wanderer, the idealist, and the revolutionary. His chapter on the idealist reminded me of some of the middle-aged and younger activists for social justice in the United States today.

The “disappointed idealist,” Morson writes, feels unresolved guilt for unmerited privilege. They see the world as divided up into categories of oppressed and oppressor, and while Russian literature focuses on economic and social class distinctions, today’s debates in the West focus more on race and gender. There’s an outstanding debt that must be paid if we’re to improve the conditions of “the common people,” and yet we despair when it seems nothing can be done to bring a lasting solution.

The list of things for affluent people in the West to feel guilty about is ever-growing, Wilfred McClay points out. There’s “colonialism, slavery, structural poverty, water pollution, deforestation.” No one is blameless. No one can be blameless, “for the demands on an active conscience are literally as endless as an active imagination’s ability to conjure them.” Some of today’s activism can be traced back to this weight of guilt, he writes, “the pervasive need to find innocence through moral absolution and somehow discharge one’s moral burden.” The only way to be innocent is to obtain the status of a certified victim or to identify with the victim in advocacy that will shift the moral burden of sin.

Reductionist Anthropology

The problem with overly simplistic classifications is that righteousness and unrighteousness don’t sit neatly in categories. As Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn said, after experiencing the horrors of the Gulag,

George Yancey, professor of sociology at Baylor University, sounds a similar note, reminding readers of the distinctively Christian contribution to these discussions: a biblical understanding of human dignity and depravity. Sin affects us all, and the historically oppressed can become the oppressor, if given the chance.

There Is None Righteous

Returning to Morson’s examination of Russian literature, we find a common thread among idealists: an overly idealistic vision of the common people and their innocence—a vision that runs into the rocks of reality when sinfulness and depravity show up among the groups who are supposed to be favored. Confronted by sin among the “innocent,” the idealists recoil, but instead of rethinking their unthinking support, they descend into a pit of “nauseating despair” due to their feelings of disgust toward the depravity of the favored group and toward themselves for feeling disappointed.

The end isn’t the enactment of justice but merely the ethos of justice. Guilt for unmerited privilege increases but now as the motivating factor for pursuing justice, which leads to various spiritual and social ills. Advocates and activists wind up adopting “whatever solution promises psychological relief even if it does not help—or even positively harms—the victims on whose behalf guilt is felt” (145). Morson points to Levin, the hero of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, who says at one point in the novel, “The important thing for me is to feel that I’m not guilty.” It’s not bettering the lives of poor peasants that matters most but alleviating the guilty conscience of the aristocrat.

Ugly End of Idealism

If you walk all the way down the road of disappointing idealism, wracked with guilt over unchangeable realities and intractable problems, you may experience something Dostoevsky warned about: love being transformed into its opposite.

“Those interested in motivating people to help others do not usually appreciate the danger of inducing guilt,” Morson writes. It’s a strategy that often backfires. “Contrary to what we usually assume, guilt for having injured people can make us even crueler to them” (145). Morson explains,

Guilt vs. Grace in Seeking Justice

The problem with identity politics and any appeal to justice motivated by guilt is that the diagnosis doesn’t go deep enough, and neither do the solutions. The result is guilt-driven, a guilt-inducing performance—everyone is conscripted into the great drama of being on “the right side” of this or that group. Everyone acts the part.

But performative justice only takes us so far and often leads to more problems than it solves. As Christians, we must go deeper.

Our desire for justice is rooted in our being made in the image of a God of perfect justice. We pursue justice not because we feel guilty but because we’ve been graced. We’ve awakened to the goodness of God’s creation and we’ve experienced his grace in redemption. Joy and gratitude free us to seek the good of others—their good, not our goodness. We are, in the words of Martin Luther, “both joyful and happy because of Christ in whom are so many benefits are conferred on him; and therefore it is the occupation to serve God joyfully and without thought of gain, in love that is not constrained.”

Set free from sin and guilt, we’re set free to love not the abstract “neighborhood” but real flesh-and-blood neighbors. Not “humanity” but real human beings. We pursue the benefit of others, not to assuage our guilty conscience but because we’re the beneficiaries of divine grace.

No one is merely a sinner. No one is merely a sufferer. Sin levels us. Grace lifts us.

Christianity goes beyond the disappointments of idealism and the reductionist solutions of identity politics, offering a more substantial basis for solidarity and a more enduring motivation for seeking justice in society. In a world of disappointment, our pursuit of justice should testify not to the strange persistence of guilt but to the stronger power of grace.

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It’s one of the world’s most beloved stories of courage and compassion—a Dutch family of watchmakers who joined a rescue network that shuffled more than 800 Jews through their home during the German occupation of the Netherlands in WWII. With her father, sisters, and brother, Corrie ten Boom turned the house into a refuge for the persecuted, with a secret room—a “hiding place”—constructed to shield the innocent during raids and searches.

Later betrayed and delivered into the hands of the Gestapo, the family was taken away, with Corrie spending time in the Ravensbrück concentration camp. Her father and one of her sisters perished, and her brother succumbed to tuberculosis shortly after the war.

You may be familiar with the Ten Boom family’s courage in showing compassion to those in need, inspired by their Dutch Reformed faith, and the story of their struggle for survival. The drama has been adapted into books and plays, and an award-winning film in 1975. This year, an excellent film version of a play by A. S. (Pete) Peterson was released by the Rabbit Room.

The legacy of the Ten Boom family remains a testament to courage and love, and yet there’s an often-overlooked aspect of the story that staggers the imagination: after the war, Corrie ten Boom housed Nazi collaborators who were suffering as outcasts in society.

Hiding Place Once More

During the season of severe austerity that followed the war, as grief-stricken, traumatized people began to pick up the pieces of their lives and deal with the aftermath of so much death and despair, the Ten Boom hiding place for Jews became a place of healing and forgiveness for their captors. Yes, the very home that had once been used to hide Jews on the run from their persecutors became a place of refuge and healing for collaborators with the Nazi regime.

I didn’t realize the extent of the Ten Booms’ commitment to compassion until reading The Watchmaker’s Daughter, a new biography by Larry Loftis. The book shows Corrie seeking to admit some of the collaborators into a house nearby, a place that had been set apart for victims recovering from injustice, only to find some of the patients boiling with anger, understandably, at the thought of men responsible for their distress being accepted. In response, Corrie relocated the collaborators to her old home. And so, “the home that had once been the center of underground resistance now worked to heal the very persons who had betrayed them.”

Across town in a house of healing for victims, Corrie started morning and evening worship services. She organized a system whereby doctors, psychiatrists, and nutritionists would help those still struggling. No one visited the collaborators in her home, however, until hearts softened, and the victims from the one house began to send food to collaborators in the other.

Instinct of Forgiveness

One of the most explosive evidences of the gospel’s power is when Christians extend forgiveness in unexpected ways.

Earlier this year, there were some on social media who were scandalized on hearing that the families at the Covenant School in Nashville, where a former student took multiple lives, had pooled their resources to pay for the funeral of the killer.

The actions of the Covenant families reminded me of the Amish community in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, where in 2006, a 32-year-old milkman burst into the schoolhouse and shot 10 girls, killing five of them before killing himself. As shocking as the tragedy was, the more stunning scene was that of the Amish men and women attending the funeral of the gunman, standing with his wife and children in the graveyard of their Methodist church, and later setting up a fund to take care of the killer’s widow and her kids.

In a world of selfishness and superficiality, what’s substantive stands out. And nothing is more substantive than a person who exceeds all expectations of virtue. Yet that’s what we find, consistently, in the actions of Christians steeped in their Savior’s instructions on forgiveness and reconciliation.

Forgiveness Beyond Duty

Let’s be clear. There was no biblical command for the Amish to attend the funeral of a man who had shattered their idyllic community. Neither was there an obligation for the Covenant families to cover expenses for the burial of the shooter. There was no biblical command that required Corrie ten Boom to offer her home—the same house where she’d once hid the innocent from their tormentors—to the Nazi collaborators now tormented by their guilt and shame.

And yet what’s striking about all these cases is the absence of any deliberation about the matter. Corrie ten Boom knew, as a matter of instinct, that to follow her Lord’s example of gratuitous grace, she would love her enemies beyond anyone’s expectations. These Christians did what they did not because of an external command but because of an inner compulsion, an indescribable urge to respond to evil with good.

Forgiveness That’s Edgy (and Hard)

This kind of forgiveness is edgy. There’s not a whiff of sentimental, sappy superficiality. There’s no downplaying or denying the heinousness of the atrocities committed. The evil remains evil. The dead remain dead. The grief and pain endure. The consequences are horrendous. The Nazi collaborators who received the compassion of Corrie ten Boom engaged in terrible evils. None of them “deserved” the forgiveness they found. But that’s what makes the kindness all the more compelling. Grace is nothing if not unmerited.

This kind of forgiveness is hard. However “second nature” it came to Corrie ten Boom first to hide Jews and then to make a place for their captors to experience grace, it was a struggle when she encountered one of the cruelest and most sadistic of the camp guards, a man recently converted who held out his hand and asked for forgiveness. Loftis describes the pivotal moment:

The world often recommends forgiveness because of the therapeutic benefits the person forgiving might experience. As Christians, we forgive not out of a desire for psychological relief but as a response to the forgiveness we’ve been shown. Grace comes first. Then spreads.

I’ll never think of Corrie ten Boom and The Hiding Place the same way again. In a world marred by so much evil and suffering, the edgy and transformative power of forgiveness still pierces the darkness. Loving our enemies is one of the most astounding ways a Christian says, “Jesus the King is alive.”

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In the early centuries of the church, the questions that vexed Christians and church leaders were Christological. How do we understand the divinity and humanity of Jesus of Nazareth? What does it mean to confess the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of God? The crises of the church during that era centered on getting God right—what it means to receive God’s self-revelation as Father, Son, and Spirit.

In the late medieval era, Western church controversies shifted toward salvation, how a sinner is made right with God. What must one do to be saved? What is the relationship of faith and works? Other debates surfaced during this time over the nature and number of the sacraments; the relationship of scriptural authority to church tradition and papal authority; and the definitions of assurance, justification, and sanctification.

Today we’re facing a third major crisis. This time the focus is on anthropology, the nature and destiny of humankind. What’s a human being? What does it mean to be made in God’s image? To be created male and female? Do we receive our identity and purpose or do we create identity and meaning for ourselves?

Humanity in a ‘Create Yourself’ World

In the late modern world, it’s common to see humanity as something to be crafted, a project awaiting creation. Our creatureliness gets sidelined, replaced by a “you can be anything you want” approach to life, set against the narrative backdrop of resisting outward conformity to some other standard of life. You must define yourself, goes the idea, even when it’s in opposition to whatever the past, your family, your society, or (increasingly) your biology says you are.

Meanwhile, the acids of postmodernity have eaten away at the idea that humanity has an essence, that there might be a givenness to things. Also lost is the idea that humanity has a general telos—an inherent purpose or supreme goal to which we strive.

The spread of a technocratic understanding of the world whereby we make the world we want, rather than work with and cultivate the world as it is, puts us in situations previous generations would find incomprehensible: the logic of rectifying the “injustice” of biological men not being able to give birth, or removing healthy body parts in the name of health to accommodate someone’s self-perception as disabled or belonging to a different gender.

We Believe in the Body

What does it mean to be embodied? What do our bodies signify? What does our design say about our identity and purpose?

The church that will be relevant in the days ahead will not make peace with reductionist visions of humanity that downplay the significance of the human body and eliminate a transcendent telos. As we recount the grand narrative of creation, fall, redemption, and restoration, we’ll give more attention to the implications of biblical teaching on creation and the fall. As we proclaim Christ crucified and raised for the forgiveness of sins, we’ll give more attention to the incarnation and the implications of our confessing “the resurrection of the body.”

Today’s crisis is every bit as volatile and destructive as the Gnosticism faced by the ancient church. The Gnostics claimed that what matters most about us is a divine spark, a spirit inside that one day will be released from the human body. They insisted the “real you” was imprisoned in this world of matter and the “spirit” mattered more than the body. Writers like Valentinus described the encounter with God in the heart, the reception of “secret knowledge of the divine,” as the source of truth and wisdom.

Against them stood church fathers such as Irenaeus who defended the goodness of the body. He refused to narrow the truth, to choose “spirit” over “matter,” or “soul” over “body.” Christianity holds together what Gnosticism would separate.

‘What’ and ‘Why’

As we preach and teach and catechize and disciple others in the days ahead, we’ll need to devote an extra measure of attention to the what and why of Christian teaching:

• We believe God created us male and female, in his own image, to know and love him and share his everlasting joy. The good life is found not in inventing our purpose but in bowing to God’s design and reflecting his glory.
• We believe sexuality is a God-given aspect of our embodied existence as people made in his image, male and female, ordered toward the physical and life-giving union of a man and woman in marriage. Sexuality is embodied, not imagined; physically grounded, not psychologically determined.
• We believe we are persons beloved by God, created to love God, love others, and care for the good world he has made. We become like what we love. Our identity is found not by looking within ourselves but by looking up to God.

In rising to the challenge of this present moment, it’s crucial to acknowledge how today’s anthropological challenges have already permeated the church. They’re shaping the moral perspectives of our congregations.

It won’t be enough for a church to merely affirm the right beliefs related to sexual behavior if our sexual ethic is built upon a quasi-Gnostic understanding of expressive individualism. We’ll need to explain not only to the world what we believe but to the church why we believe what we believe. This is the task before us—a momentous opportunity to dig deeper into our faith as we uphold a vision for humanity that reaches far higher than anything the world offers.

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Right now, many Christians wonder how best to respond after a season of significant crisis for the church. So much rot has been exposed—whether seen through the proliferation of false teaching or authoritarianism or moral hypocrisy. Looking back, we can see some of what previous generations of the faith have gotten wrong—the elements that need revision, adjustment, or rejection.

We can rail against the mistakes of others all day long, and yet if we know the church will still be here in 50 years, we should be asking, What will the church look like then? Next come the corresponding questions: What should it look like, and how can we build a healthier future?

If the credibility of the church has taken a beating in the last half-century, then our job for the next 50 years will be rebuilding our witness so we look more like the Jesus we’re proclaiming. We want to be a church that walks the walk and doesn’t just talk the talk.

Need for Perspective

In the season 1 finale of my podcast Reconstructing Faith, Tim Keller, in one of his last interviews, explained that one of the things lacking in the church right now is perspective. He said we need the perspective of church history and the global church to understand the moment we’re living in. This notion sums up the whole point of my podcast: to encounter the global church and the church throughout history to better interpret the moment we’re in.

If you have a good understanding of church history, you won’t be completely shocked or shaken by scandals today, because you’re familiar with the dark times the church has faced in the past. And you’ve seen how God does amazing things in seemingly hopeless times.

If you stay connected to the global church, you’ll remember that in other parts of the world—like China, Africa, and parts of the Global South—the church is exploding as we speak. We all face challenges in the faith, but (thankfully) not all our challenges are the same. Engaging with Christians in other parts of the world can help us keep our sanity amid heated debates on different issues, helping us recognize the core of the Christian faith that unites us and the spaces where we can afford to have lively and respectful disagreement.

New Season of ‘Reconstructing Faith’

In the second season of Reconstructing Faith, I’ve pulled together a line-up of incredible guests seeking to do constructive work. It’s easy these days to find those in the business of critiquing. I wanted to seek out those who are building something, helping us envision a better future.

Season 1 covered the credibility crisis facing the church today, those areas where the church has taken a reputational beating (often for reasons well deserved). The second season assumes listeners have a heart for rebuilding and reconstruction. So we’ll look at some of the obstacles, both internal and external, that the church is facing in this time of rebuilding. This season is about gaining awareness of the challenges we must face.

Going in this direction for the podcast opened the door for us to deal with challenges not directly related to church failure but regarding current cultural challenges and those on the horizon.

We’ll address institutional distrust across the board, not just within the church. We’ll talk about dechurching, examine the crisis of masculinity, and assess the secret catastrophe of pornography, both inside and outside the church. We’ll talk about gender identity controversies, discussing the need for conviction and compassion in our congregations. We’ll talk about AI, the reality of spiritual burnout, the challenges of family breakdown, and even issues related to worship, liturgy, and how denominations and church networks can cooperate in an anti-institutional age.

Season 2 is about putting on our gloves and getting busy with the task of reconstruction and rebuilding.

Our Ultimate Hope

Through all this, let’s not forget there’s no cultural exegesis or strategy podcast that can make someone trust in Jesus Christ for salvation. Every conversion is a miracle. But if we’ve seen this miracle happen for 2,000 years—as implausible as it seems for billions across the world to believe that Jesus is risen from the dead—then our hope lies in the amazing reality that people are still believing and building their lives around this truth.

My goal is to equip the church to better understand the challenges of the recent past, as well as those we’re up against today and will continue to face in the future. We’re not responsible for rebuilding every aspect of the church’s crumbling walls. But I hope listeners will walk away from Reconstructing Faith’s second season knowing what section of the wall they can restore—the specific places they can help rebuild trust and credibility. We can’t do everything, but we can all do something.

It’s time to get to work. Enough carping against the church from the sidelines. We get it; the church is a mess. It has always been a mess, but if it’s going to be around in 50 years—and it is—then we must ask, What is it going to look like? What role do we have in what that church will look like then?

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Most of us know the feeling at some point. We reach a level of familiarity with the Bible or we grow so accustomed to our church routine or we sing the same song so many times that we get, well, bored. We lose our interest in the things of God. We go to church, open the Bible, and send up a few words to God in the morning, but we no longer feel any real passion or sense of excitement at contemplating the realities of the Christian faith. Our senses grow dull. Our vision is dim. Our tastebuds don’t work anymore.

In a fallen world, we can count on feeling bored at some point, even in our walk with God. Ironically, the solutions to boredom provided by our phones and technology (where at any moment we can find a morsel of entertainment) can be the source of spiritual boredom, keeping us perpetually distracted from truth and substance.

Boredom often coincides with feeling jaded. Sometimes that jadedness arises from being disappointed in others. The more experience you have in church, the more likely you are to experience some kind of church hurt. The more time you spend with God’s people, the more likely you are to see hypocrisy.

Other times, the jadedness shows up when you’re frustrated with yourself. Reading the Scriptures doesn’t do anything for you. Following Jesus well feels forever out of reach. You wonder if you’re doomed to a life of spiritual failure, or at the most, an ordinary, not-exciting Christian life where you do what you’re told but no longer feel joy in your salvation.

What Boredom Is Not

We shouldn’t confuse boredom with predictability. Or comfort. Or settled rhythms. It’s unrealistic to expect or desire to experience a lightning bolt of inspiration every time we open the Bible, or to feel as fervently “on fire for Jesus” as we may have felt earlier in our Christian lives. If sanctification is “a long obedience in the same direction,” we should expect much of our growth in holiness to take place through settled patterns of life. The long-married couple whose love has endured 50 years may not gush or feel the same butterflies they felt when they first started dating, but their deep and enduring love is no less powerful.

Likewise, we shouldn’t confuse jadedness with wisdom. The older you get, the more you see. The more you see, the more you learn. The more you learn, the more discerning and wise you become. It’s a sign of health and maturity when we get a clearer picture of the world, when the rose-colored glasses come off and we no longer see the world through stained-glass naivete.

The Boredom We Should Fight

The spiritually dangerous kind of boredom shows up when we settle into extended periods without spiritual joy and satisfaction, when our cynicism becomes an excuse for other vices, such as acedia and sloth. “There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject,” wrote G. K. Chesterton, “the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person.” That’s a good reminder when it comes to both God’s world and God’s Word.

When we experience this kind of spiritual apathy, we have the opportunity to pursue a richer and better life with Christ. Our goal isn’t to feel forever like a couple “in love,” as C. S. Lewis reminds us—as if our life could be based on fleeting feelings. Our goal is the experience of something more profound: “a deep unity, maintained by the will and deliberately strengthened by habit.” That’s the way we hope to love God, pursuing a deep-rooted joy in him that helps us grow in grace and truth.

Remember Your Epiphanies

The older we get, and the more we’ve been around the block, the more likely we are to experience boredom and cynicism. In a new book on boredom, Kevin Hood Gary recommends we counter boredom by “remembering our epiphanies.” Elizabeth Corey sums up his approach:

Remembering your epiphanies means looking back at moments in the past when you’ve had a transformative educational experience, whether it was a sudden insight or practice that disrupted your normal routine, or the discovery of an ethical good or value, or a way of integrating something you learned in the classroom into your life.

Spiritual Epiphanies

How might these insights from the academy apply to the spiritual life?

We should look back at the spiritual epiphanies in our past. Tim Keller often described the moment when a familiar truth would drop from your head to your heart, leading to a renewed sense of wonder and appreciation. We can start reflecting on moments in the past when we were struck by a fresh experience of an old truth.

To ensure we don’t lose “the love [we] had at first” (Rev. 2:4), we can develop strategies and practices to help us remember past epiphanies—when our routines were disrupted by the movement of God, when we felt the thrill of first putting into practice some of the Bible’s commands, or when we felt the rush of realization at the power of biblical truth.

To keep the fires of my love for God burning, I find it helpful to put on praise and worship songs that once meant a lot to me, Christian songs I sang during the early years of my passion for Jesus. I pick up books that rocked my world the first time I read them. I peruse older Bibles filled with my marks and highlights, going back over the terrain, noticing what jumped out at me, returning to passages the Spirit of God pressed deep into my heart. I look over my journals and pictures from mission trips. I listen to sermons that gripped my heart and influenced my behavior. I catch up with brothers and sisters who have been a source of encouragement to me through the years. I confess my apathy and boredom to trusted Christians who’ll stir in me a desire for “love and good works” (Heb. 10:24–25). I return to particular places where I felt God’s presence in palpable ways.

Overcome Boredom

I’m not saying the solution to boredom is nostalgia. The solution is reawakening. We want to kindle the fire and stir the embers of the love we’ve felt before, trusting in God as the love that will not let us go.

We remember the kindness of the Lord to us in times past and yearn to sense his presence and power again. We recognize the blandness of boredom as part of this fallen world but fight to keep apathy from characterizing our walk with God. We let boredom shine a light on our disinterested hearts so that we look again to the Savior, seeking to marvel once again at his beauty and glory.

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It’s never been easier to step into the role of a would-be prophet, to stand in the long line of men and women over the ages called to “speak truth to power.” Social media has amplified the ability to speak out on any number of issues—to expose the hidden corners of injustice, to rail against the abuses of the strong against the weak, and to point out the flaws in institutions and the people who lead them.

Much of this prophetic sensibility is good. As a result of people expressing critique or concern, we’ve seen institutions and individuals move toward health. We’ve seen rot exposed and expunged. We’ve seen repentance and restitution. The ability of more people to speak out can lead to greater awareness and accountability in the church.

Heartless Prophet

But there’s always the danger of having a prophetic voice without a prophet’s heart.

When this happens, we sound less and less like Jeremiah, passing on the Lord’s command through tears (“Return, you faithless children!”) alongside the corresponding promise of mercy (“I will heal your unfaithfulness,” Jer. 3:22). Instead, we look more like Jonah—happy to rail against the culture and the coming destruction of our enemies, only to pout at the thought of God actually redeeming anyone (Jonah 4:1–3). “Jonah enjoyed preaching wrath,” Tim Keller comments. “He did it with glee, not tears, because he couldn’t wait for God’s hammer to fall on them.”

Prophet’s Heart

The prophetic impulse is an important one. Andy Crouch points out one of the central purposes of the Old Testament prophet—to unveil the true nature of power. Idolatry and injustice often grow unnoticed in the hearts of people, insidiously creeping under the cloak of righteousness and justice. When we’re most gripped by idolatry and injustice, we’re least likely to see these sins in ourselves. Our good intentions blind us, and our self-righteous self-analysis brings about some form of justification.

The prophetic word, however, can cut through this fog of idolatry by boldly proclaiming the truth of God in a way that upends and exposes the falsehoods and counterfeits. The prophet is a gift to the community of faith, a source of edification in the truth. But the apostle Paul reminds us we’re nothing if we speak truth, even hard truths, without love (1 Cor. 13:2).

Tearless Prophet

Having a prophetic voice without a prophet’s heart leads us to ground our righteousness in the stances we take, regardless of whether or not we feel compassion or love toward the people who most need the truth. Crouch recalls the example of Daniel who relayed God’s message of judgment when interpreting Nebuchadnezzar’s dream. Daniel didn’t savor the thought of this unjust king receiving his comeuppance but instead expressed hope that the dream wouldn’t be fulfilled (Dan. 4).

As our hearts grow cynical and cold, we no longer desire the good of the people who deserve critique; we take delight in their destruction. We’re more like Jonah than Jeremiah, complaining about God’s long-lasting compassion toward the undeserving. Weeping at the thought of God’s judgment seems soft and silly. And so the tenor of our online discourse reveals a heart inclined to revel in the “Woes” that thunder from our accounts while dismissing the blessing Jesus gives to those who mourn the injustice and sin of the world (Matt. 5:4).

“The truth is that there are such things as Christian tears,” wrote John Stott, “and too few of us ever weep them.” This is what we see in Jesus, whose harsh words for the leaders in Jerusalem led to his weeping over the impenitent city (Luke 19:41–44). This is what we see in the psalmist, whose cries for justice are mixed with his “streams of tears” because people fail to keep God’s law (Ps. 119:136). This is what we see in the apostle Paul, who stood unbending against false teaching while weeping over the many enemies of the cross of Christ (Phil. 3:18–19).

Prophetic Impulse as a Game

In today’s era, with the algorithms and platforms that lend themselves to outrage and attention, the prophetic impulse can lead us to a place of perpetual and unending critique. We fail to recognize the difference between the normal flaws and failures of overall good leaders who steward their authority well and the egregious sins and injustices that require a forceful and unequivocal response. Everything receives the same level of outrage.

When this happens, we walk the road of cynicism, no longer trusting that power can be stewarded properly by anyone at all (except, of course, for those with the gift of the prophet!). We’re no longer for the people or the institutions we hope to hold accountable. Instead, it’s all a game where we “one-up” each other online, excited when we’re able to “ratio” those we criticize or stir up a mob against whatever we perceive as “problematic.” We win the game when we rack up “points” as we “score” against the opposing side. We show contempt and call it candor.

Heart of Jesus in a World of Would-Be Prophets

We should be slow to step into the shoes of the prophet these days, if only to avoid the temptation of grandiosity and the insidious “rewards” that come to the prophet who performs well on the social media stage. Being provocative doesn’t make you a prophet. True prophets do more than condemn and confront; they also bring comfort and hope (Ezra 5:1).

When we do speak truth to power and when we do call out injustice in the church and in the world, we should ask faithful friends to speak truth to our own hearts, to ensure we don’t adopt the prophetic voice without the prophet’s heart.

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One year from now, should the Lord tarry, 5,000 participants from every region in the world will gather in Seoul, South Korea, for the Fourth International Congress on World Evangelization, hosted by the Lausanne Movement. (Thousands more will engage the Congress through satellite sites.)

The year 2024 will also mark the 50th anniversary of the First Lausanne Congress, which saw the release of The Lausanne Covenant, with John Stott as the chief architect. This is one of the most significant documents in modern church history, serving as a rallying cry and commitment for evangelicals around the world.

In recent weeks, I’ve been reading again through some of the documents from and following the First Lausanne Congress, and I’ve been struck by their clarity of vision and consistency of conviction—words as relevant today as they were five decades ago. No other document better sums up the heart of the worldwide evangelical movement for mission and evangelism.

The entire Covenant is worth reading, but I’ve selected 10 of my favorite quotes below.

1. ‘We affirm our belief in the one eternal God, Creator and Lord of the world, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, who governs all things according to the purpose of his will. He has been calling out from the world a people for himself, and sending his people back into the world to be his servants and his witnesses, for the extension of his kingdom, the building up of Christ’s body, and the glory of his name.’

In his commentary on the Covenant, John Stott said, “We cannot talk about mission or evangelism without first talking about God.” I love the dual image of God calling us out and sending us back, as well as the emphasis on the kingdom being extended through our work as both servants and witnesses. All for his glory! (For more on the question of the church’s identity, see my lengthy response to a critique of the church’s missional understanding.)

2. ‘Through [the Bible] the Holy Spirit still speaks today. He illumines the minds of God’s people in every culture to perceive its truth freshly through their own eyes and thus discloses to the whole Church ever more of the many-colored wisdom of God.’

After a strong affirmation of the inspiration, truthfulness, and authority of God’s Word comes this important statement about the Spirit’s work in illuminating the Scriptures, and the importance of reading the Bible alongside believers across the world, so we can see afresh and with more clarity the truth of God revealed. (I’ve gathered some examples of how our connection to the global church enhances our Bible reading.)

3. ‘To proclaim Jesus as ‘the Saviour of the world’ is not to affirm that all people are either automatically or ultimately saved, still less to affirm that all religions offer salvation in Christ. Rather it is to proclaim God’s love for a world of sinners and to invite everyone to respond to him as Saviour and Lord in the wholehearted personal commitment of repentance and faith.’

Universalism and inclusivism sever the nerve of evangelism, cutting us off from the apostles who proclaimed the exclusivity of Jesus Christ for salvation and urged us to invite everyone everywhere to turn from sin and trust in him alone. It’s the universality of the gospel that drives the universal call to salvation.

4. ‘To evangelize is to spread the good news that Jesus Christ died for our sins and was raised from the dead according to the Scriptures, and that, as the reigning Lord, he now offers the forgiveness of sins and the liberating gifts of the Spirit to all who repent and believe. . . . The results of evangelism include obedience to Christ, incorporation into his Church and responsible service in the world.’

Here is the heart of the First Lausanne Congress—a focus on the good news of Jesus that brings about both forgiveness of sins and the presence of the Spirit, resulting in personal obedience, a commitment to the church, and service to the world.

5. ‘Although reconciliation with other people is not reconciliation with God, nor is social action evangelism, nor is political liberation salvation, nevertheless we affirm that evangelism and socio-political involvement are both part of our Christian duty. For both are necessary expressions of our doctrines of God and Man, our love for our neighbour and our obedience to Jesus Christ.’

Evangelicals have long debated the priorities of evangelism, social ministry, and political action (and continue to do so). The First Lausanne Congress insisted on holding together a commitment to evangelism with the responsibility of believers to express their love for God and neighbor through social action and political involvement.

6. ‘In the Church’s mission of sacrificial service, evangelism is primary. World evangelization requires the whole Church to take the whole gospel to the whole world. The Church is at the very centre of God’s cosmic purpose and is his appointed means of spreading the gospel.’

Evangelism must be primary because of the immensity of the task, the eternal stakes in accepting or rejecting the call to salvation, and God’s intention for the church to take the gospel to the nations. (The significance and interpretation of this part of the Covenant became a point of controversy between John Stott and Billy Graham, but their debate was over the focus and direction of Lausanne more than disagreement on the relationship between the Word and mercy ministry.)

7. ‘A church which preaches the cross must itself be marked by the cross. It becomes a stumbling block to evangelism when it betrays the gospel or lacks a living faith in God, a genuine love for people, or scrupulous honesty in all things including promotion and finance.’

Here is a clarion call for the church to pursue a cruciform life of holiness. We don’t care what the world thinks merely because we want to be popular. We care what the world thinks because we want Jesus to be glorified! Lesslie Newbigin was right: “The only hermeneutic of the gospel is a congregation of men and women who believe it and live by it.” We should care about the credibility of the church, not because we want to see approval from the world but because we want to see the salvation of the world.

8. ‘We believe that we are engaged in constant spiritual warfare with the principalities and powers of evil, who are seeking to overthrow the Church and frustrate its task of world evangelization. . . . We need both watchfulness and discernment to safeguard the biblical gospel.’

The previous quote enjoined us to watch our lives. This quote emphasizes the reality of spiritual warfare, especially in the context of guarding the good deposit, watching our doctrine. Is it possible that, even among people who take the Bible seriously and believe demons to be real, we have psychologized or downplayed the unseen realm to the point of losing any sense of real spiritual warfare? I believe so, which is why we need the reminder from the global church of the spiritual forces at work against world evangelization.

9. ‘The Holy Spirit is a missionary spirit; thus evangelism should arise spontaneously from a Spirit-filled church. A church that is not a missionary church is contradicting itself and quenching the Spirit.’

Here’s Stott again: “If we have resisted the missionary dimension of the church’s life, or dismissed it as if it were dispensable, or patronized it reluctantly with a few perfunctory prayers and grudging coins, or become preoccupied with our own narrow-minded, parochial concerns, we need to repent, that is, change our mind and attitude. Do we profess to believe in God? He’s a missionary God. Do we say we are committed to Christ? He’s a missionary Christ. Do we claim to be filled with the Spirit? He’s a missionary Spirit. Do we delight in belonging to the church? It’s a missionary society. Do we hope to go heaven when we die? It’s a heaven filled with the fruits of the missionary enterprise. It is not possible to avoid these things.”

10. ‘We reject as a proud, self-confident dream the notion that people can ever build a utopia on earth. Our Christian confidence is that God will perfect his kingdom, and we look forward with eager anticipation to that day, and to the new heaven and earth in which righteousness will dwell and God will reign forever.’

As much as we might work to see people come to faith and bear the fruit of righteousness, we recognize our hope is ultimately in the promise of God to bring about his kingdom on earth as in heaven. Our vision of the kingdom isn’t the same as a utopian fantasy; we participate in the work of God, yet with chastened expectations as to the good we might accomplish, while awaiting the full consummation of his plan. This is one aspect of eschatological discipleship, and it guards against an overrealized missiology, whether it comes in the form of social justice or Christian nationalism.

The Covenant ends with this call to prayer and dedication. May this be our heart today!

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In the 2019 biopic Tolkien, there’s a moment when the young novelist, fresh from the horrors of trench warfare, talks with his father in the faith, a priest who walks with families through grief after the carnage of the Great War.

“I spend my every afternoon with mothers, widows,” the priest says. “What can I say to them? Your sons have died in the war to end all wars.”

“What do you say?” asks Tolkien.

“Words are useless,” he replies, before catching himself. “Modern words, anyway. I speak the liturgy. There’s a comfort, I think, in distance, ancient things.”

I speak the liturgy. Ancient things.

He’s referring to the powerful combination of something foreign yet familiar, something old yet fresh, a comfort that comes from relying on time-tested patterns instead of searching for a novel approach. There are moments when modern words prove useless. We need the formula. The old vocabulary.

Our Need for Repetition

For a liturgy to have power, there must be repetition. But in evangelical circles, we tend to think repetition means ritual which means stale, dry, or even dead. That’s why we feel the need to spruce things up, to liven up the atmosphere, to do whatever it takes to keep things from becoming so familiar we wind up (Lord forbid) just “going through the motions.”

Of course, there’s something right in the desire to see afresh the beauty of the faith, and there’s something noble in doing whatever we can to apply old truths in fresh ways as we seek to fulfill the Great Commission. We should be ever on the lookout for new ways to express old truths. Surely we don’t want to become the people described by Jesus—honoring God with our lips while our hearts are far from him.

But this desire for sincerity and passion can lead us to prioritize whatever is new, often at the expense of the old. And here we go too far, for repetition is one of the most formative elements of spiritual development.

In Deuteronomy 6, the children of Israel are told to commit the words of the law to memory by repeating or reciting them over and over again, all throughout the day. Repetition is part of spiritual formation. It’s likely Jesus’s disciples knew all the psalms by heart. The Didache, one of the earliest Christian documents to follow the New Testament, instructed believers to pray the Lord’s Prayer three times a day.

Repetition can lead to a cold-hearted formalism, but it can also work against it. The deeper I dive into the meaning of familiar words, the more likely my heart is to be transformed. The constant search for novelty can be a setback, like wearing a new pair of shoes every day—they may dazzle on the outside, but we stumble around in them. We don’t give ourselves time to adapt and align our hearts to the truths we profess.

When You Need Words

The day will come when all that repetition—memorizing Scriptures and reciting prayers and singing the same songs—will be a balm to your soul. Those truths you know in your head you will need more than ever in your heart.

In Prayer in the Night, Tish Harrison Warren recalls the harrowing account of a complicated miscarriage. In the hospital, with nurses scurrying around recommending a blood transfusion, Tish cried out to her husband, “Compline! I want to pray Compline!” (That’s the every-night-before-bed portion of The Book of Common Prayer.) “It isn’t normal—even for me—to loudly demand liturgical prayers in a crowded room in the midst of crisis,” Warren writes. “But in that moment, I needed it, as much as I needed the IV.”

Moments later, the familiar rhythms of Christ-centered exaltation were flowing: Keep us as the apple of your eye, Hide us under the shadow your wing. . . . Lord have mercy, Christ, have mercy, Lord, have mercy. Later, Warren reflected, “Why did I suddenly and desperately want to pray Compline underneath the fluorescent lights of a hospital room? Because I wanted to pray but couldn’t drum up words.”

This is where repetition becomes a blessing. When the world goes crazy and the roof caves in, you can slip into the familiar, well-worn grooves you’ve established through the constant repetition of Scriptures and prayers. When the well has run dry, you still find furrows in the desert, plowed through years of praying the Word deep into your heart.

No one at a funeral is looking for the pastor to deliver a creative twist on an unusual passage of Scripture. There’s a reason we go back to Psalm 23 or John 14 or Revelation 21. We need ancient salve applied to fresh wounds.

This is why I’ve come to appreciate structure in my prayer life, something that goes beyond a particular pattern to the very words I hope to plant deep in my heart. In praying through the psalms in a month, or through the life of Jesus, I feel the power of repetition—the familiar phrases and prayers, the scriptural songs, and the words of believers who have gone before me.

Need for a Worship Canon

Repetition matters for singing too. The average lifespan of a widely sung worship song is about a third of what it was 30 years ago.

Attending the memorial service for Tim Keller last month, I was encouraged by the hymns he’d chosen for the occasion and what he’d written about each song. But most meaningful was the closing song, a newer hymn but one with great resonance for the people there—“There Is a Redeemer” by Melody Green. This was the song that Redeemer Presbyterian Church sang at the end of every service during the early years of Keller’s ministry in New York City, and in that moment, with so many Redeemer members present, it was as if the whole gathering fell into a groove, the congregation slipping into the sweetness of the old rhythm, allowing the familiarity of words and melody to overtake them once more.

Today’s worship leaders would do well to look beyond the latest hits on Christian radio and develop a “canon” of time-tested hymns and songs that will be the standards we can turn to for funerals in 20 or 30 years. Every congregation needs their “go-to” songs—old hymns like “It Is Well” and newer ones like “In Christ Alone.” If we fail to sing the same songs and hymns, choosing instead to chase only whatever is most popular in a given moment, we may one day face moments of deep grief, searching for words and yet unable to find them.

Let’s not fail to appreciate the gift of repetition. Ancient words bring solace in ways modern ones will not. The well-trodden paths of prayer and Scripture, etched deep in our hearts, will sustain us when words falter, giving us a rhythm of faith and establishing a legacy for future generations.

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Justin Brierley’s new book The Surprising Rebirth of Belief in God recounts the stories of various public intellectuals, commentators, scientists, and novelists who have come to believe in God or confessed faith in Christ.

As the host of the U.K. radio show Unbelievable for more than a decade, Brierley had a front-row seat to hundreds of debates over the most contested issues facing Christianity in a secular society. He found his faith not weakened but fortified as he saw “the intellectual strength of the Christian story as it has been tested by atheists, agnostics, and people of other faiths who have appeared on the show.”

Unfortunately, both in the world and in the church, it often seems like Christianity is expected to take a back seat to philosophy or science.

Faith Is for the Unenlightened?

In the Western world, there’s the Enlightenment myth—the idea that it’s bold and courageous to set aside the silly superstitions of past eras and that the thinker “come of age” must reckon with the reality that this world is all there is. It’s immature, a bit childish, to cling to religion for comfort. Immanuel Kant’s “Dare to know!” is the rallying cry, and Bertrand Russell’s “unyielding despair” in the face of meaninglessness is the only “firm foundation” on which to build your life. If you’re smart, you’ll look reality in the face and roll your eyes at the pedantry of the peasants.

In the church, there’s the fideist myth that assumes Christianity doesn’t need to make intellectual sense for it to be emotionally satisfying. The whole point of faith, we’re told, is to take the leap, to believe what’s unbelievable. No wonder, then, that many believers water down the truth and dismiss as highfalutin the idea of a serious education in philosophy and science. We expect to run aground when we debate the scholars and intellectuals, and thus we reduce our faith to a personal, private thing that “works for us” whether or not it can be properly defended in the public sphere.

Cabin and the Castle

Believers battle feelings of inferiority, and we often feel patronized by the world. It’s as if the church’s intellectual tradition is a crumbling cabin, poorly constructed, barely able to keep out the rain. Oh, it may provide a cozy fireplace of personal warmth, but not much more—nothing we expect to prove deeply compelling to others. Meanwhile, the atheists and agnostics of our time inhabit an imposing edifice of unassailable arguments.

The reality is, we’re the ones living in a great castle, an intellectual tradition that goes all the way back to the Hebrew Scriptures, an inheritance that incorporates what’s best in the great Greek philosophers, a pattern of thought refined by the great medieval and modern theologians, a movement that has bequeathed the towering minds of Athanasius, Augustine, Anselm, and Aquinas (and those are just the As).

Why should we shrink back when secular writers say this world is all there is but still hope we’ll live as if there’s a moral order to the universe? Why accept such logical incoherence? Why narrow our minds to a reductionist philosophy that cannot allow even a speck of the supernatural lest all of naturalism be exposed as a sham?

There’s no reason to think the world’s condescension toward Christianity is deserved. Nor is there any reason to feel shy or awkward about what we believe, as if no intellectual could possibly entertain the truths propounded by Christianity. We may not be familiar with all the ancient treasures, yet still, we live in a castle, not a cabin.

Go Exploring

My daughter shared the gospel recently with a friend, and she responded well to some of the spiritual and existential questions that arose. I told her that if she gets asked a question she’s not sure how to answer, she should say she’ll look into that and reply later. I want her (and her friend) to assume there are plenty of good answers in the Christian tradition that can be found through a little study. We may need to explore an ancient corridor or rummage through one of the closets in the castle, but we’ve no reason to fall back and say something silly like “This doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what faith is for!”

Come to think of it, it’s not only in our evangelism where we need to remember we live in a castle. In a time of widespread doubt and deconstruction, we should expect young people growing up in our churches to face challenges to their faith.

What’s needed is an environment where pastors and church leaders wrestle with the big questions of life, so that when young people run up against an obstacle of some kind, they’ll say to themselves, I’m sure there are Christians in the past or in the present who have wondered the same thing, and I should seek out what they’ve said. We need a church that showcases Christianity as a castle, not a cabin, so we develop in the hearts of young believers the instinct to go exploring.

Confident Enthusiasm

To speak the truth with confidence doesn’t excuse arrogance. There’s no room here for pride. On the contrary, exploring the castle should give us a sense of awe at the riches we’ve inherited, a reverential gratitude at the glories of this treasure.

We want to be people of passion who persuade others to enter the castle, not a belligerent presence at the castle gate, shouting at our neighbors. So let’s engage the world not from a place of inferiority or embarrassment, not with dumbed-down doctrine or a compromised creed, but with confident enthusiasm and bottomless joy.

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The apostle Paul told the Colossians, “Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things” (Col. 3:2), an evergreen command for all Christians in all generations. There’s an echo there of Jesus’s rebuke to Peter, when he told him he was setting his mind not on the things of God but on the things of man (Mark 8:33; Matt. 16:23).

Set your minds, Paul says. In other words, be intentional. Seek first Christ and his kingdom.

But why is it so hard to do this?

Looking over the landscape of the church, and looking into my own heart, I can point to three reasons we’re prone to set our minds on earthly things rather than look to God, with each reason adding a layer of complexity.

1. We’re drowning in digital distraction.

This is the easiest one to spot. Everyone is addicted to their phone, it seems. More addicted than we even realize. Myself included.

As a result, we’re drowning in distraction. These technological tools trivialize our lives and make it hard to keep our minds and hearts open to the transcendent, to what God is doing in the world. Digital diversions keep us perpetually restless.

This isn’t a new problem, of course. In the 17th century, Pascal wrote, “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone”—and that was well before the constant clamor of a busy world of smartphones and their ceaseless notifications and incoming messages. If it was difficult then to avoid distraction and trivialities, how much harder is the task today.

Without serious intentionality and better habits, we’ll continue to use the phone in ways that make it harder to set our minds on anything substantive at all, much less on things above. The phone will remain a convenient mechanism that conceals and drowns out the quiet, insistent voice of God. We’ll drink from a never-ending stream of trivialities, scrolling from one item to the next, while slowly losing our capacity to feel the weightier matters of life and know the deep things of God.

Distraction, in part due to our phones—that’s the most obvious obstacle to setting our minds on things above right now. But let’s go a level deeper.

2. Our imaginations are captive to a lesser story.

Our minds are meant to be set on something, and one reason it’s hard to keep looking north is that our compass is broken. The magnets don’t work right, and instead of pointing true north, the compass is often pointing northwest or northeast—to some kind of story that isn’t the main story of our world.

We all live out of a story. We make choices informed by whatever narrative gives shape and significance to our lives. When our compass fails to point true north, we wander around, showing the world through our attitudes and actions that our attention is directed toward some other story, a narrative less important than the scriptural storyline.

For some, it’s the story of a successful career. For others, it’s the accumulation of wealth. Many live as if the most important story is political, as if we could pinpoint the center of world history in Washington, DC. More than a few live for leisure and entertainment. We want to seek first the kingdom, but it’s the American Dream that gets most of our attention. I feel the pull of all these lesser stories on a regular basis. They’re lesser because they fade in comparison to the central story of God’s redemptive plan for the world.

Whenever we live according to lesser stories, we’re likely to focus more on what’s happening nationally than globally or more on what’s happening individually than in our community. We interpret events and moments and movements from the standpoint of whatever lesser story has seized our imagination: politics, technology, personal comfort, or professional ambition. We’re less likely to view current events from the perspective of what’s happening to the church worldwide. We don’t see milestones in life from the perspective of our growth in holiness. We don’t look at cultural developments from the perspective of how they may aid or hinder Christians in our mission.

To seek what is above requires a change of attention and affection, whereby we share God’s heart for the nations and God’s love for the church. We love our neighbors best not when we live according to the lesser stories but when we stand out.

That’s why it’s essential to examine our hearts and assess the primacy of the stories that shape our lives. We should look at what dominates our thoughts when we wake up and when we go to bed, where our minds wander in moments of quiet, and how our daily actions align or don’t align with our professed beliefs.

There’s one more reason it’s hard to set our minds on things above, and this is the toughest one of all.

3. We focus our faith primarily on ‘what works.’

There’s a pragmatic impulse in society today that judges religion by the standard of “whatever works,” and no one is immune to this temptation—not even those of us who go to church. This may be the toughest obstacle we face. It’s certainly the hardest to discern.

In a society where most people assume religion exists to help you “be true to yourself” or “chase your dreams,” we can easily fall for a pseudoversion of seeking whatever is above but only insofar as the heavenly stuff helps us with the earthly. It may look like we’re seeking what’s above when we’re actually using our faith as a means to get what we want here below. Christianity becomes a means to some other end. We harness the heavens for earthly aims.

How can church leaders identify this pragmatic impulse and counter it? Some pastors believe the answer is “God-centered preaching.” That’s certainly part of the solution. But in too many cases, those who want to be God-centered don’t do enough to show how God’s Word connects with daily concerns and pressing issues.

It’s possible for our preaching to sound like it’s from another planet—a 40-minute stream of gibberish that fails to connect with questions from below in a way that might reset the compass and reorient our lives. It’s not a question of “God-centeredness” versus “practicality.” That’s a false dichotomy. What we need is the relentless pursuit of both: God-centered application to all of life.

If we’re to truly seek what’s above, we must bust through the immanent frame that holds us only to earthly horizons, and truly encounter God. To know the God of the Bible, to truly experience him, means having a relationship with Someone whose Word will impinge upon our daily thoughts and activities. We need God’s Word and God’s people to help us set our minds on things above. Our desire is not to use God for our personal agenda but to worship the God who sets us on the path of his kingdom purposes.

I’m sure there are other obstacles to setting our minds on things above. But at a minimum, it’ll require resisting digital distractions, examining ourselves to make sure we’re not held captive by lesser stories, and encountering the God whose power overcomes our pragmatism.

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When the COVID-19 lockdowns went into effect across the world in March 2020, pastors and church leaders pivoted quickly to live streaming and video as a way of keeping the lines of communication and connection open. Twenty-two percent of churches did a live stream before the pandemic; within weeks, the number had jumped to 66 percent, with 92 percent of Protestant pastors providing some kind of video sermon or worship service during the stay-at-home season.

On the other side of the pandemic, the number of churches live streaming their worship services has grown, and even though there have been some thoughtful calls to stop doing so, I suspect the practice is here to stay. (A new Pew Research survey offers an interesting look at churchgoer perspectives on live streaming.)

Larger churches have gotten especially good at presenting a cohesive and engaging broadcast of their services, rivaling the shiny Sunday morning television broadcasts from a generation ago. As any church with a television or radio ministry will tell you, a professionally packaged experience can extend the reach of a local congregation and the influence of Bible preachers and teachers.

The Supplement Is Not a Substitute

But there’s a downside to this boom in online worship services. We’re vulnerable to a cultural malady ailing Americans today: “substitutism.” That’s a term from Joshua Mitchell’s American Awakening. It’s a label that describes our perpetual quest for easy alternatives and shortcuts. It refers to our tendency to make a supplement a substitute.

In his book, Mitchell never discusses online church or live streaming worship services. He sees “substitutism” at work in other areas, such as social media and friendship. Take a look at his diagnosis of substitutism in these areas, and then I’ll apply these insights to worship.

At its best, social media enhances real-life relationships. Mitchell writes,

In other words, friendship is the real thing. Social media is a supplement. The only reason social media gives you the feeling of friendship is because you already know what real friendship is. (And that’s why we recognize something has gone awry when someone’s “friends” are online only.)

Vitamins can supplement our diet, Mitchell says, providing essential nutrients that go alongside regular meals. But people don’t live on vitamins alone. The supplements enhance the meal, but it’s the meal that matters most. The meal makes up the core; the vitamins assist.

Imagine the skilled warrior filled with courage. Give him some weapons, and they’ll enhance his fighting capacity and increase his passion for victory. But weapons don’t make the man a warrior. They don’t give him courage. Give the same weapons to someone untrained, or someone cowardly, and they won’t make a difference at all.

Shortcuts That Shrink Our Capabilities

This is the problem. Over time, the more we substitute supplements for the real thing, the more likely we are to lose the “competencies” that gave us something genuinely good in the first place. And so, Mitchell cautions us,

When the vitamin becomes a substitute for the meal, over time we lose our competency in cooking great food and spreading out a feast. When social media becomes a substitute for real-life friendships instead of merely a supplement, we eventually lose the ability to cultivate close friendships in person.

Ever wonder why the rates of loneliness have increased in the age of social media, in a time when people are “connected” to more “friends” on social media than ever? Because of substitutism. We’re so enthralled by the supplement that we’ve lost sight of the meal. As time goes on, we’re no longer able to cultivate rich and deep friendships based in virtue and love. We don’t even know what those look like anymore.

This is why we must never think an online worship service or watching a sermon on television is a genuine substitute for the physical gathering of believers in covenantal community. Yes, we can be grateful for the supplement of online worship—when we’re sick and can’t attend or if we’re out of town—but we draw benefit only because we know the real thing. Tuning in online gives us a taste of the genuine experience. It’s a supplement to the meal.

Allure of Shortcuts

The allure of shortcuts is an ever-present temptation, in matters of faith just as in other spheres of life. Friendship is hard. Church life is difficult. To cultivate a rich and meaningful life with God takes time and effort. We won’t grow in holiness and righteousness by racing to supplements designed to help us bypass the difficult labors of church life. It’s precisely in and through those labors that spiritual growth takes place.

So let me offer a hearty commendation to churches engaged in the good work of providing an excellent online experience for worshipers. But let’s remember this is a supplement. Only a supplement. If we fall for substitutism in church life, we’ll leave the next generation spiritually impoverished. And over time, no one will know how to “do church” anymore.

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“Our Image of God Must Go.”

That was the title of an essay in The Observer in March 1963, an excerpt from Honest to God by New Testament scholar John A. T. Robinson, the bishop of Woolwich in the Church of England. The book took the religious publishing world by storm, selling over a million copies, stimulating all sorts of conversations about the future of the church, and stirring up controversy and calls for Robinson’s resignation.

For a long time, I’ve heard about Honest to God. People point to the publication as an inflection point in the history of Christianity in Great Britain and in mainline Protestant circles in the United States, claiming it as either a bold step toward progress in bringing Christianity into conversation with the modern world or as a radical departure from historic Christianity that has ended in theological disaster.

In light of this influential work turning 60 this year, I found an old, discolored paperback edition, the cover barely clinging to the book, and marked up my way through the text. It’s a short proposal that casts a long shadow.

It’s Time for Something Radical

The book begins and ends with Robinson casting himself as a reluctant revolutionary. He assumes the role of a wise and reasonable church leader pressed upon by the current moment to do whatever it takes to save Christianity and stave off church decline.

What’s necessary is something far more radical than “a restating of traditional orthodoxy in modern terms” (7), he says, something that diverges from the path taken by Dorothy Sayers, C. S. Lewis, and J. B. Phillips (15). The moment demands more than mere translation of traditional Christian teaching. If the church is to avoid shrinking into “a tiny religious remnant,” we need “a much more radical recasting” whereby “the most fundamental categories of our theology—of God, of the supernatural, and of religion itself—must go into the melting” (7).

Sights on the Supernatural

Throughout the book, Robinson appeals to the work of Paul Tillich, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Rudolf Bultmann. They’re his conversation partners, the German philosopher theologians at the vanguard of a new kind of Christianity, whose proposals look most promising. The survival of Christianity is at stake, he says. “There is no time to lose” in seeking to “recapture ‘secular’ man.” The way forward is to adopt a new conception of God that, in the end, is more faithful to Christianity than the traditional formulas so often misunderstood in modern times (43).

Robinson takes issue with the God of popular imagination—the old man upstairs who intervenes in human affairs much like a doting grandfather or absent caretaker. Rather than correct these misconceptions of God with a deeper exploration of Scripture or by interrogating the therapeutic and deistic assumptions that lead to such a vision, or by challenging dualistic readings of the biblical text, Robinson sets his sights on “supernaturalism” and “the miraculous.” The church should heed the naturalist critique of supernaturalism because it exposes many of Christianity’s cherished beliefs as “an idol” we must no longer cling to. At the same time, he insists, the Christian faith has a word for thoroughgoing naturalists, lest God become little more than “a redundant name for nature or for humanity” (54).

Robinson embraces Tillich’s description of God as “the ground of our being,” claiming it to be a “great contribution” to the project of reinterpreting transcendence in a way that “preserves its reality while detaching it from the projection of supernaturalism” (56). He celebrates this move toward the abstract—away, it seems, from the covenantal faithfulness of Yahweh, seen in the gritty life of Israel. (Much more could be said about the flattening of Old and New Testament particularity here, but I digress.)

Christianity for a New Day

Robinson’s new image of God leads to a consistent redefining of traditional Christian doctrine, with both God and his works morphing into something less personal and less concrete (and if I’m honest, much less interesting).

Robinson dismisses arguments for the divinity of Christ that appeal to Jesus’s self-conception or speech, such as Lewis’s famous trilemma of Jesus being either a liar, a lunatic, or the Lord. Jesus never claimed to be God personally, he tells us, only the One who brings God completely (72). Traditional theologies of the atonement are set to the side. The kenotic theory of Christ’s incarnation is preferred. Gone are the New Testament’s frightening images of hellfire; eternal judgment gets recast for a modern age as “union-in-estrangement with the Ground of our being,” following Paul Althaus’s description of “inescapable godlessness in inescapable relationship to God” (80).

Christian morality gets altered also, with Joseph Fletcher’s “situational ethics” put forth as the only option for “a man come of age” (116–17). “Life in the Spirit” means living with “no absolutes but his love” (114), which “will find . . . its own particular way in every individual situation” (112). Actions once considered wrong or sinful (such as sex before marriage) are not necessarily so, once love becomes the standard that renders moral laws irrelevant.

Here’s the way Robinson’s proposal works. He adopts, almost without question, the assumptions of his sophisticated contemporaries but then pushes back gently at some of the more far-reaching implications of modern views. Christianity comes across less like an authority heralding the truths of divine revelation and more like a quiet conversation partner meekly lifting a hand every now and then from over in the corner, hoping to be heard. Enlightenment naturalistic views are assumed; traditional Christianity gets interrogated.

In the end, as the reluctant revolutionary, Robinson calls the church to overcome her obstinate opposition to radical change and embrace a “metamorphosis of Christian belief and practice”—a recasting that will “leave the fundamental truth of the Gospel unaffected” yet still require “everything to go into the melting—even our most cherished religious categories and moral absolutes” (124).

Successful Disaster

It’s been 60 years since this book appeared on the scene and rocked the church world. Looking over the landscape, you could interpret the results as either a stunning success or an unmitigated disaster. And there’s a sense in which both takes are true.

As far as success goes, Robinson was followed by bishops and leaders who pushed positions far more radical than his. Millions of secular and barely religious people today might shrug at Robinson’s proposal, so commonplace has his take on Christianity become. In some Protestant circles, the willingness to dispense with markers of historic Christianity is now so pervasive that controversy is stirred up not by heresy but by someone daring to insist on a moral absolute or hold to historic Christian teaching.

As far as the disaster goes, the sophisticated makeover Robinson sought to give the church has resulted in the emptying of churches at a historic rate. Ironically, the “tiny remnant” of faithful churchgoers in England today are more likely to be the Christians who still read Sayers, Lewis, and Phillips, the writers Robinson thought passé. Those who’ve followed the path of Honest to God don’t bother with church at all.

Now that postmodern waves have crashed upon modernity’s shore, many of the abstractions, assumptions, and sophistications of a 1960s English aristocracy come across as quaint. Robinson’s “recasting” looks like little more than an outdated attempt to curry favor with people who have “come of age” according to good old-fashioned Enlightenment arrogance.

Honestly out of Date

The project of liberal Christianity seems to make headway in every generation, usually through sounding an alarm about the survival of the faith or painting a dire picture that assumes only a tiny remnant will remain in church, yet always claiming the latest fad or fashion is the key to renewal. We’re told to take as our foundation the assumptions of our current cultural moment, and then remake Christianity—put it through the melting fires—into something more acceptable to the modern mind. Unfortunately, the “modern mind” is a moving target. That’s the problem with fads and fashions—they’re fleeting. They don’t last.

Honest to God isn’t just a faded paperback, its words barely clinging to some semblance of historic Christianity. The proposal in these pages is musty, while so many other books written before and around the same time still feel fresh, drawing sustenance from roots in an ancient faith.

Sixty years on, what the church needs most isn’t another proposal that interrogates Christianity from the vantage point of our contemporary sensibilities but leaders who interrogate our current moment from the vantage point of historic Christianity. And, honest to God, that’s what the world needs too.

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There’s a command in the New Testament we ought to lift up as the orienting aspiration for our lives.

It’s from the apostle Paul just before his execution, in the last of his letters. It’s given to Timothy, his son in the faith, alongside other instructions for Christian life and leadership. After encouraging Timothy to endure suffering as he runs the race, Paul—who’s suffering “to the point of being bound like a criminal”—tells his spiritual son,

In everything, no matter the circumstances or hardship, whatever cultural challenges or church problems arise, remember Jesus the King, Israel’s Messiah descended from David, the One raised from the dead.

Center of the Christian Life

This truth marks the center of the Christian life: Reigning over creation is the crucified Messiah of Israel and risen Lord of the world.

Paul’s admonition is another way of saying, Keep the gospel central, my son. Don’t lose sight of the center.

We’ll face all manner of distractions in the Christian life. In all our work and play, in all our streaming and scrolling, we can easily forget Jesus. The gospel can slip to the back of our minds. We lose sight of his lordship. We fail to grapple with the implications of his resurrection.

We’re prone to keep putting self back on the throne, imagining we’re at the center of the universe, with our family, our church, and everyone in society revolving around us like planets orbit the sun.

But the apostle Paul holds Jesus Christ before our eyes, as if to say, “Look here. Don’t stop looking. Remember. Do not forget.” This is what life is all about. This is the One who rules the cosmos. This is the One who knows you better than you know yourself, yet loves you anyway. King Jesus is the point of everything.

Center of Christian Fellowship

One of the best things we can do for our brothers and sisters in Christ in an anxious age, a time filled with angst and insecurity, a moment of deep division and disorientation, is to do what Paul did for Timothy. To point people back to Christ and his kingdom.

Stressed? Scared? Anxious? Distracted? Remember King Jesus. Take time to avert your eyes from everything else and look squarely at him. Look to his perfect life in your place. Look to his death on the cross for your sins. Look to his resurrection victory. Look to his exaltation as king. Look to his promise to come again.

In the church, we’re prone to shift the cross from the center and replace it with a cause (most likely a good one!). But if we as God’s people don’t remind each other that Jesus is the King of kings, who will? If the church herself forgets Jesus by pushing him to the periphery, who else will trumpet the good news? Unless we keep our focus on Jesus as the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, we’ll drift until we become little more than a society of social workers or a political action committee. We’ll do work in the name of One we have forgotten. Or, worse, we’ll misuse his name for our agenda, not his.

Center of Our Service

But Trevin, you may say, there’s so much that deserves our focus right now. Shouldn’t we be concerned about the direction of our country? Aren’t you deflated by the decline of the church? How can I not be preoccupied with the challenges facing my family right now? Am I supposed to just grit my teeth and ignore a season of sadness and suffering?

Remembering King Jesus does not remove us from the world we’re called to serve. It gives us the proper perspective so our actions can be most spiritually effective.

Remembering King Jesus does not deflect our attention from challenges in the church. It reminds us why there’s a church in the first place and who is her Head.

Remembering King Jesus does not resolve all the problems that arise. It gives us an orienting center from which to face our griefs and pains.

Remembering King Jesus does not diminish our concern for justice and righteousness. It fuels our activity so our motivations don’t slip into ever-common grooves of self-righteousness and contempt.

I’ve always loved the old hymn “Turn Your Eyes upon Jesus,” but the line that says “the things of earth will grow strangely dim in light of his glory and grace” is only true for some aspects of earthly existence—those temporal concerns and worries that keep us preoccupied when we lose sight of the big picture.

Most of the time, when we turn our eyes upon Jesus, the things of earth grow clearer, not dimmer. We interpret the things of earth with more insight, with wisdom from above, with a sharpness of clarity that comes from the Spirit. We put things in perspective; the outlines and edges come into sharper focus because our lens is zoomed in on Jesus the King.

The best thing we can do in the year ahead is to remember King Jesus and to remind others of his centrality as well. Consciously. Daily. Devotedly. Shai Linne reminds us of this Jesus who is

the God-glorifier,
the universe-Creator,
the prophecy-fulfiller,
the perfect law-obeyer,
the Scripture-validator,
the Father-honorer,
the humility-modeler,
the cross-carrier,
the sin-bearer,
the death-conqueror,
the grave-defeater,
the salvation-achiever,
the prayer-answerer,
the proud-humbler,
the weak-strengthener,
the elect-preserver,
the triumphant returner,
the justice-executor,
the Satan-destroyer,
the eternal joy-giver . . .

Remember King Jesus.

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Jesus—he’s the central figure of the New Testament, and his life, death, resurrection, and exaltation is the heart of the gospel. His story is foretold by the Old Testament prophets, anticipated in the Psalms, and then explained by the apostles who witnessed his work. But nowhere do we see him more clearly than in the Gospels, the four biographies that reveal his ministry on earth.

As Christians, we approach the inspired scriptural testimony not primarily as historians excavating ancient accounts but as worshipers seeking an encounter with the living Savior. We want to see him in his glory—to be dazzled by the brightness of his revelation on the Mount of Transfiguration, to sit at his feet like Mary and drink deeply from the wisdom of his infallible words.

Journeying with Jesus

A few years ago, I adapted a centuries-old approach to reading through all 150 psalms in a month, relying on a morning, midday, and evening prayer schedule. The result was a little book called Psalms in 30 Days.

This week marks the launch of Life of Jesus in 30 Days, which follows the same structure of prayer as my Psalms volume but with selections from the Gospels. The goal is to embark on a 30-day prayer journey with Jesus through the major moments and teachings of his life, his death on the cross for our sins, and his resurrection and ascension.

There’s precedent in the Scriptures for praying three times a day, and there’s spiritual blessing in deliberately punctuating your day with moments of prayer and Bible reading. This three-times-a-day approach takes you back to the life of Jesus so you lift your eyes above your current circumstances and remember that the glory of our Savior is the blazing center of all things.

Prayers of Faithful Christians

Over the years, I’ve also found the written prayers of faithful Christians who have gone before me to be a help in my prayer life. Our praying the written prayers of saints from years gone by is a lot like children trying on the shoes of their parents. We wonder if our feet will ever fit into the spiritual shoes of the giants who have gone before us. We wonder if our devotion will match the intensity and clarity we find in their words. We want hearts that are oriented in such a way that we’d ask for and desire the right things.

Praying through these Gospel selections alongside other Scriptures and other faithful expressions of faith over the years is one way of forming our hearts and minds daily.

Life of Jesus in 30 Days

This book features Gospel stories and teachings of Jesus, as translated in the Christian Standard Bible, arranged in three-times-a-day readings for 30 days. I haven’t sought to include every single story, parable, miracle, or moment recorded in the Gospels, but I’ve intentionally pulled from all four Gospel writers so you’re acquainted with each of their voices. The journey is predominantly, but not precisely, chronological.

Every prayer time begins with a call to prayer, includes the Gloria and the Lord’s Prayer, and closes with a biblical blessing.

• The morning prayer guide includes a “confession of faith” taken from Scripture, the ancient creeds, or the “Reforming Catholic Confession,” which was released in celebration of the 500th anniversary of the Reformation.
• The evening prayer guide includes a “confession of sin” and a biblical promise of absolution to all who repent.
• The morning and evening prayers also include psalms, prophecies, or songs from Scripture as well as written prayers from Christians through the ages—all of them aligning with the specific themes of the day’s Gospel readings.
• There’s also time set aside for you to intercede on behalf of others and bring your personal requests to the Lord.
• The midday prayer guide is abbreviated and focused on the reading from the Gospels, since this is the time of day when it may be more challenging to carve out 10 or 15 minutes for prayer.

Suggestions for Praying Through the Life of Jesus in 30 Days

Praying through these Gospel selections for 30 days is a spiritual workout, much like doing daily exercises. Don’t feel the pressure to make it through all the readings your first time through. If you miss a reading, you can catch up later, or you can skip it and come back to it the next month. If you get behind by a day or two, you can pick up on the day that corresponds to the day of the month, or you can proceed in order, even if it takes you more than 30 days to complete the readings.

Set the book on a desk, nightstand, or table close to your bed, where you’ll see it. Let it be a visual reminder whenever you enter the room that nudges you to spend time with the Lord. Pray the morning selection as soon as you wake up and the evening selection just before going to bed. The abbreviated midday routine is ideal for a brief pause during work, but if you miss a midday prayer time, simply add that Gospel selection to the evening prayer guide to catch up.

My prayer is that this guide will help you make this journey with Jesus a regular spiritual discipline that strengthens your love for God. “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you believe so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit” (Rom. 15:13).

Earlier this year, I read Eugene Vodolazkin’s widely acclaimed Laurus, a novel about a man in medieval Russia who is both a healer and a “holy fool” in the Russian Orthodox tradition. It’s a story filled with vivid descriptions and mystical encounters—a search for redemption that takes the reader through landscapes plagued by war and disease.

A recurring theme in Laurus is the parting of ways. In one scene, when several men take leave of each other, we’re told the moment was marked “with an especial cordiality” because there was no question “they were parting forever.” They assumed they’d never meet again on the earth. “In this lay a particularity of partings during that era,” Vodolazkin comments. “The Middle Ages rarely presented opportunities that brought people together twice during the course of an earthly life.”

Parting Ways

Parting forever.

I’ve contemplated the significance of parting ways this year, having lost a friend and colleague in January in a sudden accident. After a week of working on various projects and attending meetings, we walked out to the parking lot together, talked about future plans, and then parted ways. Neither of us knew that within a few hours or so, he’d be with his Savior. Since that day, maybe as a result of the shock and grief we’ve felt, our team has parted ways with apprehension and sadness (and we often text each other when we get home!).

Whenever someone dies, you immediately think of your last encounter—perhaps a phone call or text message, or running into them at a conference or at church. A past parting of ways grows in significance when it becomes the last. There’s finality. An end to the chapter. Not that the end is forever. The official hymn of Southern Seminary includes a line that says, “We meet to part, but part to meet,” hinting at the significance of earthly partings and pointing ahead to the day we’ll meet again in glory.

Even when it’s not death but a change in circumstances, there’s a bittersweet aspect to parting ways with someone—watching them board the plane to go overseas, or load up the U-Haul to move across the country, or stay behind after being dropped off at college. Even when you expect to meet again—just in a different way, or not as often, or under new circumstances—the parting is still powerful.

Never Completely Parting

In a later scene in Laurus, the main character embraces another and says,

This is the profundity in parting. We’re different because we met. The encounter has changed us.

This is why someone no longer with you remains close to your heart. There’s still presence in the absence, something real in the empty room. As long as you remember the person you worked with, or lived next to, or served alongside, or roomed with, there may be a physical parting of ways, but the parting is never complete. Something of them in you remains. You’re different from who you might have been otherwise.

This is what it means to encounter another living person, an image-bearer of the one true God. “There are no ordinary people,” C. S. Lewis reminds us. “You have never talked to a mere mortal.”

When we meet with another human being, when we spend time with someone made in the image of God—sitting across the table, enjoying a hot beverage, working on a project, or falling into deep conversation—we are changed. And when we part ways, we acknowledge this with the hug or the handshake: It’s good that you exist. I’m glad that you are.

A beautiful parting of ways is steeped in the ethos of the kind farewell. And whenever we part ways—no matter our frailties and fears, anxieties and questions, hopes and dreams—we give thanks for the connection, and we savor the memory, nodding at the power of presence, even in absence. Knowing that nothing good will ever fully pass away.

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In his 1896 lecture “The Will to Believe,” philosopher William James described religious beliefs as either “live” or “dead” wires.

A live hypothesis is a real possibility for someone. For example, James wrote, if he were to ask you to believe in the Mahdi, you’d probably not even know what was being asked. There’s no “electric connection with your nature.” No spark of credibility at all. It’s a dead wire for you. But if he were to ask an Arab (even if not one of the Mahdi’s followers), the possibility would be alive. “Deadness and liveness in an hypothesis are not intrinsic properties,” James said, “but relations to the individual thinker.”

The possibility of a religious belief is like a live or dead wire. “A living option is one in which both hypotheses are live ones.” For many in James’s time, the choice between being a Muslim or a theosophist was basically a “dead option,” but the choice between being “an agnostic or a Christian” was alive. (And many of his contemporaries opted for agnosticism over traditional Christianity.)

In our time, we’re witnessing the rise of secularism and a corresponding decline in the percentage of people who belong to religious organizations or claim religious faith. And so we wonder this: In the future, will calling someone to follow Jesus make about as much sense as asking the average American in 1896 if they’ll follow the Mahdi? Does secularism make Christianity a less plausible option, a “dead wire” for most people? And if so, how do we respond?

Is Christianity Still Plausible in Secular Society?

In Nothing to Be Frightened Of, Julian Barnes describes an interesting moment in the Birmingham City Art Gallery. In a glassed-in corner, there’s a small, intense painting by Petrus Christus of Christ displaying his wounds: “With outstretched forefinger and thumb he indicates where the spear went in—even invites us to measure the gash. His crown of thorns has sprouted into a gilt, spun-sugar halo of glory. Two saints, one with a lily and the other with a sword, attend him, drawing back the green velvet drapes of a strangely domestic proscenium.”

Barnes recalls a tracksuited father and his small son traveling through the gallery. As they turned the corner and the boy saw the painting, he asked, “Why’s that man holding his chest, Dad?” The father glanced back and replied, “Dunno.” The art held no significance because there was no shared understanding of Christianity or the meaning of Jesus’s death and resurrection.

Despite his atheism, Barnes can’t help but feel a sense of loss at the fading cultural memory of Christianity. And yet he views such loss as inevitable, wondering, “What will it be like when Christianity joins the list of dead religions, and is taught in universities as part of the folklore syllabus; when blasphemy becomes not legal or illegal but simply impossible?” He imagines it will be a bit like a recent visit to Athens where he marveled at Cycladic marble figurines, much like the man in the tracksuit with his son. Whatever we may appreciate about the artistry of the Cycladic figurines, their purpose was to be buried with the dead. “And what exactly—or even roughly—did they believe, the people who produced such objects?” Barnes asks. “Dunno.”

Is Christianity Becoming a Dead Wire?

Returning to William James’s analogy of dead and live wires, we may wonder, Is Christianity—traditional Christianity and its creeds and confessions and congregations and cathedrals—a plausible option for radically secular, never-churched people? Is it a “live wire,” a possibility for most people? Or is it increasingly a “dead wire”?

Asking this question gets to the root of anxiety among believers today. The reason many Christians worry about the decline of Christendom and the loss of widespread Christian values is that it seems to make evangelism and discipleship more challenging. Don’t we need Christendom if we want following Jesus to remain a live option for those outside the faith?

Complicating the question is another cultural development. The “agnostic vs. Christian” hypothesis that William James saw as a “live wire” for educated people in 1896 has been replaced by what Charles Taylor describes as the “nova effect”—an explosion of different options for belief and meaning in a secular age. It’s not just this position or that, it’s this choice among that, and that, and that, and that—a myriad of beliefs and practices, many “remixed” in some way, as pointed out by cultural observer Tara Isabella Burton, who has also chronicled the shift from “institutional” religion to “intuitional” faiths. It’s no surprise, then, that pastors and church leaders today feel as if they must not only answer the question of “Why Christianity?” but also “Why not whatever?”

In this era of religious confusion and decline, we need to remember three truths.

1. Need for Missiological Awareness

If we’re to be good missionaries, we cannot ignore our changing cultural context. If we’ve relied on aspects of cultural Christianity or Christendom in the past to smooth the way for gospel presentation, we can do so no longer.

We shouldn’t assume biblical literacy. We shouldn’t assume a favorable atmosphere for the gospel. We shouldn’t assume the methods we’ve used in the past will continue to bear fruit the same way in the future. Missionaries must adapt to conditions on the ground, and so should we.

2. Plausibility Power of the Church

Don’t underestimate the power of relationships. The church is where Easter comes alive. A renewed fellowship of people who live in relationship and follow Jesus together is indispensable in the conversation about Christianity’s plausibility.

Charles Taylor points out the power of relationships in a world with so many religious options:

Unless something happens that suddenly makes another person’s faith option seem viable. And that happens usually through relationship. He goes on,

Rodney Stark made a similar point about early Christianity. Conversion is more likely when “people have or develop stronger attachments to members of the group than they have to nonmembers.” This is still true. Both personal evangelism and corporate fellowship are vital if we’re to show the world that following Christ is a real and viable option in a radically secular world.

3. Supernatural Intervention of the Spirit

We mustn’t be so faithless as to think the gospel needs cultural Christianity to remain the power of God unto salvation. The church before Christendom wasn’t propped up by cultural Christianity, and Christians in many parts of the world today walk with God just fine with no need for cultural crutches. Yes, Christendom may be an asset to Christianity in terms of plausibility structures, making it a “live wire” in a sociological sense, but theologically, we must never assume cultural Christianity is what supplies the electricity. It’s the Spirit who makes the gospel spread like wildfire, blowing when and where he pleases.

Conversion is always impossible without supernatural intervention. Cultural Christianity may be one of the tools that God uses to smooth the path so some will understand the basics of biblical truth before being confronted with the specific claims of Christ. But God isn’t dependent on Christendom, and we shouldn’t be either. Whether we labor in fields where Christianity seems as far-fetched a possibility as becoming Zoroastrian or whether we labor in areas that still bear the fragrance of commonly held Christian values, our call to evangelism and missions remains the same—even if certain methods must change based on cultural context.

No matter what approaches we suggest or methods we use, we must not forget that in the end, the primary reason anyone believes the implausible testimony that Jesus of Nazareth walked out of his grave isn’t because of live or dead wires but because of spiritual awakening.

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In a recent conversation about the world’s most beloved fairy tales, Jonathan Pageau commented on Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and the mystical object that captures the attention of the queen: a magic mirror. “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” says the queen, expecting always to hear she’s the fairest in the land, only one day to discover there’s someone who threatens her supremacy. Jealousy then drives her hunt for Snow White.

For thousands of years, humans have imagined the power of being drawn to an object that props up one’s pride. In the story of Snow White, the looking glass serves two purposes: (1) to flatter the queen by affirming her beauty and (2) to help her keep an eye on the activity of others, so she can maintain control over her kingdom. Flattery and surveillance.

The 1937 Disney classic shows the mirror mounted on a wall. But other versions of the story show the queen looking into a handheld mirror.

Today, imagination is reality. I have a magic mirror in my pocket. And so do you.

Tell Me I’m Beautiful

Your phone is designed every day, every hour, to tell you that you’re the center of the universe. If your phone is your world, and if the settings and apps are tailored to you and your interests, then with you at all times is a world that revolves around you. No wonder we find it hard to set the phone aside. Nothing else has the same effect of putting us at the center. Nothing else makes us feel more in control, more Godlike, more knowledgeable, more connected.

The phone is like the vanity mirror, a temptation to pride. Its power is like that of the pool that captured Narcissus, who pined after the reflection of his face until it led to his destruction.

“The deeper danger of our screens,” Andy Crouch says, “is flattery. Our screens, increasingly, pay a great deal of attention to us. They assure us that someone, or at least something, cares.”

The curse of this flattery is self-imprisonment, the locking up of one’s self in the smallest chamber of the mind. Like the queen, constantly looking in the mirror and hoping to see her beauty, we lose the ability to lose ourselves in pleasures that don’t require constant self-awareness. We never find ourselves because we can’t lose ourselves.

We can’t enjoy the beauty of nature except as a backdrop for a selfie. We can’t retreat into a thought-provoking book because the phone is always there, beckoning us with distraction and flattery. We can’t piece together thoughts and express our feelings in writing or conversation because our hearts have shriveled and our minds flit from one topic to another before being drawn back to the magic mirror, like a mosquito to a lamppost.

Show Me My World

The phone doesn’t only flatter us as we construct a sense of online identity; it also, like the magic mirror in Snow White, helps us maintain constant surveillance of our social circles, our little kingdoms in which we all seek to maintain supremacy. Whether it’s the number of likes and comments on Instagram, the virality of an entertaining video on TikTok, the fist-bump of “ratio-ing” someone on Twitter, or the amassing of followers and “engagement” on Facebook—we’re all participants in a massive social experiment that casts us all as the stars of our own shows, a veritable Truman Show except that we’re in on the gag and enjoy the attention.

When your sense of flattered identity gets too tied to this kind of vigilant surveillance of your social hierarchy, you cannot help but become discouraged or depressed when someone else vies for supremacy. The vanity of the queen in the story of Snow White doesn’t stop with self-absorption; it descends into jealousy and rage. Because, after all, the magic mirror does more than tell you how fair and lovely you are—it informs you of people fairer and lovelier still.

When you scroll through posts of friends and family who always seem to be living their best lives; when you see peers whose careers have taken off in ways yours hasn’t; when you notice how colleagues seem wealthier, stronger, livelier, happier; you become aware that you’re not the greatest. The magic mirror flatters you, then flattens you.

And, just like the queen, we’re primed for a soul-destroying jealousy, a seething sense of envy in response to our feelings of deflation and discouragement—sometimes dipping into depression, often erupting into vitriol. The queen cannot celebrate the beauty of another; she must take it down.

Perhaps this is why the online world of social media is a cauldron of vices masquerading as virtues, with inordinate energy spent tearing down others. We grow increasingly incapable of celebrating the good we see in others because beauty has been reduced to a tool of competition, a zero-sum game that leaves no room for generosity of spirit. Having spent so much time gazing into our magic mirrors—having grown accustomed to constant flattery and vigilant surveillance—the deadly sin of vanity impoverishes our spirits and shrivels our souls.

Look out the Window

A growing number of sociologists, psychologists, pastors, and theologians recognize the dangers of social media and the effects of the phone, particularly for adolescents. But we’d do well to expand our concerns beyond the mental health challenges of teenagers to see how almost everyone today, no matter their age, is too tightly connected to their magic mirror. We’re more chained than we realize.

The magic mirror tells us a false story and slowly transforms us into shells of the humans God has called us to be. We like to think we’re Snow White. It’s more likely we’re the evil queen.

What’s the solution? A world of windows, not mirrors. Habits of mind and heart that lead us to look through windows to the glories of something other than ourselves and to see through the temptations and tendencies of the mirrors all around us.

Spiritual vitality involves turning away from self and toward God, the daily exercise of remembering that we were made to know and love God, that we were made to be known and loved by God, and that God (not us) is at the center of all things. We look through the windows of God’s world and God’s Word until we see the beauty of his creation and redemption. Only there will we find lasting contentment. Only there will we see how our own story finds a place in the epic he’s crafting.

There’s more magic in the world than in your mirror. The world outside our window is enchanted, if only we have eyes to see.

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If you care about the health and witness of the church, you’re likely aware of the increased attention given recently to patterns of pastoral abuse of authority. Domineering behavior in the church is not new, of course. You can see it throughout church history. Sixteen hundred years ago, Jerome wrote about prideful bishops:

I echo the concerns of many today who believe we mustn’t minimize or wave away the bullying behaviors on display in some spiritual leaders. This moment calls for greater attention to spiritual abuse, not less.

As we seek a healthier church in the future, we must move deeper into the scriptural teaching that warns about shepherds who, for one reason or another, abuse their authority, lording their power and domineering the sheep. Jesus told us the pagan rulers lord their authority over others, using high positions to act as tyrants. “But it is not so among you,” he said. “On the contrary, whoever wants to become great among you will be your servant, and whoever wants to be first among you will be a slave to all” (Mark 10:43–44).

Danger of Dilution

If, like me, you care about the people who’ve been hurt by pastors known for bullying behavior, manipulative words, and a haughty spirit, and if, like me, you want to see renewal in the area of leadership in the church today, then I appeal to you: watch out for a phenomenon taking place (largely online) that has the potential of derailing reforms in the church when it comes to matters of spiritual abuse, mistreatment, and harm.

I’m referring to the dilution of words like “toxic,” “abuse,” “hurt,” “trauma,” and “harm” in online discourse. Call it “concept creep” or “word dilution.” It’s the ever-expanding connotation of these words in ways that (ironically) diminish the stories and experiences of those who have truly been abused.

The result of concept creep is twofold: real experiences of evil are minimized and ordinary experiences of difficulty are magnified. In the end, this trend causes confusion that makes it much more difficult for real people in real churches to report real injustices.

Abuse and Ordinary Harm

To avoid this language dilution, we must distinguish between true spiritual abuse and what Myles Werntz calls “ordinary harm,” which is a “downstream effect of sin” that shows up in ongoing ways in both the church and world:

I might quibble with that definition, as I’m not sure all abuse is consciously intentional, but the point is well taken. Spiritual abuse shows up in patterns of bullying and manipulative behavior, the undermining of accountability, an unwillingness to submit to formal structures of authority, and the hardening of anger toward correction. This is one reason why Mike Kruger’s Bully Pulpit is an important book (and Kruger is careful to anticipate the problems of this dilution in language I’m noticing online).

I’m afraid today’s online discourse is making it harder, not easier, for real people facing real harm in real communities to speak up. When we apply serious words like “trauma” or “abuse” to situations of ordinary harm, we diminish the seriousness of hurt in more significant cases. We flatten the distinctions. No one is served well by such flattening.

This concept creep works against the time necessary to test a situation, leading us to rush to judgment (or to social media), and it can have a chilling effect on those who might speak up about significant harms because they see what the accusations of “abuser” and “toxic” do when leveled too quickly online. When accusations become so common that they engender a shrug, people facing significant injustice begin to think, No one will believe me and No one will take this seriously.

Word Dilution and Church Relationships

If we really care about spiritual abuse, then we must push back against the dilution of the meaning of serious words. Otherwise, we create unhelpful expectations for life together in the church and the world. Even in the church, we should expect to be hurt from time to time. After all, we’re sinners on the road of sanctification—our past sins in the process of being uprooted and our present vices being countered.

The apostle Paul’s admonition to bear with one another implies there are hurts to be borne, for love covers a multitude of sins. The need for healing within the body of Christ implies the presence of wounds. Even as we should be utterly intolerant of any form of abuse, we should expect ordinary hurts and harms to be part of our life together. In Christ, we turn from sin, and, among his people, our hurts can heal.

But what often happens online (through a well-intentioned effort to bring more attention to sins that require repentance) is the transformation of ordinary harm into “abuse,” leadership foibles into “toxicity,” the presence of discomfort into “trauma,” and verbal slights into “violence.” This approach serves as a grave injustice to real victims of real abuses, while also creating an unhealthy fragility among those who experience ordinary harm, providing a perverse incentive to find one’s identity and power and significance in victimhood. Not all harm in ministry is spiritual abuse.

Something similar takes place in the fight against racial prejudice. When words like “racism” or “white supremacy” become diluted by applying them too broadly in online discourse, often in laughable ways, the result is not a reduction of racism in real life but more shoulder shrugging among those who think the whole conversation is simply overblown. When everything and everyone is racist, no one is really racist. Throw up your hands and be done.

If you care about renewal in the area of spiritual abuse, you’ve got to be on guard against slippage in language—both in yourself and in those who turn to these words too flippantly. We’re less likely to see reforms take place if the label of “toxic” and “abuse” gets applied too broadly, because those who would be most likely allied to our cause will begin to think these concerns must be overblown. We mustn’t conflate ordinary sins and relationship trouble with true trauma and abuse, precisely because we care about ending real abuse.

Word Dilution and Injustice

In What’s Our Problem: A Self-Help Book for Societies, Tim Urban notes how the expansion of meaning given to words like “harm,” “trauma,” “racism,” and “abuse” not only increases the pool of victims but drives a corresponding hunt for villains. He writes,

He goes on: 

We shouldn’t be surprised by any of this. In his acclaimed work on the pervasiveness of sin, Cornelius Plantinga Jr. remarks how even humanity’s best intentions at reform are often muddled: “Reforms need constant reforming. Rescuers need rescue. Amendments need amendment. . . . Evil contaminates every scalpel designed to remove it.” Plantinga points out how reform movements that address one aspect of injustice can unwittingly become the purveyors of a different kind of injustice. I hope this won’t be the case when it comes to abuse reform.

If we want the church of the future to be healthier than the church of today, then we must be open to more conversations about the exercise of proper authority and what constitutes spiritual abuse. These distinctions matter. That’s why we must push back on concept creep and not take part in the dilution of serious words about serious sins.

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What will it take for the church to be renewed and the world to experience a profound move of God?

At the International Congress on World Evangelization in Lausanne, Switzerland, in 1974, Francis Schaeffer spoke on “Form and Freedom in the Church,” later included in a book of Lausanne papers. Ray Ortlund recently pointed me to this address, which nearly 50 years later remains a prescient and powerful call.

Schaeffer claimed we need two contents and two realities—four indispensable ingredients for seeing a move of God.

1. Sound Doctrine

Schaeffer began by pointing back to the essential elements of Christianity. Even while acknowledging the “borderline things” Christians will disagree upon, he insists that “Christianity is a specific body of truth” and “on the central issues there must be no compromise.” Orthodoxy is essential.

Schaeffer warns about both a conservative and a progressive path to abandoning orthodoxy. Liberal theologians begin to deny that the Bible offers any clear and hard lines at all, adopting a latitudinarian approach to all Christian belief. Evangelical theologians confuse middle-class, contextually specific standards with unchanging truth, making their own preferences or expressions of Christianity “equal to the absolutes of the Word of God.” Both result, over time, in the dissolution of orthodoxy and the destruction of the church’s witness.

Lest you think Schaeffer’s emphasis on doctrine implies a mere cognitive acceptance of Christian truth, he makes clear that “we must practice the content, practice the truth we say we believe,” demonstrating “to our own children and to the watching world that we take truth seriously.” Doctrines are something we walk in, teaching is something we abide in, and the gospel is something we obey. “Do you think for a moment we will have credibility if we say we believe the truth and yet do not practice the truth in religious matters?” Schaeffer asks.

2. Careful Contextualization

Schaeffer promotes “honest answers to honest questions,” which I’m describing as careful contextualization. It means thinking like a missionary. We’re called not only to believe the truths of Christianity but to proclaim them in such a way that they can be heard, understood, and received.

We believe sound doctrine—orthodoxy—is vital to the health of the church and that the truth must come into contact with the modern world. “If Christianity is truth as the Bible claims, it must touch every aspect of life,” Schaeffer writes, and “Christianity demands that we have enough compassion to learn the questions of our generation.” This requires listening, not just speaking. “Answering questions is hard work.”

A missionary encounter doesn’t take place when we assume faithfulness is simply reciting the creeds, reveling in our reception of sound doctrine. No, loving our neighbor requires compassion, the ability to listen carefully to the questions of a generation and then “pray and do the hard work” necessary for answering honest inquiries. Schaeffer himself, in his work at L’Abri, was a model of hospitality and generosity of spirit in the way he dialogued with those seeking truth.

3. True Spirituality

The first of Schaeffer’s two essential realities is true spirituality. “The end of the matter,” he writes, “is to be in relationship to God.” It isn’t enough for the church to believe and proclaim the right things unless our hearts are gripped by the beauty of the gospel and the power of a relationship with God.

Schaeffer is describing here a “true spirituality” summed up by “the moment by moment work of the whole Trinity in our lives.” This means our interior life is to be a deep well of wisdom, grace, and love.

No, we will not attain perfect righteousness or spirituality in this life. Schaeffer realizes that when we look back from the perspective of eternity, all our growth will appear paltry and poor. “And yet there must be some reality,” he writes. “There must be something real of the work of Christ in the moment by moment life, something real of the forgiveness of specific sin brought under the blood of Christ, something real in Christ bearing his fruit through me through the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.”

I wonder if today, with the superficial trivialities of a digital age so prevalent in our world, this kind of spiritual depth—the force that comes from realities developed in unseen and hidden practices—will stand out all the more, simply for how rare it has become. Shallow people cannot showcase gospel depth. Without true spirituality, the sound doctrine we proclaim is worthless and even destructive to the cause of Christianity. “There is nothing more ugly in all the world, and which turns people aside, than a dead orthodoxy,” he writes.

4. Relational Beauty

Schaeffer’s second essential reality is the beauty of Christianity’s effect on human relationships. The beauty of the church must adorn the truth of the gospel.

First, we’re to relate well to unbelievers. We can argue all day long against the determinism of B. F. Skinner, he says, but what’s the point if we treat the people we meet every day as “less than” really made in the image of God?

Schaeffer considers the person he may encounter for just 10 seconds or so, sharing a revolving door. “We do not think consciously in every case that this man is made in the image of God, but, having ground into our bones and into our consciousness (as well as our doctrinal statement) that he is made in the image of God, we will treat him well in those ten seconds that we have.” Even when battling our theological or cultural opponents, “we try from our side to bring our discussion into the circle of truly human relationships.”

Second, we’re to showcase the beauty of human relationships in the church. If we’re called to love our unbelieving neighbor, how much more (“Ten thousand times more!”) should we showcase “beauty in the relationships between true Bible believing Christians, something so beautiful that the world would be brought up short.”

Love for one another is the mark of Christianity, even across denominational lines. Lovelessness destroys orthodoxy. “If we do not show beauty in the way we treat each other,” Schaeffer writes, “then in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of our own children, we are destroying the truth we proclaim.” And later, he urges evangelicals to ask God for forgiveness for “the ugliness with which we have often treated each other when we are in different camps.” Perhaps this call to repentance is needed more today than 50 years ago when he issued it.

Summing Up

Schaeffer calls the church to embrace “two orthodoxies,” one of doctrine and one of community. We must be clear on the essentials of the Christian faith and be compassionate as our Savior was, filled with such love that, like the early church, no one could imagine one person being hungry while another was rich.

Two contents and two realities, Schaeffer pleaded. If we have all four, perhaps then “we will begin to see something profound happen in our generation.” May it be so today.

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John Seel, who’s a good-faith critic of my work (as I am of his), took issue with my recent column on the paradoxical nature of the church today. I made the point that the church today is both stable and in crisis, and such has been the case throughout history, reaching all the way back to the New Testament. The church in every age faces challenges, and yet the promise of ultimate victory for the church remains ever secure.

Without a firm grip on that paradox, I warned, we’ll slide into either complacency or chaos. When we focus only on the trouble the church faces, we succumb to fruitless anxiety about a battle whose outcome is secure. When we focus only on Jesus’s ultimate victory, we fail to engage the world in ways that require vigilance in this present moment.

Sociologically Wrongheaded?

In an email response, John acknowledged this paradoxical truth, but he believes my emphasis on the church’s stability to be “sociologically wrongheaded” and “psychologically imprudent.” Yes, the church has always faced crises, he wrote, but when I appeal too quickly to church history, I end up flattening and normalizing the situation currently facing the church. We’re in a truly unprecedented moment, as evidenced in the landmark work of Philip Rieff. In My Life Among the Deathworks, he writes,

If Rieff is right (and I believe he is), the church in the West is facing immediate and historically unique challenges that set us apart from the crises faced by the early church or our Reformation heroes. We’ll need the Spirit’s guidance to develop new forms and approaches. Unprecedented times need an unprecedented response. John goes on:

That’s the sociological pushback to my emphasis on the church’s stability. This crisis is bigger than those that have come before. He’s not wrong about this, and my assessment of our contemporary challenges isn’t far from his. Here’s how I described these times in my guest lectures at Oxford last fall: “We live in a world infused with Christian sensibilities now turned against traditional Christian teaching.”

A recent spate of books seek to demonstrate how Western society is pervasively Christian in its most deep-rooted assumptions. Tom Holland’s Dominion claims Christianity’s influence is so pervasive and powerful that society unwittingly borrows and invokes Christian teaching when it condemns the church for its failures. Similarly, Glen Scrivener, a minister and evangelist in the U.K., points in The Air We Breathe to seven values central to the modern outlook that come to us from the influence of Christianity.

What happens when we seek to retain a civilization that enshrines these values but without reference to their sacred origin? Os Guinness describes the situation in the West as a “cut-flower civilization.” It’s the attempt to retain and enjoy the life of a flower bloom when its source of soil, nutrients, and water has been severed. Christian values, when severed from the Christian story, begin to cause as many problems as they solve. The virtues of Christianity, isolated and separated from one another and from the story that gives them meaning and significance, shoot off in all sorts of directions that lead to civilizational conflict and chaos.

And so, yes, “unprecedented” is the right word. As Tim Keller wrote,

But this shouldn’t make us overly alarmist or anxious. Keller also wrote, “Everything is unprecedented once.” It’s true “there has never been a fast-growing revival in a post-Christian, secular society. But every great new thing is unprecedented—until it happens.”

When I say the church is in crisis yet also stable, I’m thinking of the church worldwide, not merely the church in the West. If we’re attuned only to the particular form of crisis the church in the West is facing, we may miss the bigger picture of all that’s happening around the world.

With many Asian and European countries about to experience massive demographic free fall (which has already begun in some places and may be irreversible in others), we’re likely to see a surge of worldwide religiosity and a decline (globally) of secularism in the coming decades. It remains to be seen how effective values like Americanization, materialism, and prosperity will be in the secularizing of the Global South . . . and if their birth rates and their engagement with late modernity will follow the pattern of those in the West or if religious revival will change the direction here.

Psychologically Imprudent?

John’s second critique is that by focusing on the eternal stability of the church, I’m failing to take seriously “the level of denial that is woven into the institutional fabric of the church.” Pastors and ministry leaders need to hit rock bottom, like an alcoholic, before recovery can become effective. Unfortunately, most pastors and ministry leaders haven’t made this shift. My friend likens their mindset to the hubris of the Titanic’s captain heading into iceberg-strewn waters.

Saying “the church is stable” and “the gates of hell will not prevail”—while theologically true—serves only to distract from the severity of today’s crisis. When we blame “secular culture” for the decline of the church, we miss the ways the church has failed to be salt and light or has contributed to its own decline. Repentance and honesty are required. What we see instead is overconfidence—a sign of American exceptionalism—which becomes a theologically excused form of sociological blindness. John writes,

His takeaway? We need to focus more on the crisis of the church than on the promise of stability. This isn’t the time for theological “balance.” We need to emphasize the crisis if we’re to break through “the religious inertia and self-serving theological triumphalism” that keep God’s people in psychological blindness. “We are at a pivot point for the gospel in America at this historical moment. We need to begin to act accordingly.”

Keep Your Head

I always appreciate insights and careful pushback when readers come across something of mine that seems wrongheaded. In this case, I agree with John’s caution—we could easily hear the “crisis” and “stability” language in such a way as to mask indifference or self-deception to the seriousness of the situation we face. Far be it from me to reinforce a sense of apathy or complacency.

I agree the church in the West needs repentance and reform, not triumphalism or a sense that “all is well.” This was the main reason behind my podcast on Reconstructing Faith: we should remove the rot and fortify the foundations at the same time. The dechurching we’re seeing in the West is occurring at a level we haven’t seen before.

That said, many of the most championed proposals for church renewal and reform in progressive evangelical churches would require the abandonment of orthodoxy, whether theological or moral, which hasn’t stemmed the tide of dechurching in the mainline but has seemed to only speed it up. It would be a disaster for the church—in the very moment when the world is waking up to the anthropological confusion and disillusionment left in the wake of the sexual revolution—to jump on a bandwagon already heading over a cliff.

Hopeful Reform

If the church can hold to core convictions, while finding new ways of answering the longings of people in late-modern societies, while being clear and convictional about society’s biggest lies, we’ll have the best chance at renewing the future. Looking for “new ways” is key here, and, yes, carefully thinking through ways we must repent and reform is part of what’s required of us in this moment.

Still, it’s important to stress the “stability” of the church alongside the “crisis,” not in an attempt to baptize the status quo but to help Christians keep their heads—to think wisely and missiologically. Thus we’ll be kept from falling for the common temptation of using the crisis to justify wholesale changes or departures from the faith that would horrify our forebears and cheat our descendants. New ways will be important but only alongside the ordinary means of grace—God’s people doing what we’ve always done, applying the truth of God’s Word in ever-changing situations, following Christ’s commands, and trusting in his promises.

We shouldn’t appeal to the eternal promises of God as a way of excusing temporal apathy or complacency. But neither should we appeal to a temporal crisis as a way of justifying revisionism in the name of reform. Recognizing the long-term, worldwide stability of the church is one of the ways we can keep our heads in a time when the crisis requires our most careful, biblical thinking.

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In the final session of my recent online cohort for The Keller Center for Cultural Apologetics, we discussed political and societal polarization and its evidence in the online rancor of social media. Too often, our speech isn’t seasoned with salt because of our fear of man, or our fear of insignificance, or our fear of cultural trends.

As an alternative to blaming the algorithm for our sinful responses online, I put forward a solution of better understanding our justification by faith, for only then will believers have the inner security to engage without reflexive selfishness. A deep and abiding understanding of God’s grace to us in the person and work of Christ in our place is the best source of inner rest and assurance.

Knowing we’re accepted by God (because of Christ’s performance, not ours), we don’t interpret online disagreement—even harsh words—as an attack on our identity. When we speak the truth, defend the faith, or correct someone who’s in error, we don’t do so as a way of “proving” our loyalty to one tribe or another but out of sincere concern for someone else, seeking to persuade from a place of humble conviction. Apart from a heartfelt understanding of justification by faith, I said, we’re bound to follow the world’s tribal instincts, assuming the worst of brothers and sisters in Christ, catastrophizing every controversy, proving our bona fides to whatever camp we care about most.

Justification Isn’t All

A few weeks later, I sat across the table from one of the participants in that cohort, a recent convert to Christianity, who pushed back on the idea that justification alone is where we should turn if we’re to be more Christlike online.

He agreed with everything I said about deepening our understanding of who we are in Christ and finding our rest and security in him. But justification isn’t the whole of the Christian life. Spirit-driven sanctification that flows from our union with Christ must play a role in how we call people to better online behavior. And glorification, the promise of our future selves marked by Christlike virtue eternally, also matters.

I think he’s right. If we’re to be holy (“set apart”) in how we engage online in an era of worldly polarization, we must start with justification, yes, since this goes to the heart of the heart—the transformation wrought by our regeneration. The inner security and assurance that flow from justification provide a good basis for online engagement. But simply resting in Christ, or finding our identity in him, isn’t the only source of life change in this area. We can and should call people back to the deep reality of justification, and we can and should call people forward on the journey of sanctification headed toward future glory.

In other words, as well as resting assured of God’s approval of us in Christ (thereby removing the fear of death, the fear of judgment, and the fear of losing the approval of others), we also work out our salvation in fear and trembling. We work out what God has worked in.

Justification isn’t the sole aspect of our self-understanding when we seek to engage others faithfully online. Christ tells us to follow him, to love our enemies, to pray for our opponents, to exude indescribable joy in the face of slander and insult, to return blessing for cursing and good for evil. If we’re to stand out in how we engage others online, it’ll be due to both the assurance of our status before God (we’re declared righteous because of the imputed righteousness of Christ) and the affirmation of God’s promise to renew us (we’re becoming righteous as the Spirit works in and through us).

Without a firm grasp of our justification, all our talk of sanctification sounds like little more than moralistic striving and behavior modification. But if we lose sight of sanctification, all our talk about justification sounds like little more than a past event, a new birth that casts no vision for the natural, healthy growth of an infant toward maturity.

Call to Online Christlikeness

When it comes to online discourse in a world of political and social polarization, we’ll need the self-understanding that comes from justification and sanctification working together. We should stand out not only because we rest in Christ ultimately for our righteousness and approval but also because we strive in the Spirit’s power to demonstrate true righteousness in our interactions.

We can be quick to repent when our selfish impulses get the best of us, slow to grow angry when words test our patience, and consistent in seeing the image of God in both ourselves and our opponents, while recognizing we’re in the process of being made whole—fully unique and yet more like Christ through the Spirit’s power every day.

To truly stand out in how we interact online, we don’t simply point back to our justification. We seek to demonstrate in the present the fruit of the Spirit, with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faith, gentleness, and (especially) self-control becoming the hallmarks of our attitude and actions. And we look ahead to the day we’ll be perfectly whole, forever full of Jesus—glory-given in glory-giving.

Because of our justification, we rest assured in Christ. Because of our sanctification, we strive in the Spirit. Because of our glorification, we press forward in faith. And the point of it all is to show Jesus as great.

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Last year I was invited to write an essay for the Spring 2023 edition of the Southwestern Journal of Theology, which features a number of noteworthy contributions regarding the relationship of evangelicals and Southern Baptists. This article is longer than my usual, so if you’re not a Southern Baptist but are interested primarily in the future and place of denominations, I recommend you jump forward to the third point and begin reading from there.

“What hath Wheaton to do with Nashville?”

The sentiment behind Tertullian’s famous quotation regarding Athens and Jerusalem might well have been expressed by a number of Southern Baptists in the late 1970s and early 1980s—a time of controversy in the Convention when certain evangelical leaders (whose primary geographical center was in Chicagoland) participated in a strange dance with certain Baptist leaders (whose center was in Nashville), at times aligned in partnership, at other times keeping distance, often more than arm’s length.

The controversy between Baptist and evangelical identity came into its most clear and concise form in a debate between James Leo Garrett and E. Glenn Hinson in 1982 (later published in book form),¹ a time when the SBC was embroiled in bitter controversy over the nature of the Bible. Luminaries in the evangelical movement—men like Francis Schaeffer, Harold Lindsell, and Carl Henry—offered crucial support to conservatives in the SBC who insisted on the importance of believing in the Bible’s inerrancy. Concerned about doctrinal drift in the Convention, many Southern Baptists looked outside the SBC, particularly to leaders in the north, for energy and support in their “battle for the Bible.”

It may come as a surprise to younger Baptists to hear that it was Glenn Hinson, the moderate Baptist scholar, who argued against linking Southern Baptists with the evangelical movement. Hinson saw evangelicalism as a northern phenomenon with aspects that resembled fundamentalism. Garrett saw Southern Baptists as fitting comfortably within the history of evangelicalism as a renewal movement, although he believed the Southern Baptist denominational identity was crucial and not to be underestimated.

Forty years later, critics of the evangelical movement are more likely to come from the right, not the left. Pastors and leaders concerned about the doctrinal and ethical drift of many evangelical leaders and institutions argue against linking Southern Baptist identity with the evangelical movement, sometimes for good reason. In certain cases, the church growth movement has led to a focus on pragmatism that often downplays the seriousness of Christian doctrine. In other cases, doctrinal drift has marked the once-burgeoning Emerging Church movement, or recent discussions around a post-evangelical identity or deconstruction of the faith. Some theological proposals today get labeled “progressive,” when there is little to distinguish the views from mainline Protestant liberalism.

As governmental and cultural pressures on traditional Christianity multiply, and as threats to religious liberty become more common in the future, theologically conservative evangelicals who belong to smaller denominations or are part of the rise of non-denominational churches may feel the need to hoist a flag with likeminded Christians in order to bolster the strength of their defense. New coalitions are forming. Church planting movements are multiplying. Well-established evangelical publishers and institutions are reconsidering their roles in the fast-changing landscape of evangelicalism.

The question forty years ago was this: would evangelicals be part of the renewal of the Southern Baptist Convention? The question today is: Will Southern Baptists be part of the renewal of evangelicalism?

In considering this question, we must widen the lens and take a broader look at the definition of evangelicalism, how it relates to the Southern Baptist Convention, and then consider the current context of churchgoing, identification, and the future of denominations, which I liken to houses in a neighborhood.

I. Defining Evangelical

The question of defining evangelicalism—the core features that mark this movement, as well as its boundaries—is ever-present, and the different ways of asking and answering the question lead to wildly divergent viewpoints. From a global perspective, Mark Noll can claim evangelical Christianity as “the second largest grouping of Christian believers in the world,” behind Roman Catholics, and—aside from Muslims and Hindus—bigger than all other world religions.² John Wolffe believes evangelicals make up a tenth of the world’s population, and although he acknowledges “the fluidity and individualism” of evangelicals can make it difficult to assess the strength and size of the movement today, he points back to a prehistory that extends to the early church and a more recent origin in the eighteenth century.³

British scholar David Bebbington is known best for his description of four major traits of evangelicalism (biblicism, conversionism, crucicentrism, and activism). This definition played a major role in a book released a decade ago, in which four scholars (“fundamentalist,” “confessional,” “generic,” and “post-conservative”) debated the meaning of the term and the spectrum of Christians encompassed by it.⁴ A more recent proposal comes from historian Thomas Kidd: “Evangelicals are born-again Protestants who cherish the Bible as the Word of God and who emphasize a personal relationship with Jesus Christ through the Holy Spirit. This definition hinges upon three aspects of what it means to be an evangelical: being born again, the primacy of the Bible, and the divine presence of God the Son and God the Holy Spirit.”⁵

The situation is complicated in the United States, where it is often humorously said “An evangelical is someone who likes Billy Graham and likes to debate the definition of ‘evangelical!’” The sociological definition, based either on self-identification or on denominations associated with the evangelical movement, is often contested by those who prefer a more theologically or historically informed definition.⁶ Meanwhile, some researchers have attempted to define evangelicalism by doctrinal and ecclesial commitments, discovering that many who adhere to common evangelical beliefs do not claim the label for themselves, while many who do not adhere to common evangelical beliefs wear the badge proudly, usually while going into the voting booth.

It’s the close association of evangelicals with the Religious Right that has caused confusion in recent years. The term has evolved from its American manifestation as a renewal project in the middle years of the 20th century. At first, American evangelicals provided a counterpoint both to the isolationist tendencies of fundamentalists, on the one hand, and to the modernists who held unorthodox views of Scripture on the other. It was the movement’s political mobilization in the 1980s that altered the landscape, leading to a present-day scenario in which a tiny percentage of Muslims and Hindus now claim the label “evangelical,” most likely because they see it as a label meaning “religiously devout and politically conservative.”⁷

Anyone addressing this question in the United States must consider whether to define evangelical by those who identify as such, or the way political pundits do, or by core doctrinal commitments. I advocate for a variation of the doctrinal definition, but I do so with eyes wide open to the fact many more claim the label, while many who fit the doctrinal description don’t want the label at all. I don’t think we can dismiss self-identifying evangelicals who hold to theological or political positions we find problematic (whether on the political right or theological left). Neither can we dismiss brothers and sisters who hold tightly to evangelical distinctives and yet want nothing to do with the label.

All of this leads me to something like a two-track understanding of evangelicalism, a way of holding together an aspirational definition and a cultural one. There is evangelicalism as a renewal movement based on common beliefs and distinctives, and evangelicalism as a sociological and political phenomenon. The first is more aspirational and more closely aligned to the movement’s roots (as well as its global connections), while the second is a sociological manifestation of varying traits of evangelical culture (even if the core beliefs and distinctives are no longer present).

Some wonder if we should give up the term “evangelical” because it has become hopelessly compromised in the American context. I would rather reclaim the historic meaning of the term. Just as there are Baptist churches far from where I believe true Baptists should be doctrinally (on one side Westboro Baptist and on the other First Baptist Church of America), it must be possible to hold both the historic definition and acknowledge the contemporary de-formation at the same time. And, as we consider the situation globally, we must remember that evangelicalism is not solely an American reality. The word has different connotations in different contexts. It has a rich history that spans generations (even preceding the American neo-evangelical movement). It is a narrow and American-centered view of the world to allow American controversies to define the movement.

Debates over the definition of evangelicalism will likely persist into the next generation, but the good news is, we don’t have to choose between preserving the best of our evangelical heritage and reforming whatever needs to change. At its core, evangelicalism is about renewal. That’s the best thing evangelicals have to offer, and right now, it is something the church needs, in many denominational settings.

II. Evangelicals and Southern Baptists Together

The debate over evangelicalism as a renewal movement and its connection to the Southern Baptist Convention has taken twists and turns in recent decades. By the time Hinson and Garrett debated the relationship, the sticking point was the close identification of northern evangelicals with their fundamentalist roots, particularly on how best to articulate the nature of biblical inspiration and authority, as well as the fast-growing political mobilization of conservative evangelical churches for the Republican Party.

The framing of James Tull’s introduction and Glenn Hinson’s contribution warn that a restrictive reversion to fundamentalism now defines evangelicalism, which leads to the compromise of Baptist distinctives, most notably the doctrine of soul competency and anti-creedalism. Hinson shows the connection between these two beliefs, claiming the historical pedigree of E. Y. Mullins:

The lordship of Christ and the competency of the person signify that no priest, church, or earthly government has a right to interpose itself between God and the human soul. This twin affirmation involves the authority of the Scriptures, for no ecclesiastical institution has the right to interject a creed or a prescribed practice which infringes upon the right of private interpretation. It involves the belief in the “New Testament as our only rule of faith and practice.”⁸

Hinson goes further to explain why the tradition of Baptists is to reject all manmade traditions, that “the Baptist tradition” refers not to common beliefs but “the essence or spirit of a movement,” so that the tradition is to follow our ancestors in “kicking and screaming” against “efforts to impose uniformity either in worship or in faith and practice.”⁹ Such a move would compromise the conviction that faith must be free and voluntary.

The implications of this view of Baptist identity quickly become clear, in stark form, beyond the question of biblical inerrancy. If one’s own status before God, apart from any mediator or outside authority, is a key component of Baptist identity, then who are we to claim that someone cannot be truly Baptist, even if he or she believes that Christ, “without the resuscitation of his dead body, now lives at the right hand of God, in the lives of his disciples, and works for the redemption of the world”?¹⁰

Hinson called for “a sharpening of the distinction between Baptists and other Christians,” so as to avoid the “grave danger of letting our association with Evangelicals and Evangelicalism of a particular type obscure and even obliterate voluntarist perceptions which stand most at the center of our life together as Baptists.” When it comes to biblical authority, Hinson warned, evangelicals assign priority to the Scriptures and to creeds as the objective Word of God, when Baptists prioritize the response of believers as a subjective Word.¹¹

Ten years later, in 1993, Hinson clarified that he did not argue “Baptists are not evangelicals” but wanted to say that Baptists are other than evangelicals.¹² This aligned with his earlier contention, that it would be better for Baptists to preserve a sense of identity over against Evangelicalism.

In his counterpoint, James Leo Garrett claimed it is accurate to situate the SBC within the evangelical movement, with the label “denominational evangelicals.” Garrett traced the development of Neo-evangelicalism from the Fundamentalist / Modernist controversies of the early twentieth century. He defended his view by pointing to the obvious overlap between Southern Baptists and evangelicals (including a missionary impulse, a focus on forgiveness of sins through Christ’s redemptive work, and a high view of God’s revelation through Scripture).¹³ Even if Southern Baptists must be described as “unmistakably and intentionally denominationalists,” there’s no denying the areas of doctrinal agreement on justification by grace through faith or regeneration by the Holy Spirit, the supreme authority of the Scriptures, and the deity of Jesus Christ.¹⁴

Furthermore, Garrett believed Hinson “underemphasized the common roots which both Evangelicals and Baptists have in Puritanism,” and had thus set up an antithesis unwarranted by Baptist history itself, the Baptist understanding of the authority of the Bible, the role of confessions of faith, and the Baptist commitment to religious freedom.¹⁵

Forty years later after this important debate, the context has changed. In the past few decades, we’ve seen an explosion of non-denominational churches across the country. Many of these are, in terms of doctrine and practice, Baptistic, which has prompted the Christian comedian Tim Hawkins to joke about non-denominational Christians: “You’re not fooling anyone; you’re just a Baptist church with a cool website!” These churches are often marked by a connection to the Charismatic Movement as well. One of the biggest shifts in American church culture in the past forty years has been the rise of non-denominational churches along with new networks that act as quasi-denominations.¹⁶

These new networks have often led to pressures on older denominations and institutions, as it can be difficult for established groups to match the nimble nature of the newer forms and networked abilities. In addition to the rise of new networks, society’s embrace of expressive individualism has fueled the rise of something cultural observer Tara Isabella Burton calls intuitional religion, as opposed to its traditional, institutional forms. She describes it as follows:

a new, eclectic, chaotic, and thoroughly, quintessentially American religion. A religion of emotive intuition, of aestheticized and commodified experience, of self-creation and self-improvement, and yes, selfies. A religion for a new generation of Americans raised to think of themselves both as capitalist consumers and as content creators. A religion decoupled from institutions, from creeds, from metaphysical truth-claims about God or the universe of the Way Things Are, but that still seeks—in various and varying ways—to provide us with the pillars of what religion always has: meaning, purpose, community, ritual.¹⁷

This is not only a description of the religiously unaffiliated, but also of many people in more established religious communities. We see a spiritual fluidity where many church-going Christians believe things that are fundamentally incompatible with orthodox Christian doctrine.

Several developments strain the evangelical consensus: the explosion of non-denominational churches and new networks, the benefits and drawbacks of the church when tightly connected to political parties, the rise of intuitional spirituality in place of institutional authority, and the cultural pressures evident in sexual revolution ideology and identity politics. Not surprisingly, some leaders, churches, and denominations historically associated with evangelicalism have drifted from biblical authority, leading others to wonder if an ever-enlarging evangelical tent is sustainable. Today, the Southern Baptists most likely to fret about the evangelical ethos making headway in the Convention are those on the right, who believe evangelicalism as a movement has strayed from sound doctrine. For reasons opposite of Glenn Hinson forty years ago, some Southern Baptists believe we need to reestablish our Baptist convictions over and against a wider evangelical movement that has gone astray.

III. The Place of Denominations in Evangelical Renewal

If the situation forty years ago was one where Southern Baptists needed help from evangelicals, today we wonder the reverse: are ailing evangelicals in need of help from Southern Baptists?

The only way this question makes sense is if Southern Baptists are doctrinally sound and spiritually healthy enough to provide support and ballast to a drifting evangelical movement, and if denominations will be part of evangelical renewal in the first place. Considering the rise of new networks and non-denominational churches, why would we consider a role for denominations in the future?

We could begin with the objection to denominations, or at least the concern that these visible divisions are in direct disobedience to Christ or contrary to His expressed will. “Christendom has often achieved success by ignoring the precepts of its founder,” wrote H. Richard Niebuhr nearly a hundred years ago.¹⁸“Denominationalism in the Christian church is… an unacknowledged hypocrisy. It is a compromise, made far too lightly, between Christianity and the world,” he wrote. He continues, “The division of the churches closely follows the division of men into the castes of national, racial, and economic groups.”¹⁹

For Niebuhr, it is too simplistic to think that denominations can be explained merely by creedal differences. On the contrary, many churches and groups are divided by color and class. The creedal differences, while important, are often a respectable gloss on a more scandalous reason for contemporary divisions.²⁰

Since the Reformation, church history offers many sad examples that buttress Niebuhr’s thesis. Perhaps the most notable example is in the birth of the Black Church tradition, when Richard Allen, a former slave who learned to preach under Methodist leader Francis Asbury, walked out of St. George’s Methodist Church in 1787 with his associate Absalom Jones and several other black people who were accosted after kneeling in new pews that had been reserved for whites. That walkout was the beginning of Bethel Church, known as “Mother Bethel,” and the seeds were planted that would blossom into the African Methodist Episcopal Church.²¹ This is a clear example of a denominational identity that began, not due to doctrinal differences, but to racial and class differences due to the assumptions of white supremacy at the time.

Niebuhr’s point is well taken: As denominations and groups develop over time, the doctrinal distinctives that may have had a supporting role in one era begin to take on a greater contrast in another. The same can happen in reverse, with doctrinal differences fading to the background and other aspects of culture and class coming to the forefront. Still, we must grapple with the distinctive groups as they are today, not as we might want them to be. What is the best way to look at different denominations within evangelicalism?

1. The House and the Neighborhood. A healthy way of looking at the presence of different denominations today would be to think of inhabiting a house in a friendly neighborhood.

First, consider the house itself. A house must have walls and structures. Some of those walls and structures are loadbearing. You remove them at your peril and may damage the integrity of the house or lead to its collapse. A beautiful home contains furniture. Some of the furniture may give the house a sense of character and personality.

Great houses are often big, with many rooms, and larger denominations often have subgroups that live comfortably in the home, in one wing of the house or another. More than a decade ago, David Dockery categorized Southern Baptists in this way: fundamentalists, revivalists, traditionalists, orthodox evangelicals, Calvinists, contemporary church practitioners, and culture warriors.²² We might tweak the description of those groups a little today, based upon new debates and challenges, but even now, these disparate groups with various emphases can inhabit different rooms and live comfortably within the same structure.

A house with history also comes with stories and narratives. I recently had the opportunity to spend some time in the home of one of my literary heroes, G. K. Chesterton. Not only is the house interesting from an architectural standpoint, with its own integrity and protection as a notable house with government restrictions on the owners, but it also shines with stories—the notable people who passed through to visit, the plays that went on in the built-in studio theater, the study where Chesterton would write his great works and then steal out into the garden to cut heads off flowers, and the morbid yet comical picture of a group of men, shortly after Chesterton’s death, trying to get his massive coffin down a tight spiral staircase.

Great houses come with stories of heroes and narratives of key moments, and the same is true of denominations. The story of past successes and failures, conviction and compromise, heroes and role models—all of these are vital for a house to feel like a home.

Consider also the presence of a neighborhood. Why is it important for those of us who live in the Baptist house to recognize the other homes nearby? Because we are not alone. And our roots go deeper than the current home in which we reside.

First, we share common ground. Creation is the stage upon which redemption plays out. In this shared realm—in which we all benefit from the sky and sun, wind and rain—we recognize this solid earth beneath our feet connects us to the rest of the world, and to other churches, and it is here we exercise Luther’s four callings: family, church, workplace, and community.

Secondly, we share a common creed, in that we adhere to the Nicene Faith. We recognize the specific contributions of our own home, but as part of a larger tradition that goes back to the apostles. As the Center for Baptist Renewal has put it: “We affirm the distinctive contributions of the Baptist tradition as a renewal movement within the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church. These contributions include emphasis on the necessity of personal conversion, a regenerate church, believers’ baptism, congregational governance, and religious liberty.” At the same time, “We encourage a critical but charitable engagement with the whole church of the Lord Jesus Christ, both past and present. We believe Baptists have much to contribute as well as much to receive in the great collection of traditions that constitute the holy catholic church.”²³

Third, we can make common cause with believers who reside in other homes. Because we believe the gospel is public truth, not a private revelation, we recognize that all believers offer the world some sort of public witness, whether they realize it or not. We can partner with and benefit from believers in other denominational homes who provide a faithful witness to Christ in areas of art, science, education, politics, sports and entertainment, business and entrepreneurship, etc. Making common cause reminds us of the importance of considering not only the reputation of our house, but the entire Christian neighborhood.

2. The Necessity of Institutions. Of course, some question the need for houses altogether. Are they not cumbersome? Do not old houses need constant work of renovation and repair? Wouldn’t we be better off to throw together mini-houses, or live in RVs, or find a place in one hotel or another? Perhaps some Christians might choose to live this way, eschewing denominations in favor of independent congregations, and yes, choosing to be “renters” rather than “owners” does allow for a level of mobility you might otherwise miss.

But there is something to be said for denominations, just as there’s something to be said for houses. Those who decide to stay unaffiliated—to rent rather than put down roots—often find it necessary to draw from the benefits of stronger ecclesial connections. Even fiercely independent congregations naturally gravitate toward some kind of communion or network with other likeminded churches. It’s true that denominations all have limitations—certain strengths and weaknesses—but there are many possibilities for collaboration and mutual strengthening.

We live in an age that is (often rightly) suspicious of institutions, and there is narrative drama in being “anti-institutional” in some way, the startup versus the established. But institutions are inevitable at some level. As Ray Ortlund has pointed out:

An institution is a social mechanism where life-giving human activities can be nurtured and protected and sustained. Some aspects of life should be unscheduled, spontaneous, random. But not all of life should be. What an institution does is structure a desirable experience, so that it becomes repeatable on a regular basis. Institutions are not a problem. But institutionalization is. An institution is meant to enrich life. But institutionalization takes that good thing and turns it into death. How? The institutional structure, the mechanism, takes on its own inherent purpose.²⁴

A healthy denomination, much like a healthy house, does not exist for its own sake. It is open for the benefit of others, and it serves a purpose for those who live there, to be a place of refreshment and empowerment for the larger mission of God. It is when the people who live in a house become overly focused on the structure itself, rather than its purpose, that institutionalization squeezes the life out of the movement that led to its construction in the first place. As Ed Stetzer said a decade ago in reference to the SBC: “Being consumed with the machine of the denomination distracts us from the mission of the church. The goal is joining God on His mission, and denominations are merely a tool to that end. But we often turn tools into rules, and our focus becomes the machine instead of the mission. A denomination should exist to help us live sent rather than maintain a structure.”²⁵

The problem we face today is an institutional crisis. We have hollowed out the ability for our institutions to deliver the weight of the expectations we put upon them, as Yuval Levin has pointed out.²⁶ In an individualistic world, we tend to think of freedom as the escape of institutional constraints, rather than the need to be formed and molded by those who have gone before us, or the community in which we are present. The renewal of evangelicalism will not take place apart from institutional forms, whatever those forms might take. Denominations will be a critical part of that future.

3. The Importance of Cooperation. If we look at denominations as houses, the question might arise: why not live alone? Why is the house necessary?

In the past, most denominations have answered this question by pointing to the mission and the essential nature of cooperation in fulfilling that mission. The point of being a homeowner is not merely to renew the house and take on various renovation projects, but to establish a home base from which to venture out into the world. And so, a good neighbor may agree to help better and beautify other homes in the neighborhood, just as leaders and pastors in one denomination may benefit from or contribute to the growth of leaders and pastors in another.

When J. B. Gambrell in 1901 answered the question of why Baptist churches unite in the form of a Convention, he said, the purpose was “to promote cooperation in matters of common concern.”²⁷ As Southern Baptists are fond of saying today, “We can do more together than we can apart.”

But the decision to live together—the agreement to take up rooms in the house and to come together for common mission—requires us to focus on the purpose, not the process. As Gambrell wrote:

Boards are channels, not fountains. They are means, not forces. The churches use them to convey their contributions as men turn a thousand streams into one channel to carry their united volume of water to arid plains that they may be watered and become fruitful fields. To elicit, combine and direct the energies of willing workers for the carrying out of the will of Christ is the function of a convention, and this it does, not by authority, but by persuasion and the influence of intelligent piety.²⁸

Cooperation matters when it comes to churches within the same denomination (just as people inhabiting different rooms in a mansion will come together for common cause), but cooperation also matters when it comes to churches from different denominations. The neighborhood is stronger when the various strengths on display in different homes are mutually available. We can trust that the Spirit is at work in other churches, and we believe He is active in nourishing, empowering, restraining, and enabling other believers. The Spirit is the common bond and unity for all believers, no matter which denomination, much like all the homes in a neighborhood are connected to a common water supply and electrical grid.

The Baptist Faith and Message (Article 14) encourages this kind of cross-denominational cooperation. A good homeowner extends the hand of fellowship to like-minded neighbors, which is why we should seek to strengthen the growing number of coalitions, encourage gospel-proclaiming denominations, and cheer on various church-planting movements. Conservative evangelicals need strength and support in their efforts to reclaim the center of evangelical identity.

Cooperation always comes with a risk. Cooperation can lead to the watering down of conviction or doctrinal distinctives. It is not wrong for some Southern Baptists to feel threatened by what this sort of evangelical networking might mean for the future of the Convention. There are some who feel that the purity of Southern Baptist identity will be polluted if we join coalitions or encourage other networks. This was the view of Glenn Hinson from the moderate side forty years ago, and it is often the view today from some on the right in Southern Baptist life.

But the cooperative spirit, when buttressed by security in what we believe and why, should cause us to bring others into the house who agree with our basic beliefs rather than causing us to pull up the drawbridge, hunker down on our hill, and refuse temporary shelter for the evangelical homeless. David Dockery is right:

Denominations that thrive will remain connected by conviction to Scripture, the gospel, and their tradition, while working and exploring ways to partner with affinity groups and networks moving out of their insularity and seeking to understand better the changing global context around us. Learning to work afresh in cooperative ways will be important, with denominations no longer seeing themselves as rivals with either the networks or other denominations, looking instead for commonalities while working together with other special-interest groups.²⁹

4. The Need for Clear Boundaries, but Not Impenetrable Walls. A healthy house has clear and visible structures. Imagine a neighborhood with distinct homes perhaps even with a fence, but the gate is unlocked, so as to provide easy access to people from other homes, and to allow people who live there to freely visit others. A vibrant neighborhood is a place where people feel a sense of camaraderie, where it is not a threat to spend time outdoors, to enjoy the occasional block party, to get together to watch fireworks, or to share a common pool.

In the same way, a well-established house and yard need not become a prison for the people inside, or a compound designed to keep people out. Paradoxically, one of the best ways to ensure that people in one home can visit another is by making clear the distinctions between homes. Vibrant denominations have clear lines of distinction.

In one of the first books published by the Baptist Sunday School Board, in 1900, J. M. Frost edited a series of contributions under the title Baptist Why and Why Not.³⁰ Many of the chapters explained why one would be Baptist and not Roman Catholic, Episcopalian, Methodist, Presbyterian, Campbellite, etc. Later chapters explained the “why” behind key doctrinal distinctives, such as why “close communion and not open communion,” and why the insistence on “a converted church membership.”

A strong foundation, walls, and rooftops are essential to a healthy house. But even here, with these clear lines of distinction, with a fence erected around the yard, there remains a sense of openness, a welcome to visitors who may occupy other houses in the neighborhood, as long as they share the same bedrock conviction of submitting to Scripture and living under its authority, while adhering to the essentials of the Christian faith as articulated in the great Christian creeds and as witnessed by the global Christian church through the ages.

Denominations that compromise their convictions often try to enlarge the house so much that it eventually loses its integrity in trying to accommodate everyone and everything. We ought instead to be okay with blessing someone out of our fellowship and waving at them as they move to a different house, if their beliefs have shifted into better alignment elsewhere. This is best for denominational integrity.

I recall a small Baptist church a few years ago that wrestled with admitting a Presbyterian family into membership without undergoing baptism by immersion after a confession of faith. When I counseled the church, I told them that—should their church go in this direction—they would, in effect, cease to belong to the denomination of which they were part. They would be more akin to the Evangelical Free Church of America, which receives as valid infant baptism (though believer’s baptism remains the norm). The church decided against this move, choosing to happily stay in the home they had started in. My point was not to decry or diminish the wonderful churches that belong to the EFCA. It was simply to say that this is a question of identity, and if you make a decision in this way, you are effectively moving from one house to another.

One cannot endlessly move the boundaries of the house without eventually harming the structure. A house with no walls is not a home. It is not unloving or uncharitable to insist on denominational integrity, just as it is not unloving or uncharitable to recognize the structure of its home and surrounding yard.

5. Appreciation for Denominational Gifts. Perhaps the opposite danger of broadening and extending the house is feeling threatened by the existence of neighbors. The denomination that becomes insecure in its convictions and biblical interpretation often compensates by throwing up additional walls and fences, turning the house into something more like a compound, as if everyone in the house needs to be protected from the neighbors. This is often the danger most associated with a Neo-fundamentalist mindset—the need is for additional walls, not gates or bridges.

As mentioned above, it is right and proper to insist on denominational integrity. But this can be done in a way that is not hostile toward other homes in the neighborhood. One of the ways we remain good neighbors is by recognizing that we have gifts that others in the neighborhood might benefit from, and that other homes may have strengths that would strengthen us.

Healthy homes can also give courage and protection to other homes in the neighborhood. Throughout history, we can trace among various denominational traditions a pattern of God using believers from one tradition to warn others about dangers from inside and outside the church. Perhaps this would be the “neighborhood watch” element of a healthy community. Yes, we look to ensure the wellbeing of our own home, but we also notify neighbors when dangers threaten another house.

Relating to people in the denominational neighborhood allows us to work together on certain projects, shave the rough edges off each other, and learn from one another’s strengths and weaknesses. It is myopic to assume that the Holy Spirit is exclusively or primarily at work in only one of the homes in a neighborhood. It would be better to extend the application of the Apostle Paul’s reference to the church as the body of Christ and to recognize distinctive gifts in different communities. Thus, Presbyterians may have something to learn from Baptists in the field of outreach and personal evangelism, and Baptists may have something to learn from Anglican stalwarts of theology, like John Stott and J. I. Packer. The charismatics may be strengthened by another home’s insistence on being tethered to the Word, while denominations that emphasize preaching and Bible study may learn something from the intercessory prayer of those in the Assemblies of God.

My point is not to relativize these homes, to claim they are all equally valid or scripturally the same. It is merely to recognize that each group has a specialty. God is at work in different groups in different ways, and if you visit other homes in the neighborhood, it is very likely that you will enrich your own home because of your experience and common commitment to Christ. As Nathan Finn has written: “Southern Baptists should humbly confess that we are only part of the visible body of Christ and that our own interpretations of numerous doctrines have been influenced by the catholic confessional consensus. We should acknowledge that we have much to learn from other Christian traditions, even as we earnestly and often times prophetically contend for our unique Baptist distinctives.”³¹

IV. Evangelical Renewal

If the neighborhood of evangelicalism is in disrepair, with some nearby homes showing cracks in the foundation, the best way Southern Baptists can serve our brothers and sisters is by ensuring that our home is as healthy and robust as it can be. This health will come from both a recognition of our convictions and spiritual gifts, and a willingness to glean from the Spirit’s gifts on display in other fellowships.

By renewing our own home, we make the house a place for others to find refreshment and empowerment in engaging in God’s mission. We also free ourselves up to strengthen the homes of others, to encourage the faithful to remain tied to sound doctrine, engaged in outreach and evangelism, and committed to the full authority of the Scriptures. I do not see an avenue of evangelical renewal that does not also include the renewal of particular denominational homes. The health of the neighborhood depends in large part on the health and charity of the individual homes. To that end, we ought to see ourselves not as Southern Baptists over against other evangelicals, but as Baptists among and for other evangelicals, rooting for our neighbors, conscious of God’s work and hopeful in His promise to his church in the future.

Notes

1. James Leo Garrett Jr. and E. Glenn Hinson, Are Southern Baptists “Evangelicals”?, ed. James E. Tull (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1982).

2. Mark Noll, “What is an Evangelical?,” in The Oxford Handbook of Evangelical Theology, ed. Gerald R. McDermott (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 19.

3. John Wolffe, “Who Are Evangelicals? A History,” in Evangelicals Around the World: A Global Handbook for the 21^st Century, ed. Brian C. Stiller, Todd M. Johnson, Karen Stiller, and Mark Hutchinson (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2015), 32.

4. Kevin T. Bauder, R. Albert Mohler Jr., John G. Stackhouse Jr., and Roger Olson, Four Views on the Spectrum of Evangelicalism, ed. Andrew David Naselli and Collin Hansen (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2011).

5. Thomas S. Kidd, Who Is An Evangelical? The History of a Movement in Crisis (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2019), 4.

6. For the former, see Ryan P. Burge, 20 Myths about Religion and Politics in America (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2022), 11-20. For the latter, see Ryan P. Burge and Andrew T. Walker, “Is ‘Evangelical’ a Historical, Theological, or Political Identity?” Good Faith Debates, Gospel Coalition video, 1:02:10, June 1, 2022.

7. Ryan P. Burge, “What’s Up with Born-Again Muslims? And What Does That Tell Us About American Religion?”, posted March 2, 2021.

8. Garrett and Hinson, Are Southern Baptists “Evangelicals”?, 30.

9. Garrett and Hinson, Are Southern Baptists “Evangelicals”?, 14.

10. Garrett and Hinson, Are Southern Baptists “Evangelicals”?, 28-29.

11. Garrett and Hinson, Are Southern Baptists “Evangelicals”?, 165, 169, 174.

12. E. Glenn Hinson, “One Baptist’s Dream,” in Southern Baptists and American Evangelicals: The Conversation Continues, ed. David S. Dockery (Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 1993), 202.

13. Garrett and Hinson, Are Southern Baptists “Evangelicals”?, 118.

14. Garrett and Hinson, Are Southern Baptists “Evangelicals”?, 126.

15. Garrett and Hinson, Are Southern Baptists “Evangelicals”?, 122.

16. Frank Newport, “More U. S. Protestants Have No Specific Denominational Identity,” Gallup, posted July 18, 2017.

17. Tara Isabella Burton, Strange Rites: New Religions for a Godless World (New York: PublicAffairs, 2020), 2-3.

18. H. Richard Niebuhr, The Social Sources of Denominationalism (New York: Meridian Books, 1929), 3.

19. Niebuhr, Social Sources, 6.

20. Niebuhr, Social Sources, 12-14.

21. Richard S. Newman, Freedom’s Prophet: Bishop Richard Allen, the AME Church, and the Black Founding Fathers (New York: New York University Press, 2009).

22. David S. Dockery, Southern Baptist Consensus and Renewal: A Biblical, Historical, and Theological Proposal (Nashville: B&H, 2008), 11.

23. Matthew Y. Emerson, Christopher W. Morgan, and Lucas E. Stamps, Baptists and the Christian Tradition: Toward an Evangelical Baptist Catholicity (Nashville: B&H, 2020), 353.

24. Ray Ortlund, Jr. “Is Your Church an Institution?” Gospel Coalition, posted May 23, 2017.

25. Ed Stetzer, “Denominationalism: Is There a Future?” in Southern Baptists, Evangelicals, and the Future of Denominationalism, ed. David S. Dockery (Nashville: B&H, 2011), 40.

26. Yuval Levin, A Time to Build: From Family and Community to Congress and the Campus, How Recommitting to Our Institutions Can Revive the American Dream (New York: Basic Books, 2020).

27. J. B. Gambrell, “Why Conventions of Baptist Churches” in Baptist Why And Why Not, ed. J. M Frost (Nashville: The Baptist Sunday School Board, 1901), 286.

28. Gambrell, “Why Conventions,” 288.

29. David Dockery, “So Many Denominations: The Rise, Decline, and Future of Denominationalism,” in Southern Baptists, Evangelicals, and the Future of Denominationalism (Nashville: B&H, 2011), 25.

30. Gambrell, “Why Conventions,” 288.

31. Nathan Finn, “Priorities for a Post-Resurgence Convention” in Southern Baptist Identity: An Evangelical Denomination Faces the Future, ed. David Dockery (Wheaton: Crossway, 2009), 262.

Jesus cares about church unity because it’s a testimony to the world.

That’s the simple way of explaining what Jesus prayed the night before he was crucified. But reading through John 17 again recently, I was struck by the deeper logic of the passage and the desire that his followers be one. There’s something more powerful at work here than “church unity is a witness to the world.”

Getting Along in God

Jesus wants us to get along, yes, but the deeper truth is that we get along in God. Eternal life is knowing the only true God and the Son he sent to save us (John 17:3). The interplay between the Father and the Son (everything Christ has is the Father’s, and everything the Father has is the Son’s) provides the context for Jesus’s prayer that his followers “be one as [they] are one” (vv. 10–11). The unity of the church is to be tightly connected to the unity of the persons of the Trinity.

This means, in all our distinctiveness as members of Christ’s body, we reflect something of the nature of God when we’re one and when we display this oneness to the world. The divine unity of Father, Son, and Spirit, enjoyed from before the foundation of the world—the joy and happiness that overflows that union of eternal love—is what Jesus wants for his followers. He wants our joy to be completed (v. 13) and for us to be one just as he and the Father are one. We’ve been adopted into the family, united to Christ, and therefore united to God.

It’s more than just “getting along.” It’s getting along in God and as a mirror of his glory.

Participating in God’s Oneness

But there’s more. Jesus wants his followers to be one as a way of participating in the oneness of the triune God.

Listen to how he later prays: “May they all be one, as you, Father, are in me and I am in you” (v. 21). The unity of the church is bound up in the divine life of God. We’re invited into the triune life of love. “May they also be in us” may be one of the most profound and surprising things Jesus ever prays. His desire is that, together, we be in God.

Participation in the divine love of the Father and Son is the prerequisite for the world believing that Jesus has been sent by the Father (v. 21). In case it’s unclear, Jesus gets more explicit: “I have given them the glory you have given me, so that they may be one as we are one” (v. 22). And if the participation element isn’t clear enough: “I am in them and you and you are in me, so that they may be made completely one” (v. 23). Lesslie Newbigin comments,

So, yes, Christian unity matters so the world will know we’re Christ’s followers, but there’s a deeper sense in which Christian unity shows the world what God is like. And an even deeper sense follows: Christian unity participates in the divine life of God as Three-in-One. Here’s how Cyril of Alexandria summed up the prayer:

In our different ministries, in our variety of gifts, in our works of service and love, we’re manifesting the same Spirit (1 Cor. 12:4–11). United to Christ, we’re filled by the Spirit as we serve one another. Our unity is one of divine love.

Enduring the World’s Hostility

Why does all this matter? Because the world is going to hate us: “The world hated them because they are not of the world, just as I am not of the world. I am not praying that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one. They are not of the world, just as I am not of the world” (John 17:14–16).

Jesus prays for his followers to stand firm, to be sanctified by the truth because God’s Word is truth (vv. 17–19). He prays for the unity of the church not merely so our “getting along” will be a testimony of God’s power but because our participation in the life of God himself will be necessary if we’re to endure the hatred and hostility of the world. Unless we participate in the divine love, unless we hold together in love, unless we’re overcome by the love of God for us expressed in our love for one another, we’ll fail the test when we experience the world’s hatred. Apart from the love of God, we’ll fall prey to the fear of man.

In the end, the goal isn’t papering over differences and finding surface-level agreement. Church unity matters because (1) our unity is connected to the unity of God himself (and thus our disunity is a scandalous affront to the gospel), (2) the world sees a reflection of God’s inner life in our fellowship when we participate in his divine love, and (3) it’s the means by which we withstand the pressures of the world that rage against God’s truth.

And so, with some of the earliest Christians, we pray,

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One of the most striking elements of watching the sun set, whether you’re looking over a mountain range, the vast expanse of the ocean, or flat fields and farmlands, is the slowness and the speed. The descent of the fiery ball on the horizon goes slow at first, casting all sorts of colors and shadows across the sky and the land, but once the orb reaches the earth’s edge, it’s striking how fast it descends and disappears. Slow, then fast. Light remains, but there’s a chill in the air.

On Wednesday evening, upon hearing the news that Tim would soon be going home—both physically, to Roosevelt Island, and spiritually, to his eternal reward, I spent a few moments in prayer in my home office, and as I looked up, the light of the sun caught the Keller selection of my bookshelf just right, spreading a warm glow over the words of a pastor who has left an indelible imprint on my heart and mind.

This morning Tim Keller died after a three-year battle with pancreatic cancer. It feels a bit like a great light has slipped beyond the horizon. It’s a sunset that has long been coming, and yet it still feels strangely sudden.

No doubt Tim would raise an eyebrow and cast a bemused smirk at any suggestion he be compared in any way to the sun. (He’s the only person I’ve known who could roll his eyes via smile.) If there’s anything you’d take from his work and writing, it’s that there’s a main character in history and none of us are it: God is at the center of all things, and Jesus is the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. Tim wasn’t about himself; he was about the Savior he adored, and he cared about reaching a lost world in need of salvation. He reflected well the Jesus he loved, but that’s one of the reasons his loss does feel like a light has flickered out.

Over the years, Tim’s influence on me has been profound, first through his writing and then later through occasional correspondence, in-person meetings, and reading suggestions. In the past seven years, Keller has guided much of my reading. (I still have Kierkegaard’s The Sickness Unto Death in my book stack, one of the few titles I’ve not yet gotten to.) Tim offered counsel, pointed me in certain directions, cautioned me against dead-ends, and took an interest in some of the projects I was working on.

Keller’s writing and ministry became an anchor for me. He exuded a sense of calm no matter what was taking place. He didn’t get caught up in drama. He was the epitome of a “non-anxious presence,” and he had a deep-rooted security in his faith that allowed him to interact with people of various beliefs with respect and kindness. He also cared deeply about the future of the church and the spread of the gospel globally. (In a podcast interview I did with him earlier this year, he ribbed me about outliving him and seeing the renewal he hoped for.)

When Tim received his cancer diagnosis, I confessed to a few friends that the idea of an evangelicalism without Tim Keller frightened me. Every generation needs heroes, people who serve well, who—despite their failures and flaws—model faithfulness to Christ and his people. Tim has been one of mine. Today, I’m grateful for how he finished his race. A sun has set, but Tim is now in the presence of the ultimate One—the bright morning star (Rev. 22:16).

“I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil,” said Gandalf as Frodo prepared to depart for the Grey Havens. I’ve shed a few of the good kind of tears today.

For us, like Sam watching his friend disappear, “the evening deepened to darkness as . . . he saw only a shadow on the waters that was soon lost in the West, . . . hearing only the sigh and murmur of the waves on the shores.” But perhaps Tim, like Frodo, has “smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. . . . The grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

From us to Tim, Farewell. From the Lord and his angels, Welcome.

Several weeks ago, I voiced a question I’ve long been pondering—something that seems to go unnoticed by many church leaders: How does the dissolution of traditional family structures affect the church’s self-perception?

To get more specific, How does the widespread loss of the experience of being or having a sibling affect the way we see ourselves as brothers and sisters in Christ?

If we believe the church is the “family of God,” our self-understanding as a family will be connected, at least in some measure, to our experiences within family life. The absence of particular family relationships can’t help but affect our view of church as family.

Question of Justice

An astute reader, Andrew, responded with a slightly different perspective. He recommended we approach the issue of family breakdown in the church by beginning with scriptural teaching on justice. We cannot simply ask how broken families will affect the church’s self-perception; instead, we must incorporate ministry to broken families into how we see ourselves as Christ’s Bride.

Andrew pointed to the Hebrew understanding of mishpat: “Rectifying justice or putting things right for those prone to be exploited.” Throughout Scripture, God calls his people to do justice (mishpat) for widows, orphans, immigrants, and those in poverty. Andrew writes,

He quotes from Old Testament scholar Bruce Waltke on the responsibilities of the righteous and how our actions set us apart from the world:

Learning Love in the Family?

Andrew acknowledges the point I made in my article about family breakdown affecting the church’s self-understanding. It’s true that “the righteous love that the church seeks to emulate is other-oriented and it is easiest to learn this kind of love in families,” he says. And yet,

I appreciate Andrew’s pushback because of its historical perspective. He’s right: there has never been a golden age of family life in history or around the world. Our life together as sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, children and grandchildren—it’s always been complicated. Take a closer look at the family dynamics in many of the Old Testament’s most beloved stories and you’ll see how riddled they are with bad marriages, failing fathers, envious brothers, scheming mothers, and adulterous husbands. Sin warps the family in severe and lasting ways.

Yet even with all the examples of bad dads, God speaks of himself as our Father. Even with the examples of unfaithfulness in marriage, God describes himself as a spouse to Israel. What’s more, he sometimes uses the sinfulness of family breakdown (in adultery, for example) as an analogy of Israel’s waywardness.

I stand by my original point: We ought to give more thought, not less, to the ways our understanding of the church as a family is adversely affected by the loss of stable, faithful, familial relationships. It’s likely a lack of experience with thick, enduring, and faithful families will lead to a corresponding “thinness” in church relationships as well. If families are easily entered and exited, why not churches also?

Church’s Responsibility

That said, Andrew is right to point us back to the church’s responsibility in this world of family breakdown. Surely part of what it means to be the family of God is to provide something of substance for those who, without blame or fault, have never known family life as God intended.

Christians who grew up in somewhat stable homes and experienced strong family relationships should consider Andrew’s question. What’s our responsibility as the family of God to our siblings who suffer the consequences of family breakdown? And there’s a deeper question here than the one I posed in my previous article—not just how family breakdown might affect the church’s self-understanding but how the response to family breakdown factors into how the church sees herself.

Andrew is onto something important here. Can we come to better understand the church as a family in the ways we do justice and show mercy, creating a sense of ecclesial belonging for those who live with the effects of family breakdown? Can those with strong family relationships be a source of healing for those who only know brokenness? I’m grateful for readers who help us ponder deeper questions as we seek to be faithful in the world in which God has placed us.

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It wasn’t supposed to be his last project. At least that’s not what he or anyone around him expected. For more than a year, my friend and colleague Clint Clifton had been working on a short ebook designed to help pastors and church leaders start residency programs to train future leaders for the church.

This wasn’t just a book for Clint. It was a way of life. His Wednesday morning meetings in person with his residency group were sacrosanct. When our team would discuss the best times to meet during the week, Clint always alerted me to his scheduled time with residents. We adjusted our meetings around it. I wanted nothing more than for Clint to continue that rhythm of life because it had been so fruitful.

Clint believed anyone could start a residency. His big question wasn’t “Why a residency?” It was “Why not?” In the ebook, he made his position clear:

Clint made the idea of doing a residency accessible. And the residency itself made the idea of ministry accessible for future leaders. It was a way of calling people to walk alongside and join in the work of ministry, training and guiding them weekly.

What struck me about Clint’s approach was the informality of it all. Yes, there was a plan, but it wasn’t really a program. It was friendship, mentoring, and discipleship. It involved encouragement, occasional rebuke, and the confirmation of God’s gifts and call in a person’s life. Think of Paul with a handful of Timothys and Tituses but always looking for ways to involve the newcomers in church ministry and outreach.

Clint was “wildly optimistic” about the potential of the undeveloped leaders in a church. So optimistic that it surprised and changed the lives of people. At his funeral, several people told me Clint saw potential in them they’d never seen in themselves. He called out that potential when he invited them into ministry. He saw, he affirmed, and he challenged. And the fruit of his work is still evident today.

Clint wasn’t good at everything we threw at him, and he would’ve been the first to admit that. But where he was good, he was great. Truly great. He was great at raising up leaders through a residency.

On the day before he died, I was passing through the cafe area at the North American Mission Board headquarters and saw Clint in one of the off-rooms on a Zoom call. He motioned for me to come in. It was Wednesday morning, so (of course!) he was meeting with his residency group. We did some Q and A, and I enjoyed seeing this online version of his usual in-person meeting. Most exciting was seeing his oldest son, Noah, on the call, who’s helping plant a church this summer.

Just a couple of days before the plane crash that took his life, Clint was able to see the final proofs for the residency ebook he’d labored over. He had helped design the cover, which featured an airplane, and he was pleased with the final product. After his death, I assumed that if we did anything with the book, we’d change the cover and maybe alter some of the analogies he used. But in conversation with Clint’s family, it became clear: they wanted this last word from Clint to be the way he designed it, plane and all. And so we left it—a tribute to and the legacy of a man whose work continues to bear fruit.

That book is now available. I challenge every pastor and church leader to read and heed it. There’s nothing stopping you from starting a residency and pouring into the lives of future leaders. And you’ll find no finer example of how to do it than that of Clint Clifton.

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In 2008, tragedy struck the family of Christian singer-songwriter Steven Curtis Chapman when one of his teenage sons arrived home, turned the corner of the driveway, and didn’t see his 5-year-old sister Maria Sue, who had darted directly into the path of his SUV.

Chapman saw the accident take place from the front porch, but he doesn’t remember much about the immediate aftermath. “I do remember running around to the back of the house and finding my wife, of course, just in hysterics,” he said. “It was a lot of blood.”

Chapman also doesn’t remember something that others witnessed in that horrible moment. As he was leaving the scene to go to the hospital (where little Maria would be pronounced dead on arrival), he looked over and saw his son crumpled up in a ball on the ground, his older brother on top of him, holding him and praying for him. At that moment, Steven told the driver to stop. He rolled down the window and called out, “Will Franklin, your father loves you.”

That scene chokes me up every time I imagine it. To think of a father, in the throes of shock and grief, in that terrible fog of horror and chaos, instinctively assuring his son of unconditional love instead of casting blame or bowing to bitterness—the moment says something about the character of a man. Out of the overflow of a heart smitten by hardship comes a word of consolation.

Storeroom of the Heart

In Luke’s version of Jesus’s Sermon on the Plain, we’re told that “a good person produces good out of the good stored up in his heart,” while “an evil person produces evil out of the evil stored up in his heart.” In both cases, what comes out of the mouth is “from the overflow of the heart” (Luke 6:45, CSB).

I’ve always read that verse and applied Jesus’s saying to the question of speech. How should we talk? What do our words say about us? How can we control the tongue? After all, Scripture has much to say about taming the tongue and blessing others with our words (including James 3 and multiple proverbs).

But the real application of Jesus’s saying lies further back. To take his words to heart, our focus should be not so much on what we should say as what we should store. To apply Jesus’s insight, if we want to be the kind of person who speaks words of wisdom and grace, then we have to begin by storing up wisdom and grace. The question isn’t “What should we say?” as much as it’s “What should we store up? What should go in the storeroom?”

J. C. Ryle claimed the test of a person’s religious character is his “conduct and conversation.” The test reveals the character. But even there, if you want to pass, you don’t focus on the moment of the exam. You focus your attention on the weeks or months before the test. It’s about preparation, what you put in the storeroom of your mind and heart.

Guard Your Heart, Not Just Your Lips

Too many times, we try to control what we say at the surface level. We try to avoid saying things we shouldn’t, and we try to say the things we should. Well and good, as a start. But Jesus’s words push us deeper. Further back.

Why? Well, I may try my hardest to speak words of life, only to be appalled at my own occasional missteps, the overspill of polluted waters that have remained deep in my heart. I surprise myself at times when the muzzle on my mouth malfunctions and something I wish wasn’t in my heart suddenly becomes visible.

Paul Tripp in War of Words says we’re prone to blame others or blame the situation whenever we say something wrong. Instead, we should recognize that “word problems reveal heart problems.” It’s not the people around you or your current circumstances that make you speak a certain way. Even when you’re around people who drive you crazy or when you’re facing difficult challenges, your heart—if good—will reveal itself in words of truth and grace.

No wonder, then, that Proverbs says, “Guard your heart above all else, for it is the source of life” (Prov. 4:23, CSB). We spend so much time guarding our lips that we forget the importance of the storeroom. The preparation takes place there. “A holy practice must of necessity flow from holy principles and heavenly affections,” wrote Charles Simeon.

What Are You Storing Up?

Store up gunpowder and you’ll blow up when something lights the fuse. Store up bitterness and your words will ooze with resentment when someone crosses you. Store up pride and your speech will drip with mockery and condescension. Store up envy and you’ll find yourself giving voice to biting remarks that chip away at another’s character or credibility. Store up judgment and another’s failures will trigger harsh and overly critical words.

But store up grace and you’ll return good for evil. Store up compassion and you’ll pray when persecuted. Store up conviction and you’ll speak with courage when everyone else compromises. Store up humility and you’ll acknowledge when you’re weak and fess up when you fail. Store up gratitude and you’ll bless those who grumble. Store up faith and you’ll draw closer to God when the trial arrives. Store up love and you’ll speak with wisdom and grace when everyone else falls prey to anger.

None of us knows when we might face a tragedy as severe as the one faced by the Chapmans. Whether we’re days or weeks away from a trial, know this: what you fill the storeroom with is what will come out. So, what are you storing up?

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One of the wearying aspects of church life these days is the constant weaponizing of disagreement. I’m referring to the tendency to take an honest disagreement we have with someone (perhaps over secondary points of theology, or matters of political prudence, or parenting methods) as a sign he or she must be “unsound”—and so we wield that disagreement as a weapon, as a way of smearing the person’s entire outlook or ministry.

The shallowness we see on display today stems at least in part from what Nicholas Carr described as the new mental patterns that develop in a world of online scrolling and commenting. In this new world, Christians seem increasingly unable to critique without canceling. We don’t see in our disagreements an opportunity to pursue truth together—to argue by appealing to Scripture, logic, reason, and tradition. Instead, disagreements devolve into quarreling. All heat, no light.

Easy Labels

Easy labels play a big role in weaponization. Words like “based” or “woke,” “progressive” or “right-wing,” “problematic” or “troubling” often get deployed not because of theological disagreement exactly but because we may think others unwise, inconsistent, or just wrong in how they apply theological convictions to the choices we face in today’s world.

• She voted for Trump, so she’s a right-wing fanatic whose approach to everything else must be suspect (and she’s probably a closet racist!).
• He expressed doubt about vaccines or the wisdom of school lockdowns, so he must be a gullible conspiracy theorist who doesn’t love his neighbor or who harbors authoritarian desires!

On the other side . . .

• This church was closed for more than a few weeks and the pastor encouraged vaccination, so they’re obviously in line with compromised “woke” evangelicals who are “progressive.”
• This author believes there may be human causes to climate change, so he’s obviously “liberal” or at least duped by global elites!

Faded from view are the detailed and historic confessions of faith that once marked out faith traditions and communities. Slogans, labels, and epithets remain. From a theological perspective, you can’t label “liberal” anyone who gives full-throated affirmation to the Westminster Confession of Faith or the Baptist Faith and Message. And you can’t fairly label complementarians “abusive” or “misogynist” just for aligning with the traditional and ecumenical consensus of the church on the matter.

Unfortunately, political debates loom so large in the consciousness and imagination of the evangelical mind that we’re increasingly unable to separate out the issues, to welcome good-faith disagreements on matters of prudence without casting opponents in the worst possible light or castigating them for (gasp) disagreeing with us.

Signals over Substance

In the past eight or nine years, I’ve noticed a shift toward signaling over substance online. Not only do we expect others to agree, but we think we should all agree in the same way and by sending the same signals.

If you’re not commenting on every major case of racial injustice, if you’re not announcing every time another church leader is exposed for sex abuse, if you’re not weighing in on the latest crazy tweet from someone claiming the mantle of Christian Nationalism—well, you’re part of the problem. You’re complicit. Compromised. Suspect. “Silence is violence!”

The same goes for the other side. If you’re not signaling your outrage about the latest harms of doctors given over to gender ideology, if you’re not expressing regular and vociferous disagreement with proposals from the president, if you’re not broadcasting your alignment with the “fill in the blank” news story of the day, you’re not really sound. You’re uncommitted. Asleep. Weak.

Late last year, a colleague of mine was accused of being a “progressive” agent working undercover to undermine the theological foundations of his denomination. The evidence? He had a few friends whose disagreement had already been weaponized (Aha! Fraternizing with the enemy!) and he hadn’t issued on Twitter any comment or celebration about the overturning of Roe v. Wade last summer. Gotcha! Never mind the fact this colleague was hit-or-miss on social media, rarely engaged in saying much of anything online, and was so devoted to the pro-life cause (in reality, not just on social media) that he and his wife had taken in multiple foster kids.

See what happens here? It’s not even disagreement that divides but not agreeing in the same way. You’re not loud enough in your agreement! You’re not adopting the same posture or proposal! The result is more fracturing, even among people on the same page, simply because they don’t signal their allegiance the same way. (I’m reminded of the thunderous applause everyone was expected to give when Nicolae Ceaușescu was dictator of Romania. Don’t be the first to stop clapping! Don’t be the first to sit down! Your “loyalty” will be suspect.)

Different Members of One Body

When differences of perspective and opinion get melted down into bullets that become ammunition for the Great War we see ourselves as engaged in, our targets become brothers and sisters in the barracks instead of the powers and principalities where the true, spiritual battle rages. Christ’s Bride is the casualty, and the Evil One laughs.

If the body of Christ seems out of shape these days, perhaps it’s because we’re getting body parts all out of proportion, insisting everyone be an eye, or an ear, or a mouth. Rather than recognizing and appreciating different gifts and competencies (not to mention different callings), we adopt a totalizing view of online engagement.

The body is complex. If we’re to heal an ailing and divided church, it might come through multiple medicines and treatments. But we’ll never return to health if we assume anyone with a different mixture of medicine is trying to poison the church instead of heal it.

Way Forward?

What’s the solution to this wearisome warfare? We can’t just paper over disagreements and cheer “unity” over and over again, as if this will solve all our issues. Denominations don’t heal that way, just like churches and families don’t heal by shoving disagreements under the rug. We should aspire to unity, yes, and we must stop weaponizing disagreement in ways that mischaracterize, reduce, oversimplify, or attack brothers and sisters acting in good faith. But talking about unity won’t resolve the disagreements.

John Stott found ways for creative collaboration and partnership by doing his best to listen carefully to critics who were concerned about this or that—whose disagreement was sincere and well-meaning—and he often found the truths they wanted to safeguard were ones he considered precious as well. Creative solutions could come about once that common ground was established enough for productive conversations. But I sometimes wonder if any of that is even possible online.

Which pushes me to look deeper into the reasons why we’ve arrived at this place.

Why is it so hard to critique without canceling people?

What has happened to us online that makes it so easy to write others off?

How can we speak truthfully when doctrinal drift poses a danger to a leader’s soul and the souls of others, without contributing to the culture of easy labels and rapid canceling?

What habits would help us cultivate charitable critique, to follow the counsel of James to be “quick to listen” and “slow to speak” and especially “slow to become angry”?

What have we become? Who are we becoming?

I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I know the church would be better served by more Christians insisting on face-to-face interaction, resisting the impulse to constantly signal online that we belong to this or that tribe, and choosing to avoid the constant carping and criticizing on issues where we’re unlikely to persuade others. Maybe we need more cold takes than hot ones. And maybe it starts with reevaluating our habits and, at the very least, committing to no longer weaponizing good-faith disagreement.

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In traveling around the country, in multiple conversations with pastors, I perceive a sense of weariness mixed with dread: We’re about to go through it again. They’re referring to the upcoming election year, which looms large after previous polarizing election cycles saw churchgoing Christians divided over matters of political principle and prudence.

Good pastors care deeply about the unity of the flock they shepherd. They take seriously the admonition of the apostles to preserve the unity of the Spirit and the bond of peace (Eph. 4:3), and they share the heart of Jesus expressed the night before he died, when he prayed that his people might be one (John 17). In a world where the political seeps into all spheres of life, new threats to church unity arise, often from multiple directions.

2 Tendencies for Concerned Pastors

What should faithful pastors do? What does it look like to steer the ship through stormy waters? I see two tendencies in well-meaning pastors these days.

1. Go quiet.

The first is to hunker down, play it cool, and avoid anything that seems “political.” The way to preserve the unity of the church and to avoid coming under fire from the most politically active and vocal members of the congregation is to refrain from anything that could be seen as partisan or offensive. If you just ignore all the drama and keep your political opinions quiet, maybe you set an example for relationships in your church and you can keep people from getting too worked up over temporal matters.

The problem here is the divorcing of discipleship from the political sphere, which only creates a bigger void for other voices to fill. How can you possibly steer clear of anything “political” or “controversial” when nearly everything these days is contested? Significant questions about identity, the beginning and end of life, the obligation to “remember the poor” (Gal. 2:10), our care for the immigrants in our midst, how best to oppose racial discrimination, and how to address declining family stability, not to mention the definition of the family itself and the meaning of sex and gender—these are all matters now considered “political.”

We may bemoan the encroachment of politics into every area of life, but this development is no excuse for silence. It’s a reason for speech—divine speech, as we seek to bring the Word of God to bear on the issues we face in our day. To avoid any topic that touches on the political is to forfeit the fields where discipleship happens. Loving our neighbors means willing their good. It includes caring about the neighborhood. We fool ourselves if we think Christians can be a “faithful presence” in society apart from “truthful witness.”

2. Become a pundit.

But there’s a second tendency that deserves our attention. It’s the temptation to sacrifice the power of a prophet for the pablum of a pundit. The pastor might feel compelled to weigh in on the multiple events (and pseudo-events) happening every day, whether on social media or from the pulpit on Sunday. And of course, there’s always something to comment on, always a news item begging for commentary. So much news that the primary message—the good news we’re called to proclaim—can get lost in a sea of trifles. And just like that, we replace the feast of divine proclamation with another serving of political porridge.

The main calling of the pastor isn’t to the country but to the church. Paradoxically, the best way for the church to bless the nation is by leaning into her kingdom identity, by God’s people serving as a radical outpost of his reign.

I make this point in The Thrill of Orthodoxy, urging pastors and church leaders to take the long view, to realize that all week long, content comes at people from a cacophony of voices. World leaders, political pundits, novelists, sportscasters and journalists, infotainment sites and shows, celebrities and social media stars—everyone has something to say. But on the first day of the week, the day we celebrate the resurrection, someone stands up with an ancient book to deliver a message designed to cut through a noisy world of constant chatter. You’ve heard what everyone else says. Now listen to what God says.

What follows should be an otherworldly message with God at the center. Anyone can be a broadcaster today; anyone can be a pundit. The church will not be healthy if pastors spend more time scrolling on social than searching the Scriptures. What the world needs most is the whole counsel of God—truth expressed with grace; truth that, yes, touches on social and ethical dilemmas but is never subsumed into the vortex of American politics. What is temporal matters, yes, but never at the expense of the eternal.

Better Way

In place of the two temptations above, I encourage pastors bracing themselves for another election year to lean toward other tendencies that will lead to a better way.

1. Get close.

If, in the noisiness of an election year, we’re to resist the tendency to go silent or to slip into worldly anxiety, we must remember this: Pastors do their best work in person. Proximity matters. Physical proximity. You don’t pastor the world from your Twitter or Facebook account. You oversee sheep for whom you will give account. Lean into the tendency to love the people you see every week and focus on their spiritual benefit.

Don’t underestimate the power of face-to-face time with church members. Too much of today’s drama arises from the refracted prism of social media, distorted by those who often get the label of being “Very Online.” The wise pastor will prioritize the needs of the “Very In-Person” rather than cater to the preferences and desires of the Very Online.

2. Remember your calling.

Go back to the heart of your ministry and your calling, especially as you buckle up for the wild ride of another election year.

Consider the long-term effects of your words and actions. Think of the long-term influence of your ministry on your congregation and your congregation’s service to your community. Don’t be swept up into the breathless, overhyped, and overheated anxieties of one cultural moment. In The Ways of Judgment, Oliver O’Donovan writes,

The church needs heralds of King Jesus. And the world needs churches that speak the truth in ways that transcend the current moment yet still intersect with it, churches whose presence proves unsettling and disturbing to the powers that be, as we ensure our earthly battles never dwarf our eternal hope.

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The church is in crisis, as is always the case. We could say this of the church in the early centuries, during the Middle Ages, in the tumultuous time of the Reformation, and in our modern era. From the days when Christians were getting drunk at the table in Corinth to the brutal extermination of Christians today at the hands of Islamic terrorists in some parts of the world, crises have been constant. Heresies strike from inside, persecutions from outside. The church is in crisis.

But we must also acknowledge the church is stable. “Upon this rock, I will build my church,” Jesus said. Like the parable he tells of the wise man, Jesus builds his house on the rock, and the gates of hell will not prevail against his people.

Yes, there will be and have been fallings away, false messiahs, heresies that ravage Jesus’s teaching, moral aberrations that harm our witness, and persecutions that sweep over the landscape. But the paradoxical truth still stands. The true church is always in crisis and is always stable. We’re in a spiritual battle whose outcome is secure.

If we focus only on the crises facing the church, we’ll retreat with a fortress mentality that makes preserving what we have the goal. We’ll make church maintenance the mission. Just hold on to what we have! If we focus only on the stability and assured outcome for the church’s future, we’ll be asleep at the wheel, unaware of specific threats that appear on the church’s horizon and unprepared to respond in appropriate ways.

Challenges and Opportunities When Christianity Is in Decline

C. S. Lewis’s sharp intellect and devotional dedication helped him put challenges to Christianity in perspective. He didn’t shy away from the challenges facing the church, but—with an evangelistic heart—he spoke to the issues of his day, confident in the enduring appeal of truth, no matter how dim things may have looked at the time.

We sometimes adopt a romanticized view of the world of our forefathers and mothers in the faith, failing to fully appreciate some of the challenges they faced head-on or the trials they experienced. Lewis wrote many of his best-loved works during the Second World War, and then he experienced along with the rest of England several years of austerity after the cataclysmic events of that war had passed. He was committed to caring for an increasingly cantankerous and ailing elderly woman. He carried heavy burdens during tumultuous times and yet remained able to see both challenges and opportunities for the church in his day.

Here’s an example: Lewis noted the decline of religion in England back in 1946. He didn’t see this religious decline as a good thing, noting that the absence of religious devotion might endanger the principles and purity expected in public life and the mutual respect and kindness that political opponents would otherwise show one another. (In other words, without Christian morals and values as norms in society, things would get more vicious.) But Lewis wasn’t a pessimist, seeing only the downside to a loss of religious affiliation. He looked deep into the darkness of that challenge until he saw a glimpse of light, an opportunity.

In other words, Lewis saw that the loss of cultural Christianity didn’t necessarily mean the loss of true Christians. Instead, the decline of religion in the West serves to bring into sharper focus the nature of conversion. One cannot simply skate along as a “Christian” in name only when the culture is fast shedding its culturally Christian trappings. The question of conversion remains. Its significance is heightened. One no longer simply “assumes” a Christian identity; one must wrestle with the implications of what it means to be a Christian. And this is a good thing.

This is just one example of Lewis recognizing with eyes wide open a problem for the church in his era while carefully looking for the opportunity that might accompany the challenge. We’d do well to follow this pattern.

Look for Opportunities in the Challenges

Wisdom requires us to recognize both that the gospel will always be opposed and that the gospel will overcome opposition. “In the world we will have trouble,” Jesus told us, but take heart, because he has overcome the world. Focus only on the trouble, and you’ll succumb to fruitless anxiety about a battle whose outcome is secure. Focus only on Jesus’s ultimate victory, and you’ll fail to engage the world in ways that require vigilance in this present moment.

Times of turbulence and shifting cultural trends give us an opportunity to recommit our lives to expanding God’s kingdom. We aim to see disciples multiplied and churches planted, as we pursue a missionary encounter with the world we’re called to reach.

That’s why we need to see the opportunities accompanying every challenge and the challenges accompanying every opportunity. What challenges make it difficult for us to follow Jesus in the 21st-century West? What opportunities accompany these challenges as we seek to spread the gospel and fortify the church of Jesus Christ? These are the questions we must always be asking, and the answers will require discernment and wisdom, grounded in hopeful realism.

______________________________

Editors’ Note: Trevin Wax will lead a microevent on “The Hope of Gospel Expansion in a Hard-to-Reach Culture” at TGC’s 2023 Conference, September 25–27, in Indianapolis. You can browse the complete list of topics and speakers. Register soon; prices increase May 11!

Brad East’s essay “Once More, Church and Culture,” published by Mere Orthodoxy, is one of the year’s most insightful. It begins with a reflection on the rise and fall of Christendom (“the name we give to Christian civilization, when society, culture, law, art, family, politics, and worship are saturated by the church’s influence and informed by its authority”) and then revisits H. Richard Niebuhr’s classic Christ and Culture, first published in 1951.

Christ and Culture

Niebuhr provided Protestants with a template for how to think about Christians relating to the surrounding culture:

• Christ Against Culture
• Christ of Culture
• Christ Above Culture
• Christ and Culture in Paradox
• Christ Transforming Culture

(For an overview of Niebuhr’s taxonomy, see my summary and critique.)

East believes this mode of evangelical Protestant thinking about the church falls short because of its presumption of the American context as normative. His critique here aligns at points with Don Carson’s revisiting of Niebuhr’s work, where Carson argued against a “one size fits all” mentality and acknowledged the Scriptures may advocate some elements in one situation and other elements in another. (What would it mean, for example, to tell beleaguered and oppressed believers in North Korea that their posture should be one of “transforming the culture?”)

Faithful Presence?

East goes on to sample other typologies of the church’s relation to culture, including James Davison Hunter’s To Change the World. There, Hunter described three unacceptable approaches—(1) Defensive Against, (2) Relevance To, and (3) Purity From—before offering a way forward: (4) Faithful Presence Within. Hunter recommends faithful presence as part of Great Commission obedience, including both affirmation and antithesis—celebrating whatever is good, true, and beautiful in the culture and subverting whatever is idolatrous.

East appreciates Hunter’s work, but he finds four major faults. Here’s my summary:

1. Not global enough—it’s too tightly tied to the American context.

2. Not historical enough—it assumes today’s secular settlement is the norm rather than the exception in church history.

3. Not broad enough—it focuses nearly exclusively on professions associated with the upper-middle class, thereby sidestepping application for the whole Christian community.

4. Not alert enough—it fails to help Christians understand where to draw lines about what institutions or professions are off limits to the Christian, thus missing subtler spheres of life where sharp contradiction is required.

Better Way Forward

East believes we can build on and extend the work of Niebuhr and Hunter and others, but only if we give up the idea of finding one “correct” type, posture, or model. Instead, he writes,

The upside of East’s work is its breadth—we can apply each mode in every possible historical and political context: premodern and postmodern, established and disestablished, privileged and persecuted. He sums up the four modes with four Rs:

1. Resistance

2. Repentance

3. Reception

4. Reform

East’s proposal takes all the strengths of the Niebuhr and Hunter taxonomies without collapsing them into a single model. He urges us to consider the appropriate ways we might implement them all, no matter the cultural conditions or historical circumstances. I especially appreciate East’s concern in finding a way forward that applies today to the church all over the world and makes sense of the choices of the church throughout history.

The whole essay is worth your time. I hope my summary of East’s analysis and argument is enough to whet your appetite.

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I recently finished Paul Kenyon’s Children of the Night: The Strange and Epic Story of Modern Romania, a gripping historical overview of the tumultuous century experienced by the country my wife hails from, the place where I once made my home.

Consider this: within the span of one century—from 1900 to 2000—Romania went from celebrating a monarchy, to sliding into a nationalist dictatorship, to fighting in WWII on the side of Germany before switching to fight on the side of the Allies, to deposing the monarch and installing a Communist regime, ending in a revolution that brought the birth pangs of freedom. From monarchy to fascism to Axis to Allies to Communism to free markets. All in one century.

My wife’s grandfather was drafted into WWII as a soldier who fought on the side of Hitler, but once the country switched allegiance, so did he, spending the last part of the war fighting on the side of the Allies—all the while despising both the remains of the Austro-Hungarian empire and the designs of the nascent Soviet Union that would darken the country by closing the drapes of the Iron Curtain. Whenever the war would come up in conversation, my wife tells me, her grandfather’s gentle, elderly exterior would fade away and he’d begin to curse, bitter at the circumstances that led to his country’s humiliation.

Paul Kenyon’s historical look at Romania begins in a familiar place, with Vlad Țepeș, the medieval leader whose legal rigidity and terrible punishments led to peace in the land, but at the cost of human decency. “Vlad the Impaler” became the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Gothic character Count Dracula, and Vlad’s residence (Bran Castle) the setting for Transylvanian horror.

From there, Kenyon’s narrative jumps forward to the 20th century, where he traces the arc of Romania’s history while featuring the personal stories and testimonies of ordinary people. In this way, the book never becomes a dry historical recitation of facts but instead helps the reader feel the promise and peril of the moment.

If there’s anyone who stands out as someone decent, whose leadership gave Romania its best opportunity at stability, it’s Queen Marie, the British-born granddaughter of Victoria, whose husband, Ferdinand, was the German-born King of Romania during WWI. Thanks to Marie’s tireless efforts in serving her people and advocating on their behalf, the territorial expansion known as Greater Romania came into existence.

Once Ferdinand is dead and Marie is only the Mother Queen, the country lurches toward the chaos of competing factions. No one is good. The evil of Corneliu Codreanu and his nationalistic zeal is cloaked in the spirituality of the Romanian Orthodox Church, until the drive for national pride and spiritual unity of the historic church are merged into a frightening picture of an evil “saint” whose cross joins with the swastika. At one point, the literal heart of the deceased Queen Marie is carried from one part of the country to another, in the same realm where Vlad Țepeș is said to be buried, as a way of tapping into the nation’s lifeblood.

By the time the Second World War arrives, Romania’s hatred of foreigners has snowballed into a vicious anti-Semitism that leads to complicity in the Holocaust. As Timothy Snyder points out in Bloodlands: Europe Between Hitler and Stalin, European public opinion made it difficult to criticize the Soviet regime without seeming to endorse fascism, and vice versa. Hitler called all his enemies “Marxists,” and Stalin called all his  “fascists.”

Kenyon is wise to keep going back to ordinary people, victims of events beyond their control, so that you get a sense of what it would have been like to live through these times. As you read about the people with power, there’s nobody to root for. Never a good option.

You may long for a stronger monarchy to bring stability and courage to the country, but the embarrassment of King Carol II and his exploits at home and abroad put to rest the notion that a king could save the nation. You might admire the nationalistic zeal of Codreanu or Ion Antonescu, but then you’re confronted with the brutality, anti-Semitism, and string of high-profile assassinations. You may think the answer to fascism will be found in the oppressed, marginal movement of their archenemies—the young Communists—only to discover that, once in power, they were every bit as bad, if not worse, than the tyrants they displaced.

The biggest monster is saved for the latter part of the book—the rise of Nicolae Ceaușescu and his horrible wife, Elena, who managed to hoodwink the Americans and the British (or at least neutralize their human rights concerns) in exchange for seeking a measure of independence from the Soviets. Their dictatorship, which grew progressively worse as the years went by, turned the bad dream of Communist rule into a nightmare of the Securitate’s authoritarian tyranny.

Throughout Kenyon’s narrative, I couldn’t help but be reminded how fragile a gift is freedom. I pondered the ethical dilemmas faced by the common people at the time—the difficulty in distinguishing truth from propaganda, having to choose between fascists or Communists (or having to simply keep your head down once the “choice” was made for you), the swings from one form of evil to another, the rapidity with which the church can be co-opted by movements that express genuine concerns as a front for accomplishing evil aims, and the dissolution of character and statesmanship among the country’s leaders. I prayed God would preserve the United States in the future from this level of turmoil.

Romania is a different country today. In the years since I lived there, it has joined the European Union and there are signs of the nation recapturing the shimmer of its glorious past. Still, the wild history of this place once called “the breadbasket of Europe” surely stands as a striking example of a people caught between competing factions, where soundness of character is in short supply, and where the true church faces the ultimate price for remaining faithful.

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We don’t get to pick our times; God does that.

We also don’t get to pick the challenges that confront the church in any given era. The culture determines the issues that require the church’s truthful witness.

We don’t have the luxury of choosing a narrow sliver of cultural space for faithful thinking and action. Jesus is Lord of all. Discipleship is never timeless. We’re to train up believers in understanding and living according to the unchanging truths of the faith, yes, but always in a way that equips them to resist the most prevalent falsehoods spreading over the world right now. Faithful Christian formation requires us to expose and counter the distortions and deceptions of our time.

A pastor friend of mine in the U.K. recently expressed astonishment at how many pastors in America never (or rarely) speak publicly about sex, gender, and identity. How can we expect the next generation to be biblically grounded if we don’t explain and expound Christian conviction about the goodness and givenness of our bodies, if we fail to offer clear and coherent answers from Scripture about the nature of humanity and our gendered selves?

What will this kind of engagement look like? How can leaders be faithful in addressing these issues?

In a recent segment about transgender controversies in Christianity Today’s podcast The Bulletin, Mike Cosper talked with Nicole Martin (chief impact officer at CT) and Madeleine Kearns, a staff writer at National Review who hails from the U.K. Their conversation juxtaposed two approaches to questions of gender and identity in the church today.

Convictional and Candid

Kearns comes at the issue directly, delineating between those who think the transgender movement is a wonderful idea that should be fully embraced and those who think we’ve turned a corner toward cultural insanity. Kearns makes clear her position: “I think this stuff is pretty insane and difficult to justify,” she says, and she mentions the various angles of debate including free speech, the purpose of medicine and treatment, the welfare of children, the safety of women-only spaces, and the legitimacy of gender-specific sports.

For Kearns, what matters most is conviction expressed candidly. Convictions about the nature and reality of biological sex will lead us to oppose certain cultural trends. In pushing for equality and against gender stereotypes, Kearns notes, some feminists in the late 20th century began to erase the reality of male/female differences (physically and socially), setting the stage for today’s debates. A decade ago, a libertarian posture toward adult transitions (“Be whatever you want to be”) seemed most prominent nationwide. Even conservatives thought it courteous and generous to adopt someone’s preferred pronouns.

But as transgender activism has become ever more demanding and aggressive, it’s now clear the bending of language serves an ideological purpose. “Compassion isn’t compassion unless it’s truthful,” Kearns says. And we mustn’t surrender plainspoken language that serves our argument about biological reality. Compassionate conversations matter, but apart from clearly stated convictions, there can be no conversation (which seems to be the goal of some transgender ideologues—to shut down any debate and shout down any dissent).

Conversational and Compassionate

In contrast, Nicole Martin says the goal right now shouldn’t be persuasion (at least not initially) but to make space for the conversation itself. Issues of identity are thorny. Martin sees the complexity in relating to a person who may “wrestle with a God-given identity, a selected identity, an identity that they feel very protective of.”

Like Kearns, Martin recognizes God’s gift of distinction and the need to honor our differences. Yet she thinks the church’s energy would be better directed elsewhere. The realization that some of the Christians involved in transgender debates weren’t at the forefront of rallying for women’s rights in the past makes her uneasy. She prefers to move from the transgender issue back to the women’s rights question more generally. And rather than taking a confrontational approach, she begins with our failures in Christian witness over the years, how “the church has silenced the voices of women” in ways that require reconciliation and healing.

Regarding sexuality and gender, Martin believes the church in the past has been better at expressing conviction than showing compassion. She realizes it’s impossible for Christians to try “sit in the middle on all issues” but notes how especially “sticky” it is to figure out how to address someone or continue a relationship with someone on the other side. In the end, she doesn’t answer Cosper’s question of what faithful witness looks like, claiming instead that “the question itself is exactly where we need to be.”

This Is Our Time

There’s plenty of overlap between Kearns and Martin here, but I’m struck by the differences in their outlooks and temperaments. Kearns focuses on convictions first and how to be direct and candid about them in conversation. Martin focuses on conversations first and the importance of showing compassion in expressing one’s convictions. Church leaders who align with Martin will have different priorities and make different choices than the ones who align with Kearns.

When it comes to this subject, I’m with Kearns. I don’t think Martin’s approach will be tenable in five (or even two) years. As is often said, you will be made to care. We may wish to change the subject, but what’s the point in discussing the failures of the church to women in the past if we’re unable to even define what a woman is in the present? And as much as we might yearn for constructive dialogue about these matters, it should be clear by now that gender activists aren’t looking for conversation. Their goal is conquest, a world in which the basic realities of human nature and existence are denied and all dissenters are viewed like the “savages” of Brave New World.

But even if the cultural opposition weren’t so fierce, I still think Kearns is right. We have a positive case to make on this issue. “The gospel should meet people at the point of their deepest confusion and at the height of their loftiest ideals,” writes Chris Brooks. What better place for the rescue of amazing grace than a world drowning in confusion, a society unmoored from embodied reality? The church offers an alternative society to this cultural dystopia because we see creation as a gift to be received, not a constraint to be cast off. That’s why, nearly a century ago, G. K. Chesterton wrote,

The Questions Are Coming

The new gender ideology has reached into all kinds of spaces and raised all sorts of questions. Just ask pastors what they’re facing. Here’s a smattering of situations I’ve heard from church leaders in just the last month.

• What’s the appropriate response of an elementary school kid in your church when the class throws a party celebrating another student’s newfound gender identity?
• How does your church support the distraught parents of a highly online teenage girl who is threatening suicide if not allowed to medically block her physical development?
• What’s your decision regarding a minor who identifies as trans and who wants to attend church camp?
• How do you instruct young people on the Bible’s teaching of sex and gender while simultaneously warning them against the dehumanizing and hateful rhetoric often deployed toward those who identify as transgender?
• How do you counsel the realtor whose livelihood is threatened because she defied a corporate order to post the transgender flag on her Facebook page? Or the church member whose job is in jeopardy because he won’t sign a statement affirming all of his company’s diversity, equality, and inclusion policies?

If we’re to truly make space for a conversation on these matters, the starting place must be our convictions about reality. All our choices must flow from those convictions. Strong convictions are the prerequisite for true conversations. And convictions and compassion aren’t in opposition. When the world is falling en masse for a bold and terrible lie, the most important and compassionate thing the church can do is uphold the courageous and irrepressible truth.

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For decades, Christians have worried about the weakening, shrinking, and decline of families. We’re in uncharted territory when large numbers of children no longer have siblings (and have fewer aunts, uncles, and cousins) or no longer live with both biological parents. Nearly 30 percent of households today consist of only one person.

In response to these trends, most pastors and church leaders devote their efforts to dealing with the fallout, looking for ways the church can strengthen families in crisis or mitigate the aftermath of family dissolution or better involve singles in ministry. The pastoral impulse to find avenues for the church to serve people in distress is vital.

But a bigger question often goes unasked: How does the decline of the family alter the way we understand the church? It’s not enough to ask how the church can address the breakdown of family relationships; we must also consider how these new challenges affect church relationships. Consider a few examples:

• How do we understand what it means to have “brothers and sisters” in Christ in a world where more and more children are born and raised without siblings? (That’s a question I’ve asked in relation to China, where the economic and demographic fallout from the disastrous one-child policy has led to a world where siblings are the exception, not the norm.)
• How do we continue to see the church as the family of God in a world where more and more people live in a household of one, especially in cities where in some congregations singles outnumber couples?
• What’s the long-term effect of homes broken by divorce on how we view God as Father?
• How does the perpetual unsettledness of mom’s or dad’s serial relationships affect a child’s understanding of God’s permanent covenant love?

No Easy Answers

These are challenging questions, in part because the situations and circumstances differ from person to person, family to family, and culture to culture. I don’t claim to have all the answers here, and I realize even asking these questions implies some family structures (husband and wife with marriage intact and the children born of their love) are closer to a universal standard. We run the risk of idealizing a particular arrangement as the norm in all places and times, when instead, for example, traditional societies often differ from the Western-style “nuclear family” by placing a higher value on the involvement of and expectations for the “extended” family.

Still, there’s no getting around these issues, because the Scriptures (1) regularly speak of the body of Christ in familial terms and (2) are shot through with marital and familial imagery. We’re right to consider how our understanding of the church is affected when long-standing family relationships (father and mother, child to parent, brother to brother) become less common.

Why Families Matter

When exceptions become the norm in family life—as family sizes get smaller and fewer children have brothers and sisters, as single-parenting becomes commonplace and divorce and remarriage expected—it becomes harder, not easier, for us to undergo the process of learning to live well in other spheres of life. Gregg Ten Elshof writes,

Unfortunately, expressive individualism often leads us to consider a person in the abstract—isolated and separated from others. The individual is the fundamental unit of society, separated from our familial and relational context. But there’s no way to strip away relationships without stripping an important aspect of humanity away at the same time. No living tree is without roots. No living person is without ancestors. We are, in the end, relational beings.

G. K. Chesterton pointed out that the power of family life lies precisely in the fact we don’t choose our companions. We must learn to deal with people who are unlike us. To revolt against the family because it’s uncongenial is to revolt against mankind.

Chesterton describes being born as “the supreme adventure,” walking into “a splendid and startling trap,” with father and mother lying in wait, an uncle there to surprise us, an aunt as a bolt out of the blue:

The family is an adventure, full of promise and peril. Adventures can go well, leading to heroic displays of virtue, and adventures can go wrong, leading to deep pain and trauma. Family life is rarely easy, and that’s precisely why the family matters for understanding our place in the world and our future.

Family Life and the Church

The adventure of family life prepares us for the adventure of living well in other spheres. By learning to relate well to parents and siblings, aunts and uncles and cousins, grandparents and great-grandparents, we develop the skills necessary for making friends, loving our neighbors, respecting those in authority over us, and, most of all, being the family of God—the church. It’s harder to discover what loving the church looks like—“a fellowship of differents” as Scot McKnight describes God’s people—until we learn to love those in our immediate and extended family.

It’s possible, of course, to make too much of the family’s importance, perhaps by freezing a particular form of the nuclear family (father, mother, 2.5 kids) as essential to human flourishing. The New Testament strikes against both individualistic excess and kinship idolization. We mustn’t forget how Jesus relativized the priority of blood relations in some shocking ways. And the apostle Paul’s high view of singleness should keep us from dismissing or diminishing people whose situations and callings are different.

Still, we cannot understate the family’s formative power. When a society’s view and experience of the family shift, we should expect the church’s self-understanding to be affected too. Ten Elshof asks,

Ten Elshof’s point is that if we’re to see church as a family, even a surrogate family, we need the majority of people to have some sort of knowledge and experience in what it means to relate to family members. “You cannot extend what you’ve not yet acquired,” he writes. Apart from learning (from your own experience or from imitating those around you) what it means to be a brother or a sister, a son or a daughter, or a father or a mother, it’ll be more challenging to be the church and to relate well to our family members in Christ.

Family Life and Secularism

We need more pastors and church leaders wrestling with the question not only of how the church can serve people today but of how family situations today affect our view of the church. We should expect our understanding of the church to be altered in a culture where fewer and fewer people grow up with siblings, or with extended relatives around, or in stable homes. This matters for the church and for society.

I don’t have all the answers here, but I think part of the answer is at least asking the question, How does the widespread dissolution of traditional family expectations, due in large part to the prevailing assumptions of individualism, affect our ability to see the church as a family and to act accordingly?

Another question follows: How does the gospel renew and restore the people of God so those who’ve never experienced healthy family life are able to take their place among new brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, children and grandchildren in Christ?

Ten years ago, Mary Eberstadt proposed a new theory of secularization. Most assume marriage and childbearing decline in Western societies after they begin to secularize, but Eberstadt claimed the decline of marriage and childbearing speeds up and causes secularization. Religion and family are in a “double helix”—two threads circling endlessly around one another, rising and falling together, joined in the middle by important connections. Family formation influences religious belief. “Family illiteracy breeds religious illiteracy,” she writes.

Perhaps at least part of the reason there’s been so much focus on the family among Christians in recent decades is the instinct that the strength of the church and the strength of the family often rise and fall together. On this point, we’ve not been wrong.

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“Keep Louisville Weird” was a bumper sticker I saw frequently the year my wife and I lived in Kentucky with our oldest son. The slogan pointed to something odd and eccentric about the city and its inhabitants; it reveled in the area’s strangeness and nonconformist impulse. Even if the campaign felt at times like it was trying too hard—as if it wanted to capture and brand the weirdness, to make it more consumable—I always liked the pride people took in the city’s personality.

Keeping a Strange Faith

The impulse to stand out, to stay strange, would serve the church well today. Too often, church leaders think the way to reach people or gain a hearing for Christianity today is to demonstrate our normalcy, to show that what we believe and how we live doesn’t fall too far afield from the mainstream. We can adapt the faith wherever necessary, especially in the area of ethics, where there seems to be a widening chasm between Christian and secular views of morality.

But Christianity’s strangeness is a feature, not a bug. Mystery is what draws us in. In a world that sees religion as just “being a good person” or a bit of spiritual inspiration for living your best life, we claim a crucified man from the first century got up out of his grave and is now King of the world, to whom everyone on earth owes allegiance.

Consider for a moment how foolish that must sound to the uninitiated. Foolish, but oddly compelling. Columnist and podcaster Ezra Klein says, “What I, as an outsider to Christianity, have always found most beautiful about it is how strange it is.”

Imagine visiting a church for the first time, with no background knowledge of anything the Bible teaches. You’d think it strange how much Christians sing about sacrifice, talk about God’s glory, or take comfort in the idea of being washed in the blood of a slaughtered animal. You’d find incredible the miracles described in the Bible. You’d raise one if not both eyebrows when you hear what Jesus teaches about money and possessions, sexuality and power. You’d marvel at the joy Christians feel at the thought of an execution stake where the worst torture takes place. Make no mistake: Christianity is strange.

I often chuckle at the following quote from classics translator, Sarah Ruden:

For 2,000 years, people have been hearing this strange and exciting “good news”—the gospel—and have found their lives transformed as a result. And the desire for everyone in the world to experience God’s forgiveness and love motivates our obedience.

Peculiar People

Many people think the whole point of religion is to find a God who affirms the general direction of our lives and doesn’t say or do anything too unexpected, a God who doesn’t ask too much of us, a God who is easygoing and empty of all mystery. And there are many who believe the way for the church to grow is to show everyone just how “in step” we are with the culture around us. If we can just show everyone that we’re not so different, that we’re not so out of step with the times, then we’ll gather more people. We just need to show people how culturally relevant God is, how common, normal, and reasonable the gospel is, and people will join us.

There’s a place for offering rational reasons to believe in Christianity, of course. God wouldn’t have us check our minds at the door of the church. But let’s not forget it’s the strangeness of God that draws us to him. It’s not because God is just like us that we want to draw near but because he’s so different, so holy, so separate, so weird. And yet this God, in all his majesty, took on flesh. What could be more astounding than what J. I. Packer described as “the babyhood of God”?

It’s not what’s normal that attracts attention but what’s abnormal, what’s strange and fresh. If we give up essential truths of the Christian faith in order to be culturally relevant, we make ourselves eternally irrelevant. We make the church boring. The world needs a church that does more than offer an echo of our own times.

Are You Strange Enough?

I realize it’s possible to seek strangeness for its own sake, to revel in the peculiarities of the faith as if they’re just a fashion statement to help us stand out from our peers. This kind of weirdness becomes just another consumeristic brand that leaves the allegiance of our hearts untouched.

In contrast, the early church writings (like the Epistle of Diognetus) describe Christians in ways that stress their strangeness and their ordinary, commonplace goodness as citizens. What’s necessary is a mix of the commonplace and the strange; only then does Christianity both stand out and remain comprehensible to the modern world.

Still, I think the bigger challenge today is that we don’t stand out enough. And so we must ask some questions.

Is there enough strangeness in your life?

Is there enough in your life that would make you compelling to the people around you who don’t follow Jesus?

Is there anything different about your life that would attract attention? How you spend your money? How you spend your time? How you live morally? How you engage the world? How you forgive?

Standing out draws attention, not fitting in. Let’s keep Christianity weird.

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I’ve seen it happen enough now that I can read the signs of the sky. “Red sky at morning,” or something like that.

I’m referring to the development of a full-blown social media hurricane, with an organization or a person lying directly in the middle of the storm’s path. Helen Andrews reflects on the phenomenon as a “shame storm,” an apt metaphor. When a typhoon is heading your way, there’s virtually nothing you can do to prevent it, stop it, or blunt its force. The most you can do is cling to whatever piece of plywood you can and brace for impact, hoping something will be left standing when the maelstrom is over.

Storms pop up on more than one platform, but the warm tropical air of Twitter seems most conducive to their formation. My friend Chris Martin says someone is the main character every day on Twitter; the point of the game is to not be it. Unfortunately, for organizations and people with influence who do the increasingly dangerous work of thinking out loud and in public, everyone is vulnerable to criticism that cascades into canceling. Within hours or days, scattered showers can become a hurricane. Here’s how it happens.

Storm Starters

It starts with scattered showers and thunderstorms.

Any reputable organization is going to get rain. Doing something of substance will attract a fair share of criticism. My former boss Eric Geiger used to say, “You can’t have buzz without noise.” Others talk about how big ships leave a big wake. Leadership books tell us, “Criticism is the cost of influence.” This goes with the territory. Say something, expect disagreement. If you’re doing something of value, expect to have arrows shot in your direction; just be strategic about which arrows you want to take, and try to avoid unforced errors.

Showers and thunderstorms can be a good thing, helping people and organizations clarify their thinking. No one gets it right all the time. Good-faith critics perform a valuable service. But Tim Urban distinguishes between criticism culture (going after an idea) and cancel culture (going after the person). In criticism culture, the point is to subject bad ideas to rigorous debate as we all seek truth together. In cancel culture, the point is to punish and excommunicate the person who holds the bad ideas so the unclean presence is expelled.

“Storm starters” are convinced a particular person or organization is so wrong or harmful as to deserve online condemnation. They’ve moved beyond critique to cancellation. The best way to chip away at the credibility of the target is to start or intensify online thunderstorms, hoping the tempest will spill out of the teapot.

Tropical Depression Phase

Over time, if enough scattered critiques converge into a narrative (promoted by the storm starters), a tropical depression will develop—a bigger storm encompassing smaller storms. Stormy weather indicates trouble, to the point some outside observers begin to wonder, If there’s smoke, there must be fire.

Most organizations and influential people face tropical depressions on a regular basis. This is when the scattered criticisms (some true, some false) are numerous enough to form a coherent narrative that diminishes the organization or person’s credibility. Even good-faith critics begin to ask questions, wondering if some of the storm starters have a point. The chorus of concern grows louder and more frequent.

Wise leaders will surround themselves with trusted friends who act as “storm spotters” to give them perspective on controversies and help them discern whether an organization is facing a squall or if the storm’s intensity is bigger, thus requiring a different response. Without such perspective, it’s easy to respond in ways out of proportion to the size of the storm. In the tropical depression phase, sometimes the organization or person in question will act differently, perhaps by adjusting decisions to alleviate the concerns of good-faith critics or by pushing back publicly against the false narratives propounded by bad-faith critics.

Institutions and individuals are vulnerable to the beatdown of rain in a tropical depression. Australian church leader Mark Sayers points to the work of Edwin Friedman, who noticed how institutions play an important social role by absorbing anxiety. In a world with healthy, well-functioning institutions, there’s a built-in respect for individuals and institutions committed to passing on wisdom, conquering challenges, and centralizing important knowledge. But in our world today, many institutions are unhealthy, many more have been devalued, and some have disappeared. Widespread cultural anxiety is the result, and the flood of anxiety sweeps everyone into tribes.

These are the atmospheric conditions for the slow-moving tropical depression that plagues institutions and individuals. The tribal impulse then leads to the next phase of the storm.

Tropical Storm Phase

Usually, something triggers the jump to a tropical storm. It may be a particular video, article, statement, controversial association, or a past position—whatever it is, the revelation seems to legitimize the concerns of critics in the tropical depression phase. The event becomes a topic of conversation, pressuring people who have ties to the person or the organization but haven’t felt any of the earlier depression’s effects to choose sides or to make clear their position.

The tropical storm’s growth is commensurate to its ability to draw other circles of influencers into its orbit. If you can tap into the energy that comes from a different online tribe or ecosystem, and if you can draw that energy into the storm, then the pressure on the organization or person gets ramped up considerably. Peer pressure begins to do its work.

The online tribe or the people in an adjacent ecosystem feel a moral obligation to join in the criticism (and may begin calling for cancellation) as a way of echoing the concerns of previous critics. The more tribes triggered, the bigger the storm becomes, to the point even good-faith actors, who may not be able to distinguish genuine problems from online manipulation or the dynamics of social media, are swept into the vortex.

Hurricane Phase

Once several storms become a megastorm, the tempest is no longer contained to the teapot of one or two social media platforms. The hurricane itself becomes the story, and the pressure increases exponentially for the organization or person in the direct line of the hurricane’s landfall.

By this time, people or organizations close to the direct hit begin to feel massive pressure. Friends flee the path of the hurricane by distancing themselves from the people or organizations in the eye of the storm. Or worse, they think the only way to survive is to become part of the storm, to add energy to the tempest to escape being a target of the hurricane’s fury.

This is when storm chasers show up. Just like bad weather is a ratings bonanza for cable news networks, an online hurricane provides an opportunity for people to weigh in with hot takes, podcast conversations, TikTok rants, and YouTube shows—breathlessly covering the controversy and raising their own profiles in the process. Social media platforms benefit from the buzz, with algorithms pointing more people to the pseudo-event. Storm chasers piggyback on the trending storm to build their brands. Others find the whole thing strangely compelling, watching the disaster unfold from the comfort of their smartphones before scrolling to some other spectacle.

During the hurricane, the storm’s intensity will include vitriolic personal attacks and the dehumanization of the storm’s target. It’s not that the person or entity in question is merely mistaken; they’re monstrous, irredeemably immoral, even disgusting. The viciousness of the hurricane undermines good-faith criticism and can sabotage any efforts at making reforms.

Hurricane intensity is assessed by wind speeds, and at least initially, it’s the wind that does the most damage. Online, most hurricanes make landfall and lose steam rather quickly. It’s the pressure from the wind, or the storm surge, that leaves people or organizations weaker than they were before, especially when the gales cause everyone in the path to bend to keep from breaking.

Human Nature and Online Storms

Social media dynamics are new in human history, but human nature is old. There’s much to learn from thinkers who watch and account for human behavior, from philosophers like René Girard and observers like Jonathan Haidt. Growing in our understanding of how these storm dynamics work is one way of approaching our use of social media with wisdom. It’s good to be aware of how the atmospheric dynamics of social media (we could call it “online climate change”!) lead to unusual behaviors—to canceling instead of critiquing, for example—because everyone acts differently when the barometric pressure changes and the storm is upon us.

Awareness, however, will not stop or prevent the hurricane. Over the years, I’ve been inside multiple organizations or close to people who have experienced online storms. I’ve never been in the direct path of a hurricane (probably only a tropical depression), but I assume if I continue to write and think out loud, my day is coming, whether it be next week or next year.

Prepare for the Next Storm

No matter when or where the next hurricane barrels through, I’m sure of this: we can decrease the intensity of these storms if (1) we resist being drawn into an online vortex full of perverse incentives and distorted dynamics, (2) we recognize “storm chasing” when it happens, and (3) people and organizations in the eye simply let the storm do its worst and then look to glean lessons and wisdom in the aftermath.

To the first point, I go back to Mark Sayers’s description of leadership as “a non-anxious presence.” Relying on Friedman, he writes,

To the second point, we should get better at seeing through opportunists who chase storms as a way of building their own brands and platforms. Keep your eyes open for the pattern, and you’ll see it (on all points of the spectrum) whenever there’s a storm.

To the third point, self-critique is good. But it’s rarely helpful to try it in the middle of the storm. The needed self-reflection should be part of the cleanup; that’s when we’re most likely to take away the appropriate lessons. It’s only after the storm—once the sun has returned and there’s a pleasant breeze instead of gale-force winds—that the weather is better suited for back-and-forth critique and good-faith disagreement, where we vigorously debate ideas instead of cancel people.

Storms require the presence of certain atmospheric conditions before they can expand from one level to the next. We can’t change the course or trajectory of storms on our own, but we can weaken their intensity and destruction if we grow in online wisdom regarding their development, if we choose instead to embody a non-anxious presence in a world of swirling anger and anxiety.

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My favorite moment in How the Grinch Stole Christmas is when the heart of the Grinch, once described as “three sizes too small,” suddenly begins to grow. The Grinch discovers the capacity to give and receive love, and as a result, joy swells along with his heart.

These days, the reverse seems to be happening in the United States. Our hearts are shrinking and shriveling, drying up before our eyes.

‘Wall Street Journal’ Survey of Values

Just look at a recent Wall Street Journal poll. The core values that once stood out among Americans as being important—morals worthy of pursuit and emulation—have receded. Over the last quarter century, the importance we attach to patriotism, religious faith, having children, and caring about the community has plummeted.

In 1998, 70 percent of respondents said patriotism was very important and 62 percent said the same about religion. Today, it’s only 38 percent and 39 percent. Having children? A drop from 59 percent to 30 percent. What about community involvement? From 62 percent to 27 percent. (One outlier: the importance we assign to money has climbed to 43 percent from 31 percent.) The biggest declines in these values appear to have occurred in the last five years.

“These differences are so dramatic, it paints a new and surprising portrait of a changing America,” says Bill McInturff, a pollster who worked on a previous survey. Indeed.

Several people sent me this article shortly after it began making the rounds online—no one surprised, everyone troubled. Now, it’s possible the methodological differences (shift from phone to online) as well as the small sample size (1,000) has affected the results here. A similar survey from Gallup likely gives a fuller picture, at least on patriotism. Still, it’s a slide into “record lows” no matter the exact percentages.

Sin and the Inward Curve

Sociologists and political theorists will point to various causes for these declines. We could blame the economic downturn, the pandemic, church scandals, political polarization, institutional distrust, or the rise of social media. And surely any and all of these factors affect the American outlook.

But from a theological perspective, what we’re witnessing is both an expression and an effect of sin.

The Christian tradition going back to Augustine describes sin as a “curving in on oneself.” Sin shrivels the soul. When, in our pride and decadence, we turn from God to self, we alienate ourselves not only from our Maker but also from those made in his image. Martin Luther noted how the deceit and corruption of the human heart (Jer. 17:9) leads us to be “so curved in upon ourselves” that our self-interest causes us to turn even spiritual goods into a way of fulfilling selfish purposes.

Effects of Sin

Close-knit communities can protect themselves from any number of outside threats. But the internal distress that comes from the soul-shriveling, inward turn of sin—that’s much harder to fix.

What the WSJ poll reveals is a curved-in expression of sin and selfishness in several areas.

• The loss of patriotism includes a loss of loyalty to anything beyond the self, a lack of gratitude for the good gifts that accompany one’s earthly citizenships, and a diminished love for one’s neighbors.
• The loss of religion implies the disappearance of transcendence or significance beyond this present moment, of something that reaches beyond our earthly horizons.
• The loss of community means we value the “freedom” that comes from being alone more than the mutual obligations that accompany deep and sustaining friendships.
• The loss of children means we no longer look to the future, no longer able or willing to endure the distractions and burdens of raising and training the next generation.

The effect of sin is loneliness, which often compounds the problem, leading to a further shriveling of the soul into the cocoon of self-focus. Dietrich Bonhoeffer pointed out how sin’s power grows:

We weren’t made to find and express ourselves, to think freedom comes from cutting ourselves off from others, as if our meaning and significance can be excavated from the deepest caverns of our hearts. We were made not to look in first but to look up to God and then around to others.

Church’s Chance

A misdirected, curved-in-upon-itself love leads to isolation, alienation, and loneliness. It stunts our humanity. It’s only when we’re drawn out of ourselves, giving away our lives in self-giving love, that we find joy in God and in others.

The WSJ survey reveals the challenges of our time. But the church can find in these dismal results an opportunity. A chance. A way to stand out and offer the world something better.

• The church can cultivate loyalty that goes even beyond the goodness of patriotism (love for one’s fellow citizens and gratitude for earthly blessings) by helping us identify with all who pledge allegiance to Jesus Christ the Lord.
• The church can cultivate a genuine concern for the community by helping us find satisfaction not in seeking to have all our needs met but in pouring ourselves out to meet the needs of others, in imitation of our Servant King.
• The church can remind us of the goodness of creation and the glory of redemption, bursting through the immanent frame that would limit our vision only to temporal realities.
• The church can foster in us a love for families and children, a desire to see the next generation carry forward the fire of God’s love and grace, adding to the number of those who confess the name of his Son.

The gospel of grace does more than simply enlarge a shriveled soul. The Spirit replaces a heart of stone with a heart of flesh. And as the Spirit works in us, we see our souls expand, our selfishness healed, our curved-in hearts turned inside out through the fullness and wholeness of loving God and neighbor.

The WSJ poll is depressing, but Christians can take heart. We have the solution in the power of the gospel and the witness of the church.

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I enjoy personality tests. Some are more helpful than others, but at their best, surveys tell you something about yourself and the people you live or work with. (I’ve discovered I’m an extrovert in a family of introverts, although the jury’s still out on our youngest!) I’m partial to the Myers-Briggs, but I’ve engaged in multiple tests over the years, at work and for fun.

The problem with personality tests, though, is we can sometimes dismiss or diminish clear biblical standards that don’t align with our self-perception.

A Christian’s Talk

Take, for instance, what James 1:19–20 says about a Christian’s talk and temperament:

In our cultural context, it’s never been easier to speak and to be heard. The internet, social media . . . all these new technologies have made it possible for us to say more things publicly than in any other time in human history, to the point some cultural observers wonder out loud, Is this even good for us? Should we be taking in this much information or putting out so many words? Were humans ever intended to speak so much?

Everything in our world makes it easy to speak quickly. There’s nothing out there designed to help you learn to listen well. The way stuff is set up online, the way people climb the ladder socially or professionally, the way people debate—everything is set up for speech. Say something! But Proverbs 17:27–28 says,

In other words, if you’re wise, you won’t talk as much. You’ll restrain your words. You won’t vent all your frustrations. You won’t say everything you feel.

Some will say, “Hey, I’m a talker! I’m just being real! That’s just my personality. I blurt things out. I just say stuff without thinking. It’s my Myers-Briggs. That’s my Enneagram number. Have you seen my StrengthsFinders? I’m just keeping it real.”

Sorry, but if you’re a Christian, that’s not what “keeping it real” means. James doesn’t say to be quick to listen and slow to speak unless you’re extroverted. Unless you’re talkative. Unless you have a big following on TikTok or Instagram. No, what he says goes for all of us.

A Christian’s Temperament

It’s not just our talk James mentions but also our temperament: “Slow to become angry.” The proverbs put talk and temperament together too: “The one who has knowledge restrains his words.” That’s talk. “One who keeps a cool head is a person of understanding.” That’s temperament.

Some of us may be prone to angry outbursts. Some of us may be prone to anger that shows up in seething, quiet resentment. Some of us may not find anger to be as big a challenge. We’re all different, yes. But make no mistake: a personality test doesn’t give you a pass on the fruit of the Spirit.

Right now, a lot of people think that if we just let loose, if we say what we feel all the time, if we tell people off, that’s going to fix it. Let me lash out on Twitter. Let me add a sick burn on a Facebook comment thread. The way we make a difference is by “shutting someone down” or “owning the libs” or whatever.

Of course, there is such a thing as righteous anger. James says slow to become angry, not never to become angry. But the temptation in our day is to baptize our anger as righteous, to justify sin in the name of justice. Samuel James writes, “Righteous people can become angry. Angry people have a very hard time being righteous.”

That’s why more than once in James 1, we’re warned about self-deception. It’s easy to think if we can just be mad enough, or if we can get people riled up, then that’s going to bring about righteousness in our lives or in society. According to James, that’s a trap. Human anger—sinful anger—doesn’t resolve our problems. It doesn’t bring about the righteousness of God.

Gregory the Great said, “Because a diseased mind has no control over its own judgment, it thinks that whatever anger suggests must be right.”

If we think our anger is usually or always righteous, we’re probably self-deceived. A diseased mind always finds an excuse for anger, assuming that anger is righteous when really we sound just like the world. We’re to be known for a different kind of talk and a different kind of temperament.

Defined by God

A personality test doesn’t define you. God does. And what’s beautiful about the biblical instruction regarding our talk and temperament is that this is one of the ways we reflect our Maker. Slow to become angry? That’s how God describes himself to Moses in Exodus 34:

Becoming more like Christ doesn’t mean becoming less ourselves. We become our truest selves when we reflect him through our personalities. This is the paradox C. S Lewis pointed out: “It is when I turn to Christ, when I give myself up to His Personality, that I first begin to have a real personality of my own.”

We should be less focused on the personality stereotype of a test or survey and more concerned that we showcase the glory and grace of God, no matter what our inclinations may be. These tests can help us see the unique ways we can bring glory to Christ, but in the end, finding myself isn’t the goal. Following Christ is what counts. That’s why we should seek to bring our personalities in line with the Spirit—so his fruit ripens in our lives in beautiful ways that exalt the Savior.

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A friend recently remarked that nearly every time I pray with my team or with others in partnership, I ask for wisdom. I hadn’t noticed the habit until he mentioned it. But he’s right. I’m constantly asking God for wisdom—for myself and for others.

Which got me thinking, Why do I pray this way? What exactly am I asking God for?

The Bible-minded run right to Solomon, which makes sense, since the king of Israel was affirmed by the Lord for desiring discernment. The Lord not only blessed Solomon with wisdom but also granted him the wealth and power he hadn’t requested.

The proverbs of Solomon link wisdom to the fear of the Lord, and in the New Testament, the brother of Jesus reminds us heavenly wisdom leads to good conduct and works done in gentleness (James 3:13). It is “pure, . . . peace-loving, gentle, compliant, full of mercy and good fruits, unwavering, without pretense” (v. 17, CSB).

Why We Need Wisdom Today

It’s not hard to see why we need wisdom these days. In his forthcoming book Digital Liturgies, Samuel James defines the essence of wisdom as “living in light of reality” and then shows how the online world can undermine wisdom by cutting us off from the world as it truly is:

We’re experiencing an epistemological crisis, wondering what’s true and how we know it to be so. Everything in our world pushes us away from cultivating habits that lead to wisdom and reflection. No wonder, then, we must pray for God to be generous with wisdom from above. We sense our need because we recognize not all the choices we make will be clear-cut or black-and-white or easily discernible decisions of faithfulness.

Patterns of Wisdom

In Uncommon Unity, Richard Lints says wisdom starts with realizing “God has made the world with certain patterns and that our flourishing rests in embracing those patterns and resisting the lure of running contrary to those patterns.” We must see things as they are. The wise don’t chafe against limitation or try to remake the world in humanity’s image. We’re to joyfully submit to the God-given patterns in creation and then seek faithfulness within finite constraints.

Of course, the acknowledgment of creational goodness must be held together with an understanding of the fall—the world isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. Biblical wisdom is “able to distinguish between the goodness of the created order and the brokenness of the created order, neither naively accepting the brokenness nor becoming cynical about the loss of goodness in the world.”

We don’t simply accept the world as it is, shrugging off injustice or succumbing to fate. To be wise is to differentiate what’s good from what’s fallen, sometimes even in the same person or pattern—rarely relegating something to one category or another completely but recognizing the complexity of a broken world in need of redemption.

The wise are usually wise everywhere, no matter the differences on the surface. They’re able to distinguish between superficial cultural elements and deep-rooted differences. They can spot underlying unity when it exists, and they also identify foundational fault lines.

Prayer and Practice

Wisdom comes through prayer and practice. “It is a learned habit,” Lints writes, “but there is no mechanical means to acquire it. . . . It is confidently humble and able to glean insights from a variety of diverse sources.”

Unfortunately, too much that passes under the banner of “discernment” these days is a narrow focus on discerning what might be bad in something. A broader and fuller understanding of discernment enables us also to discern what’s good, without adopting an openness to everything in a person or position.

The irony of casting everyone into categories of “good” or “bad” is that you no longer need to practice discernment. You wave away anyone in the “bad” category or adopt uncritically whatever comes from the “good” category. True wisdom requires us to look for truth wherever it may be found, to sift everything through the Scriptures, and to celebrate God’s goodness when we see it refracted, even through broken or shattered image-bearers.

Perhaps the greatest area of need today is wisdom combined with patience. The wise don’t rush to judgment but recognize “when a fuller story is needed to fill out the account.” We need more cold takes instead of hot ones. The wise acknowledge the need to know how the past influences the present, and they seek to interpret someone’s words or actions in the context of their circumstances, trying to understand the narrative within which someone makes sense of the world.

Need of the Hour

In the end, we pray for wisdom because we have no hope of gaining wisdom on our own. Lints writes,

Wisdom points us to the Lord, the One who gives generously and helps us better interpret our present circumstances and guide the people whom God has placed in our path.

So . . . with Solomon, and following the instruction of James, let’s keep praying for wisdom. Lord knows we need it today.

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C. S. Lewis got a lot of things right. He also got a few things wrong. And when Lewis was wrong, he was really wrong.

One of the places he was off was in how he viewed the imprecatory or “cursing” psalms, defined by Trevor Laurence as containing “a speech act that calls for, demands, requests, or expresses a wish for divine judgment and vengeance to befall an enemy, whether an individual or corporate entity.”

If you love the Psalter, and if you try the ancient Christian practice of praying through all 150 psalms every month (I have a Psalms in 30 Days prayer journey just for you!), you won’t get far before you run into prayers for God to enact justice, petitions for God to exact vengeance on the enemies of his people. Some of the psalms are primarily imprecatory in their nature, but a large number incorporate imprecatory elements—even the beloved Psalm 139 (“You have searched me and known me”), which, by the end, expresses hatred for God’s enemies. And then there’s the infamous ending to Psalm 137, which asks the Lord to dash the heads of enemy infants against the rocks.

Lewis thought these psalms “devilish,” naive, “diabolical,” given to “pettiness” and “vulgarity.” He believed their “vindictive hatred” to be contemptible—full of “festering, gloating, undisguised” passions that can in no way be “condoned or approved.” Lewis still managed to secure a pedagogical place for these ancient songs, but he ruled out of bounds for the Christian any imprecatory sentiments against human enemies.

No New Testament Shame

Christians with a high view of Scripture, who believe these psalms make up God’s inspired and inerrant Word to us, may still wonder what, if any, place these cursing psalms can have in corporate worship or personal devotion. Are they obsolete in some way? Superseded by New Testament grace? Should we still pray these psalms? If so, how?

Over the years, I’ve considered different ways of reframing or reinterpreting the imprecatory psalms, feeling the pinch of these petitions myself. But the biggest problem I run into is that I don’t see a smidge of embarrassment on behalf of Jesus or the apostles regarding these songs from Israel’s prayer book. What’s more, Jesus quotes from imprecatory psalms. It seems strange to claim that because of the coming of Christ, we should no longer sing or pray the very songs Christ had no trouble singing or praying. What’s more, the Bible ends with a book that includes petitions for God to destroy the wicked.

If I find my sentiments and sensibilities seem out of step with those of Jesus and the apostles, then I’m the one who must do the work of getting back into the world of imagination in which praying songs like this would make sense. And that’s where Trevor Laurence’s book Cursing with God is so helpful. It’s not an exaggeration to say this should become the evangelical’s go-to resource for understanding the imprecatory psalms and how to pray them. Laurence doesn’t just defend their use; he insists upon it:

What’s happening in these psalms? The petitioners are begging God to interrupt the assaults of the wicked, to vindicate the suffering righteous, and to keep his promise to enact judgment on all that would threaten the sacredness of God’s temple-kingdom.

World of the Psalms

To understand the what of the psalms, we must take our place in the same story. God created a good world as a cosmic temple for his presence. Humans were commissioned to exercise royal dominion and subdue the earth as a holy house for God. We were intended to be kings and priests who serve and guard this good world. Human beings failed at this task by disobeying God’s commandment, and yet God promised that one of Eve’s offspring would crush the head of the serpent.

The rest of the Old Testament tells the story of Israel as God’s son, a royal priesthood tasked with following God’s commands and purging evil from their midst, in anticipation of the day when “all the earth shall be filled with the glory of the LORD” (Num. 14:21). King David, as a representative of the people, was to prepare the people of God for the construction of the temple. Those who pray alongside David share the same concerns: for the glory of God’s name, the justice of God’s righteous rule, and the preservation of purity on behalf of the innocent.

Fast forward to the time of the church, and we now pray the psalms alongside Jesus, the Son of David, who alone is perfectly righteous. In him, his prayers become our prayers, and our prayers remain in line with the covenant promises of God.

Within the world of the psalms, imprecatory prayer is a means by which we, today, sing songs against the Evil One. Laurence describes it as a way of guarding the people of God and leaning forward to the day when the entire earth will be filled with his presence (and purged of evil). The cursing songs are a peaceful, petitionary participation in God’s promise to strike the seed of the serpent and restore the peace of the garden.

Praying While Waiting

Instead of seeing the imprecatory psalms as a problematic or outdated mode of praying, Laurence believes these are “the prayer-pangs of those who hunger and thirst for righteousness” (256). We pray against “violently unjust predators who prowl after and pounce upon the innocent” and “the unwarranted assaults of the wicked” that “terrorize the godly.”

The New Testament does shape our mode of praying these psalms, of course, as we no longer live in ancient Israel. And we can see how Jesus becomes the fulfillment of these prayers—both in assuming his role as the perfectly innocent king who receives vindication and in becoming the One cursed for our transgressions, bearing the weight of the world’s sin.

• In and alongside Christ, we pray for God to enact justice, rather than take vengeance into our own hands.
• We pray God would thwart the schemes of the wicked, with hopes he might exercise mercy and judgment by rescuing the evildoer from sin through repentance or by stopping the schemes that lead to injustice.
• We pray against Satan and the spiritual forces that war against us, that seek to desecrate our earthly temples by leading us to unfaithfulness.
• We even direct these prayers to our own sins, asking God to be ruthless in purging our hearts of all evil and temptation.

We pray the cursing prayers. They’re in the Psalter for a reason.

Praying for the Kingdom

Laurence claims we find an implicit commendation for imprecatory psalms in the second petition of the Lord’s Prayer. Every time we say, “Your kingdom come,” we’re pleading for the manifestation of God’s kingdom on earth. We want to see believers reflect the character of the kingdom, sinners converted to join the kingdom, and violent enemies interrupted from opposing the kingdom, as we await the day of Christ’s return.

C. S. Lewis was wrong on the imprecatory psalms, and yet every time he uttered the Lord’s Prayer, he was incorporating all the hopes and petitions of these wrathful songs, begging God to enact justice, keep his covenant, and bring about the fullness of Christ’s reign as King. And so, with the martyrs who even now cry out for vindication, we too say, “Come, Lord Jesus. Make new the world.”

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In person, he was kind, respectful, and upstanding. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the physique of this man approaching middle age. Unassuming. A friendly smile. A steady presence.

On Twitter, he was different. Under various aliases, he seethed and raged, lashing out at opponents real and imagined, uttering vile sentiments that crossed all sorts of lines. He enjoyed the rush of transgressing society’s few remaining taboos (namely, racism and misogyny), saying what no one else would say, and trolling the insufficiently “based” while calling out the cowards.

Perhaps you think I’m describing a scandal that erupted last fall, in which the headmaster of a classical Christian school was exposed as someone with a number of anonymous Twitter accounts full of sinful statements. In that case, the darkness of a troubled man who described himself as a “despairing man angry at the world” was exposed.

But this story might fit any number of men who frequent evangelical churches or are involved in evangelical institutions. In the past decade, anonymous accounts on Twitter have proliferated, often trafficking in outrageously racist or misogynistic statements under the cover of anonymity.

More than Trolls

It’s common for Twitter users to roll their eyes and say, “Don’t feed the trolls.” But the phenomenon I’m describing goes beyond trolling.

Many, if not most, trolls choose not to remain anonymous. Under their real names, they hound a few people with their contrarian takes, expressing themselves in unhealthy ways with no intention for civil dialogue or persuasive back and forth. They get a rise out of tweaking the people for whom they feel contempt. As an observer and participant on social media, I’ve encountered trollish behavior for years, from both the left and the right. (And make no mistake, trolls on the left can be just as annoying and ridiculous as those on the right.)

The kind of Anonymous Twitter I’m talking about goes beyond the typical troll. It doesn’t necessarily apply to everyone who may choose, perhaps for prudential reasons, to try out opinions under a pseudonym. The Anonymous Twitter accounts I have in mind mercilessly mock and bully anyone belonging to a despised tribe and then deploy over-the-top rhetoric that would be either personally embarrassing or professionally costly if their identities were known.

No wonder the account remains anonymous. Behind the veil, the user adopts a different persona and says the unsayable, transgressing the boundaries of genuine conversation while enjoying the thrill of nonconformity.

I’ve witnessed this long enough to wonder, What’s going on here, in the heart of someone who engages in this behavior? Why the appeal? What’s the goal?

Even more, how can the church respond? Surely the mission field includes the young men who find a measure of satisfaction in creating and sustaining these accounts. So where do we start, as missionaries with the heart of Christ, in understanding and responding to this phenomenon?

Younger Millennials and Anonymous Twitter

To dig deeper, we must consider younger millennials and Gen Zers growing up in a social-media-infused world. I say “younger millennials” because there seems to be a qualitative difference in the online mentality between older millennials like myself and those who were born 5 to 15 years after me.

I’m not a digital native. I was 19 before I opened my own email account, and I was in college overseas before I had a simple cellphone. The situation was different for many born after 1986 or 1990. Exploring the internet anonymously during the late 1990s involved conversing through message boards and forums. Expectations changed in the early 2000s, and once Facebook took off and Twitter arrived, the ability to craft online personas became easier and the practice more widespread.

Younger millennials have never known a world without the possibility of fashioning and crafting an “online identity.” It’s a crucial piece of how they imagine “being online.” Even when not anonymous, many a young man’s crucial years of “owning” his faith or political views for himself happened not in conversation or learning environments that required physical proximity but through online postings and comments. Social media gives young people a canvas on which to imagine and paint a picture of themselves. No doubt this marks a shift in how we perceive our “identities”—both online and in the real world.

Crafting Online Personas

Chris Bail’s important work on the distorting effects of social media shows we don’t just broadcast our opinions; we put on different costumes. We try out different identities. We make statements, gauge the reaction, recalibrate our next statements, watch how others respond, and eventually tailor our online presence as we consider ourselves in relation to our online community, according to the values we perceive among the people we most appreciate. Sentiments that receive affirmation from the people we care about or outrage the people we despise create a feedback loop that leads to greater polarization, as behavior that would be generally frowned upon in the real world gets applauded as “courageous” and “bold” online.

In a world with fewer and fewer boundaries, young people figuring out their identities find meaning and significance in policing tribal lines, often directing their most vicious statements toward people who are “closest” to their tribe—adjacent in some way and yet not fully in line. The most common target is the traitor, the betrayer, or the compromiser—the one who interacts with an opposing tribe, considers other perspectives, or entertains the possibility of a good point made by someone in the “despised” category.

Why does this take place? Because when your sense of identity is tied to your online portrait (and increasingly divorced from place, family, work, and church), you feel the urge to create and police boundaries so you can stabilize your own self-understanding. Anonymous Twitter accounts satisfy this urge, which is why so many fire missiles not at the opposing side but at the tribe-adjacent people no longer deemed “sound.”

True Aggression?

If Bail’s research is right, it helps explain why some men find the rush of transgressive postings irresistible. And note I say men, not women, because in my experience much of the aggression expressed in anonymous accounts comes from men.

But is it true aggression? Granted, that’s how the postings of an Anonymous Twitter account sound, but I’m not sure the rage is really heartfelt. Sometimes I wonder if the shocking statements come from a deadened, desensitized heart, as if the aggressive, vitriolic response is just a way of feeling something, anything—of trying to get the blood pumping again.

I’m not convinced the vile sentiments expressed in Anonymous Twitter are a true reflection of the person’s central identity. In a fractured and fragmented world online, nearly everyone’s identities can be seen as “in flux” in some way or another. And, because it’s never been easier to create an online persona that differs widely from who you are “in person” or who you are “in public” or at your job or church, it’s become more common for people to try on multiple identities and enjoy the feeling. It’s the split personality—digital version.

Is the author of the Anonymous Twitter account that spews racist and misogynist filth a covert racist and misogynist? Possibly. Probably. But always? Could it be this is someone who thrills at the transgression of boundaries without any perceived cost, much like a churchgoing young man harboring a secret porn addiction? Is the Anonymous Twitter user really filled with hatred toward ethnic minorities? Or is he playing “dress-up” — pretending to exhibit a bravado and twisted courage lacking in his real life?

Some of the anonymous accounts are so over the top in their campy racism and misogyny that it feels like the mirror image of the drag queen—the irreality of a person playing a part for a twisted culture of perversion. It’s a show. A performance. But the performer gets a kick out of it more than the audience.

Why Men?

I wouldn’t want anyone to assume my questions intend to excuse the behavior of Anonymous Twitter. These accounts are often abominable. But I do think it’s important to understand the phenomenon and why men, in particular, are tempted toward this behavior. Where does the appeal come from?

At some level, we must consider the flailing and fledgling missteps of manhood in our day. If you’re a minister of the gospel and you’re not asking why some men are gravitating toward books and podcasts promoting Stoicism, or the frank talk of Jordan Peterson, or the numerous “body-builder-training-types” on Instagram, or Andrew Tate (especially among teenage boys), you’re missing a major piece of a cultural puzzle right now. Men all around us are looking for a challenge, and they won’t take seriously a church that doesn’t call them to something.

If you look past what’s obviously non-Christian or appalling in many in these examples—if you can look past the lies to the deeper longings being addressed—you’ll see that much of what appears to be “calling out” for weakness is being received as a “calling up” to strength. Even if the supposed virtues are worldly and unbiblical or lack Christlike character, surely you can see that in a world that no longer regularly celebrates the contribution of men or manhood, the thirst for self-improvement and self-discipline is real and enduring.

Men need ways to channel healthy ambition, to channel the impulses to build and repair with heroic self-sacrifice and courage. And yet, too often we divvy up certain virtues (and even the fruit of the Spirit) into characteristically “masculine” or “feminine” categories, thus leaving us all impoverished and deformed in character. Or we go the other way and flatten out into “sameness” men and women’s expression of virtues and fruit of the Spirit, so we no longer recognize the distinctive ways in which women exhibit strength and valor or the distinctive ways men express kindness and gentleness.

All across the spectrum, you find commentators chattering away about the crisis of manhood in the wake of gender confusion, the denigration and disparagement of men traditionally involved in “men’s work,” and the quest for significance and identity among men who seem to be lost and demoralized in our strange new world. No wonder some young people prefer the “manhood pretenders” of Andrew Tate or the manners-defying conduct of being brash and abrasive. It’s about the fight!

This spasm of outrage we so often see online is connected to a lack of significance among young men and a lack of male meaning. Life hasn’t turned out as expected. The future looks bleak. And when some men feel something is wrong, they dull the pain through self-satisfaction, try to break out of the destructive cycle through excessive self-discipline, or are seduced by the promise of Anonymous Twitter, where they deploy guerrilla warfare tactics as foot soldiers for the “heroic” generals who wage war in public.

Some may defend their use of anonymity as protection against being “canceled” or as a fight for free speech. But the notion that all of us all of the time need a global platform on which to broadcast whatever opinion we have (and without consequences) only makes sense in a world with sentiments and sensibilities deeply formed by online culture. It’s far more likely that a man who engages in this behavior will succumb to social media’s perverse incentives and harm his soul than that his witty retorts will have an effect on society.

What’s more, the battle becomes a substitute for community, a way of compensating for offline relationships where in the past all sorts of far-flung thoughts were shared, discussed, refined, and corrected. Without face-to-face friendships, self-broadcasting steps into the void.

Online, you can adopt a “manly” and “macho” persona that drips with bravado and “courage” (never mind the question of how it’s possible to be courageous while remaining anonymous!). You can say things that shock and provoke. And even if no one reacts, you receive the thrill of transgressing the cultural boundary. You get the initial satisfaction of saying the awful thing, calling names, and belittling and bullying others, all as a mask for your own insecurity and inadequacy. You can appear strong, even as you struggle with your weight. Magnetic, even as you struggle in your marriage. Free, even as you feel trapped by a job that doesn’t give you the chance to build anything.

There’s also the adrenalin rush of treating Twitter like a video game—of seeing what content will fit the algorithm and win clout. You may not feel like you’re winning at life, but you can win at Twitter.

Reaching the Lost Boys

The church isn’t to blame for the sinful actions of men on social media. But the church cannot be blind to some of the reasons these sins are so seductive.

These aren’t real men but boys—lost boys who have returned to the middle-school locker room to brag about their exploits and assert their dominance, all from a desire to make a mark on the world in a way that hides their sense of inner powerlessness. It’s the tantrum of a little boy who despairs at a world that will not bend to his desires and who has given up the desire to master his urges and exhibit self-control.

And this is part of our mission field. The causes that lead some men to this kind of behavior are part of the environment in which we’re called to be faithful. The response to Anonymous Twitter is a church where men can know and be known, where an exhilarating vision—the mountaintop summit of Christlikeness—and a desire not for moral mediocrity but moral majesty through the power of the Spirit is God’s call on our lives. We inhabit a spiritual battlefield with epic stakes. Unless we grasp and promote a vision of men of substance, we’ll see more seduced by Neverland, where the lost boys never grow up but become the shadows of Anonymous Twitter.

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You probably don’t have a photographic memory, able to quickly recall the precise words on a particular page of something you’ve read only once. Few are the readers with such a gift.

You may feel like you don’t even have a good nonphotographic memory. You can’t remember the names of main characters or the major plot points in the book of fiction you plowed through last summer on vacation. You can’t remember most, if any, of the principles in a Christian living book you read over the holidays, except for the main point (which you could pretty much glean from the title!). You can’t remember anything but the general topic of a book of accessible theology you studied with a church group in the fall.

If you can’t remember most of what you read, why even bother? Aren’t there better ways to use your time?

Power of the 1 Percent

In 1981, a young John Piper sought to encourage Sunday school teachers in his congregation who felt a sense of “quantitative hopelessness” when considering the one measly hour they get with children who watch countless hours of TV every week. Piper urged them not to overlook the value of a holy encounter, “the immeasurable moment” and the “lasting, transforming power of an insight.”

Piper used reading as an example: “I do not remember 99 percent of what I read,” he told them. “I don’t remember books whole.” He then went on to say,

Remembering everything you read isn’t the point. The power of a well-crafted sentence that wows the reader with insight is the blessing that, Piper says, makes the other 99 percent of reading worth suffering through. But I think we ought to also consider the effects of the other 99 percent of reading, even if you don’t come across a new insight that changes your life.

Power of the Other 99 Percent

Sometimes pastors feel discouraged when most of their congregation can’t remember the main points of Sunday’s sermon. But is remembering the outline the goal? Even if just one insight or statement or story stood out to a church member, doesn’t that make the sermon memorable?

Furthermore, should we think the parts of the sermon a church member doesn’t remember have no formative effect on the congregation? Surely the “forgettable” parts still matter. How the pastor treats the text—carefully explaining its meaning, adorning it with good illustrations, seeing it in light of the wider world of Christian teaching, driving toward an encounter with God—all these practices shape the listener in imperceptible ways.

The same is true for books you don’t remember. Austin Carty says “uploading information to our brains is not the main reason for reading,” and he turns to a brilliant analogy to make the point: the filters on your phone’s photo app. Older phones had only the image and nothing more, no other lens to see it through. But the variety of filters now available allow you to see the image in ways that draw out its richness. Carty writes,

C. S. Lewis made a similar point about reading and how it expands our vision and understanding:

This Is Why You Read

Remembering everything you read isn’t the point.

Yes, you can read with the hope of encountering one sentence that strikes you with insight and changes your life. But encountering all the other paragraphs and chapters that don’t stand out still shapes and forms your outlook, in ways you don’t see or fully comprehend.

The effects of reading go far beyond the details you remember or the sentences you highlight. Reading enhances your filter, giving you knowledge and insight that will reverberate in your mind in ways you can’t perceive, offering a measure of wisdom and breadth you wouldn’t otherwise have.

That’s why you read. And why even the books you can’t remember still matter.

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In debates over sexual ethics today, whenever longstanding positions are challenged, some say, “The creeds don’t speak to this.” Or “This issue is separate from our confession of faith.” Or “Theological affirmations are one thing, but ethical pronouncements are another.”

In The Thrill of Orthodoxy, I point out the ahistorical nature of this minimalist approach to the creeds, arguing instead for a robust look at the implications of what we confess, including ethics. The church fathers would find it strange to hear people pointing to the “silence” of the creeds as a license to implement massive revisions in morality. It’s impossible to completely sever orthodoxy from ethics.

Obeying Your Confession

But there’s additional biblical support for tying orthodoxy to ethics. The New Testament sometimes speaks of the gospel as something we “obey” (2 Thess. 1:8; 1 Pet. 4:17). And in 2 Corinthians 9:13, Paul praises the early believers for their generosity, describing their good deeds as “obedience to [their] confession in the gospel of Christ” (NET). The phrase can also be translated as “the obedience that accompanies your confession of the gospel of Christ” (NIV) or “your submission that comes from your confession” (ESV) or just “obedient confession of the gospel of Christ” (CSB).

Regardless of your translation choice, it’s clear that obedience and confession are linked. Generosity evidences the seriousness with which we take our confession of faith.

Now, we’d be overstating it to say “confession” in this passage refers to a “confession of faith”—something specific, similar to a later creed or doctrinal statement developed after years of debate and clarification. But the point still stands: confessing the truth of the gospel implies obedience. When we confess the truth about Jesus—claiming he is Messiah and Lord—we are, by implication, submitting our lives to his rule. If the confession is true, allegiance follows.

People of the Way

This is why recurring debates over whether or not we can trust Jesus as Savior without bowing to him as Lord are misguided. True faith is demonstrated not in mere assent to certain truths about Jesus but in personal trust that results in practical obedience.

We confess Jesus as the Way, the Truth, and the Life (John 14:6). Don’t miss the implication. The truth of Christ is tied to a way of Christlike life. No wonder the early Christians were known as The Way (Acts 9:2; 19:9, 23; 22:4; 24:14, 22) and Peter described Christianity as “the way of truth” (2 Pet. 2:2). One of the earliest Christian catechisms was called “The Two Ways,” made up primarily of ethical instruction. Confessing the gospel prompts obedience and directs us to a certain kind of life. Doctrine and practice reinforce each other.

When we confess our faith in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, we acknowledge the handiwork of the Creator in rightly ordering his creation. When we confess our faith in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, we commit ourselves to his way. When we confess our faith in the Holy Spirit, the Lord and giver of life, we rely on his illumination as we seek to bring our lives in line with holiness.

To confess Jesus Christ as Lord leads to action, a generous heart that extends into practice. Pure religion, James tells us, is to keep oneself unstained by the world and visit the fatherless and widows in their distress (James 1:27). Confession implies conduct. Charles Simeon urged “universal support” for good works that “adorn the doctrine of God our Savior.”

On a similar note, Carl Henry wrote,

Ethics of Generosity

The most heated controversies today revolve around sexual ethics. Can we claim to follow Christ and disregard or revise New Testament teaching on sexuality? Those who stand with the unchanging witness of the church say “Never.”

But the passages we just looked at should challenge us in other areas. We cannot consider orthodoxy as something separate from neighbor-love or the radical generosity required of believers. We shrink the ethical sphere if we try to exclude sexuality (as some revisionists do), but we also shrink the ethical sphere if we think of faithfulness almost exclusively in terms of sexuality when Paul linked confession to charity and James described pure and undefiled religion in a way that includes radical generosity.

So what does it mean to confess Jesus as Lord? Much more than merely stacking divine titles or uttering the right words about his identity. It implies our bending the knee to the majesty of the Name we confess and bringing our life in line with his truth.

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If you’re like me, when you pray spontaneously, you push past the preliminaries and get right to your needs. “Lord, I need you for this. . . . Lord, can you help me with that?”

There’s nothing wrong with going right to your need. The urgent petition acknowledges your dependence on God. You’re not thinking of God correctly if you see him as a distant king with arms crossed because you’ve not yet bowed or curtsied your way into his presence. He may be king, but he’s also your father. And he delights in hearing and answering his children, whether or not you’ve followed the “proper protocol” in addressing his majesty.

That said, we shouldn’t overlook the power of praise in our prayers. There are good reasons why it’s best to begin our prayer times by magnifying and extolling the glory of God. Jesus himself gave us this pattern when he told us to pray first for the name of our Father to be hallowed (Matt. 6:9). Likewise, the psalms combine petition and praise, as the writer often bounces back and forth from singing praise and then asking for assistance.

Praise That Declares and Distances

J. I. Packer and Carolyn Nystrom’s book Praying points out how praise is an important aspect of our prayer life, not simply because God delights in our praise as a fragrant offering but also because of what the act of praising God does for us. They say praise both “declares” and “distances.”

First, when we praise God, we declare who he is and the relationship we have with him. We don’t praise ourselves. We praise our Maker. So every time we praise God, we’re saying, through prayer and song, “You are God, and we are not.” Or, as the psalmist says it, “The LORD is God. He made us, and we are his” (Ps. 100:3).

Second, when we praise God, we distance ourselves from him even as (paradoxically) we enter his presence. Yes, there are times we’ll rush into the throne room to plead for assistance from our Father, but the regular act of bowing—of recognizing God’s majesty—drives home the reality that we stand in the presence of a King. Even when he’s close, we stand at a distance. By praising his majesty, we remind ourselves of how far he is above us.

Packer and Nystrom claim Psalm 95 as a classic example of this function of praise. The psalm celebrates the work of God in creation and then invites us to draw near to this God in humility.

Joy of Praise

We don’t praise God because he needs our affirmation. We praise God because he commands it for our own joy. C. S. Lewis made this point famously when he showed how praising something we enjoy not only expresses but completes the enjoyment. God’s desire for praise is not an act of selfish pride but of self-giving love.

We praise God because he’s worthy and because we receive the joy of basking in his greatness. When the King gives us an audience, we receive the benefit of his presence. It’s not in minimizing the distance of God’s glory and greatness that helps us feel his closeness but in feeling the awe and wonder of his presence with us even as he is so great a God. We’re thunderstruck not when we lower God to our level but when God condescends—comes near—while retaining all of his glorious Other-ness. Packer and Nystrom put it this way:

I like how the hymn “Come, Thou Fount” asks God to “tune my heart to sing Thy grace.” It’s the “streams of mercy never ceasing” that “call for songs of loudest praise.” We ask God to tune our hearts and, in prayer, praising his majesty is one of the primary ways our heartstrings get retuned. We declare his God-ness and goodness, and we’re reminded of the distance between us and the God who draws near.

Don’t let your heart song get out of tune by rushing to petition. Make room in your prayers for resounding praise.

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Maybe I’m just a legal nerd, but I enjoy listening on occasion to oral arguments before the Supreme Court.

The habit began with listening to Supreme Court cases in summary form on the Legal Docket segment every Monday on the podcast The World and Everything in It. (If you listen every Monday, you’ll get Mary Reichard’s coverage of every case heard by the Court each year. Start here!) Whenever a case piques my interest, I check out summaries from different perspectives on the SCOTUS blog, sometimes listen to commentary on the Advisory Opinions podcast, and every now and then download the oral arguments so I can listen in.

You might think only the cases that deal with abortion or religious liberty would interest me, but I find that’s not the case. I even enjoy the more obscure debates. Why the appeal?

Good Arguing

Even though I’m not a law student, nor do I have any legal experience, I’m intrigued by the discussion. The Supreme Court is one of the last places in society where you can find strong, civil debate on thorny questions. Where else do you find powerful points and counterpoints presented in civility by people at the top of their game? Where else do you hear arguments from people who know their cases inside and out and seek to persuade the justices so their position might prevail?

No case arrives at the Court unless there’s a split in the circuit courts. Only the most perplexing issues get debated, often with far-reaching implications for society. Listening to the arguments can help you develop a deeper understanding of the legal principles at play and the reasoning behind each side’s position.

Tough Calls and the Art of Persuasion

Many of the high-profile cases fall along philosophical lines (with the conservative-leaning justices on one side and the liberal-leaning justices on the other), but plenty of cases split in interesting ways. Not all outcomes follow the same pattern, especially when the issues involved aren’t at the center of culture-war politics.

Not long ago, I listened to the arguments over “fair use” laws, with Andy Warhol and Prince at the center of controversy. Both sides made a compelling case about what constitutes fair use, how to protect commentary on artistic works, and how we should define the transformation of art. The points and counterpoints were so strong I couldn’t help but be glad I’m not having to make the call!

I enjoy the back-and-forth of oral arguments because of the intellectual stimulation of hearing people make strong cases for their point of view, yet always doing so civilly and respectfully. It’s a masterclass in the art of persuasion. Listen long enough and you’ll start to notice the various strategies lawyers use to influence the Court: appealing to precedent, highlighting the broader implications of a ruling, and presenting compelling facts and evidence.

A World of Bad Debate

Unfortunately, it seems there are fewer and fewer places where one gets this kind of robust and respectful debate.

Jonathan Haidt has shown we rarely make judgments based solely on reason; usually, we make snap judgments and then look for rational justification for why we feel the way we feel.

Alasdair MacIntyre has described our society as enthralled by emotivism, defined as “the doctrine that all evaluative judgments and more specifically all moral judgments are nothing but expressions of preference, expressions of attitude or feeling, insofar as they are moral or evaluative in character.” No wonder it’s so rare to find good argumentation on Twitter or civil back-and-forth on Facebook—these are forums that confuse emoting with arguing and that devolve into endless quarrels.

Listening to Supreme Court oral arguments, especially cases I’ve only recently become aware of (or ones where I don’t have strong feelings about the outcome), can be a beneficial exercise because I feel the force of both a point and counterpoint. Listening to the justices and the questions they ask, the way they push and probe and press on the arguments, testing the weak points and providing pushback—it’s a terrific way of sharpening your mind, testing your assumptions and biases, and learning strong and weak ways of reasoning.

Points and Counterpoints

I love a good debate. It’s why I enjoy the point-counterpoint books put out by evangelical publishers. A recent example is Zondervan’s Christ in the Old Testament, which includes five views of how we should read the Old Testament as Christian Scripture in light of Christ. Reading that volume didn’t resolve all my questions and concerns about various interpretive approaches, but it did help me see some of the pitfalls and dangers in the debate. Even if my position lines up closest to just one of the contributors, my respect for the other positions went up because I can see what they’re trying to safeguard or protect, even if I may not think their approach is best.

We need more forums where robust debate can take place. That’s why I recommend occasionally listening to oral arguments—not because you need a crash course in legal disputes or a civics lesson in how our government works (although these are benefits), but because it’s a place where you encounter experts in the field making the strongest case they can and then responding as well as possible to the counterpoints that might arise. Look up some of the key legal terms you hear. Enjoy the satisfaction of legal jousting. Sharpen your mind and widen your perspective. It’s a mental workout you won’t regret.

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There are two tendencies right now in our society when it comes to highly regarded theologians from the past.

The first is hagiography—to crown heroes with halos and look at forefathers and mothers in the faith through a fuzzy lens that airbrushes their mistakes, sins, and evils, leaving the impression their insights and achievements outweigh any nitpicky “flaws” today’s historian might point out.

The second is the cancel-culture impulse to write off anyone from the past whose views or actions are now deemed “problematic” and wave away any appeal to what could be helpful or beneficial in their work because their sins discredit or cancel out any goodness or virtue.

Neither of these tendencies serves the church well. Neither reckons sufficiently with what the Bible teaches about the nature of humanity or the parasitical nature of sin’s intertwinement with goodness or the unevenness of sanctification. Both tendencies need a larger dose of complexity. The problem is, in a world that swings from simplistic hagiography to the quick rush to cancel heroes, we wind up treating theologians the same—either writing them off immediately and minimizing their contributions or embracing their contributions uncritically and minimizing their sin. We can do better.

We can either look down on past theologians for their sins or we can look deeper. Looking deeper requires us to consider different kinds of sin, how those sins might affect the outlook of the theologian, and what treasures we may still receive, with wisdom and discernment, from flawed forebears.

The Karl Barth Dilemma

It was a jarring experience for me a couple years ago to encounter Christiane Tietz’s extraordinary biography of Karl Barth at the same time as I was reading books on how most of the church fathers approached the task of theology.

Barth is perhaps the most influential Christian theologian of the last century, rivaled only by Joseph Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI). And yet as hidden aspects of Barth’s life have come into the light, we now know he lived in an adulterous relationship with his assistant, Charlotte von Kirschbaum, and even arranged his living conditions around this sin, to the detriment of his wife, Nelly. What’s worse, he made twisted and bizarre theological justifications for persisting in unfaithfulness.

Samuel Parkison recently tackled this dilemma head-on, asking how it even makes sense to say something like “It’s a shame he was an adulterous and unfaithful husband, but he sure was a great theologian and a gift to the church.” Parkison has read and agrees with the church fathers on the role of virtue in the life of a theologian, that “high-handed and habitual unfaithfulness” cannot help but negatively influence one’s theology. Gregory of Nazianzus claimed personal piety was essential to the task of theology; only the pure in heart can take in the brilliant brightness of God. Theology isn’t an abstract, purely academic exercise. Even Barth acknowledged this reality in a letter in which he wondered how his and Kirschbaum’s sinful “experience” might affect his theological ruminations.

Theologians and Purity of Heart

Should we require moral uprightness from scholars in the past? Is there anything we can learn from theologians whose lives frequently fell abominably short of biblical fidelity?

If instead of looking down on the past we look deeper, we can agree with the church fathers and uphold a high standard of an “ever-increasing purity of heart” among those who seek to plumb the depths of God’s mysteries. At the same time, we can consider how biography shapes theology and how theologizing is always in some way affected by sin.

The answer isn’t to cordon off issues of personal holiness as if we do theology as an Enlightenment systematician or scientist. Our character makes a difference in how we theologize, interpret Scripture, or make applications. The church fathers were right: we’re wise to pay attention to how the presence of persistent sin affects the way we think of God.

Right now, many believers shy away from considering how one’s theology is affected by sin, because this raises all sorts of uncomfortable questions regarding theologians from the past (especially those implicated in various forms of white supremacy). In reaction to a cancel-culture mentality that’s often too quick to dismiss our forebears in uncritical “all or nothing” terms, we might find it easier to slip into the Enlightenment mode of keeping academic study and personal piety separate than to heed the premodern church fathers on this matter.

This is the wrong move. No, I’m not advocating cancel culture for important theologians, not even Barth. Instead, we ought to think more carefully and critically about how the sins of influential theologians may have negatively affected their theological reasoning and conclusions. As historian David Steinmetz said, “The study of history gives the church freedom vis-à-vis its past: freedom to appropriate past wisdom, when it can, and overcome its faithlessness and sin, when it must.”

3 Types of Sinful Theologians

To this end, we should delineate between different types of sinfulness. Some Christians resist this idea, preferring to think of all sins as the same since any sin—large or small—separates us from God.

But the Christian tradition has always held some sins are “more heinous in the sight of God than others,” as the Westminster Larger Catechism says (Question 151).

Sins can be aggravated in circumstances when the sinful person is older and seen as an example, or when the sins are more directly blasphemous toward God, or when the sin breaks out of its conception in the heart and becomes a series of scandalous words and actions without repentance. The Catechism also mentions sins against nature, going against conscience, and the deliberate and presumptuous breaking of vows.

In light of this discussion, we see different variations of sin among past theologians.

1. Willful Rebellion

We start with Barth, who belongs to the category of theologians who persisted in willful sin knowing it to be sin. Paul Tillich would be in this category as well—a man whose extramarital exploits were renowned even in his day. These are the most egregious examples of sin, when a theologian engages in illicit activity in a habitual way and doesn’t appear interested in repentance or restoration.

2. Culpable Blindness

A second category would include pastors and theologians who in varying degrees were complicit in sins, evils, and injustices of their times. Their sin was the result of culpable blindness. Martin Luther’s anti-Semitic views and writings would fit here, as well as Jonathan Edwards’s defense of and involvement with slavery (even as he condemned the slave trade!). Ironically, in these cases, both Edwards and Luther would urge us not to remove or reduce their moral accountability. They would insist that even if they didn’t see their sin as such (and were, in this sense, spiritually blind), they were still culpable for that state of blindness because often there are truths the heart doesn’t want to see.

3. Sinful Struggle

A third category would include theologians whose lives were marked by sinful struggle, and yet they were known to be striving against sin, confessing their sin within the context of the church, and seeking to turn from sin even as they sometimes fell backward. We shouldn’t minimize sin in any form, as it always negatively affects our lives and the lives of those around us. But in this case, the desire of the theologian is to reject sin and be free from it. Read the confessions of some of the Puritan writers or, further back, Anselm or Augustine, and you see a striving for holiness amid the muck of this fallen world. Yes, sin remains. But the theologian seeks to grow in Christlikeness.

Complicating the Categories

I admit the categories I’ve supplied have several limitations. First, we tend to “freeze” a person at a particular point in time, when there can be movement away from or toward sin over time. Willful rebellion in one season can turn into sinful struggle in another, with sprouts of repentance breaking through the barren ground. On the other hand, culpable blindness can harden into willful rebellion, especially when there were those who called out a theologian for complicity in injustice.

Second, even if we agree willful rebellion is perhaps the most serious and egregious category, the effects of theologians in the culpable blindness category can be just as devastating and sometimes worse (think of the Nazi appeals to Luther in the years leading up to the Second World War, or later American theologians who continued the evil of slavery in the wake of Edwards). The third category, however, probably describes the majority of theologians—those who fall short of purity of heart and yet struggle against sin, in agreement with God and his Word.

Third, the sins we believe “instantly disqualifying” often depend not on the Scriptures but on how we read the Scriptures, as conditioned by our culture and times. (Consider why some African Christians believe getting a tattoo to be a more serious offense than adultery!) Many biblical characters—Noah, Abraham, Moses, David, Solomon, Jonah—provide windows into both egregious sin and glorious salvation.

On occasion, some pastors and theologians, while not perfect, live in ways that beautifully match their theology. The ancient church often called them “saints,” and even in traditions without official “sainthood,” we recognize when the beauty and glory of a person’s life corresponds to their confession of faith and theological study. As a general rule, we have good reason to see as more trustworthy the theological musings of someone whose life is marked by godliness, both in the personal and public spheres.

Ask Deeper Questions

Treating theologians as “all or nothing” isn’t the way to go. It’s not wise to tar and feather past theologians or uncritically embrace them. Sinful forebears still have something to teach us.

The impulse on social media is to put everyone in quick and easy boxes so we know instantly who the “heroes” and “villains” are, but real life is gloriously complicated. Some of those we might call “villainous” had heroic traits of virtue, while those we might call “heroes” had villainous streaks of sin.

Instead, looking deeper requires us to carefully reckon with sin’s distorting effects in the theological outlook of past theologians. Onsi Kamel recommends we “look at the specific loci of thought and the particular sin, and then investigate in particular how the thought was noticeably impacted by the sin. And then discount or warn about or treat carefully those dimensions of thought.”

We should wonder . . .

How did Luther’s vicious anti-Semitism affect his approach to the Old Testament? Did his view of the Jews shape his sharp distinctions between law and gospel or his two-kingdoms approach to society?

How did Edwards’s slaveholding affect his understanding of mercy and justice? How did it alter the way he understood the Bible or his view of God? How did it shape his view of how society is to be ordered or his doctrine of humanity? Does the fact Edwards’s son became an ardent abolitionist complicate these questions?

How might Barth’s adultery have influenced his views on sin and grace? Did his willful rebellion and theological gymnastics diminish his understanding of God’s judgment? Did they play a part in some of his semi-universalistic musings?

Sanctification is often uneven, and I understand if this article complicates the issue and stirs up more questions than answers. That’s why we need more debate about past theologians, not less. More complexity, not simplistic answers. Truth isn’t served by hagiography or exalted biographical sketches that minimize the sins of theologians from the past. Neither is truth served by the impulse to see only the sins and not the signs of sanctification in the lives of influential thinkers.

We’re better off acknowledging the complexity of the human condition, recognizing where even the most respected theologians may have harbored sins or blindness that affected their theological vision, and then recommitting ourselves to seek the holiness without which we cannot see the God we long to study and adore.

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Something momentous happened this week.

The Global South Fellowship of Anglican Churches (GSFA) announced they no longer recognize the authority of the Archbishop of Canterbury as “first among equals.” What’s more, they say that in adopting “innovation in the liturgies of the Church and her pastoral practice” in order to bless same-sex sexual relationships, the Church of England has “departed from the historic faith passed down from the Apostles” and has thus “disqualified herself” from leading the Anglican Communion.

In choosing to move closer to the wishes of politicians and revisionist church leaders in the United Kingdom, the Church of England has signaled that her desire to stay as a “wife” to the state is greater than her desire to remain a “mother” to the worldwide Anglican Communion. Perhaps the fear of disestablishment and divorce from the state is greater than the fear of losing “the kids.”

But here’s what’s strange. If you read the headlines or peruse the news articles or listen to Church of England leaders who have promoted revisionist teaching, you get the impression it’s those pesky, stubborn African bishops who have chosen schism rather than “unity.” Everyone else just wants peace, to walk together in love. It’s the Global South that refuses to just “agree to disagree” and “maintain the bond of the unity.” It’s unfortunate, sad really—this schismatic impulse of those who pull away.

But this take is backward.

First of all, the Church of England and the other churches associated with the Anglican Communion that have adopted revisionist theologies in line with the sexual revolution make up a tiny proportion of the Anglicans who worship every Sunday around the world. The vast majority of today’s Anglicans are represented by the Global South and by theologically orthodox provinces. It’s not Africa that represents a small segment of the worldwide church breaking away; it’s the revisionists who are splintering off from the whole.

Second, bishops and priests in the Anglican Communion take vows to defend and promote official church teaching as expressed in the Thiry-nine Articles, the Book of Common Prayer, the Ordinal and the Book of Homilies, and more recently, the Lambeth Resolution 1.10 in the 1998 Lambeth Conference, which preserves the traditional teaching of Scripture and the church related to marriage and sexuality.

What does it mean, then, for bishops to deliberately defy these teachings upheld by the worldwide Communion or to advocate for positions that go against what they vowed to teach? Who is schismatic? The bishops and priests who remain faithful to their vows to promote biblical teaching or those who change the practice and then expect everyone else to ignore, downplay, or be OK with such doctrinal deviations? Certainly it’s not the Global South but the bishops and priests who, against their vows, introduce errors and heterodoxy and then expect everyone else to accept it and remain in full communion.

Third, when a group of people is walking together down a path and several depart from the group and begin to take a different path, how does it make sense for those walking in a new direction to chastise the main group for their “divisiveness”? And yet that’s exactly what we see today. All the language about “walking together” obscures the reality that some have walked off. It’s as if those who walk away now wag the finger at the bigger group, saying, “Why don’t you want to walk together anymore?”

Once again, who is the schismatic? Who has changed here? Who has walked off? Not the vast majority of Anglicans across the world but the shrinking subset of predominantly white churches who have adapted their policies in line with the state’s institutionalization of the sexual revolution’s revision of marriage. It makes no sense to label as “schismatic” the bishops and churches that remain in line with every Christian in history until just decades ago.

Coverage of these disputes often seems to lay blame for schism at the feet of those who uphold Christianity’s historic sexual ethic instead of those who advocate for a sexual revisionism that would have been unfathomable to the generations of the Christians who came before us and, even today, shocks the consciences of the vast majority of Christians outside the West. Only in Western cultures do we call churches “affirming.” Outside the West, the term is “apostate.”

Theologian Wolfhart Pannenberg’s analysis in the late 1990s was prescient:

This is schism brought about by those whose “cheap grace” is employed as justification for sexual immorality—the sort of situation the brother of Jesus warned against (Jude 4), which means that defending the faith (Jude 3) in this context is about the church’s moral witness to the sexual ethic handed down by Jesus and the apostles.

This isn’t about fundamentalist division. It’s about faithfulness in doctrine and fidelity to Christ. Don’t blame faithful Christians who cannot “walk together” with those who walk away from the faith “once for all delivered to the saints.”

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You’ve heard the news of spiritual awakening at Asbury University: an ordinary chapel turned into an ongoing service of praise and worship, confession of sin, and celebration of salvation, and has now garnered attention from all over the country and sparked similar stirrings of spiritual intensity in other colleges and universities.

Earlier this week when I saw clips from Cedarville University (where my son is a freshman) and heard of the evangelistic teams canvassing state universities in Ohio and Michigan, I couldn’t hold back the tears.

Is This Revival?

Asbury Theological Seminary president Timothy Tennent hesitates to call this “revival.” He writes, “Only if we see lasting transformation which shakes the comfortable foundations of the church and truly brings us all to a new and deeper place can we look back, in hindsight and say ‘yes, this has been a revival.’” Time will tell.

Yet there’s no doubt we’re witnessing something unusual, the intensification of God’s power demonstrated in Word and in worship, renewing hearts and lives.

It shouldn’t surprise us to see a work of God begin with college students. In 1802 at Yale College, a spiritual movement began with such power that more than a third of the student body professed faith in Christ. “The whole college was shaken,” wrote a freshman there. “It seemed for a time as if the whole mass of the students would press into the kingdom. It was the Lord’s doing, and marvelous in all eyes. Oh, what a blessed change!”

When Awakenings Happen

Whenever the Spirit of God gives God’s people a renewed sense of God’s presence—that compelling combination when we stand in awe of God’s majesty and feel overwhelmed by his love—we see multiple responses.

First, things get messy. When the Breath of God comes upon a place palpably, there are often unusual responses—whether intensified periods of prayer and praise, or immediate and accelerated works of God in healing (physically and spiritually), or a collapsing of one’s experience of time as a sense of eternity impinges upon the present. People respond with sincerity to the Lord’s moving, sometimes in unfeigned expressions of devotion that may seem theologically sloppy and yet issue from a pure-hearted love of God.

Second, revival-seekers always show up, and not all of them with pure motives. Hucksters arrive, seeking to bottle up the power and instrumentalize it for their own cause. Whenever the power of God is on display, some try to profit from that power. Just look at Simon the Sorcerer in the book of Acts.

Third, church people are often more critical and cynical than the world. Some are quick to sneer at the displays of emotion. They cross their arms and interrogate the events, analyze the theological precision of what’s said or sung, more worried about being “taken in” by a fraud than “taken up” by the Spirit. (Such was the case in first Great Awakening, with “old lights” and “new lights” dividing sharply over the source and results of the revivals.) Others who have been hurt by the church’s actions or inactions in the past or who have firsthand experience with imposters of spiritual manipulation remain skeptical.

Many questions arise in response to an awakening like the one at Asbury:

Is this real? How can we know if this is a genuine work of God?

What if some of the theology of some of the participants is off?

What if there’s spiritual manipulation going on?

How do I “test the spirits” in this case, from afar?

Is this just emotionalism spread by social media?

Isn’t God just as present wherever I am? What kind of fruit should we expect?

Burning Question

But I believe there’s a more pressing, burning question we should ask. It’s what Jesus posed to the paralytic waiting at the pool of Bethesda in John 5:

“Do you want to be healed?”

The burning question from Asbury isn’t about Asbury; it’s about you. It’s about your heart. It’s about your longing.

Jesus’s question to the paralytic seems absurd on the surface. After all, the man is sitting there hoping for a miracle, right? Of course, he wants to be healed!

And if Jesus were to ask if we want revival, I assume most of us would say something similar . . .

Can’t you see, Lord, that we’re faithful to give? That we pray? That we go to church every week?

Haven’t you heard how we sing every week?

Aren’t you aware of what we always say, that the only thing that will save our country or renew our church is a revival?!

Yet Jesus’s question hangs in the air:

“Do you really want this?”

Forget all the surface stuff we say about revival and our dependence on the Spirit.

It’s possible to say you want revival but deep down to not want the discomfort God’s presence might bring.

It’s possible to sing songs every Sunday asking for renewal while nursing grudges and bitterness you don’t want to be delivered from.

It’s possible to enjoy the division of the church, your theological tribalism, or the secret sins you harbor, or to take twisted comfort in your complacency—to become deadened to the church’s decline and apathetic regarding the future. The Spirit of God is not safe.

And so Jesus’s question remains: Do you want to be healed?

The paralytic comes up with all sorts of excuses for why healing is impossible. No one helps me. I can’t get down to the water. I’m all alone.

And we do the same. The church is too messed up. It’s impossible for God to work in that place! If revival were to happen, it wouldn’t look this way. If God were to move, he’d do it differently.

But the question remains: Do you want this? Does your heart leap at the thought? Do you want to be healed?

Thirst for God

“I do not understand Christian people who are not thrilled by the whole idea of revival,” Martyn Lloyd-Jones said.

I don’t either.

Whatever happens or doesn’t happen at the Asbury Awakening and beyond, may we be marked by a living thirst for a knowledge of the living God and an irrepressible desire to see him at work in power, doing whatever he and he alone can do—in us and through us. The thrill of orthodoxy results not in arms crossed but arms uplifted. And so we sing with Fanny Crosby, the little old blind woman whose song still resounds:

Savior, Savior,
Hear my humble cry;
While on others Thou art calling,
Do not pass me by.

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One of the most beautiful slogans to emerge from the Reformation is Martin Luther’s phrase simul justus et peccator, which means “at the same time righteous (justified) and sinner.” It’s a description of the believer who—because of the righteousness of Christ—is justified, even as the struggle against sin continues.

Some of us fail to recognize our lingering sins and selfishness—we think we’re farther along than we really are in our journey toward holiness. Others face the temptation to despair over our remaining imperfections—perpetually frustrated by the slowness of our progress, perhaps because we lack a sense of the magnitude of God’s love for us in Christ.

These challenges show up also in our view of the church. Some would minimize the church’s flaws and dismiss her lingering sin and selfishness, content to bask in self-righteous self-assessment. Others would harbor seething resentment toward the church, shocked to see the Bride of Christ manifesting so many sinful struggles and disillusioned when unrealistic expectations of churchly perfection go unmet.

Red Door of Welcome

A few years ago, a short video of Ray Ortlund made the rounds online as he welcomed his congregation to church one Sunday morning. He mentioned the significance of churches with a great red door through which all the sinful, weary, tired, and hungry are welcomed to the table of Jesus, the mighty Friend of Sinners. The way through that door is the narrow path of repentance and faith—a personal trust in the One who identified with his people through baptism, who went to the cross to remove our guilt and shame, and who now welcomes all who confess his name to join him at the table of forgiveness. “Welcome to church,” Ray said.

Repentance begins with a decisive shift, a turning around, a change of direction. Repentance continues with daily dying to self. A new way of life replaces the old. The initial change happens in an instant, but the road of repentance is a “long obedience” in a new direction. We recognize holiness to be a lifelong pursuit for Jesus’s followers. We don’t expect a sinless purity or a walk without stumbles and falls. The path of sanctification is long and arduous, like climbing a mountain—but because we ascend through the power of the Spirit, it becomes an exhilarating adventure toward the summit of Christlikeness.

Church of Sinful Saints

If we expect believers to be saints who still sin, why not expect the same for God’s people corporately? Shouldn’t we expect the church to manifest signs she’s simul justus et peccator? Too often, we hold the church to higher standards than we hold ourselves. And when churches stumble and fall, we recoil from and reject our family members in Christ.

If our holy God didn’t maintain a safe distance from human muck and misery, and if our spotless Savior didn’t withhold his touch from the leper, then why should we—especially if we’re becoming more like Christ—distance ourselves from churches filled with sinners on the road of sanctification? Why should we expect congregational life to be easy and sin-free?

No Perfect Church

There’s a joke often told about finding the perfect church. “Don’t join it!” we say. “The moment you do, it becomes imperfect.” It’s a funny reminder that it’s impossible to hold the church to a standard of perfection we ourselves don’t attain.

There’s comfort in knowing we’re all on a journey of Christlikeness and no one has “arrived.” It’s not because we lower the high standards we have for ourselves or for God’s people but because we recognize our frailty and fallenness and how easy it is to fall short of those standards. People always on the hunt for a better or more perfect church would be frightened if they came across one. Imagine being the only sinner in a church filled with perfectly righteous saints who never stumble. Imagine being the only one falling and flailing and getting back up again.

Sadly, that’s exactly how some believers feel. A sensitive conscience may make you think you’re the only one with problems. Everyone else here has their lives together! In a place where no one confesses sin to one another, where all stumbles are kept secret, it’s easy to erect a facade that the road to Christlikeness is easy. Only the foolish fall.

But this isn’t reality. We’re all, in varying degrees, a mess. And we’re all in various stages of having Jesus clean up that mess. We bear with one another not because others are easily bearable but because Christ bore with us and bore our sins in his body on the cross.

Church of Beggars

Holiness doesn’t lead us to separate from sinners in the sanctuary, just as holiness didn’t lead Jesus to withhold fellowship from repentant sinners. Holiness is at work whenever we bear with the faults and failures of others and when others bear with our sins as well. Just as God is holy and loving toward sinners, we are to be holy and loving toward sinners-turned-saints.

The church’s glory is most evident not in her programs, missionary activity, social assistance, or renewal projects but when she’s the most real, a beggar with outstretched arms, receiving the Word of grace and the Bread from heaven—tasting the gift of salvation and seeing the Lord is good. And then, wonder of wonders, Jesus makes this beggar his Bride.

Yes, we must pursue renewal and reform. Yes, we must seek to uproot evil and sow seeds of righteousness. Yes, we should remove the rot of sin and selfishness, lovingly discipline wayward members, and seek restoration after scandalous evil. After all, we want to see the church look more like the Savior. We want to become a beautiful Bride.

But true reform and renewal are ultimately constructive, not condemnatory. Our efforts in critiquing what’s wrong and beautifying what’s right must be done with a spirit of forbearance that seeks to build up, not tear down. We don’t stand apart from the church, castigating her for her failures. She is our mother. We’re one family—sons and daughters bought at the price of our older Brother’s blood.

So yes, let’s seek a more perfect church but not expect a perfected church. We are simul justus et peccator, until the day our glorification is complete.

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I hate death. It’s an enemy. A formidable foe. A blight on God’s good creation. A thief who steals our friends and loved ones.

Death is so awful it’s no wonder people often prefer to speak in euphemisms that shield us from its ugliness. This is why we talk about people “passing away” or inform others when someone has “passed.” We look for a gentler way of describing the reality, of saying someone has died. To speak of someone’s death or to describe someone as dead—it lands hard on the ears. It’s cold. Harsh. Borderline impolite.

There are Christian ways we soften the blow, when we talk about someone “graduating” to glory or “transitioning” to heaven or when we rebrand funerals as “homegoing celebrations.”

I get it. I don’t judge anyone who turns to these and other phrases when describing death. (One could even make a case for why some of these descriptions have theological warrant.)

But I won’t do it myself. When someone dies, they don’t just disappear into the mists. They don’t just “transition.” The body dies. There’s a corpse. Even when we smile through the tears when someone dies well—as a testament to the faithfulness of God—death remains an enemy. Yes, the soul is immediately with God, but there remains a wrenching loss, a wretchedness, because body and soul were never intended to be separated.

And so I usually choose to say someone “died” or speak of someone’s “death.” Why?

1. How the Bible Talks

The Old Testament genealogies tell us again and again about various men and women—they lived, and then they died (or, for kings, sometimes we’re told they “rested with their fathers”). Even if death claims a faithful believer at the end of a long illness and is a relief after terrible suffering, it’s still their death that’s “precious” in the eyes of the Lord (Ps. 116:15), not their passing.

The New Testament doesn’t shy away from death either. Yes, Jesus described Lazarus as having “fallen asleep,” but even then he followed up with plainer language: “Lazarus has died” (John 11:11, 14). When Paul describes departed saints as “those who have fallen asleep” (1 Thess. 4:14), he does so not out of politeness or the desire to comfort us by softening the blow but because he wants to emphasize the temporary state of death so we maintain unshakable hope in resurrection awakening.

2. Death Is an Enemy

Death is not a friend but an enemy. Death hurts. We mourn the loss of loved ones. I don’t want to shy away from words that communicate the shock and harshness of death because, no matter what we say, it’s horrible. There’s no way to really soften it. You can change your communication but you can’t enliven the corpse.

Yes, a follower of Jesus goes to “a better place.” But their “transition” or “graduation” or “homegoing” has happened through death, which is never less than a tragedy. Our friend is in heaven because our friend died.

Thankfully, when we die in Christ, we’re at once with the Lord. That’s why I do like and sometimes use the language of “going to be with Jesus” or “went to be with the Lord,” especially if I’m with a grieving family or church that needs, in that moment, an emphasis on our hope of eternal life with Christ. But even then, I use that language knowing the person is still dead and that their loved ones mourn the temporary separation. Even those who are now with Jesus long for the day of resurrection, when their souls will be clothed again with new bodies in a glorified state, beyond the reach of death’s clutches (2 Cor. 5).

3. Resurrection Victory

Speaking plainly about death gives us more opportunities to highlight the future hope of resurrection. The Bible tells us death is awful but also that love is stronger than death (Song 8:6). Do you feel the power of that promise? Love beats death.

When I look for softer ways to speak about death, I muffle the shouts and cheers of resurrection victory. But when I acknowledge how harsh and horrible death is, I get to wave my finger in the face of that tyrant and say, “O death, where is your sting!”

That’s why I’d rather say “death” and then stand defiant in resurrection hope. No matter how many times that foe robs us of our friends and loved ones, no matter how gaping the hole of our own future gravesite, we can look that ancient enemy in the face knowing the decisive battle has already been won—when the last enemy is defeated, death itself will be swallowed up by the grave (1 Cor. 15). In Adam, all die. In Christ, all will be made alive.

So remember, Jesus didn’t come to conquer a friend. He didn’t come to ease our “passing.” He came to conquer and overturn death forever. “Passing away” language doesn’t do justice to the power of our enemy or the promise of our hope.

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Earlier this week came the announcement of The Keller Center for Cultural Apologetics. I’m honored to be one of the inaugural fellows for this Center, and I look forward to connecting with other scholars and leaders with a passion for defending and extending the gospel in a secular age.

As part of The Keller Center, I’m taking a cohort through an exploration of five of the biggest challenges facing the church in the Western world, helping us better understand our times and look for ways to see churches strengthened and the gospel advanced in the days ahead. You can join this cohort!

Over five weeks in March, we’ll look in greater detail at the elements of a “be true to yourself” mindset, the shrinking of Christianity into little more than a personal and privatized faith, the moral revolution that casts traditional Christian morality as harmful and repressive, the rise of intuitional spiritualities and pseudo-religions, and the fragmentation and polarization of our increasingly online world. This cohort will help you connect the dots, better understand people in your neighborhood and in your church, and offer ways of bearing gospel witness in the world to which we’ve been called.

• March 2, 2023: The Challenge of Expressive Individualism. We’ll explore in greater detail the predominant worldview of our society and how the gospel provides a better vision for humanity.
• March 9, 2023: The Challenge of Personalized Faith. We’ll explore the relegation of religion to morality and to personal and private expressions of spirituality, along with a challenge to proclaim the gospel as public truth.
• March 16, 2023: The Challenge of Christian Morality. We’ll explore the implications of the sexual revolution and societal views of Christian teaching on sex and marriage, along with opportunities to minister in a world of sexual revolution refugees.
• March 23, 2023: The Challenge of Pseudo-religions. We’ll explore the rise of the unaffiliated and the various pseudo-religions and intuitional spiritualities people are turning to as traditional religious adherence falls away, along with opportunities to bear gospel witness in a world of “do-it-yourself” spirituality.
• March 30, 2023: The Challenge of Fragmentation. We’ll look at the rise of polarization and fragmentation due to social media and physical isolation, along with opportunities for the church to provide a thicker sense of Christlike community.

Each session will be about 90 minutes (8:30–10:00 p.m. EST), with 50 minutes or so of presentation and 40 minutes of dialogue and discussion.

If you’d like to join this cohort, see The Keller Center website for more details. I look forward to strengthening members of this cohort so we have a missionary encounter with the world we’re called to reach.

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“I gave up on that book.”

More than once I’ve heard this sentiment, sometimes expressed with a tinge of regret and shame, especially when it concerns a classic whose greatness everyone is expected to encounter and extol. I’ve heard it said of books widely revered—Chesterton’s Orthodoxy, Augustine’s Confessions, even Athanasius’s On the Incarnation. Many a theology reader has run up against the wall of Karl Barth’s Church Dogmatics or trudged through the molasses of the Puritan John Owen. People tell me they just can’t get through Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov even after multiple attempts, and I must confess my own failure in persevering through Tolstoy’s War and Peace and George Eliot’s Middlemarch.

Let me set your mind at ease. The first thing we must do is take these unfortunate and unmerited feelings of failure and shove them in a desk drawer and throw away the key. You’re not at fault, nor are you a failure for not liking a book.

I’m with Alan Jacobs, who begins his book The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction with a chapter on reading at whim:

If you feel the need to close a book that bores you, then by all means, put yourself out of your misery. Life is too short. Read what interests you. Read what gives you pleasure. Feel no guilt for devouring the latest detective story or historical tale, for rereading a devotional work that ministers to your soul, or for searching a theology book for perspective on a topic that intrigues you.

That said, I imagine my readers do want to tackle the hard books on occasion. You want to set aside the book that gives you instant delight so you can train your powers of concentration and focus on a book that has earned a reputation. I believe you’re right to have such a desire. Here’s Jacobs again:

If that’s you—delighted to read whatever strikes your fancy, yet also determined to stretch your mind and grow in your deliberative powers—then I recommend you commit to persevering through some classic works. “Great books are great in part because of what they ask of their readers,” Jacobs says. “They are not readily encountered, easily assessed.” That’s one reason they’re great.

Here are five tips to help you persevere through the most demanding of books.

1. Don’t chain yourself to a hard book.

The worst mistake you can make is to pick up a large and difficult book and commit to forgoing all other books until the hard one is finished. Not only will this silly commitment make reading a drudgery, but you will also miss out on opportunities to find and read other good books during the time you’re trudging through the challenging one.

Treat regular books like your normal routine of walking around the neighborhood, and treat the difficult book like going to the gym to meet with a trainer. Make an appointment with the hard book. Decide on the best time to give yourself over to the mind-stretching routine—maybe once or twice or week, perhaps for 30 minutes at a time—and then keep your appointments. But don’t ever limit yourself to one hard book and then punish yourself daily until you’ve finished it.

2. Read the hard book with a different set of expectations.

Be patient. Don’t try to “get” everything the first time around. I remember finishing Chesterton’s Orthodoxy for the first time and feeling both exhilarated and exhausted, thinking, I didn’t understand even a quarter of this book, but what I did understand was gold!

You don’t have to follow every trail of a novelist’s tale in order to encounter and understand the characters. You don’t have to understand every page of a deep work of theology to still stretch your mind. Perseverance is the goal, and patience is required. If you don’t understand everything, focus on what you do understand, and remind yourself that a classic book deserves repeat readings.

3. Make use of helps and guides.

Teachers sometimes scoff at Cliffs Notes and similar helps through difficult or classic works. I scoff at their scoffing.

One of the best ways to encounter an older book is with a trusted guide who can give you context for what you’re about to read or help sum up the main contours of what you just finished reading. (This is what I sought to do in my annotated guide to Chesterton’s Orthodoxy.) Yes, too many summaries and annotations can get in the way of the text or supplant the author in some way, but for the most part, I don’t see any problem with relying on helps.

4. Divide a big book into smaller chunks.

If the classic you want to read is lengthy (say, the size of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, well over 1,200 pages in some editions), it’s a good idea to pace yourself so you won’t feel overwhelmed by the sheer size of the book. If you want to finish in six months, you’ll need to finish 200 pages a month, or roughly 50 pages a week, or just 7 pages a day. Set the appointment for the book, whether daily, a couple times a week, or once a week, and then stick to it.

Eat the elephant one portion at a time. Don’t gorge yourself on a challenging book. Cut it up into smaller portions. No meat is inedible if you ration the chunks and work them into a rhythm.

5. Find a friend or group committed to the same book.

Reading alongside others by following a plan or engaging in periodic discussions will not only help you stay the course but also read in ways that anticipate conversation, thus cementing some of the book’s main themes or points in your mind much more easily. If you don’t have anyone close by who is interested in the same book, you can always find groups online willing to join together to read a classic and discuss it. Look for these opportunities.

In all, just remember: it is possible to persevere through even the most challenging of books. Be smart enough to know which books deserve your endurance, and then set a plan for the mental workout.

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Of all the spooky “bad guys” you find in novels and movies, I don’t think anyone can top the Ringwraiths in The Lord of the Rings, those hooded, shadowy figures of darkness and terror. They are the Nazgûl, mortal men who fell under the dominion of evil until they became “shadows under his great Shadow.”

I remember watching The Fellowship of the Ring in the theater, my heart beating out of my chest as Frodo and his fellow hobbits hid in the woods, with Ringwraiths on the hunt. The specter of a wraith frightens us, but scarier still is the possibility of becoming wraiths ourselves.

This is an insight I gleaned from Tim Keller’s newest book, Forgive, which makes a connection between anger and wraiths I’d never considered before.

Why Watch Yourself

Whenever you are wronged, you’re likely to pay attention to the wrongdoer. Look what they did to me! How could they say that? That’s a terrible person. What’s wrong with them? Why did they treat me this way? I didn’t deserve this!

But according to Jesus in Luke 17:3, this is precisely the moment you need to watch yourself. Hebrews 12:15 warns against the “root of bitterness” that might spring up.

When we’re wronged, Keller says, we will likely downplay the severity of our anger “to maintain our image of ourselves as good people” and to mask our remaining bitterness:

If we take seriously these commands to examine ourselves, we ought to assume the best about others and the worst about ourselves. In other words, Keller believes “we should assume that we are more resentful and less forgiving and more controlled by what people have done to us than we think we are.”

If you want to be a truly forgiving person, rather than assuming ulterior or bad motives in the person who hurt you, you should always assume you still have bitterness that needs to be rooted out of your heart. Only then will you do the hard work of digging out the roots of your selfishness so you can forgive deliberately and thoroughly.

From Wrath to Wraith

Here’s where Keller makes the connection to wraiths:

The frightening future for the unforgiving isn’t in encountering a ghost but in becoming a ghost yourself, perpetually haunted by resentment and wrath until your humanity is diminished.

Grumbling Ghost

C. S. Lewis’s The Great Divorce is memorable for its portrayal of ghosts in the afterlife who relive certain events and repeat the same traits, haunted by their own selfishness until they lose their solidness.

One of the female phantoms, in response to a spirit beckoning her to the mountains, does nothing more than grumble. And in this, we see the danger: gratitude for one’s blessings is replaced by grumbling over one’s burdens until bitterness saps a person’s last remaining happiness. Wrath turns you into a wraith, until isolation, discontent, and utter misery become the marks of an unfulfilled existence. As Lewis wrote,

True Forgiveness as the Antidote

The only antidote to this miserable existence is true forgiveness—choosing the harder path of rooting out bitterness rather than allowing the grumble of your spirit to grow until it chokes out your humanity.

Much of the resentment we see on display in the world showcases the “human anger [that] does not accomplish God’s righteousness” (James 1:20, CSB). This is why we must watch ourselves. Keller is realistic. Live long enough in a world where “canceling, ghosting, and insults are the norm” and yes, “you will experience snubs on a regular basis, and in some cases will experience real injustice.”

But the question remains: “How are you going to keep it all from turning you into a wraith controlled by the past?” Only through the undeserved forgiveness you receive from Christ, which you then extend to undeserving others.

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I saw a funny video recently that joked about the generational shift in how we view practices of self-care and therapy.

In the old days: “You’re in therapy? What’s wrong with you?”

Today: “You’re not in therapy? What’s wrong with you?”

Joking aside, there has been a significant shift in how we view issues of mental health. Some of these changes stem from scientific and psychological studies that shed light on how humans respond to conflict and trauma. Other changes are the result of cultural trends in a therapeutic society—what Jonathan Haidt and Greg Lukianoff describe as the “Great Untruths” of fragility (“What doesn’t kill you makes you weaker”) and emotional reasoning (“Always trust your feelings”).

Pastors and church leaders aren’t immune to these developments, and I wonder if in some cases the cultural shift toward self-care has led to a new set of wrong assumptions among those just entering ministry. If the generation before me assumed the need for overworking to the point that people had to insist on self-care and say “Stop and take care of yourself before you burn out,” I wonder if the generation behind me will assume the opposite. We’ll assume the need for self-care to the point that others may need to insist on hard and strenuous labor, even when it hurts.

Bridging Generations

I sometimes call myself a “senior citizen of the millennial generation,” as my birth year places me among the oldest of this cohort. I can feel the differences between me and the millennials born a decade later, because the cultural milieu changed quickly. The internet and online connectivity moved from the peripheral (remember dial-up?) to the center of connection and communication. And trends toward therapy and self-care sped up in the intervening years, especially with Generation Z.

I’ve watched pastors and church leaders just a few years older than me burn out or flame out—with sin or breakdown following stress, overwork, and the inability to withstand pressures and conflicts. For this reason, I’ll always champion the need to prioritize physical and spiritual health. The church needs healthy members, and especially pastors, to be models of a better way. Setting boundaries, implementing new habits, finding sustainable rhythms of work and rest, understanding one’s own body and mind, watching for warning signs of overextension—these actions are vital if we’re to sustain healthy families and churches.

In a world of constant churn and productivity, where we judge ourselves by our effectiveness and efficiency, we need this reminder. We need Sabbath. We need better habits. We need to tend to our souls. I could point to a slate of recent books that center on emotional health, Sabbath rest, family practices, mindful prayer, and eliminating hurry. I’ve read them. I like them. I recommend them.

But . . . Just as some might twist God’s calling and our work into overwork and over-exhaustion that fails to recognize our human finitude and limits, others might twist the gift of self-care into self-absorption, or even just laziness. We might fall for the idea that hard work in itself—whenever it’s difficult or painful or exhausting—is inherently damaging or is a sign something’s wrong.

Discomfort in Ministry

There’s a grind to pastoring, like there’s a grind to all sorts of other jobs. We’ll experience conflict, disagreement, and discomfort in the church because the church is full of people. Just look at the apostle Paul’s description of ministry. He talks about beating his body and bringing it into submission (1 Cor. 9:27), his hard work as an apostle (1 Cor. 15:10), his suffering on behalf of his people (Col. 1:24; 2 Cor. 11:24–29), and being “spent” (2 Cor. 12:15) as he strenuously contends with all his energy (Col. 1:29). He described himself as being “poured out as a drink offering” (Phil. 2:17).

Leadership will sometimes involve conflict. Not all conflict is abuse. Not all discomfort is trauma. Discomfort is ministry. There is no ministry—real ministry—without discomfort, at least at some level.

The only way to get through life without being disturbed is to be completely alone. Love requires disturbance. Ministry requires work—hard work. We live in a world of thorns and thistles, and no mindfulness app or meditation practice will remove all the effects of the fall. Some of us sin by overwork and some of us sin by underwork, but both are fallen responses to the good gift of labor. The answer to one sin is not a different sin.

Generational Assumptions

My sense is some of my middle-aged friends and colleagues in ministry harm themselves by too quickly dismissing the advocates of self-care, healthier habits, and more sustainable rhythms. But I fear that some of my younger friends and colleagues just starting out in ministry will harm themselves by holding to unrealistic expectations about the nature of work and self-fulfillment.

The recent push toward self-care is designed for men and women who assume the long hours, hard work, overextension, and burdens of ministry are just par for the course—an element of what it means to fulfill God’s calling on your life. But what happens when the assumptions are reversed? When the push toward self-care is heeded by people who assume they owe it to themselves and to the world around them to take care of themselves first and foremost, no matter how long or how much that takes, or how much the ministry struggles and suffers in the meantime?

This is when a good thing like self-care gets twisted into inordinate self-focus, to the point that our calling isn’t to the ministry with the care of self as an important element in how we seek spiritual health, but our calling is to ourselves with the ministry as an add-on.

The solution to one generation’s overwork is not the next generation’s underwork. The solution to one generation’s lack of self-care is not the next generation’s self-absorption. The ruthless elimination of hurry (a glorious aspiration) does not mean the ruthless elimination of discomfort in our work. (When someone new to ministry decides after a few months they’re nearing burnout and need a sabbatical, I’m tempted to say, “Burnout? You haven’t even burned!”)

So let’s be careful here. We shouldn’t assume the next generation is entering the workforce and ministry with the same assumptions as the previous generation. Unhealthy, imbalanced approaches that deserve critique and require alteration come in different forms. Let’s not assume one generation’s struggles apply to the next.

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Earlier this month, controversy erupted over the decision of an Eastern Orthodox Christian hockey player. Alone among his teammates, Ivan Provorov chose not to wear a Pride-themed jersey during warmups. When asked why he didn’t express support for LGBT+ causes in this way, Provorov said he respected “everybody’s choices” but that he’d chosen to “be true to himself” and “his religion.”

Provorov’s comments didn’t prevent the onslaught of criticism. Even his coach was confronted and asked why he wouldn’t change the lineup that night. The subtext was shared by many others: Surely you will punish this player. There must be consequences! One commentator broke down in tears on air—overcome, I suppose, by the unthinkable horror that someone somewhere who occupies a place in polite society dissents from sexual revolution ideology.

Place of Dissent

Thirty years ago, social pressures like this were fodder for comedy, as seen in the Seinfeld episode where Kramer refuses to wear a ribbon in support of AIDS victims and gets bullied and beat up for failing to fall in line.

Today, dissenters face pressure to abandon their position, unless the cause is seen as courageous. When NFL players took a knee during the national anthem a few years ago, many of the same people excoriating Provorov defended the players’ right to silent protest. Over time, peer pressure flipped the other way, to the point where some players stood out by going against their teams and choosing not to kneel.

There’s much we could say about the politicization of sports and double standards. We could look at the demise of the “live and let live” mindset once promised by advocates of same-sex marriage. We could look more closely at Ivan Provorov’s defense and how he turned to the language of expressive individualism and “being true to himself” to explain his position.

But what intrigues me most about this most recent dustup is why there’s so much pressure on everyone to affirm the self-conception or sexuality of someone else.

Why Dissent Must Be Quashed

Why are these battles so heated? Why do so many in our society demand everyone show their support for LGBT+ causes? Why the insistence on preferred pronouns? Why the expectation there will be “consequences” for someone who, out of religious conviction, respectfully dissents from the prevailing view?

It’s because the only way the LGBT+ cause makes headway long-term is if dissent is quashed. The whole movement is built on a magnificent lie—the idea that gender distinctions are irrelevant to marriage and sexuality. Repeat the lie enough—through the tautology of “love is love” or singing along with Macklemore’s “Same Love”—and you may begin to think there’s no substantial difference when it comes to sex between a man and a woman and sex between a man and a man.

But slogans and songs don’t eliminate the truth.

The truth is simple: male and female bodies are designed for sexual union that leads to procreation. Say “love is love” all you want, but only one kind of lovemaking carries the potential of bringing another person into the world. Only one kind of coupling results in children.

Design of Sex

Nature discriminates. It doesn’t matter how “in love” a couple may be. When a man goes to bed with a man or a woman with a woman, the result is intrinsically sterile. There’s no possibility of children.

But, some might say, what about heterosexual couples who can’t have children? Are we saying their love doesn’t matter? Of course not. But this objection reiterates the reality of sexual difference and bolsters my point. Why do we see infertility as a tragedy? Precisely because we expect and desire children as the fruit of a man and woman who come together in love. It’s because the design of this coupling is oriented toward new life that we grieve when children don’t come.

Today, the design of sexuality is the grand truth that must be suppressed, because the moment we acknowledge or highlight the differences, we may begin to wonder if there are rational, natural reasons why we might see these couplings as, well, different. And that would lead us to treat relationships with a natural ordering toward children as (gasp) different, which would then take us back to the primary reason why every society in human history up until a few decades ago saw marriage as exclusively male-female.

Pressures of Conformity

Questions and debates about sex and marriage have a storied history. We could look at the many reasons why same-sex marriage makes sense to people today in a way our great-grandparents would have never understood. We could trace the trajectory of marriage’s diminishment, the obscuring of marriage’s public function and societal responsibilities, or the contraceptive mindset that severs sex from its intended aim.

But all that is merely background to my main point: Christians will continue to face mounting pressure to signal our support for LGBT+ causes, to say “love is love,” to display the Pride flag—whatever pinch of incense will satisfy today’s Caesars. Why? Because unless everyone everywhere pretends there’s no substantial difference between male-female marriage and same-sex relationships, the spell is broken. The charade doesn’t work. It’s why the wars over pronouns and bathrooms are so heated. Unless we all play along, the jig is up.

Ivan Provorov’s dissent exposes the lie at the heart of the sexual revolution. And let’s face it: now that transgender theories are mainstream, we’ve moved beyond the question of morality. At the center of controversy today is the question of nature and the meaning of embodied reality. Why is there such pressure to fall in line? Because unless we all act like gender difference is superficial and irrelevant, the ancient view of marriage will persist and the newly invented view of marriage will be seen as the imposter it is.

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Few analysts expected brick-and-mortar bookstores to survive, much less thrive, in the 2020s. If you were placing bets a few years ago, you’d think digital would be the way to go: Facebook, Netflix, Crypto, or Tesla.

But as Ted Gioia points out, digital media is struggling while Barnes & Noble, a 136-year-old book retailer, has begun to grow again. Success has come through “embracing the most antiquated technology of them all: the printed book.” Not only is Barnes & Noble profitable and growing, but they’re also opening new stores, including in places where Amazon tried (and failed) physical bookstores.

Bookstore’s Decline

What’s surprising about this news is the state of the company just a few years ago. Gioia writes,

Amazon appeared triumphant, having slayed Borders. All that was left for Barnes & Noble was, well, the bookstore, which had shifted its floorspace to toys, calendars, and cards—and coffee shops. So what happened? Gioia points to the leadership of James Daunt, who stepped in as CEO:

Turnaround Begins

Before coming to Barnes & Noble, Daunt was a key figure in turning around Waterstones, one of my favorite bookstores in Britain. Bookselling was in his blood. Gioia describes the single bookstore Daunt ran in London when was 26, a store he turned into “a showplace for books.”

Daunt didn’t follow the rules. He moved away from heavy discounts because he didn’t think books were overpriced. He didn’t give away (and thus devalue) books. He empowered people working in the stores. Most surprisingly, he rejected the common practice of accepting promotional money from publishers in exchange for prominent placement in the store, whether or not readers were interested in those books. He refused to “dumb-down the store offerings,” so he could “create an environment that’s intellectually satisfying—and not in a snobbish way, but in the sense of feeding your mind.”

Superpower of Love

But here’s the main takeaway from Gioia’s analysis, what he says is James Daunt’s “super power”: the man loves books.

Gioia grieves the loss of love among people in creative work, alongside the loss of confidence in the “redemptive power” of books. Once that love is lost, he writes, leaders “put their faith in something else” or they make decisions based on cash flow and other projections.

It’s too simple to say love for books is the primary reason for the Barnes & Noble turnaround, but surely we can acknowledge a key element in these recent wins was the decision to put “books and readers first, and everything else second.” Gioia writes,

Reminder for the Church

Passion. Ardor. Devotion. Love.

There’s a lesson here for those of us who mourn the decline of church membership or grieve the reality of falling attendance numbers at churches across the country.

Surveying the cultural trends, we might be tempted to put our faith in something else, to focus our attention not on the Word and the sacraments but on extraneous things—our coffee, our music, or our programming. Over time, pastors in the fields of labor lose any sense of being a leader in worship and become managers of religious dispensaries, as if they oversee a supermarket of spiritual goods and services.

Life can go on under these “dumbed down” circumstances, and churches may see attendance rise, but at what cost? At what point is the central purpose of the church lost, edged out by crowd-pleasing trinkets, just as Barnes & Noble had become, in the words of their CEO, “crucifyingly boring,” having lost confidence in the primary reason for its existence?

Come what may, there’s no substitute for love. Loving God. Loving to worship God. Loving to worship God with his people. Loving to hear God’s Word and to feast on his goodness at the table.

God forbid we lose the fire of love and hand down religious formulas that no longer burn within our hearts.

Pastors, we are not baristas. We are not managers, marketers, or speech makers. We are worshipers. And unless we’re filled with ardor and devotion for our task of leading our congregations into an encounter with the living God, our churches will never become an oasis of God-adoration in a parched and weary land of false worship.

There’s a lesson in the Barnes & Noble turnaround. Remember your first love. And don’t lose sight of your ultimate purpose.

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The first season of Reconstructing Faith is now complete. The season finale features Ajith Fernando, Jen Wilkin, and Tim Keller—three servants of the church with insight into how we might see renewal in the days ahead.

One of my goals in working on this podcast was to provide listeners with perspective: to connect us to the global church and the church throughout history, so we can draw from fresh resources as we seek to renew the church in our day. I’ve tried to highlight constructive voices who want to see the church strengthened and built up. We’ve included discussion guides for pastors and church leaders walking with members through the subjects addressed in these episodes.

I love the church. I want to see her renewed and refreshed and healthy again. I know we’ve experienced a season of humiliation and pain, in which the Lord has seen fit to expose our sins and failures. But tragedies and disasters have a way of clearing the mind of clutter and focusing the heart. So let’s clear the debris and focus on what’s central, and let’s prepare for the adventure of reconstruction and repair.

’Mid toil and tribulation,
And tumult of her war,
She waits the consummation
Of peace forevermore;
Till, with the vision glorious,
Her longing eyes are blest,
And the great church victorious
Shall be the church at rest.

Episode 1: The Church’s Credibility Crisis

When we see leaders fall by the wayside because of either life or doctrine, the pain cuts in many directions all at once, with a lot of hurt left in the wake. The long-term effect of this kind of failure is a diminishing of the credibility of the church. Will God fail because of human weakness? No. But the church’s failures can become obstacles in the path of those who don’t yet know God or can cause believers to stumble in their faith. The spiritual fallout can be devastating. In the first episode, we tackle a problem that has been decades in the making.

Episode 2: Renewing the Church

We’ve experienced a wave of terrible revelations about the condition of the church in the past decade. So much has come to light. And like homes that didn’t get the attention they needed after a flood, there’s rot, for sure. There’s mold in the house. Rotting floors. Sin has seeped in, and it’s left a watermark. And even after the floodwaters are gone—after the church split, after the abuser is exposed, after the deconversion—the effects of all that remain. The rot is strong. But thankfully, so is the foundation. In this episode, we discuss how we can be the generation that roots out the rot to start the process of rebuilding.

Episode 3: The Water is Toxic

Social media primes us to see our life as a stage, a performing of an identity for our online community. These practices form and encourage negative character traits that lead us away from the kind of wholeness God desires for us. We get lonelier and more isolated, finding online communities that don’t ask much of us, often at the expense of flesh-and-blood neighbors and church members. Social media makes it harder to be a follower of Jesus, to be whole, an integrated person. The water is toxic, and we feel trapped. In this episode, we discuss how we can be purifying agents in the toxic waters of social media.

Episode 4: I Kissed Chastity Hello

What if we can acknowledge with clarity some of the problems of purity culture while also rediscovering and fortifying the foundational Christian teaching about chastity? What if we can remove the rot and uphold the foundations, as a way of standing apart from the world for the good of the world? We need to distinguish what the Bible teaches by getting out of our culture and looking at the church through history (including the excesses and flaws there) as well as the church around the world (where the question of sexual ethics is a nonnegotiable). In this episode, we wrestle with the best way to articulate and apply a Christian sexual ethic in our day.

Episode 5: The Authority Question

We can’t talk about renewing the church in our generation if we don’t put the question of abusive leadership on the table. But discussing leadership raises an even bigger question: one of authority and how it’s to be exercised. There’s no easy task in front of us. The problem is multifaceted: Shepherds who, for one reason or another, abuse their authority, lording their power and domineering the sheep. And shepherds who respond by failing to lead, abandoning the proper sphere of influence they’ve been given. What will it take for future church leaders to look like Jesus and reject the sinful scrambling for power? And what will it take for pastors to stand firm, to not abandon the sphere of influence they’ve been given but to lead with boldness and courage, reflecting the wise rule of the Creator who called them to ministry? In this episode, we discuss how to rebuild the culture of leadership in the church to showcase healthy examples of authority and power.

Episode 6: Reckoning with Race

In the past decade, many Christians have wrestled afresh with questions about racial injustice, racial disparities, racial prejudice and discrimination, and what racial reconciliation can and should look like in the church. There’s no avoiding this challenge. And if we truly believe God gets glory when we reflect the beautiful diversity of his kingdom, we can’t opt out. Are we up for the task of letting theology, not politics, drive the discussion among Christians regarding race? Can we avoid the pitfalls of secular ideologies and religious denialism as we take this path? In this episode, we examine the road to racial equality and racial unity within the church.

Episode 7: Can Anything Good Come from D.C.?

If you’re active and involved in your church, you’ve probably noticed that things have gotten more tense regarding politics in recent years, and unless your church is monolithic in its political views, you’ve probably seen some division and debate. You want to apply your faith to your political involvement, yet you also want to avoid getting co-opted by partisan alliances. In this episode, I offer some suggestions as to how better think through the relationship of Christians to political life.

Episode 8: The Stain

The stain of sexual abuse is one of the biggest reasons the church faces a crisis of credibility today. There’s mold in the house of the Lord. And with righteous anger and determination, we’ve got to say: this rot must be removed. In this episode, there’s a challenge to the church to respond in ways that bring healing and restoration out of a place of deep contrition and repentance.

Episode 9: The Silent Scandal

So far in this podcast, we’ve looked at various ways the church’s credibility has been harmed by a lack of consistency between our beliefs and our behaviors. These are the big issues that make headlines, that draw attention, that spark conversation. But what if there’s a problem so prevalent, so pervasive, so all-encompassing that we have a hard time even seeing it? What if a church filled with Christians quietly devoted to the American Dream is the silent scandal of the church? In this episode, we explore how the church can adopt disciplines that mold and shape hearts that chase a bigger dream—the dream of God’s kingdom, announced by Jesus himself.

Episode 10: The Credible Apologist

We’ve seen that there’s rot in the house of the Lord. Some of the rooms are dilapidated. In need of reconstruction and repair. It’s good to remind ourselves that the ultimate goal of addressing these challenges is not so we can reconstruct a healthier house, a more enduring edifice, for ourselves only. It’s so we can beckon others toward the light, toward wholeness, toward the salvation found only in Christ. In this episode, we consider the legacy of C. S. Lewis (including a tour of Lewis’s home in Oxford) and how the task of rebuilding the witness of the church is intertwined with the task of apologetics and evangelism.

Episode 11: Your Questions Answered

In this series, we’ve been addressing the church’s credibility crisis, reflecting on the challenges of today while learning from church history and the church around the world. In this special episode, we address some of the questions listeners have sent in.

Episode 12: It’s Time to Rebuild

As you look at the church today, you may ache for the church. But maybe you ache because you love . . . You love the church and know she can be better than this. And you love Jesus and know he deserves a Bride whose beauty showcases his. As we bring this season to a close, I talk with Tim Keller, Ajith Fernando, and Jen Wilkin about how we might see renewal in the days ahead.

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I knew I was going to like working with Clint Clifton.

The first time we met, I could see that behind his unassuming demeanor was a brilliant mind and good-natured spirit. A longtime employee at the North American Mission Board, Clint not only planted churches but planted churches that have since planted more churches. A church-planting grandfather, so to speak, and he was just 43 years old.

Clint moved onto my team as senior director of resource and research strategy in the late summer of 2021. In the months that followed, he became a pillar (truly) of a newly-formed research and resources team as we relaunched NewChurches.com and the New Churches podcast, and as we developed multiple projects designed to strengthen pastors and planters.

Clint was driven yet easygoing, polite yet forthright, constantly candid with his feedback and opinion, yet always motivated by a desire for excellence. He built on his many years of experience working closely with pastors and planters in order to hone his instinct for how best to serve them in the trenches of ministry. He was entrepreneurial. He was passionate. He was flexible. Always quick to change course when something wasn’t working, willing to support the mission no matter who got the credit, and ready to take responsibility if he ever dropped the ball (in spite of his brilliant strategic mind, or maybe because of it, he knew he wasn’t best at keeping track of all the details!).

There wasn’t a hint of showiness with Clint Clifton. There was no facade. He was who he was. Settled and comfortable in knowing what his gifts and passions were and how best to deploy them. He confided in me when he felt certain aspects of his job were stretching him, and yet he loved new opportunities and developing new skills. He’d say, “This is harder than I thought it would be” and at the same time, “Don’t make it easier. I want to grow and get better.”

Clint usually opened our meetings in prayer by saying “Jesus, we love you,” as if to make sure, no matter what was going on or what challenges our team was facing, it was love for Jesus that motivates all the activity and planning. And it was love for Jesus that propelled Clint into multiple avenues of action—fostering and adopting, loving his wife and five kids, networking with church leaders, and showing hospitality to people in need.

Working with Clint gave me a front-row seat to someone constantly listening and learning from pastors and planters—and then pouring wisdom back into them through mentoring, podcasting, speaking, and writing. Just last week, our team was together in Alpharetta fellowshipping, praying, planning, and strategizing. I got to see him in action on Wednesday, as he poured into leaders in training. One was his oldest son, Noah.

On Wednesday night, we enjoyed Tex Mex while talking about the future and laughing about some of our past experiences (both of us were veterans of Cracker Barrel). Thursday was full of meetings—brainstorming in the morning, and then in the afternoon laying out key components of a strategy for resourcing pastors. We walked out of headquarters together that afternoon and parted ways in the parking lot.

The next day, I had to break the news to each member of our team, that Clint didn’t make it home. First shock, then sadness. And so now, I’m pushing back the tears to say something fitting for a great colleague who became a good friend. And I ache for his wife, Jennifer, and their children, and for his church family, all devastated by this unfathomable loss of a good man in the prime of life.

It makes sense that Clint’s church (Pillar Church of Dumfries, VA) has set up a memorial fund that will assist in future church planting. There was no cause closer to his heart. The man was a genius, with an encyclopedic knowledge of church dynamics and a palpable passion for seeing the kingdom extended through the multiplication of healthy churches. Continuing that work is the best way to honor his legacy.

As I reflect on my friendship with Clint Clifton and the joy and expertise he brought to our team, I feel a mix of grief and gratitude. Grief at losing him suddenly, but gratitude for God crossing our paths and giving me the privilege of working alongside this man. But most of all, there’s the tearful thanksgiving in knowing that, even if it wasn’t in the way we expected Thursday evening, he did make it Home.

Until we meet again, my friend… “Jesus, we love you.”

One of the most remarkable books to appear in recent days is Faithful Disobedience, a collection of writings from leaders in the Chinese house church movement—most notably pastor Wang Yi, who has been in prison since 2018.

When you hear about “house churches,” you may imagine 15 people gathering secretly in someone’s home. But in China, the house church refers more to a movement than a location. These churches and their leaders follow a path set by earlier heroes (such as Watchman Nee and Wang Mingdao) who courageously resisted taking part in the government-controlled Three-Self Patriotic Movement. House churches today often boast several hundred members, and their activities are known to the public and the authorities. Many of the fastest growing can be found in China’s cities. What sets apart the house church is that it’s unregistered—“non-sanctioned” by the government.

Early Rain Covenant Church has been one of China’s most prominent house churches. In December 2018, the pastor, Wang Yi, was imprisoned, Early Rain was raided, and more than 100 of its members were arrested.

Faithful Disobedience isn’t the story of China’s tragic crackdown on Early Rain and other churches. It’s a collection of essays, pastoral letters, and conference talks that give you a glimpse of the theological perspective of this church and its pastor before the hammer fell. And this is the first time these resources have been made available in English.

The mission of Early Rain Covenant Church was expressed in October 2018, just two months before the fateful arrests were made: “Christ is Lord. Grace is King.” And the path to carry out the mission? “Bear the cross. Keep the faith” (201). Nothing sums up better the main themes of the book.

1. Christ is Lord.

Jesus is Lord, and God’s kingdom is spreading. Christians humbly and obediently submit to the government authorities wherever possible, as Christ has commanded, but they draw the line at allowing the government to interfere with the inner life of the church or her public witness in fulfilling her mandate.

In 2015, Wang Yi wrote,

Although Wang Yi’s church is Reformed, his insistence on the separation of church and state resembles the legacy of the Baptists. He pulls no punches in describing the eternal consequences that await those who hinder the church’s freedom to serve her Lord:

Taking the mantle of a prophet who thunders with clear lines of distinction, Wang Yi excoriates the churches that belong to the Three-Self Patriotic Movement, declaring their nationalistic “autonomy” to be a disastrous denial of the church’s catholicity. Furthermore, their willingness to sing patriotic songs in church or listen to patriotic speeches constitutes a denial of the supranational lordship of Christ. Once a church falls prey to this kind of nationalistic sentiment, it has succumbed to Satan’s scheme to turn the true church into a fake one.

Although Wang Yi distinguishes between these churches and the sincere believers who may still attend them, he makes clear the dividing line between the true church and the church with the spirit of the antichrist:

2. Grace is king.

These harsh indictments of compromise frequently run right into gushing displays of grace. The house churches emphasize the cross of Jesus Christ for the salvation of sinners and also the grace that flows to and through Christians today. The pastoral letters urge Christians to treat government authorities with respect, and even honor, especially those who are simply cogs in the evil machinery of Chinese repression.

Grace makes the church fearless. “No matter what our reaction,” Wang Yi writes, “once fear has spread, any reaction based on fear is not one driven by love” (175). The stark contrast between the true church and the antichrist, or the lordship of Christ and the idolatrous seizing of ultimate power by the Chinese government, in no way minimizes the Christian responsibility to love one’s enemies, to return evil with good.

Fear and resentment, anger over injustice—these are not the motivations for Christian obedience. Love must be the driver. That’s why Wang Yi urges his fellow believers to treat even their captors with kindness. And the church that fights for freedom does so not because believers seek benefits for themselves but because religious liberty will benefit the government and the rest of the country. In other words, Wang Yi’s motivation for pursuing religious liberty is to bless the nation through the spread of God’s kingdom, not to acquire the personal privilege of churchly comfort.

3. Bear the cross.

What is the path to fulfilling this mission? Suffering. In “20 Ways Persecution is God’s Way to Shepherd Us,” Wang Yi exhorts his readers,

What are we “crazy” for? The idols of comfort and status and prestige vie for supremacy in our hearts, driving us to do seemingly crazy things to attain them. Yi envisions a church that’s unexplainable apart from the power of the gospel, where people act in ways that seem “crazy” to the world because they’ve devoted their all to Christ’s kingdom.

4. Keep the faith.

The ever-present temptation for the house church is to look for ways to compromise with the world or to give in to the unjust demands of the authorities by aligning with the Three-Self Patriotic Movement. But it isn’t the role of the state to enforce the precepts of Christianity:

Likewise, Sun Yi urges believers to keep the faith and focus on the church’s primary mission, which cannot be hijacked by political aims:

All the writers warn against seeking to use the church as a means to worldly approval, a temptation to which not even church leaders are immune: “There is no one more wicked and adulterous in the world than the preacher who has not divorced from this world” (141).

God of Tomorrow

Faithful Disobedience is a challenging book to read. Some of the essays are academic. Others are pastoral or devotional in nature. There are historical accounts of the development of the house churches, as well as clearly articulated principles that promote the supremacy of Christ over nationalistic idolatry.

The editors seem uneasy at times with the bold language of Wang Yi and his fellow writers, especially their willingness to paint black-and-white lines and call out the spirit of the antichrist. But their eternal, on-the-spiritual-battlefield language is closer to what we find in the New Testament than what passes muster in polite evangelical circles.

In the end, I’m most inspired by what Wang Yi wrote in a letter that was to be given to his wife whenever he would be arrested:

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Over Christmas break, I had the chance to watch the newest adaptation of a classic-TV-family: Netflix’s Wednesday, a series that centers on the adolescent girl in the eccentric Addams Family. If you liked the original show, the movie, or the various pop culture adaptations that keep the Addams Family in the American psyche, you’ll probably enjoy this new series.

But I suspect even audiences unfamiliar with the source material will appreciate Wednesday. The series might appeal to fans of Harry Potter for the way it incorporates elements of the boarding school culture of Hogwarts. Filmed in Romania, Wednesday’s eerie Transylvanian castles and scenery add a distinctive feel. And the show’s dark humor and offbeat pacing ensure the scary or gruesome moments never overwhelm what is essentially a lighthearted mystery story.

Also on display? Clear allusions to recent debates about how to tell history, if and when we should erect statues that honor flawed people in our past, and whether a moral reckoning is always a matter of right vs. wrong or should include shades of gray.

Celebrating the Outcast

In a culture steeped in the strange stew of expressive individualism (“You be you no matter what!”) and identity politics (“You’re defined by characteristics associated with your group”), it’s not a shock to see the world of Wednesday divided in two ways. First, there are the “normies” and the “outcasts.” The town of Jericho is full of normal people (think “Muggles” from the Harry Potter world), while the school for “outcasts” is full of weirdos with magical gifts. Of course, the outcasts are, in general, cool, and normies are, in general, oppressive.

But secondly, there are groups among the outcasts, each defined by a set of magical characteristics. We see interactions between individuals of these groups (they’re all “outcasts,” of course), but it’s clear there are certain expectations and elements of cultural peer pressure that align with one’s identity as a member of a tribe. And so, Wednesday provides a fascinating look at a culture of “just be yourself” expressive individualism and “don’t betray your group” identity politics.

Black and White vs. Shades of Gray

There’s an illuminating conversation in the third episode between Wednesday and the school’s principal, Larissa Weems. Even though both are outcasts, the principal wants to make nice with the normies and create better civil relations. But Wednesday balks at Weems’s attempt to whitewash the past and ignore the town’s egregious treatment of outcasts in the days of old. (In flashbacks, we meet clearly caricatured versions of the New England Puritans—totalitarian leaders with an irrational hatred of anyone who departs from the norm, enjoying witch hunts and thundering denunciations of all that’s evil. A scene in the present day shows the destruction of a statue of the town’s evil forefather.)

“Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it,” Wednesday says.

Principal Weems wants to look for common ground—to find opportunities to reach beyond the hardened categories of “normie” and “outcast.” She sees the opportunity to rewrite the rules and create a better future.

But Wednesday insists nothing has really changed since the past. “They still hate us,” she says. “Only now they sugarcoat it with platitudes and smiles.”

And when Weems claims that “the world isn’t always black and white” and “there are shades of gray,” Wednesday pushes back. “Maybe for you,” she says. “But it’s either they write our story or we do. You can’t have it both ways.”

It’s clear that Wednesday doesn’t equate “fighting for the truth” with recounting the past in all its complexity. Rather, it means adopting the right narrative related to the past. In other words, the way forward is neither by charitably reckoning with the good and evil of a town’s ancestors nor by attempting to understand the successes and failures of previous generations and place them in context. The future belongs to the moral absolutist who insists on one version of the story winning over another.

From Moral Relativism to Moral Absolutism

Watching Wednesday, I was struck by how quickly Hollywood seems to have moved from a celebration of moral relativism to a passion for moral absolutism. Many of the movies from 20 or 30 years ago decried a black-and-white way of looking at the world. Think of the subversiveness of Pleasantville or the moral relativism in American Beauty. Some of the most lauded films deliberately obscured moral issues, celebrated the erasure of boundaries, or demolished anything resembling a black-and-white moral standard. The characters who held to moral absolutes were cast as either the benighted relics of an earlier day or the villains whose commitment to moral truth led to violence.

Fast forward to today, and a show like Wednesday doesn’t portray the moral relativist as a hero standing up against the moral absolutist villain. Instead, the hero champions a competing vision of moral absolutism.

Wednesday Addams, who at one point declares her unbelief in God and the afterlife, sees the world in zero-sum terms: the “outcast narrative” must win. There can be no view of the ancient normies as anything other than totally and terribly evil, which, ironically is exactly how the ancient normies themselves perceived the ancient outcasts.

Gray is gone. So is any Solzhenitsyn-inspired sentiment of “the line of good and evil dividing every human heart.” All that’s left is power. And, of course, the story. And without God and the moral law, or any eternal standard by which to judge the behavior of people past or present, all we have is “good and evil” determined not by eternal moral law but by who controls the narrative.

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There’s a worrisome quality in many of today’s would-be prophets—writers and pundits who foresee only doom for the future of civilization, who seem perpetually distressed by the desecration of the church’s witness (whether by external pressures or internal rot).

I don’t take issue with the plausibility of the dire scenarios they predict. I often share their diagnoses and agree with their warnings. Apart from the church acting as salt in a manner that slows down societal decay, and apart from a God-sent revival that arrests and redirects our cultural decline, we are indeed on the path toward some kind of dystopia. Meanwhile, the humiliating revelations of hypocrisy and injustice in the church prove how frail and compromised God’s people can be.

When you look at the state of the world and the state of the church, you might think, There’s nothing to smile about. And yet there’s always something to smile about. We believe in the sovereign goodness of God. We believe in the lordship of Jesus Christ. We believe in the resurrection power of the Holy Spirit who blows where he wishes. As the apostle Paul showed us even in his prison writings, there’s a joy in God more powerful than circumstances.

Loss of Joy

The worrisome quality I find in much of today’s cultural commentary is the absence of joy. It’s as if our souls have shriveled until all that remains is a sense of hopelessness, a quiet resignation that assumes the church cannot thrive in this strange new world.

There’s a place, of course, for Jeremiahs—those who weep over the spiritual state of the city, who mourn its desolation. “Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus said, and alas, there’s much in our world to mourn. “There are such things as Christian tears,” John Stott wrote, “and too few of us ever weep them.”

But so much of today’s punditry seems marked not by the weeping that lasts for a night and the joy that comes in the morning, but by resentment, and by anger toward injustice that begins as righteous before succumbing to sinful impulses—an indignation that no longer knows the tears of Jeremiah or the unstoppable joy of Paul.

And so, when we survey the landscape of the church and culture, we must make sure to keep in sight the opportunities that accompany today’s challenges.

Hope for the Future

Consider the church. As painful as this season of humiliation may be, we must acknowledge this is the road to humility. Perhaps when some of the societal privileges we’ve taken for granted are stripped away or when the trappings of worldly status and prestige disappear, we’ll find ourselves in a place of desperate dependence on the only One with true spiritual power.

Humbled, we drop to our knees in prayerful, quiet desperation. The renewal of the church will be known not by leaders with celebrity and fame but by faithful service in the vineyard of the Lord, by men and women marked by the shovel of service rather than the scepter of status. And after the storms of humiliation blow through, the garden of humility will be refreshed by the sun, and the flowers of renewed dependence on God will blossom again.

Consider the culture. We can endlessly decry the developments of a society careening toward insanity and injustice. But it’ll take more than talk to do the hard work of rebuilding in the aftermath of severe societal decay. It will require sentiments stronger than resentment and anger. We’ll need the power of joy and hope.

In previous eras of societal disarray when the church gave witness to the gospel, our forefathers and mothers in the faith were marked not by their sober assessment of the situation, ever somber and solemn, as if the grim business at hand made impossible the grin of faith. They were known for faith in their God-given purpose, for ebullient hope no matter the circumstances and for their love directed even to the people they opposed.

Gladness Stronger than Resentment

The church must often stand against the world for the good of the world. Some things we must oppose. But it’s the church’s irrepressible joyfulness—the smile of confidence in God’s good providence—that stands out in a world of dour debates and sour dispositions. That sense of deep-rooted gladness must be present at the dinner table, in our neighborhoods, and in our church services.

Resentment will not heal an ailing society; it only adds salt to the wound. The world needs the church to embody serious joy, a rock-ribbed assurance that the truth has set us free in a world that falls for falsehood.

So the next time you read the headlines, listen to podcasts, and take in the latest developments that portend trouble for the church ahead, don’t shake your head and succumb to helplessness. You may not be able to pull levers that bring about change all over the country, but you can shape the culture of your home and the culture of your church family—and you can be a source of joy that spills out into the culture of your neighborhood, for the good of your city. What’s the point of battling Mordor if you’ve lost the joy of the Shire?

Yes, let’s equip the next generation for the challenges ahead. Let’s prepare them to be seen as the “savages” in Brave New World, whose commitment to eternal truths will cost them the acclaim of polite society and institutional elites. Let’s not sugarcoat the present or close our eyes to the challenges of the future.

But above all, teach them to smile. Give them a cheerful confidence and ground them in a happiness worth spreading. Remind them that truth is ultimately irrepressible, and come what may, as Sam told Frodo, “It’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer.”

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The mysterious Mrs. Moore.

Every biographer of C. S. Lewis must face “the Mrs. Moore question” and decide what to make of the relationship the beloved writer had with a woman more than 25 years his senior who remained a major part of his life from the time he returned from the trenches of the Great War until her death in 1951. Mrs. Moore was the mother of Lewis’s friend, Paddy, and before they went to the front, the young men promised each other that if one were to die, the other would look after his friend’s family members. Paddy was killed. And Lewis kept his word.

After the war, Lewis (known as Jack to his family and friends) formed a household of sorts, moving in with Paddy’s sister, Maureen, and Paddy’s mother, Janie, a woman who was estranged and separated from her husband. For more than 10 years, the newly formed “family” bounced around to various houses in Oxford before finally settling in 1930 at The Kilns.

Early biographies (Carpenter, Sayer, and Hooper and Green) described the relationship between Lewis and Mrs. Moore as purely platonic, driven by grief and longing—with Moore fulfilling a maternal role in the place of the mother Lewis lost to cancer and Lewis becoming a surrogate son for a woman grieving a boy lost to war. More recently, Harry Poe has aligned with this view, pointing out how difficult it would have been to carry on an affair in a household that was so open, with maids and neighbors constantly coming and going (The Making of C. S. Lewis, 206–9).

Most later biographies of Lewis conclude there was a sexual relationship between the two during the 1920s, before Lewis’s conversion (Wilson, Jacobs, McGrath, and Zaleski). And even some of the earlier biographers (Sayer and Hooper) changed their position later in life, acknowledging the likelihood of a sexual element after assessing the situation and its many peculiarities.

Why, for example, did Lewis keep his living arrangements a secret from his father?

When Lewis visited his father in Ireland, why did Mrs. Moore feel the need to conceal their correspondence by sending him letters through a friend?

Why was Lewis’s brother Warnie appalled at the “freakishness” of the arrangement (Sayer, 131, King, 58-59)? And why did he express relief in 1919 at the news that Mrs. Moore was still married and therefore “can’t marry Jacks,” unless the implication was that Lewis would have married Mrs. Moore if it were possible (Zaleski, 90, King, 59)?

In 2021, more evidence came to light, as it was revealed that Owen Barfield (a fellow Inkling author) had confirmed to Walter Hooper (Lewis’s literary advisor) that Lewis admitted to having engaged in a sexual relationship with Mrs. Moore before his conversion.

Whatever happened during the 1920s, by the time Lewis converted to Christianity (and after Jack and Warnie moved with Janie and Maureen Moore into The Kilns) the door was shut—not only figuratively but literally—to an ongoing sexual relationship. Mrs. Moore’s room upstairs may have been next to Jack’s, but the door between the rooms was locked. Lewis even installed a metal staircase so he could enter his room from the outside. Yes, for more than 20 years, C. S. Lewis had to walk out of the house and around to the side to enter his bedroom.

(I recently spent a couple weeks at The Kilns, and the warden explained how, after Mrs. Moore died in 1951, her room became Lewis’s study. The door that would ensure easy passage from his study to his bedroom had been shut and locked for so long that Lewis no longer had a key, and even after a locksmith was called, the story goes, the wooden door was so warped after 20 years of being closed, it still wouldn’t open. It had to be replaced. When Lewis shut a door, the door remained shut!)

What intrigues me most about Mrs. Moore isn’t the salaciousness of a possible sexual relationship but rather how the later years of Mrs. Moore influenced Lewis’s character and writing.

Whatever illicit love might have been in the 1920s, by the 1930s and especially the 1940s, the relationship was marked by Mrs. Moore’s growing cantankerousness. Friends who visited The Kilns during this period (such as George Sayer) described her as a good conversationalist who loved receiving guests at the home. And no doubt, Mrs. Moore extended Lewis’s social circle beyond the cloistered walls of Oxford University. “She was generous and taught me to be generous,” Lewis told Sayer. “If it were not for her, I should know little or nothing about ordinary domestic life as lived by most people. . . . I was brought down to earth and made to work with my hands” (Sayer, 135).

That’s a characteristically Lewisian way of putting a positive spin on Mrs. Moore’s influence. His brother Warnie portrayed her as intensely selfish, domineering, and demanding, a constant drain on Lewis’s energy and time through his “restricting and distracting servitude” to her every whim (Sayer, 165, King, 85-88).

Lewis wrote in 1947 that his time was taken up with “duties as a nurse and a domestic servant” (Jacobs, xiv). Mrs. Moore constantly called for his assistance and had him always walking her dog (McGrath, 245). Even Sayer acknowledged she became “autocratic and difficult” (Sayer, 301).

In short, The Kilns was not a haven of harmony and rest for Lewis during his most prolific years of writing. He was a Christian apologist, growing in knowledge and pursuing holiness, yet saddled with an increasingly difficult elderly woman whose words and attitude were thorns in his side.

Lewis never wrote negatively about Mrs. Moore, unless she’s the inspiration for the motherly figure who shows up as a source of temptation in The Screwtape Letters (never satisfied, a “positive terror to hostesses and servants”) or unless Lewis had her in mind when, in his imaginative vision of the afterlife, The Great Divorce, he described a woman who goes on grumbling forever until she becomes nothing more than “a grumble.” (Warnie kept a record of some of the maddening, unwittingly hilarious statements and dialogue characteristic of Mrs. Moore at The Kilns, a selection of which can be found in Don King’s new biography of Lewis’s brother, 124–28.)

Shortly after Mrs. Moore died, Lewis wrote in a letter,

The transformation of C. S. Lewis—from an arrogant, lustful young man in his teens and 20s to the warm and selfless sage of spiritual insight—is most evident in his letters. Walter Hooper described him as the most thoroughly converted man he ever met, Christlike through and through (C. S. Lewis and His Circle, 199). And surely this is one reason his works have endured; they come from someone whose piety and goodness are palpable, from a man who truly sought to become a “little Christ”—as he described in Mere Christianity should be the goal of all Christians.

And so I wonder . . .

Would we have received the same level of spiritual insight and passion of C. S. Lewis in his sanctified later years apart from the purifying fires of trial brought about by Mrs. Moore?

Would the warmth and humanity so characteristic of Lewis shine through in his works if he’d only known an easy life as a bachelor don?

If Lewis had never endured life with a woman whose presence became more a burden than a blessing, would he have been as perceptive and insightful regarding human nature, different types of temptation, and the victory of holiness over lingering sin and selfishness?

Had Lewis enjoyed a charmed life in The Kilns, surrounded only and ever by the people whose company he preferred, absent any tension or disharmony, would he have become the man whose work still radiates with goodness and truth even today?

It’s impossible to resolve or answer these kinds of questions definitively. But more than wondering about the “mysterious Mrs. Moore,” I find it tantalizing to consider the mysterious providence of God in the life of C. S. Lewis, who turned the relationship that once provided an occasion for sin into the occasion for his sanctification.

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At the close of every year, I share a list of the books I most enjoyed reading during the calendar year. There’s usually a mix of theology, cultural analysis, biography, and fiction. Here’s hoping a few of this year’s favorite reads will make their way on to your Christmas wish list or provide some good gift ideas.

Here are my picks for 2022.

#1. EVERYTHING SAD IS UNTRUE
by Daniel Nayeri

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What is this book? Can we classify it as Young Adult, like they do in the bookstores? I guess so, since it’s told through the eyes of a 12-year-old protagonist. But it’s for anyone who loves brilliant characterizations and engaging storytelling. Is it true? Yes, true as memoirs go. But it weaves Persian tall tales and folklore throughout the narrative. Is it funny or sad? Yes. Is it a Christian book? Pervasively so at the worldview level, though it’s not about Christianity. (And yet it has one of the most moving explanations of conversion I’ve ever come across.) Simply put, this book is unforgettable. Read it and you’ll understand why.

#2. BIBLICAL CRITICAL THEORY
How the Bible’s Unfolding Story Makes Sense of Modern Life and Culture
by Christopher Watkin

When I read through the glowing endorsements on the back cover of this book, my only regret was I couldn’t make it through the 600-plus pages of this tome in time to add my own. All the accolades are deserved. Christopher Watkin has done an incredible job of bringing insights from sociology, history, philosophy, and theology into conversation with the Scriptures as the ultimate authority. He demonstrates the power of the Christian story, how it subverts and exposes the lies in our world while fulfilling the deepest aspirations of humans made in God’s image. Following the cues of Augustine in The City of God, Watkin seeks to “out-narrate” the culture. He accomplishes the task with Chestertonian wit and verve and with reliance on the great theological traditions of Christianity. I plan to read this book again from cover to cover in 2023.

#3. CHRIST OUR SALVATION
Expositions and Proclamations
by John Webster

I spent a month reading one sermon a day from the late John Webster and was thoroughly edified by the insights in this marvelous collection. The description is right: “John Webster explores the various contours of the salvation accomplished for us in Christ and displays for preachers a model of theological exegesis that understands that the gospel is the heart of holy Scripture. . . . A feast of ‘theological’ theology for Christian proclamation.”

#4. THE GENESIS OF GENDER
A Christian Theory
by Abigail Favale

One of the best and most thought-provoking books of the year. It’s written by a woman who was firmly entrenched in contemporary theories of gender and taught gender studies in a university setting. She has since converted to Christianity (Catholicism, in fact, which leads to some oddities in her assessments and biblical interpretations here and there), and her insights into the contradictory arguments and warnings about harmful effects are not to be missed. Unflinching yet charitable—it’s one of only a handful of books I would tell church leaders is a “must read” this year.

#5. TESS OF THE D’URBERVILLES
by Thomas Hardy (with annotations and introduction from Karen Swallow Prior)

The latest in Karen Swallow Prior’s beautiful cloth-over-board editions of classic literature is Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles. I asked my Twitter followers if I should prioritize The Scarlet Letter or Tess, and I got pointed to Tess. Wow! What a book! I’ll be thinking about these characters, the storyline, and the injustice of it all for a long time. Prior’s edition includes a thorough introduction to Thomas Hardy and his context, an overview of the work (without any spoilers for first-time readers), and the full original text, as well as footnotes and reflection questions throughout to help the reader attain a fuller grasp of Tess of the d’Urbervilles.

#6. THE RIGHT
The Hundred Year War for American Conservatism
by Matthew Continetti

Light bulbs went off for me as I read this sweeping account of movement conservatism from 100 years ago to today. It helped me understand what kind of conservative I am, why I’m sometimes uneasy with other networks that associate with the right politically, and why national populist movements have cultural sway. It’s a deeply researched book that manages to be a page-turner.

#7. THE GOD OF THE GARDEN
Thoughts on Creation, Culture, and the Kingdom
by Andrew Peterson

Andrew Peterson is one of my favorite singer-songwriters. He’s also beloved for his four-book Wingfeather Saga. If he keeps writing books like this one—a combination of reflection and memoir—he’s going to be known and loved for his nonfiction also. I loved this book. It’s about trees, about life and beauty and calling. It’s about lost love, lost innocence, nostalgia, hopes and fears. It revels in the beauty of creation and opens your eyes to the wonders around you. Best of all, it captures that feeling of what Chesterton described as “being homesick at home.”

#8. BEYOND RACIAL DIVISION
A Unifying Alternative to Colorblindness and Antiracism
by George Yancey

George Yancey is one of my go-to authors when it comes to issues related to racial injustice and racial reconciliation in the culture and the church. He understands scriptural teaching about human dignity and depravity, which helps him to avoid some of the common pitfalls on both the right and the left in addressing racism, whether in the form of personal prejudice or its structural manifestations. He knows that most “colorblind” and “antiracist” proposals lead to dead ends. I hope his proposal for mutual accountability gains traction.

#9. THE SIX WIVES OF HENRY VIII
by Alison Weir

The tempestuous, bloody, and splendid reign of Henry VIII of England (1509–47) is one of the most fascinating in all history, not least for his marriage to six extraordinary women. There’s so much in this saga that you’d think it was too wild a tale to possibly be true. Alison Weir is a terrific storyteller, offering context and description so as to heighten the drama surrounding each of the six women who reigned as queens of England. She draws on early biographies, letters, memoirs, account books, and diplomatic reports to bring these women to life.

#10. SEASONS OF SORROW
The Pain of Loss and the Comfort of God
by Tim Challies

My friend Tim Challies has written this book, a chronicle of a year-long journey following the sudden and unexpected death of his son, Nick, at age 20. This is one of the most moving accounts of grief I’ve ever encountered. Slowly, carefully, vulnerably, honestly, Tim gives us the privilege of peering into his heart as he processes this unspeakable pain with his wife and daughters. He’s expressing grief here, mixed with faith and hope, an unshakable confidence in the glory and sovereignty of God, while acknowledging the hurt, disappointment, and unfulfilled longings that wash over us on this side of heaven. This is a book not to be missed.

HONORABLE MENTION

BENEDICT XVI: A LIFE (VOLUMES 1 & 2)
by Peter Seewald

On a whim, I picked up the two-volume biography of Benedict XVI by Peter Seewald and plowed through it over the holidays. Joseph Ratzinger has led a very interesting life. I’d heard about his early years and his conscription into the German army, but I’d never considered the effect of those early experiences on his outlook and on his development as a theologian, with influence already felt at the Second Vatican Council. Seewald is a masterful storyteller who offers just enough detail to put you in the scene without allowing the pace to slacken. He simplifies some of the deeper theological concepts and debates and keeps the focus on the major events of Benedict’s life, culminating in the pope’s surprising decision to retire.

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Earlier this month, I had the opportunity to spend a couple weeks in the UK, primarily in and around Oxford. I was a scholar-in-residence at The Kilns, the former home of C.S. Lewis. This house is a special place with a storied history, and it was a joy to stay there.

I spent two days at Wycliffe Hall in Oxford, delivering guest lectures on “Cultural Challenges and Opportunities for Gospel Advance in the Western World” on November 3. I also spoke at a conference in Leeds on C.S. Lewis, held by the Thinking Faith Network (which was started several decades ago with the help of John Stott).

During my stay, I was able to meet with various scholars, pastors, and authors, including N.T. Wright, Michael Ward, Alister McGrath, Krish Kandiah, Vaughan Roberts, Justin Brierley, Francis Spufford, and my friend Thomas West. Two unexpected highlights were getting some time with Aiden Mackey (the self-made scholar who was friends with G.K. Chesterton’s secretary and who recently just turned 100) and David Hanson (who heard C.S. Lewis lecture at Cambridge one summer in the late 1950’s).

Below, I am sharing ten pictures from my stay—for the enjoyment of all the fellow Anglophiles and fans of C.S. Lewis. I wish I could share them all.

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One of the best things that could happen to the rank-and-file churchgoing Christian is to get a better sense of the bigness of the Body of Christ. The Church is bigger than your church. The kingdom is bigger than your denomination. God’s people are all over the world, united by a shared love for Jesus and confession of his lordship.

Encountering the Body of Christ

Encountering the bigness of the Body is something I saw happen to my parents as I was growing up. I started out in an independent fundamentalist church and Christian school. I learned a lot of Bible there. I heard a lot of fiery preaching. The people loved Jesus, and they loved me. I’m grateful for them.

Still, the impression you’d get from the preaching and teaching in that church was that the Body of Christ is small. Nearly everyone else was compromised in some way, including the Baptists of a different variety down the street. Compromised because of contemporary worship. Compromised because of the Bible translations they might use. Compromised because of their views of the end times. Compromised because of their dress code.

When I was in elementary school, my dad got involved in local politics, and he encountered Christians from across the city who worshiped in different churches, yet he found them to be enthralled with Jesus Christ. We visited different types of churches during that time, getting a taste for the variety in our city, from the charismatics who all prayed at the same time to the historic black church downtown to the orderly beauty of the more liturgical traditions. When my parents began visiting a Southern Baptist church plant (which we eventually joined), they’d already realized something: the Body is bigger than we thought.

Fast forward a few years, and my father and I went on a mission trip to Romania, where we worshiped with believers who had just come out of the grip of Communist dictatorship. Even across the language barrier, the different worship style, and the cultural norms in cities and villages, we recognized the Body is bigger than we thought.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of visiting multiple countries, benefiting from the wisdom of believers in Canada, the U.K., Eastern Europe. A few years ago, my wife and I traveled to South Korea to help launch The Gospel Project there. In just a few days, I’ll be headed to Oxford and Yorkshire. In teaching courses on ministry and mission over the years, I’m often searching for insight from books and leaders from the Global South. I’m constantly wowed by the bigness of the Body of Christ.

Why We Need the Global Church

Why do we need to recover a sense of the bigness of the Body? Three reasons.

First, so we won’t fall prey to thinking all the issues and controversies facing a sliver of churches in one country or region are definitive for all the world. It’s easy to castigate believers who differ on various issues if you’re consumed by whatever gets the most attention in one slice of time and place. A sense of the bigness of the Body helps you put squabbles in perspective.

Second, recognizing the bigness of the Body helps us understand where the essential boundaries are, and it ties us to a creedal core. Often in the West, people assume bucking the Church’s teaching on a fundamental doctrine makes us “broader” or “bigger” than the Church. The truth is the reverse. When you move away from scriptural teaching on a particular topic, it is you who’s resisting the bigness and broadness of the Church’s global witness. To reject a key Christian doctrine in the name of “broadness” is to confine yourself to the narrowness of schism. Those who move away from what churches all over the globe have always and everywhere confessed don’t grow bigger; they shrink into slivers and splinters.

Third, recognizing the bigness of the Body keeps us from thinking we alone are faithful. There’s an ironic kind of pride that forms when we convince ourselves we’re the last ones. The bigness of the Body reminds us we’re not alone. Not when we look at the church through the ages. Not when we look at the church around the world. No matter what may happen to the church in one era or one country, there’s an indissoluble bond between faithful Christians of all ages and places. The global church helps us guard against the idea that “we alone are left.”

Common Confession of Christ

In The Thrill of Orthodoxy, I put it this way: “The beating heart of orthodoxy is not a personal adventure of self-discovery, a patching together of our preferred versions of the Christian faith. It’s the connection to saints in various cultures and climates, with different languages and traditions, all united by a common confession in Jesus Christ, the king.”

Yes, Christians have divided into various traditions and denominations, but despite the outward differences, every true believer in Christ is connected by “mystic sweet communion” to all the Christians who have gone before and to all true Christians around the world today. The beating heart of orthodoxy joins us to confessors across space and time. We say, “I believe,” and we know we share a commonality with millions of people who have found the same treasure, who recite the same words, who believe the same concepts and trust the same Savior. The Body is big.

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At long last, my new book The Thrill of Orthodoxy: Rediscovering the Adventure of Christian Faith is now available everywhere books are sold, published by InterVarsity Press.

Every generation faces the temptation to wander from orthodoxy—to seek out the jolt that comes with false teaching and to drift with cultural currents. And so every generation must be awakened again to the thrill of orthodoxy and experience the astonishment that comes from stumbling afresh upon the electrifying paradoxes at the heart of the Christian faith.

In this book, I want to turn the tables on those who believe Christian teaching is narrow and outdated. Returning to the church’s creeds, we look at what orthodoxy is and why we can have proper confidence in it, and we look at the most common ways we can stray from it. By showing how heresies are always actually narrower than orthodoxy—taking one aspect of the truth and wielding it as a weapon against other aspects—I want to beckon believers away from the road to compromise that ultimately proves bland and boring and toward the straight path, where true adventure can be found.

How You Can Help

You can help me launch this book well by leaving a review on Amazon or other retailer sites sometime within the next month. It can be short or long, but every review helps others discover the book and makes them more likely to give it a try. These reviews are vitally important for a book launching well. You can also help by posting about the book on social media over the next few weeks. Thank you for helping get the word out!

Endorsements

I’ve been blessed to see this book endorsed by a number of scholars and colleagues. I thank them for these hearty recommendations.

“The tune of Jesus is still beautiful even if Christians have sung out of tune.” I love that line from Australian church leader and historian John Dickson, who was one of the guests featured in the second episode of my podcast Reconstructing Faith.

Jesus Christ Is Sung

This analogy of Christianity as a melody to be played or a song to be sung resonates with me. I point to it in The Thrill of Orthodoxy. It’s not a new analogy—it has an ancient pedigree—but we need it in this moment.

In his letter to the Ephesians, Ignatius wrote,

In the church’s love, Jesus Christ is sung.

How are we doing with that?

Bungling the Tune

When we look to the past, we see how Christians have often drifted toward beliefs and actions that fail to do justice to the melody handed down by the apostles, whether it was the jarring dissonance of warriors committing atrocities in the name of Christ or the ostentatious displays of wealth and favoritism so clearly out of line with the instructions of our Savior.

But “Christians behaving badly is the minority report,” Dickson says (and shows in his book Bullies and Saints). “I would say in most centuries of the church, most Christians sang the tune recognizably.” Even today, when pastors or church leaders sin in ways that scandalize the church, the majority of Christians are shocked and disappointed, perhaps even more so than people in the world. Why? Because “they are singing the tune, they are bumbling their way along, trying to believe the gospel and trust the gospel, and they’re let down spectacularly.”

No matter the era, you’ll find some Christians mangling the melody and others singing it beautifully. At times, you may be stunned to hear a Christian leader sing one verse flawlessly while botching the next entirely. We’re a bungling bunch of believers, after all. None of us will get all the notes right all the time, and it may be that we sound more like an untrained children’s choir trying to stay on key than the choristers of Westminster Abbey. But humility keeps drawing us back to the song as we seek to honor the melody.

Thankfully, we have the Spirit’s guidance as we sing the gospel’s melody. Basil the Great wrote,

Back to the Melody

When the church is rocked by scandal and riddled by sin, when there’s rot in the house and renovation that becomes necessary, the answer isn’t to destroy the building. When Christians sing the melody of the gospel horribly off-key, the answer isn’t to change the song.

You can take a song and remix it, remaster it, or adjust its tempo, as singers sometimes do when they cover the songs of others. But if you change too many things about the song, you wind up with a different melody altogether. You cannot reconsider, revisit, redefine, revise, or rework the faith forever and still be committed to the faith. Remixing and remastering and rearranging an old song can bring out the beauty of the original, with flourishes and instruments that add a new effect. But once you no longer submit to the melody—once you change the lyrics or alter the tune—you lose the original song.

When the church is plagued by sin and scandal, the process of renewal can only begin when, as John Dickson says, Christians go back to the Gospels and the New Testament and read the Word of God afresh and suddenly realize, “We don’t look like this!” And God stirs up those embers until they spark into flame, seizing the hearts of believers determined to recapture the essence of Christianity and display its beauty in our churches. That’s when we seek out the melody again and sing the tune so as to exalt the Savior who gave it to us.

Near the end of Calvin Miller’s classic book The Singer, the earliest singers of the song given by the Troubadour are freed and commissioned to spread the music into all the world:

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Next month, I’ll be delivering lectures in Oxford and at a conference in Yorkshire, and during my two weeks in the U.K., I’ll be staying at The Kilns, the home of C. S. Lewis for more than 30 years. In preparation for this trip, I’ve been revisiting some of Lewis’s classic works, including The Great Divorce, which paints a dream-like picture of the afterlife through a series of encounters with people just outside of heaven.

Lewis imagines the “solid people” who are already enjoying heaven’s glories in contrast to “the ghosts” who inhabit a purgatorial realm. The ghosts, in their current state, cannot take in heaven’s light. They’re shadows of humanity, transparent and superficial in contrast to what’s solid and substantive in the high countries. In Lewis’s vision, the solid people are stand-ins for true humanity—what God has always intended us to become. They are solid because they are selfless. The ghosts are shadows because they cannot see past themselves.

A World Designed for Ghosts

In reflecting on The Great Divorce’s vision of the afterlife as an extension of this present era, I’m struck by the question of whether we as people are growing more and more selflessly solid or becoming more and more selfishly shadowy.

We live in an era tailor-made for superficiality, for ghost-like transparency. Day after day, we scroll through endless updates, follow all the latest political controversies on social media, jump to games on our smartphones, chuckle at sitcoms or the latest TikTok video—never aware that as time goes on, our souls are shrinking. None of these actions is inherently bad. (I enjoy Wordle every morning, I listen to podcasts about politics, and I include a classic TV clip in my Tuesday email newsletter!)

But we should be on alert: the currents of culture will tug at us until slowly, almost imperceptibly, we lose the capacity to stand in awe of God, to feel the weight of glory, and to encounter profound and eternal truths. Everything is pushing us toward superficiality, toward the banalities of entertainment or the rush of breaking news. There’s no cultural push toward wisdom and reflection, toward those activities and practices that would make us more substantial, more solid.

Cultivate Substance

Every now and then, an old acquaintance will offer to take me to lunch, and usually they’ll ask about publishing books or starting a blog or building a social media platform. Almost always, they’re looking for tips and suggestions, the secrets to capturing attention and finding an audience.

I’m afraid I disappoint them. I talk about the importance of meditation on God’s Word, of daily rhythms of prayer, of reading old books that stretch the mind and fill the heart, of pursuing conversations with close friends who call you into greater depths of discipleship. I redirect the discussion away from building a platform and to building your self—as a person—so you become someone of substance.

At the end of the day, who cares how many followers you amass if you’re a ghost being followed by thousands of other ghosts?

Who cares how many people read your blog post, watch your video, or buy your book if the result is the continual trivialization of God and the shriveling of the soul?

Who cares how many people read your words if there’s no weight to them? If they’re as light and airy and fleeting as all the other words that pour from social media all day long?

Who cares how many people are wowed by your personality if you’re constitutionally incapable of being wowed by God, stunned by the glories of salvation, awestruck at the beauty of the triune God who has saved you?

Beauty of Substance

Substance matters in a world of shadows.

The challenge of pursuing solidness and substance is that we must go against the grain. We face headwinds in structuring our lives and conversations toward this goal. What’s more, ghosts are perplexed by solid people, unable to understand or articulate what makes them tick or how selfless habits could bring happiness. They recoil at this strange way of life, preferring the trinkets of triviality to heavy gold inherited by the solid people.

Even in the church, too often the congregation prefers the temporal to the eternal, the fleeting fads of our time over the enduring pillars of orthodoxy. Thus the first sentence of The Thrill of Orthodoxy: “The church faces her biggest challenge not when new errors start to win but when old truths no longer wow.”

I hope nothing I’ve said here implies I’ve “arrived” somehow at a place of substance. Far from it. The Lord knows how easily my self-centeredness wins in the moment I should be Spirit-directed. We’re all still ghosts right now, at some level, but hopefully we are—in the words of N. T. Wright about our future glorified state—“shadows of our future selves.”

This is my hope, my aspiration as a Christian who believes in God’s promise to remake and renew me. I want to lean into that future version of who he promises I will be. The path is open toward a life of substance: through feasting on his Word, giving myself to him in prayer, loving my family and neighbors, enjoying fellowship in his family, and receiving his bread at the table.

Watch your life. Don’t succumb to the shadowy ghost-like traits of superficiality. Look to the mountains, see the solid people, trust God for that future, and rise above this world of trifles.

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New research from Pew shows rapidly rising numbers of the religiously unaffiliated in the United States, and scholars forecast various scenarios for the religious landscape in the future. An underreported aspect about those who check “none” on a religious survey is this: many who don’t belong to an organized religion or consider themselves members of a church, mosque, or synagogue still believe in God, see themselves as “spiritual,” and pray or engage in other spiritual practices.

Don’t assume the rise of the unaffiliated means the rise of secularism, as if atheists and agnostics will now become the norm in the United States. On the contrary, the rise of the unaffiliated points to another phenomenon: the rise of people who seek out spirituality in multiple ways and through multiple avenues. They’re unaffiliated with an already established religion, but they may be forging a spiritual path of their own. And this path is radically personalized.

Intuitional, Remixed Spiritualities

In her book Strange Rites, Tara Isabella Burton describes the increasing number of people she describes as religiously “remixed.” It’s a shift from institutional religion to intuitional religion:

You may not realize it yet, but this description of the religiously unaffiliated is also true of many people in established religious communities. I’m talking about a kind of spiritual fluidity—where many churchgoing Christians believe things that are fundamentally incompatible with orthodox Christian doctrine.

It wasn’t too long ago that a Christian woman I know, someone who believes the Bible and rarely misses a Sunday service, was talking about the spirit of her grandmother in a bird and a butterfly! A church leader gently corrected some of the theology, but still, I’m no longer surprised when men and women who sit under faithful Christian teaching mix and match doctrines and practices from various sources as they work out their own beliefs. The result is, as Burton points out,

Explosion of Pseudoreligions

What does this mean for the church today? Christianity’s “competition” is not primarily other religions or cults—not institutions, but pseudoreligions of the intuitional variety.

Take the gospel of wellness, for example, and the explosion of communities united around working out. Or the options available for people who need new lotions, potions, meditation apps, or whatever is necessary for self-care. Think about the language of energy, toxins, positivity. Even if most of this stuff isn’t built on true science, people are adopting practices or purchasing products or joining communities that have been reenchanted in some way. The battle isn’t about good and evil in the world as much as it’s about pursuing what’s good for you and avoiding what’s bad for you.

We could also point to the resurgence of New Age thought, Wiccan spirituality, and even the pseudoreligious communities adopted by people who base their identity in their sexuality (complete with a “conversion testimony” of sorts in the ritual of “coming out” as well as joining a family in the “LGBT+ community,” etc.). Burton mentions the “religion of social justice” that replicates the cornerstones of traditional religion (meaning, purpose, and community) in a narrative of good versus evil. Others have noted how political involvement functions for many people as a religious substitute, a pseudoreligion of sorts.

Authentic Christianity

Some pastors and church leaders will be tempted to reach the intuitionally spiritual by appealing to their well-formed sense of personal authenticity. But this approach implies Christianity is just another therapeutic source of well-being, not the public truth about the world. What we need are heralds focused more on a different kind of authenticity: the authentic Christian gospel. And authentic Christianity isn’t something we invent; it’s something we discover.

This is the adventure I describe in The Thrill of Orthodoxy. We hear a lot these days about “speaking your truth” or “living your truth,” as if the word “truth” is now just a synonym for “perspective” or “experience.” Surely we should make room for sharing our perspectives and recounting our experiences. But if our tendency is to adorn “truth” with adjectives like my and your, and never the, we’re fundamentally violating the very definition of “truth” to begin with.

A Truth Bigger than Your Heart

Today, many put religion in the category of self-discovery and self-expression, so all our seeking and finding takes place within the caverns of our heart, where we dig down to our deepest desires, incorporate religious beliefs and spiritual practices that resonate with our needs, and then construct an inspirational identity that suits us. When it comes to religion, just like everything else, there’s your truth and my truth.

The church must point to a greater adventure: exploring something beyond the depths of one’s own heart. The greater adventure comes when you find something beyond the realm of my perspective and your experience—truths we didn’t invent or adapt to suit ourselves but truths we discovered, to which we adapt. We must lift up the beauty of orthodoxy and authentic Christianity in a world of intuitional, personalized spiritualities.

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“One of my biggest tasks as a pastor right now is to challenge my people and keep them from contempt.”

That’s what a pastor told me earlier this year, a man serving his church faithfully in the Deep South. He loves Jesus and he loves his congregation, and that’s why he’s on guard these days against something he called the “silent spiritual killer”—a sin that hinders Christian witness and destroys Christian love.

It’s the sin of contempt, of looking at the person across the aisle from you and thinking, The world would be better without you in it. It’s more than disagreement; it’s disgust, rooted in the inability to see the image of God in your opponent. It’s the attitude Jesus warned about in the Sermon on the Mount (Matt. 5:21–22).

Power of Contempt

Why is contempt a big deal right now? Because it’s lucrative. It works.

In politics, being united by disdain and contempt for the other side is what mobilizes your own. An inspiring vision is one way of rallying a base, yes, but a much faster and easier approach is to unite around a common despising of the other side. And culturally these days, with tribal forces at work, going public with contemptuous words toward the opposition is how you prove your purity and loyalty.

John Newton warned about this attitude hundreds of years ago: “Whatever it be that makes us trust in ourselves that we are comparatively wise or good, so as to treat those with contempt who do not subscribe to our doctrines, or follow our party, is a proof and fruit of a self-righteous spirit.”

Everywhere we turn we find avenues for inflaming that self-righteous spirit. Contempt for MAGA or for the woke, the “forty-nine percent” or the “basket of deplorables”—politicians frequently resort to sneering disdain as a sign of their ideological purity. Cable news channels feed the beast with segments designed to attract eyeballs and lead to outrage.

The Church in an Age of Contempt

The church isn’t immune to these cultural forces. Like it or not, we live in a world where contempt is excused or sometimes expected. Even worse, sometimes church leaders are tempted to justify or further inflame feelings of contempt as a strategy for showing the congregation they’re on the right side. As long as it’s clear who you’re supposed to love and who you’re supposed to hate, everything goes smoothly.

But contempt is the silent killer of Christian charity. It has no place in the heart of a follower of Jesus. It kills the passion of seeing others converted and replaces evangelistic zeal with the quest for zero-sum victories, smackdowns, and “destroying”—such that the zealousness to win over someone becomes the zealousness to win.

A. W. Tozer wrote,

My pastor friend was right to recognize the signs of contempt in his congregation and to gently but firmly push back against the tendency to allow hatred to well up in the human heart. He is doing the Lord’s work.

Fighting Contempt

A striking feature of nearly every book I’ve read about the leaders and foot soldiers in the Civil Rights Movement in the 1950s and ’60s was how much and how often they fought against contempt. They knew the power of hatred because they’d felt it from their neighbors, and when the signs of reciprocal hatred showed up in their hearts, they worked to root out those feelings and replace them with love. This is one of the ways they overcame, not merely in political or cultural victories but through the determination to treat with dignity the very people who would deny such dignity to them.

Dark impulses that from a worldly perspective seem justifiable are off-limits to those who follow in the steps of a crucified Lord. When your King responds to sneers and mockery by breathing out forgiveness . . . when your Lord tells you to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you and then does so, in fulfillment of his own law of love . . . when your Savior, stripped of dignity and pinned up on a cross like an insect, refuses to dehumanize the dehumanizers . . . how can you harbor contempt in your heart?

Here is Tozer again:

Perhaps the test of faithfulness in a day of moral degradation will be our love for people across chasms of difference. Faithfulness isn’t in showy displays that we hate all the right people. Faithfulness isn’t in adopting a contemptuous posture toward the current president or the former one. The way of the cross rejects the path of sneers and jeers, whether in the form of elite condescension or populist passion.

We must not call a noisy gong “boldness” or a clanging cymbal “courage.” Instead, we must stand out from such worldliness and cultivate the church as an oasis of quiet kindness, a respite from the sin Jesus says will lead us to hell.

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The first episode of my new podcast, Reconstructing Faith, is now available. It deals with the church’s credibility crisis.

When we see leaders fall by the wayside either because of life or doctrine, the pain cuts in many directions all at once, with a lot of hurt left in the wake. The long-term effect of this kind of failure is a diminishing of the credibility of the church. Will God fail because of human weakness? No. But the church’s failures can become obstacles in the path of those who don’t yet know God or can cause believers to stumble in their faith. The spiritual fallout can be devastating.

In this episode, we address questions like:

• What has gone wrong?
• Should we care about what the world thinks of the church?
• Are many of these problems just overblown?
• What will it look like for us to begin the restoration and renewal process for our churches?

In weeks to come, we’ll examine the phenomenon of “deconstruction” and “deconversion,” the toxicity of social media, sex abuse in the church, chastity and “purity culture,” abuses of pastoral authority, and the American Dream, as well as current conversations about race and how Christians should engage in politics.

You can also find a discussion guide, in case you want to listen with friends and colleagues and have some conversations about this week’s episode.

I hope you’ll join me on this journey and consider what you can contribute to the task of restoring and rebuilding the church’s witness so the world would experience the majesty of Jesus. You can subscribe wherever you get your podcasts, including Apple, Google, Stitcher, and Spotify.

It’s hard for some to stomach the drawing of clear, bold lines of demarcation in matters of Christian doctrine because declaring what’s orthodox means ruling out what’s heretical. Standing on truth means opposing falsehood. And once you draw lines, you imply some people fall outside the boundaries.

In a world infected by postmodern cynicism, making distinctions of “who’s in” and “who’s out” gets attributed to the selfish quest for power and domination. Religion is a matter of the heart. Who can tell you if you’re orthodox or not? It’s your truth, right? Anyone who tells you otherwise is just trying to control you!

In The Thrill of Orthodoxy, I show how foreign this sensibility was to the apostles. It’s clear from the New Testament writings they didn’t believe the way forward was to blur the lines, or to make fuzzy the edges, but to insist on sharper clarity out of love for the truth. They promoted “sound” or “healthy” doctrine because they cared for the church. Theological errors damage health and lead to detrimental effects. Heretical doctrine is poison; it kills. It is loveless to pretend otherwise.

Today, we labor under the false pressure of thinking lines must be erased if all are to be loved. The way we extend love is by pretending our beliefs and practices are of no ultimate importance. Walk this path and you eventually extend the boundaries of Christianity so far it becomes impossible to define. In the name of love, openness, and inclusivity, we don’t expand Christianity but dissolve it. We remove load-bearing walls from the house, watch it collapse, and call it progress.

Loving the Other

This approach to doctrine is attractive because we’ve fallen for the notion that love requires agreement or approval. It’s hard to imagine we might love—deeply love—people with whom our disagreements are fundamental. We assume we must shift the foundations if we’re to love someone, when instead a better understanding of foundational Christian truth shifts us into a posture of love across chasms of difference.

Most often, this plays out in the area of sexual ethics. What do you do if a close friend abandons a spouse for an illicit relationship? Or your brother moves in with his girlfriend and scoffs at your “old-fashioned” notion of “living in sin”? Or your daughter comes out as gay and rejects the biblical and historic Christian teaching on sex and marriage?

It’s a sign of an impoverished imagination if we think we must either approve whatever our loved ones decide or turn our backs and abandon our relationships. Reject this false choice.

For those who remain committed to orthodoxy in these matters, we must take a closer look at the foundations of our faith. On the one side, we see the implacable, unchanging stance of the Scriptures and the church—a ruthless opposition toward sin in whatever form it takes, not out of hatred or disdain but love for the one most affected by that sin. On the other side, we serve a Savior with arms outstretched, the ever-loving, ever-wooing God whose heart bleeds for sinners in need of grace. The orthodox line is stark: an eternal “no” to sin, matched by abounding love from a God whose kindness leads sinners to repentance.

Love with the Light On

As a teenager, I recall seeing a television interview with Billy Graham where the host asked him about homosexuality and made the question personal: “What if your son told you he was gay?”

Graham’s response? “I’d love him even more.”

I don’t know if Graham meant that his heart would beat with compassion for a son who shared his inner struggle at that level of vulnerability or if he was implying a son in that situation would need even more love, not less, if there was any hope of calling him back to a future of holiness. Whatever the case, there’s not a whiff of the sentiment too often true of religious parents: “I’d kick him out of the house and never talk to him again!”

Graham’s posture seems to me fundamentally correct. There’s no wavering on the question of sin, but also no wavering on the calling to a love that wills the good of the other. If a daughter ventures out into the far country, the response of our Father is to leave the porch light on and the door unlocked, to survey the horizon, looking, hoping for the silhouette of his daughter to reappear, anticipating the moment when—instead of chiding or chastising—the father can race down the street to shower her with kisses.

This kind of love upends all worldly expectations. Orthodox love extends into the far country.

We go wrong whenever we assume that “orthodox” and “unorthodox” are categories for “those we love” and “those we despise (or barely tolerate).” If we take our stand on Christian orthodoxy, we’re bound to follow Jesus’s command to love our neighbors, even our enemies.

Yes, there are lines. The sword of truth divides mother from daughter and brother from sister. Our devotion to Jesus separates us from the world with bold, distinct lines. But that same devotion to Jesus calls for a love that crosses those lines. The same orthodoxy that rejects falsehood requires us to love the one deceived.

Like the apostle Paul, we’ll mourn the Demas types who walk away from the faith “out of love for this world,” and like the apostle Paul, we cultivate a love that “hopes all things.” We entrust our loved ones to the care of a merciful and just God whose redemptive plan will collect our tears of grief and turn them into rivers of mercy that carve out new canyons of beauty that testify to his grace.

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For decades now, I’ve heard pastors, preachers, and theologians preach against “seeker sensitivity” as a ministry philosophy. They’ve warned about using “felt needs” as a method of attracting people to church because that’s just a way to satisfy the “itching ears” the apostle Paul foretold.

It’s ironic, then, to see some of the same voices become known as much for their political punditry as their gospel proclamation. There’s a different kind of “seeker sensitivity” at work here, and I want to encourage church leaders to avoid it. We need pastors to resist the siren call of our age and give themselves over anew to the glorious call of heralding the gospel and preaching the Word, no matter what political categories get crossed.

New Church Growth Strategy

It used to be that people would “church shop” based on the felt needs of their musical preference or preaching style. Nowadays, in my experience, people are more likely to change churches due to the political preferences of their pastors.

A new church growth tactic for preachers is to play to the crowd who cheers you on as you take a “strong stand” or “own the libs” or “join the battle” for the soul of the country. The “felt need” of many seekers is a church that clearly delineates “us vs. them,” giving cover to the contempt they feel for neighbors who vote differently than they do. They prefer sermons that fit comfortably within a political framework and “rally the troops.”

In a time when people self-select into congregations of like-minded individuals, I fear that by never preaching in a way that calls out this mindset (or worse, by actively catering to it), pastors and theologians—no matter how conservative they may be theologically—have become, in their own way, “seeker sensitive.” Pastors who once said we should “just preach the gospel” and not confuse spiritual solutions with social concerns now give great attention to social concerns that make headlines on cable news. The leaders who told us we should keep the ministry and mission of the church narrow so that justice issues don’t supplant the cross of Christ now offer opinions on all sorts of political questions.

Politics and Morality

Political punditry from the pulpit isn’t new, of course. Many mainline churches have focused on left-leaning politics for decades. (You are much more likely to hear a blatantly political sermon in a church that leans to the left than to the right. So, please note my caution cuts both ways.) Since the rise of the Religious Right, many evangelical churches have done the same with politics on the right.

Moral issues have, of course, always been the purview of the church. Wherever the Bible speaks to an issue of righteous living—whether murder, adultery, theft, or love for neighbor—the preacher ought to speak too. We cannot (and shouldn’t try to) establish a clear divide between morality and politics because public policy is always based on a moral vision. And that’s where it gets tricky.

It’s easy to conflate the clarity of the Bible’s moral vision with the specifics of supporting a candidate or pushing a public-policy priority. Instead, Christian liberty requires that individual Christians are free to wisely discern—and sometimes disagree about—how best to apply moral principles to political action.

I’m not saying Christians should stay out of politics or that pastors and leaders should remain silent on moral issues of public importance. I’m also not saying Christians should stay silent or “above the fray,” as if there’s a moral equivalency between the two parties in the United States right now. The world desperately needs the church to speak boldly and prophetically where the Bible is clear. Earlier this year, I wrote about how we should go beyond “faithful presence” in our ambitions and seek to be a “truthful witness” in a world of falsehood.

But pastors should work hard to resist the pull into the whirlpool of all-politics-all-the-time. Even a pastor who keeps his preaching gospel-focused can undermine that noble emphasis if all week long he tweets, posts, blogs, and talks incessantly about the latest news from DC. Congregation members who follow an all-politics-all-the-time pastor will likely conclude the next election is the most pressing spiritual issue of the day.

Real Stumbling Block

In the past, seeker-sensitive ministry philosophies sometimes shaved off the harder edges of the Christian faith and removed the stumbling block of essential Christian teachings (such as our belief in the exclusivity of Christ for salvation, the reality of hell, etc.).

The new seeker sensitivity has morphed into something that attracts people already consumed by politics, who breathlessly await the latest developments in DC and want the church to sprinkle spirituality and gospel legitimacy on earthly political tactics. One way to satisfy “itching ears” is by preaching hard against political opponents, turning the Bible into a means of scoring political points.

As we survey the mission field of North America, we seek to avoid setting up a stumbling block other than the gospel itself or the essentials of the Christian faith. When the stumbling block becomes political decision making or the tribal signals of “woke” or “based” slapped onto churches by people who seem un­able to interpret any stance except through the lens of politics, we dilute our power as an embassy of the everlasting kingdom of God.

Anxiety and Orthodoxy

Unless Christians are caught up in the great drama of redemption—the narrative of the world as told by the Scriptures and summed up in orthodox creeds and confessions—we’ll get swept up into the dramatic tension of our political parties, the starts and stops of various social causes.

Once you lose sight of the great drama, the earthly stakes of little dramas are raised. Suddenly, all our partisan debates have heightened significance. Every day is another battle between heroes and villains. No longer are we aware of the powers and principalities on the spiritual battlefield that put our earthly squabbles in perspective. Now, our neighbors become our enemies, and we battle against flesh and blood. Because we lack eternal perspective, every election becomes the “most important in our lifetime,” a struggle of life and death.

So much for the “non-anxious presence” urged by Australian church leader Mark Sayers! Today, the anxiety is the attraction. Every election is a precipice. Freedom always hangs in the balance. The gospel is at stake.

And this is how the drama of our political processes supplants the dogma of Christian teaching, edging the cross from the center of our proclamation and giving us a theology of glory instead of the cruciform path of Jesus.

Let God Speak

This is why the church needs to recapture the thrill of orthodoxy. All week long, content comes at us from a cacophony of voices. World leaders, political pundits, novelists, sportscasters and journalists, infotainment sites and shows, celebrities and social media stars—everyone has something to say. But on the first day of the week, the day we celebrate the resurrection, someone stands up with an ancient book to deliver a message designed to cut through a noisy world of constant chatter. You’ve heard what everyone else says. Now listen to what God says. What follows should be an otherworldly message with God at the center.

But too often, the person who rises with that Book delivers a message that blends in well with the advice and punditry you can get anywhere else, riffing on the week’s news or delivering commentary on recent events as if the primary purpose of our faith is to rally a voting bloc.

If our message has become little more than “make the world a better place” by voting this way or that, Christian proclamation has become wildly misdirected, no matter how many doctrines we say we believe. Unless our focus is on God, who he is and what he has done, unless our message centers on Jesus as the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, unless our dependence is on the Spirit who sweeps through the sanctuary and does his work in the hearts of people, we lose the thrill of orthodoxy and become little more than an arm of a political movement.

Beware the new seeker sensitivity.

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Looking at what’s taken place over the last 20 years, you don’t have to be a theologian or sociologist to recognize the church isn’t healthy.

There are sex abuse scandals rocking virtually every denomination, even churches not connected to a denomination. There’s a lot of questioning or wrestling with—or even abandoning—fundamental Christian doctrines and ethical and moral stances. We’ve got examples of toxic leadership poisoning churches. The number of well-known, respected Christian leaders being discredited by falling into some kind of sin—it’s been like dominoes the past decade. And then there are the questions of what faithfulness looks like in politics and how we discern truth from error in a world of social media battles.

Internal threats of heresy and compromise. External threats from government—the pressure to change our beliefs. There are social issues like race relations, where the church has a messy history that many would prefer to ignore.

If the evangelical movement is about renewal and reconciliation, shouldn’t we, of all people, be in the thick of the action as emissaries of a loving God who sees us all as beloved image-bearers?

It’s hard to find one sphere of the church across the board right now where we’d all say, “Yep, that’s really healthy and that’s going good.” All this stuff is killing is our witness.

In the years to come, as we survey the apocalyptic destruction left in the wake of God’s decision to humble and expose our sins, as we recommit ourselves to removing rot wherever we see it (in our own lives as well as in the church), we will be called on to build. To reconstruct. To restore.

That’s why I’m excited to introduce my new podcast: Reconstructing Faith.

For 12 episodes, beginning next Thursday, October 6, we’ll be addressing the church’s credibility crisis, reflecting on the challenges of today while learning from church history and the church around the world. We’ll examine the phenomenon of “deconstruction” and “deconversion,” the toxicity of social media, sex abuse in the church, chastity and “purity culture,” abuses of pastoral authority, and the American Dream, as well as current conversations about race and how Christians should engage in politics.

I hope you’ll join me on this journey and consider what you can contribute to the task of restoring and rebuilding the church’s witness so the world would experience the majesty of Jesus. You can subscribe wherever you get your podcasts, including Apple, Google, Stitcher, and Spotify.

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Earlier this year, the Christian Reformed Church (CRC) surprised nearly everyone, not just outsiders. The denomination, which many believed had been drifting away from the authority of Scripture, corrected course and made clear the church’s conviction on sexual ethics.

The CRC’s clarification went even further than some observers expected. The group voted, as a clear majority, to make its position nonnegotiable. The traditional view of marriage and sexuality is the standard of the church’s teaching. There’s to be no deviation, which goes for institutions like Calvin University, even if some professors there seem to have moved toward the revisionist view of sexuality.

Trend in Institutions

The CRC is not the only denomination to tighten its doctrinal standards around sexuality rather than loosen them.

• The Global Methodist Church is in the process of breaking up with the United Methodist Church and will provide a worldwide home for Wesleyans who wish to maintain a faithful witness to God’s Word in the days ahead.
• The Anglican Communion is mired in conflict between a fast-shrinking, largely white, and increasingly elderly contingent that advocates for same-sex marriage and a fast-growing, largely black and brown, and increasingly young community of believers located in the global South that shuns the revisionist agenda. Several years ago, the Communion censured the American wing. Meanwhile, orthodox Anglicans around the world are finding new and creative ways of connection and partnership.
• The Presbyterian Church of America recently released a lengthy, brilliantly crafted document that reaffirms a biblical view of sex and marriage, even going so far as to provide avenues for evangelists and apologists to make a case for this position in an era shaped by the sexual revolution.

It’s not just denominations. Organizations have been tightening up their standards and clarifying their adherence to the biblical position.

• The CCCU (Council for Christian Colleges and Universities) added a statement about Christian distinctives and advocacy, which clarified their adherence to a biblical sexual ethic as a “core Christian commitment.”
• InterVarsity Christian Fellowship conducted a four-year process of study and then reiterated the organization’s stance through a nine-part curriculum for all employees.
• Fuller Seminary, Wheaton College, and Christianity Today have also, in recent years, reaffirmed their commitment to the historic view of marriage.

Powerful Pull of Progressivism’s Narrative

Still, the pull of progressivism’s narrative on this issue is remarkably powerful, giving the impression that the revisionist position is inevitable. It captures the imagination with its vision of moral “progress.” It’s only a matter of time before everyone agrees with the new view of sex and marriage! Get on board or get left behind. This is where the train of history is going.

On the day the CRC news came out, a pastor friend asked me if there was a growing tribe of “quietly affirming” churches and denominations across the country. Don’t miss the irony. The news article was about a denomination recommitting to biblical authority, and yet the notion of “progress” in the revisionist narrative was so strong that this pastor still wondered if everything is moving away from traditional Christianity, even when the evidence showed the opposite.

Protestant evangelicals, Catholics, Orthodox, and virtually every other church outside of a subset of shrinking churches in the West believe marriage touches foundational anthropological doctrines and will never be simply something we can “agree to disagree” on.

Still, the press surrounding the progressive position can make orthodox Christians feel defeated, deflated, and doomed—as if they’re in the minority now as far as churchgoing Christians are concerned, as if there’s no stopping the runaway revisionist train.

This narrative is powerful but false.

Worldwide and Historic Church

The truth is, we’ll likely see more churches and denominations adopt the revisionist view of sexuality, but over time, the bankruptcy of this position will be evident. The churches and denominations that have gone in this direction have cratered. Marriage is a load-bearing wall in the house. You can’t tear it down and keep the roof up. Marriage is a picture of the gospel. It’s central.

In The Thrill of Orthodoxy, I counter those who argue that marriage and sexuality aren’t matters of orthodoxy because they aren’t explicitly spelled out in the creeds. Neither is infanticide. Neither is theft. Neither is the command to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. Neither is a whole host of issues connected to Christianity’s moral vision. And yet few would argue that these and other unique and powerful elements of Christianity’s testimony are “optional,” to be taken or left depending upon societal preference. We must not think we can take shelter under a minimalist interpretation of the creeds so as to get out from under the Scriptures.

Still, some wonder: Will strong cultural winds lead to a growing tribe of churches that remain orthodox in their doctrinal stance though “affirming in practice”?

Possibly, but only for a time. At some point, a church has to decide whether to perform same-sex marriages. The halfway house can’t hold. You’ll go one way or another. And once you decide to become “affirming,” you become “apostate” to the vast majority of Christians in the rest of the world.

It’s easy to think the church is falling fast to revisionism on this issue, but only if your view is narrowly tailored to the American or Western European context. The question looks very different from the perspective of the worldwide church, as well as the church throughout history. When you adopt an innovation that would horrify basically every Christian theologian and leader and layperson in the past 2,000 years, the burden of proof is on you, not them.

The imaginative pull of the revisionist narrative on “the right side of history” is strong. But it’s imaginary. All that matters in the end is Jesus, and the words he said will never pass away.

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I get frustrated sometimes by the lack of discernment I see from people who fly the “discernment” banner.

Isn’t the whole point of discernment to be able to discern truth from error? To see clearly what is good and right as opposed to what is bad and wrong?

But those quick to champion discernment often place everyone into camps of “safe” or “dangerous.” And ironically, once you’ve got everyone properly placed and labeled, there’s really no need for discernment anymore. Just avoid the “bad” and embrace the “good.” The result is tribal factions that compete with the Corinthian church for the trophy of divisiveness.

Real Discernment Beyond Labels

Real discernment must go beyond all-or-nothing labels. Real discernment requires us to recognize truth wherever it may be found.

You cannot benefit from the riches of church history, for example, unless you’re willing to glean the gold from forefathers and mothers in the faith who, at times, were in the wrong, sometimes egregiously so. And even today, real discernment also requires you to acknowledge error and falsehood, even when it comes from someone you usually revere as trustworthy and credible.

Real Discernment and Christian Freedom

Real discernment must also distinguish between serious deviations in doctrine and the kinds of ongoing disagreements over how best to apply Scripture in our day when no clear command has been given us. Much of the infighting in churches today arises from disagreement over questions of wisdom and prudence—the best way to respond to a crisis, or how to put into practice a political principle, or the posture to adopt toward the world we want to reach. True discernment is marked by restraint, uttering “Thus says the Lord” only in those areas in which the Scriptures clearly lay out a principle and path. Otherwise, we eviscerate Christian freedom and bind the consciences of believers without Christ’s authority.

I don’t want to imply that real discernment will shut down debate, appealing always to the virtue of “agreeing to disagree.” By all means, bring arguments (not quarrels). Make a case. Seek to persuade. Just remember, if you share the same commitment to Christian orthodoxy or belong to the same church and confess all the truth about Christ, you must put your political and pragmatic differences in perspective and work hard to not walk away from a brother and sister in Christ who sees our responsibility in this moment differently than you do.

Real Discernment and the Essentials

Real discernment must also recognize the difference between doctrines “of first importance” (1 Cor. 15) and important though secondary positions where Bible-believing Christians disagree. These second-tier doctrines do matter, as they often connect to first-order issues. But real discernment doesn’t conflate these issues and then turn to inflammatory and alarmist rhetoric.

This is where what often passes for “discernment” goes awry. Christians sometimes overreact to a perceived drift in doctrine. Setting up alarm bells to ring at the slightest possible misstep can turn us into hypercritical, overly alarmist Christians quick to pounce on any possible error. To assume the worst of a brother in Christ, or to be ever suspicious that anyone with whom you have doctrinal disagreement must be a wolf in disguise, is to fall prey to a self-righteous spirit and a tunnel vision that keeps us from seeing real dangers around us.

Even worse, such efforts at rooting out any possible error we see in others can lead us to assume the place for confrontation is in the barracks with our brothers and sisters rather than on the battlefield, where our proclamation of the gospel poses a threat to the powers and principalities of this world. Not everyone who claims the gift of “discernment” is truly discerning, especially those who fashion themselves as doctrinal police, ready to pounce on anyone for the slightest perceptible error.

And yet, labels do matter when it comes to orthodoxy and heresy. Don’t get so used to rolling your eyes at those who cry wolf so often that you start to think there aren’t any wolves. Alexander and Athanasius were right about Arius and Arianism. Augustine was right about Pelagius. The fact that some are wrong to see dangers everywhere doesn’t mean we should think there aren’t dangers anywhere.

Doctrine Matters

You cannot read the New Testament, especially the pastoral letters, without noting the stress the apostles placed on maintaining sound doctrine. But I’ve seen it happen: in order to avoid the excesses of those who fly the banner of “discernment,” some Christians lose the desire to stand up and speak out for orthodoxy when it’s truly in danger of being lost. It’s possible to go silent when speaking up for the truth is required.

My burden in writing The Thrill of Orthodoxy was to help believers recapture the wonder of Christian theology and the preciousness of biblical truth. I want to see the church grow in discernment—true discernment. That’s why we must lean on the global church for help in discerning what has been believed “everywhere, always, and by all” from differences among Christians in different regions and denominations. And we must lean on the church throughout history so we know when to issue anathemas and excommunications and when to put other heated debates in perspective.

Theology isn’t an arduous task of arranging irrelevant details. It’s an invitation into greater knowledge of this Jesus who has saved us. Jesus himself said that eternal life is to know God and the One he has sent. Real discernment means learning to speak in ways worthy of his majesty so we can describe his excellencies to others.

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A. W. Tozer once said, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us. . . . Worship is pure or base as the worshiper entertains high or low thoughts of God.”

That statement reminds of me of the late R. C. Sproul, who was fond of saying that everyone—whether they realize it or not—is a theologian. That is, everyone has some view of who God is and what he’s like, or a view of humanity, our history and future, and the ultimate questions of life.

The State of Theology

We may all be theologians, but that doesn’t mean we’re good ones. Since 2014, the State of Theology survey, a partnership between Ligonier and LifeWay Research, has been taking the theological temperature of Americans. The newest results were released earlier this week. There’s a lot to explore. You can look at the views of Americans in general or break down the results by categories.

Most interesting to me is the state of evangelical views on theology and doctrine. These statistics stand out because this survey doesn’t include just anyone who identifies as “evangelical.” To be classified this way, the respondent must strongly agree that the Bible is the highest authority for faith, Jesus’s death is the only sacrifice that removes our sin, faith in Christ alone is the only way to receive salvation, and it’s personally important to encourage non-Christians to trust in Christ as Savior. The respondent who lines up with those four affirmations gets counted as “evangelical” whether they embrace the label or not.

What Evangelicals Believe

When you pose a series of theological and ethical questions to those who, based on their beliefs, would likely be placed in the historic evangelical category (theologically, not politically), you expect to see encouraging responses, and this is the case in certain areas. Ninety-one percent of evangelicals believe abortion is a sin, for example. Also, 94 percent of evangelicals say sex outside of traditional marriage is a sin.

But there’s a lot of confusion in these answers, and even if you quibble with the wording on some of the questions (there could be various shades of meaning in the mind of the respondent), that doesn’t remove the problem of glaring errors in evangelical views of theology.

If more and more Americans believe “religious belief is a matter of personal opinion; it is not about objective truth,” an increasing number of evangelicals aren’t far behind (38 perecent). People are prone to view religion as helpful and beneficial for its moral or therapeutic benefits but not really about the truth of God and the world. Religion gets relegated to the realm of values, not historical events and facts about the way the world actually is. No wonder, then, that even with an emphasis on the responsibility to tell others about Jesus, a majority of evangelicals in 2022 (56 percent) answered a question about religious pluralism in the affirmative, saying “God accepts the worship of all religions.”

A couple eye-popping stats show that evangelicals are terribly wrong on doctrines of central importance. Two-thirds believe that humans are born in a state of innocence, not sin. The one doctrine of Christianity that G. K. Chesterton quipped could be “empirically proven” is denied outright by most evangelicals. Even worse, the number of evangelicals who say Jesus is just a good teacher but not God in the flesh jumped from 30 percent to 43 percent in this survey.

Theology and the Study of God

Answers like this make my heart hurt. We’re not talking about arcane doctrines that don’t have significance for daily life. The word “theology” means “the study of God.” Can there be any greater subject than this?

This is the burden of my book The Thrill of Orthodoxy. I believe theology involves an encounter with the most beautiful, most awe-inspiring, most worthy One. We think about him, read about him, praise him, implore him, commune with him—the one true God, the only One whose glories give us joy as we behold and ponder their number. I want more Christians to encounter this God in all his glory.

To those who shrug off the results of a survey like this, or who say it doesn’t matter how Christians think as long as they do good to their neighbors, I’d say this: theological precision matters when it’s a matter of love. Diligence in defining doctrine requires the effort of better describing the God who created us, the God in whom we confess our faith, the God who has revealed himself in the Scriptures and whom the church has described in the creeds. The details matter because we want him and love him.

If theology is the study of God, then Christian theology is the study of God as he has revealed himself in Christ. The heart of our faith is not a series of theological propositions or a list of ethical positions (as important as those are), but a Person. “Behold the man!” Pilate said as he stood next to the thorn-crowned Jesus. All Christian theology is a response to that command, an attempt to answer Christ’s own question to his disciples: “Who do you say that I am?”

If we’re going to turn around the results we see in surveys like this, we must help Christians understand that theology isn’t an arduous task of arranging irrelevant details. It’s an invitation into greater knowledge of this Jesus who has saved us. We care about the details of doctrine because we love the God those doctrines describe.

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In preparing for the lead role in a movie about Padre Pio (an Italian Franciscan friar later canonized as a saint), the actor Shia LaBeouf, best known for Transformers, lived for a time in a monastery, submitted to several spiritual mentors, and then converted to Catholicism. His recent conversation with Bishop Robert Barron goes in many directions—acting philosophy and techniques, the opposition Pio faced from the Catholic Church of his day, and the appeal of the Christian faith in the 21st century.

A couple comments from this interview made headlines. LaBeouf talked about his surprise at how wrong the commonplace image of Jesus is: a man “soft, fragile, all-loving, all-listening but no ferocity.” The Jesus of the New Testament is vastly more compelling as a prophet and king.

Appeal of the Ancient

LaBeouf also revealed that Mel Gibson had introduced him to the Latin Mass—the traditional form of the Catholic liturgy, now observed only in certain places and circumstances (and recently limited further by Pope Francis). To LaBeouf, the Latin Mass felt like being let in on “a secret,” a mysterious experience more powerful than the ordinary rites in English where, he lamented, he felt like someone was “trying to sell [him] on an idea.” He thought the preaching seemed too casual: “[A call to] let your hair down right before you’re asking me to fully believe that we’re about to walk through the death of Christ.”

What’s interesting is how LaBeouf explains his attraction to the traditional form of the Mass—it’s not about the recipient. The focus isn’t on the worshiper. It’s simply there. It must be encountered on its own terms, and its incomprehensible language is part of its appeal because it leaves the worshiper with a sense of the sacred. “I can’t argue the word,” he says, “because I don’t know what the word means, so I’m just left with this feeling.”

The Church Trying to ‘Sell Me Something’

There’s much to unpack in this interview: What should we make of celebrity conversion stories? What are the theological differences between Catholicism and Protestantism on the Lord’s Supper? Why do we insist on the supreme authority of God’s Word over church tradition?

We could also look at how people in our day often search for a feeling of transcendence, where the specifics of doctrine or “the words” aren’t as important as the experience of something sacred, something that breaks through what Charles Taylor calls “the buffered self.” In LaBeouf’s case, this desire seems to have led to a full-blown embrace of Catholicism, but for many others, the result is a life where the individual remains in control, in pursuit of “personal authenticity,” with religious experience sprinkled on top, appreciated for the way it adds a transcendent dimension to a life lived, largely, without God.

Instead of going in these directions, I want to zero in on the statement LaBeouf makes about the Latin Mass and his distaste for worship services where it feels like the church leaders are trying to sell him something. LaBeouf is attracted to something that deliberately and distinctively does not cater to his whims or desires. He finds the Latin Mass appealing precisely because it’s not what we evangelicals might call “seeker sensitive.”

3 Takeaways

What can we learn from this conversation?

First, we shouldn’t underestimate the power of immersion into the Christian community. Yes, we need to be equipped as evangelists who can share the gospel with people in everyday conversations. Otherwise we’d miss people who would never step over the threshold into a church. But the church, when gathered to worship the King of kings, is a demonstration and display of the power of the gospel. To usher people into this alternative community, to experience the otherworldliness of our worship and the hearing of the Word—there is no substitute for the community of faith in the evangelistic process. Invite people in. Invite people often.

Second, there’s a difference between seeker-comprehensible and seeker-driven. I think LaBeouf has competing desires that get a bit muddled here. On the one hand, he’s turned off by services that seem overly focused on the seeker, on the individual’s experience, or by services where it feels like the leader is just trying to sell you on an idea. He finds appealing the service that doesn’t cater to the tastes or whims of the worshiper.

On the other hand, he goes so far as to prefer an incomprehensible language so he can focus on the feeling. Which, in a weird way, can become its own version of catering to a whim. This is a sticking point not only between pre– and post–Vatican II Catholics but also going back to the days of the Reformation. Luther, Calvin, Tyndale—they were right to stress the need for Christian truth to be presented in the vernacular.

The feeling is not the goal; the encounter with the Living God is what we’re after, and the feelings may (or may not) follow from that. And so, as evangelical Protestants, we must insist: the presentation of the Word must be comprehensible—yes, even to the seeker in our midst—while not driven by the felt needs of the seeker. LaBeouf is right to revolt against a service that’s centered on man rather than on God. But in preferring the incomprehensible so that he captures a feeling, there’s the possibility he’s turning the Latin Mass back into something man-centered, as it delivers a feeling and meets a need because of its austerity.

Third, we shouldn’t underestimate the power of Christian teaching in its essentials, and we must not downplay the significance of Christian doctrine. This is the heart behind my book The Thrill of Orthodoxy. (By the way, if you’d like early access, please consider joining the launch team.) Orthodoxy is real and massive. It is there. It’s a force to be reckoned with. It creates feelings and experiences precisely because it’s not about our feelings and experiences. It’s about God.

For this reason, our worship shouldn’t shy away from the weird. If there is nothing otherworldly in our worship, why are we even there?

In the interview, Barron acknowledges that preaching in the Catholic Church took a wrong turn in previous decades, as priests often prioritized sharing individual religious experiences over explaining the text of Scripture. Instead, Barron says, “the Bible is much more interesting than [his] experience”—the goal isn’t to fit the Bible into our lives but to see our lives swept up into the story of the Bible. There’s a lesson there for Protestant preaching too.

The great adventure is not in adapting the Christian faith to better suit the needs of people but in adapting people who better fit the Christian faith. And this posture of submission is the outworking of humility that makes possible the adventure of discovering truth. Comprehensible to seekers, yes. Driven by human desire, no. The radically God-centered view at the heart of our faith is, in the end, not a barrier to evangelism; it’s what conversion is all about.

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We’re in a season right now where some people give words like “doctrine” and “theology” a bad name because of an inability to differentiate between what’s essential and what Christians have historically disagreed on. At the same time, some people downplay doctrine altogether, wanting us just to focus on what we do or how we live as Christians. They think we need to adapt and accommodate Christianity to better fit the times.

My new book The Thrill of Orthodoxy (available October 25) turns the tables on those who believe Christian teaching is narrow and outdated. We’re going back to the historic creeds. We’re looking at what orthodoxy is and why it matters, and why we should have confidence in it. We’re looking at heresies and errors that are not broad and inclusive but narrow and boring.

Christian theology is an adventure, and I want to reawaken your sense of wonder!

Why Join the Launch Team?

Loyal readers, you can make a big difference in how this book launches.

By joining the launch team, you get access to a digital version of the book a month before anyone else does, giving you the chance to read it ahead of time. You also get access to a private Facebook group where you can interact with me and other team members, discussing (maybe even debating!) some of the concepts in the book. You’ll also be invited to a Zoom call in October, where I’ll be hosting a conversation about the book.

Here’s what launch team members agree to: you preorder the book and agree to leave a review during the book’s launch. That’s it.

Here’s why that matters.

By preordering the book, you help retailers take note of the demand for this book, and this increases the likelihood that they’ll push and promote it more visibly, so that others discover it too.

By agreeing to leave a review on Amazon or other retailer sites within the first 10 days of the book’s launch, you help others discover the book and make them more likely to give it a try. These reviews are vitally important for a book launching well.

I hope you sign up to join us and enjoy being part of the team!

If it weren’t for the addition of a single word in Luke’s account of Jesus telling his disciples to pick up their cross and follow him, it’s possible we would think our Lord referred to a one-time, no-turning-back decision to deny oneself and die, whether it be (literally) a martyr’s death, or (figuratively) the moment we’re saved as we die to our old nature and follow Christ.

For some, this death to self does become evident in literal cross-bearing. Most of the disciples and many believers throughout history have fulfilled this command in this way.

But that word daily in Luke 9:23 removes the call to costly discipleship from the realm of choices grand and spectacular, making sure we realize self-denial and cross-bearing impinge on our day-to-day choices.

“If anyone wants to follow after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow me,” Jesus says.

The vision of taking up a cross every day means the way of Jesus is one of suffering on the path the glory. The vision of self-denial is one of transformation and joy that can only be had by allowing God to strip us of everything sinful as he frees us to become the person he’s always intended.

A Prayer to Die

A few months ago, I began asking the Lord every morning to give me chances that day to die to myself, and for the Spirit to help me recognize those opportunities. He has never failed to answer this prayer. Not once. Every time I’ve asked him to show me opportunities to die to myself, he’s come through. Annoyingly so. On occasion, I’ve thought it might be best to stop praying this prayer, as I grew tired of the spiritual discomfort.

What has been most illuminating about praying this way is how mundane some of the daily choices are. The opportunities to take up one’s cross seem almost pitifully small. Surely there are bigger and more impressive examples of cross-bearing and self-denial than the mere willingness to be inconvenienced, or the decision to set aside something I want to do for the sake of what someone else requires in the moment, or the choice to forgo something I desire and think I deserve so as to serve someone else.

The chances to deny oneself and pick up one’s cross every day seem so tiny, which must be one reason I’ve so often overlooked them. In times past, I would make a series of small selfish decisions every day, and because I saw them as small, I minimized their selfish roots. I would react to interruption and inconvenience with ambivalence at best or frustration and resentment at worst, or I would demand my way so as to fulfill “small” wants and “insignificant” desires, assuming in these cases that some grandiose gesture of self-denial wouldn’t matter because the selfishness in my “needs” was so minimal (if I even recognized the selfishness).

And yet it’s the small decisions of daily life that make us what we are. The Spirit uses those seemingly insignificant daily decisions to transform us more into the image of Christ. Likewise, it’s the small decisions, the daily acts of selfishness that, combined over a lifetime, turn us into little beasts.

A house can fall because of an earthquake, but it can also collapse after years of being eaten away by termites, the little creatures you think are tiny and insignificant until the full extent of their power affects the structure.

The Selfishness of Selflessness

I also experienced a strange and ironic turning of selflessness back into selfishness. I noticed how the call to self-denial can in itself be twisted into a method of self-magnification. Almost immediately, as I began recognizing the daily opportunities to deny myself and pick up my cross, I felt a twinge of pride in setting aside my own interests for the sake of others. I’m on the path to self-denial. This is what it looks like to follow Jesus.

And that little turn is one of Satan’s most ingenious schemes, to twist the call to self-denial into an occasion for self-righteousness, to deceive us into applauding how we’ve dethroned the self when instead we’re seated on the throne with a firmer grip than ever before.

The prayer to find ways to die every day can in itself turn into inordinate self-focus if not directed Godward. It is Jesus I’m following, and he is the One who must have my attention. My focus isn’t to be on myself as the follower. Neither should I look for ways to feel better about myself as the self-denier or crossbearer. It is looking to the glory to come, standing in awe of the One who has called us and who promises to sustain us, trusting in magnificent grace that saves and transforms—that must be the reason for daily death.

Death to Life

We die daily because we believe there is joy on the other side of the cross, life on the other side of this tomb. We must bury the old self every day because, like a zombie, it keeps wanting to return and claim its territory, when Christ has already dealt that old nature its mortal wound and promises one day to eradicate every selfish stain and free us for everlasting happiness.

And so, the prayer to die daily is just another way of saying, “Lord, help me to see the opportunities to follow you.” We wish to submit ourselves to the death of certain ambitions and attitudes, to kill off our sinfulness and selfishness, to mortify all wrongheaded desires and decisions, and to rise every day in the Spirit, awakened to the majesty of a Savior who promises nothing else than glory. Try it yourself. Lord, help me see the ways you’d have me die today. I guarantee he’ll answer that prayer.

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If sharing the gospel sounds like we’re saying, “Come to Jesus for a better life,” we’re doing it wrong.

In a day when religion is appreciated for its moral or therapeutic benefits, someone will hear us telling them about Jesus and presume we’re trying to sell them a version of personal, privatized spirituality. One good option among many. Even when that’s not what we say, that’s what people hear.

Just Share Your Testimony?

“Sharing your testimony” doesn’t avoid the problem; it sometimes makes the challenge more difficult.

I once heard someone recommend a method of evangelism that relied solely on the personal testimony. “No one can argue with your testimony!” he said.

Exactly. That’s why it’s insufficient.

If you talk to your neighbor about what Jesus means to you and how being a Christian has made your life better, how will you respond when your neighbor smiles and says, “I’m so glad Jesus has made your life better. Here’s a mindfulness app that’s given me peace . . .” or “I’ve been trying out some teachings of Buddhism”? You’ll be left in the backyard sputtering something about how following Jesus is better than going after Buddhism, but you’ve given away any objective ground to judge between competing spiritualities.

Resurrection at the Center

Evangelism is not delivering a message of personal, privatized spirituality; it’s declaring a public truth that has ramifications for all of life: the resurrection of Jesus from the dead. Yes, we can find similarities with other faiths, and from a sociological perspective, we see that various religions, alternative spiritualities, and wellness rituals may have salutary effects on a person’s well-being.

But the gospel is not good advice, a new ethic, or another option for spiritual improvement. It is news. Because of the resurrection, the gospel cannot be squeezed into the same category as other spiritualities.

We must not domesticate the gospel by making the explosive news of a crucified and risen Savior all about moral and ethical improvement, societal cohesion, or practical benefits for daily life. But often, interreligious dialogue gives the impression that Christianity is a moral plan for being kind to one’s neighbors, taking care of the planet, or bettering one’s spiritual side, with the sort of self-improvement or community building you’d expect from a public television infomercial.

In contrast, the resurrection of Jesus Christ must be the starting point for all Christian reflection. To shrink the good news into good advice diminishes our witness. Missionary theologian Lesslie Newbigin put it this way:

Where the Testimony Fits

Personal testimonies can be powerful. Paul appealed to his experience when testifying to his uniqueness as an apostle. The Samaritan woman ran into town and told of her conversation with Jesus. The man born blind, after being healed by Jesus, went and told everyone what had happened to him.

We should work, however, to make sure our testimonies undergird and support the public truth of the gospel and don’t replace it. What Jesus has done for me should always be connected to what Jesus has done, period.

This is a point made in Everything Sad Is Untrue, Daniel Nayeri’s remarkable memoir of being a refugee from Iran. Nayeri tries to explain the reasons for his mother’s conversion from Islam to Christianity, from being “such a fierce Muslim that she marched for the Revolution, who studied the Quran the way very few people do” to being a Christian. “Not just a regular one,” he says, “who keeps it in their pocket. She fell in love.”

When people ask him why his mom converted, he replies,

He’s Real

“Come to Jesus and find fulfillment and freedom,” we say. Yes. But that fulfillment and freedom comes from real historical events. And the definitions of fulfillment and freedom are forever shaped by who God is and what he has done.

The role of personal experience in testifying to the work of Christ should be seen as further evidence of the power of the gospel. It is not the gospel itself, but it testifies to its power. That’s why, no matter how much happiness we’ve found in Christ, when asked in the final instance why we believe we must always and ever say, like Nayeri’s mother, “Because Jesus is better . . . and the gospel is true.”

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It’s clear one of the big questions facing Christians and church leaders today is “How should we engage in politics?”

That question connects to other challenges related to public theology, the church’s relationship to the state, the legitimacy or failure of pluralism and liberal democracy, and the definition of religious liberty. On the last point, many believers wonder what Christian faithfulness looks like in a world where the levers of legislative and cultural power in government and business are wielded against those who adhere to traditional views of sex, gender, and marriage.

I’ve read the back-and-forth between groups grappling with the best way to engage in politics. The questions remind me of Francis Schaeffer’s How Should We Then Live?, a book and video series that appeared in an earlier season of cultural upheaval. Schaeffer wanted Christians to understand their cultural moment and find a faithful way forward. In our era, we’re confronted with new questions about the posture we should adopt:

Is it time for a more vocal, more muscular, clearly partisan approach to enshrining Christian morals in society?

What are the demands of justice when ideologies lead to the defacement of the human body in the name of “progress” and “inclusivity”?

Is it enough to carve out exemptions for Christians who claim conscience rights against being conscripted into life-ending procedures for the elderly or the unborn or into surgeries that diminish the dignity of the human body’s natural use and purpose? Or should we use persuasion and power to go further?

“How should we then live?” and “How should we engage?”—these are vital questions that deserve discussion.

Bigger Question

And yet, the more I’ve reflected on current debates, the more I’ve come to see that there is an even bigger, more vital question: “Who will we be?”

In terms of focus, the question of identity—“who we are”—must precede the question of function—“how we live.” Unless we develop Spirit-filled character and virtue, as those who claim the name of Jesus Christ and seek his way, we’re bound to stumble in our engagement. Who we are, in some measure, determines the path of engagement, the way we live as salt and light in a fallen world.

I’m less worried about the right way to engage, and I’m more concerned about the right heart of the engager.

Lately, when someone asks me about how best to engage in debate on Facebook or how best to be a truthful witness on Twitter, I respond less with the “dos and don’ts” of social media etiquette or the good, bad, and best practices. Instead, I turn to questions of personal devotion, to prayer, to church membership, and what one’s Bible reading is like.

Who Are You Becoming?

“Who are you?” is the bigger question, and there’s a second just like it: “Who do you want to become?”

Apart from a vision for who we are and what we’re becoming, we will be blind to the adverse effects that engaging politically could have on our souls. We’ll deceive ourselves, thinking we’re fighting the good fight, engaging in online battles, patting ourselves on the back for our righteous stances, our sick burns that “own” the opposition, while inside we shrink into brittle, shallow, hollowed-out ghosts, following every wave of political controversy, as our methods of engagement change us in ways we don’t anticipate.

To be calm in a time of turbulence, to be single-minded in a season of instability, to retain perspective in a moment of hysteria, to be a steady ship in choppy seas, to be at peace in a world of anxiety—this kind of leadership will not come from arriving at the “right” answer to the question of how best to engage politically. It will only come about as part of an ongoing process of developing our souls and disciplining our desires and discerning faithfulness in a world gone crazy. It will require a deep and abiding presence in the Word of God and in prayer for our world. Meditation, not scrolling. Deep reading, not scanning. Careful attention, not distraction. It will require the Lord’s work in the Lord’s way, as Schaeffer famously preached.

I fear that far too many of us have a profound awareness of what’s happening on Twitter but a superficial understanding of God’s eternal Word.

Not the Microwave

The incentives of our times push against the inward soul-work necessary to be a thoughtful (literally “full of thought”) and wise presence in a world of clanging cymbals around every controversy.

The microwave impresses us because it’s fast. You can warm up a Hot Pocket for dinner, but you can’t enjoy a microwavable roast. Which is why now, just as in the past, we who follow Jesus must prioritize the crockpot and the oven. In a world of Hot-Pocket hot takes that emphasize instant wins and immediate results, the savory feast stands out—food impossible to enjoy apart from time and attention, as the fruits of holiness seep into our souls, forming us into the image of the Christ we’re called to represent.

When we do engage in the public arena, when we do speak up and speak out on various issues—as indeed we must, if we’re to be faithful to the gospel in this moment—we must do so in ways that stand out from our neighbors, and perhaps even from fellow church members. We must display wisdom that comes through in our carefulness, our love, our discernment, and, yes, our restraint. We must exhibit a calm that shows up in our demeanor, a joyfulness amid conflict, a boldness matched by graciousness.

We don’t need more soldiers running haphazardly through minefields, whacking aimlessly at every potential obstacle; we need the gift of steady warriors who know this battle is not against flesh and blood, who can discern the lasting from the ephemeral, who see dangers coming from multiple directions, and who maintain a core of conviction and kindness and of substance in a world of shallowness.

How should we engage? First ask the question, “Who will we be?”

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For many years now, I’ve found summer to be the best time to step away from publishing columns, scrolling social media, and interacting online. I make the most of the month of July to clear my head, consider what shape my work and ministry should take in the days ahead, and make headway on various projects.

This summer is bittersweet: our oldest son heads off to college in just a few weeks, and frankly, the thought of him packing up and moving away fills me with a mix of joy and trepidation, not to mention bewilderment at how quickly the past eighteen years, often filled with what seemed like interminably long days, have rushed by.

We are returning now from a wonderful trip to the UK to visit family, and among the many educational and fun family outings we enjoyed, I was able to spend a good chunk of my birthday at Top Meadow, once the home of G. K. Chesterton. (The picture above shows me standing in the doorway next to Chesterton’s study, taken from the view of the garden.)

As is my usual practice, I do not plan to publish any columns in the month of July, but will wait until August or September to resume posting. I recently completed a nine-part series on the Neo-religious Right and the return of the culture war sensibility, and I’d like to give some further thought to this subject and the responses it has generated.

Before signing off for the summer, though, I’d like to bring you up to speed on several things I am very excited about.

Guest Lecturing at Oxford This Fall as a C.S. Lewis Scholar in Residence

First off, I will spend some time in Oxford this fall, where I will be guest lecturing. I’ll be sharing more details about this in the days to come.

On a related note, I have been accepted into the C. S. Lewis’ Foundation’s scholar-in-residence program, which will give me the opportunity to stay at the Kilns (Lewis’ home in Headington) during my sojourn in Oxford. I couldn’t be more excited at the honor of lecturing at Oxford and the privilege of spending time reading and writing in the home of one of my literary heroes.

Cedarville University Visiting Professor

Secondly, I will be traveling more often to Cedarville University in the days ahead, now as a visiting professor. For the past few years, I’ve told people that one of my favorite places in the world to preach is at chapel at Cedarville. I love the students—their passion for the Scriptures, for growing in Christ, for reaching their world for Jesus. I am excited about the opportunity to spend more time on campus in the years to come and to pour into students through classes, talks, and sermons. The plan is for me to be on campus twice a year—teaching and mentoring students, while engaging with the faculty.

New Resources and a New Podcast

My day-to-day joy right now is leading a newly-formed Resources team at the North American Mission Board. It is an honor to serve with men and women who love Jesus, care for his church, and want to see planters and pastors equipped for ministry.

Since my work at NAMB started, we’ve launched New Churches—a site that includes articles, free eBooks, free video courses, and a growing podcast. Among the video courses we’ve released is Using Online Conversations for Good with my friend Dan Darling, Church Planting Masterclass, and more recently, Sending Church Masterclass, with accessible and powerful clips from practitioners on the front lines of leading their congregations to develop a sending mindset. We are also looking to improve and grow NAMB’s apologetics presence online, as well as considering new ways to aid pastors in their development of preaching skills. I’m proud of the work this team has done so far, and I’m excited about the work that lies ahead.

One of the new projects coming is a podcast which will address the credibility crisis facing evangelical churches today. The approaches to renewing the church we see on display often prove problematic. Conservatives who want to protect the church sometimes end up defending rot. Progressives who want to purge the church sometimes end up blowing up the pillars of truth. The way forward requires the careful work of removing the rot from the church while fortifying the foundations. To accomplish this task, we must be able to discern the difference between what is foundational and what is cultural, and this discernment requires the perspective of (1) church history and (2) the worldwide church. In this podcast, I want to lean on my experience as a cross-cultural missionary, my connection to the global church, and my studies in church history and missiology to help Christians embrace this season of rebuilding and reconstructing.

The Thrill of Orthodoxy

And that brings me to a project now years in the making, my next book—The Thrill of Orthodoxy: Rediscovering the Adventure of Christian Faith—scheduled for release in October, published by InterVarsity Press, with a foreword from Kevin Vanhoozer.

The Thrill of Orthodoxy is devoted to the beauty of sound doctrine, the wonders of our theological inheritance, and the breadth and depth of the church, as opposed to the narrowness of error and heresy. The main point is that the church drifts not when new errors start to win, but when old truths no longer wow. The goal of the book is to show how the ancient truths still thrill the heart, and I lift up the Scriptures and the pivotal players in the first millennium of the church to do so.

I will have more to share about this book as the release date gets closer. For now, I just ask this: if you benefit from my columns, please preorder a copy for yourself and one to give away this Christmas. This is the best way you can say “thank you” to a writer like me.

Blessing

So, as I sign off for the rest of this summer, here is my prayer: May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you believe, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit (Rom. 15:13).

If you would like my future articles sent to your email, as well as a curated list of books, podcasts, and helpful links I find online, enter your address.

This is the last in a series on the rise of the neo–Religious Right, in which I’ve sought to explain and describe some of the historical and contemporary features of this movement, as well as some cautions and concerns I have for younger evangelicals going forward. (A full list of the previous columns is provided below.) In this final installment, I’d like to offer a potpourri of additional thoughts that may aid us in a time when we need truthful witness in the public square.

1. Don’t overestimate the power of politics.

First, let’s make sure that in all the talk about culture warring and culture engaging we do not prioritize the political sphere of life to the exclusion of other important parts of the good life. Government is important, but it is not god. As gospel-centered evangelicals, we must “dethrone” politics. We must value the political sphere but put it in its proper place. Indeed, politics is not ultimate. This recognition is essential for truthful witness in the public square.

In this way, let’s make sure we don’t so focus on Washington, DC, and the drama glowing on our social media apps that we forget our callings. We are called to be members of communities, and we must serve those communities and be exemplary citizens. We are called to marriages and families, and we must cultivate healthy relationships within them. We are called to local churches, and we must exercise faithful and meaningful membership. We are called to workplaces (located in various spheres of culture like business, education, science, technology, art, law, politics, or hospitality), and we must fulfill our vocations in ways that honor Christ.

In other words, we must not shy away from truthful witness in the political sphere, but our political witness must not outmatch or be overshadowed by our witness in all these other spheres, and the impact of these other areas should not be underestimated.

2. Play the political “long game.”

It can take years for political change to happen. I’m reading the new book from Matthew Continetti, The Right, which traces the modern conservative movement from its origins a century ago to the present. One of the takeaways is just how much time it takes for ideas to move forward in society, and how networks and think tanks and finding the right messenger are all vital in seeing political change take place.

Amid today’s culture wars, we must beware the temptation to compromise our convictions in order to attain a short-term win for our chosen political party. We can so convince ourselves that now is the crucial moment, and this is the most important election in our lifetime (something I’ve heard every four years my entire life) that we hand over our birthright for a mess of pottage. Political parties and leaders must earn their keep, and be willing to accept our constructive criticisms, if they wish for our full support. Political parties should be made aware that they cannot expect our full-throated approval or our vote simply because of their party affiliation.

3. Stand out by being unflinchingly fair-minded.

Truthful witness requires truthfulness, so we must avoid the temptation to cast our political opponents in the worst possible light. When we criticize the ideas of someone on the other side of a political issue, it’s important to find the common ground or basis for that criticism, to show that we may agree on the same concerns but differ when it comes to solutions. Often, this makes it possible to affirm our opponents’ aims, even while forcefully opposing their proposals. (This doesn’t always work, as in some cases, there’s even difference on what aims we should pursue. But most of the time, simply differentiating between aims and solutions and recognizing the good intentions of an opponent would bring a healthy new atmosphere to our politics.)

Unfortunately, instead of being fair, it’s all too common for culture warriors to find the moronic or terrible things the worst actors on the other side of the aisle have said—to go “nut-picking” and then react to that craziness. Over time, you give the impression that whatever badness you see in the nutcases is just part and parcel of anyone on that side, and then you fail the second commandment because, while you want to be distinguished from the crazies on your side, you purposefully tar people on the other side with all their party’s worst examples.

4. Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.

As Christians, we can easily be duped into thinking that those who give us time and attention really care about the same things we care about. Most of the time, this is not the case. You’re fooling yourself if, for example, you think the Republican Party today is going to be some kind of bulwark against the excesses of the sexual revolution, or that the Democrats seek to implement policies that will end up “reducing abortion.”

Whether or not we decide to adopt a “winsome” approach, we should above all seek to be wise, and part of wisdom is in recognizing the incentives for political parties to colonize the church for their own gain. Partisanship has its place for people called to serve in the public square, but we are first and foremost members of a kingdom that spans the globe, rather than card carriers for the agendas of donkeys or elephants.

5. Keep the open hand and closed fist.

Finally, consider Os Guinness’s description of the early church’s two approaches to making a defense for the Christian faith: persuasoria (the way of the “open hand,” which involves creativity, finding common ground, winsomeness, etc.) and dissuasoria (the way of the “closed fist,” which involves tough-minded defenses of Christianity, tearing down ideological strongholds, etc.). God’s people must use both approaches simultaneously.

In recent conversations online, it seems that Christians have been reacting in ways that emphasize either one or the other, rather than holding them both together. Some believe the previous generation has been too open-handed and too reticent to slam the fist, and perhaps that critique is appropriate, at least on some issues. But the response must ever and always seek to find that proper way of standing against the world for the good of the world, holding together both elements of truthful witness, in dialogue and debate with brothers and sisters across the country and around the world.

So, in everything, let’s give space and grace to believers who may approach some of these matters in different ways. We’re in uncharted territory as we head into an increasingly post-Christian environment. Assume the best of your brothers and sisters trying to figure out what faithfulness looks like. And trust that God is going to make the most of all our bungling attempts at truthful witness, that he will fulfill his plan and build his church. Negative world or not, no weapon formed against his people will stand.

This is the ninth column in an ongoing series. If you would like my future articles sent to your email, as well as a curated list of books, podcasts, and helpful links I find online, enter your address.

1. The Return of the Culture War
2. The Tearing Apart of Convictional Civility
3. Navigating the (New?) Negative World
4. Didn’t I Grow Up in the Negative World?
5. We Need to Complicate the Negative World
6. Let’s Contextualize Tim Keller
7. Encouragement and Caution for Culture Warriors
8. Truthful Witness in the Public Square
9. Five Quick Takes for New Culture Wars

James Davison Hunter’s To Change the World advocated a model of culture engagement he called a “faithful presence”—a position he set against some other methods on display, seen in both the culture-warring and the culture-engaging strategies of evangelicals during the 1990s and early 2000s. Today, many younger evangelicals consider “faithful presence” insufficient for political engagement.

What we need is something more akin to truthful witness, with the accent less on presence and more on proclamation and action. When the world gets loud on a certain subject and the church goes quiet (even if out of a well-intentioned desire to avoid giving offense), the next generation gets indoctrinated into another worldview and hears no counterpoint. Truthful witness means the church must speak the truth—boldly, compassionately, and without qualification—with full confidence that doing so will be for the good of the world we oppose.

To put it another way, we cannot compartmentalize the Christian faith, as if following Jesus does not transform our perspective regarding the various spheres of life, including politics. Discipleship requires teaching on how best to speak the truth in a world of lies, to promote life in a culture of death, to lift up the goodness of the created order in a world full of people who negate the natural law and harm humanity through their errant and destructive understanding of human freedom and identity.

At the end of the day, we don’t want merely to engage the culture but to change it. In the words of Chesterton, we don’t want a church that moves with the world but one that will move the world.

So what does truthful witness look like? In the previous seven columns, we’ve looked at the rise of the neo–Religious Right and the challenges and opportunities of this cultural moment. Today, I offer three suggestions for younger evangelicals who seek a truthful witness to the kingdom of God while living in Babylon.

1. Always be on guard against political idolatry.

Political idolatry shows up in two ways. First, we make an idol of politics when we treat this sphere of life with messianic hope and fervor. We expect too much from fallen and flawed government systems or rising politicians, and then the idol always lets us down.

Second, as David Koyzis has shown, every modern political ideology tends to deify—or idolize—some aspect of the created order. Christians who engage in the political realm must be most influenced and shaped by the scriptural storyline so we can challenge the prevailing patterns of thought on display in our parties and leaders today. Truthful witness requires nothing less.

Along these lines, we must recognize there will be no cookie-cutter approach to the church’s engagement in this era. We fool ourselves if we expect leaders to align on all the same strategies.

Yes, we must help Christians think biblically about the world and then respond to political challenges with truth and grace (and that will require us to teach on areas of moral concern often connected to hotly contested public policy debates). But the last thing we want to see is more churches falling into the left-leaning activism of the mainline (which so often has led to the social gospel supplanting the proclamation of the cross), or the newly inspired MAGA-type churches who attract hundreds or thousands because of pastors who regale them with in-your-face preaching on vaccines, masks, and those “demonic Democrats.”

Political idolatry always destroys the church, and the Evil One can make use of any variation, even if the cause is righteous.

2. Consider areas of competence and calling.

To provide space for evangelicals to engage differently in the public square, we must acknowledge differences in competency and calling. Not everyone will interact the same way.

Something I appreciate about John Piper is his reticence to weigh in on particular policy proposals, in part because, as he says, I don’t know enough about the complexities of that subject to be helpful. He worries that pastors today are expected to be public policy experts, which can easily conflict with the calling to pastor a local church and preach the Word.

Many Christians expect their pastors to act as pundits, to hold increasingly strident views on any number of issues that animate people in the congregation. But a pastor should reserve his “Thus says the Lord” for areas where moral issues are clearly laid out in Scripture, and his “This is the Christian way” for those areas of longstanding agreement within the broader Christian tradition as to the best and most appropriate ethical stance to take.

If it’s true that we are heading into a “negative world” in which the hostility toward Christian morality will increase, then what we need now, especially now, are pastors who stay closer than ever to the Scriptures, who are circumspect in their use of social media—who make clear the difference between airing their own opinions and the moment when they step before their congregation to say, “Hear the Word of the Lord.” The Word draws and repels. The last thing a pastor should want is for his political punditry to detract from (or be confused with!) the message he has been divinely commissioned to deliver.

But the question of competency and calling applies also to those in the congregation called to truthful witness in the public square. These believers need to be equipped for their task, much the way a pastor and church will pour into their congregation’s artists, businesspeople, nonprofit workers, and schoolteachers.

In this case, a Christian who is called to public service should not seek to be “balanced” at all times in what he or she says. Partisanship is not a dirty word but an unavoidable element of political engagement in our day. A politician can and must speak more directly to issues of competence and calling. If a political strategist is working for a GOP lawmaker, for example, we wouldn’t expect to hear public criticism of that representative or the institutions that support that campaign.

Political alliances do not require selling out the faith. Truthful witness can and must occur in the various spheres of life, politics included.

3. We need all types.

The beauty of truthful witness is that it is a community affair. We need each other—with various gifts and skills—if our witness is to be full and robust.

It’s foolish to expect any one individual—pastor or politician—to embody the essence of truthful witness in the public square. We need the whole body of Christ for this task, each person playing a role. Some people may be temperamentally inclined toward peacemaking in the political realm, and therefore less devoted to critiquing or calling out the people or policies he disagrees with. Others may have reforming impulses, always improving policies and working toward party clarity and cohesion. Some believers have a prophetic edge, a gift for telling people how to think and what to do practically, in the moment, while others are more like loyal foot soldiers, making up the mass required for party allegiance.

We don’t want everyone doing everything. We want everyone doing something, and that something should be within a person’s sphere of competency and calling.

Unfortunately, we are still figuring out how to deal with social media (and how it deals with us!), and this new phenomenon often puts a strain on leaders with different gifts, pressuring all of us to move out of our areas of competence and calling. Most of the time, calling out another Christian on Twitter for a posture or position you don’t like isn’t courageous, especially if your followers expect you to “go after” that kind of person anyway. Too often, social media imagines the world as a gigantic coliseum in which Twitter personalities duke it out for the cheering of their fans. Let’s not confuse social media dustups, which happen in a small part of the online world, with actual change or public witness.

And that leads me to a final thought, to be shared in the next column, about the need for us to “play the long game” politically by not letting our fervor for today’s cultural battles overheat our thought process and drive us toward compromising the truthful witness that must endure, whether it be politically plausible or not.

This is the eighth column in an ongoing series. If you would like my future articles sent to your email, as well as a curated list of books, podcasts, and helpful links I find online, enter your address.

1. The Return of the Culture War
2. The Tearing Apart of Convictional Civility
3. Navigating the (New?) Negative World
4. Didn’t I Grow Up in the Negative World?
5. We Need to Complicate the Negative World
6. Let’s Contextualize Tim Keller
7. Encouragement and Caution for Culture Warriors
8. Truthful Witness in the Public Square
9. Five Quick Takes for New Culture Wars

What should Christian public engagement look like as we move forward in this era? So far in this series, I’ve laid out some of the challenges facing traditional Christianity, and why it’s no surprise that some on the right claim a more combative posture is necessary for pushing back against harmful ideologies and practices in society.

Some Christians seem to believe that confrontational or combative approaches to public theology are inherently sub-Christian. This is not the case. Christianity has a long history of people willing to speak truth to power, to call into question the reigning ideologies of the day in the name of Christ the King.

Too often, the negative label of “culture-warring Christians” gets applied solely to Christians who oppose ideologies common on the left. When left-leaning Christians call out politicians or pastors who support sinful beliefs or behaviors common to the right, they get described as “prophetic” and “courageous.” This is unfair. Culture warring requires two sides, and one can be a left-wing culture warrior just as easily as a right-wing one.

But, speaking of being “prophetic,” sometimes, we think courage and boldness consist in bloviating bluster, “destroying” the opposition, “owning the libs,” or mocking the “nutcases” we find on the other side of the aisle. No. It takes little courage to be bold in opposing those whom your closest friends, family members, or online followers would expect you to oppose. What takes courage is to police your own side, to call out the problems not only in “the culture” but in your particular subculture, to buck the consensus of your own tribe and go against the people whose favor you usually enjoy. Compromise always involves capitulation, but capitulation can happen in more than one direction.

It seems likely that we will see a return to something akin to the older culture-war mentality among younger evangelicals in the years to come. Rather than rule that option out of bounds, I think it better to offer some encouragement and caution for younger evangelicals who are enthusiastic about this mode of public engagement.

The Reality of Christian Warfare

First, let’s dispense with the idea that warfare has no place in Christianity. I remember restraining my laughter when, 15 years ago or so, progressive Christians were protesting the “unbiblical” martial imagery of many Christians and churches. In taking aim at conservatives, they were shooting the Bible.

The language of spiritual warfare is pervasive in the Old and New Testaments. Jesus blessed the peacemakers and called us to turn the other cheek, and yet he said he came to bring division, not unity. His was the sword that separated son from father, and daughter from mother. The apostle Paul used martial imagery, as did the other apostles. We are on a spiritual battlefield. The response to such circumstances is for the church to be, dare I say, militant. Downplaying the stakes fails to do justice to the Bible itself.

In this battle, Christianity is “on offense”—not in a way that implies we should seek to be offensive, to take it as a badge of honor when others are offended. No, to speak of Christianity “on offense” is simply another way of describing the image Jesus gave us when he said that the gates of hell will not prevail against his church. Jesus’s statement imagines the church moving outward, plundering hell, and pushing back the forces of darkness. Passivity has no place in the Great Commission.

The Danger of Misidentifying the Enemy

But the danger for Christians who apply the New Testament’s warfare motifs to political engagement is that we can easily misidentify the enemy. The apostle Paul makes clear we do not wrestle against flesh and blood. It’s the church moving forward into battle against the powers and principalities that hold people captive—against the evil forces that wreak havoc in our world, the supernatural realities the Bible describes as present and persistent.

We must distinguish the serpent from his prey. This is why we seek to convert our opponents, not own or destroy them. We seek their rescue, not their ruin. As we’ve seen, “winsomeness” is not a strategy for cultural engagement, as if we could win cultural arguments simply by being “nice,” but lest we forget, we are deeply invested in winning over our opponents. As Augustine taught, we stand against the world for the good of the world.

The challenge for culture engagers is that we downplay the against—we become so focused on working for the good of the world that we adopt a conciliatory, affirmative posture that never runs into a hard line of antithesis, and thus we avoid any adversarial stance toward the world. The challenge for culture warriors is that we get so wrapped up in the drama of standing against what’s wrong that we are seized by contempt and resentment, and we forget who we are fighting for. In the Scriptural imagination, our fight is for our opponents, or at very least, for the people who will be harmed by what our opponents propose.

Culture engagers can easily neglect the reality of the spiritual warfare and eternal stakes. But culture warriors can lose sight of that spiritual battlefield, just in a different way—by reducing the cosmic picture of powers and principalities to temporary, earthly policies and positions (and the people who hold them). Jesus is clear: even if our neighbors become our enemies, we are to love our enemies, pray for them, and do good to them. This is the Christian way. Contempt must be killed.

No wonder we need the armor of God. An army that stays behind its walls has little need for that kind of protection. Paul’s metaphor assumes Christians will take a public and firm stand in the world so we can battle in ways unlike the world, as shining warriors who pierce the darkness, whose victory is always cross-shaped because Christ’s soldiers must be known for self-giving love.

The Hollowing Out of the Soul

Another caution for culture warriors is the possibility of fortifying the outer facade of Christian faithfulness while being hollowed out on the inside. Despite my concerns with Rod Dreher’s Benedict Option, I appreciate his insight that we cannot offer to the world what we do not possess. We cannot reach a culture if we have not built a culture of our own.

When the apostle Peter wrote a letter of encouragement and exhortation to Christians in distress—believers who lived on the margins of society, maligned and falsely accused, some imprisoned and a handful martyred—he reminded them of their status as “strangers and temporary residents” and then called them “to abstain from fleshly desires that war against you” (1 Pet. 2:11, CSB). Peter’s focus wasn’t on the battle being waged against them by unbelieving authorities; he started with the daily struggle going on in their hearts. In other words, Peter appeared less concerned about what unbelievers might do to the Christians physically than about what sin would do them spiritually.

Here’s the lesson for us: by focusing all our attention on the external threats to Christianity, we can miss the real and persisting internal threats that wreck our witness. Yes, transgender ideology may be an external threat to the religious freedom of Christian organizations, but surely pornography use in our congregations is the more pervasive and widespread tragedy of our day.

One can pin the decline of church membership and attendance in the past 50 years to cultural trends that make it more difficult to be a Christian, but this view would only make sense of some of the decline. The internal rot in our churches has contributed as much to our decline as any outward government pressure. The internal challenges we face are just as deadly as the external threats. Don’t miss the frightening prospect of Christians who might win a culture war and lose their souls.

The Danger of Friendly Fire

I must point out one more challenge for the neo–Religious Right to consider: the possibility of friendly fire. Anyone who has been in war before knows that one of the common dangers is friendly fire—to be wounded or killed by someone on your own side. The fog of war makes it easy for allies to be treated as enemies.

Culture wars are impossible without friendly fire and casualties among allies. And I fear we are already witnessing this development among those who push for a return to the culture-war mentality. We shoot our brothers and sisters.

Often, casualties from friendly fire do not occur because of differences in doctrine, but because of questions of wisdom and discernment. Because some churches and leaders adopt a different approach to cultural engagement, we may doubt their doctrinal soundness, ascribe pernicious motives to them, or label them compromisers or cowards.

It is far too easy for Christians, devoted to a righteous cause, to turn their attention from the battlefield to the barracks and seek to weed out anyone who doesn’t fight for the cause in the same way. Like the disciples ready to call down fire from heaven on a village, many who get caught up in the culture war too quickly call down fire on their brothers and sisters who may view and interpret the situation differently.

There is no one-size-fits-all approach to cultural engagement. Christians with a different political calculus, with various regional sensibilities, temperaments, or experiences, may choose different courses of action. Debate over the best course of action is good and necessary. But culture warriors and culture engagers alike must be careful not to criticize unfairly or demean brothers and sisters whose different choices are not out of line with confessional faithfulness but flow from prudential judgments about how best to be faithful in the public square.

In the next column, I want to explore this idea further. Different parts of the body may have different roles to play. The local church is the most important among Christian associations but it’s by no means the only one. In the various spheres of culture, we need organizations and informal networks of people to operate in their strengths, and they need to mutually reinforce one another’s work. We need the whole body of Christ, with different congregations with different skills and gifts and passions, doing whatever it takes to serve Christ faithfully and show the world the beauty of the gospel.

This is the seventh column in an ongoing series. If you would like my future articles sent to your email, as well as a curated list of books, podcasts, and helpful links I find online, enter your address.

1. The Return of the Culture War
2. The Tearing Apart of Convictional Civility
3. Navigating the (New?) Negative World
4. Didn’t I Grow Up in the Negative World?
5. We Need to Complicate the Negative World
6. Let’s Contextualize Tim Keller
7. Encouragement and Caution for Culture Warriors
8. Truthful Witness in the Public Square
9. Five Quick Takes for New Culture Wars

A few weeks ago, I began a series on the rise of the neo–Religious Right, starting off with (1) a brief history of the culture war, (2) the tendency to tear apart conviction from civility, (3) a closer look at the idea that we now inhabit a “negative world,” (4) why this feels like a blast from the past to me, and (5) the need to change the lens so as to complicate the “negative world” framework.

In the columns to come, I will get a little more prescriptive regarding how to engage in public life in fruitful and faithful ways, but there’s one more element I’d like to discuss first: pastor Tim Keller and his approach to culture.

James Wood’s Critique of Tim Keller

James Wood’s “How I Evolved on Tim Keller” is the best representative of constructive critique of Keller’s evangelistically front-facing “third way approach” to political engagement. “The evangelistic desire to minimize offense to gain a hearing for the gospel can obscure what our political moment requires,” Wood writes.

Wood agrees with Aaron Renn’s assessment of the church now inhabiting the “negative world,” in which society has turned decisively against Christianity’s moral vision. Keller’s strategy worked for the “neutral” but not for the “negative” world, and his pursuit of a “third way” often keeps him “above the fray”—unwilling to get his hands dirty in the rough and tumble world of politics, where pragmatic choices and concessions must take place. (Those who disagree with Wood’s assessment have pointed out that Manhattan at the turn of the century was already “negative,” not just “neutral,” toward Christianity. Those of us who serve in other parts of the country have heard Keller warn, for years, that many of the cultural assumptions of Manhattan are on their way to us.)

In his follow-up, “This Article Is Not About Tim Keller,” Wood clarifies his appreciation for Keller and focuses his critique on how the Keller framework is “appropriated by his disciples,” leading to the impression that, in a noble attempt to avoid tribalism, too many Christian leaders imply a moral equivalency between political options. 

I placed the second article from Wood in my weekly “Trevin’s Seven” list of links for my newsletter subscribers—not because I agreed with it all, but because I believe it’s good for Christians to look for new ways forward in this cultural moment. What’s more, my interest in and openness to this sort of conversation is because of Tim Keller’s influence on my thinking, not in spite of it.

So, I hope this column will be given fair consideration and evaluation by two types of people: (1) those who now mock and deride Tim Keller as representative of an outdated, old-fashioned (perhaps even closet-progressive!) approach to culture, and (2) those who believe Tim Keller is sacrosanct, above and beyond critique, so that anyone who questions aspects of his public theology must be driven by hate, fear, or unrighteousness.

Justification and Defensiveness

First, if there’s anything Tim Keller has emphasized in his decades of ministry, it is the gospel of Jesus Christ and, particularly, the transformative power of being justified by faith alone.

When the truth of our being declared righteous because of the imputed righteousness of Jesus Christ seeps into our hearts, we’re no longer as apt to react defensively and self-righteously when criticized. We expect others to reveal the lingering flaws in our character and outlook. We’re not to look down on others, and whenever we do succumb to snobbery, we seek the Lord’s forgiveness and pray his grace will flow through us to others. A disciple of Keller who sneers at people whose political calculus or public posture may differ betrays the emphasis Keller himself puts on grace and its power.

Examining Ministry Models

Second, all ministry models wind up being inspected, altered, and sometimes rejected by leaders in subsequent generations.

Keller himself has written about various models of ministry and has critiqued the excesses he sees in different ministry philosophies. All ministry models have strengths and weaknesses, and no one is better than Keller at pointing them out. Nobody’s model of ministry is above critique.

Therefore, we should not be surprised when Keller’s own way of approaching politics and culture receives criticism from younger evangelicals. It’s the upholding of one method to the exclusion of the insights from all others that Keller warns against, which means the last thing people should assume is that Keller has written “the last word” on these matters and now his way is to be enshrined as the only faithful approach in our day.

Contextualization and Ministry

Third, Keller emphasizes the importance of contextualization and the need to adapt our posture, approach, and practices in response to a community’s needs. He writes,

A couple years ago, I was in a group that spent a couple hours with Tim discussing topics like apologetics, the need for catechesis, and culture shifts and ministry responses. Near the end of our time together, he surprised us by saying he doesn’t think his past preaching is a great model of what we’d been talking about all day. The next generation will need to do something different than what he did, he told us.

To be clear, Tim wasn’t expressing regret for how he’d preached. What he meant was this: what will be needed in the next generation is preaching that doesn’t just model his method or approach but that takes into consideration the new cultural moment and responds in all the ways we’ve been discussing. In other words, contextualization, not just mimicry! 

A Time to Build

Fourth, younger evangelicals will serve the church well if, in looking forward, we don’t cut ourselves off from faithful men and women who have gone before us. Instead, we ought to see our work as building upon their insights, sometimes going beyond their work, and sometimes altering aspects that no longer fit the cultural moment.

Too much of today’s discourse leads to an all-or-nothing approach in which any theologian, writer, leader, pastor, or politician is put in the “good” or “bad” category. This reductionist approach impoverishes us. If we refuse to learn from any pastor or theologian—no matter how personally devout, biblically rooted, or theologically beneficial—who doesn’t line up exactly with the latest theological position or political proposal, we reject the way of wisdom.

In a world dominated by social media flame-throwing, it’s easy to build a platform by tearing down the good work others have constructed. I am often disappointed to see pastors or seminary students online dripping with disdain and contempt toward their “ignorant” or “evil” opponents. Keller has been on the receiving end of this derision, yes, but some who claim Keller as a model treat their opponents in the same way Keller gets treated. This kind of all-or-nothing approach damages our witness and blocks our way forward.

Seasons of Church Life

Finally, a close reading of Tim Keller allows for various conversations about the best political posture, depending on the “season” the church finds herself in. Here’s how Keller describes the seasons:

• Winter describes a church that is not only in a hostile relationship to a pre-Christian culture but is gaining little traction; seeing little distinctive, vital Christian life and community; and seeing no evangelistic fruit. In many cultures today, the church is embattled and spiritually weak.
• Spring is a situation in which the church is embattled, even persecuted, by a pre-Christian culture, but it is growing (e.g., the church in China).
• Summer is what Niebuhr described as an “allied church,” where the church is highly regarded by the public and where we find so many Christians in the centers of cultural production that Christians feel at home in the culture.
• Autumn is where we find ourselves in the West today, becoming increasingly marginalized in a post-Christian culture and looking for new ways to both strengthen our distinctiveness and reach out winsomely.

He concludes,

In other words, Keller himself is open to various churches and individuals seeking to best apply their gifts to the current moment.

Be Open to Critique

One of the things I most appreciate about Tim Keller is the way he listens to people who disagree with him.

In a recent episode of Mere Fidelity, Keller claimed that Christianity is not a religion that fits easily into ideological categories. It’s not a middle road but a “patchwork of extremes.” And yet, the search for a “third way” on every issue, something Keller often does, comes from a peacemaking impulse that is as much temperamental as theological. “Sometimes I overdo it,” he admitted.

That self-awareness—the sensibility to recognize that God is at work in many ministry models and through many types of people—comes from a confidence grounded in Christ’s righteousness, unwavering faith in God’s sovereignty, and trust that the Spirit will bring fruit from the faithful preaching of the Word. Whatever parts of Tim Keller’s methods and model survive the next 50 years, I pray those characteristics of openness and curiosity will be evident.

This is the sixth column in an ongoing series. If you would like my future articles sent to your email, as well as a curated list of books, podcasts, and helpful links I find online, enter your address.

1. The Return of the Culture War
2. The Tearing Apart of Convictional Civility
3. Navigating the (New?) Negative World
4. Didn’t I Grow Up in the Negative World?
5. We Need to Complicate the Negative World
6. Let’s Contextualize Tim Keller
7. Encouragement and Caution for Culture Warriors
8. Truthful Witness in the Public Square
9. Five Quick Takes for New Culture Wars

Anyone effective at persuading other people understands that the way we choose to frame a discussion, establish categories, or create labels carries an inordinate influence on setting the terms of the debate. That’s why it’s vital to interrogate not only the surface disagreements but also the underlying framework if you’re going to find any amount of meaningful consensus.

A few weeks ago, I began a series on the rise of the neo–Religious Right, starting off with (1) a brief history of the culture war, (2) the tendency to tear apart conviction from civility, and then (3) a closer look at the idea that we now inhabit a “negative world” and (4) why this feels like a blast from the past to me. I’ve been interacting with Aaron Renn’s account of recent evangelical history:

• Before 1994, we lived in the “positive world” where the culture had a positive view of Christianity.
• From 1994 to 2014, we lived in the “neutral world,” where the culture was neither positive nor negative toward Christianity.
• Since 2014, the cultural landscape has shifted and Christian morality is seen as reprehensible, so we must find new strategies for living faithfully in a world that opposes true Christianity.

In the previous column, I pointed out the powerful impact of imagining oneself in the “negative world,” because this was how I saw myself and my church back in the early 1990s when Renn says we still lived in the “positive world.”

The Shift on Sexuality

Today, I want to point out another feature of Renn’s taxonomy that deserves attention: the underlying narrow scope of controversy that supports his perspective.

Renn points to a cultural shift that took place nearly a decade ago (which, incidentally, Tim Keller and Stephen McAlpine also note). If you’re tracking cultural norms surrounding morality and sexuality, then Renn is right: before 1994, most of society had a largely positive view of Christianity’s teaching on marriage, family, and sexuality (even if cracks showed up from the 1950s on, as the birth control pill severed sex from procreation, setting the stage for a radically revised view of sex—not to mention the loosening of laws related to divorce, etc.).

Of course, we Christians in the 1990s who saw ourselves as a besieged remnant in a godless culture would have said we were in the “negative” and not just the “neutral” world already. (It was 1996 when the Southern Baptist Convention boycotted Disney for their subversion of traditional family values!) Not to belabor the point I made in the last column, but it deserves repeating: the self-perception of living in the “negative world”—whether it’s truly accurate or not—has tremendous power on the psyche and posture of churchgoers.

But who can deny that societal opinion has turned decisively against Christian views of sexuality and marriage in the past decade? Renn’s taxonomy captures a movement from positive to neutral to negative on this issue. And that movement comes with massive implications. Carl Trueman can trace the philosophical ride that started centuries ago, but no one can dispute the rapid shift in the last 20 years on issues such as same-sex marriage and transgender ideology. The metaphysical implications go well beyond bathroom battles. Even if you pinpoint the dates differently than Renn does, on this issue, his taxonomy makes sense.

Change the Lens

But there’s the catch. Sexuality is one (very important) issue of Christian concern. But the best way to test a framework proposed as a general way for seeing the world is to change the lens so you look at it with another issue in mind.

What happens when we change the issue from the norms of morality and sexuality to societal views of racial justice? One could make the case that, on this issue, we’ve moved the other way—from negative to neutral to positive, where society now favors a view more favorable to biblical Christianity: that all human beings, regardless of ethnicity, are worthy of respect and dignity and equal protection under the law. This doesn’t mean there’s no longer work to be done in this area, nor does it discount the challenges that recent essentialist views of race pose to a biblical worldview. But certainly we can agree that the cultural pressures on this matter have shifted considerably in the past 60 years.

Picture a faithful minister of Jesus Christ holding to a deeply Christian view of humanity and equality in Birmingham, Alabama, in the 1950s. Would he have described himself as living in a “positive world”? This was a time when white ministers were beaten, and sometimes killed, for their witness to biblical truth and their defense of black brothers and sisters who faced injustice and brutality. This was an era in which black ministers saw their homes and churches bombed and their neighbors lynched.

For 200 years prior to the Civil Rights Movement, Christians who understood the biblical vision of human beings marked by the image of God and who sought to live according to the “pure, peaceable, and impartial Christianity of Christ” stood with heroes like Frederick Douglass against the “corrupt, slaveholding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial, and hypocritical Christianity” all over the country. And they paid a price for faithfulness during that era. This was a negative world toward true Christianity. Baptists in Montgomery, Alabama, warned the great English preacher, Charles Spurgeon, that if he “should ever show himself in these parts, we trust that a stout cord may speedily find its way around his eloquent throat.”

Change the lens from sexuality to anthropology, and it becomes much harder to make the case that pre-1994 the culture was inclined toward a “positive” view of true Christianity. Which is why I doubt many brothers and sisters from the Black Church tradition would find the positive/neutral/negative taxonomy helpful.

Always Negative and Positive

I acknowledge that Renn captures something of the shift in societal views of sexuality, and the implications are indeed massive: we hear of professors being denied tenure, businesspeople afraid to share their views, the encroachment of DEI initiatives that leave Christians concerned for their jobs, Christian schools under fire for teaching basic biblical truths, and more. Nothing I’ve said denies these challenges are real and likely to increase in the days ahead. John Stonestreet of the Colson Center for Christian Worldview has said we need a “theology of losing our jobs,” and he’s right. Taking the Christian stand is costly.

But my point is this: taking a stand for true Christianity has always been costly. Christian ministers lost their jobs in the 1960s for doing nothing more than allowing African Americans to attend worship! In some way or another, we’ve been in the negative world since the time of the New Testament, but the form of that hostility toward the faith changes depending on the place and the era. And the opportunities—where society smiles on aspects of Christianity—change too. We live in positive, neutral, and negative worlds simultaneously, depending on the issue.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” wrote Charles Dickens, and John Piper says that line is “true at every point in the history of a God-ruled, sin-pervaded world.” In 1859, the year Dickens first wrote those words, God was doing mighty things in China and Northern Ireland, where religious awakenings were taking place. Charles Spurgeon was one of the world’s greatest preachers, and George Müller’s orphanages showed Christian compassion to the least fortunate. But 1859 was also the year Charles Darwin published On the Origin of Species, which undermined the uniqueness of humanity as made in God’s image. It was the year John Stuart Mill wrote an influential essay that weighed moral decisions and valued people based on their usefulness to society.

So, what do we say about our times? How do we put all of this together—things that seem like progress and things that seem like decline? “Don’t assume any specific historical trajectory of good or evil is fixed and unchangeable,” Piper cautions. “God evidently loves to do his surprising work in hard and unlikely times.” That’s good counsel because it gets to the heart of our faith. The gospel shows God doing the most amazing things in the most unlikely times.

The problem with letting the “negative world” frame occupy an outsize part of your imagination is that it chains you to a too-narrow scope of seeing the world and then limits the possibilities you can see. We must beware of both the myth of progress and the myth of decline. “The world is what the saints and the prophets saw it was; it is not merely getting better or merely getting worse,” wrote G. K. Chesterton. “There is one thing that the world does; it wobbles.”

In the next column, we’ll get back to the rise of the neo–Religious Right and the return of the culture war. I don’t have a political program or a particular proposal to put forward, but I want to lean on some past experience to provide a few cautions and (hopefully) some wise counsel as we discern potential ways forward for faithful witness in this era.

This is the fifth column in an ongoing series. If you would like my future articles sent to your email, as well as a curated list of books, podcasts, and helpful links I find online, enter your address.

1. The Return of the Culture War
2. The Tearing Apart of Convictional Civility
3. Navigating the (New?) Negative World
4. Didn’t I Grow Up in the Negative World?
5. We Need to Complicate the Negative World
6. Let’s Contextualize Tim Keller
7. Encouragement and Caution for Culture Warriors
8. Truthful Witness in the Public Square
9. Five Quick Takes for New Culture Wars