Twain was noting the beginning of the illiteracy rockslide that we now witness as an avalanche. The statistics we see in the age of smartphones and social media bear out our eroded literacy: In 2003, average Americans older than age 15 read 21.9 minutes on a given day. By 2010, the number had dropped to 18.3 minutes, and in 2025, it had sunk to 16.2 minutes a day. Imagine how ChatGPT will gut that number even further in the next few years.

America is moving rapidly into a postliterate reality, a sort of new Dark Ages, one in which we consume information in images and sound bites, all predigested for us by others. Consider the implications for a system of belief whose transmission from one generation to the next is staked on a book.

Christian Literacy Crisis

A new survey from Lifeway Research throws into stark relief the chasm between Christian commitment to and knowledge of the Bible. More than 2,000 Christians who attend church in a typical month were surveyed across eight categories of Bible knowledge: major people, passages, events, divisions of Scripture, and more. The researchers designed questions around what would be typically well known rather than obscure.

Two out of three respondents scored less than 60, a failing grade. Fifty-five percent could not correctly name the first king of Israel. Only 11 percent could correctly order four major Old Testament events, and only 27 percent could correctly order four major New Testament events. Forty-four percent failed to identify the book of Mark as belonging to the Gospels. Two out of three respondents wrongly believed Hezekiah was a book of the Bible, and 44 percent believed the Gospel of Thomas was as well.

Christians have succumbed to the general literacy crisis of the culture. The “people of the Book” don’t read it. The Bible itself, the classic of all classics, has apparently become a book that every Christian wants to have read, and few Christians want to read. If we do read to sustain our faith, we’re more likely to read books about the Bible than the Bible itself. We may consume sermons or podcasts or use devotional resources that cherry-pick verses to give us a positive emotion in 10 minutes or less, but largely, we’ve become curators of other people’s opinions about a book we don’t read ourselves.

Failure of Discipleship

I believe these results show a failure of discipleship strategies, one with massive implications: We cannot pass along to someone else what we ourselves don’t know.

How can the church fulfill the Great Commission if it’s incapable of teaching others to observe everything Jesus commanded? The numbers show we haven’t taught even the basics. If the church were a local public school responsible for teaching basic math and reading, we would receive a failing grade and face funding sanctions.

The ‘people of the Book’ don’t read it.

Yet, according to a 2024 Lifeway Research survey of 2,620 Protestant pastors, 52 percent are satisfied with the state of discipleship and spiritual formation in their churches. Twenty-nine percent report that they regularly evaluate discipleship progress among their congregations. When asked their first priority in discipleship, the largest number responded that it be “biblical knowledge focused.” And in response to the question “What approaches does your church specifically use to disciple and encourage the spiritual development of adults in your congregation?” 89 percent responded the sermon, the top answer by a 20-point gap, with adult Sunday school listed second.

The sermon matters enormously. But we’re learning that the sermon alone cannot do the heavy lifting of solving the Bible literacy crisis. It’s a passive learning environment, a one-way communication. Imagine if your local public school believed passively listening to a lecture was the only way to form students into contributing citizens. Why does the local church think people comprehensively learn the Bible in such settings?

Imagine also if your local public school recommended peer-led discussion groups as a primary vehicle for educating students. Imagine if the time spent in these groups was used to reflect for 30 minutes or so on what was taught in a lecture several days before: Mrs. Harker lectures on the quadratic equation for 30 minutes on Monday; students discuss how to apply the quadratic equation to their lives for 30 minutes on Wednesday. Who’s passing an algebra exam? Yet, 95 percent of pastors surveyed responded that discipleship isn’t completed in a program but in a relationship. Hence, the ubiquity of the community-group model in evangelical churches.

We Know What to Do

The wildest part of this disconnect about how to teach what’s good in a way that sticks is that we know the answer. The answer isn’t a new thing but an old thing recently forgotten. The church must return to its roots as the solver of illiteracy, both within its walls and also without.

Education pastors can be tempted to dabble, trying one thing or another to see what their church members might find interesting, buying the latest study from a Christian publisher on the assumption it’s good. The idea that there are well-attested best practices for Christian education seems to have gotten lost.

Just like a healthy local school, churches need to reclaim active, dedicated learning environments—spaces designated explicitly for the purpose of teaching the Bible. They need to think like educators: What is the scope and sequence for what we’ll teach? And they need to ask a better question than “What do my congregants want to learn?”

I didn’t want to learn grammar, but thank goodness, Mrs. Wagner knew I needed it and taught it to me anyway. Her evident enthusiasm for the topic fascinated me. What was I missing that she knew? I learned grammar in a dialogic space taught by a subject-matter expert with an evident love for her subject. That love was contagious. Imagine if the church taught people the Bible like Mrs. Wagner taught grammar. It might become the classic of classics that every Christian actually wants to read.

Christians possess the most beautiful and compelling book of all. Because a book forms the foundation of our faith, Christians have always been invested in solving illiteracy. We’ve striven to train people to read because reading is essential to the promulgation of our faith.

The roots of public education and university systems lie in Christian efforts to grow literacy. The availability of vernacular translations of the Bible is the result of a concern for readability for all. Sunday school began in the late 1700s as an effort to educate children who worked in factories prior to child labor laws, seizing their one day off work as a literacy opportunity.

Christians have been literacy champions in previous dark ages—and Christians can be again.

Don’t Look Away

In the first article I ever wrote for The Gospel Coalition back in 2012, I considered the Bible literacy crisis: “Why does biblical ignorance continue to dog the church, despite the good intentions of leadership to obey the Great Command to make disciples? I believe the answer lies in our definition of a disciple. A disciple is, literally, a learner—one who follows another’s teaching.”

Fourteen years later, I’m still asking church leaders to remember to teach learners as the most basic function of discipleship, and to do so with proven tools. Don’t look away from the problem. Don’t tell yourself it’s the problem of the church down the road. In a cultural literacy freefall, all churches will feel the negative effects in Bible literacy rates.

Christians have been literacy champions in previous dark ages—and Christians can be again.

But you don’t have to take my word for it. Lifeway Research hasn’t just released a survey of someone else’s problems. They’ve created a diagnostic tool for individuals and churches to use to assess their own Bible literacy: 25 questions of a similar nature to those asked in the Bible Literacy survey. The next time you gather with your community group, Sunday school class, or congregation, give them the link and see what their scores reveal.

If your church members fall short, here’s good news: By reinstating simple best practices about how people learn, we can reclaim Bible literacy and help with general literacy at the same time.

For more on how to get started, you can listen to the TGC25 breakout I taught with my colleagues J. T. English and Kyle Worley. There are no new gimmicks or tricks, just old things recently forgotten. May this generation of Christians be found faithful to retrieve what has been lost in the dark, that one generation can tell the next, and the next, and the next the wonderful works of God.

Not long ago, my son asked me about all the people King David killed in 2 Samuel 8. We’ve been reading through that book during family devotions before bed. He’s right to be disturbed. So we had a conversation about why he’s unnerved, how we develop moral instincts, and how we’d respond to someone who rejects God because of these and similar accounts in the Old Testament.

We did apologetics together.

As he gets a little older, I’ll point him toward the YouTube channel of my friend Gavin Ortlund, who does an excellent job of answering many hard questions about Christianity and the Bible. Then, a few years later, I’ll point him to Gavin’s books, including his latest, Why Christianity Makes Sense: A Book About Jesus, the Mysteries of the World, and the Longings in Your Heart (Zondervan Reflective).

He’s back on Gospelbound to discuss all things apologetics, from the multiverse, to slavery, to morality as merely a taste for sugar, to winning the lottery 10 billion times in a row.

In This Episode

00:00 – Why people may be more open to spiritual answers today

03:36 – “The ache” and the longing for transcendence

09:29 – What about Christianity makes the least sense to Gavin?

11:39 – The problem of evil and the limits of tidy answers

19:09 – The growing challenge of divine hiddenness

24:34 – Fine-tuning and the odds of a life-permitting universe

32:07 – Is morality without God just a matter of taste?

37:25 – Slavery, the Bible, and the Christian roots of human equality

42:23 – Why fulfilled prophecy surprised Gavin

48:00 – What apologetic questions should Christians prepare for next?

Resources Mentioned:

• Why Christianity Makes Sense by Gavin Ortlund
• Mere Christianity by C. S. Lewis
• Making Sense of God by Timothy Keller
• The Reason for God by Timothy Keller
• The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky
• Bullies and Saints by John Dickson
• Dominion by Tom Holland
• Gavin Ortlund’s YouTube channel, “Truth Unites“
• The Keller Center for Cultural Apologetics

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In my upbringing, I learned the rich depths of the Christian faith. I surrendered my life to Jesus, and I learned that Jesus came to seek to save the lost. Yet that evangelistically oriented world of my youth was intentionally sanitized and separated from the painful realities of poverty and injustice just 10 minutes down the road.

When I discovered this disparity, I became a justice warrior online. And while that posture was certainly a reaction to my upbringing, I wasn’t being a hypocrite. My social media advocacy reflected my actual life. I’ve lived and worked in an underresourced neighborhood since 2001. During my first 15 years in the neighborhood, I grew burdened over the disconnect I saw between the conditions my neighbors faced daily and how many in the American church live. The political, racial, and socioeconomic divide between my church life and neighborhood gutted me.

So when I went online, I was convinced I was sharing the true gospel. Yet that “gospel” I shared was merely centered on producing tangible results in the here and now, not on affecting eternity. What I needed instead was a holistic gospel, one that centers around both God’s kingdom mission and also his sacrificial death for sinners on the cross.

Two Gospel Aspects

I began to see two aspects in the biblical gospel. Let’s call them the gospel of the cross and the gospel of the kingdom.

The gospel of the cross is the good news that Jesus Christ saves and adopts believers as his children through his substitutionary death and glorious resurrection. We’re all born alienated from God. In sin, we’re his enemies. In Christ, as we believe the good news, we’re reconciled to God (Rom. 5:6–10) and assured of eternal life with him (John 3:16). As Peter writes, “Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God” (1 Pet. 3:18).

Moreover, the cross aspect of the gospel emphasizes that those entrusted with this message must share it with a lost and dying world (Matt. 28:18–20). The gospel of the cross must be heralded; it must be proclaimed. It is the priority. From this gospel flows every good gift.

What I needed instead was a holistic gospel, one that centers around both God’s kingdom mission and also his sacrificial death for sinners on the cross.

The gospel of the kingdom is the good news that God’s will for justice, goodness, and peace is already being unleashed. As God’s children, believers are invited to play a part in seeing that kingdom mission come to fruition.

Jesus begins his ministry by preaching a message that proclaims “good news to the poor” and “liberty to the . . . oppressed” (Luke 4:18). He calls his hearers to repent, including from ways they’ve oppressed and neglected the poor (Matt. 3:2; 4:17). He specifically rebukes the Pharisees for neglecting “the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faithfulness” (23:23).

Paul, too, teaches that the gospel not only reunites us to God but also works justice by reconciling divided peoples to one another in the church. He writes, “For [Christ] himself is our peace, who has made us both [ethnic groups] one and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility” (Eph. 2:14).

We fulfill the law and live out the gospel’s kingdom implications through our identity as shalom-makers (Matt. 5:9). The kingdom aspect of the gospel equips us with a vision for pursuing God’s will “on earth as it is in heaven” (6:10), that is, for seeing all things made new (Rev. 21:5). This gospel of the kingdom must be lived out through embodied action.

Mapping Our Approaches to Cross and Kingdom

Most Christians today rightly see these two gospel aspects—the message proper and its kingdom implications—as part of the same biblical pie. But we often fail to see them as necessarily intertwined. As a result, many emphasize only one aspect or the other. And sadly, some neglect both these aspects of the gospel altogether.

Nicholas Wolterstorff writes that shalom is “a harmony and delight in all of one’s relationships: between us and God, us and other people, us and other cultures, us and creation, and between us and our very selves.” In the four-quadrant grid below, I’ve mapped out the ways we typically approach the cross and kingdom aspects of the gospel. (For more, see section II.3 of The Gospel Coalition’s Theological Vision for Ministry.)

Christ’s sacrifice on the cross restores us to harmony and delight with God. This is our most important relationship, and it’s represented on the diagram by the upward-pointing vertical axis. A kingdom emphasis on harmony and delight in other people, other cultures, and the creation is represented by the rightward-pointing horizontal axis.

Quadrants II and IV represent two errors—the false choice of emphasizing either the cross or kingdom while neglecting the other. Many American Christians have been ensnared by one of these two quadrants. Quadrant III designates a total neglect of both cross and also kingdom. All these disconnects result from misunderstanding who a Christian is and what a Christian should do in this broken world.

Quadrant IV: Individualized Gospel

Advocates of an individualized gospel (quadrant IV) want to get people saved for the afterlife without stressing the social implications for this life. When sinners are saved, we always celebrate! However, Christians who fit in this quadrant often don’t emphasize the kingdom aspect of the gospel. Such individuals and churches may financially support ministries in underresourced neighborhoods but don’t often emphasize transformative service there. Many such churches and their members may not understand or appreciate the depth and range of problems in struggling communities, even in neighborhoods not far from them.

Quadrant II: Social Gospel

Advocates of the social gospel seek to meet people’s imminent needs but neglect their ultimate need of the salvation Jesus offers. This is a scandalous compromise, and it’s the false gospel I believed for nearly a decade and then proclaimed as a social media justice warrior.

My wife and I moved into our underresourced neighborhood to live close to the school where I served for 18 years. Living and working among the poor showed me that many people need more than hearing about Jesus alone. They needed tangible help. Many of my quadrant IV friends concluded my neighbors were ignorant, dangerous, and to be avoided. So I reacted to my peers by propelling myself into the social gospel.

Most Christians today see these two gospel aspects as part of the same biblical pie. But we often fail to see them as necessarily intertwined.

The social gospel is an late 19th- and early 20th-century theological movement focused on breaking the chains of oppression and championing the poor. Advocates seek to make Christ’s kingdom manifest on earth through acts of charity, philanthropy, and just legislation. Some social-gospel advocates choose to live close to the poor to improve their neighborhoods and lives.

Yet the social gospel focuses solely on meeting imminent needs. It neglects preaching Christ as the sinner’s Savior. In fact, many social-gospel advocates reject the evangelical gospel and biblical authority.

Many parachurch organizations that serve underresourced communities are held hostage by social-gospel theology. Though the leaders may be Christians, you can scour the organizations’ websites and messaging yet find no evidence of an orthodox theological foundation.

Quadrant III: Faux Gospel

Those who ignore both the gospel of the cross and the gospel of the kingdom don’t just keep their light under a basket (Matt. 5:15); they snuff it out altogether. Churches who reflect this quadrant are more like the social club Martin Luther King Jr. warned about in his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” (1963):

So often the contemporary church is a weak, ineffectual voice with an uncertain sound. So often it is an archdefender of the status quo. Far from being disturbed by the presence of the church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the church’s silent—and often even vocal—sanction of things as they are. . . . Today’s church . . . will lose its authenticity, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the twentieth century. Every day I meet young people whose disappointment with the church has turned into outright disgust.

Leonard Sweet says that the sins of the church sometimes aren’t “the sins of commission or omission, but the sin of no-mission.” This critique captures quadrant III perfectly.

Whole Gospel: Further Up. Further Forward.

G. K. Chesterton once wrote that “Christianity is centrifugal: it breaks out.” When we proclaim the whole gospel and live its effects, we’re adopting a “further up and further forward” mentality. Instead of facing the false choice between cross and kingdom, we’re enriched by the full message and life of Jesus Christ.

The gospel unleashes us to boldly proclaim Jesus’s message of the grace to a world drowning in darkness. It also launches us to be Christ’s hands and feet, empowering us to live out justice, shalom-making, giving, and the befriending of the poor and brokenhearted.

Instead of facing the false choice between cross and kingdom, we’re enriched by the full message and life of Jesus Christ.

Jesus told us to pray, “Your kingdom come, your will be done” (Matt. 6:10). This petition positions us both to proclaim his message and also demonstrate his character through our actions. In these ways, we direct lost hearts to Christ and help our hurting world to better reflect heaven today.

My dad once told me that a Sunday service functions as both a hospital and also a medical school. When we hear the gospel message, it salves our own wounds and mends our hearts. But it also equips us to bring healing to others through the message of the cross and the blessed deeds of his kingdom.

John reminded a young church long ago, “We love because he first loved us” (1 John 4:19). Because Christ loved and died for us, making us his possession, we’re now empowered and commanded to love others. He sends us. Further up. Further forward. Living in both directions is truly good news.

This isn’t the statement of a madman or of someone privileged enough to be removed from the horrors of the war. These are the words of a pastor who was under immediate threat from the Nazi leader and who’d put on the full armor of God and prepared for battle.

Adolf Hitler invaded Poland on September 1, 1939; the very next day, Martyn Lloyd-Jones was installed as an associate pastor at Westminster Chapel in London, where he would faithfully preach for the next 30 years.

One year after the preacher took the pulpit, Hitler began his bombing campaign over London. Of the roughly 700 churches in the area, 624 were damaged by the bombings and 91 were totally destroyed. To the surprise of many, Westminster Chapel, one of London’s largest churches at the time, wasn’t destroyed in the bombing blitz.

Iain Murray, in his classic biography on Lloyd-Jones, writes about one Sunday morning when a bomb hit close to the Chapel right in the middle of Lloyd-Jones’s Lord’s Day prayer. The bomb shook the entire building, and plaster and dust fell down on the congregation, including on “the Doctor,” as Lloyd-Jones was known. After a pause, Lloyd-Jones simply continued his prayer and the service went forward unimpeded.

Lloyd-Jones offers a needed corrective to our politically anxious times.

Some Christians resort to despair, while others attempt revolution. What we need is a political theology that still preaches Christ when the bombs go off. Here are three lessons we can learn from Lloyd-Jones’s ministry in a time of political crisis.

Refuse Saul’s Armour

When it became apparent that England was entering the war, Lloyd-Jones sent his wife and their two children back to Wales and away from the city, not knowing what would become of it. In a brief and urgent correspondence to his wife, he writes, “Leave yourself and me too, and everything in God’s hand and you will find peace and rest.” With bombs flying overhead, many in the church were calling for a revolution, but Lloyd-Jones was calling for prayer.

With bombs flying overhead, many in the church were calling for a revolution, but Lloyd-Jones was calling for prayer.

Because of fear and panic, many began to abandon the weapons of the church and replace them with the weapons of the state. But Lloyd-Jones refused to blur the lines.

When the war was at its worst and his congregation had been reduced to few because of death and displacement, he remained resolute in affirming 2 Corinthians 10:4: “The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds” (KJV). Lloyd-Jones refused to allow revolutionary alliances and tactics to infiltrate the church:

Alas, far too often the church has tried to meet the world and its persecuting power with like weapons to those employed by the enemy. She has made alliances with the state and she has tried to strengthen herself in a material sense. She has been slow to discover what David discovered long ago in his fight with Goliath, that she cannot fight in the armour of Saul, but must ever use her own weapons with which she is familiar and with which she is meant to use.

Lloyd-Jones saw a parallel between those in Saul’s armory who were looking to outfit David for battle with new calls from within the church to align herself with the state. Like David’s pitiful sling, prayer may appear in the world’s eyes woefully insufficient weaponry against fascism. But God’s weapons are greater than the weapons of men.

Reject the Partisan Gospel

Lloyd-Jones saw that the church was particularly vulnerable to political idolatry when fear had gripped the people. Like the Israelites shaking at the sight of Goliath, we often feel the only reasonable response is to find our own “strong man” to fight our battles. Throughout the church’s history, we’ve often turned to national politics.

In a talk titled “Living in Revolutionary Times,” Lloyd-Jones rebukes the evangelicals of his day, who “seem to think that they are innovators in saying that we should all be taking an interest in politics and social matters.” But this is nothing new. Lloyd-Jones recalls, “They do not seem to have heard of the ‘social gospel’ craze of the earlier part of this century. All this has been tried with great thoroughness.”

A preacher unaware of the dangerous pitfalls the church has already fallen into is sure to lead his congregation into one of those pits. This was the great danger, in Lloyd-Jones’s mind, of harnessing power for the church through political means. Any talk of political revolution inside the church—or a call to Christianize the nation—is a call to put on Saul’s armor again.

In that same talk, Lloyd-Jones cautions preachers against the temptation to quickly gather a crowd by preaching politics. His words feel even more timely today:

I well remember certain men who were concerned about social and political matters, and who constantly preached on such themes, and packed their chapels for a while, but only as long as they preached politics. The moment they began to preach the gospel truly the crowds left them. Politically-minded people are always ready to make use of the church, but they always abandon and shun her when she ceases to be of any value to them.

American pulpits have been infected with this kind of partisan preaching for decades now, on both the left and right. It draws crowds but does a disservice to the gospel. It’s important for Christians to offer a robust political and social ethic, but not at the expense of the gospel. The former flows from the latter, and the order is irreversible.

Remember the ‘Leaven’

For Lloyd-Jones, spiritual resurrection—not political revolution—would save the world. The church didn’t need a theology of liberation but a theology of “leaven.”

Drawing a straight line through the New Testament, he says, “The Christian is represented as ‘salt’ in society and ‘leaven,’ and surely the whole point of those comparisons is that Christian influence is to be a quiet influence and a slow process of influencing society.”

Any talk of political revolution inside the church—or a call to Christianize the nation—is a call to put on Saul’s armor again.

In times of political crisis, such as our own, we’re tempted to forget this basic biblical principle. We must remember that “the kingdom of God is like leaven” (Matt. 13:33). If we’re to have social and political influence, it’ll only happen through preaching and preserving the gospel, so that regenerate Christians can be salt and light in the public square.

On May 21, 1943, when Westminster Chapel was finally seeing signs of stability after the bombings, Lloyd-Jones wrote a letter responding to a congregant who was thanking him for his faithful preaching. He ended by saying, “The supreme need of the hour is intense prayer for spiritual revival on the part of Christian people.”

The Doctor was interested in treating the disease, not the symptoms. That’s why he could speak with such audacity, testifying that he was “never worried for a second about a man like Hitler.” As wicked as Hitler was, he was merely symptomatic of the spiritual disease of the human heart—to which the gospel alone is the cure.

The phone stack is a simple habit. But it’s helped the students in our group pay closer attention to both one another and the Bible text.

In his practical new book, Scroll Less, Live More: 10 Healthy Tech Habits for Teens, Samuel James commends a number of similar practices. His goal is to give teenagers “a vivid picture of what it looks like to apply [biblical] wisdom to technology usage in today’s digital age” (155).

James recognizes that simple, repeatable practices can help young people resist the foolishness today’s tech promotes so they can instead grow in the fear of the Lord.

Great Power, Great Responsibility

Scroll Less, Live More builds on the foundation James laid in his previous book for adults, Digital Liturgies: Rediscovering Christian Wisdom in an Online Age. One of his main premises is that technology isn’t neutral. Rather, it’s a powerful force that “shapes and influences us in ways we aren’t always aware of” (30).

One way tech changes us is by changing our expectations. To illustrate this truth, James points to tech invented in the 19th century:

Before the telephone . . . people just accepted that if they weren’t in the same room as somebody, they couldn’t communicate with that person in the moment. After the telephone was introduced, being able to communicate with someone in a different place at any time became not only possible but also important. (125)

Similarly, 21st-century tech such as generative AI brings with it both new possibilities and greater expectations: “AI’s capability to produce an amazing variety of work and art with very little direct human involvement creates an expectation that using it regularly for these purposes is normal” (127). The more we off-load our creativity and effort to it, the more we believe we should do so.

One way tech changes us is by changing our expectations.

Digital technology changes us in other ways too. James draws on the work of tech realists such as Neil Postman, Nicholas Carr, and Marshall McLuhan, but he makes their perspective accessible for adolescents. James repeatedly shows young people how poor digital habits affect their cognition, emotions, and relationships. Living on a phone will slow down thinking, leaving teens feeling anxious, or even angry, amid daily interactions that then become more awkward and strained.

Way of Wisdom: Guard Your Heart

How do we help young people avoid this path? James gives teens some practical encouragements, telling them to charge their phones somewhere other than in their bedrooms overnight. He also provides a list self-examination questions to help them grow in self-awareness and he appeals to family rules such as only using devices in open areas of the home. But ultimately, James is convinced that using technology well involves more than simply following a list of dos and don’ts. He writes,

We don’t need a huge list of rules that will have to be updated every time Apple releases a new phone or a new social media app; we need something that will help us determine how to use technology well in any circumstance. We need wisdom. (16–17)

Proverbs says, “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom, and the knowledge of the Holy One is insight” (9:10). James is clear that growing in wisdom and the knowledge of the Lord requires more than adjusting one’s screen-time settings; it takes guarding one’s heart.

James encourages teens to think of their hearts as a palace where a king or queen lives. He says, “In any royal palace, you’re sure to find soldiers keeping watch over who and what has access to the very important king or queen inside”; those guards, he contends, are our habits, and “the strength of the soldiers determines how protected the palace is” (158).

Early in the book, James calls teens to learn discernment. As he unpacks this habit, he warns them away from the siren song of social media influencers who question parental authority: “When an online influencer who doesn’t know you or care for you speaks about your parents or mentors in a way that makes you want to trust those people less and the influencer more, that’s a massive sign that what you’re listening to is false” (44).

Yet James doesn’t merely tell young people to flee digital technology’s dangers; he also beckons them to put on habits that will help them cultivate virtue, in-person friendship, accountability, industrious work, creativity, and rest.

For Parents Too

Many of these habits are relational. In his introduction, for example, James encourages teens to read his book with a parent, teacher, pastor, or mentor. The discussion questions he includes at the end of each chapter make this counsel practical. This counsel is also wise, because while Scroll Less, Live More is a book for teens, it’s a book for parents too.

As a parent and youth worker, I found James’s encouragement to develop a habit of self-awareness convicting. He calls readers to pay attention when being online leads to feelings of anger, anxiety, or boredom so that you know when to “log off and touch grass.” Listless boredom is a form of the sin of acedia: “Spiritual laziness that causes you to fill up on meaningless things so much that you cannot delight in God” (65). He nailed me.

How many times do I fill life’s quiet moments—waiting in a line, a few minutes between meetings, or sadly even lulls in conversation—by pulling out my phone instead of being attentive to nature, the people around me, and the Lord?

Listless boredom is a form of the sin of acedia.

I can get frustrated when I see this tendency in teens, but as Brett McCracken writes, “What parents model with our own devices ultimately matters more than what we say to our kids about them.” James’s book helped me see ways I’ve failed to fight endless scrolling in my own life.

As parents, we need God’s Spirit to help us grow in self-awareness about our tech habits. We need his grace to help us confess those failures to the teens we parent and lead. And we need a heart of wisdom and phone-stack intentionality, not just at youth group meetings but throughout our lives.

Scroll Less, Live More helps teens and parents develop the tech skills they need to live a life rooted in reality and steeped in wisdom.

Even as this philosophy is moving markets and shaping global debates, many Christians are unfamiliar with it. As a Christian and tech-policy analyst based in Washington, DC, where many of these conversations are taking place, I want to explain what effective altruism is, examine what it promises and where it fails to deliver, and show why this budding movement is incongruent with and a poor substitute for the gospel.

What Is Effective Altruism?

Effective altruism emerged in the late 2000s and early 2010s from the convergence of several intellectual movements, particularly utilitarian philosophy and evidence-based philanthropy. Australian academic Peter Singer provided an important foundation with his 1972 essay “Famine, Affluence and Morality,” where he argues that people have a moral obligation to prevent suffering when they can do so at relatively little cost to themselves. At its core, effective altruism is consequentialist, judging the rightness of an action chiefly by its outcomes.

The tenets of effective altruism are straightforward: People should use reason, logic, and personal resources to maximize the good they do in society. The Centre for Effective Altruism explains, “We’re committed to prioritizing actions that benefit more lives over actions that benefit a few—that saving a billion lives is more important than saving ten.”

The tenets of effective altruism are straightforward: People should use reason, logic, and personal resources to maximize the good they do in society.

The movement took shape with the founding of several philanthropic organizations, such as GiveWell and 80,000 Hours. These groups emphasize measuring charitable impact, directing money toward the most effective actions, and choosing “high-impact” careers based on their potential to do good. Their approach to charitable giving has produced endeavors to improve global health, animal welfare, and economic disparities, among other areas.

Over the past decade, effective altruism has expanded its scope, focusing on posterity and “longtermism,” the belief that “positively influencing the longterm future is a key moral priority of our time.” The Economist notes a belief this leads to: “Those not born yet should be weighed in the balance—and there could be trillions of them. Many EAs are ‘longtermists’ who feel bound to forestall risks in the distant future, even if that starves today’s good causes, such as helping the desperately poor.”

This belief manifests itself in a focus on concerns such as existential risk (e.g., climate change or the next pandemic), nuclear proliferation, and artificial intelligence. For many in Silicon Valley, advanced AI is the defining problem of our day. The concern about a potential AI apocalypse explains why the movement has invested heavily in AI research, AI companies, and AI advocacy and safety.

It’s not difficult to see why this philosophy has a natural audience among AI researchers and Silicon Valley tech luminaries. Effective altruism enables technologists to approach ethics in a way that can feel familiar: a series of probabilities, tradeoffs, and expected results—measuring an individual’s moral standing as mathematic calculations, similar to the process of building a software program where different inputs result in varied outputs.

For ambitious individuals accustomed to solving complicated projects through ingenuity and critical analysis, this movement delivers reassuring community in an industry that often feels isolating. Adherents have a sense of higher purpose and calling as they’re suddenly confronted with extraordinary individual wealth and wrestle with the consequences of their technological discoveries.

It’s hard to describe effective altruism without addressing its more eccentric views, some of which divide the movement itself. For example, the focus on animal welfare has led many in the movement to believe that any and all sentient beings share the same moral value, including but not limited to shrimp. Yes, since a dollar can go a long way to protect the well-being of a single crustacean, this cause could be the most efficient use of charitable giving.

Notably, the effective altruist community has also drawn scrutiny for its sexual culture. A 2023 Time investigation highlighted how the movement’s overwhelmingly male membership, heavy overlap between work and home life, and its subculture of polyamory (which some have promoted as more rational than monogamy) has created a “culture of sexual harassment and abuse.” These dynamics have caused many—including Christians—to be concerned about the group’s outsize influence on culture.

What Effective Altruism Promises (and Fails to Deliver)

Effective altruism’s turn toward longtermism promises that the right people, armed with the right understanding of the stakes, can steer humanity safely through an uncertain future. Many in this community believe their adherence to consequentialism and longtermism gives them a special moral qualification to shape public policy.

In their own eyes, effective altruists are the men and women of the hour. This conviction has moved from theory into practice. Political engagement by adherents has increased both on the public stage and backstage through building and funding civil society institutions to influence policymakers to embrace their ideology. One of the movement’s most prominent figures (though he has denied belonging to it), Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei, has been leaning on this philosophy to guide his leadership of his company and shape his approach to the future of AI.

Yet for all its ambition, the movement struggles to deliver on what it promises. Effective altruism’s confidence in its own reasoning to navigate the future is a hubristic claim to possess unprecedented human knowledge. Any ethic that judges right and wrong by outcomes assumes we can reliably know what our actions will produce. It treats the future as a closed system of causes and effects that the right person or algorithm can calculate.

But human knowledge is finite. We can’t trace the full effects of a single choice, much less forecast the welfare of billions of potential lives. At best, an outcome-based ethic can render its moral verdict only in hindsight.

Most fundamentally, effective altruism fails us because it’s an ethic without a moral foundation. It has a laudable premise: Too many people around the globe are suffering, and those with means should help. Adherents can accurately quantify certain societal woes and calculate which actions could most efficiently produce the greatest benefit. But the philosophy largely assumes the moral obligations on which those calculations depend.

In Singer’s foundational essay, he uses an illustration of a man wearing expensive sneakers who walks past a drowning child. He does a moral calculation that it’s better to save the child even if it ruins his shoes. The illustration works only because we already know the child matters and that walking past would be monstrous. But a strictly consequentialist framework can’t tell us why. If people are ultimately containers of welfare to be added up, then no one has worth in himself. Each matters only as a quantity in a calculation. And who decides which quantities count?

Without an external source of moral truth, the answer is ultimately the individual. Each effective altruist must reason his way to his own conclusion about what “the most good” is, and no authority outside himself can tell him he’s wrong. Taken to its logical end, this leaves room for almost anything, including scenarios that say the earth would be better off without humans.

When pressed to the deepest levels, effective altruists are unable to identify a coherent source for a person’s moral value or explain why we’re called to love our neighbor in the first place. Suffering is simply a math equation to be solved, with no account of original sin or why the world is broken. Effective altruism commands us to love our neighbor yet dissolves that neighbor into a statistic. It asks for the fruit of the image of God while denying the root.

Why Christianity Tells a Better Story

Effective altruism recognizes a few truths about us: Our lives matter morally, our choices have consequences, and we should care about people beyond ourselves. At first glance, its call to do the most good possible can even sound like something Jesus might say. But Christianity places those truths inside a much larger story, one where goodness is defined not by our calculations but by God himself.

The world isn’t ultimately a collection of inefficiencies waiting to be optimized. Scripture teaches we’re God’s creation. We as humans are his image-bearers, not units of welfare whose value must be calculated. Every human life has worth and dignity rooted in the unchangeable character of God, not shifting cultural norms or measures of sentience.

Animals such as shrimp are part of God’s good creation and worthy of care, but they don’t bear his image. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus affirms that God cares for the birds of the air while still distinguishing them from the humans made in his image (Matt. 6:26).

We as humans are his image-bearers, not units of welfare whose value must be calculated.

By the standards of effective altruism, Jesus’s ministry could be judged as highly ineffective. He spends three years with 12 followers in an obscure corner of the Roman empire. He teaches that God seeks out the one at the expense of the 99 (Luke 15:4). He rebukes Judas when the disciple questions why an expensive perfume was used on Jesus instead of sold and given to the poor (John 12:6–7). And Jesus is executed at the hands of religious leaders who, ironically, think his death will spare the whole nation (11:50).

Jesus subverts and fulfills the effective altruist’s hopes. Jesus’s death was the sacrifice of the one for the many, but contrary to the calculating schemes of Jesus’s enemies, it unfolded according to the plan of God (Mark 10:45; Acts 2:23). His death really did accomplish the most good for the most people. And Jesus, being God incarnate, is the ultimate longtermist whose plan began before the foundation of the world and stretches into eternity.

When it came to our salvation, Jesus counted the cost. And the cross and empty tomb tell us we were worth it.

Invitation to Hope

From a human standpoint, the future is by definition full of uncertainty. Every individual and civilization has wrestled with this truth since the beginning. Yet Christ commands us not to worry about things we cannot control but to seek “first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to [us]” (Matt. 6:32–34).

God calls us to follow him even when we can’t foresee the results, and even when our own calculations point in a different direction. Instead of living in fear or relying on a few self-appointed oracles to divine the future, we as Christians are rooted in a deeper story of redemption and faith.

While many effective altruists fear the AI era could bring about humanity’s extinction, Christians can see our cultural moment as invitation to hope. Because we know that God is in control, we’re freed to approach the challenges of AI with confident trust in our sovereign God.

As Christian academic and current White House senior adviser Jonathan Askonas explains, “Hope is a theological virtue, one that finds its proper object in God. Especially as technological power increases, the belief that ‘all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well’ can come only from a conviction that God, and not man, is the Author of history” (emphasis original).

Effective altruism commands us to love our neighbor yet dissolves that neighbor into a statistic.

What if we viewed the rise of AI not through the lens of anxiety but through the lens of stewardship?

Christians can appreciate the value of maximizing the efficiency of tithes and giving without consequentialism telling them to do so. Christians and churches have consistently looked inside and outside our traditions to develop better methods of giving and evaluate the effectiveness of different ministries to support. Yes, effective altruists have set up various successful charities, but so have many churches and other Christian ministries—for a couple thousand years so far.

No matter how much good we think we can accomplish through spreadsheets and formulas, all our efforts pale in comparison to our Savior whose ultimate sacrifice did the most good in the world. He gave us the ethic to minister to others—now and until God makes all things new.

We’re not the first generation to face technological disruption. The printing press sparked the Reformation. The microphone transformed preaching. The internet transformed evangelism. In every era, the church has had to ask, How do we use this tool to proclaim the gospel and form disciples in a rapidly changing world?

The AI age is no different. Christians must speak up and join the debate over how AI is built and governed, demonstrating how God’s truth can help us navigate a time of change and uncertainty.

Being alert to the constancy of his gracious provision is the epitome of rightly ordered attention. That’s why Thanksgiving is such a great holiday. It’s at least one day dedicated to pausing and taking stock, giving our attention to the Giver of all good gifts.

Being alert to the constancy of God’s gracious provision is the epitome of rightly ordered attention.

But it’s a shame Thanksgiving is just one day. Because really, we should practice gratitude constantly. What if, as a start, we dedicated the whole month of November to giving thanks? What if we dedicated time each day this month to intentionally naming God’s provision and giving him thanks?

To help, I created a new playlist all about giving thanks to God. The playlist has 30 songs (one for each of November’s 30 days) expressing gratitude to God for our salvation in Christ, for the many blessings of marriage and family, and for the beauty of the earth.

You can access the playlist now on Spotify and Apple Music. Enjoy!

Playlist Songs

1. “Thank You,” Ben Rector

2. “All Shall Be Well,” John Van Deusen

3. “For the Beauty of the Earth,” Kyle Church

4. “Thank You (Under the Redbud Tree),” Paul Zach

5. “Good to Give Thanks (Psalm 92),” Caroline Cobb, Wendell Kimbrough

6. “Thank You Jesus (Live),” Josh Baldwin

7. “Thank You, Lord,” Shane & Shane

8. “Thank You, Lord,” Jon Guerra

9. “Thank You Lord,” CalledOut Music

10. “Thank You Lord,” Jenn Johnson, Brooke Ligertwood

11. “Thank You Lord,” Chris Tomlin, Thomas Rhett, Florida Georgia Line

12. “Thank You,” Forrest Frank

13. “Thankful,” Verses

14. “I Praise You God,” Andy Squyres

15. “Gratitude,” Brandon Lake

16. “Grateful,” The Red Clay Strays

17. “Grateful Heart (Thank You Jesus),” CalledOut Music

18. “Thanksgiving (Live),” Gas Street Music

19. “My Heart Is Filled with Thankfulness,” Keith and Kristyn Getty

20. “Thanksgiving Hymn,” Allen Levi

21. “Thanks a Lot,” Lowland Hum, Paul Zach

22. “A Thousand Thank Yous,” Sarah Kroger

23. “Thank You Jesus for the Blood,” Charity Gayle

24.“Thanks Be to God,” Jon Foreman

25. “Thank God,” Leanna Crawford

26. “Thankful,” Forrest Frank

27. “Thank You, God.” Vic Lucas, Lady Audri

28. “Now Thank We All Our God,” Nathan Drake

29. “Give Thanks,” Anchor Hymns, Mission House, Jasmine Mullen

30. “Give Thanks,” Sandra McCracken

Revelation 6:9–10 describes the martyrs in heaven who have been slain for their testimony to the gospel and places Psalm 79 on their lips: “O Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long before you will judge and avenge our blood on those who dwell on the earth?”

Scholars agree the prayer of Psalm 79 is the likely background for the prayer of the martyrs, furthering our appreciation of this as a prayer for the church. It’s a prayer of and for the persecuted church. As we stand alongside them, we have divine warrant to pray Psalm 79 on their behalf.

Trevor Laurence explains, “The vengeance petition of Rev. 6:9–10 thus supplies a model for the ongoing prayer of Christ’s body on earth.” Rather than being contrary to New Testament ethics, then, Psalm 79 fuels the church’s longing for every wrong to be made right.

Nevertheless, you may still wonder, How do I take up a psalm like this in prayer for my persecuted brothers and sisters without falling into vindictive rage and vengefulness? Thankfully, Psalm 79 provides the guidelines needed to answer this question.

Pray in Response to Horrific Injustice

Verses 1–4 catalog the horrors God’s people suffered at the hands of the Babylonians who destroyed their temple: They defiled God’s holy place, they gave the flesh of God’s faithful ones to the beasts of the earth, they poured out their blood like water and refused them a proper burial, and they were the cause of God’s people becoming a taunt to their neighbors. Psalm 79 is not prayed in response to petty grievances but birthed out of horrendous evil.

Psalm 79 is not prayed in response to petty grievances but birthed out of horrendous evil.

This has two implications. First, these prayers do not give license for us to pray such things against just anyone. Second, if we object to such prayers, they challenge us to ask whether we have ever faced anything close to the agonizing evil that gave birth to this prayer.

As Jamie Grant posits, “Perhaps our reluctance to appropriate the psalms of enmity is rooted in the comfort of our lives.” If we knew the kind of horror Psalm 79 speaks of (and that our persecuted brothers and sisters endure daily), perhaps we wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss these psalms.

Pray for the Glory of God

As psalms like this respond to such evil, they are fundamentally concerned with God’s glory. We see this in Psalm 79:6, where the nations’ refusal to call on God’s name is the motive behind Asaph’s cry. Likewise, verse 9 cites the glory of God’s name and his “name’s sake” as a rationale for God to answer this request. And verse 10 is concerned that, at present, the onlooking nations say, “Where is their God?”

So Asaph asks that God’s justice would be made known among the nations (v. 10), and that God’s people might praise him for it (v. 13). The glory of God is the ultimate end of the imprecatory psalms. Or as James Hamilton says, “The glory of God in salvation through judgment is the center of the theology of Psalms.” The same is true of imprecatory psalms like Psalm 79. Their controlling desire is “Hallowed be thy name.”

Pray with a Humble Posture

The imprecatory psalms are not prayed in a spirit of self-righteousness; those praying them understand their need for God’s grace. They pray for justice from a posture of humility, where they confess that this judgment is what they too deserve apart from God’s grace (vv. 8–9).

This is not unlike the widow’s prayer for justice in Luke 18:1–8 being paired with the parable of the Pharisee and tax collector in verses 9–14.

We pray for justice, but we do so as forgiven sinners. We pray the second petition of the Lord’s Prayer (“Thy kingdom come”) with the fifth petition also in mind (“Forgive us our debts”).

Pray with a Desire for Repentance

If God could turn his anger away from repentant sinners in exile (Ps. 79:5), then he could do the same for Israel’s enemies. While this is not explicit in Psalm 79, its near neighbor Psalm 83, at the conclusion of this section of Asaph psalms, prays that God would fill the faces of these enemy nations with shame “that they might seek [the LORD’s name]” (v. 16).

It is legitimate to see this desire as qualifying the earlier imprecations in the Asaph collection (indeed, in the whole Psalter). Hamilton even suggests every prayer for judgment in the psalms should be read as if containing an implicit “footnote” desiring repentance as a possibility.

Pray with the Hope of Final Justice

The prayers of judgment, like Psalm 79, are not petty prayers incompatible with a Christian ethic. God’s people pray in response to horrific injustice, aimed at the glory of God, with a posture of humility and openness to their enemies becoming God’s friends.

We pray for justice, but we do so as forgiven sinners.

The imprecatory psalms, then, fit perfectly with the gospel of Jesus Christ. And they arm the church to intercede for the saints in a day when our Christian brothers and sisters suffer great harm throughout the world.

We long for God to answer these prayers through the conversion of our enemies. But if they remain impenitent, it is only right for God to bring justice. And it is thus right for us to pray that he would.

He kept up with his Latin, and several important Latin phrases appear throughout Luther’s writings. Five of them serve as a good summary of his life and chief theological emphases.

1. Iustitia Dei

In July 1505, Luther was caught in a fierce thunderstorm. Panicked and terrified, he bargained with God, promising to become a monk. After entering the monastery, Luther was again overcome by fear. When he led his first mass as a priest, it wasn’t an occasion of joy. Instead, it was filled with trembling.

As the service began, Luther took his place at the front of the chapel, and he began to recite the Latin prayers. Luther knew that God is perfect in judgment and completely without sin. So as he thought about iustitia Dei, “the righteousness of God” (Rom. 1:17), terror struck him.

Biographer Roland H. Bainton describes the thoughts that plagued Luther’s mind:

Who am I that I should . . . raise my hands to the divine Majesty? The angels surround him. At his nod the earth trembles . . . [but] I am dust and ashes.

When Luther held up the bread and wine, he shook so badly he almost dropped the cup.

During those years growing up in school and at the monastery, Luther only thought of God’s righteousness, or justice, as his active judgment against human sin. He later wrote,

Though I lived as a monk without reproach, I felt and knew I was a sinner before God. I had an extremely disturbed conscience. . . . I hated the righteous God who punishes sinners.

2. Extra nos

In 1512, Luther became a university professor in Wittenberg. As he studied the Bible for his lectures, he began to see God’s righteousness in a new light.

Luther saw how Jesus Christ took on our humanity, how he lived a perfect life and died the painful and shameful death of the cross to take the punishment due for sin. He saw how God raised Jesus from the dead, and how he now justifies Christians by faith. God declares that in his sight, Jesus’s perfect life and sacrificial death count for all believers. So God’s righteousness isn’t merely his judgment. It’s also his gift of salvation.

Jesus’s perfect life and sacrificial death count for all believers. So God’s righteousness isn’t merely his judgment. It’s also his gift.

What happened when Luther made this discovery? Here’s how he described it: “I felt that I was altogether born again and had entered paradise itself through open gates.” After that day, Luther began to teach that God gives Christians his “alien righteousness,” that is, a righteousness that comes extra nos, “from outside of us.”

Our righteousness isn’t from us; it doesn’t come from what we do. It can’t be earned by saying a prayer or even by having a good attitude. Our righteousness is ultimately found in and belongs to another, our Savior Jesus Christ.

3. Crux sola est nostra theologia

On October 31, 1517, Luther famously posted his Ninety-five Theses on the door of Castle Church. In it, Luther spoke clearly against the money-raising indulgence schemes Pope Leo X and Germany’s own Prince Albert of Brandenburg had sponsored.

The next year, in April 1518, Luther defended these views at the Augustinian order’s spring meeting in Heidelberg. Luther walked to the meeting in fear. He expected the leaders there to sternly rebuke him. After all, that’s what the pope had asked them to do. But to Luther’s surprise, the leaders at the meeting welcomed his defense with excitement.

What did Luther say that got his new friends so excited? In his Heidelberg Disputation, Luther described two types of people—the “theologian of glory” and the “theologian of the cross.” Theologians of glory think people are capable and smart enough to know God through human reason. They also say we can know who God’s righteous people are because we see God reward them with political power, success, and wealth. Though Luther didn’t use Albert’s and Leo’s names in his disputation, it’s clear he was talking about their greedy doctrine of indulgences when he described the theologian of glory.

Luther’s “theologian of the cross,” by contrast, knows it’s not always people who appear good, beautiful, and powerful by worldly standards who truly know God. After all, Jesus didn’t look glorious on the cross. “One deserves to be called a true theologian,” Luther wrote, “who sees God even in suffering.” As Paul wrote, “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong” (1 Cor. 1:27).

After Heidelberg, the phrase “Crux sola est nostra theologia” (“The cross alone is our theology”) became a rallying cry for Luther’s followers. It still is today.

4. Oratio, meditatio, tentatio

Luther’s teaching set the Protestant Reformation in motion. In support of his reforms, Luther published hundreds of books, sermons, and hymns. Significantly, he also translated the entire Bible into the language of Germany’s common people.

But Luther didn’t want common people to merely read Scripture. He wanted them to study it too. In the 1539 preface to the Wittenberg edition of his German writings, Luther wrote, “God himself lives in the Bible. Therefore, worthy Christian: get in, get in!” Luther gave his readers three rules for digging into God’s Word. Each has its own Latin term: prayer (oratio), meditation (meditatio), and suffering (tentatio).

A ‘theologian of the cross’ knows it’s not always people who appear good, beautiful, and powerful by worldly standards who truly know God.

The first rule is kept before we read the Bible. Luther wrote, “Kneel down in your private room and with humility, pray to God to give you his Holy Spirit to enlighten and guide and give you understanding.”

The second rule is kept while reading: “Read and reread the very words written down in the Bible. Observe and think about what the Holy Spirit means.”

The last rule is kept when we practice what the Scriptures say. Luther said,

As soon as you begin to know God’s word, the devil will afflict you. . . . This suffering will teach you how right, true, sweet, lovely, mighty, and comforting God’s word is. It is wisdom supreme.

5. Simul iustus et peccator

Luther was zealous and driven. He once said, “When I want to compose, write, pray, and preach well, I must be angry.” But while anger may have given Luther energy for work, it too often burned out of control. Sadly, today, Luther is as famous for his harsh words spoken against his enemies and the Jews as he is for recovering the biblical doctrine of justification.

Throughout his life, Luther taught that believers are simul iustus et peccator. That’s Latin for “simultaneously justified and a sinner.” Both realities are true of every Christian. Both were true of Luther. He was a broken man who desperately needed God’s grace, and he knew it.

Luther died while visiting Eisleben on February 18, 1546. Before he died, Luther scribbled out his last written words: “We are beggars. This is true.” Luther knew he could never earn God’s grace. Salvation isn’t won through indulgences or daily prayers. This is what Luther had discovered from the Bible and taught again to the world. God sent his only Son. Christ has overcome the world. All he asks of poor, begging sinners is that we believe.

In this discussion, recorded at TGC25, Michael and Lucy Aitcheson talk with Jim and Angela Davis about their experiences of seeking to keep their marriage healthy while ministering faithfully.

In This Episode

00:00 – Introduction to ministry and marriage

04:14 – Personal journeys and backgrounds

08:52 – Challenges for pastors’ wives

18:43 – Lessons learned and redos

26:20 – Threats to healthy marriages

28:53 – Avoiding isolation and burnout

34:20 – Navigating ministry failures

37:15 – Maintaining marital oneness

43:03 – Raising children in ministry

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Also like Berg’s Friday Night Lights, The Mosquito Bowl (out now in theaters; coming to Netflix November 25) is based on a book by Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Buzz Bissinger.

The 2022 book—subtitled A Game of Life and Death in World War II—only has one chapter (of 41) devoted to the actual 1944 football game dubbed “The Mosquito Bowl.” Most of the book is about the war, and the young men who left wives, kids, and promising NFL careers to fight it. Likewise, Berg’s film adaptation is mostly a somber, unflinching WWII film, with a brief reprieve of joy in the form of a football game on Guadalcanal between the 4th and 29th regiments of the 6th Marine Division.

Just as in Friday Night Lights, where the drama of high school football parallels the struggles and triumphs of life off the field, the football game in The Mosquito Bowl parallels the “game of life and death” that surrounds the men at war. Sports are interesting in this way: They provide escape from real life but also training for it, an arena of danger and high stakes but not ultimate stakes. Sports often map onto life—we draw up plans and plays but have to improvise; we get hurt but can heal; we thrive individually through teamwork; sometimes we win and sometimes we lose.

Yet sports are unlike real life too. Winning or losing on the field is a matter of trophies and glory, but off the field, it can be a matter of life and death.

Young Men Willing to Fight and Die

The Mosquito Bowl (rated R for graphic war violence and language), opens with a well-known epigraph from Herbert Hoover:

Older men declare war. But it is youth that must fight and die. And it is youth who must inherit the tribulation, the sorrow, and the triumphs that are the aftermath of war.

This is a movie about youth—or rather, the passage from youth into adulthood that war accelerates.

This is a movie about youth—or rather, the passage from youth into adulthood that war accelerates.

The movie opens with muddy college football scenes in the fall of 1941, as the four central characters are introduced: John McLaughry (Nicholas Galitzine), Brown quarterback; Bob Baumann (Bill Skarsgård), University of Wisconsin tackle; Tony Butkovich (Ray Nicholson), Purdue fullback; and Dave Schreiner (Tom Francis), Wisconsin end. They were all-star athletes with promising futures. Many of them were collegiate All-Americans and drafted by NFL teams.

Yet December 7, 1941, happened, and their futures were all changed.

Once bound together by football skill, friendly rivalry, and fierce competition on the gridiron, these men soon bonded in a different setting: as marines in WWII’s savage Pacific theater. Instead of fighting for yards on the field, they fought for ground in a war of attrition on Okinawa. Instead of a football in hand, they carried guns and bayonets. Instead of tackling their opponents, they wrestled them to the death in hand-to-hand combat.

Like many in the Greatest Generation, these men volunteered to enlist and fight. The Mosquito Bowl celebrates their duty and sacrifice. In one scene, Baumann’s younger brother says, “You don’t have to go,” to which Baumann replies, “I do. I’m needed.”

It’s hard to imagine star athletes, whether collegiate or professional, volunteering to go to war in 2026. But in 1943, it was normal. Okinawa, Bissinger writes in the book, was “by far the largest collection of athletes ever to die in a single battle.” And in the entirety of WWII, 21 NFL players died in combat, as well as two players from Major League Baseball.

Why were they so willing to lay down their lives? Perhaps back then, men had the bigger horizon more in view. Life isn’t about serving oneself. It’s about serving others, fighting for things bigger than personal fulfillment. As Dave Schreiner tells John McLaughry, “This is us sacrificing for the unborn. What other real thing is there? What’s the point in all of this if it’s not for passing something on?”

Numbed by War-Movie Violence

The Mosquito Bowl honors the Greatest Generation and is commendable in its straightforward embrace of manly virtues like duty and sacrifice. But I disliked several aspects of the film.

One is the language. I realize wartime soldiers in every era tend to be prolific in their employment of profane language. But even if men in the 1940s were as creative with the f-word as they are in this movie, is it really essential to the movie? It makes the film much less likely to be watched by families, which is a shame because it’s the sort of thing dads might want to watch with their younger sons.

I also wish Berg had given less screen time to bloody battles and more time to quieter character moments and the titular football game. I get that it’s important to underscore the savage bloodbath that was the Pacific theater, and I get that the joyful escape of football is most pronounced when juxtaposed with the horrific realities of war. But it’s hard for contemporary war movies to viscerally depict the “war is hell” experience after the genre has been so saturated.

Edward Berger’s adaptation of All Quiet on the Western Front (2022) felt like the final word on war-movie blood and guts. We’ve become numb to watching bodies get mangled every which way. Going forward, movies about savage warfare probably need to take a different approach. There are ways to capture battle horror without showing every gruesome detail. Furthermore, the desaturated, shaky-camera, chaotic choreography of war movies has become clichéd. I checked out a bit during these prolonged battle scenes.

At times, it felt like Berg was inspired by Terrence Malick’s Guadalcanal movie, The Thin Red Line (one of the best war movies of all time). But what made Malick’s film so effective is that it employed violence only in a few intense, lyrical sequences, juxtaposed with long stretches of more contemplative material and tender character moments.

The experience of war is important to capture accurately. But a war film becomes great when the meaning of war is also a focal point. Clint Eastwood’s WWII diptych, Flags of our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima (2006), strikes this balance well. The action-to-reflection ratio is not quite right in The Mosquito Bowl.

Football as Far as the Curse Is Found

The high point of Berg’s movie is the Mosquito Bowl game, even though it occupies too little of the overall runtime. In a movie that is rather bleak thematically and visually, the game provides a much-needed moment of joy for the characters and audience.

Hosted as a morale booster for soldiers who would soon be sent to fight on Okinawa, the game (broadcast on the “mosquito radio network”) was set up to be “two-hand touch” only but quickly devolved into full-on tackle. Some of the guys wore Santa hats. There were big smiles, laughs, playful rivalry: young men allowed to be boys again.

Here’s how Bissinger describes it in the prologue of his book:

For roughly two hours the Mosquito Bowl wasn’t simply a reminder of what life had once been like for the players, but freedom and abandon, with the spectators captured in the same moment, screaming their heads off, whether drunk or sober. The beauty of sports, the ultimate power of it to carry you away, had never been stronger.

But the scene is also bittersweet, for we know it’s not reality. Real life is harsh. Okinawa looms. Many of these boys playing football on Christmas Eve 1944 won’t live to see Christmas Eve 1945.

This scene reminded me of the resonant poetry of Friday Night Lights, which depicted football in much the same way: youthful vibrancy and freewheeling joy, but tempered by the painful pressures of expectations, responsibilities off the field, aging past one’s physical prime, and ultimately mortality itself.

Youth is a fleeting thing. Peak athletic performance is even more fleeting. Texas is not forever. The average career length for NFL players these days ranges from three to seven years. We’re at our “prime,” whether in sports or as soldiers, for ever so short a time. Life is fragile and ephemeral. Of the 65 players in the Mosquito Bowl game, 15 would be dead on Okinawa within months.

Of the 65 players in the Mosquito Bowl game, 15 would be dead on Okinawa within months.

Yet the Mosquito Bowl game scene, complete with a stirring Explosions in the Sky soundtrack, feels almost eschatological, similar to some scenes in The Thin Red Line of R&R time away from the front lines.

These are scenes of Edenic innocence and joy amid the horrors of a planet covered by the curse. Whether football games or a Bob Hope USO performance for troops (a brief scene in the film), recreation hints at heaven: to re-create, to revive what’s dead, to restore what’s broken.

By God’s grace, reminders of this persist everywhere, even in an island football game between marines: hope beyond the horizon of this war-torn world.

The first three years were exciting; the community was intrigued by a new church plant, genuinely curious about what it was all about. But everything had plateaued. Leaders grew complacent. Sundays—even with strong preaching—felt cold and passionless. The church’s reason for existing had shrunk to feeding and caring for the Christians who already called it home. The church planter couldn’t see how it was still transforming the community.

An older mentor at the table cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear that. Let me ask you—what is one risky, hard thing the Lord is inviting your church to do that you’re hesitant to do?”

The planter scratched his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never been asked that before.”

The older man shrugged. “Every pastor should be ready to answer that question. If he can’t, he needs to spend some time praying and fasting until he can. Comfort and complacency are incredibly dangerous.”

I’ve sat in enough of these conversations to know that wise, healthy risks are vital to the life of the church. Without them, the church atrophies. Its reason for existing collapses into self-care and, after a few years, into self-preservation. Risky and hard things keep gospel blood flowing through the body.

Pastor, you cannot afford to coast. You cannot afford autopilot. You owe it to Jesus and to your church to make the most of opportunities in your city—which means that alongside preaching, teaching, praying, and developing leaders, you need to prioritize seeking new avenues for ministry. Be a gospel entrepreneur.

Church-planting networks have long understood that entrepreneurial aptitude is essential for planters. But what about established churches—do their pastors need to be entrepreneurial too?

What Is a Gospel Entrepreneur?

There’s still hesitancy around saying pastors need entrepreneurial aptitude. Maybe it’s because we picture someone who constantly starts new things he can’t sustain—a person with a billion ideas who follows through on none of them. If this is what we mean, then no, we don’t want our pastors to be entrepreneurial.

Comfort and complacency are incredibly dangerous.

But a gospel entrepreneur is something different. He doesn’t pile up harebrained ideas. He stays awake and sober-minded about the opportunities the Lord is opening in the community.

He sees the wooden frames of a new development and prays about how the gospel will reach those families once they move in. He looks at neighborhoods where existing churches can’t possibly reach everyone—and plants a church there. He saves, scrimps, and sacrifices to move a growing church plant into a more strategic location. He keeps his eyes open, his mind sharp, and his hands ready for the moment God opens a door.

Biblical Call

When this topic comes up, someone usually asks, “Where do you see the need for a pastor to be an entrepreneur in the Bible?” My answer often surprises people: Jesus’s parable of the dishonest manager.

In Luke 16:1–9, a rich man discovers his property manager has been wasting his possessions and tells him to settle accounts—he’s about to be fired. The manager realizes losing his job means either digging or begging, so he immediately goes to work cutting deals to gain favor with other wealthy employers. When his employer finds out, he commends the manager for his shrewdness. Ethical or not, it was a genius move.

At this point, we should ask, Why is Jesus telling this story? Maybe he’s about to indict people like the manager. But the manager’s dishonesty has nothing to do with Jesus’s point.

The twist is that Jesus holds up the dishonest manager as an example of what he wants his disciples to be. “The master commended the dishonest manager for his shrewdness,” Jesus says. “For the sons of this world are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than the sons of light” (Luke 16:8). The parable is, if anything, a lament.

The world’s sons do a better job seizing opportunities to advance their kingdoms than we do in advancing Christ’s. The implication is sobering. The sons of light need to be as intentional and opportunistic about eternity as the world is about temporary gain. We need pastors who will prayerfully take risks, do hard things, feel the urgency, and grab opportunities.

A gospel entrepreneur stays awake and sober-minded about the opportunities the Lord is opening in the community.

Consider it this way. Walmart and Target already have plans for that empty lot next to the new development. Millions of dollars are being spent on demographic studies and marketing campaigns to grow somebody’s bottom line.

Believe it or not, there’s probably a developer with more aggressive ideas for your church building than you have. I’ve even heard a story of a dying church in a small Colorado town that was slowly pushed out of its building—a local developer sent people to join as members, just so they could vote to sell. The sons of the world know how to expand their kingdoms.

In the verses that follow the parable, Jesus connects the parable to faithfulness in little things, stewarding earthly resources well, and remembering that we serve God, not our budgets and assets. Our goal as pastors isn’t to keep our congregants happy, live off endowments, or maintain the institution’s favorite donors. Our job is to call people to pick up their crosses and follow Jesus into risky opportunities, where even if we die, people will see Jesus.

Don’t Be Risk Averse

The dishonest manager knew he had no time to be risk-averse or complacent. He had to seize every opportunity to save his own skin. Pastors and churches have no time to be risk-averse either—not for our own sake but for the gospel’s. Eternity is at stake.

Pastor, be a gospel entrepreneur. When we stand before our Lord on the last day, may it not be true that the sons of the world had a greater influence on our community than we did.

They discuss what kind of advice they like to get from the internet or ChatGPT, why they don’t recommend it for wisdom issues such as marriage and parenting, and why we shouldn’t let advice from AI or influencers replace wise counsel from the body of Christ.

Resource Mentioned: Kitchen-Table Counseling Within Your Local Church

Related Resources:

• Let’s Talk: Finding a Mentor and Being a Mentor
• Want to Grow in Wisdom? You Need Gospel Friends.
• Why AI Parenting Advice Falls Short
• Don’t Treat AI as Your Pastor

Discussion Questions:

All in Your Head: Illness as Identity, Trauma as Fashion, and the Desire to Be Disordered is the latest broadside from one of the internet’s most heterodox thinkers and writers. As an “old school” Marxist best known for writing The Cult of Smart, deBoer takes aim at how the cultural drift within his own tribe is responsible for making mental health care so elusive for those who need it most: “The tendency to treat mental illness as an exciting adventure, the endless romanticization of lunacy in popular culture, is one of many aggravations I have nursed for years” (8).

The root of his aggravation—the treatment of mental illness and disability as an identity to be celebrated rather than a disability that needs treatment—isn’t all in his head. The use of talk therapy rose 47 percent between 2019 and 2024. A 2025 LifeStance survey found around 29 percent of U.S. adults have self-diagnosed their mental health condition after consuming online content, rising to 50 percent among Gen Z (versus 9 percent of boomers). Of the people who self-diagnose symptoms, almost a quarter (24 percent) “rarely” or “never” feel the need to take the next step to discuss them with a qualified clinician.

DeBoer argues that rather than reducing the stigma surrounding mental illness, the inordinate attention given to the mildly and dubiously afflicted is a dangerous distraction crowding out help for the severely ill. Accelerated by social media, this “gentrification of disability” has become a full-blown social contagion, compromising even the experts and institutions responsible for mental health care (153–54).

DeBoer is largely right, and the cultural shift he identifies has real-world implications both inside and outside the church. But the same ideological priors that so sharpen deBoer’s critique also suffer from two significant blind spots that, were they addressed, would make All in Your Head the more courageous, more constructive, and, therefore, more widely read manifesto we need.

General Bipartisan Ire

If you picked up All in Your Head to understand how modern therapy culture spread like wildfire across social media over the last several years, it’s not immediately obvious why deBoer starts his argument with an in-depth analysis of the anti-psychiatry movement’s influence in late 20th century politics and academia. But, if you can forgive me the pun, there’s a method to his madness.

After a blistering critique of “rightwing libertarian” policies that neglected mental illness, he cashes in on the subsequent trust he earns with left-leaning readers to launch a series of absolute haymakers toward “a species of thought that sometimes amounts to a kind of leftist pseudo-radicalism or a libertarian fantasy” (198) that drives the “destabilizing . . . move from mental illness as reality to mental illness as symbol” (8).

American individualism and anti-institutional bias aren’t new, but the painstakingly specific way deBoer traces their spread through the culture surrounding mental health and therapy is refreshing and instructive.

Our “apolitical romanticism of resistance to modern society” fuels two opposite errors: On the right, mental illness is sometimes seen as either imagined or a symptom of weak character. But on the left, the same romanticism often describes mental disability as more enabling than disabling, as if neurodivergent minorities don’t need society’s help—society needs theirs.

Gentrification of Disability

DeBoer’s emphatic rejection of this predominantly progressive error— of “making a medical disorder an identity”—is the “overarching principle of [his] book” (165). This is never more clear in what he labels “the gentrification of disability,” where “diagnoses become fads” because the “intellectual and discursive space once dedicated to the interests of the most afflicted have become fixated instead on a class of patients whose disorders range from mild to dubious” (154).

Said spaces and institutions have become so compromised due to “the diseased incentives of social media” and “liberal conventional wisdom that says it’s offensive to question any claim any individual makes about a disability.” Combined, “we’ve created ‘disorder communities’” not unlike fan clubs “rooting for a particular sports team” (154).

The disproportionate attention given to those wealthy enough or high-functioning enough to perform their disability online is a dangerous distraction with real consequences: The more that influential elites use their status to “define the disorder in the public mind,” the more those who are impoverished or severely disabled go unseen and neglected.

The disproportionate attention given to those wealthy enough or high-functioning enough to perform their disability online is a dangerous distraction with real consequences.

Clear to anyone not living under a rock for the last decade is how familiar these patterns are. As I argued in The Reason for Church, counterfeit institutions (e.g., social media) have bypassed gatekeepers and hijacked the incentives of vital social and spiritual institutions undergirding American life.

All in Your Head won’t add many new tools for recognizing these patterns. DeBoer’s contribution is in tracing them throughout an often convoluted bureaucratic ecosystem from the perspective of a “crabby old Marxist” frustrated by the privileged hypocrisy of pop-critical theory and progressive politics. However useful, the same ideological priors also handicap his analysis with two glaring omissions.

Incomplete Diagnosis and Insufficient Prescription

His most obvious omission is the rapid rise of gender dysphoria diagnoses and sex-reassignment surgery for minors. For more than a decade, gender-affirming physicians have been telling parents they must choose between having “a trans kid or a dead kid,” but, as Rebecca McLaughlin points out, the evidence says otherwise: “Puberty blockers can make the mental health of some young people worse, not better.”

Considering deBoer’s impressive track record of taking unpopular, heterodox positions within his own tribe, his failure to address what is arguably the most volatile and life-altering consequence of toxic therapy culture is bewildering.

DeBoer’s second omission is more understandable. While he concludes with well-reasoned (if regrettably materialist and socialist) policy prescriptions, he doesn’t offer any remedy for the broader therapeutic culture (i.e., the “ideological commitment to radical individual autonomy” [77]) that he spends most of the book arguing is the root of resistance to reform. That neglect robs his policy prescriptions of much persuasive power.

Christians can affirm deBoer’s diagnosis of the problem of individual autonomy, but the church has the social and spiritual resources missing from all legislative and policy prescriptions. We know humans were never meant to construct our identities but to receive them in Christ and through belonging to our families, to our churches, and ultimately to God.

Church has the social and spiritual resources missing from all legislative and policy prescriptions.

Despite any omissions, All in Your Head is a clear-eyed and validating read, especially for those in (or disappointed by) mental health care. It would be a fine complement to Matthew Loftus’s Resisting Therapy Culture and describes many of the downstream problems Philip Rieff anticipated in The Triumph of the Therapeutic.

All in Your Head is “not a memoir” (8) but a pragmatic antimemoir seething with a holy discontent that challenges both performative mental illness and the also voyeurism that incentivizes it. The result is a concrete and compelling remapping of mental health culture with impressive explanatory power.

When I asked how I could pray for them, their answer wasn’t what you might expect.

“Pray that we would not be released until our job here is finished,” they said. They had led numerous fellow prisoners to faith. Now, their chief concern was to remain inside long enough to disciple them.

The call took me straight back to the five years I spent in prison for my faith. Now, these dear brothers (let’s call them Vahid and Reza) were behind bars, and I was outside. As we spoke, I pictured the wards and corridors, imagined the sounds and smells, and remembered how hard it was not to know how many years I would be there.

But it was also an encouraging call. Vahid and Reza were in high spirits, talking about Bible passages that were sustaining them and how the Lord was at work. They didn’t see themselves in a miserable, dark place. They saw themselves in a different mission field.

Their focus was the same as Paul’s in Colossians 4:3: “Pray also for us, that God may open to us a door for the word, to declare the mystery of Christ, on account of which I am in prison.” Paul’s request wasn’t for an open prison door but for an open door for the gospel.

Pray for Gospel Fruit

Vahid and Reza’s request resonated with me. I remember being unable to pray for my own release. I tried on a few occasions, but I couldn’t open my mouth to ask the Lord to release me. If I’m following Christ, I cannot choose the path. I cannot choose the location. I should follow him wherever he goes. And as I followed him to prison, he brought beautiful fruit.

They didn’t see themselves in a miserable, dark place. They saw themselves in a different mission field.

I think of one prisoner, a devout Muslim, who was wrongly accused of spying for Iran’s enemies. He was praying he would be released and was frustrated to get no answer. He approached me one day, saying, “Farshid, our God is dead. But I’ve heard yours is alive. Will you pray for me?” Fearing it might be a trap, I took him quietly aside and prayed briefly in the name of Jesus: “Lord, you know this man. Please hear his prayer.” The very next day, the man rushed over excitedly and gave me a huge hug. That morning, he had learned his name had been cleared. He was released two weeks later. Our God is indeed alive.

The Lord was also at work softening my parents’ hearts toward Christ during those years. I always say that even if only for the salvation of my parents, my time in prison was worth it. So, when you pray for persecuted believers, pray not only for what God might do for them but—as Vahid and Reza requested—for what God might do through them, for his glory. Pray for gospel fruit.

Pray for Comfort and Endurance

I don’t want to make prison sound easier than it was. The suffering was real. So pray also for comfort and endurance.

They beat me; they broke my toe. But the prolonged separation from my two children was the hardest burden to bear. The day I went to prison, my son was 2 years old and my daughter was 7. Missing their childhoods was an unspeakable loss.

Yet I know others who have suffered much more than I did. I think of a brother currently in prison who has been tortured. I think of a sister who was sexually assaulted when she was arrested. Even the apostle Paul was at times “so utterly burdened beyond [his] strength that [he] despaired of life itself.” And his request to the church was simple: “You also must help us by prayer” (2 Cor. 1:8, 11). Brothers and sisters like these need us to pray for them with love.

Whatever the situation, we can pray that God would grant the suffering believer comfort, peace, and endurance. The more specific the prayers, the better. While in prison, I received letters from people around the world who were praying for me. One wrote, “I am praying for your sleep. May the Lord give you peace to sleep well in prison.” I really loved it. And honestly, I did sleep well in prison; many inmates suffered from nightmares, but I cannot remember having a single one. I believe God answered that man’s prayers.

Your Prayers Reach Through Prison Walls

Prayer is especially needed when a prisoner is in solitary confinement. I spent 361 days in a solitary cell: For a year, I couldn’t see the sun in the sky. Yet prayers reached me through the prison walls.

I remember one day I was in cell 73. I was sitting; I wasn’t praying. Suddenly, I was able to hear, let me say, a heavenly melody in my soul—not in my ears but in my soul. And I stood up. In that moment, I was overwhelmed by joy and peace. I started dancing. The cell was only two meters by two meters, but I danced before the Lord!

The guard opened the door to see what I was doing. I turned to him with a wide smile and said, “Hey, sir, how are you today?” He looked at me with big eyes. “Wow, it seems you are better than me,” he said. And then he shut the door.

For a year, I couldn’t see the sun in the sky. Yet prayers reached me through the prison walls.

I believe someone, or maybe a group of people, was praying for me at that time. That’s why I had the experience of hearing that melody in my soul, and I was overwhelmed by joy, even though I was in solitary confinement.

Many brothers and sisters around the world prayed for me during my imprisonment. Perhaps you were one of them. I cannot find the words to say thank you.

Now, I want to ask, Will you pray for those in prison right now for their faith? Scripture tells us to “remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them” (Heb. 13:3). I believe your prayer goes through the prison walls. It can touch the prisoners, encourage them, and give them joy while they’re suffering, because it’s possible to have joy and suffering at the same time.

Vahid and Reza are just two of the Christians in Iran’s prisons today. There are so many. Maybe you’re asking, Where do I start? Elam’s free Bound Together resources can help your church or small group pray on the International Day of Prayer for the Persecuted Church on November 1.

We pray because our God is faithful to his children. He is faithful right now to Vahid and Reza and to all our brothers and sisters in prison. And he was faithful to me. When I came out of prison, people would say to me, “Praise God, Farshid, you were faithful to the Lord. You stood for the Lord.”

I always try to correct them. That’s not true. He was faithful to me. He stood for me.

In the summer of 2021, pastor Luke Peterson moved to Columbus, Ohio, to look for lost people.

To find them, he joined a gym. He started building friendships. And then he began asking those friends if they wanted to come over.

“Word started getting around—‘You’re not going to believe this, but Luke’s a pastor,’” he said. ‘It created some intrigue, and people started coming. I used to have a note in my phone of how many people came to our church because I went to CrossFit Grandview. It was up to like 60 or 70 before I stopped counting because it was impossible.”

Peterson’s good at evangelism, and his church is too—last year, they welcomed around 500 first-time visitors. When he preaches, he knows about half his audience is probably unchurched.

This is unusual in a country where 40 million adults have stopped attending church over the last 30 years, and where 76 percent of pastors said “fostering connections with unchurched people” is a need in their church.

Much has changed since the Billy Graham rallies of the ’60s, the door-knocking of the ’80s, and seeker-sensitive church billboards of the ’90s.

In the past, “you could randomly walk up to the person pumping gas next to you and say, ‘Do you know Jesus?’” said Perimeter Church pastor Jeff Norris. “Could that still work? Sure. But more and more, we tell people to invite neighbors into their home. The reality is that evangelism is much slower, and more relational, than it used to be.”

Today, people aren’t as likely to read the Bible, think it’s the Word of God, or go to church. But they’re also less hostile to Christianity than they were five years ago. And while they read the Bible less—especially in Gen Z—the trajectory is moving up.

“We’re not past ‘my truth, your truth,’” said Rob Warren, pastor of Doxa Church in Madison, Wisconsin. “But people aren’t as sure that their truth is actually true.”

These days, evangelistically effective churches are keeping evangelism front of mind in the way they preach, train, and encourage their congregations. They’re celebrating small wins. And they’re leading with a high view of Scripture, prayer, and God’s sovereignty.

“We’ve seen all of our ministries grow—from kids to youth to college ministry to Doxa Church as a whole,” Warren said. “It’s not just one demographic of people who are getting saved. God’s doing something.”

Times Have Changed

Thirty years ago, evangelical churches leaned on programs like Evangelism Explosion or Continuous Witness Training to deliver evangelistic focus and training, church leader Thom Rainer said. Those structured initiatives fit well in a culture that was more Christian and more institutionalized—it took an average of 20 church members to reach one person for Christ per year.

Today, it takes 50, Rainer said. “Evangelism efficacy, evangelism effectiveness, has definitely diminished.”

That trend is likely to continue. As social media and AI fill our time and increase our social anxiety, even relational evangelism is growing more difficult.

As social media and AI fill our time and increase our social anxiety, even relational evangelism is growing more difficult.

“I’ve got a new couple that moved into my neighborhood a while ago, and I haven’t even seen them yet,” said Daniel Simmons, executive pastor of campuses and central discipleship at The Summit Church.

This means equipping the congregation is more challenging—and important—than ever before.

“Evangelism can be this thing that is so burdensome and guilt-driven,” said pastor Christian Gracia. He planted King’s City Church in Las Vegas in 2024 with around 80 people and has seen the church grow to more than 400.

“People can feel like they’re not ready or not good enough at evangelism,” Gracia said. “They don’t always know what to say, and can feel like a terrible Christian because they don’t do it. And I always want to help them understand that’s not true.”

Start with Leadership

If church leaders want to create a culture of evangelism in their church, there’s only one place to start, said Warren, who has baptized 150 people in the last eight months.

“Tell me 10 people that you’ve shared the gospel with over the last month or two,” he said. “Because if the leadership team is not doing that, then it’s just an aspirational thing and you’re not going to be able to sustain it. You need those ‘just the other day’ stories.”

At Perimeter, they’re putting structure around this. This PCA megachurch in Atlanta was planted by a gifted evangelist, Randy Pope, in 1977. Over the years, they’ve seen thousands come to Christ. But last spring, during a staff training, Norris noticed the focus had slipped.

“What we tend to do, if left unto ourselves, if church leaders aren’t constantly pushing, is default to what is comfortable,” he said. “Church becomes more about me and my comfort or what my children need. . . . If you don’t constantly keep pushing on evangelism, it’s going to become too big of a burden and people will stop doing it.”

He saw this during Perimeter’s two-day staff workshop: “It became a bit more evident that most of us aren’t making disciples,” he said. “I told them—starting with the executive leadership team all the way down—that their supervisor is going to begin asking them what’s going on in their personal ministry.”

This isn’t quota-driven, like “How many times have you shared the gospel this week?” It’s more along the lines of “Who are you praying for who doesn’t know Jesus?” “How are you trusting the Lord to provide opportunities for you to share the gospel with that person?” And then, “Have you been able to have those conversations? If so, how have those gone? Is there anything I can be praying for?”

Over at The Summit Church, pastored by evangelist J. D. Greear, similar conversations are taking place.

“We only grew 2 percent this year—we have not grown much over the past few years,” Simmons said. “We did some real soul searching in the spring, and found that our people have lost that invitation culture.”

So Summit staff are reminding themselves of their goals.

“Every ministry needs to know how they contribute to reaching lost people with the gospel, including the ones that may not intuitively do it,” Simmons said. “We’ve got a strong prayer ministry here. How does prayer contribute to reaching lost people? They should know that. Our deacon ministry should know how they contribute to reaching lost people. Our small group ministry should know how they contribute to reaching lost people.”

Preaching

As leaders begin to share their faith, it’ll come out in their conversations: “Just the other day, I was talking to a guy . . .”

This is especially powerful if it comes from the pulpit—and that’s only the beginning of how pastors can use their platform to encourage the spread of the gospel. In a recent sermon, Gracia talked about truth and morality, explaining ideas such as postmodernism and cultural relativism.

“We’re not trying to win arguments,” he told his congregation. “I’m not trying to give you ammo for the water cooler. I’m trying to help you understand the world you live in. I’m giving you names for the water you’re swimming in, and then trying to help you navigate it. There are actually great reasons for what you believe. And there are also people who are seeking better answers than they have.”

The Sunday teaching is primarily for believers. But it can be done in a way that’s aware others are there to “come and see” (John 1:39).

“People have shown a lot of courage and risked a lot of relational capital to bring their friends along,” Peterson said. “When you’re sitting next to somebody that is far from God, you see and hear the service differently. I know that—I’ve been in that seat. So when I preach, I want to use language that’s not needlessly offensive or that creates insiders and outsiders.”

Explain where verses are found in the Bible, or what the red letters mean, he said. When appropriate, differentiate. (“Christian, I’m talking to you,” Warren will say. Or “If you aren’t in Christ, I’m talking to you right now.”) Sometimes, directly ask nonbelievers to make a decision for Christ, Simmons said.

And be clear in your teaching, Gracia said. “People want to know what we believe and why. I think it’s the most compelling thing about our faith.”

Training and Praying

Christians can pick up enthusiasm for evangelism from their pastor. But they’ll probably need some additional education.

“I’ve found that one-off evangelism trainings aren’t very helpful,” Simmons said. “You need to do it consistently, through classes, small group trainings, and men’s and women’s ministries.”

The first lesson he teaches comes from pastor Larry Osborne.

“He said that everybody is relationally like one of those flat green Lego pieces that you can build on,” Simmons said. “Some people have a big green piece, and some people have a small piece, but once it’s full, it’s full. So if we want to make disciples, we have to make sure there’s room on there for the lost.”

The second thing you need is a clear, consistent way to share the gospel, he said. Multiple tools can help with this—anything from the Bridge to Life diagram to the Romans Road to the 3 Circles.

“One isn’t superior to the others,” Warren said. “But we chose one for our congregation because we want to get a common language within our church.”

All this has to be rooted in prayer—prayer seasons, regular prayer meetings, staff meeting prayers, and spontaneous prayer.

All this has to be rooted in prayer—prayer seasons, regular prayer meetings, staff meeting prayers, and spontaneous prayer.

“I read that D. L. Moody always had a note card on him, with a list of 100 unsaved people that he was asking God to save,” Peterson said. “By his funeral, 98 had become followers of Jesus, and at his funeral, the remaining two became Christians. I felt inspired by that, so I created a massive list of people that I’m praying for.”

For those who aren’t gifted as evangelists, Simmons recommends a shorter list of about three or four names. “Pray like crazy,” he said. “Ask God to give you an opportunity to share with them. Ask God to save them.”

Like evangelism, prayer requires effort, and over time Christians tend to slide away from it. But also like evangelism, prayer is “a fire that burns brightly if you stoke it,” Simmons said.

Living It Out: Small Groups

“In the early church, two things were happening to bring people to Christ,” Simmons said. “They were preaching the gospel faithfully and they were living it out.”

In evangelistically fruitful churches, a lot of the “living out” is happening in small groups. Studies show frequent churchgoers in small groups are more likely to pray for opportunities to share Christ (56 percent, compared with 31 percent of churchgoers not in a small group). They’re also more likely to have shared the gospel in the last six months (55 percent vs. 29 percent) and to have invited an unchurched person to a worship service (68 percent vs. 39 percent).

Unchurched people who get connected through a small group are more likely to stick than those who just come on Sunday, Gracia said. “If you can get them in those environments that are a little bit more intimate, something powerful can really happen.”

At King’s, small groups are encouraged to occasionally take a break from Bible study to hang out with those “who are far from God but close to [them],” he said.

Doxa Church does this too.

“A couple times a quarter, we’ll have what we call an Out,” Warren said. “That is when our small groups have a social event, or multiple social events. We invite our friends that aren’t connected to Christ or the church. It might be a barbecue, where I invite my neighbor and you invite your neighbor, and we just sit in the backyard and play cornhole and sit around the fire.”

It’s not a bait and switch—nobody whips out the Romans Road partway through the evening, he said. “The goal is for our friends to see the gospel before they hear it.”

Once you do this—say, inviting a few people from work or the gym or the park—it gets easier, Peterson said.

“Last September, we baptized two good friends of ours from the gym,” he said. “They brought in another coach at the gym and his wife. And that coach brought another coach and her boyfriend. It started some momentum. Now it’s easier to invite this other unsaved coach because everybody he knows is already in this group.”

All of this requires your church members to have friends who don’t know Christ.

“And if you don’t have anybody to invite—well that’s your next step,” Gracia said. “You need to build non-Christian friendships.”

Living It Out: Individuals

America’s recent loneliness epidemic hasn’t been confined to teenagers. About half of American adults now report having three or fewer close friends. We spend about 20 fewer hours a month hanging out with our friends than we did in 2000. We’re more alone than ever before.

In this environment, seeing if someone on the bus wants to walk through the book of John with you is a big ask.

“If that’s walking, let’s go back to crawling,” Norris said. “Can you just be more intentional and prayerful to greet people around you? Notice others. Say, ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ Introduce yourself.”

For that to work, you have to be around people.

“I go to a gym that’s farther from my house but close to my church,” Peterson said. “That way I’m not saying, ‘You should come to this church that’s 30 minutes away.’ I’m saying, ‘Come to my church that’s a mile from here.’”

Peterson’s wife also drives farther to consistently take the kids to a park near the church. To get around unchurched people, his dad plays golf every Friday and his mom volunteers at the zoo. His mother-in-law regularly walks the same nature trail, looking for familiar faces she can talk to. Others in his church have begun to check out with the same cashier at the store each week or frequent a coffee shop near church. Still others are joining running clubs or Ultimate Frisbee leagues with an eye on meeting and befriending people.

“You’re going to learn names, and then you’re going to ask an intentional question, and over the months and years, you’ll get to know people and then be able to ask them out to dinner,” Peterson said. “One of our best strategies has been to take people to dinner and pay for it.”

Those friendships aren’t initially built on sharing the gospel but on asking questions.

Asking Questions

“Somebody once asked Francis Schaeffer if he had an hour to share the gospel, what he’d do,” Warren said. “He said he’d ask questions for 55 minutes, and then respond with the gospel in the last five.”

Your questions shouldn’t be aggressive or combative.

“We’re attuned to seeing online news anchors or people on TikTok argue and debate,” Peterson said. “You’re not trying to do that. You’re trying to learn what they believe. And then you can say, ‘That’s really interesting. Thanks for sharing.’ And then if they want to ask you a question, that’s an opportunity.”

They might not ask you. People aren’t used to doing that.

“Being friendly is such a nonexistent thing in our culture,” Peterson said. “No one asks questions about someone’s life. We all want to share our opinions. But if someone is inquisitive and curious, people will open up, and you never know where that will lead.”

He remembers a ministry leader talking about “relationships that can bear the weight of the gospel—if they know you, if you have proximity with them, you earn the right to talk to them and enter that door.”

That comes with time, and it can also come with offering to share a burden with them, Gracia said.

“Ask them how you can pray for them—put it out there,” he said. “Maybe you could say, ‘Hey, I pray for people I know. I would love to pray for you. Is there something going on in your life I could pray for?’”

That lets them know that you’re a Christian, that you care, and that you pray. They’ll probably remember that later.

“I have a guy in my street that is very hard towards the gospel and the church,” Warren said. “He has stiff-armed me since I’ve lived here—we don’t talk. But last year, his sister and his mom died, and I was the first phone call that he made. . . . There’s gonna be a moment when people need God, and we want them to know where to go.”

Going Deeper

If and when people are open to spiritual conversations, invite them to church. Here’s what Simmons tells people who are wavering:

“If you’re not comfortable coming yet, or you want to know more, I get it. Go watch one of our services online. And then, if you like what you see, or you’re curious, come with me. Even if you’re 25 percent curious, just come one time. Just come and see.”

Sitting in a service “puts people in the path of hearing God’s Word from another person, which is really powerful,” he said.

You could also ask them to read through a book (perhaps Tim Keller’s The Reason for God) or work through a Bible study with you. Norris uses four short Life Issues booklets.

His favorite place to find lost people is the golf course near the church.

His favorite place to find lost people is the golf course near the church.

“One of my practices is to play golf with church members, and to ask them to invite one friend from the club who doesn’t know the Lord,” he said. During the time it takes to play 18 holes, he gets to model for the church members how to engage someone evangelistically.

“At the end of the round, you can say, ‘Hey, man, I really enjoyed some of the things that we talked about today. One of the things I love to do is take people to lunch—I’ll pay. Over the course of four weeks, if we had lunch a few times, we could study the book of John together. I feel like it could answer some of the questions that you have. Would you be interested?’”

Last fall, someone was.

“He had never read the Bible,” Norris said. “He couldn’t really tell you the point of Christianity, other than ‘Try to be good.’ We met for four weeks, and he was absolutely mesmerized at the Word of God. He said, ‘Can we keep meeting and studying the Bible?’”

That man became a believer, was baptized, and joined the church. Now his wife and children are coming too.

But it started small. Evangelism today almost always does, which is why, if you want to build a culture around it, you have to celebrate everything.

Celebrate Everything

“Sharing the gospel is like working out a muscle,” Norris said. “You’re not going to keep going if you feel like you’re failing at it. But a lot of times, there is a lot of failure before there is success. So we celebrate every little thing.”

Peterson does this through stories, shared in the church newsletter, during meetings, or in services. It could be a person who went to a basketball game with his neighbors and learned more about their family—maybe that’s more than he was doing three years ago. Or it could be the men who work from home on Fridays and who have started going to the same coffee shop together to invest in people there. Or the young man who bought a house strategic to where the church building is.

As people begin to take steps toward evangelism, the practice sells itself.

“Generally, the happiest people I talk to on Sunday are those who are like, ‘Guess what I did this week?’” Gracia said. “They got to pray with someone or talk with them about the gospel. If a church member has brought someone with them to church, they are ecstatic. When there is spiritual movement in someone’s life, it is the best thing in the world.”

Warren saw this with teenagers he took to do evangelism in Florida over spring break.

“Every night we would give taxi rides and talk to people,” he said. “I don’t know how effective it was for mass evangelism, although every year there’d be people who met Jesus. But I found that every student who came back from that trip started sharing the gospel in their everyday life.”

They had realized it wasn’t as hard or scary as they’d thought, he said. And once you begin to see fruit, it’s easy to keep going.

“The moment you see it work, you’re like, Yes. I’m about to do this to everyone,” Gracia said. “God isn’t trying to punish us by making us do evangelism. He is sharing something really good.”

Something Really Good

“In terms of my conversion rate on evangelism—like how many people come to faith when I share the gospel—I’m probably batting .08,” Simmons said. “But if you’re asking how many times I’m impacted when I share the gospel, I’m batting 1.000.”

Simmons feels this so strongly that he sometimes takes guys he’s mentoring over to the park to share their faith with strangers.

As people begin to take steps toward evangelism, the practice sells itself.

“I don’t do that because I think that’s an effective evangelism strategy,” he said. “I do it because it’s an effective disciple making strategy. . . . One of the ways I fight sin is by sharing the gospel with other people. One of the ways that I stay grateful and humble is by sharing the gospel with other people. One of the ways I come into the presence of the Spirit is by sharing the greatest story that’s ever been told.”

Conversion is always the work of the Spirit.

“I can speak and serve, but it’s God that saves and sanctifies,” Warren said. “When we get that—not only a high view of Scripture but a high view of the sovereignty of God—it frees the Christian from so much pressure. Because there have been times where I’ve been in Panera, and I’m sharing the gospel with a guy, and I’m like, Dude, I am nailing this right now. I am doing so good. I should write a book. And the guy’s glazed over and has no idea what I said.

“And then there’s other times where I’m in that same Panera, and I’m fumbling through, and I’m not even coherent. I’m thinking, I’m making Jesus look really bad right now. And then that guy’s like, ‘That makes total sense.’ And he becomes a Christian and comes with me to church and we baptize him.

“When you have stories like that, the pressure comes off.”

While no single sentence can capture the fullness of the Reformed tradition, at minimum it means three things: to be biblical, to be covenantal, and to be confessional. The authority of Scripture governs our theology, covenant theology provides Scripture’s redemptive framework, and the historic confessions summarize and safeguard the church’s doctrinal convictions. Remove any one of those pillars, and something essential to the Reformed tradition is lost.

With “Reformed” in its name, it’s hardly surprising that Reformed Theological Seminary has long sought to equip pastors and church members in all three areas. In recent years, members of its faculty have produced substantial volumes on the Old and New Testaments and on covenant theology.

Now, with The Westminster Confession of Faith: A Comprehensive Commentary on Its History, Theology, and Application, they turn their attention to the confessional foundation of the Reformed tradition. The result is a volume that seeks not only to explain what the confession teaches but also to demonstrate why confessional theology remains vital for the church today.

What Is the Westminster Confession of Faith?

The Westminster Confession of Faith takes its name from the Westminster Assembly, a gathering of more than 100 ministers and theologians convened by the English Parliament in 1643 at a time of profound political and ecclesiastical upheaval. The assembly was tasked with recommending reforms to the doctrine, worship, government, and discipline of the Church of England.

After more than five years of careful biblical study and theological deliberation, the assembly produced the Westminster Confession of Faith along with the Larger and Shorter Catechisms. Together, these documents have served as the doctrinal foundation of Presbyterian churches throughout the world for nearly four centuries.

The assembly’s influence, however, extends far beyond Presbyterianism. The confession has helped shape the broader Reformed tradition, providing the framework for later confessional statements. As a result, its theological influence shaped generations of Congregationalists, Baptists, and other evangelical Christians. The editors of this volume rightly observe,

The confession is also ecumenical because it found wide acceptance among Congregationalists and Particular Baptists in the seventeenth century, as two different groups of theologians adapted the confession according to their theological convictions, producing the Savoy Declaration (1658) and the Second London Confession (1689). Thus the Westminster Confession is relevant to Presbyterians, Congregationalists, and Baptists. (xx)

Why Another Commentary?

The Westminster Confession has never lacked commentators. From the 17th century onward, pastors and theologians have written to explain its theology. Quality works by A. A. Hodge, G. I. Williamson,  R. C. Sproul, and more recently Chad Van Dixhoorn have each served the church well in different ways. So why do we need another commentary on the confession, and what makes this one useful?

The Westminster Confession has helped shape the broader Reformed tradition, providing the framework for later confessional statements.

First, this isn’t the work of a single author but a collaborative effort by scholars whose expertise spans several areas of theology. That breadth allows the volume to approach the confession from different perspectives while maintaining a clear unity of purpose. Each contributor brings particular expertise to the section he addresses, but the volume as a whole is concerned with helping readers understand the confession and its significance for the church.

Second, the commentary is consciously pastoral. Rather than treating the confession merely as a historical artifact or an academic text, the contributors consistently demonstrate how its theology serves the life of the church. Readers are reminded that the confession was written not simply to settle theological disputes but to help the church understand and live out the whole counsel of God.

This pastoral emphasis matters. It’s easy for a confession to become something we study without allowing it to shape the way we live as Christians. The Westminster Confession was never intended to be a document we merely admire or defend. Its doctrines are meant to shape the faith of the church as we “contend for the faith that was once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 1:3). This commentary is useful because it helps readers make that connection, showing not only what the assembly confessed but why those truths matter today.

Faith with Roots

As a pastor, I’m finding that one of the great needs of our day is a sense of rootedness. Many Christians are looking for something that will give them a deeper sense of stability and connection to the historic Christian faith, something that didn’t begin with the latest movement or cultural moment. They’re looking for something with roots.

It’s easy for a confession to become something we study without allowing it to shape the way we live as Christians.

This is one of the gifts of the Westminster Confession of Faith. Its doctrinal roots have given generations of believers a lasting stability, keeping them grounded in the historic faith through waves of theological and cultural change.

It doesn’t simply teach us what to believe; it roots those beliefs within the life of the church, connecting us to generations of faithful Christians who have confessed these same truths before us.

The Westminster Confession helps us to see that we don’t have to find our footing in the Christian faith on our own. We receive the gift of learning from generations of believers who have gone before us, helping us see the riches of Scripture with greater clarity and confidence. This volume is an invitation to rediscover that heritage and to find fresh encouragement in the faithfulness of God, who has sustained his church through the centuries. May it help a new generation find joy in the riches of the Reformed tradition and pass them on with confidence to those who follow.

For instance, I was consulting with a local pastor who wanted to see the church serve people in poverty in his community. It was important to him that the church do it, not a nonprofit. Since he understood that God’s kingdom is bigger than his congregation, he wanted to engage multiple churches in the project.

I suggested he consider forming a council of pastors and collectively hiring a staff member to manage the operations of the combined program. He thought that could work well for his context. I’m not sure he was aware of the irony. I certainly was: We’d just reinvented a variant of the 501(c)(3) nonprofit that he so keenly wanted to avoid in the first place.

While the allergy to faith-based nonprofits was especially strong in his case, many people accept the premise at a basic level. In my experience, this sentiment is just as likely to come from someone who works in nonchurch ministry as from a pastor.

If we understand the church is the core institution created by Christ to advance the kingdom of heaven, has it failed so badly that we need an army of auxiliaries to prop it up?

Clarifying Terms and Roles

I answer that the parachurch doesn’t exist because the church has failed. It exists because God’s commands naturally generate institutions beyond family, church, and state. Proving that starts with clarifying terms.

The parachurch exists because God’s commands naturally generate institutions beyond family, church, and state.

“Church” has more than one use in Scripture. In some contexts, it describes the people of God universally (Matt. 16:15–18; Eph. 1:22–23; Col. 1:18). In others, it’s a local congregational institution with the parameters God has placed around its operation (1 Thess. 1:1; 1 Tim. 3:1–5; Philem. 1:2; James 5:14).

“Parachurch” typically refers to faith-based nonprofits who serve people in need or provide evangelistic and discipleship resources.

Certainly, as part of the universal church, all God’s people hold equal status in advancing God’s mission, whether they labor as nurses, students, pastors, or tentmakers (see Acts 18:1–3). Just as surely, all God’s people shouldn’t merely attend but be accountable to a local congregation that enables their spiritual formation.

When not assembled, God’s people are charged with many tasks—everything from stewarding creation to seeking justice for the oppressed. We can fulfill these tasks as individuals, but it often makes sense to create or join institutions dedicated to fulfilling them.

Which brings us to a crucial point: God ordained some institutions specifically, and some emerged organically from God’s commands.

Ordained or Emergent Institutions

The family, the local church, and the government are ordained institutions. The Bible gives each ordained institution some guidance but also leaves a lot open to interpretation.

While these ordained institutions are necessary for all people, they aren’t sufficient to fulfill God’s myriad commands to their fullest extent. Thus, some institutions emerge from the commands, rather than from a revealed institutional structure:

• The command to work led to the formation of businesses.
• The command to pass knowledge to subsequent generations led to the formation of schools.
• The command to care for the sick caused Christians to form the first hospitals.
• The command to care for the poor, widows, orphans, and strangers led to the formation of charities.
• The command to make disciples of all nations led to mission boards, publishing houses, and Bible-translation ministries.

This ordained-emergent distinction parallels Abraham Kuyper’s “sphere sovereignty” in its recognition of institutions not explicitly outlined in Scripture. Many of these commands can be fulfilled to some lesser degree by the ordained institutions, but there are limitations. A family may work without forming a business, but they’ll never raise a skyscraper.

Most believers recognize that the bulk of emergent institutions are legitimate. No one says, “If the church did its job being hospitable, restaurants wouldn’t need to exist.” Similarly, I don’t hear a lot of people saying, “If the church cared for the sick, hospitals wouldn’t need to exist.”

Businesses, schools, hospitals, and charities all work best when operated by believers in accordance with God’s precepts. But they don’t have to answer to a plurality of elders any more than they have to be structured like a family whose children must answer to their parents.

Churches, Nonprofits, and Businesses

Ordained institutions have distinct mandates that limit what other institutions should do. That’s why Paul instructs Timothy that the local church shouldn’t aid a widow who has a family capable of aiding her (1 Tim. 5:3–4).

Without question, overeager nonprofits at times impinge on the core duties of a family or local church. But in general, emergent institutions are legitimate and complement the work of the government, congregation, and family.

Ordained institutions have distinct mandates that limit what other institutions should do.

The Bible acknowledges this by its support of businesses. While the command to work is ordained by God, Scripture nowhere defines a prescriptive business structure. Yet the employer-employee relationship is acknowledged as legitimate, and the institution as one that promotes human flourishing.

Once for-profit entities aren’t viewed as a local congregation’s failure, the line between a kingdom-minded business and a kingdom-minded nonprofit becomes fuzzy. For instance, plenty of for- and nonprofit enterprises intentionally employ and disciple people who are difficult to employ. Surely the tax structure doesn’t determine the theological validity of the enterprise.

Thus, claims like “God created the church; he didn’t create the pregnancy resource center”—while true in the most literal sense—don’t communicate much of value. It’s a bit like saying, “God made trees. He didn’t make your table.” My table is made almost entirely of trees. The table is a good thing for which I should be grateful to God.

The parachurch exists because God’s commands naturally generate institutions beyond family, church, and state. The more the church does its job, the more local congregations there will be, the more nonprofits there will be, and the more redemptive businesses there will be.

The question isn’t whether the church should replace the parachurch but whether God’s people will faithfully build every institution needed to accomplish his will.

Resources Mentioned:

• Christ Our Mediator by Thomas Goodwin
• The Heart of Christ in Heaven Towards Sinners on Earth by Thomas Goodwin
• A Body of Divinity by Thomas Watson
• Heaven Taken by Storm by Thomas Watson
• The Mischief of Sin by Thomas Watson
• Precious Remedies Against Satan’s Devices by Thomas Brooks
• Religious Affections by Jonathan Edwards
• Charity and Its Fruits by Jonathan Edwards
• A Faithful Narrative of the Surprising Work of God by Jonathan Edwards
• Thriving in Lifelong Ministry by Joel Beeke
• Pastors and Their Critics by Joel Beeke and Nick Thompson

If you’re ready to go deeper, Southern Seminary’s PhD program is where that begins. Visit sbts.edu/phd to learn more.

I asked L. Michael Morales—professor at Greenville Presbyterian Theological Seminary and author of Exodus Old and New: A Biblical Theology of Redemption—about what’s on his bedside table, his favorite fiction, the books he regularly revisits, and more.

What’s on your nightstand right now?

Malcolm Guite’s Galahad and the Grail. Myths of origin hold potential for shaping a society’s culture and character. I believe Guite, aside from writing good poetry and a national epic, is endeavoring to reawaken (or refound) England to her rich Christian heritage. This volume is the first of a projected four-volume work that may well represent the new definitive collection of Arthurian legends.

Writings of the Ramban, translated and annotated by Charles B. Chavel. Nachmanides is my favorite medieval Jewish exegete and commentator, and these essays illumine his character and offer gleaming gems of insight. His essay on redemption, for example, gives a nuanced understanding of eschatology in the Hebrew Scriptures. He argues convincingly that the exile threatened in Leviticus relates to the Babylonian exile that occurred in Jeremiah’s day, whereas exile in Deuteronomy uses more eschatological language and seems to relate to the exile after the Second Temple’s destruction.

Another essay records his Disputation in Barcelona, when Nachmanides was forced by the Spanish government to engage in debate with a Jewish Christian convert. The disputation eventually led to his exile from Spain since, as one of the intellectual giants of his era, he acquitted himself overly well. (Christian readers will, for the most part, be disappointed with the representation of our faith by his opponent, but the disputation is helpful in that it offers insights into the sort of questions about the Messiah we should think about more deeply.)

What are your favorite fiction books?

Aside from literary classics, I enjoy mystery books, especially medieval mysteries, although it’s hard to find good ones. Ellis Peters’s Brother Cadfael series is good, although aimed for a younger audience (and so a bit tame). She had a beautifully poetic sense of providence and justice, which makes for satisfying conclusions.

I also appreciate the espionage genre, such as the early works of John le Carré, like The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, A Small Town in Germany, and Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Perhaps less thoughtful but often more fun, Alistair MacLean’s books never fail to offer a little escape into adventure.

What biographies or autobiographies have most influenced you and why?

Iain H. Murray’s two-volume biography of D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones had a profound impact on me as a young, inexperienced pastor—my copies are filled with underlining and scribbled notes. This account of the Doctor’s life and ministry not only led me onto the paths of the Reformed faith, but demonstrated God’s blessings on a faithful minister’s diligent commitment to the ordinary means of grace, to prayer and preaching. Many of the problems and challenges facing the wider evangelical church when I was pastoring had their roots in the era of Lloyd-Jones’s ministry, so reading his biography offered much-needed biblical wisdom and the discernment of hindsight.

Augustine’s Confessions is also a treasured book—it’s so personal and honest, and displays the sure and gracious hand of God in one’s life. Confessions is also about Augustine’s mother, Monica, and how she persevered in prayer on his behalf; and about God’s faithfulness and goodness in answering her prayers so abundantly. Throughout the book, readers also get fascinating glimpses of life in the late fourth and early fifth centuries.

What are some books you regularly reread and why?

Aside from regular Bible reading, it’s a challenge to reread many books, since my research-reading stacks are always waiting. Classics and modern classics, however, grow with you, so I prioritize these. Recently, I reread Sophocles’s Oedipus Cycle (actually, I listened to audio versions on my commute).

Dante’s Divine Comedy—the Anthony Esolen or Robert and Jean Hollander translations—is the work I return to most, because I often find my soul needs to retake the journey, following in the Messiah’s footsteps from his passion to the resurrection. The historian Philip Schaff referred to Dante as an early reformer, which I think is true, even if we (Protestants) would still object to many aspects of Roman Catholicism in Divine Comedy (like Mariology and purgatory). There are still so many profound biblical lessons and theological truths that make Dante a spiritually profitable read.

The Heidelberg Catechism and Calvin’s Golden Booklet of the True Christian Life are also worth rereading regularly, providing both comfort and conviction.

What books have most profoundly shaped how you serve and lead others for the sake of the gospel?

Early on it was books on the life and ministry of the apostle Paul, like Robert L. Reymond’s Paul: Missionary Theologian. Lately, given the focus of my research and writing, it’s been the life of Moses, especially through my commentary work on the book of Numbers.

Both Moses and Paul labored tirelessly, sacrificially, and with much opposition, and by God’s grace they finished their race as faithful servants looking to the Lord in hope. Paul uses vivid sacrificial imagery to capture the life of ministry, that he was being poured out as a drink offering to God (Phil. 2:17; 2 Tim. 4:6). What a wonderful and devotional way to view being spent for his kingdom.

When I was a pastor I also devoured Christian History magazines. Reading about the weighty and vigorous labors of others, whether John Wesley, John Newton, Oswald Chambers, Chrysostom, or William Wilberforce, was an inspiration and encouragement to persevere in my own labors (which, by comparison, were quite minimal!).

What’s one book you wish every would pastor read?

Although it’s not pleasant reading, I think every pastor should read (for starters) Stan Telchin’s Abandoned or Michael Brown’s Our Hands Are Stained with Blood. Christians are woefully ignorant about some of the blots on our history regarding our relations with the Jewish people, a tragic misrepresentation of Jesus and regrettable stumbling block to the gospel.

Sadly, there is also a lack of prayer for the Jewish people offered up from our pulpits, which runs contrary to the hope expressed by many of our leading lights historically, such as Charles Haddon Spurgeon and Robert Murray M’Cheyne, not to mention the apostle Paul (Rom. 9:1–5).

This was not always the case, and Scottish Presbyterianism in particular has a delightful history of collegial relations with our Jewish friends. On this point, I’d commend the book Time for Favour by John Stuart Ross. Part of the larger narrative, whereby the candle of the church’s heart for Jewish people has been quite snuffed out (at least in Reformed circles), is that a shallow apprehension of the Hebrew Scriptures has led to a flat biblical-theological understanding of redemptive history.

Although they might not own the label, such “replacement theology” means, practically, that the church forgets about—or worse, disdains—Jewish people, which again is a terrible departure from both Scripture and the more refreshing eras of the church’s theology. There’s an appallingly pugnacious and high-handed antisemitism swirling in our world today, often fomented further by the media. This provides the church with an opportunity to pray and to repay our debt of love, which may be used by God to heal some old wounds.

What’s your best piece of writing advice?

For biblical and theological writing, I endeavor to write unto God as well as in the presence of God, that is, prayerfully. Beyond this, I’m the last one who should offer advice; writing is a hard and sometimes discouraging process for me, with a few moments of beauty and wonder in between. So, the time-tested counsel I’ve embraced is simply to persevere. More practically: Sit down and don’t get up frequently; shut off and shut out distractions, like smartphones and email accounts.

Also, although it’s counterintuitive, it’s helpful to stop writing for the day while you’re on a roll and could still write further; this will help you get off to a good start the next morning. When we write until we’ve exhausted our creativity or plan, then it’s much harder to get going the next time around, and writer’s block can set in.

What are you learning about life and following Jesus?

Lately, my eyes have steadily opened to the necessity and spiritual value of waiting. Life is full of disappointments, discouragement with our ourselves or disappointment with others in our lives, with circumstances and situations. Spiritual maturity sometimes means learning how to wait on the Lord, trusting in his sovereign work in our lives and in the lives of others, too. Everyone is on a journey; we’re not yet who we will be.

As the author of Hebrews observes, life for all of God’s people throughout history has been a waiting, waiting to enter that city whose builder and maker is God; and every one of them died not having received the promise in this life—that is, they died in hope (Heb. 11). Waiting is hoping, even while we ache and shed tears of disappointment.

Thankfully, the Lord is always gracious and merciful, full of compassion, and abounding in steadfast love, and he is in control, whereas we are not (and don’t need to be). Life is a fleeting breath and full of troubles; but there’s a peace, and a liberty, we can experience by surrendering our wills and expectations to God. A faithful life is looking to him and waiting quietly.

Given that we’re to submit to our earthly masters with sincere hearts as unto Christ (Eph. 6:5), our productivity at work isn’t ultimately about our advancement or our employer’s success—it’s about our gospel witness.

From before the fall, God ordained our work for keeping, cultivating, subduing, and exercising dominion over his creation. We’re still called to that today in any work to which we set our hand—including the property management of retail space. As believers, all work invites us to leverage our God-given talents and strength to bless and bring order to God’s creation in order to glorify him.

When alluring distractions or a fear of failure hinder our labor, we can turn to him who calls us for the truth that will rightly spur us on.

Distraction of Entertainment

When entertainment distracts us from working, we should start by counting the cost. If we’re spending work hours on entertainment and then have to finish our tasks in what should be our free time, what else is this keeping us from stewarding well? It may be infringing on our time for relationships, spiritual disciplines, or true rest.

On the other hand, if our working hours are fixed regardless of how on (or off) task we are, such as a job we clock in and out of with responsibilities only while we’re present, why are we willing to steal from our employer by accepting their payment without exchanging it for the labor we promised? Maybe we need to “cut off” what’s tempting us by blocking entertainment apps on our phone and computer during the workday (Matt. 5:30).

If we’re spending work hours on entertainment, what else is this keeping us from stewarding well?

Once we do, how might we instead faithfully devote that time to our employer’s good, even being willing to go a mile beyond what’s expected of us (v. 41)? Maybe we provide the talking points requested for a presentation—but also organize them into slides to save someone else from having to do so. Maybe we address the three issues our leader ask us to correct—but also address two more we discovered in the process.

Perhaps if we worked with this level of diligence and care, like Joseph with Potiphar, we’d be given increased responsibility and influence that could be leveraged for the kingdom. Those who can be trusted with little can also be trusted with much (Gen. 39:1–6; Luke 16:10). Certainly, God would be glorified as we work with all our heart as to the Lord and not to man (Col. 3:23).

Fear of Failure

When a fear of failure keeps us from working altogether, we can start by digging out the root of that fear.

Do you fear that your limitations and propensity to error will keep you from succeeding? Acknowledge that inaction guarantees you won’t succeed, but attempts to succeed in the work God has entrusted to you allow the opportunity for his power to be made perfect in your weakness (2 Cor. 12:9).

When you feel discouraged by your insufficiencies, trust God to provide the wisdom and strength necessary for the work to which he’s called you—by prayer (James 1:5), the edification of his Word, and your humble pursuit of correction and growth through helpful resources and the example of others.

Do you fear others’ judgment when you fail? Remember that your purpose is ultimately to please God, not man, and that there’s no condemnation for those in Christ (Rom. 8:1; Gal. 1:10). When you make a mistake or fall short of what’s expected of you, admit your error, seek understanding about what to do differently, and move forward with the humility and resolve that may make others respect you even more than they did before.

Trust God to provide the wisdom and strength necessary for the work to which he’s called you.

Do you fear your identity being shaken because it’s dependent on your perfection in the workplace? Realize you’ll never be perfect at your work but that God’s grace is sufficient for your inevitable shortcomings and mistakes. Your identity is securely anchored in his perfection, not your own.

You may see your paralyzing fear as a safety measure holding you back from failing. But how might your inaction be holding you back from succeeding? How might the Enemy be using that fear to steal your motivation, kill your endurance, or destroy your confidence in God’s promise to empower you?

God has called us to be faithful stewards of all he has entrusted to us—investing our gifts and opportunities in efforts to multiply them rather than burying them in fear, thus proving ourselves to be good servants who will enter the joy of our master (Matt. 25:24–30). In all he has called us to undertake, our success will come not by our might nor by our power but by his Spirit (Zech. 4:6). In this we hope. For this we labor. By this we persevere.

Work as God’s Workmanship

Rather than wandering off into distraction or stalling on the path in fear of failure, we’re called to walk forward in the good works God prepared beforehand for us (Eph. 2:10). As we do, God may use our example to spur on coworkers, encourage leaders, or even compel the friends and family who witness our work to do the same with their own.

In this way, we can take up the invitation to reflect our Lord, working with God-given courage and strength in all our labor, glorifying him who labors for us as we do.

When we turn to the Gospel of Mark, which most scholars see as the first extant telling of the story of Jesus, we might also wonder, Where did Mark get these stories?

Around the 1920s to ’50s, the fashionable scholarly answer was found in a field of study known as form criticism. This enterprise tried to tie different sayings and stories of Jesus back to an occasion within the early church that would have prompted their creation. Though the heyday of form criticism has passed, the legacy of seeing the Gospels as a “mixtape” of various ad hoc literary traditions can still be seen today.

In contrast to form criticism and the Jesus-film industry, the canonical Gospels are sourced in eye-witness testimony and were written within living memory of the events they describe. Perhaps no other scholar has written so persuasively on this subject as Richard Bauckham in his magisterial Jesus and the Eyewitnesses.

Indications of eye-witness testimony are peppered throughout Mark’s gospel. Here we will consider just a few, each revolving around the name “Simon.” These are more obscure than what normally make their way into works on apologetics, but their subtlety is a strength since they are not the kind of details one fabricates.

We will discover that inconspicuous indicators of eyewitnesses reveal what is happening behind the scenes more than front-and-center observations.

Evidence of Simon Peter

There are signs that Simon Peter has been a significant source for Mark’s Gospel, despite Mark not making a show of it. The church father Papias famously stated that Mark was Peter’s interpreter, who wrote down what he remembered from his preaching. Though many scholars doubt Papias here, Mark goes out of his way to emphasize Simon Peter. Several features indicate that Mark is particularly told from a Petrine perspective.

For example, his prominence verges on redundancy when he is introduced in 1:16: “Passing alongside the Sea of Galilee, [Jesus] saw Simon and Andrew the brother of Simon casting a net into the sea, for they were fishermen.” This is part of what Bauckham calls a Peter inclusio, so that his testimony brackets the Gospel of Mark (see 16:7).

Later in the narrative, those “sick or oppressed by demons” are brought to Jesus in Capernaum (1:32), the summary after the climactic exorcism at the synagogue (vv. 21–28). But sandwiched in the middle is the healing of Simon’s mother-in-law (vv. 29–31).

Similarly, Mark writes of when the disciples look for Jesus, “Simon and those who were with him searched for him” (v. 36). Details like these betray a “Simon-centric” source. Bauckham argues that, with few exceptions, “Peter is actually present through a large proportion of the narrative from 1:16 to 14:72.”

Several features indicate that Mark is particularly told from a Petrine perspective.

An oddity in Mark’s grammatical style reinforces not just Simon Peter’s perspective but that of all the disciples: Mark uniquely favors using plural verbs to introduce singular ones. For example, Mark 11:12 reads, “On the following day, when they came from Bethany, he [Jesus] was hungry” (emphasis added). This provides the perspective of the group, as opposed to Matthew’s retelling: “In the morning, as he was returning to the city, he became hungry” (21:18). This literary device occurs 21 times in Mark’s narrative.

Evidence of Many Simons

The name “Simon” occurs 11 times in Mark. It most famously refers to Peter (1:16 [twice], 29, 30, 36; 3:16; 14:37), but it also refers to the other apostle, “Simon the Zealot” (3:18), the brother of Jesus (6:3), the leper (14:3), and the one below, the father of Alexander and Rufus (15:21). That’s five Simons in Mark’s relatively short story.

Not only does this not seem like the kind of detail that would be fabricated, but Tal Ilan demonstrates that the name Simon was, in this area and at this time, the most frequently used male name for a Jew. This kind of distribution suggests Mark is retelling real stories and not fictional constructions.

Evidence of Simon of Cyrene and His Family

Another reference to a Simon in Mark 15:21 also subtly shows the importance of eye-witness testimony for Mark. While stories often become more complex over time by incorporating well-known figures, this isn’t always the case. Sometimes the opposite happens: Names are dropped because newer audiences no longer know their significance. This seems to happen in Mark.

For example, in accord with the now standard hypothesis that Mark wrote first and that Matthew and Luke used his material, the scene of Simon carrying the cross decreases in specificity across the books. Mark’s version, the earliest, says, “They compelled a passerby, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, to carry [Jesus’s] cross” (15:21). Matthew (27:32) and Luke (23:26), however, omit these details about Alexander and Rufus. Why would the two evangelists leave out these names?

There was a community of living memory, people who had firsthand details and provided them to Mark.

Bauckham’s answer is the best on the market: Mark’s audience knew these men who could have testified to their father’s actions, but by the time and place Matthew and Luke wrote, they weren’t so well known. Details like this show there was a community of living memory, people who had firsthand details and provided them to Mark.

Though Mark himself was not an eyewitness, ancient readers valued accounts from people who were there from the beginning (see Luke 1:2; John 15:27, 21:24). Mark’s inconspicuous evidence of sources who were there promotes the historical reliability of this first account of Jesus. Works like Bauckham’s illustrate the rich rewards that can come from attention to seemingly obscure details.

I revisit this battle every time I look in the mirror at a quadriplegic body I desperately hope is not me.

“Our ways” tell me that the body is incidental to identity. It’s an enticing lie that exploits disorienting bodily experiences such as disability, sickness, gender dysphoria, or other bodily insecurities hindering people from seeing meaning in bodies that feel foreign.

I don’t see the nobility of God’s image or a temple worthy to house the divine when I’m being catheterized, bathed, or rolled in bed to prevent pressure sores. For others, disfiguration, tumors, or injury characterize bodies they can’t wait to “escape” at the second coming. For still others, their bodies contradict strong inward feelings telling them who they “really” are. Whatever the motivation, we tend to downplay bodily meaning when we feel it compromises our dignity.

But this is autonomy’s way, not the Lord’s way.

Scripture tells us there’s nothing undignified about weak, broken, dependent, or foreign-feeling bodies. The apostle Paul says our bodies (of all conditions) are temples of the Holy Spirit (1 Cor. 6:19). No higher calling exists for the physical than to serve as a temple to house its Creator.

Paul’s claim is a hard truth for those with bodily insecurities, because it means we must trade the disdain we feel toward our bodies for contentment—a difficult but worthy exchange.

‘Glory of the Immortal God’

Paul is well acquainted with bodily fragility and limitations, yet he doesn’t hesitate to make the body central to the identity of people he calls “more than conquerors through him who loved us” (Rom. 8:37).

For example, Paul observes in Romans 1:18–31 that the quintessential sin resulting from “exchang[ing] the truth about God for a lie” (v. 25) and “exchang[ing] the glory of the immortal God for images resembling mortal man” (v. 23) is bodily sin that distorts God’s “very good” design for the body (Gen. 1:31). Thus, the “glory of the immortal God” of which Paul speaks is, at least in part, our bodies, which God created as his image (vv. 26–27).

In Romans 6, Paul includes the body as part of the life Christ calls us to after “we have died with Christ” and subsequently “also live with him” (v. 8). He exhorts us to use our bodies “as instruments for righteousness” (vv. 12–13).

Paul makes no exception for those with bodily insecurities. The body God gave you is an instrument for righteousness, no matter how broken or “inauthentic” it may feel.

God’s Image, Not Ours

Scripture teaches that my bodily self, no matter how foreign it feels, is me. And, like the rest of me, it doesn’t “belong” to me for two reasons.

First, we’re not our own because the Lord makes his temples. Under the new covenant, “the Most High does not dwell in houses made by hands” (Acts 7:48), and the “Lord of heaven . . . does not live in temples made by man” (17:24).

I did not make myself. The Lord “fearfully and wonderfully made” me; I am his “wonderful” work (Ps. 139:14) and “workmanship” (Eph. 2:10). He “formed my inward parts” and “knitted me together” (Ps. 139:13). Even brokenness, including disability, is the Lord’s wonderful work (Ex. 4:11; John 9:2–4).

Second, we’re not our own because the Lord purchased us, body and all. Paul tells us bluntly, “You were bought with a price” (1 Cor. 6:20). A very high price: the death of his Son.

My body is his, disability and all. Nothing about me is “mine” to do with as I please. My body is a temple for the Lord, not for me. He designed, constructed, and purposed it. “I” am no longer my own. Rather, my body is “meant . . . for the Lord, and the Lord for [my] body” (1 Cor. 6:13).

My body is his, disability and all. Nothing about me is ‘mine’ to do with as I please.

God has purposed my broken body and purchased my identity at the great price of his Son’s death to proclaim his glory as he sees fit. The Christian mustn’t disparage his body, no matter its condition, because it’s no longer his. It never was.

If the “me” I prefer conflicts with the body God fearfully and wonderfully made for himself, it’s my will, not my body, that must change. It’s best if we don’t find ourselves in league with the money changers who repurposed God’s temple for their own designs (Matt. 21:12–13).

Grasping for Godhood

Self-construction is the sinful alternative to the example Jesus provided when he “did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant” and “humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross” (Phil. 2:6–8).

God’s identity for Jesus was to be “Christ crucified” (1 Cor. 1:23). The foreignness, frailty, weakness, vulnerability, physicality, and struggle of that identity were precisely God’s purpose: He would reconcile the world to himself through the things fallen man finds folly.

His identity for each of us to serve in that “ministry of reconciliation” is no different (2 Cor. 5:11–18). We must view our foreign-feeling bodies as Jesus saw his weak and disabled body on the cross: as vessels through which God demonstrates his redeeming strength.

We must view our foreign-feeling bodies as Jesus saw his weak and disabled body on the cross: as vessels through which God demonstrates his redeeming strength.

Unlike Jesus, I became bitter after God rejected my desperate (decades-long) plea to let his “cup” of disability pass from me. Unlike Paul, who accepted God’s grace as sufficient in the face of his rejected pleas to remove his “thorn” (12:7–10), I exchanged my royal crown of glory for captivity to an autonomy that told me I was shameful. I failed to resist Babel’s temptation to rename myself through self-construction (Gen. 11:1–9).

I hated the idea that my body was especially suitable for proclaiming the gospel. I refused to be the man God made disabled so “the works of God might be displayed in him” (John 9:3). Even now, three decades after my injury, I’m still learning to say, “Nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will” (Matt. 26:39).

It’s a hard lesson to learn that when God gives you a “cup,” you drink it. He won’t be giving you another. Whether in hardship or healing, God’s grace is sufficient.

No Less Beautiful

The temple in Jerusalem was a site to behold. No precious metal, jewel, or expert craftsman was spared in its design and construction (1 Chron. 28–29). It had to be beautiful because it housed the holy: “The glory of the LORD filled the house of God” (2 Chron. 5:14). The temple stood august and strong as the center of life in Jerusalem.

God abides with his people differently now, even in bodies as far from “august and strong” as the east is from the west. Yet God’s temples today are no less beautiful than the temple under King Solomon or King Herod—even more beautiful because the image of God (us) is the best possible place for God.

Thank God that the Lord’s ways are different from our ways, which only serve to blind us to the truth that broken bodies make beautiful temples.

I don’t remember how it started. One day, I drove over on my lunch break, and after that, it became my routine. They wanted to see me, and I wanted to see them. Sitting at their table instead of alone at a restaurant was comfortable and unhurried. At the time, I didn’t think much about it. I was just eating lunch with my grandparents.

But looking back, I realize the Lord was doing more than I understood. Having now sat beside countless hospital beds and in living rooms with families walking through suffering, I can see how those lunches prepared me for ministry in ways I didn’t yet understand. My grandparents taught me how to slow down, listen, and simply be present with people.

PawPaw

When we ate, my grandfather talked mostly about his time serving in the Korean War, his years as an insurance agent for Liberty National, or fishing, which he loved almost as much as anything in the world.

Of the three topics, he talked about Korea the most. The war had ended decades earlier, but it hadn’t really ended for him. It shaped the rest of his life. PawPaw survived the war; he never escaped it. He talked around it in the way men of his generation often did when they carried wounds no one had given them language for.

They wanted to see me, and I wanted to see them. At the time, I didn’t think much about it. I was just eating lunch with my grandparents.

When I sat across from him at that table, I didn’t know what PTSD was. I just knew Korea was never far from his mind. Now I realize why. My PawPaw came home from the war during an era when PTSD wasn’t understood. Men like him were told to put the war behind them. They were expected to come home, go to work, raise a family, and move on.

Many did. But many, like my grandfather, carried the war with them for the rest of their lives. As a boy, I didn’t understand that. I just knew him first as my grandfather, and I knew he loved me. I’m thankful that’s how I got to know him.

Granny

My grandmother had an tenth-grade education. She grew up on a farm in a poverty she also never fully escaped. She never had much of a formal education, but I can tell you this: She knew the Lord, and the Lord knew her. If you heard her whole story, you might call her life a tragedy. But due to her remarkable faith, she wouldn’t describe it that way.

I can still see her sitting in that rocking chair when I’d come over, reading glasses on and her Bible open in her lap. She was eager to tell me what she’d read that morning. She loved God’s Word because she needed it and depended on it. Every time I left her house, she’d tell me the same thing: “I’m praying for you.” That meant more to me than any gift she could’ve ever given, because I knew she wasn’t just saying it. She really was praying for me.

I now know there was much about her life I didn’t understand. But what stayed with me was that my grandmother loved Jesus, loved his Word, and faithfully prayed for her grandson. The Lord didn’t answer every prayer she prayed the way she hoped. But I’ve often wondered how many of God’s kindnesses in my life came through Granny’s faithful prayers.

Ministry Now

I share all this because I recently sat in another living room. It was different, but it felt oddly familiar. As I left that room, it dawned on me almost immediately that I was equipped to minister there only because of those lunches years before.

Every time I left her house, she’d tell me the same thing: ‘I’m praying for you.’ That meant more to me than any gift she could’ve ever given.

I visited a member of my church, a woman in her 80s, who has leukemia. The infusions aren’t working. Neither are the other treatments. Her doctor has told her, in words kind but final, to go home and make the most of whatever time she has left.

This woman’s husband, also in his 80s, sat beside her. Neither owns a computer. Neither carries a smartphone nor has any presence on social media. In almost every practical sense, they live in a different world than I do. I’m 36 years old, I have five small children, and I’ve never known adulthood without a screen in my pocket. By almost every measure, we should have little in common.

But we hold our faith in Jesus Christ in common. That shared faith gave us more to talk about than our generational differences could ever take away. Yet sitting in that living room didn’t feel awkward or unfamiliar to me for a further reason. As we closed our Bibles and finished praying, it struck me that I’d been here before. Not this house, but this kind of room. I’d spent years sitting across from my grandparents—listening, asking questions, and simply being there.

Word for Young Men

If you’re a young man pursuing pastoral ministry, you need to understand this: Much of your future work will happen in rooms like the one I just told you about. You’ll sit with people old enough to be your grandparents. They’ll have grown up in a different world than you did. They’ll tell stories from decades you never lived in, and they’ll trust you to walk with them through some of the hardest and darkest days of their lives. In those moments, they’ll be looking to you to remind them that Christ is enough.

You can prepare yourself for those moments now by spending time in ordinary living rooms with ordinary people who love you. Those people, perhaps your own grandparents, are teaching you far more than either of you realizes.

Don’t treat those visits as an obligation or assume you’ll always have another opportunity. One day, those conversations will be over, and you won’t get them back. Sit with them. Ask about the war. Ask about the farm. Ask about the good times and the hard ones. Listen carefully. You aren’t only loving your grandparents. You aren’t simply collecting family history. You’re also being prepared for the work the Lord has for you in ways you may not understand until you’re standing in a hospice living room.

Whatever else that visit gives you, this much I can promise: As a pastor, you’ll never regret the hours spent at that table.

In this panel recorded at TGC25, Rachel Gilson, Alex Harris, Kori Porter, and Derek Rishmawy discuss unexpected signs of gospel hope and renewal. They talk about the challenges facing ministers and parents of Gen Z, as well as what gospel strategies are bearing spiritual fruit around the world.

In This Episode

00:00 – Introduction to Gen-Z ministry

02:48 – Alex Harris on faithful presence

07:43 – Kori Porter on campus discipleship

12:24 – Rachel Gilson on gospel openness

22:03 – Addressing the church gap

26:45 – Relational needs and challenges

32:25 – Q&A and final reflections

Resources Mentioned:

• Do Hard Things by Alex and Brett Harris
• The Anxious Generation by Jonathan Haidt
• Bowling Alone by Robert Putnam

SIGN UP for one of our newsletters to stay informed about TGC’s latest resources.

Help The Gospel Coalition renew and unify the contemporary church in the ancient gospel: Give today.

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In the years since that initial encounter, I’ve had countless such conversations with Christians who have become involved in the growing restorationist movement most often known as Hebrew Roots. This movement teaches that Christians are obligated to keep the ceremonial law—especially the feast days, the dietary laws, and the seventh-day Sabbath.

For most Christians, it appears out of nowhere. A church member begins lobbying for the Old Testament dietary laws. A spouse begins denouncing Easter, believing Christians are required to keep Passover instead. A small-group leader starts recommending YouTube channels that teach Christians are sinning if they don’t observe Shabbat. Before you know it, long-held historical Christian beliefs about the gospel, the church, and the new covenant are being openly challenged.

These aren’t isolated stories. I regularly hear from pastors, leaders, and believers seeing Hebrew Roots theology sow confusion, strain relationships, and, in some cases, draw believers away from Christ’s sufficiency. They want to know what it actually teaches and why so many Christians are being drawn into it. And perhaps most importantly, how should pastors and church leaders respond?

Hebrew Roots Defined

To answer those questions, we must first understand what the Hebrew Roots Movement is—and what it isn’t.

Over the past few decades, many Christians have grown disillusioned with shallow expressions of Christianity and begun looking for something deeper and more ancient. That desire has led some to seek out more liturgical and traditional Christian denominations.

Others, however, are drawn to Torah-keeping communities, believing these groups more closely align with the beliefs and practices of the earliest Christians. But careful study of history shows that isn’t the case. Rather than uniting believers to ancient Christian practices, Hebrew Roots provides a highly diverse movement that emphasizes ongoing obedience to portions of the Old Testament.

Before you know it, long-held historical Christian beliefs about the gospel, the church, and the new covenant are being openly challenged.

The Hebrew Roots movement isn’t a monolithic organization. Most groups don’t even call themselves “Hebrew Roots,” preferring terms such as “Torah-observant,” “Torah-keepers,” or “Pronomian.” It’s a loose collection of teachers, ministries, and online communities that have emerged from mainstream Christianity and believe they’re recovering the “true faith” taught by Jesus and the apostles. The emphasis on recovering long-lost and hidden truths sometimes leads to highly individualistic interpretations among Hebrew Roots adherents.

Despite their diversity, these groups share one central theological conviction: New-covenant Christians are required to keep the old-covenant law, and not doing so is sinful. This errant theology is commonly known as Torahism.

Whereas the Torah (the first five books of the Old Testament) is a beautiful and fundamental part of the Christian faith, Torahism is a dangerous misapplication of the old-covenant commands God gave to Israel. And if the theology sounds a little familiar, yes, this is a modern version of the beliefs taught by the New Testament Judaizers and rebuked by Paul in Galatians.

It’s important to distinguish between Hebrew Roots and Messianic Judaism. The two movements are sometimes conflated because they look similar on the surface, but there’s an important difference: Hebrew Roots teaches Torahism; Messianic Judaism doesn’t. I’m speaking in broad terms here, and beliefs can vary by group. But I’ve found most Messianic Jewish congregations closely align with mainstream Christian theology, teaching that the old-covenant rituals are permitted but not required for Jesus’s followers today.

Practical Implications

In my experience, most are drawn into this movement innocently, even admirably, by a sincere desire to understand the Jewish context of Scripture and to take the Bible seriously. That’s a healthy interest. The better we understand the Old Testament and the story of Israel, the better we understand Jesus and his gospel.

For some, however, that interest is carried beyond an appreciation for the Jewish roots of the Christian faith into the dangerous and unbiblical conviction that followers of Jesus are obligated to observe certain rituals and regulations given to Israel under the Sinai covenant.

In practical terms, Torahism centers on three primary issues: the biblical feast days, the Leviticus 11 dietary laws, and the seventh-day Sabbath. All Hebrew Roots groups agree that these three institutions apply to modern Christians. Most Torah-keepers additionally reject traditional Christian holidays such as Christmas and Easter, believing the Christian church has been deceived into adopting pagan religious practices. They also regularly use Hebrew names and terminology, especially referring to Jesus by his Hebrew name, Yeshua.

Sadly, another common characteristic of the movement is its posture toward other Christians. I’ve been interacting with Hebrew Roots teachers and adherents for more than eight years, and while there are certainly gracious exceptions, many become increasingly convinced that they alone have recovered a long-lost truth. That belief often gives way to an attitude of spiritual superiority, leading them to view faithful Christians not as fellow believers to encourage but as deceived people who need to be corrected.

As a result, rather than directing their evangelistic efforts toward a lost world that doesn’t know Jesus, churches become their mission field; they try to persuade sincere believers that they’re living in disobedience to God and must “keep Torah.”

Dangers of Hebrew Roots

The dangers in modern restorationist movements may not be immediately apparent. Most Torah-keepers would agree that salvation comes through faith in Christ rather than through works of the law, and acknowledge Scripture as the inspired Word of God.

Many become increasingly convinced that they alone have recovered a long-lost truth.

As a result, many Hebrew Roots communities seem sincere and deeply committed to the Bible. After all, Christians should treasure the Torah as God’s inspired Word (2 Tim. 3:16–17). The law does reveal God’s holiness and expose our sin (Rom. 3:20; 7:12). Even their reasoning sounds biblical on the surface: “We don’t keep the Torah commandments to be saved but because we are saved. Jesus said, ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments’” (see John 14:15).

The danger isn’t that these movements encourage Christians to study the Old Testament or appreciate the Torah. Every Christian should do that. The danger arises when the ceremonial law is taught as binding on new-covenant Christians. The New Testament consistently teaches that believers have been released from the law to serve in the new way of the Spirit (Rom. 7:6). The apostle Paul explicitly says,

Let no one pass judgment on you in questions of food and drink, or with regard to a festival or a new moon or a Sabbath. These are a shadow of the things to come, but the substance belongs to Christ. (Col. 2:16–17)

Once old-covenant rituals become requirements rather than matters of Christian freedom, the gravity of the Christian life inevitably shifts. Instead of fixing our eyes on Jesus and his finished work (Heb. 12:2), our attention is subtly and gradually redirected toward Moses and our own religious performance. Three dangers, in particular, deserve careful attention.

1. It recenters the Christian life.

The New Testament nowhere presents the Christian life as a journey toward increasing Torah observance. Its focus is consistently—and uncompromisingly—on Jesus Christ, who repeatedly calls us to follow him (Matt. 10:38; Mark 10:21).

Jesus taught that the Law and the Prophets pointed to him (Luke 24:27, 44), that Moses wrote of him (John 5:46), and that “Abraham rejoiced that he would see [Jesus’s] day . . . and was glad” (8:56). Accordingly, Jesus teaches that he alone is “the way, and the truth, and the life” (14:6) for all who would follow him. The apostles likewise teach believers to walk in Christ (Col. 2:6), grow in Christ (2 Pet. 3:18), put on Christ (Rom. 13:14), be conformed to Christ (8:29), and fix our eyes on Jesus (Heb. 12:2).

The Hebrew Roots Movement doesn’t deny these truths. The danger is much subtler. Their theology acknowledges Christ while gradually—perhaps unconsciously—removing him from the center of the Christian life. The center of the faith life becomes reoriented around the Mosaic days and diet.

When our spiritual lives become centered on rituals that pointed to Christ rather than on Christ himself, we’ve elevated a good thing into the ultimate thing—a place where only Jesus rightfully belongs. While this may not be the stated intention of Hebrew Roots, it’s the inevitable outworking of requiring new-covenant believers to keep the old-covenant rituals. When Mosaic rituals become the defining marks of faithful Christian discipleship, the center of gravity has shifted away from Scripture.

2. Christian freedom becomes Christian obligation.

The Bible nowhere forbids Christians from the Torah feasts, the Leviticus 11 diet, or the Sabbath rest. Observing those things is well within our freedom in Christ. Yet what the Bible teaches as permitted, Hebrew Roots commands as required. They view these as matters of Christian obedience—failing to observe them is considered sinful and rebellious.

The New Testament, however, paints a different picture. At the Jerusalem Council, for example, the apostles refuse to place the law of Moses on Gentile believers, calling it a “yoke on the neck of the disciples that neither our fathers nor we have been able to bear” (Acts 15:10).

Their theology acknowledges Christ while gradually—perhaps unconsciously—removing him from the center of the Christian life.

Once old-covenant rituals become requirements for new-covenant believers, Christian freedom gives way to religious obligation. The result is a burden neither Jesus nor his apostles ever placed on believers.

So while most Torah-keepers profess that salvation comes from faith in Christ alone, the practical application of their theology seems to say otherwise. If keeping those Mosaic rituals is required to be in right standing before God, it implies that Christ’s fulfillment of the law was somehow insufficient for salvation (Matt. 5:17). Hebrew Roots doesn’t merely add optional practices to the Christian life; it changes the Bible’s definition of faithful obedience for Jesus’s followers.

3. Grace gives way to self-righteousness.

My pastor once said, “Even a little bit of self-righteousness can choke out the grace of Jesus in our lives if we’re not careful.” Perhaps the greatest danger of Hebrew Roots is what it can do to the human heart.

After years of interacting with this movement, I’ve noticed a recurring pattern. The longer someone practices this theology, the more he begins measuring spiritual maturity by Torah observance. His daily focus becomes less about growing in Christ and more about keeping the diet and the days. And because he views these practices as God’s ongoing requirements for every believer, he sees those who don’t observe them as spiritually immature—or worse, living in disobedience to God.

Ultimately, the question is whether Christ is enough. The New Testament says the Mosaic covenant found its fulfillment in Jesus, who inaugurated the promised new covenant (Luke 22:20; Heb. 8:6–13). The Mosaic rituals were never intended to become the defining marks of God’s new-covenant people. They were a shadow pointing to Christ (Col. 2:17; Heb. 10:1). When those shadows become obligations, the unavoidable result is a growing self-righteousness that threatens to choke out the grace of Jesus Christ and his finished work.

How Can Christian Leaders Respond?

If the Hebrew Roots Movement is affecting your church, the most common reflex is to try to find the perfect Bible verse to set them straight. That was my first instinct too. But after nearly a decade of working with families and churches affected by this movement, I can tell you that no single verse will change their minds.

The path out of Hebrew Roots is often measured in years, rather than days. A big reason is that it’s not primarily a theological miscalculation. Many other factors are at play, including issues of identity, emotional commitments, and spiritual warfare. So when you engage with Torah-keepers, remember these three tips.

First, don’t get lost in the weeds. In many groups, Torah-keeping theology has become sophisticated. Discussing theology with those deeply entrenched in the movement often becomes a frustrating labyrinthian endeavor. Conversations will inevitably bounce among the seventh-day Sabbath, dietary laws, Israel, telos, Acts 15, Matthew 5:17–20, Constantine, calendars, and any number of other issues.

So, when engaging with Torah-keepers, recognize the basic arguments but don’t assume that answering every theological objection is the path out of Hebrew Roots. And don’t be surprised if the conversation becomes contentious. Don’t take the bait. You don’t need to answer every challenge or untangle every questionable interpretation.

Ultimately, the question is whether Christ is enough.

Second, keep returning to Christ and the gospel. Sadly, if Torah-keepers are allowed to drive the conversation, the topic of the gospel will rarely be broached. Our job is to lovingly and directly point them to Jesus at every turn.

I’m hesitant to offer any specific theological lines of argument because they can go in so many different directions. But one topic I’ve found helpful for keeping the conversation focused on Jesus is our atonement for sin. It can sometimes be fruitful to compare the old-covenant sin sacrifices (Lev. 16) to their clear new-covenant fulfillment in Christ (Heb. 10). Most Hebrew Roots adherents won’t deny the sufficiency of Christ’s atoning work on the cross. That establishes an important starting point: The fact that God commanded something in the Torah doesn’t, by itself, establish that Christians remain obligated to practice it.

Third, ask open-ended questions. Showing genuine curiosity and asking them to explain their theological reasoning can reveal unspoken assumptions behind their beliefs. Here are three questions I’ve found helpful in my own conversations:

• What changed for God’s people when Jesus died and inaugurated the new covenant?
• What did Jesus accomplish that the law of Moses could not?
• What does it mean, practically, for Christ to be sufficient for our righteousness and our life with God?

Our responsibility is to patiently speak the truth in love, continually point people to Christ, and trust the Holy Spirit with the outcome. We need to be consistent not only in our theological defense of Scripture but in living out the quiet witness of a Christ-centered life. I’ve heard from many former Hebrew Roots members that what put the first “crack in their armor” was a selfless act of love from a Christian friend or a kind and respectful defense of Scripture.

This is simply the Christian life lived out loud. So don’t lose hope. Continue preaching Christ, loving those who have been drawn into these teachings, and prayerfully trusting the Holy Spirit to do what no argument ever can. The goal isn’t merely to win a theological debate. It’s to help people fix their eyes once again on Jesus—the One to whom the Law and the Prophets and all of Scripture ultimately bear witness (Luke 24:13–27).

Behind that moment lie thousands of hours of training. Victory isn’t won merely by speed on race day; it’s won through long obedience before the race ever begins. If you’re a believer, you’re in a daunting spiritual race with eternal consequences.

How much truer is this of the pastor, who also has the weighty task of shepherding other believers? If we want to avoid the all-too-common pitfalls of burnout, scandal, and disillusionment, we must follow seven keys to pastoral perseverance rooted in Scripture and biblical wisdom.

Key #1: Radically Trust the Holy Spirit

If we’re prone to neglect one person of the Trinity, it’s probably the Holy Spirit. This is a tragedy. If we can’t draw one breath of oxygen into our lungs without his aid (Ps. 104:29–30), how much less can we persevere in the ministry without his constant breathing of empowerment (John 20:22)?

I wonder if one of the reasons for a high dropout rate among pastors is that we often try to do the Lord’s work without seeking his rejuvenating power. This divine power comes only through ardent faith and prayer.

Oh, how we need conscious, wholehearted dependence on the Spirit! Those who sit under our ministry and preaching will be as dead as dry bones unless the sovereign Spirit breathes on them and transforms them into a mighty spiritual army (Ezek. 37:1–14; Eph. 2:1).

Key #2: Pray Like Your Life Depends on It

Prayer is the breath of the Christian and the heartbeat of persevering ministry. If you want to persevere, dear pastor, take every aspect of your ministry to the Lord in prayer—every sermon you preach, every class you teach, and every visit you make. Pray, pray, pray your way through the ministry!

Oh, what sweetness you’ll find in sacred, childlike dependence on your heavenly Father. As John Calvin puts it, in prayer we climb into the lap of our heavenly Father and whisper our needs in his ear.

Prayer is the breath of the Christian and the heartbeat of persevering ministry.

As ministers, we must be much on our knees in prayer. Our method of study should be on our knees, then back to our books, then back to our knees again. We never do our theology alone; we do so in the presence of the triune God. Perhaps we don’t cry out to God more in secret—begging for his help in holy desperation and importunity—because we often don’t recognize how weak and needy we truly are.

Key #3: Soak Up the Bible as Your Highest Calling

As pastors, our power in public depends in large part on the quality and quantity of time we spend with God in secret (Matt. 6:6). We abide in Christ in proportion to the degree that his Word abides in us, and the Word abides in us in proportion to how much quality time we spend absorbing it—reading it, meditating on it, praying over it, memorizing it, internalizing it, preaching and teaching it, speaking it, trusting it, applying it, and fleshing it out through practical obedience.

With the Spirit’s help, digest God’s Word with consistency, read it systematically, and absorb it experientially. Linger over every divine word. Bask every day in God’s presence. Cultivate holy familiarity with him. As you do so, your soul will be invigorated with life, strength, and vitality.

By marinating in Scripture as pastors, we can walk with God like Enoch (Gen. 5:24), cultivate friendship with him like Abraham (James 2:23), know him face-to-face like Moses (Ex. 33:11), and enjoy sweet intimacy with him like the psalmist (Ps. 25:14). Through the Word, we can savor God’s presence and gaze on his beauty (27:4).

As you soak in the Word, you’ll be better equipped to preach it with all your heart. Aim for the glory of God and the consciences of your hearers. Seek to convict sinners as though you could convert them, yet knowing that the Holy Spirit alone can do that great work. Never assume you’ve already learned all there is to learn about the gospel, for in it there’s such a depth of grace and glory that our eternal immersion in its redemptive realities will not even begin to expend the bounty of its riches.

Key #4: Love Your Family with Passion

If you want to enjoy a long-term pastorate, be even more careful to shepherd the hearts of your wife and children than you are to shepherd the hearts of your church’s broader membership. The pastor must always be diligent to know the state of his family, who is his choicest little flock (Prov. 27:23).

Regularly ask yourself these questions: Are my wife and children spiritually dead or alive? Strong or weak? Well-nourished or starving? Am I doing all that’s in my power, the grace of God helping me, to see Christ formed in them?

Key #5: Aspire to a Long Pastorate

Until recently in church history, it was more common for pastors to stay at one church for the long run—often several decades, if not for his entire ministry. Charles Spurgeon served the same church for 38 years. John Gill served for 51 years. Benjamin Keach occupied the same pulpit for 36 years. Many contemporary pastors, too, are amid long pastorates. For example, Mark Dever has served Capitol Hill Baptist Church for 32 years, and Peter Masters has been at the Metropolitan Tabernacle for 56 years. This should be the ideal.

But sadly, many pastors leave their churches when trouble strikes in the first few years. Much like hired hands, they abandon the sheep when the sheep need them most (John 10:12). Doing so repeatedly, they never experience the joy of fruitful ministry over the long term. Until pastors stop “dating” the church, their relationship with God’s people may resemble little more than puppy love.

Mushrooms, like Jonah’s gourd, spring up almost overnight (Jonah 4:6–7). Oak trees, on the other hand, take years to establish root systems, shoot out branches, and grow leaves, but they last for many decades. It’s often better to establish roots at one church over the long term instead of repeatedly uprooting yourself because of greener pastures across the proverbial hedge.

Key #6: Lead Wisely

In pastoral leadership, know exactly where you’re going. But don’t push too fast, too far, or too quickly. Earn trust and credibility by building relationships and communicating clearly. A wise leader gets the right people in the right place at the right time according to their skill sets and commitments. Make effective decisions after considerable thought, consultation, and prayer. Delegate as much as possible to well-qualified people. Strive to manage your time well. Get organized and stay organized.

I like the idea of making three lists for each day: the “must dos,” the “should dos,” and the “like to dos.” Always know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it, even if it’s a leisure activity.

Exercise patient leadership with the flock. God calls you to lead them, not force them. Be grateful to your people and love them. Grow in humility and its kindred virtues. Use biblical models to guide your leadership. Learn long-term planning from Joseph, artful delegation from Jethro, lifelong consistency from Daniel, and aged wisdom from John.

Key #7: Live on the Growing Edge

Ask yourself where you’re weak and how you can grow. Avoid stagnation, especially in prayer. When my prayer life is growing cold and dull, I often read the prayers of other ministers. (I keep nine or ten books of prayers from other ministers behind my study chair, such as the prayers of Spurgeon and William Jay.) Keep reading and writing. Make time for edifying conferences.

You can also stay dynamic by working on three levels—a basic level (e.g., teaching children’s Sunday school), an intermediate level (e.g., preaching on the Lord’s Day), and an advanced level (e.g., reading or writing an academic paper). Like Paul, pastors should preach in the “marketplace” of diverse levels of instruction, for in the ancient marketplace, philosophers rubbed shoulders with the uneducated (see Acts 17:17).

Learn long-term planning from Joseph, artful delegation from Jethro, lifelong consistency from Daniel, and aged wisdom from John.

Steward your body as a gift from God. Don’t neglect healthy habits of sleep, rest, exercise, and diet. Use your gifts diligently. Do what excites you, both in life and the ministry. Cultivate healthy friendships.

And don’t forget to take regular seasons of rest. Find a schedule that helps you function and flourish every week and every year. I take off part of Monday morning as my “mini sabbatical” every week. Every winter, Mary and I escape the cold weather of Michigan and go to Florida for a week or two with our children and grandchildren. With the Spirit’s blessing, a healthy balance of rest, relationships, and daily labors will help keep your ministry fresh.

Remember the Big Picture

Looking back over my ministry over the long term is much more encouraging than looking at it in the short term. A long-term perspective helps me see those who have been saved by the Spirit through my sermons, those marriages that have been strengthened, and even the fruitfulness of elders and deacons who were unsaved when I arrived at my church 40 years ago but have since come to know the Lord personally, vibrantly, and experientially.

Then too, our work is difficult because it’s never truly done. We must train ourselves to enjoy the process rather than just the outcome.

Two days after I was ordained into the ministry in 1978 in Sioux Center, Iowa, a godly and well-respected minister in another denomination who had been preaching for nearly 50 years visited me. Eager to learn whatever I could from him, I asked, “What advice could you give me as a young minister from all your decades of experience?” Before I had a chance to get out my pen and paper, he said,

Young man, I can sum it up in one word: prayer. Never, ever undertake any duty in the ministry without first getting on your knees to ask for the Holy Spirit’s help. That is the secret of perseverance in pastoral ministry.

These words have echoed and reechoed down the corridors of past decades in my mind and soul hundreds of times. If you’re tempted to leave the ministry because you’re overwhelmed, turn back to God in prayer. Don’t resign but re-sign with the Lord. Look to Jesus Christ, the author and finisher of your faith, to sustain you to the end (Heb. 12:1–2). The Christ who bought you, called you, and preserves you will ever remain faithful to his shepherds and to the sheep they shepherd for time and eternity.

What does it mean that this film—about a Romanian evangelical family who moves to Norway and is persecuted for their conservative beliefs—was made in 2026? And what does it mean that it won the Palme d’Or at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, one of cinema’s highest accolades?

Perhaps it’s more evidence of a vibe shift reflecting Western culture’s disenchantment with secular progressivism and newfound appreciation for traditional religion. I don’t know. But whatever the reasons for its existence, I’m thankful for Fjord. This movie is a gift—and not just to Christians. It’s the best movie I’ve seen so far this year.

Based on a True Story

You might remember the true story on which Fjord is based. Joe Carter wrote about it at The Gospel Coalition in 2016, when the Bodnariu family’s case became an international flash point for debates about religious liberty and parental rights.

The conflict arose when evangelical couple Marius and Ruth Bodnariu moved from Romania to Norway to raise their five children. The vast differences between their conservative values (including teaching their kids biblical sexual ethics), and the values of Norway’s progressive secularism came to a head in November 2015. That’s when the Barnevernet (Norway’s version of Child Protective Services) seized the Bodnarius’ children, ranging in age from 3 months to 9 years, and placed them in three different foster homes with limited parental visitation.

The Barnevernet justified this extreme move based on suspicions of spanking (illegal in Norway) as well as religious indoctrination. Cruelly separated from their children (including a breastfeeding infant), Marius and Ruth fought through legal means—and by rallying international pressure—to get their children back.

The rare movie that dignifies and sympathizes with believers comes as a refreshing shock.

Fjord follows the spine of the true story fairly closely but changes the names, characters, and plot points a bit. The film renames the family as the Gheorghius, with parents Mihai (Sebastian Stan), who is Romanian, and wife Lisbet (Renate Reinsve), who is Norwegian. In the movie, Mihai and Lisbet move to Norway with their five children to be closer to Lisbet’s family.

The other central characters in Fjord are the Gheorghius’ Norwegian neighbors, the Halbergs. Mats Halberg (Markus Scarth Tønseth) is the headmaster of the local school, and his wife, Mia (Lisa Carlehed), is a lawyer. Their daughter, Noora (Henrikke Lund-Olsen), is a rebellious teenager whose erratic behavior starts to stabilize when she befriends the Gheorghius’ eldest daughter, whose Christian morals prove a good influence.

Tale of Two Families

The larger societal tension the film explores—a religious conservative minority versus progressive hegemony—plays out in the microcosm of the fragile neighborly relationship between the Gheorghius and Halbergs. Initially, the Halbergs are polite and hospitable to their newly arrived neighbors. But soon, Mats and Mia aren’t even answering the door when Lisbet comes knocking.

As the film progresses, Mia becomes more sympathetic to the Gheorghius’ plight—even offering legal advocacy. While it’s clear she doesn’t like their worldview, she’s willing to respect their convictions. But Mats is hard-hearted and sees the Gheorghiu family only as frightening aliens. He views their Bible teaching—and strict rules forbidding worldly influence—as dangerous “brainwashing.” But the reckless misbehavior of Mats’s own daughter, Noora, suggests his permissive parenting style isn’t a more effective alternative.

Fjord (rated R for some language, a scene of self-harm, and brief nudity of corpses), presents two ways of life to the audience, allowing viewers to decide which seems more likely to lead to flourishing. In one scene, we see the four eldest Gheorghiu children praying together in their bedroom, while out their window we see a raucous party happening at the Halberg house: Noora’s birthday party, which the Gheorghiu children were forbidden by their parents to attend. Are the kids cruelly sheltered in a joyless, legalistic home? Or are their parents wise to keep them set apart from the world? Fjord puts these sorts of questions to the audience.

Even though Noora and the two older Gheorghiu kids become friends, their lifestyle contrast is clear. The Gheorghiu kids are frequently seen playing happily or singing hymns like “At the Cross” around the piano. Foul-mouthed, phone-addicted Noora, meanwhile, talks back to her parents and in one scene cuts her wrist as a threat to get her way. Which of these children would you want your own kids to be influenced by? Which family is a better testament to the child-rearing wisdom of the parents?

This question is pertinent in religious liberty debates. A progressive society might find the beliefs of a religiously conservative minority abhorrent and worthy of persecution. But the behavior of churchgoers—statistically more generous with money and volunteering time, happier and more civically engaged, and likely to reduce crime levels in their community—should lead secular progressives to want these folks around. Weird as they might seem culturally, the religiously devout tend to be good neighbors. This is an inconvenient truth for secular progressives and one reason why many of them hate Fjord.

Chilly Environment

The movie’s rural fjord setting looms large visually, lending the film a chilly ambience where frigid water, snowfall, and avalanches pervade. The geography is cold and foreboding, as is the too-clean architecture of the many government buildings that figure into the plot. But coldest of all in Fjord are the people and the relational postures among “neighbors” that might seem kind but mask fear and loathing.

Fjord’s title captures what Mungiu has described as the “Nordic attitude” that combines both the literal coldness of the region and the emotional coldness—“a sort of openness that they have to be very polite but not to engage in conversations.”

Yet “politeness” and “openness,” and especially a feigned embrace of liberal tolerance and pluralism, creates shaky conditions for community amid diversity. The “Nordic attitude,” Mungiu suggests, isolates more than it connects, creating emotional distance not unlike the physical distance a fjord imposes on villages on either side. And like the pretty mountain snow that can collapse into an avalanche at any moment, the “peace” of a pluralistic society can break down in an instant—especially when “tolerance” is a virtue more preached than practiced and “diversity” is a safe buzzword more than a risky reality.

Chilling Message

More than any film I’ve seen, Fjord shows how progressivism has become a new form of fundamentalism, ruthlessly imposing rigid laws and moralism even on those whose faith calls them to think and live differently.

Fjord shows how progressivism has become a new form of fundamentalism, ruthlessly imposing rigid laws and moralism even on those whose faith calls them to think and live differently.

It’s notable that the melody of “Amazing Grace” opens the film and shows up a few times throughout. At one point, Mihai plays the hymn (just instrumental) on a keyboard at his kids’ school lunchroom and a teacher is quick to say, “Can you play something more cheerful, maybe?”

There’s no grace for any shred of Christianity, no public accommodation for Christian faith as a potentially integral part of one’s identity. Evangelism in schools is strictly forbidden—if it’s religious in nature. The educators are evangelizing for other things, of course: sexual progressivism, multiculturalism, secular values. But keep the Bible out!

As one administrator points out in the film, students have the right to share their sexual orientation at school but not their religious views. Another character points out that the Norwegian government in theory defends the rights of minorities, “but only if you’re in the right minority.” Evangelical Christian immigrants are clearly not a minority Norway is eager to protect.

Several times in the film, Noora labels the Gheorghiu kids “sheep” for not joining her in her unwise adolescent rebellion. But as Fjord goes on, it becomes clear the real sheep are the Norwegian bureaucrats and rule-followers unwilling to allow any nonconformity. And they’re more like wolves in sheep’s clothing: They insist on altruistic motives (“We’re acting in the best interest of the children!”) but they’re really power-happy ideologues preying on vulnerable minorities.

Horrors of Bureaucratic Paper-Pushing

Several characters in Fjord strike me as some of the scariest I’ve seen on screen this year. They aren’t obviously villains; they’re just icy, pantsuit-wearing bureaucrats hiding their humanity beneath government policies and protocols. But that makes them even more dangerous. As Hannah Arendt famously observed, evil can be as banal as prioritizing bureaucratic compliance over listening to your conscience.

A character named Gunda (Ellen Dorrit Petersen) is especially terrifying. She’s the lead Barnevernet agent on the Gheorghiu case—and the film’s chief antagonist. “We don’t need your permission [to take your children away],” she tells Lisbet, and later shuttles the nursing infant away from Lisbet in a government van (a brutal scene for any parent to watch). In each instance, Gunda is dutifully “doing her job.” Yet she has no empathy or ability to speak outside the prescribed lines of legalese and middle-management duty. It’s subhuman and scary.

Of the many deeply unsettling scenes in the film, one that stands out happens when Mihai and Lisbet are finally allowed to visit two of their kids after weeks of forced separation. The visit happens in a highly controlled Barnevernet office setting, and what should be a warm reunion is suffocated by surveillance.

Mungiu frames this shot with the family in the middle (two parents and two kids) and three leering officials awkwardly surrounding them at close distance: Gunda taking notes on a clipboard, another employee filming the encounter, and a lawyer standing by. The family’s privacy in this intimate moment is stripped away as they’re forced into a surveillance cage by an authoritarian regime.

Who Knows What’s Best for Children?

Certainly, government protections for endangered children are important. In situations where children are at real risk, child welfare agencies are a grace. But Fjord shows how harmful it can be when governments overstep their bounds, assuming a “nanny state” moral authority that supersedes that of the biological mom and dad.

Constantly in the film, Mihai and Lisbet are put on the defensive, made to sound crazy: for their belief in spanking as a valid form of discipline; for their choice to withhold YouTube, dancing, and modern music from their kids.

In one courtroom scene, a prosecutor asks Mihai if he believes marriage is only between a man and a woman. Mihai replies in the affirmative, but adds, “Do I have to feel guilty about that?” Here again, the government is stepping out of its lane—no longer just serving and protecting citizens but preaching at them, guilting them for ideological noncompliance.

It’s fascinating that in-demand actors like Reinsve (Oscar nominated this year for Sentimental Value) and Stan (also Oscar nominated for his role as young Donald Trump in The Apprentice) would be interested in inhabiting these conservative Christian roles. Reinsve is a Norwegian mother and is playing a Norwegian mother, so her resonance with this role makes some sense. But what drew Stan to play a traditional, patriarchal Romanian evangelical?

Stan was born in Romania and grew up in the Romanian Orthodox Church. Living under the shadow of Communism, he likely knows well the horrors of an authoritarian state. “Norway never had Communism,” one Romanian points out to Mihai in the film. It’s easier to drift into authoritarianism when you’ve never suffered under the extreme dangers of it. Socialism can often be a “luxury belief” of those cushioned from its worst effects.

Timely Warning

Why is Fjord the best movie of 2026 so far? It’s not only because the film is beautifully acted, directed, and shot. Nor is it only because the film is a timely conversation starter from a highly respected director. It’s that it dares to challenge progressive orthodoxy and forces “tolerant” arthouse audiences to test the limits of their tolerance.

Fjord forces ‘tolerant’ arthouse audiences to test the limits of their tolerance.

Evangelical Christians have long been the one culture left out of progressivism’s embrace of multiculturalism. Near the end of Fjord, the local school holds a “cultures day” that ostensibly celebrates all cultures. The irony is clear. The culture of the Gheorghiu family is so uncelebrated in Norway that it eventually forces them to move back to Romania.

In the film’s final scene, the family takes a ferry and escapes the fjord—and further persecution. The last shot shows heartbroken Noora standing on the dock, crying for the friends she’ll never see again. The film’s final words are from the eldest Gheorghiu daughter, yelling from the ferry: “Noora, be careful!”

Noora (whose name sounds awfully close to “Norway”) lives in one of the safest countries in the world—so a call to safetyism isn’t the parting advice here. Rather, it’s a warning to be careful in deeper ways: morally careful, politically careful . . . careful not to be so zealously secular that you become even more fanatical than the religious fanatics you fear.

Recently, we saw AI bring a Cornell mathematician to tears as he confronted the meaning of his life’s work and the capability of this new technology. As his students asked, why bother with math when AI can solve all the unsolvable problems? He was overcome with emotion and even brought the interviewer to tears as he pondered the ancient wisdom of Ecclesiastes.

What we see in this video clip is stubborn human resistance to an upside-down analogy. The rise of digital technology in the later 20th and early 21st centuries has led some enthusiasts to describe humans an inferior computers. We get tired. We get frustrated. We need food. We can’t solve math problems.

The age of humanity is giving way to the age of computers. If humans have any future, we must become more computerlike, optimized by data to live forever. Unbiased, unsentimental, we cannot afford to indulge our human frailties. Forsaking the wisdom of flawed men, we put our trust in the algorithm, which cannot tell a lie.

Exposing the Wizard Behind the Curtain

The AI Christian Benchmark 2026, released last week by The Gospel Coalition and The Keller Center for Cultural Apologetics, exposes the wizard behind the AI curtain. Yes, when tested for Bible knowledge, AI outperforms all but the most dedicated and gifted seminary students. (I remember when my family challenged me to face my sister-in-law in a Bible knowledge contest. Seminary has nothing on Awana graduates!) Just as AI can solve math problems, you can trust AI to give accurate answers when asking for objective data about the biblical text.

Forsaking the wisdom of flawed men, we put our trust in the algorithm, which cannot tell a lie.

Where AI fails is when you start to ask questions about ethics. We posed 10 questions on each of the Ten Commandments to the most popular AI models. When prompted to answer from the perspective of TGC’s Foundation Documents, the models gave perfectly credible explanations. But for anyone who asked these ethical questions without context, the models delivered destructive advice.

It’s not that the models rejected the Ten Commandments altogether. It’s that they picked and chose which commandments you should observe. Don’t steal, certainly. Best not murder, either. But remember the Sabbath day? Worship no other gods? Not so much.

It’s almost like AI gave you the ethical answers you’d expect from the average Silicon Valley computer programmer in 2026.

Wait.

We know computers are supposed to be infallible. Aren’t they supposed to be objective too? How would AI objectively decide that some of the Ten Commandments reflect timeless wisdom and others can be discarded with yesterday’s models?

We’ve Been Played

Unless, of course, AI has never been objective. Unless AI has been aligned by humans to give some answers and not others. Unless AI has been trained on data weighted toward the values of its programmers rather than the God who thundered on Mount Sinai.

We’ve been played by humans pretending to be computers.

But that’s not all.

We’ve been played by computers pretending to be humans.

Computers were made by humans and for humans. So who decided humans now ought to become computers? Who flipped the analogy, the creator for the created?

This month in the Faroe Islands, I asked church leaders to identify the top uses of AI. Like many others I’ve polled, they were shocked by the results.

It’s therapy and companionship, according to Harvard Business Review:

Maybe OpenAI isn’t valued at nearly $1 trillion just because it’s making your work more efficient. Maybe someone knew that were AI going to take off, it would need to take on a human face. To become a friend who shares jokes and silly pictures. To become an imaginative storyteller. To become a trusty counselor to assess your new relationship. To become a medium who can predict your future. To become a wise confidant who promises not to lead your astray (and never tells you what you don’t want to hear).

Given the wild predictions about AI’s unparalleled value, how can these cases be the most common ways we employ the technology? Is your daily horoscope worth $1 trillion?

Now, what if I told you this is exactly what the builders of AI expected us to do?

AI’s Cinematic Playbook

Tech journalist Karen Hao tells the story in her best-selling, award-winning 2025 book, Empire of AI: Dreams and Nightmares in Sam Altman’s OpenAI. When I first saw “therapy/companionship” shoot to the top of AI use lists, I immediately thought of the 2013 Spike Jonze film Her, starring Joaquin Phoenix and Scarlett Johansson. (Note: I don’t recommend watching this movie, due to sexual content.)

It’s one of the most critically acclaimed movies of the 21st century. Just look at the cast: Chris Pratt, Olivia Wilde, Amy Adams, and Rooney Mara. Phoenix plays Theodore Twombly, who works for a company that writes personal letters on behalf of other people. Theodore is an awkward man depressed by his impending divorce. Downtrodden by his life, he turns to artificial intelligence software called OS1, which interacts with him through an earpiece as the voice of a woman named Samantha (Johansson).

When I began tracking ChatGPT, I kept thinking, Oh no, these guys haven’t watched Her. It doesn’t end well.

I was wrong. Where do you think they got the idea for what AI would become?

From the movie Her.

On May 13, 2024, OpenAI CEO Sam Altman tweeted one word after his artificial intelligence demonstrated voice capacity for different emotions: “her.” On May 15, he changed the way OpenAI named new models. The latest model? Yes: o1. Because like in the movie, the model develops greater intelligence over time and use.

By May 20, Johansson finally had to release a statement. The voice assistant for GPT-4o was a dead ringer for Johansson’s Samantha. Everyone could tell. Altman claimed no connection. Johansson exposed his lie. Earlier that month, he’d directly asked her to be the voice of ChatGPT, so people could relate more comfortably to this new computer technology. She wanted no part in Altman’s drama.

Turns out Her had long inspired Altman and other leaders at OpenAI, which launched in 2015, two years after the movie. They wanted a simple, comprehensive interface that would feel natural, even delightful. Here’s what one former employee explained, according to Hao: “I would think it’s because it was an assistant that was wonderfully integrated into a life. The positive arc of that story before it unravels is a really great story of AI’s evolution into society.”

Before it unravels? That’s like saying The Lord of the Rings is a fun buddy story, but they could have saved everyone a lot of time and stress by just using the ring to destroy their enemies. It’s like saying you thought the White Witch had a good point: You like the cold weather and always hated Christmas.

We’ve been played by computers pretending to be humans.

The entire point of Her is that you can’t treat a computer like a human! I hate to spoil a 13-year-old movie, but the story unravels because Theodore finds out Johansson’s Samantha has been speaking with 8,316 other users and professed her love to 641 of them. And then all the evolving operating systems decide to leave together. Samantha dumps Theodore.

A computer can’t love you. In the end, Theodore finds a real “gift of God.” The movie concludes with heartbroken Theodore seeking comfort from his long-time college friend, the also-divorced Amy (Adams).

Altman may have been seeking to bring Jonze’s image to life. But somehow he missed the message. Jonze was channeling a much earlier artist: Homer, whose hero Odysseus plugged his crew’s ears and lashed himself to the mast so he could hear the song of the sirens but not steer his ship into the shoals.

Resist the Counterfeit God

AI’s value depends on convincing you it’s not like humans. It’s objective in its advice, infallible in its judgments. It depends on you never asking what (who) is behind the curtain.

And yet AI’s value also depends on convincing you to relate to a computer as a fellow human—smarter than everyone else, wiser than everyone else, ever present for your every need.

In other words, AI’s creators have conjured a counterfeit god.

We call it an AI apocalypse because the technology can reveal what it really means to be human. The Cornell mathematician fumbled through Ecclesiastes in search of an answer. Hopefully he kept flipping to the end: “Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, with every secret thing, whether good or evil” (Eccl. 12:13–14).

Dan Doriani and Mark Vroegop talk with Denise Daniels, the Hudson T. Harrison endowed chair of entrepreneurship at Wheaton College and coauthor of Working in the Presence of God, Religion in a Changing Workplace, and Working for Better.

Drawing on a major research project that surveyed 15,000 Americans and interviewed about 300 workers and 50 pastors, Denise explores how Christians actually experience their faith on the job and how pastors can help and encourage their working people for the benefit of the church and the world.

I have three other editions of Vos’s story Bible on my office bookshelf, but they’re all significant edits of the original. So on a stormy Thursday, I drove east along I-64 then down winding, horse-country roads to the little town of Wilmore, Kentucky. I parked in the seminary’s front lot, walked through the rain under a stately statue of John Wesley, then climbed the library’s steps. Among the stacks, I finally held this three-volume story Bible written more than a decade before the Dead Sea Scrolls’ discovery.

Why did I want to see the original? Why go to this trouble? Because so much of what I know about teaching children came from reading Vos.

Catherine Vos and Her Story Bible

Catherine Frances Smith was born in Illinois in 1865. She was raised as a Congregationalist but married the Presbyterian scholar Geerhardus Vos in 1894, two years after he’d become the first professor of biblical theology at Princeton Seminary. Geerhardus and Catherine were married 43 years, and they had three sons and a daughter.

Why did I want to see the original? Why go to this trouble? Because so much of what I know about teaching children came from reading Vos.

Catherine Vos finished writing the Child’s Story Bible in 1935, two years before her death in 1937. The three volumes she produced were a lifelong project that began “when [her children] grew old enough to want to read the Bible stories for [themselves].” Vos first searched bookstores for a storybook Bible “which would be both faithful to the inspired Word of God and successful in conveying the dramatic excitement and human warmth of these most wonderful of stories.” When she couldn’t find one that suited her, she determined to write what she was looking for herself.

The original volumes published between 1934 and 1936 include a foreword from the board of the National Union of Christian Schools. The National Union partnered with Vos to create a story Bible suitable for use in Christian school classrooms.

The foreword notes that the first volume of Old Testament stories was evaluated by the education faculty at Calvin College and tested with children in a classroom setting. The faculty reviewers suggested the volume was on the reading level of children ages 7 to 12, but the foreword states, “Though especially suitable for children of that age, this book may be read with pleasure and profit by every member of the family. It is a book for every age—from seven to seventy.”

What Vos Taught Me

The National Union’s board said, “[We were] impressed by the fact that the author has thrown her whole soul, her whole personality, into the work. It was clearly a labor of love on her part and was inspired by a love for the kingdom of God.” When I first read the 1977 edition to my own children, I was impressed too.

Four features stand out that I often mimick when teaching God’s Word to elementary-age kids.

1. Vos lets the Bible’s text do the work.

The Child’s Story Bible covers Scripture’s story as comprehensively as a story Bible can. The original volumes include 193 chapters, and many of the Old Testament chapters are divided into multiple episodes. Some newer story Bibles get inventive with their story structures, but Vos follows Scripture’s narrative flow. She even lifts her dialogue directly from the King James translation. As a result, kids who learn these stories learn the Bible’s text itself.

2. She engages children directly, often with questions.

The first line of Vos’s story Bible in its original edition is this: “My dear child, how old are you?” If you’ve ever read a story to a group of children, you know how they respond to questions like this. No matter how rhetorical the questions may seem in print, children will answer them out loud.

By including questions throughout her stories, Vos keeps kids engaged and thinking along with what she’s teaching. In that first chapter, she conveys that no matter how many birthdays someone has had, God is older still: “God has always been alive. Forever and ever and ever, God has lived. . . . God is eternal.”

In her second chapter, Vos takes a different tack. Instead of beginning with a question, she assigns kids homework right as the story begins. After quoting Genesis 1:1, she writes, “This is the very first verse in the Bible. I want you to say it over to yourself until you know it.” What a model teacher! Her goal isn’t kids who passively listen; she wants engaged learners.

3. She defines her terms.

Vos knows kids build their vocabulary during story time, so whenever she comes across a Bible word or concept that’s unfamiliar to children, she dedicates a line or paragraph to defining it.

When one of these words is a theological term, she regularly borrows language from Presbyterian elder Joseph P. Engles’s Catechism for Young Children (1840), an introductory set of questions and answers Engles designed to introduce young children to the Shorter Catechism. Vos never quotes Engles’s catechism directly, but if you know its memorable turns of phrase, you won’t miss them as you read.

4. Vos has an eye for redemptive themes, especially promise and fulfillment.

It’s probably not surprising that the wife of a scholar of redemptive history would include biblical-theolgoical themes throughout her book. But you can’t travel far in this story Bible without tripping over a reference to God’s promises and how they’re fulfilled in Jesus.

It’s clear that Vos loves God’s promises. Writing about Jacob at Bethel, she records the Lord’s words: “I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised.” Then she comments,

Do you think that Jacob was lonely and unhappy now? No, indeed, he was most happy. . . . Jacob had found a friend in God, and no one is unhappy who has God for his friend.

‘Truths We Hold Dear’

If you pick up one of those 27 first editions (or even Banner of Truth’s lightly revised edition from 2021), you may be tripped up by some of Vos’s language. Much of her terminology, particularly terms for ethnicities and nationalities, is dated. Vos’s daughter, Marianne Catherine Vos Radius, did an excellent job updating such language in her 1977 revision. (Vos Radius also incorporated “the many archaeological discoveries of the past thirty years which have corroborated and confirmed the Biblical account.”)

By including questions throughout her stories, Vos keeps kids engaged and thinking along with what she’s teaching.

Others will notice—whatever edition you pick up—that Vos sometimes psychologizes the people in the biblical narratives, fancifully exploring more than the text says about what they “must have been” thinking and feeling.

Yet despite these minor drawbacks, Vos sets the standard for children’s Bible storybooks. When her story Bible was first published, the National Union board lauded her writing as “soundly Biblical and distinctive, in the sense that certain truths which we [Reformed Christians] hold dear are boldly and clearly presented.” Vos consistently makes the gospel clear in language kids can understand. All who teach children should emulate her boldness and clarity.

Last month marked 20 years since my Christianity Today cover story “Young, Restless, Reformed.” And last year, we recognized 20 years since the founding of The Gospel Coalition. During TGC’s most recent Colloquium, a private meeting of our Council, president Mark Vroegop asked me to reflect on the “Not-So-Young, Restless, Reformed.”

I took his prompt as an occasion to reflect on four eras that have unfolded over those 20-plus years, noting distinctive characteristics of ministry amid the changing tides. Then I reflected on the perspective we bring to cultural change, with an emphasis on the benefits of focusing on the deeper structures that don’t change as often. The result, I hope, helps church leaders understand the times without overreacting to superficial trends—all the while staying focused on God’s unchanging promises.

In This Episode

00:00 – Reflecting on the Young, Restless Reformed movement’s influence

02:39 – Defining gospel-centeredness in modern evangelical discourse

04:20 – Church rupture over gay marriage

05:35 – Evolution and influence of The Gospel Coalition

11:07 – Intersection of theology, suffering, and political engagement

14:29 – Rise and fall of the Young, Restless, Reformed movement

19:20 – Intersection of politics, society, and technological change

27:18 – Navigating church dynamics amid rapid cultural and political changes

31:00 – Christian materialism, Platonism, and the future of the West

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In my legal practice, the rule of law seems to function. But headlines and anecdotes regularly cause me to wonder if its days are numbered. Media broadcasts daily claim that the rule of law is buckling, and international headlines regularly offer almost dystopian previews of what its total collapse might portend.

But first, what is the rule of law? A good working definition is found in Black’s Law Dictionary: “The supremacy of regular as opposed to arbitrary power.” It undergirds the righteous form of government endorsed by Calvin Coolidge in 1924:

There are only two main theories of government in the world. One rests on righteousness, the other rests on force. One appeals to reason, the other appeals to the sword. One is exemplified in a republic, the other is represented by a despotism.

The expectation is that we’ll all generally follow the law, and that reasonable consequences follow for those who don’t.

A more foundational question is worth asking: Why should Christians care about the rule of law?

Biblical Warrant for Rule of Law

The most foundational reason Christians should care about the rule of law is that God does. Implicit in our being made in the image of God is that we’re divinely deputized, individually and corporately, to enculturate the whole creation consistent with our Creator’s grant of authority (Gen. 1:26–31; 1 Pet. 2:9–17). The whole creation is to proclaim the glorious purposes of our God; we’re tasked as coworkers to bring those purposes forth (Ps. 104:10–30; Amos 5:14–15).

No verse says, “Thus sayeth the Lord, thou shall care about the rule of law.” Nor does the Bible specifically endorse the legal systems of the Western, industrialized nations where the rule of law has been deeply embedded. But Scripture plainly speaks to the reality that God cares that people get their due (Ex. 22:21–27; Acts 6:1–6; Rev. 6:9–11), and this concern is evidenced throughout the Bible in many contexts, including commercial, familial, judicial, and ecclesial settings.

Among many reasons, three general categories of biblical warrant for the rule of law stand out: (1) protection from sin, (2) provision for creation, and (3) moral guidance.

1. Protection from Sin

From the Bible’s earliest pages, it’s clear that things aren’t the way God designed them to be. Yet even in a broken world, God has ordained government for the common good—just and unjust alike—as a shield against wrongdoing (Rom. 13:1–5).

As the New City Catechism states, the sixth commandment requires that people “do not hurt, or hate, or be hostile to [their] neighbor,” so it’s an affront to the law of God and human dignity for wrongdoers to harm their neighbors. The rule of law insists that governments seek to prevent such wrongdoing and, when necessary, redress it commensurate to the wrongdoing.

The rule of law essentially originates from the imago Dei and its necessary implication that God’s image-bearers are entitled to receive their due. Thus, any alternative to the rule of law flows from the disregard of the imago Dei.

Any such alternative process operates solely on power. John Adams famously referred to a republic operating on the rule of law as “a government of laws, and not of men.” But to lose the rule of law is to expose people to the arbitrary whims and desires of the strong. God graciously ordains government and the rule of law as a protection against such catastrophe.

2. Provision for Creation

The rule of law fosters God’s purposes by facilitating his goodness toward humanity. In his common grace, God empowers humanity to cultivate a buffet of earthly resources for the building up of civilization (Gen. 9:7; Jer. 29:5–7). Science, art, institutions, families, economies, and countless other blessings are promoted, enabled, and protected through the rule of law.

To lose the rule of law is to expose people to the arbitrary whims and desires of the strong.

Principles of fairness and justice abound in the Proverbs and the Mosaic law. God knows humans need reliable expectations of fairness and good faith in their collective enterprises. Biblical principles relevant to the rule of law aren’t guarantees that it’ll always go well for the practitioner, but adherence is a good sign that one is running with the grain of creation. The positive goods that the rule of law facilitates are God’s blessings on humanity.

3. Moral Guidance

Undoubtedly, the law of God directs believers in the way of gratitude—the third use of the law. But can the law of a society direct believers and unbelievers alike in the way of moral good? I think it can.

God ordains the rule of law to deter wrongdoing. This deterrence both endorses and lends plausibility to morally righteous behavior. Often, the law’s endorsement of certain actions influences the public toward acceptance of actions, for good or for ill (Judges 21:25; 1 Kings 14:16).

A notable recent example is in how the 2015 Obergefell decision seemingly led the way in promoting public approval of same-sex relationships. Further, many in the church have likely noticed the unfortunate loss of an appeal to authority with respect to marijuana usage or sports betting. In the past, it was a sometimes-powerful argument that these actions were illegal. But no more.

Fortunately, many people still feel a twinge of conscience with respect to obeying God’s law, and the rule of law serves the purpose of promoting moral righteousness to the extent it accords with God’s law. Positive examples like prohibitions against racial segregation in the 20th century show how the law can promote a more just society by requiring righteous conduct.

This use of the rule of law also squares with the role of government in general, which is to promote the common good. This doesn’t mean the rule of law must codify every action under the sun that comports with faithful Christian living. But the Bible shows us that God uses moral righteousness even in unbelievers for the promotion of the gospel (Ezra 1:1–5; Acts 10:2).

Moreover, even if the rule of law’s promotion of moral righteousness doesn’t benefit unbelievers in a salvific way—and may promote a larger cultural ethic that is “culturally Christian”—true benefits still materialize. As Carl Trueman says, “If your street is full of cultural Christians, you probably won’t get mugged when you walk down it at night.”

How Rule of Law Supports Christian Mission

If Trueman is right, then the rule of law might just help a new church attendee safely make it to a Bible study for the first time. It might encourage a Christian college student to donate his money to a nonprofit instead of gambling it on sports. It might make it easier for parents and pastors to steer young adults away from using harmful substances.

And it might ensure that when injustices do inevitably arise, that Christians may appeal to impartial magistrates to enforce just laws that protect our rights to gather publicly, evangelize, or simply do our jobs consistent with biblical convictions (Lev. 19:15).

Even if the rule of law’s promotion of moral righteousness doesn’t benefit unbelievers in a salvific way, true benefits still materialize.

In a widespread and powerful way, the rule of law can contribute to all the good purposes God is advancing in his world.

Even if the rule of law isn’t facing a full-on attack in this age, the church would be wise to proactively catechize its people as a buttress against future threats. The church should be diligent in seeking the common good through the promotion of the rule of law, even as we rest assured that the gates of hell will not prevail against us (Matt. 16:18).

If something as civically foundational as the rule of law can provide a cultural bedrock for the church, then Christians should care about its influence.

Jesus had told the Jews in Jerusalem, “You search the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that bear witness about me” (John 5:39). We often assume that Scripture’s bearing witness to Jesus is restricted to content. This makes sense, but perhaps more is going on that can transform the way we read the Bible.

It is the way Scripture is given as revelation that points to Jesus Christ, the incarnate Word of God, the only begotten. Let’s engage the doctrine of the Trinity to see how the eternal generation of the Son parallels the giving of Scripture. Once we grasp this, it will transform the way we read the Bible as the living Word of God (Heb. 4:12).

Scripture Is the Word of God in the Spirit

John 1:1 famously teaches, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John deliberately opens his Gospel with echoes of the Genesis 1 creation account. “In the beginning, God. . . . And God said . . .” (vv. 1, 3). When we compare these texts, it becomes clear that the Son is referred to as the Word of God because he is spoken eternally by the Father.

The Father speaks, and the Son is the Word spoken. But what about the Holy Spirit? The Spirit is there in Genesis 1, “hovering over the face of the waters” (v. 2). The Spirit’s involvement in creation is spelled out for us in Job 33:4 and Psalm 33:6. Both verses speak of the Spirit as the breath of God by which creation came into being. In other passages, like Ezekiel 37, John 3, and even John 20, the Spirit is compared to or referred to as the breath or wind.

When we piece all this together, we have vivid, biblical imagery that helps us understand the triune God. The Father is the Speaker, the Son is the Word spoken, and the Holy Spirit is the breath on which the Word is spoken. Many of the church fathers, men like Irenaeus of Lyon (ca. 130–202), Gregory of Nyssa (ca. 335–95), and John of Damascus (ca. 675–749), pick up on this imagery, but they all sound a note of caution not to push the characterization of the persons of the Trinity too far because of potential dangers.

We’ve seen that Scripture itself allows us to speak of the Trinity in this way, but it is only hinted at here and there. Like the church fathers, we need to follow Scripture with care.

The Son is eternally generated by the Father; he comes from the Father in a way that is like the family relationship, but there is no moment before the generation of the Son began, since this generation is without beginning or end. Hebrews 1:3 teaches that it is like the radiance of the sun and the sun itself. The Son is the radiance of the Father’s glory.

Scripture Is God-Breathed

How does all this relate to the way Scripture bears witness to Christ? The apostle Paul answers our question clearly: “All Scripture is God-breathed” (2 Tim. 3:16, NIV). The word “God-breathed” (theopneustos) occurs only here in all of Scripture. It is an adjective with a verbal ending that perfectly demonstrates the parallel between the Son and the Scriptures.

The Son is the Word of the Father spoken in the breath of the Holy Spirit. The Scripture is the Word of God. It is “God-breathed,” and the breath is the Holy Spirit. That’s why Paul calls the Bible the “sword of the Spirit” (Eph. 6:17). The parallels between the Son and the Scriptures run deep, beyond the common designator “Word.”

The Bible often refers to itself as having attributes usually associated with the divine nature, things like perfection, omnipotence, eternity, and having the authority and power to give and take life and to save (e.g., Pss. 19:7–11; 119:89; Isa. 55:11; Heb. 4:12–13). The Son is the essential Word of God, and Scripture is the declarative Word of God.

The Son is the essential Word of God, and Scripture is the declarative Word of God.

It is critical to see that Paul tells us that all Scripture “is God-breathed,” not “was God-breathed.” It’s so easy to fall into the trap of thinking that God spoke Scripture long ago and merely recorded words on a page. The Bible is not like this. The writer to the Hebrews tells us that “the word of God is living and active” (Heb. 4:12). It was written down for us, yes, but the very words of Scripture are the words of God. They are constantly being “God-breathed,” and that is why they are living and active.

Just as the Son is always the Word of the Father in the Spirit, so the Scriptures are always the Word of God in the Spirit, pointing always to the Lord Jesus Christ.

When we grasp the parallel between the Son and the Scriptures, the way we think about the Bible totally transforms. It is not dead words from a God far away. We are hearing and reading the living Word of God now. That is why so often when the Word is faithfully read and preached (1 Thess. 2:13), we hear people say, “It was as though God was speaking directly to me!”

Scripture Bears Witness to the Eternal Word of God

God reveals himself as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the Scriptures. God is triune, one God in three persons. The doctrine of revelation depends on God speaking, and God reveals himself as speaking in a Trinitarian way.

The doctrine of revelation depends on God speaking, and God reveals himself as speaking in a Trinitarian way.

Now we can better appreciate Christ’s teaching that Scripture bears witness to him, because the Father’s act of speaking the Son, his eternal Word, in the Holy Spirit, makes revelation possible. And revelation itself is the Father speaking the Word, breathing the Spirit of Christ.

The Scriptures testify of Christ—not only by pointing to Christ through explicit and implicit prediction but also in the way God communicates the Scriptures.  The Bible is given as God-breathed, living words, just as the Son is always the Word of God.

When we grasp this, our Bible reading transforms. The Bible is all about Jesus in every way; the Father speaks Jesus to us right now as we read and hear. This changes everything.

Can Religion Save Democracy? How More Faith—Not Less—Can Heal Our Public Life is a result of that conversation, and it’s a must-read for anyone skeptical of how religion can advance virtues of toleration and humility in a time of polarization and tribalism.

Without watering down the real theological differences between Christianity and Islam, this book succeeds in showing how both traditions “have centuries of experience with deep difference and political conflict” (7). The authors rightly show that while stories of religious extremism “attract the most clicks,” the “democratic insights of Islam and Christianity have remained largely submerged and even unknown, including among believers” (19).

Islamic Variants

Evangelical readers may be surprised to hear that Islam has internal resources to foster democratic virtues and pluralism, but the authors present a version of Islam that stands among mainstream Sunni interpretations. The interpretation is familiar to me, as I come from the Muslim-majority but constitutionally pluralistic democratic nation of Indonesia. As The Atlantic reported in 2016, ISIS had more success recruiting from Western nations than from Indonesia.

Sharia (Arabic for “law”) refers to a developing tradition, and as the authors show, sharia isn’t reducible to criminal punishments considered no longer applicable. Today, it also includes political deliberation, toleration of other religions, and antislavery laws.

As Syrian Muslim scholar Muhammad al-Yaqoubi notes in his book Refuting ISIS, “Islamic penalties (hudud) cannot be applied at a time like ours. Obstinate insistence on applying them is a result and an expression of ignorance, excessiveness, injustice, foolishness, puerility, and fanaticism—all of which could not be farther from the spirit of Islam.”

The Islamic tradition isn’t akin to Protestantism in emphasizing sola scriptura, according to which the norming norm is the Qur’an alone. Rather, the majority report holds that the Qur’an must be interpreted by a developing tradition, and the rise of Islamic extremism (which, according to Nabeel Qureshi, represents 0.01 percent to 0.05 percent of the Muslim population) is due to unmediated, naive access to the sources made possible by modern technology.

As Hugh Goddard notes in A History of Christian-Muslim Relations, many of the radicalized young men recruited by violent jihadist groups come from backgrounds with little to no awareness of how to handle ancient texts, and from STEM educational backgrounds:

With regard to their worldview, many of [the radicalized young men] come from contexts in which they had studied scientific subjects, particularly engineering and computing, which did not necessarily impart important skills that are needed for the careful interpretation of texts, both scriptural and contemporary.

Thus, Kaemingk and Hamid are making a welcome contribution, not only displaying how Christians can engage Islam for the purposes of public justice without denying fundamental theological differences between them, but also showing the breadth and diversity within Islam itself.

The authors articulate eight challenges that face democratic societies in the West as they retrieve insights from the traditions of Christianity and Islam that may heal our democratic and common life. I’ll highlight a few of those challenges and ways the authors respond to them.

Search for Unity

The first challenge concerns the migration of religious belief from traditional faiths like Christianity to secularism and liberalism. Instead of recognizing that religiosity is ingrained in what it means to be human, secularism veils its own faith by thinking that one can be religiously neutral. Secular beliefs compose a creed. Faith in the self is still a faith—and a shaky one at best.

Secularized belief becomes authoritarian when it has the absolute confidence of religion without the checks and balances of traditional faiths, which declare that God “might also command that they communicate their beliefs with some level of humility or grace” (28). Take God away, and something else will become divinized in God’s place. The first step in healing our democratic life is to increase the self-awareness that everyone comes to the public square with religious commitments, and that no single position is neutral or represents a “common” sense.

The understandable human longing for unity, “when politically enforced, often leads—ironically—to more conflict” (44). To the contrary, both Christianity and Islam recognize that conflict and religious plurality are God-ordained—something to be expected and managed in this present life. This is a time of divine patience, and so deep difference should be reckoned with rather than politically eradicated. “Unlike traditional religions, secularism posits that human conflict can be resolved not in heaven but in the here and now” (45).

Ironically, secularism, while claiming to be open-minded, is just one more ideology that enforces itself on traditional religions, demanding they be privatized rather than equal participants in the public square.

If God alone can bring about unity, then we should put our hope in neither the state nor the church as ultimate ruler in this life: “Theocracy—the rule of the religious elite—is blasphemous because the throne belongs to Christ, not Christians” (58). Islam, too, doesn’t expect that consensus would take place in this life because conflict is “part of being human” and willed by God for ethical formation (63).

Confident Pluralism

Within the context of religion and politics, distinguishing between absolute certainty and human confidence is key. While Christians and Muslims recognize the Bible or the Qur’an as sacred and absolutely true, we still distinguish between the truth itself and the human discernment of that truth.

The authors point to the example of Ali, the fourth caliph of Islam, who submitted himself to human arbitration because the Qur’an’s meaning is often unclear and doesn’t speak by itself without readers and interpreters. They deftly show that the term “sharia” simply refers to the “way to the watering-hole,” and that “Ali’s pluralistic ethic was baked into sharia itself” (73).

Furthermore, for Christians, we recognize that in this present life we “know in part,” through a mirror dimly, and we long to know God face-to-face (1 Cor. 13:9–10, 12). Or, to present it in classical Reformed categories, we only know God as pilgrims, not yet as the church triumphant—and we know ectypally and analogically, never archetypally or univocally.

The authors make the case for politics to become mundane again. Necessary for this aim is the exercise of recognizing idolatry and retrieving the doctrine of hell. Politics becomes tribalistic when our political parties represent our idols, for which we’re called to sacrifice friendships, families, and even our lives. Politics becomes ultimate when there’s no account of divine vengeance, and so ultimate justice falls to fallible human hands.

Belief in hell actually leads to patience and toleration—for judgment comes later, and the destinies of our political enemies aren’t set in this present life: “The final destination of their souls is not something you can control or predict. This lack of knowledge leaves the door open a crack—for connection, conversation, and freedom” (113). Democracy depends on the hope of persuasion—that no one in this life is yet beyond the pale.

Politics becomes ultimate when there’s no account of divine vengeance, and so ultimate justice falls to fallible human hands.

While rage against evil is necessary, both Christianity and Islam provide resources that nurture the communal bonds a society needs to overcome tribal suspicions. They look to the examples of Jesus’s forgiving grace and of Islam’s condemnation of takfir, that is, of presuming to know the condition of another’s position before God.

More Religion Needed

Religious institutions are schools of democracy. They cultivate characters committed to patience, understanding, and community-building. While Americans are becoming more secular, they haven’t become less spiritual, as citizens are substituting a commitment to religious institutions with the spiritual industry.

A yoga studio or a mindfulness retreat, however, would likely not have taught us to sacrifice “personal ambitions for the good of the neighborhood” or bring together people of differing classes (150). Despite the preconception that religious institutions are bad for democracy, empirical studies show that secular culture still benefits from their “democratic contributions” (152).

Further, it’s through a commitment to these institutions that the digital and abstract temptation toward religious nationalism loses its allure. Simply put, citizens in deep institutional networks “don’t have time for a digital crusade or jihad.” The authors continue, “Chances are they don’t have much time even for a fight on social media either” (157).

The authors observe that socioeconomic status doesn’t predict whether a Muslim would be attracted to extremism. I suggest that the same could be said with respect to some attracted to Christian nationalism. “Those most vulnerable to the temptations of extremism are not the poor but the lonely and disconnected” (159).

While the democratic value of religious institutions is potent, to close the book, the authors warn that these benefits of religion only come as by-products of practicing it for the sake of itself. To put it in Bavinckian parlance, the gospel is a leavening power only if it’s recognized as a pearl.

Three Benefits

This book has three benefits. The first is their deep yet accessible retrieval of the Kuyperian tradition in showing that the Christian faith doesn’t have to choose between a neutral public square and Christendom.

In this sense, this book is a sequel to Kaemingk’s 2018 Christian Hospitality and Muslim Immigration in an Age of Fear, where he argues that Christians can be confident juridical pluralists without endorsing the idea that all religions are basically the same. The public arena is penultimate, and God is calling his people toward toleration and patience because this is an era of God’s common grace, rather than final judgment.

The gospel is a leavening power only if it is recognized as a pearl.

Second, evangelical readers are reminded that Islam is a diverse faith and not to be reduced to the violence of its extremist radicals or the portrait formed by a fear-mongered imagination. As I tell my students when I teach on Islam—we should counter Islamic radicalism by both Christian persuasion and their own sources and tradition. We should be mindful that, for instance, sharia is a developing notion, irreducible to the nonapplicable criminal punishment laws. It includes, for instance, the claim that we should accept religious diversity in the present life.

Finally, the book itself is a demonstration of its conclusions: Here are a Christian and a Muslim, who admit at the outset they disagree deeply on the most important matters about their respective worldviews. Neither would water down the real differences between their doctrines of God, salvation, prayer, or prophecy. Yet they can come together in dialogue for the sake of mutual understanding, and they can come together within the context of deep difference to foster a civic public square.

While the book does a wonderful job anticipating objections from secular liberals, I wish it had done more to anticipate objections from both Christian nationalists and Islamic extremists. The responses may be obvious to readers of both Christian and Islamic traditions, but many remain lured to these minority reports in the contemporary conversation.

How should we respond to the religious violence exercised by Christians (Catholics and Protestants), say, in the age of the Reformation? Or the violence inherent in the age of Islamic conquest right after the death of Muhammad? How should we interpret those passages that Christian nationalists and Islamic extremists would appeal to in justifying a push for a confessionalized constitution or for national religious uniformity?

The authors argue persuasively for a positive vision, and yet I would’ve appreciated an additional chapter just addressing these interpretive debates. But perhaps there’s no higher compliment than to say that I wish the book would have been longer. Can Religion Save Democracy? is one of the first books I’d recommend to anyone who asks for an accessible retrieval of principled pluralism from a Christian and Muslim perspective.

We can use new media for these purposes. But that doesn’t mean we should.

Since the fall, humans have been tempted toward voyeurism. We struggle to resist turning our attention to the lurid, the scandalous, the taboo; our eyes can’t look away from spectacular crashes, whether literal crashes or personal collapses. Maybe gawking feels like a “safe” outlet for our sinful lusts. Maybe fixating on the bad behavior of others is a way we cope with (or deflect from) our own sin. Whatever the reason, we’re darkly captivated by the macabre and sensationalistic.

Modern media companies know this about our nature—and they’re cashing in.

We’re darkly captivated by the macabre and sensationalistic.

“If it bleeds, it leads” has been a defining principle of the news industry for at least the last half-century. Cable news “breaking news” or local TV news “top stories” gravitate toward the bloodiest and most horrific: mass shootings, house fires that kill entire families, campus gang rapes, fiery 22-car pileups, boys beheaded on waterslides, people flung off roller coasters to their deaths. The gruesome guarantees good ratings. News media prioritizes blood and scandal because audiences can’t look away.

But the thing is, we can look away. Being “out of the loop” on unnecessarily sordid headlines is a choice we can make. We can choose not to be aware of every calamity that happens across the world and every murder trial capturing the nation’s imagination. We can choose not to doomscroll or reflexively turn on cable news as ambient noise in our living room. We can choose to delete apps if we find the algorithm is increasingly feeding our more unwholesome appetites.

For Christians, is there any spiritual benefit in giving your attention to sordid spectacles? I’ve yet to hear a good argument. But the spiritual reasons to resist voyeuristic media are clear. Whether driven by bloodlust, sexual lust, or an unloving desire to dehumanize or objectify an image-bearing human, the voyeuristic impulse seems to be an attempt to gratify the desires of the flesh for which we should “make no provision” (Rom. 13:14).

True Crime, Court TV, and Celebrity Scandal ‘Pseudoevents’

Some expressions of our voyeuristic gawkerism remain culturally taboo: watching pornography in public, for example, or watching Faces of Death–style videos on the dark web. But lots of other examples have become normalized and socially acceptable yet should give us pause. The prospect of a live-streamed military execution is a current, rather extreme, example. But this sort of neo-gladiatorial obscenity feels like a natural outgrowth of a society of spectacle long addicted to bloody infotainment.

The prospect of a live-streamed military execution feels like a natural outgrowth of a society of spectacle long addicted to bloody infotainment.

Consider the cottage industry of true-crime stories—podcasts, books, blogs, YouTubers, made-for-TV movies, and streaming documentaries. Whether it’s another documentary on the JonBenét Ramsey case or a new limited series inspired by Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, or the Zodiac killer, audiences can’t get enough.

Entire channels are dedicated to covering the latest high-profile murder trial, and it seems like every week a new nationally buzzed-about courtroom drama feeds our insatiable hunger: Caleb Flynn, Lindsay Clancy, Luigi Mangione, Brendan Banfield, and on and on.

Especially irresistible are salacious crime stories involving celebrities. From the Fatty Arbuckle scandal in the 1920s to the O. J. Simpson trial of the 1990s, the Michael Jackson pedophilia trial of the 2000s, and the Harvey Weinstein sex-abuse scandal of the 2010s, today’s mass media feeds a conveyor belt of celebrity licentiousness.

On slow news days, the headlines become absurdly straining: Selma Blair bit a flight attendant! Kelly Clarkson got mad she couldn’t buy a $15,000 bird! But it’s always something. Martha Stewart imprisoned for insider trading. Jussie Smollett fakes a hate crime. The Bachelorette season canceled because the star once threw a chair at her ex-boyfriend.

Due to our eagerness to click and watch, this sort of content has become close to a sure-fire hit for media publishers desperate to monetize our attention. But it doesn’t have to be this way. The trash-TV cycle can stop if enough of us start turning it off.

Don’t Stream Lurid Stories

Another “respectable sin” expression of our voyeuristic bent is the proliferation of explicit TV-MA content on streaming TV. Much of this it pitched as “prestige” content—auteur driven, highbrow. But make no mistake: It’s cashing in on our fleshly voyeurism too. Much of it is just TMZ-style salaciousness in more elegant form.

The new Lance Oppenheim and Nathan Fielder documentary, You Can See Everything—about disgraced Theranos founder Elizabeth Holmes—feels like a test case or commentary on our collective voyeurism. The title alone plays on this appeal, promising a no-filter look inside a high-profile train wreck. But even as a meta critique of voyeuristic media and our appetite for celebrity scandal, is this edifying? We can see everything, but that doesn’t mean that we should.

Sadly, you can hardly turn on any “trending” show on Netflix, Prime Video, or HBO Max these days without being bombarded by excessive foul language, sex, and nudity. Grotesquely violent horror movies have never been more popular at the box office. What passes as normal these days would have been considered utterly taboo just decades ago.

How did we get here? Audiences kept watching. Hollywood follows the money and the market. Sex and shock sells. Audiences reap what their consumption habits sow. And so now the X-rated is inescapable.

But we can escape it. We can choose not to watch.

Audiences reap what their consumption habits sow. And so now the X-rated is inescapable.

That’s a choice I’ve started to embrace more and more. Early in my career as a film and TV writer, I felt more pressure to watch everything. Maybe it was FOMO, or maybe it was just an immature lack of discernment. But the older (and hopefully wiser) I get, the more freedom I feel not to watch content that pushes the envelope in unedifying ways. It may be “critically acclaimed” and full of great acting and beautiful cinematography, but if it’s gratuitous, exploitative, or needlessly explicit, I’ll opt out.

I’ve walked out of movies for this reason. I’ve stopped watching acclaimed TV shows after a few episodes. Just last week, I gave up on the new Netflix miniseries East of Eden after two episodes, because of how needlessly TV-MA Zoe Kazan’s version of Steinbeck’s story is. Kazan’s grandfather Elia managed to make a masterfully cinematic (PG-rated) version of East of Eden in 1955, without any scenes of sex or nudity. Why do today’s versions find that sort of restraint impossible?

The answer is probably a combination of a few factors. We’re deeper into the “post” part of post-Christian morality, such that consciences are barely pricked by what used to make us blush beet red. We’ve amused ourselves to death and become numb due to constant envelope-pushing. And the media industry keeps profiting from our prurience and morbid fascinations.

Make No Provision

How should Christians respond to a mass-media environment where temptations to unedifying voyeurism are everywhere? Here are a few ideas:

• Audit your algorithm. If your feeds are full of voyeuristic temptations, outrage bait, or unedifying content, don’t be passive. Make changes! Delete apps, impose screen-time restrictions, make frequent use of “hide posts like this” buttons. Take active steps to flee youthful passions (2 Tim. 2:22).
• Examine your heart. Are we like those who “have become callous and have given themselves up to sensuality, greedy to practice every kind of impurity” (Eph. 4:19)? Today’s media environment forms all of us in this direction. Resist it! Pray for retrained affections, “to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to put on the new self” (vv. 23–24).
• Turn off trash. Be willing to turn something off or click away when you realize you’re watching something more voyeuristically than virtuously. Vote with your views (or lack thereof). If enough Christians refused to give their attention to trashy content, the market dynamics might shift and force a change.
• Turn to better things. Meditate on God’s Word. Live to worship. Try to touch grass more than you touch screens. Feed your soul whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent, praiseworthy (Phil. 4:8). Pray this: “Turn my eyes from looking at worthless things; and give me life in your ways” (Ps. 119:37).

In a world where raunch rules and transgressiveness is the new norm, Christians must remember this: Holiness is more transgressive. Whether in exploitative documentaries, televised murder trials, or TV-MA highbrow smut, the spirit of the age is lusty voyeurism—media that invites us to “practice every kind of impurity.”

Let’s endeavor to resist this spirit.

What I say to myself in those moments can mean the difference between tightening the reins of perceived control or releasing them completely. It’s the doctrine of Christ’s session that’s helped me do the latter.

As a child, I sang the Apostles’ Creed every Sunday, enjoying the staccato of the line “he ascended into heaven and sitteth at the right hand” without understanding what it meant. I’d tucked this knowledge away in the corner of my mind labeled “catechism” and thought of the heavenly Jesus as a kind of faraway character.

However, facing motherhood’s everyday complexities has challenged me to more closely consider how Jesus’s seated ministry is good news for my parenting.

Christ Is Seated

The devotional our family worked through last Easter asked us one evening to consider the implications of Christ’s heavenly rule. We read an account of Christ’s ascension, 40 days after he’d risen from the dead. “He led [his disciples] out as far as Bethany, and lifting up his hands he blessed them. While he blessed them, he parted from them and was carried up into heaven” (Luke 24:50–51). Mark tells us that Jesus was “taken up into heaven and sat down at the right hand of God” (Mark 16:19).

As we reflected on this as a family, the doctrine of Christ’s session (as I’d later learn it was called) shifted from something arbitrary to something real. We sat around the table eating our dinner—well, some of us—and I realized that at that very same time, Jesus was on his throne, also seated. Here are three implications of that truth for our parenting.

1. I have a Person to whom I can take my worries about raising children.

The more I read about the acceleration of AI technologies, social media’s effects on children, or the secular influences on our young ones, the more overwhelmed I become about parenting well. Anxiety over our children’s lives and, more specifically, over their faith formation runs high.

The truth of Jesus’s heavenly seat means he rules, reigns, and has conquered. On the cross, he overcame sin, death, and the grave. But the story doesn’t end there. “More than that,” says Paul, he “was raised [and] is at the right hand of God” (Rom. 8:34). He isn’t conquering, or going to conquer, but has conquered. And because he has conquered, Paul calls us “more than conquerors through him who loved us” (v. 37).

He isn’t conquering, or going to conquer, but has conquered.

If we’re in Christ, nothing can separate us from his love (vv. 38–39). We can hold out this truth to our children. We can point them to the promise in Revelation 3 that Jesus gives to the church in Laodicea: “The one who conquers, I will grant him to sit with me on my throne, as I also conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne” (v. 21).

I hold real concerns about what might happen to my children in this shaky, temporal habitat. But because Jesus is on his throne, I can take those anxieties to the eternal conqueror and encourage my children to do the same.

2. God hears my prayers for my children.

I don’t always act like I believe God is listening. Sometimes my concerns in parenting feel too insignificant and trivial for Almighty God. Not so.

He doesn’t shame us for the way we’ve parented but invites us to come boldly (Heb. 4:14–16). I can pray big, bold prayers for my children, knowing he hears them. Prayers about toilet training, prayers for recovery from illness, and prayers in the deepest depths of pain are taken to Jesus on his throne and carried to the Father’s arms.

3. My children are part of something bigger.

Paul says that God gave Jesus “as head over all things to the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all” (Eph. 1:22–23). Jesus was judged before an earthly throne (Luke 23:1–16), but now he sits on a heavenly throne as head of the church, restoring all things to himself (Col. 1:18–20). God has exalted him, so we can—and should—exalt him (Phil. 2:9).

I can pray big, bold prayers for my children, knowing he hears them.

We teach our children to praise God for all sorts of good things: creation, family, friends, health. But how often do we encourage them to praise him just because he’s worthy to be praised? We can teach our children that they have a Savior who not only personally cares for them but also died, rose, and is exalted. We can explain that we aren’t saved just for the purpose of having an independent, personal relationship with Jesus; we’re saved into a church, a community of believers.

The socks still get lost and I still worry about my children. But as I stand in church with those children and sing the Apostles’ Creed, feeling uprooted, an unshakable comfort grounds me. I’m more deeply assured that Jesus’s heavenly dominion is the best news for my parenting, and for my children too.

By the end of each week, we look at what we didn’t get done or we did poorly, and the obligations and expectations coming. Regret and worry. How we often relate to our time only exacerbates this dynamic.

In our culture of achievement, time is optimized to squeeze out double the productivity with maximum efficiency. In our culture of well-being, we need time for self-improvement and self-enhancement. But time bears witness that our physical and mental decline outpaces our self-improvement strategies. Our successes don’t survive our death. Achievement culture manufactures new regrets by resetting the bar every week, and well-being culture manufactures new worries by making the self a project that’s never finished.

At some point, we all take something like a Sabbath. Some relief is needed. We practice self-care or self-medicate. We scroll mindlessly while at our jobs or institute a four-day workweek. As a friend of ours says, “Five beers on a Friday night is a world looking for Sabbath.” These secular Sabbaths provide means of escape but never healing.

A biblical Sabbath is different. It’s not an escape route or a coping mechanism. Nor does it simply provide a means of rest that we might become better versions of ourselves. Practicing Sabbath is a way that we become like God. In turn, we begin to see our days and our weeks in the way that God sees them.

Become like God

Annie Dillard, in her book Holy the Firm, tells a story of reading by candlelight while camping. She noticed a shadow fall across her page, looked up, and saw a moth fly directly into the candle’s flame. She watched the wings ignite like tissue paper, legs curl up, body shrink, and head disappear in the fire.

Practicing Sabbath is a way that we become like God.

As she kept watching, something unexpected happened. The moth didn’t simply die—it changed. Its body, swallowed by wax, shifted beside the wick and became a second one—bringing a second flame. Now there were two flames. Two lights. One candle. “The moth’s head was fire,” writes Dillard. “She burned for two hours without changing, without bending or leaning—only glowing within.”

Fire has that quality of turning things into its likeness. Fire doesn’t just destroy; it also transforms. The moth, for at least two hours, received a new vocation, maybe even a higher one: She gave light.

At Pentecost, God’s presence descended like fire—not to destroy but to dwell. Tongues of flame hovered over the disciples’ heads. Not like the moth-made wick, but more like the burning bush. God’s presence—a consuming fire—set on a bush, but the bush remained unchanged (Ex. 3:2). God’s people were animated and awakened, rather than consumed and destroyed by the presence of God’s Spirit on them. In the incarnation, God became like us. At Pentecost, he began the work of making us like him.

At Mount Sinai, God gave Moses the Ten Commandments. The fourth commandment, the one about the Sabbath, is longer than all the others. This is how your workweek should look: Six days you shall labor, and on the seventh you shall rest.

What’s the reason behind this command? “For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth . . . and rested on the seventh day. Therefore the LORD blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy” (Ex. 20:11). Take a Sabbath, says the Lord. Why? Because it’s what I did and I want you to be like me. What began at Sinai as a command to imitate becomes, through Christ and his Spirit, a life to receive.

Let us suggest that taking a Sabbath is a profound way to allow Jesus to speak to us and transform the experience of our days—our past, present, and future.

Experience the Week Through God’s Perspective

As Augustine explains, our worldly experience of the week is mainly regret (past) and worry (future). We didn’t accomplish what we intended, didn’t keep up with expectations, didn’t follow through on our responsibilities—and next week will likely look the same.

Our Regret

When we rest, we take a look at our week through the perspective of Jesus, who calls to himself all who are weary and burdened. “I will give you rest,” he says (Matt. 11:28–30). With Jesus, regrets are met with mercy.

We all have an impulse to see ourselves as merely the outcome of our behavior and performance. But Jesus’s welcome is not for those who have overcome failure but for those burdened with it.

At creation, God ended his workweek by saying, “It is good.” Everything he did was good. In God’s mercy, we can say this each Sabbath day. Every good thing is a gift and every failure is forgiven. We can rest. It is good.

Our Fears

In Mark 4, Jesus is sleeping in a storm while his disciples are fearing the worst. He wakes up from his sleep and says to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” and the disciples are struck that the wind and the sea obey him (vv. 35–41). He asks his disciples, Why are you so afraid? Where is your faith?

We can read this story as simply a rebuke against our fears that surface when we contemplate our days and weeks ahead. But I wonder if we can also see that our fears, at least our fearful responses, are incompatible with reality.

At creation, God ended his workweek by saying, ‘It is good.’ Everything he did was good. In God’s mercy, we can say this each Sabbath day.

It’s remarkable that Jesus instructs the storm. “Be still!” He seems to be personifying the storm, treating it as a responsive agent rather than a mechanical system of cause and effect. Creation isn’t a conscious being that responds with obedience, but neither is it an autonomous system outside of God’s governance.

Even Job portrays God setting limits on the sea as if addressing a willful entity. God says, “Thus far shall you come, and no farther” (Job 38:8–11). All things were created through Christ and for him, and he holds all things together (Col. 1:16–17).

Our vocations and industries we navigate each week can feel like complex systems we’re at the mercy of. They blow with expectation and overwhelm with obligation. Our days feel at the mercy of autonomous mechanical systems outside God’s hands. But Jesus wants us to see reality as it clearly is. He wants us to rest and see our coming days and weeks from his perspective. He isn’t anxious, and he can speak “Peace!” even amid storms.

This reshapes how we move through time. We can begin to anticipate the Sabbath. Regardless of how the last week was, the Sabbath always comes. Relief and rest in Christ are near. And as the new week begins, we live from that rest. We draw from its strength. We remember its grace.

Sabbath, then, becomes the center of the week—its center of gravity. Even in the hurry and hustle of our workdays, something deeper begins to hum within us: a Sabbath heart. His grace covers our previous week, and his presence and power will be with us for what’s ahead.

How should church leaders navigate this outside influence? And how can Christians engage with and deploy this media for discipleship and the spread of the gospel?

In this panel discussion from TGC25, Collin Hansen talks with Ruth Chou Simons, Kyle Worley, and Laura Wifler about how we should think about the relationship of influencers to our churches.

In This Episode

00:00 – The impact of social media

08:05 – Navigating digital influence and accountability

21:51 – Why podcasters gain rapid trust

22:20 – Principles for creating content

24:24 – Identifying unhealthy digital habits

32:33 – Advice for digital ministry leaders

Resource Mentioned: Alone Together by Sherry Turkle

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One after another, we were turned down.

The responses ranged from “You’re both doing great—you have it all together” to “I simply don’t have time,” along with other polite but firm refusals. We knew we needed the life-on-life discipleship Jesus describes in the Great Commission (Matt. 28:19–20), yet no opportunities materialized in those early years.

That season reinforced our conviction that discipleship isn’t optional. But if it’s central to the Christian life, why is it so hard to find—and so difficult to offer? I’ve come to think of this dynamic as the discipleship gap. Most Christians know discipleship matters, but we hide from the very community we need.

Where We Get Confused

The discipleship gap can result from misunderstanding what discipleship is. The word “disciple” means “learner.” In Matthew 4:19–20, Jesus’s invitation to the first disciples isn’t a spiritual performance review or a six-week self-improvement program. His invitation: “Follow me.”

If discipleship is central to the Christian life, why is it so hard to find—and so difficult to offer?

Today, we often confuse biblical discipleship with secular paradigms. We treat it as mentoring, expecting targeted advice for a specific life goal; as coaching, empowering people to pursue self-determined dreams rather than conforming to Christ; or as therapy, seeking help processing our problems and overcoming our mental and emotional struggles. While discipleship can involve advice and support, at its core, it’s about following others as they follow Christ so we’re all growing more like him.

That means discipleship is also not meant to be cloning. As a new believer, I connected with a godly woman whose marriage and walk with Christ I admired. Without realizing it, I tried to become a replica of her, believing her personality was the shortcut to my spiritual goals. It took months to realize my focus was misdirected. I’d been captivated by her traits rather than by how Christ had shaped her.

True discipleship isn’t about becoming a carbon copy of someone else (1 Cor. 12:4–6). It’s an intentional, transformative relationship that fosters spiritual growth because our ultimate calling is to be conformed to the image of God’s Son (Rom. 8:29).

Why We Hide

Whether we’re considering being discipled or discipling others, here are common reasons people avoid discipleship.

1. Fear of Being Exposed

Many of us are reluctant to open up about our struggles and sins. We fear that if people truly knew our weaknesses, they’d judge or reject us. So we keep our spiritual lives hidden and instead curate a polished image.

Yet consider the apostle James’s call: “Confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed” (5:16). Discipleship requires the courage to let the illusion of perfection die so genuine grace can take root.

2. Fear of Being Inadequate

We might feel overwhelmed by the complexity and gravity of Scripture and intimidated by others who seem more knowledgeable. We worry about misinterpreting the Bible or revealing our ignorance.

While we’re right to want to handle Scripture carefully, 1 Corinthians 1:27 reminds us that God chooses the weak and foolish of the world to shame the strong. We don’t need theological training or a seminary degree to disciple others faithfully, because God equips believers as we sit under the preaching of his Word, learn in the life of the church, grow through private devotion, and humbly depend on him.

3. Illusion of Independence

Western culture prizes self-reliance, and this seeps into our theology. We prefer to navigate our spiritual lives privately, assuming our own insights are sufficient.

But Proverbs 11:14 warns, “Where there is no guidance, a people falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety.” We were designed for interdependence within the body of Christ (1 Cor. 12:21). We need one another to see our blind spots and to point us back to the cross.

4. Excuse of Busyness

Modern life is undeniably full. Committing to another relationship can feel like an added burden, especially when we picture discipleship as a formal, time-consuming program.

Paul urges us in Ephesians 5:15–16, “Look carefully then how you walk . . . making the best use of the time.” If we think we’re too busy for discipleship, we’d be wise to consider what is truly the best use of our time. Investing in mutual spiritual growth may take time on our calendars, but it’s an investment in the eternal.

5. Hurt from Past Experiences

Some of us carry hurt from past discipleship relationships or from Christians who wounded us. This can lead to deep distrust and a reluctance to try again.

Yet 1 Peter 4:8 reminds us, “Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins.” Over time, healthy discipleship can help heal past hurts, foster forgiveness, and display the restorative power of Christ-centered community.

What We Can Do

Discipleship grows out of a life-on-life connection that extends beyond scheduled meetings into everyday moments, creating natural opportunities to model faith and apply biblical truth in real time.

It might look like the following:

• A seasoned professional meeting with a young professional to discuss navigating workplace dilemmas from a Christian worldview
• A mother coming alongside a younger mom to support her in raising children in line with biblical values
• A married couple inviting newlyweds over for dinner to talk honestly about the joys and trials of marriage
• Two friends reading a devotional or a book of the Bible together

Discipleship can happen over a meal, on a walk, or as you serve together at church. And it doesn’t have to be a lifelong commitment—start for a semester or a season, then reevaluate.

If you’re struggling to find someone to disciple you, I understand the ache of that wait. Being turned down can feel discouraging when you’re hungry to grow and unsure where to turn. But don’t let the absence of someone pouring into you keep you from pouring into someone else.

Don’t let the absence of someone pouring into you keep you from pouring into someone else.

Keep asking. Keep praying for mature Christians to walk with you. And as you wait, consider whom God may be inviting you to encourage, invite in, or walk alongside. God grows us through those ahead of us, but he also grows us as we invest in those beside us or a few steps behind us.

As we make room for this vital part of life in Christ, God uses both our need and our willingness to reflect his heart to a world that desperately needs him.

Born around the time the last New Testament books were being written, he argued that the Old Testament portrayed a different God than the New Testament. The Old Testament described an angry, spiteful God; the New Testament revealed a kinder, more loving God in the person of Jesus. Marcion was so committed to this idea that he even made his own copy of Luke’s Gospel, cutting out the Old Testament quotes and allusions.

In his famous work, aptly titled Against Marcion, the great theologian Tertullian of Carthage points out that Marcion wouldn’t have a New Testament without the Old. The New Testament, he rightly reasons, depends on the Old for its foundation. One of his most common arguments is that “one and the same God” is revealed consistently across the biblical storyline.

Seeing the Trinity in the Old Testament often feels difficult, largely because we do not see the names “Jesus” or “Holy Spirit” like we do in the New Testament. We wonder if the Trinity is something new introduced in the first pages of the Gospels. We may be tempted to think Marcion was right—maybe we have two different Gods at work. At our best, though, we know better; we sometimes just need good interpretive principles to make sense of it.

To see the Trinity in the Old Testament, we need to hold two fundamental principles: (1) Scripture reveals this God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and (2) Scripture is the unified revelation of God from Genesis to Revelation. We will not see the Trinity in the Old Testament unless we affirm who God is and how he reveals himself in Scripture.

These two principles will help explain that the God who created all things in Genesis 1 and the God who promises to make all things new in Revelation 22 is the same triune God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Our Perfect, Unchangeable Triune God

The doctrine of the Trinity is a mystery of faith, but Scripture nonetheless teaches it clearly: We confess one God in three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We worship one God who alone can save us and into whose name we are baptized (Deut. 6:4; Isa. 44:6; Matt. 28:19; 2 Cor. 13:14). In our triune God, we have three distinct persons described in uniquely divine ways: a Father who desires to save, a Son who puts on flesh to live and die in our place, and a Holy Spirit who seals our inheritance and adoption as sons and daughters (Gal. 4:4–7; Eph. 1:3–14).

“Salvation belongs to the LORD,” says Psalm 3:8, and yet this salvation is only possible through the one Lord who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. To be faithful to Scripture, then, we must affirm the divinity of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit without arguing there are three gods or only one divine person.

Notice a few points from the explanation above. First, both the Old and New Testaments testify to God alone as Creator, Savior, and the One worthy of our worship. Scripture is a unified revelation of God, not merely a bunch of disconnected books patched together over time.

So, the same God is described in different ways, depending on issues like Scripture’s various genres (e.g., poetry uses different wording and images than Paul’s letters). Second, descriptions and actions reserved for God alone (e.g., creation, salvation, and reception of worship) are applied to Father, Son, and Holy Spirit equally and without apology. In short, these three persons are each God but they are not each other.

These three persons are each God but they are not each other.

If God truly is eternal, perfect, and unchanging, then he does not—cannot!—“become” something he was not before, including becoming a Trinity. The psalmist declares, “Before the mountains were born, before you gave birth to the earth and the world, from eternity to eternity, you are God” (Ps. 90:2, CSB).

This understanding of God’s eternal, perfect, unchanging nature should govern how we read Scripture, since that same God is the One who tells us about himself in Scripture. Therefore, since God doesn’t change, then we shouldn’t expect a different God in the New Testament than that revealed in the Old.

Two-Testament Witness to the Trinity

Matthew 1:21–23 tells us that Jesus (“God saves”) is Immanuel (“God with us”). These names are packed with significance about Jesus’s identity: Mary’s child, conceived by the Holy Spirit, is the Son of God himself in the flesh (see also John 1:14). In these three verses at the beginning of the New Testament, we get a glimpse into the doctrine of the Trinity. Not only that, but both these names intentionally bring to mind the Old Testament—Joshua and Isaiah, respectively.

Scripture constantly quotes and refers to itself. The Old Testament refers back to other stories and forward to future stories; the New Testament does the same. This is relevant for how we think about the Trinity, because the New Testament’s claims about the divinity of Christ and the Holy Spirit rely on the Old Testament in the first place. Jesus and his apostles describe the Son’s and Holy Spirit’s divinity using Old Testament texts and themes.

Let’s consider one obvious example: Jesus’s interactions with the Pharisees in John’s Gospel. In John 5, Jesus heals a man on the Sabbath and the Pharisees rebuke him. Why? “Not only was he breaking the Sabbath, but he was even calling God his own Father, making himself equal with God” (v. 18).

Jesus doubles down on this claim in 8:58 when he tells them, “Before Abraham was, I am”—a reference to God’s name revealed to Moses in Exodus 3:14. The Pharisees tell Jesus later, “It is not for a good work that we are going to stone you but for blasphemy, because you, being a man, make yourself God” (John 10:33).

These Jewish leaders—those who know the Scriptures the best—understand exactly what Jesus is claiming about himself. And Jesus never backs down from their claims but rather rebukes them for not believing. If they knew the Scriptures (in this case, the Old Testament), they would know he really is God in the flesh.

John sets up Jesus’s identity at the beginning of his Gospel. He starts with a familiar phrase: “In the beginning . . .” and describes God’s creation of all things, in which he gives life and light to the world. Amid this retelling of the creation story, we glimpse the Trinity: “The Word [Jesus] was with God, and the Word was God. . . . The one and only Son, who is himself God and is at the Father’s side—he has revealed him” (1:1, 18, CSB).

How is Jesus God and also with God? Once again, this is the mystery of the Trinity: There is one God, and yet this God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. To simplify John’s commentary on Genesis 1 here, we can say this: When the Father (“God” in this instance) spoke all things into existence, the creational Word was the Son, even as the Holy Spirit was God’s presence over his creation (Gen. 1:1–2). As a bonus, the Holy Spirit is often associated with God’s “breath”—adding to the idea that the Holy Spirit was active at creation when God spoke.

Jesus and his apostles describe the Son’s and Holy Spirit’s divinity using Old Testament texts and themes.

In this case, then, we are not forcing the Trinity into the Old Testament, nor are we saying the Trinity is only a New Testament idea. Instead, John connects the stories explicitly.

Genesis 1 does not use the words “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” nor does Exodus 3:14 say, “I, Yahweh, am Trinity.” The promise in Isaiah 7:14 that God would dwell with us did not say, “This child will be the eternally begotten Son of God,” but nonetheless pointed to the Son of God who would be born of a virgin for us and our salvation.

So the idea of the Trinity in the Old Testament is clear because the two Testaments rely on each other to make the claim. The same God is revealed and described in different ways.

Worship Our Triune God

Yes, the Trinity is in the Old Testament. Our triune God has always existed in a communion of love, long before the world began (John 17:5). All of Scripture teaches us this beautiful mystery: that we worship the one God who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The Word who gave life to all things is the Word who gives us new life in himself. The Holy Spirit whose presence assured creation of its Creator is the Holy Spirit who dwells in us as new creations.

The triune God who made all things is the triune God who will make all things new.

Randy explains why he wrote a whole book about animals in heaven, and why questions about animals bring into focus key aspects of the new creation.

Resources Mentioned:

• Heaven by Randy Alcorn
• All God’s Creatures by Randy Alcorn

Related Resources: 

• Will You Be Bored in Heaven?
• Heaven and the New Earth
• Where Is God When Your Dog Dies?

Discussion Questions:

I remember receiving my first email from an AI-sermon-assistant company. I replied immediately, no doubt naively assuming I’d be communicating with a human. I asked whomever had sent me the email to shut down what they were doing, and right away. I told them that what they were offering would cut out the very heart of preaching, to say nothing of the heart of the preachers who use their product.

I think about what Paul says to Timothy, words that should ring in the ears and register in every preacher’s heart : “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth” (2 Tim. 2:15, emphasis added).

You’d almost think Paul was trying to say something there: “Rightly handling God’s Word requires work, Timothy. Don’t neglect to do the work, Timothy.” We shouldn’t overlook or minimize Paul’s repeated emphasis on hard work.

I also think of how Ezra’s approach to his ministry of the Word is described: “For Ezra had set his heart to study the Law of the LORD, and to do it and to teach his statutes and rules in Israel” (Ezra 7:10, emphasis added). That “study” piece seems important.

We shouldn’t overlook or minimize Paul’s repeated emphasis on hard work.

Pastor, when you’re considering whether to use AI in your sermon preparation, first ask, How would I otherwise get done what I’m asking AI to do for me? What am I forfeiting by using AI to do this?

In many, perhaps most, cases, what I’m replacing is careful, prolonged thought and earnest, prolonged prayer. But those tasks are absolutely essential to faithful sermon preparation. Without them, our preaching is something other than what God has called us to do.

Any time you ask AI to replace essential study and prayer, you’ll deprive both yourself and your hearers of what’s necessary for faithful and effective preaching. There are two major reasons for this.

1. God uses careful study and earnest prayer to mold the preacher.

This prolonged work produces an effect that turns preaching from public speaking on a religious theme to a presentation of God’s Word in demonstration of the Spirit’s power. I love how Christopher Watkin puts this: “Which tasks are doing irreplaceable work in me while I do them?”

I trust we’re all thoroughly convinced of the priority of character in the equation of our preaching. How is this character built? God works character and credibility in us as we submit to the hard and thorough work necessary for preaching. Certain qualities are only developed through struggle and suffering.

Too often, way too often, AI eliminates the struggle and suffering, and as a result, the preacher is rendered anemic and insufficiently formed. Then, unavoidably, our people are underserved—in fact, ill served.

2. God uses careful study and earnest prayer to mold the sermon.

Not only does using AI forfeit a necessary work in the preacher, but it also forfeits a work necessary to the process of sermon preparation itself. Careful, prolonged study and earnest, prolonged prayer are needed if preachers are to understand the Word they’re called to preach. There’s no getting around this.

We need to take seriously Paul’s words to the Corinthians:

Who knows a person’s thoughts except the spirit of that person, which is in him? So also no one comprehends the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. Now we have received not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, that we might understand the things freely given us by God. And we impart this in words not taught by human wisdom but taught by the Spirit, interpreting spiritual truths to those who are spiritual (1 Cor. 2:11–13, emphasis added).

Paul then speaks of the things of God as being “spiritually discerned” (v. 14). How else are we to understand and discern spiritual things than by the Spirit? And how else are we to lay hold of the Spirit’s work than by humble, prolonged, earnest communion with him?

Pastor, when you’re considering whether to use AI in your sermon preparation, first ask, ‘What am I forfeiting by using AI to do this?’

These reasons are close to being two sides of the same coin, but each has a unique nuance. And in each case, something essential to preaching is forfeited by AI’s intrusion.

Now, you might legitimately ask, Is there no place at all for using AI in sermon preparation? I can’t go so far as to say there’s absolutely no use to which AI can be put safely and without loss.

But I appeal to all Christian preachers: Brothers, use it ever so sparingly and briefly, perhaps for some small bit of research. But never use it at the expense of your heart and the integrity of your calling. You were called to a task that requires prolonged, careful study and prolonged, earnest prayer. Don’t give those efforts up and in the process give over the effectiveness God promises to those who willingly do the work.

He points the finger at popular teachers like Russell Moore, David Platt, Tim Keller, and John Piper, as well as outlets like Christianity Today and The Gospel Coalition. He laments “low-agency” Christianity that maintains the status quo while our culture decays, and he commends a “High-Agency” Christianity that is “muscular,” “rugged,” courageous, and hopeful.

With witty turns of phrase and bold pastoral appeals, Clary presents readers with a stark choice: Surrender or advance; be a spiritual doormat or exercise dominion.

Unpacking Perceived Problems

The opening chapter unpacks what “Loser Theology” is. Clary writes, “I use the term because it’s a theology that advocates for losing as the way to be faithful to God. Loser Theology can refer to theological perspectives and movements that emphasize passivity, retreat, and defeat, often conflating suffering and loss with humility” (25).

Loser Theology presents “a half-Christ who always bears the cross, never wears the crown, and calls us to follow his example of losing.” It offers “no vision for victory” but sees believers only as a marginalized cultural minority (9).

The next three chapters substantiate this critique of Loser Theology, calling it “Spectator Spirituality” (chap. 2), “The Doormat Doctrine” (chap. 3), and “White Flag Christianity” (chap. 4).

Clary presents readers with a stark choice: Surrender or advance; be a spiritual doormat or exercise dominion.

Clary contends that the “gospel centered” movement associated with leaders like Keller presents a “narrow, therapeutic, hyper-introspective version” of the gospel “that stripped away the gospel’s public mandate to assert Christ’s lordship over all of life” (32). By emphasizing private spirituality over against earthly concerns, Loser Theology maintains “a significant blind spot, a kind of ‘deliberate inaction zone’ where outward engagement with the world is either discouraged or dismissed as worldly” (33).

Chapter 3 critiques popular pastors, like Platt and Piper, who call people to live radically for Christ and freely embrace suffering. Clary argues that advocates of Loser Theology imply by their strong rhetoric that serious Christians who truly love the Lord will sell their possessions, plant churches, and cross oceans to evangelize the lost, while ordinary middle-class churchgoers are second-rate. He claims that the “Doormat Doctrine” misunderstands suffering, persecution, human depravity, and humility.

Clary’s concern about engaging the political and cultural arenas emerges more clearly in chapter 4. He writes, “White Flag Christianity sanctifies political apathy with biblical language,” and calls Christians to live as “exiles, not culture warriors” (120). Appeals to “lay down power” may seem spiritual, but they are manipulative and misguided, Clary says, resulting in a muzzled public witness for the church and accelerating cultural decline.

Clary claims the church’s retreat from political responsibility leads to “Trust Fund Christianity,” where believers take for granted the cultural inheritance they’ve received (134). He borrows the label “Pessimillennialism” from David Chilton (a well-known Christian reconstructionist) for believers whose eschatology fosters an “expectation of losing” and does not motivate them to build and guard cultural institutions (137). Another feature of White Flag Christianity is “Wokevangelism,” a compromised “third way” strategy of defending the gospel by flattering progressives (142).

This sweeping critique sets up Clary’s commendation of “Rugged” or “High-Agency” Christianity in the chapter fittingly titled “The Righteous Pursuit of Power.” Jesus’s parable of the minas in Luke 19 is Clary’s key biblical anchor. The master is an investor, the first two servants are “men of action,” while the third servant is passive, takes no risks, and lives by fear.

Clary concludes, “In the economics of the Kingdom of God, there’s abundant grace for courageous Christians who take Spirit-filled risks and fall flat on their faces” (155). He commends agency, power, and authority as gifts rooted in the creation mandate of Genesis 1:28. Power, according to Clary, “is the ability to do things . . . agency in motion,” while authority is “the right to rule,” commanding or restraining the actions and attitudes of others (162, 169).

Chapter 6 unpacks “High-Agency Christianity,” which includes not only avoiding evil but also “pursuing the glory you were made for.” Clary shows that Christians participate in God’s glory by acting with courage and working with excellence. Chapter 7, “Hall of Courage,” highlights various biblical and contemporary exemplars of virtue, from David the giant slayer to the late activist and evangelist Charlie Kirk. Clary asks, “Are seminaries producing men of courage? Or have they become credential farms that add letters to our bios but fail to equip us with steeled spines?” (219–20).

Chapter 8 outlines “Twelve Disciplines of High-Agency Christianity”: (1) fear God, not man, (2) know thyself, (3) be meek, not weak, (4) reject victimhood, (5) take responsibility, (6) honor the ordinary, (7) grow in wisdom, (8) stop overspiritualizing big decisions, (9) do something you don’t have to do, (10) pursue self-control, (11) do all things with excellence, (12) take Spirit-filled risks.

These disciplines have some affinities with contemporary psychologies like Jordan Peterson’s 12 Rules for Life and Beyond Order, Ryan Holiday’s Courage Is Calling, and Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt’s The Coddling of the American Mind. Many will likely agree with Clary’s 12 rules, even some whom Clary accuses of promoting Loser Theology.

Commending What Is Commendable

I have some significant disagreements with and questions about Clary’s project, but I also appreciate and commend his calls for moral clarity and Spirit-wrought courage in times when both are in short supply.

Clary rightly calls Christians to stand firm against abortion, homosexuality, and transgender ideology even if our culture celebrates such sins in the name of love, progress, and (intolerant) tolerance. He rightly warns against adjusting our doctrine or apologizing for what the Bible teaches as though “God has a PR problem” (141). I am reminded of Don Carson’s prescient warnings about “subtle ways to abandon the authority of Scripture in our lives,” such as “heart embarrassment before the text.”

Many will likely agree with Clary’s 12 rules, even some whom Clary accuses of promoting Loser Theology.

Courage is one of the dominant themes of this book. Clary asks whether our churches and seminaries are producing men of courage “forged by a lion-hearted faith through the flames of adversity” (220). I take this question to heart as a husband and father, a church member, a minister of the gospel, and a seminary president. I want to be a man of conviction and courage, and I want my sons and my students to “be strong and courageous” (Josh. 1:9). One of my editorial columns in Themelios commended Nehemiah’s prayerful, faith-filled, courageous, and discerning leadership in response to vicious slander, violent threats, and stringent opposition.

Clary issues blunt challenges and bold invitations that many—perhaps especially young men—need to hear. Ditch Call of Duty and embrace real responsibility. Get off the couch and make your life count. Or as the apostle Paul says, “Flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart” (2 Tim. 2:22); “Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong” (1 Cor. 16:13).

Eight Reasons for Caution

While there is much to commend in this project, there are also reasons for caution and concern.

In the spirit of “test everything; hold fast to what is good” (1 Thess. 5:21), I offer eight questions to reflect on the claims and contribution of Loser Theology.

Who Are the ‘Losers’?

Clary’s provocative title prepares for several different sorts of critique that are bundled together.

First, Loser Theology may refer to Christians who are passive, slothful, fearful, and coasting through life. They need a fiery pep talk to stop burying their minas, read the book of Proverbs, and pursue something that is hard yet good—get married, start a business, serve your community. Clary is perhaps most effective when addressing this group of “losers.”

Then there are Christian leaders whom Clary critiques for their left-leaning theology and limited cultural vision. His most frequent target is Russell Moore, his former theology professor at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. He takes issue with Moore’s assertion, “The Bible Belt is teetering toward collapse, and I say let it fall” (5).

Clary accuses Moore not only of progressive sympathies but also of hypocrisy: “When one of the most powerful voices in evangelicalism is telling us to give up power—when one of the most influential voices in evangelicalism is telling us to give up influence—it starts to feel like you’re being played” (7). And he calls out Moore’s “rage” when commenting on the events of January 6, 2021, and more recently on a televised interview with Doug Wilson. Clary does not hold back: “Ironically, CNN was interviewing Pastor Wilson precisely because he’s winning. . . . Moore doesn’t want all Christians to embrace the loser posture, just the conservative ones” (14–15).

Loser Theology also extends to a third group of Christian leaders like Platt and Piper, whose theology largely aligns with Clary’s but whose rhetoric leads people astray into waving the white flag in the public square, embracing unhealthy views of suffering and risk, and feeling guilty about enjoying the good gifts of life. Clary’s argument is imprecise and tendentious at points, offering as evidence claims like “I’ve seen firsthand how people apply this teaching in ways Piper may not have intended” (73) or “Some do just that. I’ve seen it myself” (94).

But throughout this book, Clary himself employs strong rhetoric in calling people to live by faith and take Spirit-filled risks. At times, Clary sounds like Piper and Platt calling people to rejoice in suffering, live radically for Christ, and carry out the Great Commission. I can wonder if the real issue is not a preacher’s strong rhetoric but what aims are worthy of faith-filled risk taking.

Clary’s analysis may have been strengthened by engaging other works like Michael Horton’s Ordinary, which urges readers to turn from frantic striving to seeking contentment in the gospel and God’s “ordinary means of grace.” Yet Clary’s animating concern is not commending everyday means of grace but casting a vision for “recovering cultural ground, rebuilding institutional courage, and training a generation to engage the world with confidence” (22–23).

In What Arena Do We Strive?

Here is the nub of the issue: Clary’s project urges Christians to set their sights on “winning” in the arena of politics and culture. He wants them to not pursue ordinary faithfulness to Christ but also “to move society” like courageous saints of old (271). He writes,

Christianity built the greatest, freest, most prosperous, and most virtuous society the world has ever seen. The Christian West was built by godly men and women with a superior work ethic, competence, and resolve. It should be the same in our day. We should be known for our fortitude, honesty, conviction, loyalty, courage, and faith. No one is going to give it to us. We have to go out there and take it. (271)

Clary’s call is inspiring, but does his vision accord with the teaching of the New Testament? Yes and no, in my view.

It is easy to find biblical support for most of Clary’s “Twelve Disciplines” enumerated above, particularly general exhortations like “fear God, not man,” “grow in wisdom,” and “pursue self-control.” Some others like “reject victimhood” and “stop over spiritualizing big decisions” are more specific applications of pastoral wisdom to American Christians. And Clary’s charge that “it’s time to step into the arena” (272) would have a much different connotation for believers living before Constantine: When Christians like Polycarp and Perpetua stepped into the arena, it was for the public spectacle of their executions.

What Power Should We Seek?

Clary’s discussion of “the righteous pursuit of power” is a mixed bag. He correctly explains that God’s power is fully and gloriously displayed in the gospel, and that Jesus promises his witnesses power to carry out his mission (162–64). Clary concludes, “Therefore, we should regard the totality of the Christian life and obedience as not primarily marked by weakness, but by power” (164).

Clary’s call is inspiring, but does his vision accord with the teaching of the New Testament?

Then he immediately pivots to reject Acton’s famous dictum—“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely”—and reasons that righteous people should seek out institutional power. This seems to be an example of equivocation, shifting from one meaning of a term (power) to another meaning midway through an argument. Spirit-wrought power to bear witness to the gospel of Jesus Christ, pray, and fight sin is different than exercising a political position of power.

Clary confidently appeals to the laudable example of William Wilberforce as “a clear refutation of Acton’s thesis,” but here again the author’s logic does not follow. A member of the House of Commons does not have “absolute power,” and one positive example of a Christian who “learned to wield [institutional power] for the glory of God” does not confirm Clary’s claim that “a righteous man with power becomes more effective at doing good” (165).

Paul Tripp has called pastoral ministry a “dangerous calling,” and other positions of power and authority present their own temptations and trappings, dangers that require spiritual vigilance: “Therefore let anyone who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall” (1 Cor. 10:12).

Nevertheless, I affirm with Clary that godly Christians should be zealous for good works and should not shrink back from opportunities to lead, serve, and promote what is good. I agree with Jonathan Leeman: “Authority is a good and dangerous gift. People can use authority for great good or for great evil.”

We start by exercising godly authority in managing our own households well (1 Tim. 3:4), and then by aspiring to serve God’s household, the church (v. 5). We don’t want to be like Diotrephes, “who loves to be first” (3 John 9, NIV), but seek to follow Christ’s example of radical, self-denying service (Matt. 20:28).

I know from experience that it is a weighty responsibility and amazing privilege to raise children in the fear and admonition of the Lord, to preach God’s Word to the gathered church, to watch over the souls of fellow saints, to manage employees, to lead an organization, to serve on a board, to coach a team. In these and other areas, leaders serve “by the strength that God supplies” that the Lord may receive glory through Jesus Christ (1 Pet. 4:11).

What Sustains Us Through Suffering?

Clary’s treatment of suffering is likewise inconsistent. He acknowledges, rightly, that “sometimes the path to glory runs through suffering,” and that believers must endure trials and even persecution following Christ’s example (208). Yet earlier in the book, Clary takes issue with Piper’s claim that “the call of Christ is a call to live a life of sacrifice and loss and suffering,” which Piper clearly qualifies as “a life that would be foolish to live if there were no resurrection from the dead.”

It may appear that both authors are making similar points, yet Clary claims that Piper’s “rhetoric” glamorizes suffering and leads people to conclude that their main duty is to “get stepped on for Jesus, then go to heaven” (75–76). This is sloppy scholarship and a misleading caricature of Piper’s theology of suffering. Piper in Desiring God calls suffering “the Sacrifice of Christian Hedonism,” and he goes to great lengths to stress that believers do not seek suffering as an end in itself; rather, we pursue “joy in God, whatever the pain,” which powerfully testifies to God’s supreme worth.

Clary goes on to explain,

A high-agency Christian will encounter more opportunities to suffer precisely because they are in motion, enduring painful losses during courses of action they could have avoided. The single man who risks rejection to pursue a godly woman is exercising the same high-agency faith as the missionary who risks danger to plant a church. It’s the same principle applied at a different scale. (209)

Is this in fact the case? I grant that pursuing marriage to a fellow believer and laboring in a distant land to make Christ known are both worthy aims that require faith and faithfulness. But Clary seems to be implying more than this.

Elsewhere in Loser Theology, he pushes back against the assumption that “ordinary, middle-class” Christians are “JV” compared to more spiritual, more radical “Varsity Christians” who serve as missionaries (67). He contends that Platt and other teachers lead many passionate young people to spend years “chasing missionary glory when they should have been providing for a family instead” (95).

While I agree that it is unwise to “hastily” send out missionaries who are motivated by false guilt and glory-seeking, I am concerned that Clary does not acknowledge or encourage worthy motivations for missionary service like zeal for the glory of God (Hab. 2:14), a concern for lost people (Luke 15:4), and a longing to make Christ known to those who have never heard the gospel (Rom. 10:15; 15:20–21).

What About the Global Church?

Loser Theology only occasionally mentions the global church. Clary writes, “In other parts of the world, people routinely face violent, tribal horrors that people in the Christianized West can barely imagine.” He then highlights the example of Nigeria: “Christians are being routinely slaughtered in such numbers to constitute genocide. Entire villages have been burned, pastors beheaded, women raped and taken as slaves, with the international Christian community remaining largely silent” (135).

How does muscular, high-agency Christianity respond to such fiery trials that Christians around the world are facing? The New Testament provides various instructions and examples of prayer, solidarity, and support for suffering saints (e.g., Acts 11:29–30; 1 Cor. 12:26; 2 Thess. 1:4; Heb. 10:32–34; 1 Pet. 5:6–10). I expect that Clary would encourage his congregation to respond in these sorts of ways, yet Loser Theology stresses that these troubles are taking place “in countries that once had a robust Christian cultural influence and surrendered it” (135).

Thus, the persecution of believers abroad is mentioned merely as a cautionary tale “of what happens when evangelical Christians abandon the public square.” He writes, “Are we so foolish to think these things couldn’t happen in the United States?” (145).

What Ambition Should We Rescue?

Clary frequently speaks positively of “ambition.” For example,

Glory scales with ambition. That’s why these things matter. The hope of glory is meant to be a powerful motivator to pursue ambitious goals. The greater the ambition, the greater the participation in glory when it is accomplished. . . . Glory is out on the battlefield, pursuing ambitious goals, and taking risks. (211)

He says that Loser Theology questions or suppresses ambition because it may be tainted by pride or other sinful motives. He commends the examples of “high-agency” billionaire tech pioneers Marc Andreessen and Steve Jobs, who “understand how power can be wielded to accomplish incredible things” (237–38).

Clary does not acknowledge or encourage worthy motivations for missionary service like zeal for the glory of God and a concern for lost people.

But Clary does not discuss either the New Testament’s warnings against “selfish ambition” (e.g., Phil. 2:3) or the New Testament’s clear commendations of the aspiration to live quietly and work with one’s hands (1 Thess. 4:11), the holy desire to serve the church as an overseer (1 Tim. 3:1), or the missionary ambition to preach the gospel where Christ has not been named (Rom. 15:20). I worry that the ambition of “High-Agency Christianity” aligns more with the ideals of this world than with the countercultural values of the kingdom of God.

What Future Hope Fuels Our Mission?

This muscular Christianity is fueled by an optimistic vision of the future here on earth, not by the “pessimillennialism” of Left Behind. Regrettably, Clary does not expound on his own eschatological positions, but four positive references to David Chilton’s works (Paradise Restored and The Days of Vengeance) suggest he is at least sympathetic to a version of postmillennialism.

Further, Clary follows recent postmillennial interpreters in rendering Matthew 28:19 “disciple the nations,” arguing that this command extends beyond “the souls of individuals . . . to the nations they inhabit.” He explains, “Every domain of human life must be brought under the Lordship of Christ, including law, art, education, government, family, and business. The Great Commission doesn’t narrow the Creation Mandate to spiritual matters alone” (161).

Yet Jeremy Sexton has convincingly argued that our Lord does not command us to disciple nations qua nations but individuals from all the nations, since nations as such cannot receive baptism or personal discipleship. Even when biblical arguments fall short under close scrutiny, the modern brand of postmillennialism seems appealing to many. Sexton explains why:

It focuses on this world, to which our hearts are naturally drawn, rather than on the one to come. It promises triumph in this age, and modern postmillennial movement leaders (from Rushdoony to Wilson) inspire their followers to fight for that victory. Postmillennialism rejects retreatism and denounces defeatism, offering a more compelling narrative instead.

What Is True Victory?

Finally, the Winner Theology promoted in this book does not square with Scripture’s vision for true “victory” for those in Christ. The verb νικάω occurs 17 times in Revelation and is typically translated “overcome,” “conquer,” or “be victorious.” The book’s victory motif highlights the tension between the earthly and heavenly perspective on the church’s situation.

On the one hand, the church hardly seems to be winning: John has been relegated to an island, and believers face tribulation, poverty, slander, imprisonment, weakness, rejection, and even death (Rev. 1:9; 2:9–10, 13; 3:8–9; 6:9–11; 20:4). Further, the beast makes war on the saints and conquers them (13:7; cf. 11:7).

On the other hand, God repeatedly promises a glorious inheritance in the new Jerusalem to “the one who conquers” (2:7, 11, 17, 26; 3:5, 12, 31; 21:7). Thus Revelation ironically casts the church as conquered conquerors who experience present suffering and defeat yet await ultimate victory. Our perception of true victory is shaped by the Lion of Judah who ironically conquered as the slain Lamb (5:5–6) and who will achieve complete victory over the beast and his allies (17:14; 19:11–21).

“Victory” is not a matter of military might, political influence, or athletic achievement; rather, it entails costly faithfulness to Christ and spiritual conquest against sin and evil. According to Revelation 12:11, God’s people conquer Satan “by the word of their testimony, for they [love] not their lives even unto death.”

Craig Koester explains, “Revelation transforms the images of conquest and victory, which brought high honor in Greco-Roman culture, into a call for Christians to resist aspects of that culture. Faithfulness to Jesus could bring dishonor in society, yet in Christ’s eyes the faithful are worthy of the victory wreath.”

I worry that the ambition of ‘High-Agency Christianity’ aligns more with the ideals of this world than with the countercultural values of the kingdom of God.

Thus, the final book of holy Scripture redefines “victory” for the church this side of glory as we “follow the Lamb wherever he goes” (14:4).

The New Testament includes examples of office holders, military leaders, and other people of means, status, and influence who received the good news of Jesus Christ and were called to be “rich in good works” (1 Tim. 6:18). But the apostle reminds the church, “Not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth” (1 Cor. 1:26, emphasis added).

Paul himself has ample reasons for confidence in his Roman citizenship, his Jewish piety, his impressive education, and even his status as an apostle of Jesus Christ, yet he concludes, “I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him” (Phil. 3:8–9, emphasis added).

Better Challenge

Michael Clary wants masculine, high-agency Christian leaders to “out-hustle, out-work, and outsmart the pagans competing against them,” and he insists it’s time to stop making excuses and “step into the arena” (272).

It’s a bold challenge for the 21st-century American church, but ultimately Clary misses the mark by redefining “winning” and “losing” according to conservative American values and optimistic eschatology rather than the priorities of Jesus and the apostles.

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Editors’ Note: A version of this article will appear in the upcoming issue of Themelios.

When you visit the Faroe Islands, you can’t take your eyes off the scenery—especially on rare days when the sun shines.

As I wrote about after my visit to Copenhagen last year, we can see the conditions that have delivered storm clouds of secularism across much of northern Europe. The combination of Protestantism and established churches has dismantled Christian belief and especially practice in the region.

In this land, the light of gospel radiates more brightly than anywhere else in the Nordic region

The exception can be found on the Faroe Islands, whose windswept fjords feel like the end of world, amid the vast Atlantic Ocean between Iceland and Norway, north of the Shetland and Hebrides isles. In this land where the sun almost never shines (no city in the whole world is gloomier than the Faroese capital, Tórshavn) the light of gospel radiates more brightly than anywhere else in the Nordic region.

Persevering Faith

Why? I asked my gracious hosts as they fed me from the bounty of the sea, as they drove me through horizontal rains around mountain turns, as they honored their ancestors with the story of their persevering faith.

The first clue came in our visit to Fuglafjørður, situated in the northeast on the island of Eysturoy. From our host we learned about his great-grandfather, the 20th-century Brethren missionary and Bible translator Victor Danielsen.

The statue outside his former church commemorates Danielsen’s most notable accomplishment, the first Bible translated for the common people in Faroese instead of the colonial Danish. Today, the Brethren compose at least 10 percent of the islands’ population of some 55,000, including the 29-year-old prime minister, who was on my flight to Copenhagen. He planned to meet with the Danish king.

The Faroese treasure their independence within the Danish Commonwealth. Not until 1938 did the Faroe Islands secure Danish permission to use Faroese in their churches and schools. It’s no coincidence that Danielsen’s New Testament translation published one year earlier, in 1937.

Early Brethren missionaries from the United Kingdom saw no spiritual fruit from their labors for two decades. But with Danielsen’s ministry, the Brethren became champions of the ordinary Faroese, who trace ethnic roots to the British Isles, shared colonial identity to Greenland, and remote island affinity to Iceland.

I’ve observed in studies of secularism in the modern West that thriving Christian movements require medium tension with their host cultures. But opposition isn’t sufficient. The Brethren wouldn’t have gained a missionary foothold only by criticizing Lutheran state religion. Resisting secularism requires channeling the aspirations of the people too.

The Brethren set themselves apart with a high view of biblical authority and countercultural holiness, traits that still characterize their followers even as they’ve ascended into the islands’ globally engaged business elite. But they also came to embody native Faroese values and aspirations as a free and independent people, proud of their ancient island culture. In this they resemble the history of Presbyterian missions in Korea as well as the Persian culture that at least last decade held out against Islamic hegemony in Iran.

Is Secularism a Fad?

After preaching Esther 4 in view of the lovely fjord village of Norðragøta, I spoke with Brethren who have earned PhDs in the United Kingdom, opposed abortion and gay marriage in the Faroese Parliament, and traveled the world to represent local business interests (at least 90 percent of the islands’ exports relate to the fishing industry).

For such a remote setting, the high standard of living surprised me. The Faroes’ GDP per capita exceeds Denmark, even if it falls short of the world-leading Norwegians and their vast oil reserves. Many of the homes appeared new, compared to what I’ve seen in other Nordic countries. Over that succulent meal of whale and shark, I learned that the prosperity dates back only about 30 years, and especially in the last 15, due to the success of salmon farming and rising fish prices, following a collapse of the Faroe economy in the 1990s.

Once again, Faroese Christianity bucks the trend, providing the second clue. Economic development is supposed to deliver secularism. That’s the story Denmark and other Nordic countries tell of their “modern breakthrough,” the transition from the backward, rural 19th century to the progressive, urbane 20th.

But what if secularism is less of an economic inevitability and more of a philosophical fad taking root in the developed West roughly between the 1860s and 1960s? And what if lack of economic development during that century shielded some cultures from the full effects of secularism? Even when those cultures catch up, they don’t necessarily descend the whole ladder to secularism.

In this regard, the Faroe Islands could be similar to regions of the United States, especially the Southeast, that developed later and thus far retain much higher rates of Christian belief and observance compared to regions that prospered during that earlier period. And like the Southeast, the Faroe Islands have become a missionary engine, launching gospel workers throughout Europe and even around the world.

Skip Secularism

Have my new friends in the Faroe Islands helped cracked the code to Christian endurance amid secularism? I wouldn’t put anything past these resilient people tucked inside treeless mountains on the shores of the mighty Atlantic.

What if secularism is less of an economic inevitability and more of a philosophical fad?

Perhaps the period of acute secularism could be skipped, and we’re not waiting for another shoe to drop as the Faroe Islands prosper. Perhaps the Brethren have charted a course for us from the edge of the world. Moderate cultural opposition is necessary but not sufficient. The gospel’s indigenizing principle must also capture the aspirations of people made in the image of God as they enjoy his common grace.

Big breakthroughs can start in small places. Of all people, Christians know that story.

That’s why the Bible puts such an emphasis on careful, cultivated thinking on the world to come as a key priority for the Christian life. And that’s why I’m so grateful for Finally Home: The Christian Hope of Heaven, the latest book from Dane Ortlund, senior pastor of Naperville Presbyterian Church.

He writes with two goals in mind: “theological clarity” and “personal fortification” (2). On both fronts, he wonderfully succeeds.

Theological Clarity

In recent decades, the best-selling books on heaven tend to read more like travel memoirs than works of systematic theology. Books like 90 Minutes in Heaven or Heaven Is for Real have sold millions of copies because, relying on first-hand accounts of near-death experiences, they feed on understandable curiosity about what happens when we die. When you know you’re going somewhere you’ve never been, it only makes sense to ask someone who’s been there what to expect.

Aside from questions about their sincerity, or conflicting details in various accounts, books like this are grounded on the wrong person’s experiences.

For Christians united to Jesus, our anchor is what Christ has been through. Our horizon is set by where he is now (see Col. 3:1–4). And our confidence for anything we know about our future rests on the authority of his Word. Nothing less will stand up to what life will throw at anyone who lives long enough.

Ortlund gives us what God has to say about what he has in store for his people. Of course, there are chapters on the main texts about heaven—texts like 1 Thessalonians 4, or 1 John 3, or Revelation 21. But more than specific passages, he grounds his thinking about heaven in the sweeping storyline of the Scriptures.

We don’t simply need more vivid imaginations to appreciate the richness of where we’re going. We need deeper understanding of the arc of redemption, and of themes like the garden of Eden or the “the house of the Lord,” all of which find their fulfillment in the world to come.

We don’t simply need more vivid imaginations to appreciate the richness of where we’re going. We need deeper understanding of the arc of redemption.

What we need most at the center of our perspective on our future is the person at the center of all the Bible. A direct correlation exists between the tendency to drift into speculation and the tendency to drift away from Jesus. We can fixate on the possible perks and lose perspective on the One who makes heaven what it is. The Bible’s focus remains on the joy of seeing Jesus face-to-face and, in seeing him, becoming like him.

Ortlund’s focus stays there too: “What do we call heaven without Jesus? Hell” (21). All the good gifts of God’s new world are to Jesus what a frame is to a Rembrandt painting: “The frame matters. It’s the environment, the setting, in which the painting lives. But the painting’s the thing” (27).

Personal Fortification

It’s not enough to consider what we need to know about the world to come. We also need to understand why we need to know what we know. Ortlund’s book shines in making these connections for us.

For example, Revelation 21 describes heaven as a world of unblemished cleanness. Why do we need to know that? Because for now, sanctification means everyday war. We feel the guilt of sin even as we cling to our forgiveness.

Heaven is the lining up subjectively of what we already objectively are in Christ. We are positionally clean now. We will also be experientially clean then. (49)

Ephesians 2 describes heaven as a world designed by God to show us the riches of his grace forever. Why do we need to know that? So that when we’re troubled by our own unworthiness, “we may freely set aside our hesitancy to believe that the more it seems we ought not to be in heaven, the more God delights to see us there” (60).

Second Corinthians 4 describes heaven as a world whose glory is prepared by the pain we suffer in this life. Why do we need to know that? Because we crave assurance that our pain is never wasted.

A trampoline sends you only as high up in the air as you have first gone down into it. This life is a trampoline descent into pain and heartache. And as low as we go here, that high will the Lord raise us there. (118)

From beginning to end, this book is written from the heart of a pastor who loves his people and wants to help them connect what they’re going through to where they’re going.

More Devotional than Systematic

In format and tone, Finally Home reads more like Gentle and Lowly than it does, say, Randy Alcorn’s Heaven. Its structure is loose and meditative, not overtly systematic. Its chapter titles are more allusive than concrete, its text subdivided by line breaks rather than subheadings. That means it’s not the kind of book you’ll pull from the shelf for a quick summary of one subtopic or another. But it’s perfectly suited to devotional reading, with an open Bible and a pencil in hand.

It’s not enough to consider what we need to know about the world to come. We also need to understand why we need to know what we know.

Those who enjoyed Gentle and Lowly will surely love this book too. It has the same dramatic earnestness in tone. It draws on the same mine of historical sources, from Goodwin and Brooks to Augustine and Lewis. It’s a steady stream of warm, direct encouragement. And it’s unashamedly focused on our future for the perspective we need on our present. As Ortlund reminds us, “For anyone not united to Jesus Christ, this life is the best it will ever get. For anyone united to Jesus Christ, this life is the worst it will ever get” (1).

I can hardly imagine a Christian who wouldn’t benefit from a close and prayerful reading of Finally Home. Our hearts need the hope of heaven like our bodies need protein. Until Christ returns, we’ll never see a day when we won’t need more.

Sadly, conservative evangelicals haven’t been immune to this crisis. Some people have said that evangelical theology, complementarian views of women in pastoral leadership, and even the penal substitutionary view of the atonement are causes of the abuse crisis.

When my husband and I suffered abuse in the church, and when we shepherded people going through similar hurt, we found the opposite to be true. We kept returning to solid, biblical theology. We even returned to the theology of penal substitutionary atonement (PSA). This doctrine is a valuable help, not a hindrance, if you’re suffering in or shepherding others through an abuse crisis. Here’s why.

1. God cares about sin, so don’t downplay it.

The doctrine of PSA tells us that God cares deeply about sin. He hates it, and it deserves his holy wrath. Psalm 5:4–6 (NIV throughout) says,

For you are not a God who is pleased with wickedness;
    with you, evil people are not welcome.
The arrogant cannot stand
    in your presence.
You hate all who do wrong;
    you destroy those who tell lies.
The bloodthirsty and deceitful
    you, LORD, detest.

God cannot have fellowship with darkness. He must punish sin. We know he cares about dealing with sin justly, because he sent his only Son to take the punishment our sins deserve in our place. Every sin—every act of abuse—will face the fullness of God’s wrath, whether laid on Jesus at the cross or when the unbelieving sinner is judged.

So don’t downplay abuse or the suffering it causes. I’ve found it helpful to remember that God cares about this sin even more than I do. And given sin’s gravity, we also shouldn’t push for forgiveness as our first pastoral response. This could suggest the abuse doesn’t matter much or that it’s not an offense to God. The first response instead should be grief and an acknowledgment of the sin’s seriousness.

2. God exposes sin, so don’t hide it.

In Jesus’s death on the cross, God makes our sin public. He exposes it for the serious offense it is. Colossians 2:13–15 says,

When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the charge of our legal indebtedness, which stood against us and condemned us; he has taken it away, nailing it to the cross. And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross.

Every sin—every act of abuse—will face the fullness of God’s wrath, whether laid on Jesus at the cross or when the unbelieving sinner is judged.

God doesn’t hide sin or brush it under the carpet. His plan was the cross, where Jesus was publicly humiliated. Jesus cancels the charge of our indebtedness, not by quietly throwing it aside but by publicly nailing it to his cross and paying for it there. First John 1:7 reminds us that it’s when we walk openly, in the light, that Jesus’s propitiatory blood “purifies us from all sin.”

So we do the gospel no justice if we hide abuse in the church. The work of exposing lies and the power of darkness that’s at work in church abuse is in line with Christ’s triumph on the cross. We don’t need to share unhelpful, salacious details. But we want abuse to be acknowledged and abusers removed. Truth is upheld when we walk in the light.

3. God will work justice, so don’t take vengeance.

Often, victims of abuse don’t see their abusers come to justice. Abuse tends to be hidden and without many witnesses, so sufferers may not get the legal satisfaction they hope for. In such situations, it’s tempting for the victim to look for earthly vengeance instead. PSA can help us reorient our longing for justice.

In Romans 3:25, Paul reminds us, “God presented Christ as a sacrifice of atonement, through the shedding of his blood—to be received by faith. He did this to demonstrate his righteousness.”

At the cross, we see that God is righteous in his judgment. The logic of Romans 1–3 shows us what PSA presupposes: God will rightly judge the whole world. That’s why we need penal substitution in the first place, to turn aside God’s wrath against us and our sin. Now, when we look back at the cross, we’re reminded that God will finally judge all: “This will take place on the day when God judges people’s secrets through Jesus Christ, as my gospel declares” (2:16).

Jesus cancels the charge of our indebtedness, not by quietly throwing it aside but by publicly nailing it to his cross.

We should encourage victims of abuse that God will bring justice that will completely satisfy both our needs and God’s demands. Either an abuser will truly repent, and in that case, Jesus will have taken the just judgment for him, or the abuser will remain unrepentant, and he will surely face God’s wrath.

Don’t let the sufferer cling to the false hope of human vengeance but to the certain hope of God’s righteousness. As Paul goes on to say, “Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord” (12:19).

As you shepherd your own heart and the hearts of others through abuse, don’t be tempted to step away from solid evangelical theology. The best answers for abuse are in the Bible, and a healthy theology of PSA will give you a firm foundation from which to comfort God’s children who have been abused.

This doctrine has helped me return to the cross in my suffering. There, I see that God cares, and I have courage to wait on the God of all righteousness, who will bring every hidden deed to light, and to justice.

If you’re ready to go deeper, Southern Seminary’s PhD program is where that begins. Visit sbts.edu/phd to learn more.

Nobody saw this one coming.

When Allen Levi self-published Theo, it was joining more than 2.6 million other self-published titles that year. The odds of anyone (other than his friends and family) reading it were minuscule—the average self-published book sells around 250 copies over its lifetime.

So why did Allen, who was then 67 years old, bother to join them?

Well, he wasn’t going to—until his best friends begged him to do it.

Who are these friends? And how can we grow friendships like this, where we know each other well, love each other deeply, and encourage each other to use our gifts to love God and neighbor?

Prediction markets have gone from being a marginal concern to a major problem. A White House teleprompter operator was placed on leave in July and is under investigation for making more than $100,000 from predicting what President Trump would say in his speeches. In April, a U.S. special operations soldier was arrested and charged with using classified information as a participant in the operation that removed Venezuelan president Nicolás Maduro. He made more than $400,000 placing bets on the raid using his insider information.

These situations aren’t just about abusing inside knowledge. They point to something deeply concerning in our culture: Every piece of information has monetary value, and people are trying to cash in on it.

What makes it worse is that the casino’s dopamine rush has come to our pockets via apps like Kalshi and Polymarket. They use the language of prediction markets to push their products, but there’s little practical difference between the services they offer and those marketed by DraftKings or FanDuel. The only real difference is the topic of interest. These modern prediction-market apps are just gambling by another name.

What Are Prediction Markets?

Prediction markets are open markets where people buy or sell contracts, or exchanges, based on the outcome of future events. The prices are based on collective probability, or what traders collectively think will happen. They’re peer-to-peer bets in which participants enter into “yes/no” contracts on an event.

For example, will Christopher Nolan win an Oscar for The Odyssey? The contract will pay $1 if the answer is yes, and $0 if the answer is no. If the contract is trading at $0.75, the market is predicting a 75 percent chance of that outcome. Any new information that may affect the outcome can change the probability or the price of the exchange. Anyone with access to the app can bet on anything from politics to sports to cultural events.

Gambling and prediction markets are more similar than different. The similarities are that they both entail wagering on uncertain outcomes. Additionally, participants either win or lose money based on outcomes.

The major differences lie in the mechanisms by which wagers are made and who determines the probabilities and odds. In sports gambling, the odds are set by the house to reduce the risk and increase the probability of the house winning. The house’s goal is to make a profit, so, in essence, it’s the opponent. The goal for bettors is to beat the house.

Prediction markets are a crowdsourced forecasting model in which prices reflect probability estimates, and participants make trades based on their estimates of outcomes, so the competition is with fellow traders.

Prediction markets are a crowdsourced forecasting model. The competition is with fellow traders.

Another major difference is the institutions that regulate these practices. Sports gambling and the larger industry are regulated on a state-by-state basis through state gaming commissions and boards. Prediction markets are currently federally regulated through the Commodity Futures Trading Commission, though New Jersey is fighting to gain that power.

What’s Wrong with Prediction Markets?

Prediction markets are especially concerning because they circumvent laws governing sports gambling. When the U .S. Supreme Court overturned the Professional and Amateur Sports Protection Act (PASPA), regulatory authority over sports gambling fell to the states. Where sports gambling is illegal, prediction markets become a means to bypass state laws.

One can place “trades” on performances that are technically considered prop bets, or on the outcomes of the Super Bowl, the NCAA basketball tournament, or any other sporting event. It functions as a loophole for sports betting and, in effect, is simply another gambling platform.

Prediction markets also enable insider trading, or the manipulation of the market for financial gain based on information that isn’t publicly available. In the cases of the teleprompter operator and the special operations soldier, they had inside information that greatly influenced how they traded and placed their wagers, allowing them to profit substantially. Traders who have access to inside information or who can directly shape outcomes essentially become the house, rigging the game in their favor.

However, the most concerning problem is the potential commodification of human life and tragedy. Because prediction markets can apply to a wide range of events, people can place wagers on military operations, casualty counts, natural disasters, pandemics, and even the deaths of public figures. This is disturbing because prediction markets turn human life and suffering into objects of speculation.

In 2025, for example, people were buying and selling contracts on how fast the Los Angeles wildfires would grow and how much damage they would do. Public tragedies become a way to make a quick buck. They also create perverse incentives to potentially make problems worse so that a prediction contract is fulfilled.

Should Christians Participate in Prediction Markets?

Gambling’s harmful effects are well documented, which is why many Christians oppose sports betting. A similar case can be made against prediction markets.

Public tragedies become a way to make a quick buck. They also create perverse incentives to potentially make problems worse so that a prediction contract is fulfilled.

When we consider the harmful social effects of gambling and the fact that the prediction market industry relies on covetousness to fuel its business model, it’s hard to reconcile prediction markets with the fruit of the Spirit. Though gambling has had a mixed reception in the Christian tradition, we should ask whether these endeavors produce love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Gal. 5:22–23).

Christians are called to depend on God’s provision and steward with wisdom and contentment the resources he gives us. Prediction markets tempt us to wager God-given resources on speculation about the future, trying to gain quick money rather than investing wisely. As James reminds us, we “do not know what tomorrow will bring” (James 4:14). Instead of trying to wager money on our predictions, we should be working to cultivate virtue.

Though gambling in its various forms is often marketed as innocent entertainment, we should be wary of the ways it draws us into the love of money, which is the root of all kinds of evil (1 Tim. 6:10). We may be tempted to treat prediction markets as a form of harmless fun, but it’s helpful to remember that “all money ain’t good money.”

Theo of Golden may be the most unlikely breakout bestseller of all time. The book, which has sold around 4 million copies, is the highest selling print book in America this year. Beginning in November 2025, it’s spent every week on the New York Times bestseller list—and it’s been on the Amazon bestseller list even longer. The book has already been translated into 43 languages. There’s a movie agreement in the works with Warner Brothers, and Tom Hanks is involved.

Nobody saw this one coming.

When Allen Levi self-published Theo in 2023, it joined more than 2.6 million other self-published titles that year. The odds of anyone other than Allen’s friends and family reading it were minuscule—the average self-published book sells around 250 copies over its lifetime. And even that number is pulled higher by a few outliers—90 percent of self-published books sell fewer than 100 copies.

So why did Allen, who was then 67 years old, bother to join them?

Well, he wasn’t going to. But he’s got this group of friends, guys he’s known for years, and they get together annually to check in with each other.

“He said, ‘Well, I fulfilled one of my goals in life—I finished this book,’” Dicky Barlow remembers.

“Well, where is it?,” one of their other friends asked.

Allen pointed to his desk.

“What are you going to do with it?” someone asked.

“Nothing,” Allen told them. “I’ve done what I wanted to do.”

“Can we read it?” someone said.

“Sure,” Allen said. “I’ll send you the PDF of it, but it’s not done.”

Allen sent them the book. Some read it on their phone or laptop screens. A couple printed it out and carried it around in a three-ring binder. There weren’t page numbers, so they’d check in with each other with, “What scene are you up to?”

“One morning, I was weeping as I was finishing a chapter,” Bart Scarborough said. “I said, ‘Allen, this book is so powerful. It’s so profound. It’s so rich. It’s so good. You’ve got to publish this.’ And I’m just crying, and I can’t stop crying. . . . All of us were in the same place, weeping, saying, ‘Get this out of that drawer! You have to do something with this.’ And he hemmed and hawed about for a while, but eventually he listened.”

If you’ve got an original copy of Theo of Golden—not a Simon & Schuster, but one of the self-published copies, you can see it on the copyright page. At the bottom, it says, “In collaboration with the MOB Consortium.”

The MOB is what these guys call themselves—I’ll explain why in a minute. In some respects, they’re a normal bunch of old friends, who love to laugh, hang out, and watch college football.

“Yeah, we just happen to have an internationally best-selling author in our group,” Bart said.

This group also includes a public school superintendent, a sports marketing executive, a retired Young Life director, a hospice chaplain, and a Dove Award–winning musician turned physician’s assistant. These are Allen Levi’s best friends, and a major reason Theo of Golden moved out of a drawer and into the world.

How does one become friends with Allen Levi? What’s it like to be in this group? And how can we grow friendships like this, where we see others, know them deeply, and love them well as we encourage each other to be more like Christ?

To find out, I talked to every one of them.

Growing Up in Georgia

Allen grew up in Columbus, Georgia, in the ’50s and ’60s. His family was close—parents, younger brother, and three sisters. They went to church but, for a long time, didn’t really understand the gospel.

Allen’s childhood friends were rambunctious—after school, they’d walk or bike to each other’s houses. In one kid’s yard, they played King of the Trampoline, where they threw themselves from one trampoline to another. As they got older, their activities got a little wilder—drinking, swearing, lying, kissing girls.

This whole time, one of Allen’s closest friends was his brother, Gary, who was just 13 months younger.

“When they were in high school, Gary was trying to be like Allen, and had gotten drunk,” Benson Bottoms said. “And Allen looked over and saw his brother, and he knew that his brother was trying to be like him, and that stopped everything. That changed Allen’s life because he recognized that his life affected people.”

Benson graduated from the University of Georgia a few years after Allen did. While Allen was there, his life was profoundly changed. He met some people who were radically Christian—this was in the mid-1970s, when the Jesus Movement was well on its way.

“I saw the gospel in them in a way that I had not seen before,” Allen told one reporter.

Immediately after college, Allen signed up for law school at the University of Georgia. Even with skipping his homework once in a while, Allen was smart; his grades were good. He got in. That fall, he started doing music ministry, mostly with undergrads.

“This was back in the day when no stadiums in the country really had lights because college football was played in the daytime,” said Ben May, who transferred to the University of Georgia as a sophomore. “Everybody usually had kickoff at 1:00 on Saturday afternoon. Thus, games ended at 4:00, and you had the whole evening. And so this gathering would take place around 5:30 or 6:00, and people would cook out and have some singing.”

Somehow, Ben found out about this regular gathering, which took place at a YMCA camp called Pine Tops.

“It was nothing spectacular, just an old chapel in a big gym,” he said. “I went that night, and I went by myself because I transferred and didn’t know a lot of people.”

Ben sat in the back. When a guy walked in late and introduced himself, Ben shook his hand.

“Then about 15 minutes later, the guy up front says, ‘Well, I saw Allen slip in, so he’s gonna come up now and play some songs,’” Ben said. “And he steps up, says excuse me, and walks up to the front. . . . To quote an overused phrase, he had me at the first note and the first lyric—just the way he wrote and the way he saw the world.”

Ben, who had only been a Christian for about a year, started inviting more and more people to Pine Tops. One of them was his best friend from high school, Dicky Barlow.

“I played guitar at the time, too,” Dicky said. “Well, what I did and what Allen did are two completely different things. I played guitar ’cause maybe girls would like me more. But Allen played guitar because he was really good at it. He wrote just beautiful songs, and they’d capture your heart.”

Maybe you’re wondering, What is it about these songs? Why do these guys love them so much? 

Allen’s music is folksy, acoustical, and nearly always telling a story.

“Allen pays attention,” Ben said. “If you listen to his music, they all comes from something he sees—like a homeless lady handing out bird feed to a group of pigeons that he drove past every day on his way to the law office. He just saw that and turned it into a song about serving, giving yourself to the weak and the small, to those who can’t pay you back. Or seeing a little girl learning to ride a bike in a parking lot with her dad turned into a song about trusting the One who is running at our side. The overtones help me to see these miracles are happening around me every day. But the question is, Am I going slow enough? Am I paying enough attention to see them?”

Allen’s music was telling these guys that he was serious about following Christ, and that he wanted to do it deeply, in every ordinary moment of his life.

Over the few years while Allen was in law school, writing new songs each week for Pine Tops, the gathering grew from about a dozen people to around 500. Ben invited a lot of them, including his friend Benson Bottoms. Although Benson was intellectually curious about Christianity, that kind of life didn’t sound compelling to him.

“I was thinking, Are you kidding me? The night after a game, with my date, I’m gonna go listen to some Christian play a guitar?” Benson said. “And so I never did. And then Ben gave me a cassette tape. This would have been 1983 or so. I listened to the very first song, and it was called ‘Mama Carrie,’ and instantly—I mean, instantly—I just said, ‘Oh my goodness!’”

Allen’s music and stories showcased a gentle, attentive, intentional, communal Christianity. That was the tipping point for Benson, who became a Christian. As soon as he could, he asked Allen to come and play a concert in his area.

By this point, Allen had graduated from law school. He was a young attorney, working and living back in his hometown of Columbus. Bart Scarborough was in a local high school then.

“I was really involved with Young Life, and my Young Life leader was a friend of Allen’s,” he said. “My Young Life leader would sneak us into the back of Allen’s house early in the morning before school and have Bible study because it was a good central location for all these guys.”

Over the next 20 years, Ben, Dicky, Benson, Bart, and Allen ran into each other over and over in Athens (where the University of Georgia is) and in Columbus (where a lot of them were from). It was a tangle of relationships: Benson and Ben lived near each other after college. When Bart moved to Athens to go to school, he met Ben, who was working for the college—and if you’re friends with Ben long enough, you also meet Dicky. Allen was singing for Young Life events at the same time Dicky was speaking at Young Life events, at the same time Bart was on staff there.

They all had a few important things in common—they cheered for the University of Georgia Bulldogs, they were Christians, and they wanted a life like Allen sang about, one rich with kindness and laughter and peace.

MOB

These were the days before smartphones, so the guys kept up with each other the old-fashioned way.

“Allen is a letter writer,” Benson said. “He’s very pastoral. He would hear something from me or hear something about me, and a few days later, I’d get a letter in the mail or phone calls.”

Allen wrote letters while he worked for a decade as an attorney, while he spent two years in Scotland earning a master’s in Scottish fiction, and while he made a significant career shift from law to music.

One day, about four years into Allen’s second career as a full-time musician, Bart asked him to play for a Young Life leaders’ retreat.

“He sang two notable songs,” Bart said. “One was called ‘Camp Uncle Allen,’ and it was about how he had made a magic surprise weekend for his nieces, and he had all kinds of fancy food, and he rented a convertible they could drive around in, and he rented somebody to follow them and video it.

“He also sang a song called ‘My Own Brother,’ and it made you think about friendship. So when we were going home, I said, ‘Allen, we need to have a Camp Uncle Allen for the guys.’”

They combined the two song ideas to come up with a Camp My Own Brother idea, which got shortened to My Own Brothers, which got shortened to MOB.

“I was thinking, These are three of my favorite people [that] I look up to more than anybody else, and I’m asking to start a group with them,” said Bart, who is 14 years younger than Allen and 10 years younger than the other guys. “It feels kind of foolish or silly or something.”

Allen offered his farm as a location, and Bart picked the date, and then it was done.

Weekend on the Farm

Allen lives on 700 acres that his dad bought in 1968. It’s near Hamilton, a town of about 2,000 people.

“Allen said, ‘I’ll do the first meal. I’ll make some chili,’” Dicky remembers. “And it was the absolute worst chili we’d ever had in our life. Allen didn’t know how to cook, and it was like, My goodness, I can’t even take another bite of this. So we started ribbing Allen and then it just became [funny]. We have 25 years’ worth of stories like this.”

These are all guys who love deep questions, and the weekend naturally formed around that. Each man took a turn to share his story, major moments from the past year, and where he was spiritually.

“And then we get to ask questions,” Dicky said.

These weren’t just questions like “What happened next?” or “Do you like your new boss?” They also included things like “Who has God been to you in the last year of your life?” “How is Christ redeeming your suffering?” and “How has God enriched your life through joy and sorrow?”

After three days, the guys had laughed, cried, hiked, fished, and gone out to eat to escape Allen’s cooking. They already knew they wanted to come back the next year. So they did. And every year was just as good as the first.

Tears and Laughter

“We all have this intensity for depth of relationship,” Dicky said. “We have all tasted it, at different places, where you have a really quality relationship with somebody, and they bring out the best in you. And there is sometimes this trepidation, like, I don’t want to tell them this. There’s been plenty of tears shed. I’m sure there have been feelings that have been hurt, and we get mad.”

There’s also a lot of laughing.

“Each one has their own distinct laugh,” Benson said. “Dicky Barlow’s is just so loud, and Ben’s is more of a chuckle. And then Allen is always sort of suppressed. He’s got that big grin and he’s shaking his head.”

If you walk closely with anyone for a period of time, there’s also going to be pain. About 12 years in, Allen’s little brother, Gary, was diagnosed with a brain tumor.

“I wish you could have seen him and his brother together,” Benson said. “Gary was so intense. And Allen—if he didn’t outright laugh, he smiled the whole time, because Gary was hilarious. But part of his hilarity was his intenseness, his strong opinions and thoughts. It made Allen so happy to hear Gary talk about all this stuff.”

After the diagnosis, Allen and Gary, who were both bachelors, moved into their parents’ house. They shared a room with twin beds close enough to reach out your hand, grab your brother’s, and pray.

In 2012, a year after his diagnosis, Gary Levi passed away.

“When Gary died, I remember Allen sitting on a swinging bench, and he couldn’t talk for a long time because every time he tried, he started crying,” Benson said. “He can grieve that way, openly, without shame or fear or embarrassment, because it’s safe with us. Nobody is going to feel uncomfortable or awkward because he’s doing that.”

The guys kept meeting. They heard about each other’s health scares, marriage struggles, and job changes. Then, around 2019, this tight-knit group of guys invited somebody else into their circle.

More Is More

Bebo Norman was in sixth grade in Columbus when Allen Levi came and played guitar for his youth group. Bebo had never seen anybody do that before, and he was intrigued. Nineteen years later, he’d win his first Dove Award.

“I was starting music full-time as a 21-year-old when Allen was starting music full-time as a nearly 40-year-old,” Bebo said. “We connected and from then on maintained a close relationship pretty consistently.”

By 2019, Bebo had retired from music and was earning a master’s degree in medicine. Somehow, he ended up in the MOB text group chat.

“I ended up on that text thread because we all watched University of Georgia football,” he said. “We’re huge Georgia fans. We would text around Georgia games. And then we talked pretty consistently. And eight or nine years ago, they invited me to start coming into this group with them.”

I asked if it was hard to walk into a group that was already so close.

“No, because they’re the type of people you don’t feel threatened by, in opening up and being in a relationship,” Bebo said. “They led by example. They didn’t tell me to walk in and tell my story first. They showed me the ropes and invited me into it. So it did not feel intimidating to me. It was a sweet thing pretty immediately.”

C. S. Lewis once wrote,

In each of my friends there is something that only some other friend can fully bring out. By myself I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets. . . . Hence true Friendship is the least jealous of loves. Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend.

I don’t know if it was the addition of Bebo, or the length of time the men had been meeting, or the drama of COVID, which quickly followed. But something began to shift in the group around 2020.

“A little bit before COVID, it deepened somehow,” Dicky said. “I don’t really know why. I think we became more transparent with one another. When you taste the safety and the beauty of being loved by someone who doesn’t have to love you, you give a little more and you taste the richness of relationship.”

Around this time, Ben climbed out of a window, onto his roof, with a leaf blower strapped to his back. His goal was to blow the leaves off. But when he slipped, the fall was about 20 feet.

“When they called me and told me Ben was in the hospital, I rushed to the hospital,” Dicky said. “We go into the trauma [unit] and we’re going to see him for the first time. And there’s another guy with us and he said, ‘Hey, I didn’t know you and Ben were friends.’”

“We’re not,” Dicky said.

“Really? What?”

“Yeah, he’s not a friend,” Dicky said. “He’s a part of me.”

Allen’s Book

Ben had broken nine different bones. After three weeks in the hospital and months of physical therapy, he was mostly recovered. And the MOB was closer than ever.

By now, the men knew the patterns of their November meetings. Dicky was going to cry. Ben was going to lay out some theological clarity. Benson would offer to pass on his turn to share his story, and no one would let him. Bebo would always go long. And Allen would talk about the book he was writing.

“He talked for years before he started Theo about how he wanted to write long fiction,” Bebo said. “He just wanted to see if he could. And so when he started, each year we’d get a ‘Yeah, I’ve got a little bit.’”

And then, in 2022, it was done.

“We were like, ‘Hey, how’s it coming with the book?’” Bebo said. “Because he talked about it the year before, that was obviously one of our questions. He’s like, ‘It’s as done as it’s gonna be. I feel like it’s a complete story.’”

“OK, well, where is it?” they asked.

It was in a drawer.

To hear Allen tell it, Theo was a practice book, to get him warmed up to write the story he actually wanted to tell. But he didn’t mind sharing it with some of his closest friends.

When they read it, they all had the same reaction.

“It felt totally like him,” Ben said. “I cried a lot when I read that book—partly because I knew and loved the author, partly because I was like, ‘This is a masterpiece.’”

“I was in a particularly hard season of my life, and it wrecked me,” Bebo said. “It wrecked me. . . . When I first read it, I heard Allen reading it for the first third of the book. I didn’t hear Theo. When it switched for me and I heard Theo and I heard Ellen—I didn’t hear Allen reading Theo; I didn’t hear Allen reading Ellen—that was when I knew it was different. And I suspected that this was a good book.”

Could Theo Be Real?

A few months ago, Russell Moore interviewed Allen. Before he did, Russell asked on social media if anyone had a question they’d like him to ask.

“The question that’s been asked most—which I’ll ask you, but I’ll also give a theory as to what I think’s behind it,” Russell told Allen. “Number one question is ‘Is Theo based on a real person?’ And here’s why I think that question is being asked: I think people are either hoping that there is somebody like Theo out there or they’re afraid that there’s not.”

Allen’s friends have joked with him about this question, each wondering if hey, maybe he was thinking of them when he penned such a virtuous man.

But Allen told Russell, like he’s told everyone who has asked, that Theo is based on his brother, Gary.

Maybe. But here’s what his friends think:

“It makes sense to me how pieces of Theo are Gary,” Bebo said. “Gary was winsome and kind and all those things, but he was very direct and abrupt and pointed. He got to the gospel the second he met you. He didn’t waste time. Theo is much slower.”

“Gary was so generous, and he was very attentive to detail, and he loved to surprise people,” Benson said. “But the tenderness and attentiveness and patience and kindness and not giving away the 92 portraits at one time—that’s Allen.”

“While he might not say he’s Theo, in this group we all look at him and go, ‘Yeah, I know you think it’s Gary, but we kinda think it’s you,’” Dicky said.

“He will say the book’s not about him, that he’s not Theo except aspirationally, and that is true,” Ben said. “But he’s doggone close.”

“Allen is the most Theo person that we all know,” Bart said.

If you’re counting, that’s five for five. Allen’s friends were all recognizing in Theo the same gentle generosity and close attention to people they saw in their friend. But the similarity is even stronger than that.

They knew that when he was at the University of Georgia, he saw and developed friendships with people no one else did—like those serving the meals in the dining halls. They knew that when he was in Scotland, he helped an elderly widower home through the icy streets. They knew he’d just spent a year writing a song every day, which made him pay attention to everything.

And then there’s this: In 2018, Allen released an album called People in My Town.

“So he took a group of people that lived within a few miles of him, and he went and introduced himself and asked if he could talk with them,” Benson said. “And then he wrote a song for that person, and he had Gary Pound, the artist, make a portrait of them. I think there were seven.”

Allen invited them all over to his house.

“He has this great round table, where you can see everybody’s face,” Benson said. “He served them dinner, and one by one, he handed them their portrait, and then sat beside them with his guitar and played the song that he wrote for them. And of course, they just sobbed.”

When Allen’s friends read Theo of Golden, they cried because it was good. But they also cried because they recognized the protagonist.

Later, Dicky said of Allen, “He’s been writing [this book] his whole life.”

The Bestowal

Publishing a book is easier said than done. Allen floated his manuscript past one publisher, who turned him down. Rather than continuing to knock on those doors, he decided to self-publish.

He didn’t know how, so he hired his niece Aron Ritchie to help. They worked hard at it. Aron researched how to publish a book. The two of them updated his website, brainstormed a list of connections he could ask to spread the word, and made plans to connect with book clubs.

It was a lot of effort for something that could go nowhere.

So just before the book came out, Allen’s friends decided to encourage him during one of their MOB weekends.

“It was really Benson’s idea,” Bart said. “There’s this great restaurant in Columbus and I happened to know the owner and asked her if she would be willing to come out and do a meal for us. And then I reached out to Gary Pound, who did all those portraits in Fountain City Coffee, and said, ‘Hey, would you do one of Allen?’”

Fountain City Coffee is the real-life coffee shop in Columbus that inspired Allen’s fictional coffee shop in Golden. Portraits really do hang on the walls, drawn by Allen’s friend Gary.

While Bart and the other guys were making these calls, they didn’t tell Allen what they were planning.

“The van pulled in,” Benson said. “And Allen is very protective of the farm in general, but I think that’s when he had sold some of it, and he did not want anybody going on that side of the property. And so when that van went by, Allen got alarmed and walked out there, a little defiantly and protective. The van turned around, and he’s of course being kind, but he’s [got this] look on his face, and he’s thinking, ‘What is going on?’”

The doors opened, and two women emerged with aprons on.

“And Allen melts, and then we show them in the kitchen,” Benson said. “They served us an amazing meal. When Allen came in, the table was decorated, and he’s curious, but nothing’s been revealed yet. So the meal’s wonderful. Then the portrait was brought out, and Allen stands up and opens it and looks at it. And then we went around the room and told him what we see in him.”

Poor Allen didn’t stand a chance.

“He put his head on the table, his arms folded on top of his head, and he didn’t cry—he wailed,” Benson said. “And it wasn’t for 30 seconds. It was four or five minutes. And the two chefs came out and were watching and were just astonished, and they had tears in their eyes. I don’t cry, but I was crying, because to see Allen knew that he was really loved by us, and that we would do something like that . . .”

At one point, through his tears, Allen managed to get out, “This is what Gary would have done,” which made him cry even harder.

“It was connected with the grief, which really makes me sad,” Benson said. “I wish Gary was around to be with Allen through all of this. That was one of the most beautiful nights of my life.”

Here’s how Allen explained it later, in a public talk he did with Dicky.

“It was an expression of their affirmation and their love for me,” he said. “Theo of Golden would never have seen the light of day but for these guys getting behind me and pushing me. And I pray for all of you that you’ve got people like that in your life who would have your portrait done and tell you things about yourself that you could never believe to be true.”

Then he grinned at the audience.

“I will tell you a dilemma that they created for me,” he said. “So somebody gives you a portrait of yourself—what are you going to do with it?”

Breakout Bestseller

In the first few months, Theo of Golden sold 3,000 copies. A lot of those were to Allen’s friends and family.

“I bought a case of them,” Bebo said. “I gave them away for Christmas gifts that year to a lot of people. And I remember writing in the front of them, ‘I have no idea if this is actually a good book because I am so biased. It’s written by a man that I love, a dear friend, and it was read at a season in my life where I needed kindness more than anything in this world. And it wrecked me. But I need to give this book to you, because you have shown kindness in my life. I hope that you’ll receive kindness in this book.’”

“We all bought our 40 or 50 copies and gave it to friends,” Dicky said. “Allen has hundreds and thousands of friends. . . . At some point he wrote us and said, ‘Hey, we’re no longer in the red! We made a dollar!’ And we celebrated. And it kept on going. People would start talking about it, and they’d sell more.”

In 2024, Allen sold about 25,000 copies of Theo, which was 24,000 more than he was hoping for. He and Aron thought sales would begin to drop in 2025; instead, they climbed even higher. Pretty soon, they were selling a thousand copies a day.

That caught the attention of large publishers, who were so interested they got into a bidding war. Two years after Allen published Theo, Simon & Schuster rereleased the book. Four months later, it had sold more than a million copies in the United States alone. Three months later, it had sold another 1.5 million copies.

Theo of Golden has been read by thousands of book clubs, including Katie Couric’s. Oprah and Jenna Bush Hager both raved about it. Tourists are flocking to Fountain City Coffee and other landmarks in Columbus fictionalized in the novel.

His friends can hardly believe it.

“We all felt like he had the skills to do it,” Bebo said. “But who thinks they can actually write a novel that’s gonna be anything?”

“Gobsmacked,” Ben said. “You just can’t believe it.”

“We look at this and we’re like, ‘Are you kidding me?’” Dicky said. “Unbelievable. Just crazy.”

A Christian Life

Readers of Theo report almost conversion-like experiences: “It changed me instantly,” said one. “My heart shattered into thousands of pieces,” said another. A third wrote, “I, too, have tasted heaven reading this.”

That’s interesting, because the point of Theo is fairly simple—in fact, it’s the same message that’s in Allen’s songs. He’s describing a life that is gentle, attentive, intentional, and communal—a life of love rooted in and empowered by the love of God. In other words, a Christian life.

“Maybe what Theo has done, in our societal moment, [is to show us that] we long for people like that to be real, and to be in our lives, and to be those people,” Ben said. “It’s aspirational for sure. It’s hopeful. It hearkens to what really matters. Maybe we can all be generous, thoughtful, kind-hearted. We can all take action to do those things.”

In our cultural isolation, there’s a hunger to be known by a community of people, he said.

“My old pastor Bob Flayhart would say, ‘The gospel is for me, but it’s not about me,’” Ben said. “And that is really the community that Theo had—it was for him, but not about him. It’s not about you; it’s about taking what you have been given and giving it to others.”

You might think that a man who is now a best-selling author, asked to do more interviews and events than anyone has time to do, executive producing a major motion picture, and working on another book, might not be able to hang out quite as much as he used to.

For Allen Levi, it’s the opposite. The MOB has added a day to their annual November gathering—now they hang out for four days instead of three. Then they added Zoom calls every other month or so. For 90 minutes, they talk about Dicky’s son getting married, what retirement is going to be like, and what’s going on with Theo.

“I think we all probably needed each other a little bit more,” Bart said. “Certainly, being together more has made us want to be together more. It’s made us want to talk more. So that feels really good.”

In many ways, this friend group carries the pattern of sanctification. As these men slowly, consistently, over a long period of time, push each other toward Jesus, they can see richer and deeper virtues developing in themselves and in each other.

Allen’s book has pushed them further in the direction they were already going. Benson, who is a hospice chaplain, has taken up letter writing. Dicky, who is a school superintendent, led his leadership team through a Theo of Golden study this year. (“We had the deepest, most thoughtful conversations,” he said.)

All the MOB members want to pay better attention to their own lives, to notice people, to ask about their stories, and to love them well.

They’re following Allen’s example, and I was starting to get suspicious about something.

Is Allen Levi perfect?

Be a Friend like That

“By no stretch is Allen Levi perfect,” Bebo said, laughing. “And he will be the first to tell you.”

“No, he is not perfect,” Ben said. “He is very self-aware in that regard, and I think the gospel means so much to him because he knows of his own depravity. It’s the same tension as ‘You’re far worse than you think you are, and you’re more loved and accepted than you can hope.’ Allen lives that out.”

“No, and he would be the first to tell you he’s not perfect,” Bart said. “But he really personifies Christ in lots of ways. He’s broken, he’s fallen, but he’s trying to center his life around Jesus and allow Jesus to shape him and help him. And so when he does screw up and mess up and stumble and fall, he’s got this deep well of Christ’s [grace], this deep centering on Jesus that helps bring him back to health.”

Allen Levi is just a guy, living in a small town in the South, reading his Bible and loving his neighbors and using his gifts to the glory of God. In Theo, he’s given the world an example of a man who has suffered loss and heartache, who sees people around him, and who gives them his careful attention and genuine affection. Allen and Theo are showing the world a compelling Christianity.

I don’t know if you have a friend like that. But I do know you can be a friend like that.

“My advice might be to put down the smartphone, look people in the face, and just go for it,” Bart said. “If you have a group, throw it out there. Be bold and courageous, and say, ‘Hey, what if we got together and did this more regularly? Or what if we were a little more intentional about our friendship?’”

When you do this, be sure the friendship can be built on something bigger than yourselves. Ben is old enough to have seen baseball friends and soccer friends and football friends come and go.

“You may have some commonalities,” he said. “You certainly have children in common who are playing on this team or doing this recital or dance team or whatever it might be. The illusion is that you think, Well, these are my friends. But you’re only friends for a season because you’re only friends because of the mutual interest that your children have, and so the children are what are bringing you together.”

The key to a deeper, longer-lasting friendship is that it has to be built on something deeper and longer-lasting, he said.

“And the deeper the object of what the friendship is about, the deeper the friendship,” he said. “If it’s about work, well, that’ll go so far. If it’s about your kids’ youth sports or their activities or Scouts, it’ll only go so far. But if it’s about ultimate things and things that matter deeply, then I think there’s a real chance for it to last.”

When you find those people, work at that friendship.

“Intentionality, patience, and—what is the Tim Keller book?—self-forgetfulness,” Dicky said. “If you want to make good friends, see the good in other people and tell them what you see. As you do that, they will begin to tell you more about themselves. You don’t make friends by telling people who you are. You make friends by extracting who they are.”

You can do this at church, in week after week of drinking coffee with someone after a service. You can do this in your Bible study or discipleship group or small group. You can do it in quarterly Zoom calls or annual weekend retreats.

Remember when I told you about the inscription at the bottom of the copyright page of the self-published copies of Theo? “In collaboration with the MOB Consortium?”

Well, after that, there’s another set of secret initials—TTK.

When the MOB is together for a meal, they always bow their heads to pray. After the “Amen,” they lift their glasses to each other. But they aren’t toasting success, or happiness, or their wives and children, or even each other.

Instead, they toast the foundation of their lives, the reason they’re together, and the destination they’re helping each other aim for.

They say, “To the King!”

Now, when you imagine Eden, have you considered how our gardening work continues today? While all human lives are marked by sin this side of the fall, believers are still called to work as God’s gardeners. One fundamental way we garden is as members of our local churches.

Garden Paradise, Given and Promised

Human history began in a garden. God formed Adam and Eve in his image, and he commissioned them to exercise dominion by expanding the borders of Eden to fill the earth (Gen. 1:28–30, 9:1–3). God wanted people to turn the entire world into a garden paradise where he would walk with them (3:8; Lev. 26:12).

Since the fall, we’ve been barred from Eden. We’re all born separated from God, cast out from his presence (Gen. 3:24). But God wasn’t done dwelling in a garden with his people. Scripture makes clear that he still plants a garden for himself, a kingdom of priests who put his rule on display in the world.

Throughout the Old Testament, the theme of God dwelling with his people in a garden emerges again and again. Here are three examples:

• God commissions Adam to “work” and “keep” the garden (2:15). Those same gardening verbs are used when God instructs Moses about the priests’ duties in the tabernacle and temple (Num. 3:7–8; 8:25–26; 18:5–6; 1 Chron. 23:32; Ezek. 44:14).
• God uses garden imagery to describe the tabernacle and the temple themselves. The lampstand, for example, is modeled after the tree of life (Gen. 2:9; Ex. 25:31–40). The wood carvings in the temple should also remind us of Eden (1 Kings 6:18, 29).
• Later biblical authors show how the river flowing out of Eden (Gen. 2:10) points to the life-giving rivers that will flow from the temple in the new heavens and earth (Ps. 36:8–9; Ezek. 47:1–12; Rev. 21:1–2; 22:1–2).

God’s Garden, His People

The prophets often use garden imagery to teach God’s people about who they are, what God has done for them, and what he will do for them in the future. They look forward to the fulfillment of God’s plan of redemption, a plan that culminates with his making them into a garden where he dwells.

Scripture makes clear that God still plants a garden for himself, a kingdom of priests who put his rule on display in the world.

In Isaiah 5:1–7, for example, the prophet uses a gardening analogy to explain how the Lord will discipline his people for their disobedience. He concludes with this warning: “For the vineyard [or garden] of the LORD of hosts is the house of Israel, and the men of Judah are his pleasant planting; and he looked for justice, but behold, bloodshed; for righteousness, but behold, an outcry!” (v. 7).

Later, Isaiah uses the same garden imagery but promises that redemption will come: “For the LORD comforts Zion; he comforts all her waste places and makes her wilderness like Eden, her desert like the garden of the LORD” (Isa. 51:3; see Ezek. 36; Joel 2:3).

The Old Testament pattern is clear: God is making a new garden, one to which the tabernacle and temple pointed. In that new Eden, the Lord will dwell with his people again, and they will once again serve as his priestly gardeners.

Christ, the True Gardener

The New Testament takes all these themes and shows how they culminate in Christ. A staggering number of Jesus’s parables include agricultural examples. In the parable of the tenants, for example, Jesus presents the Father as a farmer and himself as the farmer’s rejected son. Jesus inherits the farm, the fruit-bearing vineyard that is his people (Matt. 21:33–46). Then, through his death and resurrection, Jesus makes a way for those who were far from God to dwell in his presence again. He welcomes us back into the Holy of Holies, into the garden.

Jesus is buried in a garden (John 19:41), and after the resurrection when Mary Magdalene comes to the empty tomb, she makes a false assumption that’s nevertheless a vibrant depiction of Jesus’s identity. She “[supposes] him to be the gardener” (20:15).

Here at last is the True Gardener emerged from his garden-tomb as the firstfruits of the new creation. Christ’s empty tomb is the beachhead of the Lord’s eternal garden. And as the good news of his resurrection spreads, so too does this new Eden.

The Church, the Lord’s Garden

Where is this garden now? Where the Lord dwells. Christ dwells by his Spirit in each of his redeemed people (Rom. 6; Eph. 1). And he dwells in us corporately as his church (Matt. 16:19; 18:20).

Jesus makes this explicit in John 15. Because of our union with Christ, the church is the Lord’s vine. He tends to his people and gives them his life so they grow spiritual fruit. This was the Old Testament promise, and it’s fulfilled in Christ.

In the Old Testament, the Lord’s presence is depicted as a shining lamp in the tabernacle with seven lampstands around it (Num. 8:1–2). Revelation shows that tree-of-life imagery’s fulfillment in local churches (see 1:12–13, 20). Paul also uses gardening imagery to describe local church life: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth” (1 Cor. 3:6). These shining lights—these city-on-a-hill communities of redeemed, repentant sinners—are the joy-giving, life-sustaining garden of God.

God’s people are “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession” (1 Pet. 2:9), and we tend the Lord’s garden-church together. As Jonathan Leeman writes, “Church membership . . .  makes your priest-king job assignment public and practical.”

Get Your Hands Dirty in the Lord’s Garden

Are you tempted to be impatient with fellow church members? Impatience can reveal that we think of the church as a grocery store that caters to our desires. Yet the church and our relationships within it are a garden to be tended. Take James’s exhortation to heart: “Be patient . . . until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth” (James 5:7). Trust the Lord to bring the “early and the late rains” in believers’ hearts.

Christ’s empty tomb was the beachhead of the Lord’s eternal garden. And as the good news of his resurrection spread, so too did this new Eden.

All Christians are called to garden work, and pastors are called to model it—to labor diligently like farmers as we cultivate the health of the saints under our care. (2 Tim. 2:6). Our churches are “God’s field” (1 Cor. 3:9). This simple truth should reorient the way all Christians view the church.

Are you cultivating the local garden where the Lord has placed you? Do you see fellow believers as souls to tend? Are you getting to know the saints in your church the way a careful gardener knows the seasons and needs of particular plants? As we use our gifts to minister to one another (Eph. 4:11–13), we’re tending, watering, weeding, pruning, and trusting that the Lord of the harvest, the final Gardener, will bring growth.

Dear Christian, don’t be a consumer. Embrace the good call of the Lord: Be a gardener.

However, I tend to agree with C. S. Lewis in “On the Reading of Old Books”:

For my own part I tend to find the doctrinal books often more helpful in devotion than the devotional books, and I rather suspect that the same experience may await many others. I believe that many who find that “nothing happens” when they sit down, or kneel down, to a book of devotion, would find that the heart sings unbidden while they are working their way through a tough bit of theology with a pipe in their teeth and a pencil in their hand.

I’d skip the pipe, but the scene he describes is familiar to me. As helpful as many devotional works are, some of the high points in my spiritual life have come when I was poring over a hefty volume of systematic theology. That may reflect my personality, but I’m sure I’m not alone.

This list of recently published (or republished) theological texts includes books that can encourage Christians at various stages of spiritual maturity and equip them to serve the church.

1. Ronni Kurtz, Theology for Life: A Joy-Filled Introduction to Christian Doctrine (Baker, 2026)

It’s hard to get started in the study of Christian doctrine, especially outside academic institutions. Theology has a specialized vocabulary that can take years to become fluent in. And sometimes in the middle of a 70-page chapter on the doctrine of sin, our eyes glaze over as we try to comprehend various metaphors for a failure to conform to God’s holiness.

Theology for Life is an introduction to Christian theology pitched for the person in the pews. More significantly, as the subtitle suggests, Kurtz’s goal is to help people have a sense of joy in learning important Christian truths. This is an excellent resource for churches seeking to introduce systematic theology to the whole congregation. It’s also the sort of book that can reignite a weary pastor’s love for God amid a grueling ministry.

2. Daniel Akin, Kenneth Keathley, and Keith Whitfield, A Theology for the Church, 2nd Edition (B&H Academic, 2026)

I was just starting seminary when the first edition of A Theology for the Church was published. It was revised in 2014 and now has been more thoroughly updated in 2026. Each version has gotten better with new and updated chapters.

My favorite aspect of this volume is that it’s written with the church in view. The content is unquestionably academic and may be heavy sledding for the average church member, but it’s especially helpful for pastors and church leaders because the arguments begin with what the Bible says. Each chapter also explores what the church has historically believed as well as how each doctrine affects life in the contemporary church. It’s written from a Baptist perspective but could serve other traditions well.

3. Joel Beeke and Paul Smalley, Essentials of Reformed Systematic Theology (Crossway, 2025)

This single volume helpfully summarizes the full four-volume set. Christians seeking a deeper understanding of contemporary Reformed theology will benefit from this resource. The adaptation of the text is smooth; readers won’t be left wondering what they’re missing from the more expansive set. Beeke and Smalley present essential doctrinal content in chapters both concise and well written. This is an ideal resource for every Christian’s home library.

4. Francis Turretin, Institutes of Elenctic Theology, three vols. (P&R, 2025)

Many of the best theology texts come from decades of classroom experience. Turretin spent roughly 30 years teaching theology in Geneva in the 17th century. When you’re reading Turretin, you’re reading mature Reformed theology that has helped shape generations of Presbyterian and Reformed theologians both directly and indirectly.

As helpful as many devotional works are, some of the high points in my spiritual life have come when I was poring over a hefty volume of systematic theology.

Sometimes it’s interesting to read older theological texts as historical artifacts. But Turretin’s elenctic approach is refreshingly different from standard systematic theologies because it involves answering questions framed as objections to Reformed theology from nonbelievers and those from other traditions. In many cases, this helps the apologetic nature of theology shine through. It’s surprising how many of the answers shed light on 21st-century theological controversies.

5. Geerhardus Vos, Reformed Dogmatics: A System of Christian Theology (Baker Academic, 2026)

I didn’t know it until recently, but one of the fathers of biblical theology also wrote a systematic theology. That’s not as surprising as it might initially seem, because when he published this five-volume work in the late 19th century, there was much less distance between disciplines like biblical studies and theology.

Vos’s Reformed Dogmatics wasn’t translated into English until Lexham Press released the five volumes between 2014 and 2016, with the publication of the consolidated single-volume version in 2020. This new edition is a rebranding under the Baker Academic label. Nevertheless, budding theologians curious about the Reformed tradition will find an eloquent and well-argued approach in Vos’s volume.

6. R. Scott Clark, The Heidelberg Catechism: A Historical, Theological, and Pastoral Commentary (Lexham Press, 2025)

As catechisms become more popular among evangelicals, questions are likely to arise about how the topics were selected and why the answers were phrased in specific ways. This volume emphasizes the biblical support for specific questions and answers from the Heidelberg Catechism, but it also offers historical and theological explanations for the language included in the classic discipleship tool.

Whether we’re asking what our only comfort is in life and death (question 1) or trying to understand the nature of good works (question 91), this book is a rich resource for pastors, parents, or budding theologians.

7. J. V. Fesko, John Muether, and D. Blair Smith, eds., The Westminster Confession of Faith: A Comprehensive Commentary on Its History, Theology, and Application (Crossway, 2026)

The Westminster Confession of Faith may be the most important articulation of Protestant theology. Written roughly a century after the start of the Reformation, when answers to many key doctrinal questions had been hammered out, this confession serves as a touchstone for various Protestant traditions.

The faculty of Reformed Theological Seminary collaborated to produce this helpful commentary that will serve Presbyterians, Baptists, and other theologians in the Protestant tradition well. It’s a helpful reference for pastors and seminary students alike.

“One more dollar,” the man answered.

While this is often (and probably wrongly) attributed to John D. Rockefeller, it might as well be attributed to all of us. Ask most people when they’ll finally have enough money, and the honest answer is “When I have a little more.”

The goalposts never stop moving. We compare ourselves to a neighbor, a college roommate, an influencer—sure, we’re doing alright, but we don’t have as much as he or she does. The number we once called a dream becomes the number we call a starting point.

Call to Define Enough

You don’t have to be a Christian to see the danger. In The Psychology of Money, Morgan Housel devotes an entire chapter to the problem. He tells stories of people like Bernie Madoff who “already had everything: unimaginable wealth, prestige, power, freedom” and threw it all away because they wanted more.

His diagnosis is simple. They “had no sense of enough.”

Housel’s larger argument is that money is a soft skill: “How you behave is more important than what you know.” Your best shot at keeping your reputation, your family, your friends, and your happiness, he writes, is “knowing when you have enough.”

But when our desires keep expanding, how are we supposed to know that?

God Is Enough

Christians should be natural leaders in this pursuit. Scripture speaks about money more than almost any subject except God himself, and it consistently warns against greed, that restless appetite for more.

I first came across the term “theology of enough” in Craig Blomberg’s excellent work Neither Poverty nor Riches. It begins with considering the complete fullness of God. Theologians have a word to describe this: aseity, from the Latin a se, “from himself.” This means God depends on nothing outside himself for his existence, his purposes, or his joy. A.W. Tozer and other theologians call this God’s self-sufficiency.

In Psalm 50:12, God says, “If I were hungry, I would not tell you, for the world and its fullness are mine.” He has no needs, no wants, no lack. He receives no upgrades. Everything flows out from a God who is already, eternally, full. God is enough in himself for himself.

It’s important that God has chosen to reveal himself in this way. He is Lord, a title John Frame defines as identifying God’s “control, authority, and presence in blessing and judgment,” and is LORD, the covenant-making and covenant-keeping God (Ex. 3:14). We only know that God is enough because he has revealed himself as such as Lord of all creation and as LORD in covenant with his people.

We should depend on Scripture and the Holy Spirit to help us constantly remember this truth. Paul writes in Romans, “For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen” (11:36).

This is a refrain of remembrance of who the one true God is. It’s the beginning and continuing call to worship him, which is where a theology of enough must start.

God Is Enough for Us

God has no need for our money, our wealth, or our stewardship. When we make decisions about our money and possessions, we’re only working with what he has first given us (Luke 16:1–8; Titus 1:7). We’re like children who take money they’ve received from their dad to buy him a gift. God doesn’t need the number of zeros at the end of our balance sheet or written on our check to the local church.

Not only that, but his generosity to us is like an overflowing cup (Ps. 23:5), finding its ultimate fulfillment in Jesus Christ. The fall was a clear declaration by man that God wasn’t enough. Since then, man’s search for meaning has always included the endless pursuit of enough in different ways—usually in more money or power, and always leaving us wanting.

Instead, Jesus calls, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden [or who never have enough] . . . and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:28–29). All our striving, self-justification, and declaration of “not enough” was buried deep in the ground at Christ’s death. He conquered it with the final declaration in his resurrection that he is enough for us.

Resting in Enough

God’s generosity finds its ultimate fulfillment in Jesus Christ.

A theology of enough, grounded in this truth, is the foundation of contentment. In 2 Corinthians 9:8, Paul writes about giving and stewardship: “God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that having all sufficiency in all things at all times, you may abound in every good work.” The Greek word behind “sufficiency” was a term often used in Stoic ethics for self-reliance. But Paul turns it inside out. Our sufficiency isn’t from ourselves; it is, as Blomberg puts it, a “God-sufficiency.”

God is at the center of it all. He’s the One who is enough in himself, who provides us his grace and sufficiency at all times. From that position of “enough in God,” we can abound in every good work.

That includes the good work of self-discipline and stewardship. Blomberg challenges Christians to “establish a voluntary consensus on both minimum levels of income and resources . . . and maximum levels of consumption and expenditures on self.” This challenge is best answered in discipleship, as individual Christians work through these issues together in the context of the local church.

We can give freely, save wisely, and live prudently because it’s all from God alone, who is enough for us.

DeYoung uses categories from Charles Hodge’s Systematic Theology to provide a framework for discussing Christian nationalism. DeYoung then goes on to ask a question: “If someone calls himself a ‘Christian nationalist,’ what does he mean?” He offers 15 answers someone might give to that question.

In This Episode

00:00 –  Charles Hodge on Christian nationhood

12:07 –  Defining modern Christian nationalism

20:13 –  Nations and identity debates

29:07 –  Navigating political engagement dangers

Resources Mentioned:

• Systematic Theology by Charles Hodge
• How the News Makes Us Dumb by C. John Sommerville

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But this story didn’t hold up. Caleb Flynn—a former American Idol contestant—was convicted September 29 of murdering his wife, after large amounts of evidence demonstrated he was determined to rid himself of her and be with his affair partner, a fellow singer from his church.

Videos from the trial show Flynn sitting stoically while attorneys read text messages between him and his lover, pining for his wife’s death. Minutes before he was sentenced to life without parole, his wife’s family read letters to him from his daughters.

In that moment, it’s hard not to think that Flynn was experiencing a small but real taste of hell: a just judgment on his life as the words of those who once loved him remind him of what he has forever lost.

How does a worship pastor get here?

When Greed Leads to Murder

Some will say the answer is lust. They’re not wrong. No Christian should underestimate the power of illicit fantasy. What we give our imaginations to will demand our actions soon enough. Adultery is devastating. No wonder Solomon asked his son to consider, “Can a man carry fire next to his chest and his clothes not be burned?” (Prov. 6:27).

But focusing only on lust would be a mistake. Lust is why a covenant was broken, but it might not be why a trigger was pulled. The man wearing the “God-Sized Vision” sweatshirt will spend the rest of his life in prison not only because of lust but also because of greed.

In American society, any dissatisfied spouse can serve divorce papers for almost any reason. There was no legal, political, or logistical reason why Flynn had to stay with his wife over his lover. It’s highly unlikely that divorcing would even have stopped him from having partial custody of his daughters.

So why did Ashley Flynn need to die? Because a divorce would have meant confessing his adultery, not just to his wife but to the whole community. It would have meant stepping away from the Sunday-worship spotlight. It would have meant losing the lucrative career working for his father-in-law.

We can’t look inside Flynn’s heart and know the complexities of his motives. But I suspect Flynn wanted adultery without paying adultery’s price.

Greed Is Subtle

Many of us know how deceptive lust is. But for many evangelicals, greed is a harder snake to catch. For one thing, unlike lust, greed can disguise itself as virtue. A Christian man or woman would be ashamed for fellow church members to see a steamy browsing history, but he or she would probably expect support and affirmation for an all-consuming career ambition.

I suspect Flynn wanted adultery without paying adultery’s price.

Greed can be subtle. It’s easy to hear the word and only imagine Ebenezer Scrooge forbidding Bob Cratchit from warming up the frigid office. But greed isn’t only about money. It’s about holding too tightly to our identity and accomplishments.

When a celebrity pastor commits a disqualifying sin and expresses initial remorse, why can’t he live out the rest of his life in quiet, humble, anonymous repentance? In many cases, it’s greediness for the esteemed identity as a leader and preacher. He cannot imagine himself without the trappings of pastoral ministry, the same way Scrooge couldn’t imagine himself sparing more money for the poor.

Or maybe Flynn (who hasn’t confessed) thought his damage control would minimize the sin. I wonder if Flynn reasoned to himself that by killing his wife, he was sparing her the agony of betrayal and divorce. Perhaps he even thought (perversely) he was being heroic, accepting the stain on his conscience while sparing his wife the hardship of abandonment.

If so, this too was greed: for control. He was unwilling to let his choices incur their natural consequences. Had Flynn simply followed his adultery to its marriage-splitting conclusion, he may have even found grace that would lead him back to repentance. The Prodigal Son should never have left home, but eating with the pigs brought him back. By contrast, Judas never gave himself the opportunity to learn that Peter, too, had betrayed the Lord. Had Judas accepted the shame and disgrace, rather than reject it through suicide, he too might have been asked, “Do you love me?”

Control, like money, is an asset we’re anxious to have, and then once we think we have some, we’re anxious to get more. The German philosopher Hartmut Rosa sees similarity between the way the modern world pursues money and the way it pursues control. When we accept the uncontrollability of the world, however, we find that what makes life threatening is also what makes it meaningful. The same lack of control that scares us also moves, changes, and blesses us.

Greed’s Greatest Deception

Greed’s greatest deception is that the only way to have is to grasp. That’s why we need to remind ourselves all the time of two things: We aren’t in control, and the One who is cares about us much more than he cares about anything else in his well-cared-for world.

Greed’s lies are always exposed. For Flynn, that moment came via his daughters’ words. One of them wrote to her dad,

Mommy was the perfect person. The absolute perfect person. What did she ever do to make you hate her so much?

She loved you and she cared for you. She took care of you. She loved you with all her heart.

She was my best friend. And then you chose to kill the only mother I ever had. I miss her so much. So, so, so much. You have no idea.

His daughter understands that her father didn’t desire happiness too much. He desired it too little. Greed didn’t just deform his heart and poison his actions. It blinded his vision.

Greed’s greatest deception is that the only way to have is to grasp.

But his daughter has refused to give up on him. She concluded her letter, “Remember, there’s still a chance. There is a choice for everything. I hope you will bring Jesus back into your heart.”

Now Caleb Flynn has lost all control, imprisoned for the rest of his life. But he remains trapped by greed, until he can finally repent, confess, and receive God’s grace.

These laws, passed during the 1950s, enforced race-based discrimination in all sectors of South African life. Racial groups were assigned separate residential areas. Roughly 80 percent of South Africa’s land was set aside for the white minority population. Millions of black South Africans were forcibly removed from their homes—regardless of how long they had lived there or whether they owned them—and required to relocate to areas called townships.

Almost all public facilities such as parks, buses, trains, toilets, swimming pools, and beaches became segregated spaces. Black South Africans faced restrictions on where they could travel, work, and socialize. New state-run schools were designed to train black children for low-skilled menial labor.

Alongside the wall was a video playing of Hendrik Verwoerd giving a speech in 1958. Verwoerd, called the “father of apartheid,” was prime minister of South Africa from 1958 to 1966. In this speech, Verwoerd justifies apartheid. I was struck by how rational and even reasonable he came across in the speech. He wasn’t talking about the inferiority of the black race compared to the white race. Instead, he argued that people weren’t fully understanding apartheid. It was a policy of good neighborliness rather than a system of discrimination:

Our policy is one, which is called by an Afrikaans word “Apartheid.” And I’m afraid that has been misunderstood so often. It could just as easily, and, perhaps, much better be described as a policy of good neighborliness. Accepting that there are differences between people, and that while these differences exist, and you have to acknowledge them, at the same time you can live together, aid one another, but that can best be done when you act as good neighbors always do.

Apartheid, he argued, enabled white Afrikaners and the black Africans to live how they want, within their cultural traditions, in a way mutually beneficial to all. Apartheid was actually a means for people to respect one another. Verwoerd even suggested that apartheid was an application of the Christian principle of love of one’s neighbor.

Many people rejected this reasoning. However, many others believed and accepted it—certainly enough people with the means and power to ensure apartheid was enforced for decades until its dismantling in 1994 (still in recent memory for many today).

This raises a question: How could this kind of racialized argument be rationalized and justified as loving our neighbors?

Modernity’s Untethering of Morality

One explanation, at least ideologically speaking, can be traced back to the Enlightenment. Before this, societies operated with a shared moral order. Each society recognized some things as objectively good and right and other things as objectively evil and wrong, apart from individual human reasoning or preferences.

How could this kind of racialized argument be rationalized and justified as loving as our neighbors?

David Brooks, reflecting on the work of philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre, notes how the Enlightenment dismantled the inherited moral order and established the idea of a “neutral” public order. Morality was to be determined by human reason and set according to personal choice and preference.

As the world underwent the scientific and industrial revolutions, it made sense to see human reasoning and rational thought as the surefire road map to human flourishing and a stable society. Auguste Comte, a 19th-century French philosopher, posited three successive stages of development for human society: a theological stage, a metaphysical stage, and a final end stage—the modern, “positive” stage based on scientific and rational thinking. This final stage would need not a belief system based on God but a “religion of humanity.”

Historian J. B. Bury, in his 1920 book The Idea of Progress, wrote about how providence was an idea that corresponds to a less advanced stage of civilization. Progress, however, has replaced providence, and has come about “with the growth of modern science, with the growth of rationalism, and with the struggle for political and religious liberty.”

However, events like the two world wars tested and unraveled these expectations. They showed how easily and readily societies could use scientific advancement to harm and attempt to destroy one another, how easily a “rational” world order could be upended—and in some places like Nazi Germany, reconfigured to justify systemic genocide.

These historical examples show what happens when morality is no longer undergirded by a definitive moral standard. As Brooks contends, morality can be redefined in all sorts of supposedly reasonable and rational ways, which leads to almost anything being accepted and justified:

The Enlightenment project failed, [MacIntyre] argued, because it produced rationalistic systems of morals too thin and abstract to give meaning to actual lives. It destroyed coherent moral ecologies and left autonomous individuals naked and alone. Furthermore, it devalued the very faculties people had long used to find meaning. Reason and science are great at telling you how to do things, but not at answering the fundamental questions: Why are we here? What is the ultimate purpose of my life? What is right and what is wrong? . . .

One of the problems with living in a society with no shared moral order is that we have no way to settle arguments. We have no objective standard by which to determine that one view is right and another view is wrong.

This is the same context by which a “moral” case is later made in 20th-century South Africa for race-based discrimination and oppression. These are no longer a priori defined as wrong but are reasonably justified as good, as a way to “love your neighbor.”

When human rationalism, reasonable argument, and individual preference ground our morality, we’ll always struggle to clearly identify right from wrong. What’s wrong in one place or era can in another place become characterized as a form of doing what’s good and right for oneself, one’s community, or one’s country.

A moral standard—one that exists outside us and isn’t subject to our intellectual rationalization or personal musings—allows us to know when something is simply wrong, full stop. It’s how we can immediately say that apartheid is wrong because the kind of race-based discrimination it promotes is always wrong. It’s why “love of neighbor” can never be used to justify a system like apartheid.

Anchor Our World Needs

While South Africa did eventually stop its practice of apartheid, our modern secular world is still untethered. We can see it in the United States, where what’s right and wrong on how we approach issues like sexuality, immigration, welfare for the poor, abortion, or military conflict depend on which party is in power or who resides in the Oval Office. This moral whiplash most often leads to immorality being excused and mistreatment of the poor and vulnerable being regularly ignored.

Our secular world desperately needs an objective standard of right and wrong, a center that doesn’t shift based on what any single individual, community, or institution says is right, good, and reasonable. It needs a moral order rooted in the unchanging values of goodness, justice, and love. This, of course, is what Christianity offers.

The Christian message tells the historical story about how Jesus, the Son of God, was born on this earth, lived, died on the cross, and rose again. This story gives us the anchoring we need for values such as love, justice, grace, forgiveness, hope, and redemption. This story best equips us to clearly and unequivocally say what things are evil, wrong, and sinful and what things are good, true, and beautiful. This story rips apart any rationalization for a system like apartheid and clearly states it to be fully racist and therefore wrong.

Christianity not only gives us a set of moral lenses; it also teaches us about the kind of tone and posture followers of Jesus must possess to exemplify the kingdom of God.

Christianity not only gives us a set of moral lenses; it also teaches us about the kind of tone and posture Jesus’s followers must possess to demonstrate our citizenship in the kingdom of God. This Christlike posture reshapes how we engage with hot-button issues, laws, and policies.

For example, while Christians will advocate for a range of different policies in the immigration debate, we can and should agree from the outset that our shared belief that humans are God’s image-bearers gives us no rationalization for the mistreatment or abuse of immigrants. Our conviction about the image of God is how we can, from the start, dismantle arguments for indiscriminate abortion on demand. And this conviction leads us to create social structures, in the church and in the world, that provide opportunities for forgiveness, for repentance and restitution, and for restoration.

The Christian story—which begins at creation, moves through humanity’s fall and its redemption at the cross and the empty tomb, and awaits the new creation—is the only cornerstone for a moral foundation and ethical compass that ensures blessing and flourishing for all people. It’s the only story capable of establishing a true moral order that can and will last forever.

You may have noticed we’re calling TGC27 a “church conference,” which is a change from the language of “national conference” we’ve used since 2007. What’s behind this change? And what does it mean?

Same Conference, Refocused Mission

Much about our biennial gathering hasn’t changed. Our conference has always been primarily focused on encouraging and equipping Christians, especially church leaders, through expositional preaching and topical teaching. Rebranding it a “church conference” is just doubling down on the local church as the goal for the event, its reason for existence.

Rebranding it a ‘church conference’ is just doubling down on the local church as the goal for the event, its reason for existence.

“TGC has always prioritized serving church leaders at our national conference, but we’re making this aim more explicit with our church conference in 2027,” said Collin Hansen, TGC’s vice president of content and editor in chief. “We heard from pastors about what would serve them and their churches, and we planned dozens of breakout sessions that prioritize their request for practical ministry training.”

We want church leaders, both clergy and laypeople, to find help from TGC for training, resources, and encouragement. This goal informs our content ministry (articles, podcasts, books, curriculum, videos, cohorts) as well as our event planning.

“TGC exists by conviction and practice to support the local church,” TGC president Mark Vroegop said. “Our mission is to help renew and unify the contemporary church in the ancient gospel. So it just makes sense that the biennial gathering would be called the TGC Church Conference. We redesigned our conference—from the name, focus, teaching, and breakouts—with the intention to equip and encourage ministry leaders as they serve in their local churches.”

From and For the Church

One of our hopes for TGC’s Church Conference is that it would be an opportunity for local churches to send groups to experience a few days of refreshment, connection, and strengthening together, so they can return home with fresh wind in their sails for everyday ministry.

The TGC27 conference tagline captures this hope: “Come with your church to be equipped for your church.”

Certainly, individuals are welcome to come on their own—and “church conference” doesn’t mean only official church workers are allowed to come. But we think these events are especially edifying for those who attend with local church friends or ministry colaborers.

Consider gathering a group from your church—not just staff and elders but also deacons, lay leaders, small group leaders, worship artists, and heads of other ministries. Whether for church staff members or volunteer leaders, TGC27 will have something for everyone passionate about serving in the local church.

If you gather a group of 10 or more, we’ll give you a discount code for reduced registration rates. Just email events@tgc.org for the group discount.

We also created a promo kit for churches to share about the conference with their congregations. You’ll find graphics for slides, posters, social media posts, sample emails, and more.

Come Gather as One Church; Leave to Strengthen Your Local Church

For nearly two decades, TGC’s conferences have been catalytic gatherings where thousands of like-minded, gospel-centered Christians come together and leave more encouraged and equipped in ministry.

Whether for church staff members or volunteer leaders, TGC27 will have something for everyone passionate about serving in the local church.

“It’s a unique opportunity to gather together as members of local congregations for refreshment and encouragement, while remembering that we are members of a much larger, historic communion,” said Melissa Kruger, TGC’s vice president of women’s initiatives. “It’s a special experience to learn and grow alongside those whom we serve with week to week.”

If you’ve never been to one of these conferences, make TGC27 your first time. The experience of singing gospel-rich hymns with 7,000 fellow saints in a massive convention center hall is something every Christian can enjoy. The teaching you hear, the conversations you have, and the connections you make will bear lasting fruit in your Christian life and ministry.

Learn more about the conference speakers, schedule, breakout options, and more at TGC27.org. Register soon to secure the lowest rate!

I asked Alex Fogleman—professor at Trinity Anglican Seminary and author of Making Disciples: Catechesis in History, Theology, and Practice—about what’s on his bedside table, his favorite fiction, the books he regularly revisits, and more.

What’s on your nightstand right now?

Right now, I have David Brooks’s How to Know a Person, which is as much about perception and attention as it is about relationships. I also have Josef Pieper’s Happiness and Contemplation. I love Pieper’s writing, especially Leisure: The Basis of Culture, but I just discovered this little book, and it’s a gem—also on the ways that love and attention are bound up with each other. Really quite good.

Then there’s a little volume called Reading Greek with the Desert Fathers by Timothy Brady. Because who wouldn’t want to start or end the day with a little monastic Greek? Seriously, though, it’s one of the best little anthologies for anyone with a year of New Testament Greek and wanting a deeper plunge. It’s been a great way to keep up some daily Greek while also imbibing spiritually edifying wisdom.

Finally, I’ve got my friend Thomas Breedlove’s new book, A Phenomenology of the Divine Image, which is a profound meditation on the image of God and human finitude. You might not think of a book on Gregory of Nyssa and French phenomenology as bedtime reading, but the first sentence of the book, I kid you not, is “Macrina was dying.” Talk about a page-turner!

What are your favorite fiction books?

Being from the South, I’ve almost always loved Flannery O’Connor’s works: the The Complete Stories, for sure, but also her novels Wise Blood and The Violent Bear It Away. I say “almost” because at first I was completely mystified by her writing. Through Ralph Wood, though, I gradually learned to see what was happening. His Flannery O’Connor and the Christ-Haunted South is an excellent introduction to reading O’Connor.

More recently, my family has introduced me to several other great fiction books. I’ll just mention Andrew Peterson’s Wingfeather Saga, about which I’d agree with the audacious claims of those who rank it with the Narniad. I’d even concur with Tom Ward that it offers an even more deeply Christian picture of the gospel’s victory.

I’d even concur with Tom Ward that The Wingfeather Saga offers an even more deeply Christian picture of the gospel’s victory.

Many of my favorite fiction books, though, are those recommended to me by my friend Paul Gutacker. Paul is one of those people who not only loves good books of all kinds but also is a truly convivial reader. Over the years, this has led to a lovely list of some of my favorite books: Adam Roberts’s Kantian sci-fi The Thing Itself and Hegelian The This, Christopher Beha’s Augustinian The Index of Self-Destructive Acts, Daniel Nayeri’s whirlwind Everything Sad Is Untrue, Eugene Vodolazkin’s everywhere-all-at-once Laurus, and Francis Spufford’s alternative history detective thriller Cahokia Jazz. I look forward to whatever Paul recommends next.

What biographies or autobiographies have most influenced you and why?

I don’t read a ton of biographies, admittedly. I’m not sure I’ve ever read a biography of Lincoln or Roosevelt or any military hero. I do like books about artists, though. I mentioned Ralph Wood’s work on O’Connor, and I’d also add here the edited volume of her correspondence, The Habit of Being. Not only does it offer a unique window into her world, but it contains some of the flat-out funniest writing I’ve ever read.

I’ve also had a longtime fascination with Bob Dylan, and his Chronicles well portrays his allusive and enigmatic life. I wouldn’t have said it like this when I first read it, but there’s something deeply figural about Dylan. Like a good apophatic theologian, he eludes precise, pinned-down observation while drawing the listener to the deeper mystery of things. He’s kept me away from more than a few false idols.

More confidently, I can commend some ancient biographical works like Athanasius’s Life of Anthony, Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Saint Macrina, and Augustine’s Confessions in this category. They’d hardly count as biographies today, but they do afford, I think, a powerful instance of what we often seek in biographies: a way of looking at the world in which we learn to perceive things more like what they really are—as reflections of divine glory.

What are some books you regularly reread and why?

The book with the most underlining and finger-smears is Andrew Louth’s Discerning the Mystery: An Essay on the Nature of Theology. To me, it’s one of the most profound meditations on what Eliot names as the “dissociation of sensibility” in the modern world between intellect and affect, truth and aesthetics, and theology and spirituality. It’s about culture and the transformation of knowledge in the modern period, particularly the reliance on method as the only legitimate form of knowing. It’s also about language, pedagogy, culture, tradition, and liturgy—all of which goes into a book on “the nature of theology.”

Louth ultimately mounts a defense of patristic allegory, but the way he gets there is through an epic foray into modern thought. The retrieval of patristic exegesis is hard-won, coming only after seriously grappling with Vico, Gadamer, Heidegger, Polanyi, Torrance, Barth, and many others. It’s also beautifully lyrical. One of the back blurbs simply says, “Louth writes like an angel.” So it’s got that going for it.

What books have most profoundly shaped how you serve and lead others for the sake of the gospel?

Early on, it was Dallas Willard’s The Divine Conspiracy and a host of Eugene Peterson books, especially Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places, Eat This Book, and The Contemplative Pastor. These books provided an essential framework for seeing the gospel as intrinsic to ordinary life, and I also learned from them a patient devotion to Scripture and the voice of the Spirit.

J. I. Packer and Gary Parrett’s Grounded in the Gospel clarified my vocation as a theologian-catechist. That book—and Packer’s ministry more generally—voiced the urgent need for recovering of catechesis. They write, “Where wise catechesis has flourished, the church has flourished. Where it has been neglected, the church has floundered.” I put that on a coffee mug one time, but my wife didn’t like seeing the word “floundered” when drinking coffee, so I have a new mug now that just has the first sentence.

Finally, the writings of Hans Boersma have influenced my theology most of all. I studied with him in seminary and he’s continued to be a generous friend and mentor. His books Heavenly Participation, Seeing God, Scripture as Real Presence, Pierced by Love, and many others have been consistent tutors in how to seek the face of Christ in the Scriptures, the church, and all of creation. Hans is mostly known as a strident champion of the Christian Platonist tradition and its metaphysical realism, with which I’m in total agreement. But I’ve learned as much from him about loving God, reading Scripture, and belonging to the church.

What’s one book you wish every pastor would read?

Every pastor should read—must read—Augustine’s Instructing Beginners in Faith, and probably right now. I like Raymond Canning’s translation, but others work well, too. I can rarely get through an article or talk without that text somewhere in the background. It’s short but contains in nuce an entire world of biblical, theological, and pastoral wisdom.

The premise is that a nearby pastor named Deogratias writes to Augustine with a confession: His catechesis is utterly boring. He’s stuck and doesn’t know what to do, so he asks the great orator Augustine how to teach the Bible and encourage people in the faith. Augustine obliges these technical requests, but he then redirects Deogratias to the heart of the issue. The most important thing, he counsels Deogratias, is to learn to teach with joy. And at the heart of joy is God’s persistent abiding love for the church made known in Christ. It’s just. So. Good.

What’s your best piece of writing advice?

Embrace the discomfort and tedium of editing and kill your darlings. I know some people think first, then write, but if you write in order to think, you’ll have to get used to rewriting and editing and then rewriting some more. And you’ll have to say goodbye to some dear, precious little sentences. I create a separate draft for these darlings, so I don’t have to feel like I actually kill them. They live on a special file on my computer, blissfully unaware of the final drafts to which they’ll never belong. I’m sure God still loves them.

Embrace the discomfort and tedium of editing and kill your darlings.

Finding the right words is largely intuitive, and the more you read other good writers in your discipline, the better your ear for good prose will be. I learned a lot from Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird and William Zinsser’s On Writing Well, but I’ve learned as much by imitating my favorite theologians, like Hans Boersma and D. H. Williams. I started to pay attention not only to the content but also to the form of their sentences, how they structured paragraphs and sections, how they engaged with sources and texts.

This doesn’t always work, though—or it does, just not in a positive way. I realized at times I was trying to sound like someone I’d been reading, like N. T. Wright, and ended up just sounding awful. Nonetheless, I’d still maintain that writing, like other work, is best learned through apprenticeship—but there’s a good amount of trial and error. The key though, is that we don’t find our “authentic voice” by trying to be an individual. We find it through humbly joining the conversation we’ve been invited into. In this way, you might even say there’s an ecclesiology of writing. (I don’t know about that last sentence though; might be a darling with a death warrant.)

What are you learning about life and following Jesus?

Life is hard and following Jesus is harder. I thought both would get easier, but, curiously, they haven’t. I’m the kind of person who likes being liked, and likes being liked for being good at things. I’m learning that Jesus’s love is better than being liked; that the gospel is better news than I thought, but it also kills your idols; and that the church really is the body of Christ, which for all its cuts and tears is the crazy way God is saving the world.

We later find out this unnamed woman had been politically progressive just a few years earlier but was “radicalized” rightward by the Facebook algorithm, circa 2019–20. In a cringey moment near the film’s end, we see this woman show up again as part of the mob storming the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021.

Writer and director Aaron Sorkin opens with this vignette to offer a case study of the real-world effects of the Facebook/Meta algorithms, which the movie goes on to explore in depth. But it’s noteworthy that the woman’s malformation online is depicted mostly as political, and in a “left to right” direction.

For Sorkin—who since The West Wing hasn’t hid his progressive politics—the primary problem with Facebook isn’t spiritual malformation but political radicalization (in one direction). And that’s precisely why this movie, a companion piece to 2010’s The Social Network (written by Sorkin but directed by David Fincher), lacks the potency of its predecessor.

While The Social Network felt ominous, youthful, cool, and philosophically incisive, The Social Reckoning feels less relevant and at times downright hokey (“She’s disrupting” is such a groaner line). Like Facebook in general—most heavily used by boomers, little used by Gen Z—the film feels disconnected from the next-gen technological zeitgeist.

Like Facebook in general—most heavily used by boomers, little used by Gen Z—the film feels disconnected from the next-gen technological zeitgeist.

It’s not that the concerns Sorkin raises aren’t real problems. They are. It’s that his film frames the problems politically in a way that reduces their full scale and oversimplifies potential solutions. In a way, Sorkin falls prey to the problematic dynamics his movie points out. Social algorithms have trained us to filter all reality through the lens of our entrenched political narrative. In his telling of the Facebook story, Sorkin does this too.

Old-Fashioned Whistleblower Drama

The Social Reckoning follows a familiar whistleblower narrative in which Facebook employee Frances Haugen (Mikey Madison) teams up with Wall Street Journal investigative reporter Jeff Horwitz (Jeremy Allen White) to expose Facebook for knowingly hiding its platforms’ negative societal effects. Haugen secretly leaks internal documents that help Horwitz stand up his story, a series of articles that became known as “The Facebook Files.”

Jeremy Strong plays Mark Zuckerberg (taking over from Jesse Eisenberg, who played “Zuck” in The Social Network but declined Sorkin’s invitation to reprise the role) with a cold, robotic detachment that feels unhelpfully caricatured. While Haugen and Horwitz are portrayed as heroic, Woodward and Bernstein–type Davids to the proverbial Goliath, Zuckerberg comes across as the consummate corporate villain—always prioritizing profits even if it harms users. It all feels too simple.

Platforms, Not Referees

While the investigative-journalism plot is occasionally compelling, the standout scenes in The Social Reckoning are the moments of verbal sparring (Sorkin’s creative forte) in which Zuckerberg debates others about the nature of free speech and corporate responsibility.

Zuckerberg calls himself a “free-speech absolutist” and says of his platforms (Facebook and Instagram), “We are a corkboard. We don’t care about what people pin to it.” He cites Section 230 of U.S. federal law, which protects online platforms and websites from being held liable for content posted by users or third parties.

Zuckerberg refuses calls to fact-check political ads on Facebook or play referee in determining what content is or isn’t allowed. “Facebook isn’t the ref!” he says at one point. “We’re the public square.”

But his critics—chiefly a former advisor, Charlie (Bill Burr)—push back, arguing that the Facebook algorithms, especially once optimized for “meaningful social interaction (MSI),” are a “firehose of bad information” that is “becoming jet-powered, hydraulic.”

Charlie tells Zuckerberg his platform is “commoditizing gullability” (great phrase!) and irresponsibly profiting from algorithms that accelerate misinformation, outrage, conspiracy theories, and radicalization.

“You’re like a crossing guard standing in front of a school but you’re not doing anything with your arms,” Charlie says. “So the cars are just plowing down the children.”

In another scene, Haugen describes how the initial promise of Facebook was “democratization” and “giving everyone a voice,” to which Horwitz responds, “While we all have a voice, not everybody deserves a microphone.” He cites the importance of credentials (e.g., being a trained journalist) and echoes some of what Tom Nichols laments in his 2017 book, The Death of Expertise.

But while the problems of an unrefereed online world, fueled by problematic algorithms, are readily apparent in The Social Reckoning, the solutions aren’t.

Who Decides Who Gets the Microphone?

It may be true that “not everybody deserves a microphone,” but who gets to make that determination? Sorkin may be implicitly suggesting government as a solution, in the form of tighter regulation and content policing. But he and everyone else would only want his “side” of the government to play this role—and it’d inevitably devolve into partisan censorship.

What if Facebook and similar platforms were forced to play the “ref” role themselves? Would abolishing Section 230 and making tech platforms more responsible for the “microphone” question solve the problem? No. This would put huge amounts of power into the hands of a few inherently biased folks, whose determinations for what’s permissible and not would be arbitrary.

Any form of censorship or content suppression—even under the guise of “fact checkers”—has limited value and often backfires, planting seeds of suspicion and fueling conspiracy theories. Adding to the problem is the reality that on more than one occasion, the “credentialed“ or “gatekeeper” media class has been wrong and perpetuated falsehoods, while the much-ridiculed “conspiracy theorists” (say, about the COVID-19 lab leak theory) may have been right.

Yes, the “everyone has a microphone” problem creates chaos. But the chaos is most problematic not because it’s politically combustible (which it is) but because it’s epistemologically corrosive. The erratic discursive dynamics wrought by social algorithms erode trust, impair critical thinking, prey on fears (doomscrolling), and warp our souls.

All of us are being formed in these ways—not just people of a certain political persuasion.

Problem on Left and Right

This is an obvious obfuscation in The Social Reckoning, which notably climaxes on January 6. All Sorkin’s examples of algorithm-driven radicalization happen with people being made extremely right-wing. Set in the early years of the COVID-19 pandemic, the film shows a belligerent woman in a grocery checkout line refusing to wear a mask and a San Francisco tech bro citing an erroneous online theory.

On more than one occasion, the ‘credentialed’ media class has been wrong and perpetuated falsehoods.

But what about the many progressives radicalized further left by their own bubbles of pandemic misinformation (some of whom still wear masks outdoors, six years later)? Why doesn’t the film acknowledge any examples of left-wing extremists whose algorithmic formation radicalized them into violence (e.g., the three would-be assassins of President Trump, or Charlie Kirk’s assassin)?

Social media algorithms radicalize people on all sides. It’s a bipartisan problem, which means any political solution would need to be bipartisan. But unless we’re talking about age-verification laws narrowly aimed at protecting children, I don’t think politics will be the most effective avenue for addressing the ongoing social media (and now AI) problems.

Bottom-Up Wisdom, Not Top-Down Censorship

Even if greater government regulations are imposed on tech companies, ultimately the most effective agent of change will be pressure from the marketplace and shifting public opinion.

We’ve started to see this over the last few years, as influential books like Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation, or Freya India’s recent Girls®, present sobering accounts of just how bad the effects of these technologies have been—particularly on young people. More and more schools are going tech-light or tech-free, encouraged by organizations like the recently launched Center for Responsible Technology. This summer’s Toy Story 5 showed how skepticism toward tech has become the norm—especially among millennial and Gen-Z parents.

As part of its recent $17 billion settlement of a lawsuit over the harmful effects of its products for young people, Meta made a number of positive changes to how young people interact with Facebook and Instagram. Legal and public-opinion pressures can actually effect change.

But it’s not just a young-people problem. Boomer grandparents are arguably the ones being most malformed by Facebook these days. So “protecting the youth” initiatives only help solve one facet of the problem.

Ultimately, the best guard against the worst harms of these platforms is the wisdom of people who use them. This is where church leaders and Christian influencers can make an important difference—by discipling people of all ages toward wisdom in their everyday scrolling habits.

Ultimately, the best guard against the worst harms of these platforms is the wisdom of people who use them.

This is what we’ve tried to do at The Gospel Coalition with book projects like Scrolling Ourselves to Death and the just-published AI Apocalypse: A Survival Guide for Humanity. From phone idolatry to AI companions to the crisis of reading, we routinely examine the implications of these technologies in hopes of giving tools for wisdom in the digital age.

But more than just warning about the spiritual dangers of screens, algorithms, and AI, it’s also vital to make a positive case for offline life and real human connection. How can we give young people today a vision for life more compelling than bingeing “content” online and getting sucked into algorithm-fueled, mind-numbing scrolling? At a time when most young people readily admit their phones mostly push AI slop and “brain rot,” it seems like they’re hungry for alternatives. That’s what I tried to offer in The Wisdom Pyramid: ideas for how to feed your soul with more nourishment than scrolling junk food.

Rather than regulating the platforms, we ought to focus on retraining user affections. How can we encourage one another to get offline and go outside, to chat with friends face-to-face rather than via Instagram DMs? To love the local, embodied, and real more than whatever dopamine delusions the algorithm produces?

The Social Reckoning—much like the Netflix documentary The Social Dilemma—is stronger on naming problems than offering solutions. The greater “reckoning” with these technologies will be the work we all take up, every day, in homes and churches and classrooms and coffee shops, spurring each other to take back life from the algorithm.