He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the sons of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, and they will bring offerings in righteousness to the LORD. Then the offering of Judah and Jerusalem will be pleasing to the LORD as in the days of old and as in former years. (Mal. 3:3–4)

Reflect

My grandmother always made going to church a special event. She helped me pick the right dress, made sure my shoes were shiny and clean, and withstood burns from the curling iron to perfect my hairdo. I know church attire can vary. But I still get dressed up for corporate worship because, no matter how cliché it sounds, I want to wear my Sunday best for Jesus.

Yet even in our finest clothes, we can still be dirty on the inside. Hidden sins are, after all, hidden. We can sing hymns at max volume, forgetting the way we treated our coworkers last week. We can kneel in prayer, easily dismissing what we posted on the internet earlier that morning. We can take the bread and wine even if we lost it with our kids in the car. People at church only see what’s on the outside, but God looks on the heart (1 Sam. 16:7). And unless we come clean, we can’t come into his presence at all.

Even in our finest clothes, we can still be dirty on the inside.

Purity in God’s presence is a major theme in Scripture. In Leviticus, we learn how Israel was to distinguish between the clean and unclean. These categories extended to foods and animals. Even people could be defiled by disease or by touching unclean things such as a dead body. The temple was off-limits for the unclean. Only ritual washings and animal sacrifices made reentry into God’s presence achievable. But even this wasn’t permanent—for the blood of bulls and goats couldn’t fully atone for sin (Heb. 10:4).

Like Israel, we dare not present ourselves before God in our sinful condition. As the psalmist asks, “Who shall stand in [God’s] holy place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart” (Ps. 24:3–4). While soap and water might wash our filthy hands, what can purify our sin-stained hearts?

In today’s verses, the prophet Malachi announced the coming of One who would refine his people as gold and silver. Later, the author of Hebrews clarified the refiner’s identity:

If the blood of goats and bulls . . . sanctify for the purification of the flesh, how much more will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without blemish to God, purify our conscience from dead works to serve the living God. (Heb. 9:13–14)

During Advent, we remember that Jesus is the great Refiner. He came to shed his purifying blood to cover our sins and forgive us. Then, like a refiner who heats metal to remove impurities, the Lord sanctifies us so that on judgment day we’ll be an unblemished offering to God. On that day, because of Jesus, we’ll wear white robes of righteousness (Rev. 6:11).

Grandma made sure I looked pretty for church, but I wasn’t truly clean. Jesus, the great Purifier of sinners, is the only One who can wash away every stain and remove every impurity. When he dresses us in white robes, we’ll enter God’s presence because we’ll be clean—not just on the outside but on the inside too.

Respond

Sometimes the Lord refines us through trials and difficult circumstances. How have you experienced his refining process this year? Write a prayer thanking God for Christ who cleanses, purifies, and refines us so we’ll one day be holy and acceptable in his presence.

For Christians, though, the answers can feel unnerving. We already believe in nonhuman intelligence. We call them angels and demons. But aliens would be something else—material, embodied, literally otherworldly.

In 2016, NASA started a conversation among religious scholars at the Center of Theological Inquiry in Princeton about what the existence of extraterrestrial life would mean for religion. Paul Gutjahr, Ruth N. Halls professor of English at Indiana University, has been wrestling with that question for years. Faith in Space: American Religious Belief in Extraterrestrial Life is his considered answer. He thinks we need to look back at existing “extraterrestrial cosmologies” in American religions rather than merely pondering future possibilities (7).

Faith in Space is ultimately a history of what happens when religious communities take extraterrestrial life seriously. Many minority religions have, and it has shaped their cosmology and even their soteriology. But for many evangelical Christians, Gutjahr’s history raises a more uncomfortable question: What happens when we don’t take seriously the possibility of extraterrestrial life?

Alien Religion

Early Americans didn’t need much help imagining inhabited worlds. According to Gutjahr, many Americans “believed there to be life elsewhere in the universe” (19). By the end of the 19th century, “every stratum of American society had been exposed” to this belief (43).

For example, Emanuel Swedenborg taught that the universe is populated with humans bearing God’s image and claimed to have conversed with them. His American followers never numbered more than a few thousand, and yet his ideas traveled across the young nation; Helen Keller held them, as did John Chapman (a.k.a. Johnny Appleseed).

What happens when we don’t take seriously the possibility of extraterrestrial life?

Andrew Jackson Davis, the father of American Spiritualism, was similarly inspired, convinced that “if life is to be found on other planets, it is human life.” He arranged extraterrestrial humans in “a progression of degrees that move from less to more spiritual” (64).

Then Joseph Smith took things further. Latter-day Saints (Mormons) took an “aggressive extraterrestrial cosmological stance,” linking all worlds under one governing structure (79). God created many inhabited worlds arranged in “a hierarchy where some worlds rule over others” (89). Among these many worlds, Earth holds the least desirable title of “the most wicked, and thus most in need of a savior” (86). God himself is an enfleshed exalted man dwelling on a planet near the star Kolob. I’d add that the Salt Lake Temple bears the Big Dipper, and early Latter-day Saint temple iconography is thick with suns, moons, and stars.

Next came the founder of Seventh-day Adventism, Ellen G. White. Where William Miller’s followers read comets and meteor showers as signs of Christ’s return, White gave Seventh-day Adventists “a far more complex understanding of their relationship with the stars” (124). Ours “was the only wicked world” (125). White distinguished strongly between the righteous and unrighteous worlds, and put Earth on the wrong side of that distinction.

By the 20th century, the heavens were packed and theories about the heavens were part of salvation. Then comes Helena Blavatsky (Theosophy), L. Ron Hubbard (Scientology), Wallace Fard Muhammad and Louis Farrakhan (Nation of Islam), Malachi Z. York (Nuwaubian Nation), Ashtar Command, and Heaven’s Gate. All these figures or groups saw extraterrestrial life as part of the human story, whether for our good or our ill, or both.

While the subtitle promises to cover American religions broadly, Gutjahr sets aside Catholics, Jews, and native traditions. The only “Protestants” he examines are Swedenborgians and Latter-day Saints, neither of whom would accept the label. The better subtitle would have been American Minority Religious Belief in Extraterrestrial Life; that book is excellent. The great observation Gutjahr makes is that while older traditions discussed other worlds and their inhabitants, newer traditions made them doctrine.

Evangelical Attitudes

This book leads me to wonder where evangelicalism sits. As a pastor, I’m afraid the honest answer is that many evangelicals haven’t yet pulled up a chair. Our people are already thinking about this possibility, including many of our young men. The U.S. government keeps releasing Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena (UAP) footage and testimony, and Congress keeps holding hearings. Some of the loudest Christian voices on the subject are repeating only one word, over and over: demonic.

Demonology certainly is part of the UAP discussion. I’ve read enough abduction encounters and heard enough testimony to understand that sort of thing is in play and should be taken seriously. But my concern is that all UAP and nonhuman intelligence will be considered demonic by default, and we’ll stop asking what else might be out there.

If his Space Trilogy is any measure to go by, I think C. S. Lewis would find that move unwise. It’s such a big conclusion to draw from such a small, opaque sample. Lewis would ask us to stretch our imagination within the bounds of biblical orthodoxy.

Much of the buzz around Steven Spielberg’s Disclosure Day this summer focused on how the movie, which presented the existence aliens in our midst as a fact, might undermine religious belief. The UAP discussion is something our culture is wrestling with in religious terms. Our answer needs to go deeper than simply attributing the inexplicable to demons.

Considered Response

Thankfully, the Christian worldview allows us to think carefully about this subject, and it even invites us to. Scripture already speaks of a creation that includes things “visible and invisible” (Col. 1:16).

C. S. Lewis takes up these questions without flinching—especially in his excellent essay “Religion and Rocketry”—where he walks through the logical possibilities for rational extraterrestrial life. He argues that “the mere existence of these creatures would not raise a problem.” We would need to know if they were fallen and in need of redemption before we worry about how their existence affects our theology. Meanwhile, Lewis reminds us that “Christians and their opponents again and again expect that some new discovery will either turn matters of faith into matters of knowledge or else reduce them to patent absurdities. But it has never happened.” Yet if Lewis thought it worthwhile to consider the possibilities, then we can do the same, and I think pastors should for the sake of their people.

The Christian worldview allows us to think carefully about this subject, and it even invites us to.

The challenge for church leaders is to take people seriously when they ask these questions. When a young man brings up the topic, we can’t simply claim it’s demonic and walk away. Instead, we need to turn to discipleship.

Ask what he’s been reading and hearing. Ask what he thinks about it. Then show him how the Christian doctrine of creation is big enough to hold all those questions and thoughts and feelings. We don’t need to have all the answers. We just need to be willing to wrestle with all the questions.

Faith in Space shows that many Americans throughout history have already taken the question of extraterrestrial life seriously, but they’ve done so from outside an orthodox Christian framework. By expounding an engaging history, Gutjahr invites readers to join in the conversation.

In this second of a two-part session from TGC25 (watch part 1), Michael Kruger explores the Christology of the earliest Christian movement, drawing on both New Testament texts and second-century patristic sources.

These historical sources indicate that the full divinity of Jesus wasn’t the creation of a fourth-century church council but a fundamental belief of Christians from the beginning.

In This Episode

00:08 – The scholarly debate on Jesus

08:22 – Jesus as God in the New Testament

11:22 – Pauline evidence for high Christology

11:35 – Monotheism and 1 Corinthians

25:10 – Worship in second-century Christianity

31:42 – Early scribal traditions and names

Resources Mentioned:

• Christianity at the Crossroads by Michael J. Kruger
• The Epistle to Diognetus

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The Bible, though, often depicts its characters as “new” versions of earlier heroes, a phenomenon known as typology—an earlier “type” is a foreshadowing of a later “antitype.” The most obvious example is the New Testament’s presentation of Jesus as the perfect “Version 2.0” of Old Testament figures.

Paul calls Jesus “the second man” (1 Cor. 15:47), in contrast to Adam, who was a “type of the one who was to come” (Rom. 5:14). Jesus, the “son of David,” is so superior to his kingly forefather that even David himself had to address him as “Lord” in Psalm 110 (see Matt. 22:41–45). Melchizedek, the priest-king of ancient Jerusalem in Genesis 14, prefigured the work of Jesus, a priest and king superior to all who came before him (Heb. 5:1–10; 6:19–20; 7:1–28).

The New Testament employs typology to instruct the church about God’s redemptive plan and, above all, about the Redeemer. We sometimes fail to realize that the Old Testament also uses typology to present its own heroes as “Version 2.0” of an earlier figure. Let’s consider the book of Esther’s depiction of Mordecai as a kind of “second Joseph.” By doing so, we will see how this Old Testament book speaks about Jesus Christ (Luke 24:44).

How Is Joseph a ‘Type’ of Mordecai?

Mordecai’s life and service to the Persian king Ahasuerus (Xerxes) is remarkably similar to Joseph’s service to Pharaoh. Just as Joseph was taken against his will to live in a foreign land (Gen. 37:12–36), so also Mordecai lived as an exile in the Persian capital of Susa (Est. 2:5–6). While both men eventually rose to second in ruling power (Gen. 41:40; Est. 10:3), both experienced hardship and humiliation along the way (Gen. 39–40; Est. 4:1–17).

The New Testament employs typology to instruct the church about God’s redemptive plan and, above all, about the Redeemer.

When Pharaoh placed Joseph in power “over all the land of Egypt,” he gave him the royal “signet ring” that was on his own hand, just as Ahasuerus gave the “signet ring” he wore on his hand to Mordecai (Gen. 41:41–42; Est. 8:2; cf. 3:10). Pharaoh exalted Joseph by dressing him in fine clothes and making him ride in a royal chariot preceded by a crier (Gen. 41:42–43); similarly, Ahasuerus ordered that Mordecai also be dressed in royal clothes, mounted on the king’s horse, and led in procession to proclamations of the king’s favor (Est. 6:9, 11). Ironically, this exaltation was the idea of the villain Haman.

The striking similarities between these two Old Testament heroes lead us to respond like Bernie Kropp in The Incredibles: “Coincidence? I think not!”

What’s at Stake?

By presenting Mordecai as “Joseph 2.0,” the author of Esther helps the reader to understand what’s at stake in the narrative. Behind the scenes, it was the Lord who had providentially sent Joseph to Egypt to preserve the lives of many, including a “remnant” of the sons of Israel (Gen. 45:5–8).

While the book of Esther has a “secular” appearance on the surface because it never explicitly mentions God, we can see the Lord’s providential hand at work in bringing Mordecai to a position of rule and authority. In the end, the Lord uses Mordecai (as he did Joseph) as an agent of salvation for many people, both Jew and Gentile (Gen. 41:53–57; Est. 8:17; 9:3; 9:27; 10:3).

Just consider for a moment that if Haman were to succeed in exterminating “the people of Mordecai, throughout the whole kingdom of Ahasuerus” (Est. 3:6), it would extinguish the Davidic house and thereby prevent the coming of Jesus, the Son of David (see Rev. 12:1–6).

What Can We Learn?

Joseph’s life and service to the kingdom of God in the book of Genesis serve as a foreshadowing type of Mordecai’s life and service. Yet these two Old Testament heroes point even further ahead to the ultimate antitype: the person and work of Jesus Christ.

Joseph’s life and service to the kingdom of God in the book of Genesis serve as a foreshadowing type of Mordecai’s life and service.

Joseph tells his brothers the most profound lesson he learned from what he endured: “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today” (Gen. 50:20).

The same lesson proved true for Mordecai: The Lord “reverse[s]” (Est. 9:1) Haman’s evil plot against Mordecai, saves the Old Testament people of God, and thereby preserves the messianic line.

The ultimate instance of God turning the greatest of evils into the highest good, however, is found in the cross of Christ. As the apostle Peter testifies on the Day of Pentecost,

This Jesus, delivered up according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of lawless men. God raised him up, loosing the pangs of death, because it was not possible for him to be held by it. (Acts 2:23–24)

We have the testimony of three witnesses—Joseph, Mordecai, and Jesus—to assure us that whatever evil may befall us, God can turn it to serve his good and perfect purposes.

It requires great faith in the Lord’s power and grace, but the believer should find incredible comfort knowing that “for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose” (Rom. 8:28). Even when life seems as dark as it can possibly be, the Lord is still “God of our salvation” (Ps. 88:1, 18).

My first conversation partners and readings said I was a victim of abuse, but that framing was too passive to resonate with me. I believe the passive voice is valid, even essential. But when I discovered another framework, the child of war, I finally began to understand my past.

Personal History That Led to Thoughts of War

My father was a gifted professional, a compelling speaker who also possessed a shrewd wisdom. My mother seemed like a match—gifted, educated, and kind. But he was violent, even though for 16 years he was a pastor, and my mother couldn’t contain him. His behavior was our family secret, and if I hoped to understand it, I was on my own.

Eventually, I read stories about one-dimensional moral monsters called “abusers”; their children were “victims.” But my parents seemed too admirable to be monsters, and the idea that I was a passive victim didn’t label my experience.

I left home at 16 and essentially forgot the past until the month my father died. At that point, my readings on war let me see that my childhood had much in common with people who tried to resist and endure the aggression of a superior power. Terms like “resistance,” “war,” and “agency” fit better. They fostered understanding and healing.

My first sharp memory is as ragged as a torn fingernail. Four years old, I’m hiding in my mother’s closet, behind dresses that smell of dust and skin cream. My skin stings and a deep ache runs beneath the surface. I’ve been spanked enough to know how it feels, but this is different. I think, I did something wrong, but what? I must deserve this, but why did he hit me so hard? Why does it hurt . . . so . . . much? I’m baffled by what we call mistreatment and betrayal.

Fifty years later, I realized that 4-year-olds shouldn’t have the ability or experience to reflect critically on their beatings. And yet, because I could judge his actions, I could separate myself from him—he was “the” father rather than “my” father—and that gave me agency.

When I turned 7, my favorite birthday gift was a miniature cowboy wagon. It was cheap, and the father quickly detected a flaw in the plastic. “This will snap,” he declared. He tugged and pulled at it until it broke, then he handed me the pieces and said, “See, I told you that would happen.”

The playground had taught me that this was cruelty, so I decided to feel nothing, to sever his capacity to wound me. It was a foolish vow, one no child can fully keep, but it gave me a sense of agency or control. Two years later, it paid off. The chief gift for my 9th birthday was a basketball. When he decided I liked it too much, he stabbed it with a long knife. But by then, I’d hardened myself enough (agency again) to feel no grief, no surprise. It registered as a problem: Where would I get the money to buy another ball? How would I keep it safe?

Because I could judge my father’s actions, I could separate myself from him, and that gave me agency.

As time passed, my older brother and I began to resist him. We wore thick jeans when it seemed a belt might begin to fly. If a blow landed? Physical pain usually doesn’t last long. Social pains were tougher. The family moved often, because the father could always get a job but was too erratic to keep one. I attended five schools in seven years, chiefly in insular towns.

I discovered that my athletic skills let me make friends through one team or another. Yet it was wise to mask my academic abilities-—unless the boys needed a math champion to wipe the smirks off the smart girls’ faces. I was making a way, until the dynamics at home shifted.

Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was the professional failure. The father was now reduced to the oversight of a tiny country church, two part-time jobs, and summer work for the Red Cross. Whatever the reasons, his behavior became ominous. He cursed and raged day after day, denouncing his enemies, excoriating communists, and raging at his sons. He continued to strike us, occasionally trying to cause real injury, when we were 12 to 15, but he also began to talk about killing us.

Eventually, he said it so often that we could ignore it—until we heard him scrape his gun off the top of his bookcase. When we heard bullets clattering, when we heard our mother scream “Run! Run!” we took off. Even if we had no shoes and no coat, even if freezing rain pelted us, we ran, then huddled and shivered under a bridge, trying to guess when his wrath would dissipate so we could risk a return to our house. Alas, there was no other haven, no friend or family or authority who knew. We were on our own.

The rages grew more frequent, more intense, and my older brother and I realized we needed to plan our defense, for it was now clear our mother could no longer defuse our father’s wrath, and some combination of groundless optimism and raw shame kept her from asking for help. Years later, I asked her, “How many times did you think he would kill us in the next 10 minutes?” She searched her memory and sighed, saying, “Four times. Maybe five.” We understood; we had to defend ourselves.

The strategy sessions were surreal but essential. Option 1: Escape. If we were downstairs, we would run out a door or hop from a certain window. Upstairs, we kept two windows unlocked, in case he blocked the steps. One led to a porch roof and a seven- or eight-foot jump to the backyard; the other was higher, but escaping with sprained ankle was better than being trapped.

Option 2: Kinetic action. We played a lot of baseball at this time. Wooden bats were the norm, and when they broke, we scattered them through the house, always keeping one near the back door and one at the front, in case we had no other choice. If he traps us, one of us has to attack him and the other has to get a bat and hit him—hard—on his feet and his knees. We know, but don’t say, that my older brother, larger and stronger, will attack him physically and I will swing the bat. It’s a terrible thought, and yet I may need to do it, if it’s life or death.

Please don’t think that I advocate fighting violence with violence. I only describe a short-term plan to not die. Our mother should have called the authorities. We should have too. Unfortunately, we couldn’t see that option at the time.

Whatever the reason, I could always detach from the death threats, which seemed like dreams or theater. Unfortunately, the father realized he could tailor his cruelty to each child’s weakness. Physical blows enraged my older brother, so the father struck his body. My younger brother was tenderhearted, so the father terrorized him with tales of demons and dark powers. He chose to wound my spirit with fine-tuned streams of insults that could last for 10, 20, 30 minutes a day. Why? Because I relied on certain skills to find friends.

He saw my confidence, so he tried to destroy it with a series of words: “You are useless, worthless, and helpless, and you always will be. You are weak, weak like a newborn kitten, blind and helpless, mewling for milk. Yes, a helpless, useless, worthless baby kitten.” As insults go, it’s not much, but it got under my skin, and he saw it, so he repeated it day after day, for almost three years.

The rule for these sessions was “You cannot leave and may not reply.” So I sat in a chair and listened. How could I fight back? Who can fight tanks with sticks? But I did what I could. I stared at him, unblinking, with all the disbelief and disdain my face and posture could muster. Then I listed my skills and shouted within, “I am not worthless. You are wrong.”

So my brothers and I tried, however feebly, to defend ourselves. It wasn’t much, but the effort counted. We felt we had a measure of strength, and that helped us survive.

We felt we had a measure of strength, and that helped us survive.

The sense that we resisted, defended ourselves, possibly fought back led me to consider us children of war. Yes, we were weak, but we were warriors, not victims. Not a typical war, however, an internal or civil war, for we battled our nearest neighbor, the man who gave us life, fed us, taught us, coached us, and also wanted to destroy us.

The father wasn’t the monochromatic monster I encountered in the literature of abuse. He loved to talk to us over meals, regaled us with vivid stories, and played Socrates, asking us question after question, driving us to think harder. We were in a civil war with a man we wanted to love. He was dangerous but admirable. This left us with internal conflict, but perhaps because he engaged us mentally as near-peers, it was possible to be agents, not victims, when he boiled with rage. So we suffered threats and violence and resisted with whatever tools children possess.

Another Perspective: Child of War

While I was sorting through these issues, David Powlison, a gifted psychologist, writer, and friend, pointed me to Psalm 129. It opens this way:

“Greatly have they afflicted me from my youth”—
    let Israel now say—
“Greatly have they afflicted me from my youth,
    yet they have not prevailed against me.” (vv. 1–2)

The words “me” and “my” in verse 1 lead us to expect a personal lament. But no, all Israel must join in! The congregation repeats the lament, word for word. Individuals suffer affliction, and communities do too. So the community joins a refrain and then adds a surprising conclusion: “Greatly have they afflicted me from my youth, yet they have not prevailed against me.”

Although afflicted, we stand. This might be a shout of victory: “We defeated our foe!” Or it could be defiance without victory: “We survived. We stand.” The next lines show that the second option is correct, for the mood remains gritty, even woeful:

The plowers plowed upon my back;
    they made long their furrows.”
The LORD is righteous;
    he has cut the cords of the wicked. (vv. 3–4)

Strong plows tear up the ground, and a plow, if applied to a human back, rips skin, muscles, tendons, and blood vessels. Plows don’t make neat incisions. And since “their furrows” are “long,” we imagine them running from shoulder to hip. That kind of wound does heal, but not completely. Scars must remain. But we resist tenaciously: “They have not prevailed.” Why not? Because “the LORD . . . has cut the cords of the wicked.” This is a confession of faith, both for individuals and for the believing community. God doesn’t permit the wicked to prevail.

This prompts an objection: “But the wicked do prevail. Genocide can erase entire people groups. Adults murder children.” Yes, but we can assume that the author, an Israelite, knows that. He’s writing a poem and a song, not a treatise on the problem of evil. As a poem or song, its language galvanizes hope in the darkest hours.

Psalm 129 certainly gave me a tool to reframe my childhood. A plower—a father—plowed the backs of his children. He dealt blows, both physical and emotional. Powlison, reflecting on this text, interpreted the metaphor of the plow. If someone takes a plow to a human back, he said, the scars fade but never disappear. They last a lifetime; we never “get past” great cruelty: “You won’t get over it, but you do not need to be forever defined by [it].”

In short, we defend ourselves and the Lord defends us, so evil men will not prevail. In time, we may experience God’s grace until we sing another poem: “It is good to sing praises to our God. . . . He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” (147:1, 3).

I assert that many children, women, men, and people groups endure abuse and exploitation. They’re captured, enslaved, and tethered to masters through drug addiction. Evildoers certainly abuse their victims, especially if they seem weak or defenseless. But the writers, speakers, and friends I first encountered spoke in entirely passive terms.

The passive voice is essential because many who suffer violence have not the strength to resist. But some can resist. For them, there’s another way to construe their experience. Many adults and some children resist, defend themselves, and deprive aggressors of power by fighting back.

The women and men who fight sex traffickers, slave traders, and warlords know the deceivers and oppressors who abuse women, children, and men. They also know that a community can rekindle an adult victim’s sense that he has options and agency. He can act on his own behalf.

The sense that we resisted, defended ourselves, possibly fought back led me to consider us children of war. Yes, we were weak, but we were warriors, not victims.

The best novels on suffering children make the same point. (Here, I assume great novels describe the human condition as well as scientific surveys). Charles Dickens, Pat Conroy, Barbara Kingsolver, and Roald Dahl all wrote novels whose protagonist is a mistreated and resourceful child. They’re victims and agents. They suffer abuse and they resist and chart a life for themselves.

In The Great Santini, by Conroy, the son finally fights his powerful and abusive father. Both David Copperfield by Dickens and Demon Copperhead by Kingsolver feature boys who suffer tragedy on tragedy but ultimately survive and thrive with a combination of timely help, innate gifts, and a will to persevere. In Matilda, by Dahl, the eponymous hero has parents who despise her and constantly tell her she’s “ignorant and stupid” when she knows she isn’t. When her father rips one of her books to shreds in a fit of anger, she thinks, “The only sensible thing to do when you are attacked is, as Napoleon once said, to counter-attack.”

We admire Matilda’s boldness, but it’s best to see that sufferers have several options. Experts say that when evil threatens, people freeze, flee, fight, or fawn over the oppressor to gain his favor. A trapped person may try all four options. Many people sense that freezing or fawning are the only options. Certainly, there’s a time to flee. Jesus told his disciples, “When they persecute you in one town, flee to the next” (Matt. 10:23; see Luke 21:21).

Let me repeat: The passive voice is essential. Violent people do abuse victims, who cannot protect themselves. But if we use nothing but the passive voice, we suffer from conceptual poverty. We can see abused children both as passive victims and as active agents. The problem of abuse is polychromatic; we cannot represent it accurately with one gray crayon. A father is cruel and hilarious. A mother is mean and she bears glorious gifts. If we have more words and concepts, we have more mental tools. That promotes understanding and healing.

To complicate matters, in certain settings it’s advantageous to claim victim status. It has cultural cachet. Victims garner attention and have a privileged voice. But if we spotlight passive categories, we obscure the need to resist wickedness. Happily, a growing interest in resilience provides another category. Resilient people survive, possibly by escaping, possibly enduring, possibly by fighting.

Some conceptions of violence are incorrect. Buddhists and Stoics urge people to endure suffering by detaching from it, for the less we care about this world, the less it can disappoint us. We certainly object to the ancient Greco-Roman world, where people with power exercised it as they pleased. They assumed that the possession of power conferred the right to use that power at will. They didn’t count it as “abuse” if a master beat or even killed a slave, because a slave was considered human but not a person with legal rights.

The Bible construes violence differently. It faces it, describes it, laments it, resists it, punishes it, and asks God to break its power. David prays, “Arise, LORD! Save me, O my God! . . . You break the teeth of the wicked” (Ps. 3:7). Comparing the wicked to beasts, he sings, “Tear out the fangs of the young lions, O LORD” (58:6).

There are exceptions, like Judges 19:22–30, but the Bible rarely speaks of abuse. Job and Elijah pity themselves at times (Job 3; 1 Kings 19:4, 10), but they aren’t commended for it. More often, we meet heroes of the faith who suffer unjustly but respond boldly. Joseph rebuilds his life in Egypt (Gen. 39–41). David flees from Saul and starts life anew (1 Sam. 19:10–18; 21–27). And Daniel defies an unjust law, knowing he might suffer for it (Dan. 6).

Again, I affirm the need for the passive voice. To adapt the wording of my colleague Sterling Webster, the passive voice rightly lets us say, “This happened to me. I was a victim.” The active voice lets us also say, “And now I will respond.” By using both voices, we cover more of our experience. The passive voice says, “I suffered harm and it’s not my fault.” The active voice adds, “But it is my problem. I must address it.” The passive voice is good and necessary, but if we omit the active voice, we may think we’re helpless when we aren’t.

To that point, Paul urges disciples to think of themselves as spiritual warriors: “Endure hardship with us like a good soldier of Christ Jesus” (2 Tim. 2:3, NIV 1984). When Paul closes 1 Timothy, he charges his protégé to “fight the good fight of the faith” (1 Tim. 6:12). In 2 Timothy, as Paul faces unjust execution, he says, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Tim. 4:7). No doubt, Paul suffered violence and abuse, but he thought of fighting and endurance.

So then, the category of abuse is necessary but not sufficient. It’s valid, but there are other valid categories. Those categories have the active voice: resistance, endurance, fighting for oneself. Because the active concepts label essential aspects of suffering, they help “victims of abuse” and “children of war” see their past and address it, so the scars that never disappear may at least fade.

They discuss how our culture’s prioritization of self-sufficiency poorly prepares us for the day when we’ll need to accept help. They share their stories of caring for aging parents and talk about how they’re seeking to number their own days aright as they age.

Resources Mentioned:

• Dust to Dust by Jen Wilkin
• We Shall All Be Changed by Whitney Pipkin
• Being Mortal by Atul Gawande

Related Resources:

• 5 Ways to Honor an Aging Loved One (Even When It’s Hard)
• The Joy of Caring for Aging Parents
• Caregivers Suffer from Dementia Too
• Honor Your Father and Mother

Discussion Questions:

1. Have you ever cared for someone during a season of significant need, or have you received that care? How did the experience shape your understanding of dependence on others?

That observation stayed with me long after our sermon series in the book ended. The more I reflected on it, the more it resonated with my experience of leadership.

Ezra isn’t a leadership manual; the book’s primary purpose is to highlight God’s sovereignty and his steadfast commitment to carrying out his redemptive purposes in and through his people. But if we pay attention to how God uses Ezra in his ministry context, there is a word here to those called to lead stories they didn’t start.

Story Ezra Entered

Long before Ezra arrives, the Jewish exiles hear about the possibility of homecoming through King Cyrus’s decree, fulfilling the Word of the Lord spoken through Jeremiah (chap. 1). Stirred by the Spirit, they leave the lives they had grown accustomed to and journey home to Jerusalem (chap. 2).

The rebuilding of the temple in Jerusalem begins, and when its foundation is completed, the exiles’ pent-up emotions erupt into shouts of joy and sorrow that could barely be distinguished from one another (chap. 3). Unexpected opposition then halts the rebuilding (chap. 4), but through a series of providential circumstances, the work resumes, and the temple is finally completed after a long journey of uncertainty (chap. 5–6).

This story is already filled with so many layers: stirring of the Spirit, risk, courage, failure, emotions, disappointment, uncertainty, sovereignty, grace. Every chapter seems to beg for more stories to be told.

The point is simple yet profound: Before Ezra ever leads, God is already at work. A story is already underway. Ezra 1–6 isn’t an extended introduction, as though everything before chapter 7 were simply a prelude to Ezra’s ministry. Rather, in God’s timing, Ezra is brought into a story far larger than himself.

The same is true for many leaders today who inherit a story they didn’t start. Every church carries memories of joy and sorrow, faithfulness and failure, growth and disappointment. Every congregation has a history that inevitably shapes its present. Wise leaders recognize that they aren’t beginning God’s work; they’re joining it.

Story Ezra Continued

What, then, can Ezra show us about leading a story we didn’t start? Here are four lessons.

1. Pray first.

When King Artaxerxes commissions Ezra to guide and teach God’s people who have returned to Jerusalem, Ezra prepares to enter this story by calling those traveling with him to fast and pray. Rather than relying on military protection to get him safely to Jerusalem, he turns to trusting in God’s provision and protection (chap. 7–8).

Notice how quickly Ezra turns to prayer. Prayer positions our minds and hearts to actively walk in the reality that the story ultimately doesn’t depend on us. Do you have a habit of praying? Pause often and pray something even as simple as this: “Lord, go before me and help me join where you are and what you’re doing.”

Prayer reminds us who is ultimately going before us to build up his people.

2. Expect heartbreak.

In Ezra 9, after beginning his teaching ministry and seeking spiritual renewal among the people, Ezra learns that God’s people have fallen into serious covenant unfaithfulness. His response is surprising: He tears his garments, pulls out his hair, and falls before God.

His first response isn’t outrage: Why is this happening now? I just started my new role! It’s not damage control: How bad is the situation, and what are my immediate action items? And it’s not blame shifting: This problem predates me. Thank God I’m not responsible for this!

Prayer positions our minds and hearts to actively walk in the reality that the story ultimately doesn’t depend on us.

Ezra’s instinctive and immediate response is grief.

Many leaders enter into new churches and ministry contexts hoping to teach, mentor, cast new vision, and build something impressive and influential. We rarely anticipate how much ministry will involve disappointment, betrayal, conflict, and heartbreak. Yet these experiences are often where God forms true shepherds and leaders.

Ezra embodies this truth. He enters the story of the people he’s been called to serve. Ezra shows us that faithful leaders aren’t those who avoid heartbreak. They’re those who allow heartbreak to deepen their love for God’s people. This may be one of the most challenging and humbling tasks of a leader entering an already begun story. After all, we are not hardwired to naturally embrace heartbreak, especially when adjusting to a new ministry context is already difficult enough.

Grief allows us to move beyond managing people and begin loving them, especially when their wounds, failures, and heartbreaks become our own.

3. Listen well.

As Ezra grieves, Shecaniah steps up to speak on behalf of the people, acknowledging the seriousness of their corporate sin normalized through repeated practices and compromises. Ezra listens. He receives Shecaniah’s challenge and finds the courage to rise from his state of grief and take the necessary next step (chap. 10).

Leaders often enter new contexts feeling pressure to arrive with answers. Ezra shows another way. He creates space to receive a timely nudge from one of his lay leaders and allows it to shape his next steps.

Every church contains stories, wounds, and concerns that leaders will never discover unless they cultivate the humility to listen carefully. Sometimes the most faithful thing a leader can do in a new context is to create space for people to speak honestly, and take their words seriously enough to discern what God may be saying through them.

Listening helps us to lay down our assumed answers and develop instincts to discern how God is already at work in a story that began before us.

4. Lead with courage.

After prayer, confession, and discernment, Ezra gets up from his place of grief and leads the people toward confronting their covenant unfaithfulness and pursuing costly repentance (chap. 10).

The path forward is complicated and uncomfortable, but Ezra understands that leadership requires courageous decisions and actions. Listening is essential, but it’s not the end of faithful and effective leadership. People need to be heard, but they also need to be led.

Leaders entering new settings often fear being perceived as either passive or domineering. Some of that tension is inevitable, especially in a season of transition. The goal, however, is to lead from a posture marked by both the humility to listen and the courage to act. Such leaders know they won’t lead perfectly, but they trust God to provide the wisdom, timing, and courage they need each step along the way.

The responsibility of leading reminds us that God is with us not only as we discern what needs to be done, but also as we take the difficult next step in turning a new chapter in a story.

Story Christ Stepped Into

Perhaps you’re inheriting a church where people still carry wounds from a previous pastor. Perhaps you’re stepping into a ministry context where certain practices have become untouchable, even if no one remembers why. Perhaps you’ve been thrust into a role you never planned for or called to a place you never imagined laying down roots, or you’re discovering that the story you thought you were entering isn’t the one unfolding in front of you.

Whatever story God has placed you in, you can trust that he was there before you arrived. Before Ezra entered the scene, God had already stirred Cyrus’s heart, preserved his own covenant people, provided what they needed to rebuild the temple, and sustained them through opposition. God didn’t begin being faithful because Ezra arrived; God sovereignly brought Ezra into the already existing story to demonstrate his faithful purposes.

This pattern in Ezra gives us more than a model for leadership; it points us to the gift and the way of our ultimate leader and Savior, Jesus Christ. While Ezra gives us a picture of what it means for a leader to enter a story that began before him, Jesus shows us something far greater: entering the story of a people who couldn’t save themselves.

Whatever story God has placed you in, you can trust that he was there before you arrived.

By all earthly measures, our story wasn’t worth entering. Yet Jesus saw and understood our plight and, in due time, stepped into our story of sin and brokenness. He bore our suffering, carried our sin, and willingly laid down his life for those who were once enemies. Through his entrance into our story, we’re given new life. Through our entrance into the stories of others, we’re given the privilege of participating in the way of Jesus.

Are you leading a story you didn’t start? Remember that we don’t have to be the authors of the story. We don’t have to fix everything we inherit. We’re invited to be faithful to the part God has graciously entrusted to us. This journey comes with its fair share of heartaches and headaches, but it also offers the profound joy of joining a story far greater than ourselves.

May we have the humility to recognize where God is already at work, the courage to follow where he leads, and the faith to look to Christ in all things. The One who entered our story, redeemed it through his life, death, and resurrection, reminds us that every story we enter was his long before we ever set foot in it.

In a recent article, Dave Moore argues that for the sake of the Great Commission, you should stop sitting with your family at church. He writes that “church is for others” and says we should think of our church attendance in terms of deployment for mission.

The article appeared on The Gospel Coalition’s Australian site. TGC’s international coalitions have their own independent editorial teams. All agree to publish resources that align with TGC’s Foundation Documents, but individual writers, staff members, and Council members often disagree on matters that fall outside our Confessional Statement and Theological Vision for Ministry. In this case, I respectfully disagree with Moore.

Any church committed to reaching lost people and including outsiders is asking themselves how to best address the problems of cliques and people not feeling like they belong. But when Moore says that “dividing ourselves for the sake of others is the most beautiful picture of Christian unity,” I believe he overstates his case.

The Bible doesn’t command families to divide in worship as a picture of Christian unity. More than that, to present family members worshiping together as an obstacle to love for others neglects the mission of the family and God’s call to parents. Acknowledging legitimate situations where families can’t or don’t sit together in church, as Christians, we don’t choose between our families or our mission. Building gospel-centered families is Great Commission ministry.

Families as Mission

God commands parents to teach his words and ways diligently to their children (Deut. 6:7). We’re called to train up our children in the way they should go (Prov. 22:6). The Bible places a priority on the family as a first-order love over against providing for others (1 Tim. 5:8).

The Bible doesn’t command families to divide in worship as a picture of Christian unity.

The primary responsibility for showing children “the way they should go” belongs to the parents, not the people of God in the abstract (Gen. 18:19). Parents set the tone for the worshipful commitment of a household (Josh. 24:15). Parents are the generation that proclaims the works of God to the next generation (Ps. 145:4).

When Moore writes that “church is special spiritual-family time,” he neglects another reality: The primary disciple-making responsibility for children in those spiritual families is given to nuclear families—namely, mothers and fathers. Modeling worship for your children is ministry. It’s a blessing for your children to watch you week after week learning from God’s Word and participating in the life of the church.

It’s good to make people feel welcome at church—and that includes children. To be entrusted with children is to be entrusted with the mission of God: the passing of God’s worship from one generation to the next.

Families on Mission

At the same time, it’s good to be intentional about those who come into the church without a family, without community, without certainty that anyone cares about them. That’s true for our approach to lone believers, and it’s true for our approach to the lost. So how can we address that problem without treating the family like an obstacle to engaging the isolated?

1. Loving families can be welcoming families.

The best path forward for engaging people alone at church isn’t by neglecting an essential commitment—the family—but by leveraging the family as a unit for mission. It’s not “Sorry kids, someone else is more important.” Instead it’s “Hey kids, this is our new friend. She’s going to sit with us today.”

My wife and I have worked to show our kids not that others come before them but that others come with us because we love to include people in our lives. As Jen Oshman says, “We will never sacrifice our family for the mission; but we will sacrifice as a family for the mission.”

2. Churches can empower all members.

One of the mistakes we make in the church is thinking everyone should do everything. The beauty of the body of Christ is that different people are gifted in different ways for different ministries.

What about the empty-nesters who have love to give and do so unhurriedly? Could widows or single men be especially suited to notice newcomers in the church and connect with them? They have much to offer the church as ministry-givers, not just ministry-receivers, and can extend gospel welcome to other never-married singles and widows.

3. Godly families model worship for unbelieving or new families.

Children aren’t the only people watching in worship. Immature fathers learn to model worship for their family by watching godly men do the same. Mothers accommodating busy-twisty-shifty kids can show mothers not used to getting their kids through a lengthy worship service how to do the same. Kids who have learned reverence and worship from godly parents can model it for the kids of families who are newer to church or whose children are younger.

A lot of families that show up at churches don’t know how to be worshipers or how to be a family. When godly mothers and fathers model worship, they’re not just modeling it for their own kids. They’re modeling it for other families.

4. Godly families aren’t just committed to the gospel. They display it.

Jesus hasn’t just affirmed marriage. He created it and endowed it with a sacred purpose: to be a picture of the gospel itself. It’s no small thing that godly marriages embody the profound mystery of the gospel (Eph. 5:32).

When families worship together, led by husbands and wives confessing their shared loved for Jesus, we communicate to onlookers the love of the gospel itself. When parents lovingly respond to wriggling kids, we show outsiders how they too can be met with kindness, even if they’re a bit of a mess.

When godly mothers and fathers model worship, they’re not just modeling it for their own kids. They’re modeling it for other families.

It’s not just good for husbands and wives to sit together—it can be good for them to hold hands, to lean on each other, to pray with heads close together. This “holy estate” isn’t just a matter of social convenience. It’s a “mystical union” that tells the world about Christ’s love for his church.

For those of us blessed with children, we’ve been called to an important stewardship. Yes, in the freedom of Christ, we may occasionally “divide and conquer.” Pastors and worship volunteers regularly sit apart from their families in the sanctuary. Families on the mission field may be separated on Sundays for a season. In my own family, my wife recently stepped away in worship to embrace a grieving woman in our congregation.

But most Sundays you’ll find us together, usually on the right side of the sanctuary, with our kids. Don’t mistake that placement for convenience. Under the surface, you’ll find commitment: to teach our children by our words and deeds to know and worship God.

And if you look close enough, or go to the Mexican restaurant in town after church, you’ll often notice we have a guest or a single person with us. Our table always includes four—but it also always has room for more.

In the Army, recruits go through a formation process in Basic Combat Training that turns them into soldiers. Part of this means learning that the mission always comes first, which in turn must mean they’re expendable. First aid is taught with the assumption that at some point, someone will need a tourniquet, chest seal, or body bag. After all, the enemy also learns to shoot, and sometimes the mission requires soldiers to get into harm’s way.

That’s part of the tragic necessity of war. No one would have followed Washington across the Delaware or left the landing craft on D-Day if staying alive were the number-one goal. A commander’s ability to orchestrate force in combat would break down with a military unwilling to die.

But this same dynamic that makes militaries potent threatens the lives of those who fight, through the tragedy of veteran suicide.

Necessity of Sacrifice

We must understand sacrifice as more than mere operational necessity: Something is lost when nothing is worth dying for. C. S. Lewis famously warned of the danger of making men without chests—of a people without an anchoring morality to mediate the carnal passions of the stomach and the cold calculations of the head.

A society full of people consumed with their own survival doesn’t bode well for its moral character, to say nothing of its national defense. Americans ought to be thankful that thousands of young men and women regularly sign the dotted line to join the armed forces, volunteering to put their country’s well-being ahead of their own.

A society full of people consumed with their own survival doesn’t bode well for its moral character.

The willingness to sacrifice that makes a military effective can carry a hidden cost. What happens when a soldier learns to put his life second, then struggles to understand its value when the mission ends? A soldier who was prepared to take a bullet downrange may think little of a bottle of whiskey, a pack of cigarettes, or opening up his motorcycle on the highway.

When the Mission Ends

Those who make it back from combat alive aren’t entirely safe. Veterans take their own lives at roughly twice the rate of the general population.

Veteran suicide stems from a number of factors, including post-traumatic stress, moral injury, difficulty transitioning to civilian life, loss of purpose and social connection, traumatic brain injury, pain, and proximity to firearms. Alongside these factors, we should consider what it means to spend years learning to put one’s life second and what happens when that lesson outlasts the mission.

There’s an obvious tension when it comes to the value of life. Christians know that our lives in this world aren’t ultimate (Rev. 12:11). Christians can face death because we recognize this life’s limits, while still treating life as a gift worthy of protection. As Jesus taught, being willing to die for others is the highest form of love (John 15:13). This is why the second person of the Trinity stepped down from heaven, took on the form of a servant, and obediently followed the Father’s mission orders to death on the cross (Phil. 2:6–8).

Yet Jesus didn’t throw his life away; he demonstrated perfect courage. Between the foolhardiness that leads to blood on the highway and the cowardice that keeps men in hiding when a wolf growls at the door, stands courage.

As G. K. Chesterton observes, “Courage is almost a contradiction in terms. It means a strong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die.” We see this in Christ’s agony in anticipation of the cross in the garden of Gethsemane (Luke 22:44). Yet he carried his cross anyway.

Value of Life and Virtue of Sacrifice

The Christian worldview ties together the value of both life and sacrifice, offering hope for the coward and the reckless alike. That’s the power of the gospel.

Humans are made in the image of God, filled with inherent value (Gen. 1:27). Our bodies are temples that were bought at a price (1 Cor. 6:19–20). Though we sinners fail to bear God’s image faithfully, Jesus loved us enough to die on the cross for our sins (Rom. 5:8). He dignifies us by giving us the mission of serving as ambassadors of heaven in this life (2 Cor. 5:20). That mission sometimes requires sacrifice.

Christians can face death because we recognize this life’s limits, while still treating life as a gift worthy of protection.

On Veterans Day, we celebrate the willingness of those who have served and are serving to sacrifice for our country. In some ways, their willingness to sacrifice mirrors Christ’s sacrificial love. We can also remind veterans that their lives matter. The gospel gives us hope that our existence continues to matter when our work on earth is done. The mission may have ended, but their value has not.

With the hope of the new creation ahead, Christians are free to love our lives and our bodies while still being willing to sacrifice both for others. We know that the ultimate reward isn’t self-preservation in this life but union with God in the new heavens and new earth. That’s good news for all of us, and it may be just the news a veteran needs to hear today.

Our family’s cancer journey was like that. We felt alone. And we sensed disconnection—even helplessness—from people who heard the news.

Childhood cancer is a blessedly uncommon experience, but navigating pain is inherent to life in a fallen world. When we encounter others’ pain, we have a “Good Samaritan choice”—to step forward and show compassion or to walk away.

Nightmare

Our 3-year-old son, Ben, had an unexplained illness. After a week in the hospital, we were ushered into an ICU conference room full of doctors and nurses. They delivered the news: “Your son has cancer.” One of the nurses was crying before they even said a word.

Our family is from Washington, DC, but we were about 10,000 miles from home. We’d been serving as missionaries in Costa Rica, yet we weren’t there either. On that January day, we were in a hospital in Sydney, Australia, on our dream trip—a family Christmas in summertime. It was quickly becoming a nightmare.

The days after the diagnosis were filled with rapid changes. We couldn’t go back to Costa Rica. Returning to DC was almost impossible. The Ronald McDonald House was our new home. My daughter started kindergarten at a new school, in a new country. She drew a picture of her family. There was no home, garden, or pets—just a hospital bed.

Over the next six months, Ben endured 96 nights in the hospital, 25 general anesthetics, and chemotherapy so strong it could blind or even kill an adult. He was traveling through the metaphorical valley of the shadow of death, and it was decorated with bright colors and superhero stickers.

May 22 is a day we still celebrate in our family as “no more chemo day.” Ben took his final dose of chemotherapy, and we rejoiced with a trip to McDonald’s and a chocolate cake.

Despite the celebration, the years ahead held mortal peril. His doctor told us relapse was a risk without a treatment plan. All we could do was watch and wait. Ben was immunocompromised for the years that followed, extending into the 2020s when the disruption of a health crisis—previously rare—became globally mundane.

Today, Ben’s body still carries the scars of his cancer and the side effects of the lifesaving treatment he received. But he’s a survivor. To any passerby, he looks like an ordinary 12-year-old boy.

My wife and I have scars too. But we also carry the lessons the Lord taught us along the way. Those lessons are available to all believers as we encounter the pain of others.

Here are three that stand out.

1. You can’t depend on people.

Suffering has an odd way of resetting relationships. We saw it repeatedly, in our experience and with other cancer families we met. The apparent uniqueness of the suffering—and the emotional reactions it stirred—drove some people away. They wouldn’t, or couldn’t, step close and walk with us.

However, those people stepping away opened the door to gospel opportunities for us. Australian hospitals rarely have private rooms, so we spent most of our 96 nights sharing rooms with people from diverse cultures and faiths. As other people pulled back from them, we were able to step forward and hold out the hope of the gospel in a dark and hopeless place.

2. You can depend on people.

While some in our life pulled away, others chose to pull close. We were thousands of miles from our church family, but people still found ways to care for us. When we shared the news about Ben’s illness, our Facebook post reached more than 15,000 people around the world.

It wasn’t the eyeballs that made a difference but the thoughtful actions. Local believers jumped into action with a meal roster. Costa Rican friends translated our English updates to equip our Spanish-speaking friends to pray. American friends prepared care packages, sent encouraging texts, and came to visit.

For every person who had pulled away, we were blessed by more who pulled close with gestures—large and small—to encourage and support us.

3. God will use suffering to demonstrate his sovereign care.

John Piper memorably said that “God is always doing 10,000 things in your life, and you may be aware of three of them.” From the oncology ward, it felt like our awareness grew to 10! There was a late-night delivery of goldfish crackers, the miraculous provision of a cheese pizza, and countless answers to prayer as the treatment progressed.

For every person who had pulled away, we were blessed by more who pulled close.

But it wasn’t in the good moments when God’s care was most evident. It was in the dark moments, often at night, when we were unsure if our son would survive. Feeling isolated and alone, we stared around the cold hospital room—and God showed up, again and again. He comforted our hearts, he led us to passages in his Word, and he provided text messages of encouragement at just the right time. We’re deeply thankful that the Lord spared our boy, but his goodness was most evident when we didn’t know if he would.

Hope for Next Time

When you look beneath the surface of our unique journey with cancer, you see a universal human journey through pain and uncertainty. We can all learn a lesson here.

When you see people in your life encountering “unique” suffering, don’t pull away. Instead, pull close. Ask how you can pray for them. Text them with a verse. Bring a meal. Keep showing up.

As you look for practical ways to serve, bring eyes looking for God’s sovereign care. Whether the news is good or bad, you’ll find him working there.

For thus says the LORD of hosts: Yet once more, in a little while, I will shake the heavens and the earth and the sea and the dry land. And I will shake all nations, so that the treasures of all nations shall come in, and I will fill this house with glory, says the LORD of hosts. (Hag. 2:6–7)

Reflect

When this prophecy came to Haggai in 520 BC, did anyone imagine that God would shake up the world with a baby born to humble parents in Bethlehem? Or that “a little while” would be more than 500 years later?

Yet if Advent teaches us anything, it’s that the Lord works according to his own schedule and doesn’t act as we expect. His timeline may not align with ours, but in the passage of centuries we experience his mercy. We read in 2 Peter 3:9, “The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance.”

The Lord works according to his own schedule and doesn’t act as we expect.

In Hebrews 12:26, the writer expands on this relationship between patience and judgment by quoting Haggai 2. The shaking is a kind of sifting, like the sand separated from jewels in a strainer. The Lord shakes the world to sift out anyone who doesn’t worship that baby born in Bethlehem. Because even as a helpless babe, he is the King of kings and Lord of lords who will reign forever. In Jesus we see “the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature,” the One who “upholds the universe by the word of his power” (Heb. 1:3).

One day, after a little while, that baby would grow up and exercise his power in the most unexpected way. He would submit to death, even on a cross. The day he died on Calvary, the temple curtain was torn in two. An earthquake shook the city. Rocks split at the Place of a Skull (Matt. 27:32, 51). That helpless man, bloodied and beaten, commanded more authority than anyone else had realized—including the power to judge his judges. The Roman officer who commanded 100 confessed, “Truly this was the Son of God!” (v. 54).

Those who don’t follow suit will be sifted. But the shed blood of the only Son of God has the power to forgive the sins of all who repent. By this sacrifice, believers will receive a “kingdom that cannot be shaken” (Heb. 12:28).

To this kingdom all the treasures of the nations will accrue, as Haggai foresaw with the temple filled by God’s glory. God did this for the Hebrews when he delivered them from slavery. They plundered the Egyptians (Ex. 12:36). And he’ll do it again when he delivers the world from death, as the kings of the earth bring their glory to the temple in the new Jerusalem (Rev. 21:24).

The shed blood of the only Son of God has the power to forgive the sins of all who repent.

These kings will follow a path already trod by the wise men of the east, who tracked the star to baby Jesus. From the nations they brought their treasures—gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The purported king, Herod, could only see a threat. But these wise men fell down and worshiped the baby still nursing with his mother, Mary (Matt. 2:11).

Do you see the power and the glory concealed from the world while contained in that baby? Do you see in him a King whose love for sinners kept him nailed to the cross?

Advent is waiting for something that not everyone can see. Advent is preparing to receive a gift that not everyone wants. Advent is enduring an unstable world with hope because an unshakable kingdom is coming—in a little while.

Respond

How might the Lord’s seeming lack of action express his patience for you? How could you help your non-Christian friends and family see the glory in Jesus this Advent season?

I’m 42, and to be fair, I’ve been told I’m an “old soul” my whole life. Some have wondered aloud if I was born old. While I still don’t feel old, I’ll admit this new and strange season has spurred me to go looking for wisdom.

I’ll tell you, reading about midlife is depressing.

According to studies, happiness in life follows a U-shaped curve. Our self-reported happiness starts high in childhood, then decreases into adolescence and further into early adulthood. It bottoms out somewhere around age 46—smack in the center of middle age—before beginning to rise again and steadily increasing into our twilight years. Further, studies have shown that depression and anxiety also are highest around the age of 45.

Despite all the bad news, Good News for Midlife: Navigating Middle Age with Guts and Grace was encouraging. Writing from his early 50s, Jared Wilson, associate professor of pastoral ministry at Midwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, understands the challenges of midlife but also provides refreshing hope for those of us finding our own way through.

Understand Midlife

Most definitions place “middle age” as 40 to 60, but it’s probably more accurate to describe midlife in terms of its demands and responsibilities. For me, it looks something like this:

• I still feel energetic, but it takes far longer to recover from lost sleep, injuries, and travel.
• My kids are now teenagers, and some days, I only see them for a half hour.
• Our grocery bill is three times our first mortgage.
• Our parents are in their 70s and now need more support from us than we need from them.
• I think I’m still in touch with modern culture, but my kids assure me I’m not.
• I may have 40-plus years left, but it sure feels like most of my life is now behind me.
• Most deeply, I’m frequently reflecting on life’s disappointments and griefs, wondering if I should have done this or that differently.

This is middle life. We’re too young to feel old. But we’re also too old to feel young.

Wilson, who writes specifically for men entering or inhabiting these decades, acknowledges all these challenges. “But,” he writes, “while this season presents unique challenges . . . midlife also presents exciting opportunities to trust Jesus for personal, marital, and spiritual flourishing” (xi).

Thankfully, Wilson helps us reframe the demands and opportunities of middle age not as a necessary crisis but as a critical crossroads.

Crossroads, Not Crisis

For almost 60 years, pop culture has made “midlife” nearly synonymous with “crisis.” The phrase comes from psychoanalyst Elliott Jaques’s 1965 essay “Death and the Mid-Life Crisis” and has been repeated across dozens of books ever since. (There’s even a board game called Mid-Life Crisis, where players aim to accumulate wealth and avoid landing on bankruptcy, divorce, and nervous breakdown.)

This is middle life. We’re too young to feel old. But we’re also too old to feel young.

Fortunately, recent studies suggest fewer than 20 percent of Americans experience a full-on crisis in these middle decades. Despite this, many of us face a unique temptation to flee from responsibility or forge some entirely new life. Wilson puts it poignantly: “Whether you’re in a crisis or not, at midlife you’re at a crossroads” (16).

At this crossroads, we see down one path the allure of individualism and freedom from responsibility. We might simply call this path the road of empty promises. As the proverbs say, it seems right, but in the end, it leads to death (Prov. 14:12).

The second path is one of embracing reality, stepping deeper into relationship, and trusting the goodness of God. This road offers no promises other than the hardships of real life. But it’s also where we discover the true opportunity—giving our lives away to others. Wilson offers, “Maybe what [you need] in the second half is . . . a new vision, a renewed spirit of adventure and a commitment to do everything for the glory of God. . . . This is how you become great” (98).

While the world may offer us the usual advice to build a life for ourselves, we know true happiness comes not in escaping relationships but prioritizing them. Even secular philosophers have discovered the most important rule of midlife is “to care about things other than yourself.”

If this is true—and, of course, it comes originally from Jesus himself—then flourishing in midlife and across the second half should be about making the most of our relationships.

If we can reject the path of empty promises and embrace the harder, more fruitful way of relationship, then we can begin to see middle age as a time to leave a meaningful legacy.

Craft a Spiritual Legacy

Paul wrote to the Corinthians: “You have countless guides in Christ, but you do not have many fathers” (1 Cor. 4:15). In the same way, most young men today have countless guides. From celebrity preachers to fitness influencers on YouTube, they have an unending source of content. But they don’t have many spiritual fathers. Wilson explains,

The work of a spiritual fatherhood includes teaching, but more than that, it includes life-on-life investment, the sharing of quality time, the breaking of bread, and rejoicing and grieving with others. It means giving of ourselves to another, so that what is good and godly in us might pass along to them. The Lord uses our precious proximity to build up others. (137–38)

At a time when we middle-aged men are wondering if our lives even matter, the possibility of leaving a spiritual legacy becomes invigorating. And, as Wilson shows us, it’s not about doing impressive and significant things before large crowds; it’s about having a deep influence on a few. A lifetime of steady faithfulness in relationships and responsibilities can be our gift to those closest to us.

A lifetime of steady faithfulness in relationships and responsibilities can be our gift to those closest to us.

My friends, this is good news. This season can be our best. We still have some energy and we’re gaining much wisdom. Of course, it isn’t easy. But within all the relationships and challenges lie this season’s greatest opportunity: finding our lives by giving them away.

If we’re staring into the yawning chasm of middle age, the uncertainty and heaviness can lead us back to the graciousness of the Father, the friendship of Jesus, and the power of the Spirit.

In Good News for Midlife, Jared Wilson reminds us to embrace our midlife crossroads, find new meaning in service to others, and let this season be an opportunity to discover grace upon grace in Jesus.

Now imagine years bleed into decades. Your life spirals into ever more pain and isolation. And every jab of hurt leads you to agonize over the initial wound: None of this would have happened if it weren’t for them. How could they do this?

However, in the last few years, your fortunes have turned around. From the slums, you’re suddenly lifted to a vaulted position of power. People no longer take advantage of you but try to stay in your good graces. It doesn’t wash all the bitter memories away, but it’s something.

And then, lo and behold, who happens to come before you but them. Your cruel betrayers are there, groveling, asking you for help.

How would you feel? What would you do?

If you haven’t picked up on it yet, this is the story of Joseph from Genesis. Sold into slavery by his brothers, Joseph walks through much injustice and suffering before being catapulted into the most powerful office in Egypt, second only to Pharaoh. And when his brothers come cringing toward him in the end, certain that Joseph will use his power to pay them back, Joseph responds with unexpected mercy, generosity, and warmth (Gen. 50:15–21) .

How?

Joseph avoids the trap of bitterness. And you can too, if you follow these three steps.

1. Understand Bitterness

Bitterness is revealed in our emotions (coldness, anger, resentment, suspicion, revulsion), but it begins in our will. We choose bitterness when we believe that for justice or fairness to be preserved, the offender must be punished in some way.

We may even claim to forgive, but in our heart of hearts, we fear that forgiveness comes at the expense of justice. So, you give your spouse the silent treatment, you cut your parents off, you make life difficult for your kids.

Joseph avoids bitterness by trusting that God is the One who takes care of justice. When his brothers beg for mercy, Joseph replies, “Do not fear, for am I in the place of God?” (Gen. 50:19). Joseph knows it isn’t his place to deal out the judgment only God can give. The first step in avoiding bitterness is letting God take care of final justice (Rom. 12:14–21).

Bitterness feels like a solution to the problem, but it isn’t. It’s trying to solve one sin with another sin. Which is why we’re commanded unequivocally to repent of bitterness, full stop (Eph. 4:31). We’re never told bitterness is an acceptable method to coerce repentance or pursue justice, or is permissible until the other person apologizes and makes restitution. Reconciliation requires two people who are willing. But to repent of bitterness only requires one.

Bitterness feels like a solution to the problem, but it isn’t. It’s trying to solve one sin with another sin.

Bitterness isn’t the path to justice—only to more bitterness. Using bitterness to pursue justice is like using a hatchet to build a house, confident it’ll work just like a hammer.

2. Unmask Bitterness

We’re called to be so absolute and unqualified in rejecting bitterness because of its penchant to spread. It’s a “root” (Heb. 12:15) that will only grow and become more difficult to uproot as time goes on.

Plucking up a sapling is easy; removing an oak tree isn’t. Soon, the bitterness you feel toward Person A will make you more prone to taking offense at Person B and more sensitive to Person C. Soon, you become an angry person who holds grudges. It’s a root that “defiles many.”

Bitterness is hard to detect initially because it hides so effectively behind a mask of morality. The bitter person “blesses himself in his heart, saying, ‘I shall be safe, though I walk in the stubbornness of my heart’” (Deut. 29:19). In other words, “I’m not wrong, they are! They’re the ones who hurt me!”

It not only immediately puts you into a morally superior position, but because you’re the victim of the offense, it makes you feel vindicated in your anger. Your pain becomes a kind of force field to keep you from seeing your stubbornness and self-righteousness. Bitterness blinds you.

Joseph, on the other hand, displays a remarkable clarity of sight. He tells his brothers, “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today” (Gen. 50:20). God can spin the coarse thread of evil into the gold of good (Rom. 8:28).

Joseph doesn’t pretend his brothers did no wrong. But he doesn’t burn with vengeful bitterness either. He sees how God used it for good. Had they not betrayed him, he wouldn’t have been put into his position to save the lives of many.

3. Undo Bitterness

Bitterness may begin as a decision of the will, but soon it cements itself in our emotions and becomes difficult to overcome. In time, you may even desire to no longer feel bitter, but you’re trapped in it. How can we be free from a bitter heart?

Joseph tells his brothers, “Do not fear; I will provide for you and your little ones.” And thus “he comforted them and spoke kindly to them” (Gen. 50:21). One way we can undo bitterness is by showing kindness and love to our enemies (Rom. 12:14, 20). C. S. Lewis famously taught,

Do not waste time bothering whether you “love” your neighbour; act as if you did. As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love him.

If you wait till you’re feeling forgiving toward someone you’re harboring bitterness against, you’ll likely be waiting forever, and the root of bitterness will only grow. Don’t wait for feelings to come; act.

Bitterness may begin as a decision of the will, but soon it cements itself in our emotions and becomes difficult to overcome.

It feels wise in the popular therapy world to distance yourself from people who have hurt you, or maybe to cut them out of your life entirely. Certainly, there are caveats here for particular circumstances of safety. But if you cut off contact with someone who sins against you, you likely won’t find healing in separation alone. In that stretch of noninteraction, dark suspicions will grow bitter fruit, and your perceptions of the person will most likely get worse, not better.

Power of Grace

The gospel is the powerful elixir needed to break you from the spell of bitterness (Eph. 4:31–32). Your sins against Jesus Christ are far worse than the sins you’re embittered by. If you’re wringing your hands in anger about how someone could sin against you, how do you think our Lord feels?

Ah, but that’s the wonder of the gospel: Jesus doesn’t repay bitterness with bitterness. His heart is warm, eager, generous, kind, and welcoming to sinners. Even bitter ones. So go and give what you’ve been given.

Resources Mentioned:

• Before You Share Your Faith by Matt Smethurst
• Evangelism by J. Mack Stiles
• The Gospel and Personal Evangelism by Mark Dever
• Out of the Saltshaker and into the World by Rebecca Manley Pippert
• The Art of Asking Better Questions by J. R. Briggs

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

Bible teachers don’t come ready-made. We have to raise them up through training. Whether women have never taught the Scriptures before or are building on previous experience, we can help them grow and gain confidence in “rightly handling the word of truth” (2 Tim. 2:15) through careful instruction and practice.

To equip women in my church to teach, I helped develop a four-session course. Here’s how we developed and implemented this training.

Get Organized

I first recruited two women with experience teaching the Bible, and together we prepared ourselves as instructors by taking the online Simeon Trust First Principles for Women course. We then personalized the principles we learned to fit our training goals for other women in our church.

Since there are different strategies for approaching various genres of Scripture, the first time we held this course, we chose to train women on how to teach an epistle. We selected 1 Peter as our text and assigned each group a passage to work on throughout the course.

For example, Group 1 had 1 Peter 1:1–12, Group 2 had 1:13–21, and Group 3 had 4:12–19. We used 5:1–11 as a common passage that we studied as a whole group. In subsequent courses, we chose other genres of Scripture: narrative using passages from a Gospel and wisdom/poetry using a psalm.

Bible teachers don’t come ready-made. We have to raise them up through training.

We promoted the training with a clear purpose: to help participants grow in their ability to understand and teach God’s Word. We spelled out our expectations: attending all four sessions, completing homework, and teaching a 10-minute message to peers.

Individual attention in training is key, so we assigned each participant to a small group of three to six women with a leader. The leader gave feedback on homework and answered questions.

Teach the Course

Here’s what we covered each week, including teaching content, small-group work, and homework assignments.

Week 1: Foundations of Study

After sharing two foundational truths about the Bible—Scripture is God-breathed (2 Tim. 3:16–17) and Scripture is alive and active, changing us as we study it (Heb. 4:12)—we taught three principles.

First, we never add to or subtract from what’s written in the Word (Deut. 4:2; 1 Cor. 4:6; Rev. 22:18–19). A Bible text isn’t a jumping-off point to give our insights. We must be diligent to stay faithful to the Holy Spirit’s intended meaning. We strive to “stay on the line” of Scripture, never going above it by adding to it (which can result in undue speculation or legalism) or going below it by taking away from it (avoiding unpleasant or confusing passages, or altering the meaning to what we want it to mean).

Second, the Bible is one big story, with one Hero of the story (Luke 24:27). From Genesis to Revelation—creation, fall, redemption, and restoration—we see God at work to reconcile people to himself. The Old Testament points to our need for and anticipation of a Savior, and the New Testament records and reflects on that Savior. Understanding this one big story helps reveal the significance of each passage.

Third, context is king and questions are key. Context is the setting in which something occurs, and it always guides our interpretation. We consider both the literary context (what comes before and after a passage) and the historical context (the situation in which the original audience found themselves). To “stay on the line,” asking in-depth questions of the passage is vital, so we introduced the participants to questions for an epistle.

In small-group time, we had each woman read the group’s assigned passage aloud because a thoughtful reading aids understanding, as does hearing the passage multiple times. For homework, we asked the women to list 15 observations from their small group’s passage along with 15 observations from the common passage.

Week 2: From Text to Talk

We started in small groups with each woman sharing her observations on her group’s designated passage. Then we had a whole-group discussion of observations found in the common passage.

This week’s teaching focused on how to go from observing a Scripture text to preparing to teach it to a group of real women.

We first explained exegesis—analyzing Scripture to draw out its intended meaning. We walked the women through how to use the questions for an epistle to understand the passage’s meaning to the original recipients. We always look for the main idea, the immediate context (passages before and after in the book), the historical context (names, places, situations, other passages that may explain this one), and the biblical context (Where does this fit in the bigger story of the whole Bible?). A concordance is a valuable tool here.

We then helped participants find the connection to the gospel (Luke 24:25–27). We taught them to look for related themes (e.g., hope, forgiveness, sacrifice, priesthood) and typology (people, objects, or events patterned after Jesus like Joseph, Boaz, David, or the ark). The Jesus Storybook Bible can be a great help in revealing these connections.

Finally, we taught the women how to draw out applications. The main idea doesn’t change because of the audience, but the particular applications may. We emphasized knowing your audience by thinking through where the listeners are spiritually, what sin issues or struggles they have, and what encouragement they need. We reminded the group of the purpose of our messages: to have women’s affections stirred by the Spirit so they’re personally affected by the truth of the text.

For homework, each woman identified an audience for her teaching specifying age, life stage, and specific needs and struggles. Then, using her assigned passage, she recorded the main idea, the significance to the original hearers, the connection to the gospel, and an application specific to her target audience.

Week 3: Structure and Illustrations

In small groups, women shared their homework and instructors gave feedback. While it’s time-consuming for each woman to share, everyone benefits from hearing each other’s work on the same passage.

We began this week’s teaching by explaining two common mistakes teachers make: (1) sharing what “touched us” in a passage, unrelated to the main idea, and (2) having so many points that they obstruct the main idea. To avoid these mistakes, we discussed the importance of structure.

The process of finding a text’s structure varies depending on its genre, so we briefly explained how to go about determining the “shape” of three genres: epistle, narrative, and poetry. Since we were learning to teach an epistle, we spent the most time on this, helping the women focus on the words and grammar.

We taught them to look for “bookends” (similar words at the beginning and end of a paragraph or book); repeated words, phrases, or ideas; connecting words like if/then, because, therefore; grammar and verb tenses; and words that reveal the context. All these help uncover the author’s main idea or emphasis in a discourse. We then took time to practice identifying these elements in small groups using the common passage.

A Bible text isn’t a jumping-off point to give our insights.

To close week 3, we introduced illustrations. We explained their purpose (to serve the main idea and application and make the teaching clearer) along with various illustration types and where to find them. We suggested using stories, analogies, word pictures, and examples from personal experiences, books, movies, history, current events, and nature.

For homework, we asked the women to develop a teaching outline and an illustration for their passage.

Week 4: Preparing a Talk

The final week began in small groups with each member sharing her teaching outline and illustration. Participants compared their work and encouraged each other.

Our teaching focused on how to prepare a talk, beginning with crafting an argument. We taught the skill of stating the main point of the text in a persuasive, memorable way. We wanted the women to convince their audience of the truth and importance of the text, showing it to be relevant, meaningful, and life-changing. For effectiveness, we encouraged them to use this argument (or parts of it) throughout their talks because repetition helps retention.

Next, we discussed how to arrange material to explain the passage clearly and memorably, with each point flowing from and supporting their argument, using the words of the text whenever possible.

Finally, we instructed them to include an illustration to clarify or contextualize their argument, then tie it all together with an attention-getting introduction and a main idea–centered conclusion.

Practice the Skills

At the end of our time, we set meeting dates for each group two to three weeks out. When her turn came, each woman stood before her small group and gave a 10-minute talk. She read the passage aloud, then presented her message, which included an introductory sentence, a description of the context, the main idea and a persuasive argument, supporting points, an illustration, an application, and a conclusion.

We instructors heard every woman teach, listening attentively, timing her talk, and offering one suggestion for improvement. Group members gave each other positive feedback on their content. We were all impressed with the quality of the messages and the deep wisdom from God that the women were able to communicate in only 10 minutes.

We have women in our churches who can teach the Bible, if only we’ll train them. You can follow this course outline or develop one of your own. Our churches need women to teach the Word, but we shouldn’t expect them to equip themselves. Let’s be diligent to prepare women for this vital role.

“Give God your first hours (your best hours!) of the day.”

“Rise early for Scripture and prayer; it sets the tone for the rest of your day!”

From pulpits to podcasts, I’ve heard these sentiments often in Christian circles. The instructions aren’t just to spend alone time with God but to specifically do so as the very first act of your day. For many, the “morning quiet time” has become a measuring rod of how well you’re doing in your relationship with God.

Actor Mark Wahlberg once went viral on Instagram for a screenshot of his morning routine: waking up at 2:30 a.m., praying at 2:45, and completing his first workout before 5:30. This is one of many examples of how early rising has become associated with aspirational godliness.

But is it really more virtuous to be a morning person than a night owl?

What If You Have to Sleep In?

Behind the modern mindset of hyperidealized mornings is the assumption that being a “morning person” is a virtue in and of itself—a gritty choice toward wellness and productivity within everyone’s power. The implication is that if you’re disciplined and wise, you’ll set the alarm clock and start the day early; you’ll make it happen. If you’re slothful or foolish, you won’t. Extenuating circumstances are just excuses.

For many, the ‘morning quiet time’ has become a measuring rod of how well you’re doing in your relationship with God.

But what would this mean for nurses whose work begins and ends when it’s dark outside? What about parents with newborns, whose babies’ demands don’t abide by our ideal rhythms? How about Christians who are naturally night owls: most alert, focused, and productive at night?

Should these folks just suck it up and aspire to get up earlier in spite of their circumstances? Or could it be possible that our idealizing of morning quiet times is more cultural than biblical?

God Loves Early Risers

At first glance, it might seem that God’s Word does value our mornings most. Pastor David Mathis wrote an insightful article summarizing the abundance of instances in Scripture in which God’s people (including Christ himself!) either rose early to good effect or were directed by God to do so.

Consider the Psalms: In Psalm 5:3, David says, “O LORD, in the morning you hear my voice.” In Psalm 88:13, the Sons of Korah sing, “In the morning my prayer comes before you.” In Psalm 90:14, Moses prays to God, “Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.”

God clearly meets with his people in the morning. Case closed? Not quite.

When you consult the whole counsel of Scripture, it becomes clear that God emphasizes meditating on his Word, singing his praises, and praying to his name just as much in the night as in the morning.

Nocturnal Worship

Let’s explore some nighttime examples.

In Acts 16:25–26, after Paul and Silas are imprisoned in Philippi, God’s Word notably mentions the timing of their worship: “About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God . . .”

Silas and Paul don’t try to go to sleep early so they can engage with God at the crack of dawn. They stay up late, worshiping at midnight. The results are profound.

In Psalm 63:5–6, David prays to the Lord, “My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips, when I remember you upon my bed, and meditate on you in the watches of the night.” This psalm as a whole is arguably a nighttime prayer. David prays these lyrics to the Lord seemingly all while on his “bed,” singing midnight praises.

Consider Jesus’s earthly life. On the fateful day before his crucifixion, when it comes to spending devoted time alone with his Father, Jesus prays passionately, in Gethsemane, at night (Matt. 26:36–56). There is no mention in the Gospels of Jesus rising early on this momentous day; it might have happened, but the recorded emphasis is Jesus’s spiritual devotion in the dark.

Morning and evening aren’t pitted against each other in the Bible. They’re a complementary pair: Psalm 77:2 says, “In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord; in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying.” Psalm 88:1 says, “O LORD, God of my salvation, I cry out day and night before you.” Psalm 92:1–2 says, “It is good to give thanks to the LORD, to sing praises to your name, O Most High; to declare your steadfast love in the morning, and your faithfulness by night.”

What does this mean for practical living? If you’ve never tried it, consider adding nighttime worship to your spiritual toolbox. Carve out time to pray, praise, and ponder the Scriptures before bed.

If you struggle with insomnia, see it as a devotional opportunity. If your brain just won’t turn off at 3:00 a.m., fellowship with your Maker rather than letting your mind wander aimlessly. In a unique season of spiritual desperation, set your alarm clock for the middle of the night, to wait on the Lord under the stars, to intently watch for his presence and answers to prayer (Ps. 130:6).

Dreams can be God’s chosen instrument to instruct and encourage his people (e.g., Gen. 28:10–22; 37:6–7; 1 Kings 3:5; Matt. 1:20–21; 2:13; Acts 2:17). Dreams appear in Scripture as a meaningful spiritual realm, and the thoughts you think in the final moments before sleep often seep into your nightly imagination. What better way to end your day than to fill your mind with God and his excellencies, to draw your heart near to his love, and to pray for spiritual protection while you slumber.

Ultimately, if mornings are a perpetual struggle for you, release yourself from the guilt and legalism of needing to give God a half hour every morning. Give him your nights!

Balanced Worship

If you’ve found it fruitful to rise early to devote alone time to God, continue doing so with discipline and joy. But beware of imposing your own daily spiritual practices on others with a prideful narrow-mindedness that Scripture lacks.

Release yourself from the guilt and legalism of needing to give God a half hour every morning. Give him your nights!

Excessive sleeping can be a sign of sinful sloth (Prov. 19:15). But biblically, the godly Christian can please God just as much staying up late to worship as rising early. Both routes are biblical and blessed.

The mature Christian life, across different seasons, will have various rhythms of dedicated worship at all times of the day and night: sometimes at the crack of dawn, other times at noon, or even in the dark (Deut. 6:4–7). Sacrifice your mornings to the Lord when you’re able. Devote your evenings too.

In his purpose statement (vv. 3–4), Jude says he wants to write about the salvation he shares in common with his recipients. However, he finds it necessary instead to exhort them to “contend for the faith.”

What does obeying this exhortation involve? Before we contend for the faith, it’s essential to clarify how to approach confrontation and why we’re seeking to confront in the first place.

Knowing myself, I (Ben) can have many sinful and unhelpful reasons for confronting; my pride often tempts me to seek my glory in confrontation rather than seeking the Lord’s glory. Yet when our motivation is wrong, our manner is too. Then, contending can quickly become contentiousness.

Jude gives us a better way.

Why and How To Confront

His letter provides a framework for Christians to discern when we should confront error, and with what level of intensity. Jude provides four basic confrontation categories that will help us defend the truth without becoming quarrelsome.

1. Oppose deceivers (v. 4).

We must be able to distinguish between those who are confused and those who are deceivers. Not everyone who errs is a malicious false teacher. Some simply need patient guidance, instruction, and compassionate discipleship.

Jude’s letter provides a framework for Christians to discern when we should confront error, and with what level of intensity.

But others actively promote error, refuse to submit to biblical authority, or sow seeds of division that can lead God’s people away from Christ. Jude has deceivers in mind as his primary concern in his letter. He’s concerned not just that they’re in error but that they’re influential. For that reason, he wants the church to have the Spirit-led courage to confront the deceivers’ errors.

Such contending requires wisdom. For pastors, it can involve correcting false teaching both privately and publicly. You may need to warn your church about dangerous influences or refuse to give a platform to those who persistently distort the gospel.

Remember, Paul instructs elders to rebuke those who contradict sound doctrine (Titus 1:9) and to protect God’s flock from spiritual wolves (Acts 20:28–31). He also warns congregations to watch out for divisive teachers (Rom. 16:17–18).

When we confront deceivers, our aim isn’t to embarrass them or to win arguments. Rather, we contend for the faith because truth matters and because Christ’s church matters.

2. Instruct doubters (v. 22).

In the Christian life, we encounter many who have doubts about the faith. They know the truth, but they struggle to believe it. Instructing those who doubt may not seem like contending for the faith at first, but gently clearing up their concerns strengthens both their faith and the church’s faith. Contending well for doubters can prevent them from wandering or even from becoming deceivers.

It’s an act of mercy (v. 22), and it must be done mercifully. When believers doubt or begin to waver on the truth, our responsibility isn’t to ruthlessly force truth on them. We also shouldn’t ignore their questions. Neither response is merciful. Instead, we must engage doubters’ questions with compassion, trusting that the Lord will reveal truth to them in his time.

Our belief in Scripture’s sufficiency is critical here. God’s Word, not our teaching or apologetic skill, possesses the power to reveal his truth. Doubts are many and various, but the Bible remains constant and trustworthy.

3. Warn wanderers (v. 23).

Between doubting and deceiving stands another category: wandering. Some in the church drift, or have drifted, toward dangerous doctrinal error or patterns of sin that, if left unchecked, will lead to their fall.

Jude prescribes the appropriate response: “Save others by snatching them out of the fire” (v. 23). His imagery conveys urgency. Those who wander are on the verge of spiritual catastrophe, so drastic measures are necessary.

Many Christians hesitate to confront because warning a fellow church member can feel uncomfortable and intrusive. But God’s Word regularly warns. It does so sternly but as an act of love.

For example, Jesus instructs believers to pursue a sinning brother so he might repent and be restored (Matt. 18:15–17). Paul tells the Galatians to restore those caught in transgression with a spirit of gentleness (6:1). And James writes that bringing back a wandering sinner saves him from destruction (5:19–20).

When we confront a wanderer, the goal is never condemnation but rescue. Jude calls us to urgent action because drift is spiritually dangerous. We’re to speak the truth in love so that members of Christ’s body, from the least to the greatest, may grow in every respect to maturity under his headship (Eph. 4:15).

4. Guard your heart (vv. 20–21).

In all our contending, Jude tells us to guard our hearts. This is unique among Jude’s contention categories because it’s the only one with an inward focus. When we contend, we’re on the offense, fighting for others’ souls. But we must also play defense, guarding the ground God has already claimed in our own hearts.

God’s Word, not our teaching or apologetic skill, possesses the power to reveal his truth.

How do we guard our hearts? How do we keep ourselves in the love of God (v. 21)? Jude offers three ways: build up your faith, pray, and wait expectantly for the Lord Jesus’s mercy (vv. 20–21).

The first two seem obvious. Of course building your faith through God’s Word and prayer will keep you from being deceived. However, Jude’s third instruction requires more thought. Waiting seems passive, but it’s an expectant act of faith that involves grounding our hearts in the gospel—actively remembering that Jesus is the One who is able to keep us from stumbling and who will finally make us stand in his glorious presence (vv. 24–25).

Before You Contend

We guard our hearts because running into confrontation too hastily only results in contentiousness. This quality is unbefitting of Christians, and particularly of church leaders (1 Tim. 3:3; 2 Tim. 2:22–26). So be adequately prepared before you step in. Clarify your approach so you bring the right motivation and tone to each situation. Guard your heart, and above all, pray for yourself, your church, and those with whom you’re contending.

In an age marked by theological compromise and unnecessary outrage, we need church leaders who can do more than win arguments. We need elders, pastors, teachers, and faithful church members who know how to contend wisely, courageously, and graciously.

Many of these books are about big changes and adjusting to them, like living with a new baby, moving to a new place, or finding a new heart in Christ’s kingdom. But some are also about the little changes happening around us every day, like laughter over a fleeting moment of childhood imagination or settling down to sleep to prepare for a new day.

With all these experiences arriving on the horizon and then flying past like interstate billboards, it’s sweet to remember that “every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change” (James 1:17).

As you hand one of these brand-new books to a young reader or curl up to enjoy it together, let these stories remind you to enjoy the goodness of the moment, even as it is changing to something new, and that God’s goodness is everlasting.

1. God Gives Sleep by Betsy Childs Howard, illustrated by Bethan Welby (TGC Store | Amazon)

When our family was exhausted and planning a big move with four children ages 6 and under, I really could have used this little book from Betsy Childs Howard. God Gives Sleep is a rhyming board book with illustrations of adorable animals (sleeping ladybugs!) and two simple refrains that even very young listeners can repeat or “read” for themselves: “God gives sleep” and “God will keep.”

Both reflect promises from God that feel vital to the early days of parenting filled with sweet, sleepy snuggles and long, sleepless nights. The last picture shows the entire family asleep and includes Isaiah 40:31 (“Those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength,” NIV). God Gives Sleep is engaging, gentle, funny, and wise, and I’ve already given it to parents of new babies.

2. Winnie-the-Pooh: The Graphic Novel by A. A. Milne, adapted by Kevan Chandler and Joe Sutphin (Amazon)

Full disclosure: I’m a huge Pooh fan. I’ve probably read the original Milne book dozens of times, and I can be a little sniffy about adaptations. But I loved this one. While I missed Milne’s distinctive narration in parts of the storytelling, this graphic novel retains enough of the original language and has such beautiful artwork that it easily justifies its existence.

Parents of young independent readers often ask me for recommendations for books complex enough to be engaging but with content and formatting suitable for early elementary school. This version perfectly fits that space where 6-to-9-year-olds can track the story through the pictures but also enjoy the challenge of some complex vocabulary (“Sudden and Temporary Immersion”) and jokes that reward context research (“An ambush is a sort of Surprise.” “So is a gorse-bush sometimes.”).

Winnie-the-Pooh: The Graphic Novel is a sweet and worthy tribute to this classic celebration of early childhood in all its imaginative wonder.

3. The Upside-Down, Inside-Out, Can’t-Believe-It Kingdom by Jonathan Landry Cruse, illustrated by Joe Hox (Amazon)

The adventure begins with a son begging his father to tell him an exciting bedtime story with dragons and knights. The result is this retelling of the gospel as a quest with a king and a prince and a reminder of our humble place in the kingdom.

Joe Hox’s illustrations stand out for being traditional and bright, with a dragon that isn’t too fierce for younger readers but also enough detail within the pictures to engage older readers. The story tells us that the good King will “make us be strong with the strength of His might,” a powerful message for young knights who want to do great things for the kingdom.

4. Doing Something New: A Prayer for Beginnings by Mitali Perkins, illustrated by Andrés Landazábal (Amazon)

Mitali Perkins includes a note in the back of Doing Something New about how she moved many times in childhood: “By the time we settled in California for seventh grade, we had lived in India, Ghana, Cameroon, England, Mexico, and New York.”

Changes often come with both losses and gains, and Perkins writes with sympathy and encouragement for children walking through all sorts of new experiences. The text reminds readers to live like Jesus—showing love, courage, and kindness—with the knowledge that Jesus also walked through hard experiences and that he’s with us now, wherever we go.

The pictures include what appear to be a new school, new friends, new seasons, and the potential loss of or separation from a loved one. The rhyming words offer this prayer to Christ as a resource for others experiencing changes—“You trusted God and God helped you / Here I am, Lord—help me too.”

Also check out these books:

Jude and the Extraordinary, Spectacular, Miraculous Day: A Creative Retelling of the Feeding of the 5,000 by Jessica Dennis Bush features beautiful mosaic illustrations that look refreshingly like real art rather than AI and a message about offering Jesus what we have. (TGC Store | Amazon)

Made like Me: A True Story from the Beginning of Everything by Jen Wilkin (with illustrations by Rommel Ruiz) tells the story of the creation of the world with vibrant, kinetic illustrations and an emphasis on how we were designed for community from the beginning of time. (TGC Store | Amazon)

The Mansoul Chronicles, Book 2: The Schemes and Snares of Diabolus by Tyler Van Halteren (with illustrations by Uyen Nguyen and Aleksander Jasinski) is an illustrated chapter book retelling a John Bunyan story from the 1600s with surprisingly relevant themes for Christians today. (Amazon)

The Sweetest of Lemons by Daniel Nayeri (with illustrations by Rahele Jomepour Bell) is both a true story and a fairy tale about “a lemon so perfectly sweet it cured sadness itself.” Like the best fairy stories, it carries themes of courage, perseverance, longing, and—most importantly—hope, acknowledging hardship but resting in the certainty of goodness on the horizon. (Amazon)

Where Wonder Leads: An Adventure in God’s Wild and Wonderful World by Eryn Lynum (with illustrations by Chiara Fedele) is from the host of the Nat Theo podcast and somehow manages to touch on grief, nature activities, profound theology, and fascinating scientific facts in just over 100 illustrated pages. (Amazon)

John Stott wrote that the Sermon on the Mount is “the nearest thing to a manifesto that [Jesus] ever uttered, for it is his own description of what he wanted his followers to be and to do.” After spending the last few years memorizing it, I see with increasing clarity that I need Jesus’s help to live out what he taught.

In a world where algorithms capture our affections and lure us online via our cravings, one of the most effective resistance strategies we can employ is to study and memorize Scripture—especially the Sermon on the Mount.

Create a New Algorithm

The algorithm often knows us better than we know ourselves. Every time we buy something on Amazon or pause to watch a reel on social media, the algorithm chronicles our activities and builds a profile of us.

This profile shows our real interests (not just the ones we list in our social media bios) and some of our most private behaviors (the ones we thank God aren’t live streamed). In milliseconds, companies use what the algorithm knows about us to discover the most effective way to get us to buy their products.

In the same way that the algorithm learns about us with each post we like and each reel we watch, God’s Word comes alive in us with every command we learn and put into practice, with every verse we ponder, and with every teaching we adopt as a way of life. By absorbing and obeying Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, we can create a feedback loop that enlarges his kingdom rule over our lives.

Let Scripture Reorder Your Heart

Before I started my memorization project, I’d heard many Christians tout Scripture memory as one of the most potent tools for conforming to Jesus, but I didn’t take it seriously. All that changed when I realized algorithms had more access to my life than God’s Word did.

By absorbing and obeying Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, we can create a feedback loop that enlarges his kingdom rule over our lives.

Like many Americans, I was averaging more than two hours daily scrolling social media and shopping online, and much less time reading the Bible. I’d thought lack of time was my biggest obstacle to memorizing Scripture. But in reality, my affections and priorities were the obstacle.

Memorizing and studying the Sermon on the Mount has provided a powerful reset. I’ve noticed two significant changes in my life.

1. My thoughts are increasingly populated by Jesus’s desires for me.

Previously, I was easily shaped by what internet influencers said I should be doing and what my heart really wanted to do. Now, Scripture tenderly draws me to Christ’s transforming grace.

For example, a few months ago, someone wrote harsh words to me. I couldn’t sidestep what I’d memorized: Pray for those who hurt you (Mt. 5:44) In those difficult interactions, Jesus’s teaching gave me wisdom to stop reacting and start praying for the one lashing out. Pausing to pray breaks down my self-protective stance so I can consider what the log in my eye might be (Mt. 7:5).

2. I see how vastly different God’s kingdom is from the world we live in.

I no longer feel as drawn to the shallow version of perfection the algorithm offers me—the beautiful home, the perfectly fit woman charmingly dressed, or the promise of perpetual travel. When I stop to linger over another picture-perfect kitchen, the Sermon on the Mount prompts me to consider where my treasure really is.

These chapters have given me a robust lens through which I can view all of God’s Word. After drinking so deeply of Jesus’s sermon, I see it as the hinge on which both the Old Testament and the New Testament hang.

I had thought lack of time was my biggest obstacle to memorizing Scripture. But in reality, my affections and priorities were the obstacle.

When Jesus equates murder with anger, he exposes a corruption we prefer not to acknowledge within ourselves (Matt. 5:21–26). Later in the New Testament, we see we have a Savior who forgives our anger and frees us to live to God’s glory. Having this framework embedded in my mind helps me remember the gospel when outside influences pull my attention away.

The first three years of my journey into the Sermon on the Mount have helped me be more like Jesus. Yet it’s obvious to me that my journey has just begun.

My life changed when those two college students challenged me to memorize the sermon. Almost every day, those words draw me closer to my Savior and encourage me to conform to him. The Sermon on the Mount has given me more joy than any product the algorithm could ever pop into my newsfeed.

In this first of two paired lectures from TGC25, Scott Swain considers several of the names whereby God reveals himself in the Bible. Contemplating God’s names provides a deeper understanding of his being and attributes and a firmer foundation for our faith and hope. It also helps us better appreciate the ways God reveals himself to us in Jesus Christ.

In This Episode

00:08 – The importance of knowing God

03:09 – Divine names in Scripture

07:47 – Defining true religion via names

10:33 – Lessons from Numbers 23

16:05 – The power of divine negation

33:32 – God revealed through analogy

40:46 – Attributes of the transcendent God

48:29 – Jesus Christ as supreme revelation

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Now in 2026—America’s semiquincentennial—Rocky is getting a theatrical rerelease. And a new movie, I Play Rocky (out today in select theaters) is telling the story of the iconic movie’s development, which is an underdog epic of its own.

The movie, directed by Peter Farrelly (Green Book) and starring Anthony Ippolito in a breakout turn as Sylvester Stallone, is a refreshingly feel-good crowd pleaser. It’s the sort of well-made, intelligent, but also inspiring movie for grown-ups that feels like a dying breed in Hollywood.

Movies About Moviemaking

I Play Rocky (rated PG-13 for language) follows a well-worn template of a movie about the making of a classic movie. Saving Mr. Banks (2013) was about Walt Disney and the making of Mary Poppins. Hitchcock (2012) was about Alfred Hitchcock and the making of Psycho. Last year’s Nouvelle Vague was about Jean-Luc Godard and the making of Breathless. I Play Rocky is about Stallone and the making of Rocky.

Hollywood loves making movies about itself: stories about storytelling, movies about moviemaking, actors playing actors.

Hollywood loves making movies about itself: stories about storytelling, movies about moviemaking, actors playing actors.

Self-reflexive inspiration goes back more than a century in cinema, perhaps starting with Dziga Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera (1929). The 1950s produced classics like Sunset Boulevard (1950) and Singin’ in the Rain (1952), but the trend really picked up in the postmodern era in the 1960s and beyond: 8 ½ (1963), Day for Night (1973), Mulholland Drive (2001), Adaptation (2002), The Artist (2011), and Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood (2019). The list is long. A hallmark of postmodernity is a metaposture of knowing awareness—storytellers who know they’re storytellers and want the audience to know that they know.

As postmodernism has given way to metamodernism, the trend of “movies about moviemaking” has continued, but in a slightly different register. These sorts of films are no longer merely metaexercises in self-awareness. The cerebral, cynical detachment of “films about filmmaking” like Barton Fink (1991), Ed Wood (1994), or even Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988) has given way to metamodern expressions that blend cynicism and sincerity, self-awareness with earnest escapism.

Steven Spielberg’s The Fabelmans (2022) is a recent example of a movie in this vein, and I Play Rocky has a similar feel. Even as it lifts the veil on the Hollywood myth factory and mines many laughs out of the fundamentally profit-seeking, money-centric nature of the movie business, it’s full of heart and soul. It has a joyful, hopeful, sincere, perhaps idealistic spirit (“I’d rather be an optimist and be wrong, than a pessimist and be right,” one character says).

Refreshing Celebration of Marriage

I also like how I Play Rocky celebrates the empowering beauty of marriage. The film opens with Stallone as a broke actor in New York, sometimes sleeping on the streets and at one point accepting a role in an X-rated adult film just to earn some desperately needed money (a dark part of Stallone’s past that the film plays for awkward laughs). He’s a lost soul with bleak prospects. But then he meets Sasha (AnnaSophia Robb), with whom he works at a movie theater. They get married and move to Los Angeles, and things start to turn around for him.

As a husband and soon a father, Stallone feels more urgency to provide. He valets at a swanky Hollywood restaurant to pay the bills while he churns out scripts that he tries to get into influential hands. Sasha types the scripts for him and encourages him at every turn, even as they struggle to pay rent. At one point, she reminds him, “It’s not just you against the world. It’s us against the world.” She’s his ally and cheerleader, believing in him when few else do.

Stallone’s parents were divorced, and he had a complicated relationship with his father, Frank (Matt Dillon). Yet I Play Rocky doesn’t play the “blame my parents for all my trauma” card—which is also refreshing. At one point, Stallone says, “My dad, he messed up a lot. But it’s my life.” Stallone doesn’t blame anyone else for the bad choices he’s made or the setbacks he’s had. His story is his own. At a time when it seems every other movie is some version of therapeutic moral absolution for sinners and villains, on account of their broken upbringing, it’s nice to have a movie that pushes back against this.

“It’s my story,” Stallone tells the producers who want to turn his Rocky script into a film. “So I play Rocky.”

Searching for Stories

We used to just tell stories. Now we tell stories about stories. We write books about story and the spiritual deprivation of a destoried world. We hunger for old stories but struggle to invent new ones. Hence the appeal of a movie like I Play Rocky, which finds new narrative inspiration only by mining a classic.

Our contemporary world is so uprooted, so unplaced in space and time, so rattled and wearied by what Hartmut Rosa calls “social acceleration,” that we feel removed or alienated from our own stories. We’re simultaneously hyperskeptical of the stories we’re told (you see this clearly in the popularity of You Can See Everything) and deeply hungry to find our own story, to be situated in a compelling narrative that’s going somewhere and has redemption, purpose, a point.

This is metamodernism’s complicated relationship with story. There’s still a residual postmodern skepticism about all stories and storytelling, but also a growing recognition that we can’t live outside of stories and storytelling—at least in the subjective, “my story” sense.

There’s still a residual postmodern skepticism about all stories and storytelling, but also a growing recognition that we can’t live outside of stories and storytelling.

Perhaps it’s downstream from social media turning us all into performers for audiences, but it feels like there’s a pressure to “find your story” (a.k.a. your brand/niche), own it, and guard it from others who might want to manipulate or leverage it for their purposes.

The 2026 comedy Power Ballad touches on some of these themes of creative ownership, as does Taylor Swift in her “Taylor’s Version” series of rerecorded albums. The recent movie Digger explores the way creative control and story-crafting can be PR—shaping one’s image or the reputation of someone you love. I Play Rocky is the latest pop-culture celebration of storytelling as agency: telling your story in just the way you want it to be told.

As much as this sort of storytelling is pitched as empowerment and agency, however, it also feels burdensome and exhausting. Do we really find freedom when we’re constantly obsessing over our story, or our backstory (e.g. TikTok “lore drop” trend), and how it’s perceived by online fans and followers?

The story poverty in today’s world won’t find a satisfying resolution in hyperindividuated narrative obsession. What we really need is a grander story—something bigger than “my story,” bigger than your story. What’s truly freeing is not owning our own story but seeing ourselves as part of God’s story—owned by him, our lives not our own. This is our only hope in life and death.

Pastor George, I like the idea that Jesus was talking about the Lord’s supper when he said, “Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him” (John 6:56). My faith just feels more real if I’m literally bringing Jesus into my body on a daily basis.

While this phenomenon seems to be happening with greater frequency, it’s not totally new. Years ago, I served alongside a man at an ordination service for another pastor in our city. I hadn’t met this man before; I only knew he had until recently been a professor at a Reformed and evangelical seminary. This man preached a solid message on Jesus’s call for ministers of the gospel, and I thanked him for it. Then, the next day, I saw him being interviewed on TV. I tuned in just as he explained,

I needed more realism than my tradition provided, so during lunch I would walk down to the local Roman Catholic parish and take the Eucharist. To unite literally with Jesus’s body and blood was more deeply satisfying to me than the “mystery of union with Christ” my church taught. So, I resigned my post at the seminary and went home to Rome.

I could relate other conversations with those who have left the Reformed faith and joined the Roman Catholic, Orthodox, or Anglo-Catholic traditions. A similar theme runs through them all: the desire for a more transformational, sensory reality than what the Reformed view of the Lord’s supper provides.

Is this critique valid? How would John Calvin respond to the critique that if you follow the Reformed view of the supper, you’re missing out on its power?

Transformed at the Table

Sometimes, in an effort to have biblically faithful theology, Reformed Christians speak only of what the communion elements are not. I’m painfully aware of my of shortcomings in this regard. This can inadvertently drive some believers to seek out a more “real” experience in other traditions. We can get caught up in debating the exact nature of the bread and wine and forget to ask the more pressing question: How should this meal change me today?

Let’s look back at Calvin’s teachings on communion. When we do, we’ll recover a renewed vision for the table, one that sees it as a divine encounter that motivates a transformed life of profound gratitude and obedience. In short, Calvin shows us that the Lord’s supper is fuel for spiritual growth, so we should come to the table expectantly every time.

In Calvin’s “Short Treatise on the Lord’s Supper,” he writes that the supper fuels the believer’s spiritual growth in at least three ways.

1. The supper assures us of our inheritance in Christ.

Calvin teaches that Jesus uses his table to assure us of our inheritance. He doesn’t merely mean that the supper gives us a psychological boost. He means that assurance comes by means of a real union between Christ and the believer, and he means that our experience of this union is expedited by faithfully partaking in the covenant meal.

Calvin shows us that the Lord’s supper is fuel for spiritual growth, so we should come to the table expectantly every time.

In his commentary on Ephesians, Calvin writes, “Paul says that we are members of his [Christ’s] flesh and of his bones. Do we wonder then, that in the Lord’s Supper he holds out his body to be enjoyed by us, and to nourish us unto eternal life?” Calvin insists that by faith, Christians are made members of Jesus’s fleshly human body, so at communion, we experience all the benefits of spiritual union with him.

Christ took on flesh so that in his ascended state, he might be a channel of righteousness to the believer, pouring into him all that Christ’s human life accomplished. As a result of Jesus’s incarnation and death, God the Father established what Calvin calls a “holy brotherhood” between his Son and those united to his human flesh in salvation. What assurance!

2. The supper confirms and increases faith.

Calvin sees the supper as a public and dramatic statement that God has atoned for the sins of the elect. God gives us this dramatic reenactment because he loves us. He knows “our faith is slight and feeble” and “unless it be propped up on all sides and sustained by every means, it trembles, wavers, totters, and at last gives way.” The Lord’s supper is a God-ordained means of “propping up” our faith, not because the supper is necessary to confirm God’s Word but because it improves our faith.

In the supper, we experience a dramatic reenactment in which the ascended Christ, through his Holy Spirit, lifts our hearts to heaven. Christ does this for us, Calvin says, because regular communion with him strengthens us for the spiritual discouragements that inevitably come through besetting sin, temptation, and trials. Calvin views the sacraments as a means that cause Christ to “grow in us” so that our faith is fed more and more with Christ himself.

Christians may experience any number of trials throughout their weeks that cause Christ’s spiritual, unseen realities to feel less plausible and real. Yes, our weak faith “trembles, wavers, and totters.” But when we come to the table, Christ gives us a public, dramatic reenactment that confirms his reality to our consciences and increases our faith.

3. The supper motivates and enables obedient Christian living.

Calvin says, “There cannot be a spur which can pierce us more to the quick than when He makes us, so to speak, see with the eye, touch with the hand, and distinctly perceive the inestimable blessing of feeding on His own substance.” Thus, at the table, says Calvin, we’re compelled to a new obedience rooted in a grateful response to the blessings we receive there in Christ.

Calvin’s conviction that the Lord’s supper provides occasion for this grateful celebration and response led him to structure worship services with this emphasis. In Calvin’s order of worship, the whole service is one long expression of gratitude in which the worshiper brings every aspect of his sin-sickness to the Savior. It concludes at the table where believers gratefully witness the Lord’s healing of all diseases dramatized.

Calvin wouldn’t allow worshipers to enjoy this gratitude in private, because it’s a gift to share and a motivation that fuels outward and practical acts of “faith and charity” to others. This aspect of the supper that drives the worshiper closer to his brothers and sisters in Christ is the final distinctive of Calvin’s sacramental theology.

Living Out Our Union with Christ

As Christ, from love, pours out his life for the believer, the believer also pours out his life for others. So, each time you take the Lord’s supper by faith, you live out of your union with Christ, and he lives in and through you, making you new.

Each time you take the Lord’s supper by faith, you live out of your union with Christ, and he lives in and through you, making you new.

So, the next time you come to the Lord’s table, come expectantly. The living, risen Christ will use communion as fuel for your spiritual growth.

I was visiting this friend just before COVID-19 hit, speaking at a separate church about our ministry, New England Urban Church Planting. Our organization was new, and my sinful inclination was to think, Oh, you just wait and see! My friend was equally defensive. Yet this pastor was onto something: It rarely happens, and it is indeed hard.

Why is church planting in our nation’s neglected inner cities so rare? Why are underserved urban communities overlooked by gospel-preaching churches? Stakeholders in our ministry have discussed these questions since 2009, leading to the organization’s founding in 2020. We’ve learned a lot in these years of full-time work as we’re growing this network of inner-city planters.

The work is hard for two key reasons. Yet it’s possible. And it’s crucial. Christ has commanded us to make disciples of all nations (Matt. 28:19)—this includes in our own nation’s inner cities. To plant churches in these spaces, we need to think like missionaries.

Problem

Unless you grew up in the inner city, serving there is a cross-cultural experience. This is the first reason church planting hard. Ruby Payne asks her readers if they can survive in poverty: Do you know how to keep your clothes from being stolen from a laundromat? Do you know how to move in half a day? Do you know how to keep your car from getting repossessed if you fall behind on payments?

Discipling men and women in the inner city can be exasperating when they have a new burner phone frequently. Inner-city pastors need to know how to preach and how to administer Narcan. And behind all that is the sound of gunshots, fights, loud TVs, and the quiet exit of well-meaning suburban Christians who came to help but didn’t last long.

Christ has commanded us to make disciples of all nations—this includes in our own nation’s inner cities.

Evangelicalism often feels like it’s married to only one culture: suburbia. Postwar Americans migrated from our cities to set up homes and churches in the suburbs. In 1940, 15 percent of Americans lived in the suburbs. By 2000, that number was 50 percent. Evangelicals were a disproportionately high percentage of those who made the move. As this happened, Brian Miller argues, the values of suburbia melded with and shaped the values of evangelicalism.

Churches in impoverished neighborhoods are rarely financially self-sustaining—the second challenge. Even if a pastor disciples his church toward generosity, being generous with a poverty-level income won’t pay the bills. So pastors who serve in these places get beaten down by serving a needy congregation while holding two other jobs “on the side.” It’s unsustainable. We don’t believe the answer for inner-city pastors should be a bi- or trivocational life.

Solution

The solution to these two challenges is within reach: the model of a supported foreign missionary. Since the late 18th century, the church has been training and sustaining men and women for gospel work in unfamiliar places, where they cannot expect the financial support of locals. This training-and-supporting model should be applied to inner-city church planting.

The change we need has four aspects. The first is a change of heart. We need gospel-saturated hearts that understand that all people are impoverished by sin. Those living in a homeless encampment share the same fundamental condition as the wealthy suburbanite. Filled with gospel grace, we can move toward the poor because we’re more alike at heart than we are different. Our hearts must be shaped by the reality of Christ’s initiative to leave the riches of heaven for us, to become poor for us, that we might become rich (2 Cor. 8:9).

Second, we need to believe that God’s heart is particularly inclined toward the overlooked (Ps. 72:12–14) and toward those generous toward them (Prov. 14:21). Generosity should begin with planting churches; the greatest mercy we can bring to underserved communities is a healthy church. After all, Martin Luther said, “After the preaching of the gospel, the office and charge of a true and faithful pastor is to be mindful of the poor.” Let’s be mindful of the poor with the preaching of the gospel in the context of inner-city churches.

Third, we need strategic minds to see that the American church can sustain inner-city churches just as we do global missionaries. It’s a foolish church that would send a missionary to unreached people groups with the promise of three years of step-down funding. Similarly, we shouldn’t send inner-city pastors and their staff members to their neighborhood with only short-term start-up money and the expectation that they’ll somehow figure out how to sustain the ministry.

Fourth, we need to train inner-city missionaries. The unique subculture calls for dedicated training. Just as a newly graduated MD needs a residency in her specialty before she can practice, so seminary graduates need specialized training in urban anthropology, missiology, ecclesiology, apologetics, and preaching before planting and pastoring. They need a well-formed biblical understanding of the relationship between mercy ministry and gospel discipleship. They need to know how to handle gangs, dealers, the undocumented, and mental health challenges.

All We Need

If we believe the American church can’t plant healthy, Christ-exalting churches in the inner city, this will be unique in the history of modern missions. To my knowledge, the American church has never considered a people group to be beyond our reach. We mustn’t start now.

Planters need to know how to handle gangs, dealers, the undocumented, and mental health challenges.

We have much to gain in doing so. Foremost is the glory of Christ, whose name is to be known and worshiped everywhere. His glory alone is worth our effort.

Second is the opportunity to tell of a Savior who proclaimed good news to the poor (Luke 4:18). That good news is Jesus himself, who paid the debt of sin for all people and fulfilled the promise of Isaiah: “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost” (Isa. 55:1, NIV).

Third, we gain God’s blessing. His heart is inclined toward the overlooked and toward those generous toward them. If we want to be blessed, we must care for the needy.

We also face a great danger in not doing so. James links good deeds with genuine faith and warns that neglect of the needy is a sign of false faith:

Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead. (James 2:15–17, NIV)

Dead faith isn’t saving faith. Perhaps the greater danger is neglecting our inner cities, not walking down their sidewalks.

The Great Commission includes our inner cities. Yet we’ve often neglected this work, believing there’s no model that allows us to plant churches in these communities. But there is. It’s the missionary model.

We have all we need: a commission from Christ, the promise of his presence, the Holy Spirit, the Word of God, a clear need, and a tested model. It’s time we put that model to work here in our inner cities.

What paths toward goodness and righteousness are being offered today? They’re as vast and varied as ever. One popular path is to optimize your life via medical improvements, ranging from plastic surgery to GLP-1s. The more you can “humanmaxx” your body to look healthier and be stronger, the more likely you’ll be considered an ideal human being—a good person to hire, to be friends with, to date or marry.

Political engagement is another common path. Your goodness is determined by how connected you are to particular political movements. You can feel like you’re a good person when you make sure you quickly like and repost all Zohran Mamdani’s videos. Or alternatively, you’ll be affirmed as a good person by how aggressively you go after or insult people who like Mamdani.

Paths our culture offers to the good life are often combined. Your sense of how good a person you are is measured by a mixture of how long you’ve engaged in therapy, how many hours you volunteer at your children’s school, and how long your streak is on your mindfulness app.

Tara Isabella Burton, in her book Strange Rites: New Religions for a Godless World, argues that people have formed their own religious systems by drawing from various religions and philosophies. People have become “creators of their own bespoke religions, mixing and matching spiritual and aesthetic and experiential and philosophical traditions.” We’re doing a DIY project, grabbing and piecing together whatever’s around us, hoping we can come up with something to help us in our journey.

So, what path does Christianity offer to assure us we’re living a good and righteous life?

Keeping Score

The Christian approach is to address what the Bible calls the heart. The heart is the Bible’s shorthand term for describing the part of you that drives and motivates you, what dictates your thoughts and emotions. Christianity starts with the heart because this is the only real way by which you can determine who you are and what needs to change.

We see the contrast between the religious and cultural approach and the Christian approach in Jesus’s interaction with the Pharisees in Matthew 15:1–20. The Pharisees confront Jesus to ask him why his disciples don’t wash their hands before eating. Handwashing before meals was one of the many religious rules the Pharisees had developed, practiced, and called others to practice.

For the Pharisees, the best answer to the question “Who am I?” was based on how well they followed their set standards. If a person kept the standard and had a life that could be observed to follow all the rules, then that person could definitively say to themselves and those around them, “I’m a good person who is living a good and right life.”

Jesus’s story about the Pharisee in Luke 18:9–14 is another example. The Pharisee intently notes in his prayer how he, unlike the tax collector praying next to him, fasts twice a week and always gives the full tithe. Jesus describes the Pharisees in Matthew 6 as people who make sure their regular prayers can be seen and affirmed by all.

The Pharisees weren’t alone in this approach. Greco-Roman religion had its own rules and standards to follow. Its gods demanded rituals, sacrifices, and festivals to appease and honor them. Performed rightly, they’d result in people securing the blessing they needed from the gods, thus assuring them their lives were good and righteous.

Jesus, however, reframes the Pharisees’ questioning by showing that their approach doesn’t go far enough. Right living and human flourishing demands more than one’s outward actions. It requires harder interior examination. And that means looking at the heart. Jesus says, “What comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart” (Matt. 15:18)—who we are is revealed only when we ask questions that get at the primary motives and desires within our hearts.

Right living and human flourishing demands more than one’s outward actions. It requires harder interior examination.

It’s not enough to obey the sixth commandment, “Do not murder,” by simply performing your nonviolent lifestyle to others for their approval. Jesus says we can’t say what kind of person we are until we’ve asked if anger, aggression, or violence reside within our heart (Matt. 5:21–22).

Similarly, the Pharisees said that we are to love our neighbor but hate our enemy (Matt. 5:43). But Jesus presses deeper when he tells the parable of the good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37), positing that we aren’t people who love our neighbor unless we’re willing to cross cultural and racial boundaries, to be radically generous, to put ourselves and our resources at risk for the sake of others. And we won’t do those things unless we look beneath our performance and interrogate our hearts.

Report-Card Life

This heart-based approach remains relevant and helpful to us living within today’s culture. The Pharisaic system and Greco-Roman religion are no longer popularly practiced. But the thought that we can positively answer the question “Who am I?” through external practices and obedience to observable practices remains the norm.

Though the standards and the gods look different, people are still looking to “follow the rules” toward becoming a person who lives a good life. It’s just that now there are more options and more bespoke standards.

This isn’t to say our modern efforts are insignificant. Many of the examples I listed earlier can bring mental, social, and physical improvements—in some cases better than anything our world has offered before. But the problem remains the same as in Jesus’s day: These efforts ultimately don’t go deep enough.

The Christian approach is that being able to know you’re a good person won’t happen by doing more and better things. To answer the question “Who am I?” in a way where I truly know that I’m living a good and right life always begins by asking, “What’s the state of my heart?”

Modern trends and philosophies tend to frame life around practices, rituals, procedures, or routines. It’s a report-card framework: How many times have I prayed or meditated this week? How much money have I donated this year? How many times have I worked out this week?

From Report Card to Relationship

Christianity presents a different framework, one that gets at the heart. Christianity helps us see our hearts through a relational lens: “Whom or what do you worship? Whom or what do you love?” It then leads us to the answer we need for those questions: “We need a heart that will worship and love what’s good and right.”

This is why the gospel stands out as the most complete story and the most effective way to answer the question “Who am I?” The doctrine of sin examines our heart and diagnoses the real problem. It shows us how God is the source of all that’s good and right and how human beings, in having sinned against God, are now far away from him. This means that even our best efforts toward being good come up short.

The gospel stands out as the most complete story and the most effective way to answer the question, ‘Who am I?’

The doctrine of Christ’s sacrificial death and atonement for sins then shows the way to fix the problem. Christ, in giving up his life and atoning for our sin, bridged the gap between us and God, a bridge we can cross by faith and trust in Christ.

Finally, the doctrine of redemption and regeneration by the Holy Spirit shows us that our reconnection to God through Jesus also is about transformation. We get new hearts, ones no longer compromised or enslaved by our sinful motives and desires. These new hearts help us live into what’s good and right, because we now have hearts that truly do worship and love God.

As Titus 3:5–6 says, we’re saved “not because of works done by us in righteousness” but by “the washing of regeneration and renewal of the Holy Spirit, whom [God] poured out on us richly through Jesus Christ our Savior.”

Here, then, is the only real and lasting way to be able to say, “I’m a good person who lives in a good and right way.” It’s when we can first say, “Because I am with God in and through Jesus Christ.”

Landon describes how his faith shapes Cosmos’s culture: tuition support for any degree an employee wants to pursue, a “Better Book Club” that pays people to read, five paid mission days a year, and a core value of being “willing to make the coffee” for the person behind you.

He answers hard questions about whether making dog shampoo really matters to God, and he speaks candidly about the hard years—supply chain disruptions, a drop in sales, and layoffs of people he cared about. He also explains why CEOs need pastors who aren’t passive, and what he has gained from a group of believing business leaders who share the same struggles.

Resources Mentioned:

• To Change the World by James Davison Hunter
• Every Good Endeavor by Timothy Keller
• A Public Faith by Miroslav Volf
• Work in the Spirit by Miroslav Volf

In his latest book, Into the Quiet: Following Jesus in a World of Noise, John Mark Comer argues that “nurturing a practice of solitude, silence, and stillness is utterly indispensable to a flourishing spiritual life” (26). This timely book addresses important issues in a lively, engaging, and accessible manner. And though the staccato prose style sometimes borders on gimmicky, it’s never dull.

Comer dons three hats, appearing as technoskeptic, therapist, and mystic. I responded differently to each: cheering the first, querying the second, and rejecting the third. Into the Quiet effectively critiques the ills of our hectic cultural moment, but it also makes questionable claims about the spiritual value of silence and promotes a spirituality that could quickly become disconnected from Scripture.

Comer as Technoskeptic

Comer’s consistent message is that readers need to intentionally disconnect from an increasingly noisy world. By “noise,” he means both literal sounds and the ever-present flood of distraction enabled by digital devices. The result is that “it is now possible to go through our entire lives and never be alone” (18, emphasis original).

Channeling secular authors like Jonathan Haidt and Johann Hari, Comer argues that constant noise threatens our well-being, whether we’re religious or not. But this dynamic is especially harmful for Christians. “Are we really surprised that . . . when we sit down to pray, we can barely even pay attention?” he asks (20).

Our always-on lives differ greatly from the example of Jesus, who models a strategy of “retreat and return” (30). He ministers to the crowds and then withdraws to solitary places to pray (e.g., Matt. 14:23). This is the book’s strongest material, a timely warning with which I wholeheartedly agree.

Comer as Therapist

But then Comer moves in another direction. He advances therapeutic claims that may be helpful to some people but that aren’t clearly grounded in Scripture. According to Comer, solitude forces a confrontation with pain that serves an essential psychological purpose:

All of this stuff is in you . . . leaking out like toxic pollution into the water supply of your relational world . . . it’s asking to be dealt with. To be given a moment to speak, say its piece. To be healed. Released. (85)

While the imprecatory psalms and the psalms of lament certainly model honest prayer before the Lord, and self-examination is clearly a biblical imperative, Comer’s specific claims seem more informed by extrabiblical therapeutic practices than by Scripture itself.

Is it actually true that “naming our feelings out loud allows our bodies to process and discharge pain without it getting lodged in our cores” (100)? That doesn’t sound like Scripture.

According to Comer, solitude forces a confrontation with pain that serves an essential psychological purpose.

The primary biblical support he gives for the practice of naming feelings to discharge pain is Jesus’s prayer in the garden of Gethsemane, an incident that provides the “template” for “the moments of our own Golgothas” (101).

The problem is that Jesus in the garden isn’t surfacing old “toxic pollution” from “the water supply of [his] relational world” with an eye toward therapeutic healing (85). He’s facing an imminent crisis and asking the Father for either deliverance from or strength to face the trial set before him. Whatever the value of surfacing past trauma, Gethsemane doesn’t establish Comer’s claims on that point.

Comer as Mystic

It will be unsurprising for those who have followed Comer’s work, but he also emphasizes a form of mysticism that seeks direct, unmediated contact with God. This mysticism is an “aspect of our inner life” that is “a line of poetry from God . . . words fail here.” He concludes, “All I know is, when we sink down below the surface of all our busy, noisy, anxious minds, there is a vast ocean of peace deep inside . . . Oneing God” (194).

For Comer, this intense spiritual experience can be equated with the Reformed doctrine of union with Christ. He argues, “Reformed Protestants use totally different language for a remarkably similar idea; they laud the joy of ‘union with Christ’” (192).

Though it has experiential aspects and is sometimes referred to as “mystical union,” in Reformed theology “union with Christ” refers, in the first instance, to the objective work of the Holy Spirit through which a person is joined to Christ through faith and receives all his benefits thereby. It’s not a Reformed shorthand for a heightened, subjective, mystical experience that comes and goes.

Though Comer identifies as a Protestant, he relies on numerous quotations from “desert fathers and mothers,” medieval mystics, and modern Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox theologians to justify his cafeteria approach to spirituality. As in his previous work, he engages with few heirs of the Reformation.

Comer insists that Scripture is essential, but, for him, it doesn’t stand alone. Consistent with this non-Protestant mystical tradition, the book strongly emphasizes subjective, immediate communication from God apart from God’s inspired words in Scripture. He writes, “While Scripture is arguably the most important, and certainly the most authoritative way, we hear God’s voice, it’s not the only one” (180).

In addition to the Bible, Comer stresses that we should “listen to the thoughts that come into our minds from God himself” (182). These messages arrive as the “faint whisper in the silence of our hearts,” and Comer claims that “hearing God’s voice” in this way is “just like learning to recognize any other voice” (183).

Comer insists that Scripture is essential, but, for him, it doesn’t stand alone.

Beyond asking whether a theological claim explicitly contradicts Scripture, we should also ask whether the Bible positively teaches it. Here’s where Comer’s presentation breaks down. Though Comer highlights mystical theologians who support his perspective, little biblical evidence supports the notion that one should, as a regular, ordinary part of the Christian life, expect God to speak apart from Scripture.

Comer cites Elijah hearing the “still small voice” of God (1 Kings 19:12, KJV) and Jesus’s statement that “[his] sheep hear [his] voice” (John 10:27). Yet he provides no biblical argument for why God’s miraculous dealings with an Old Testament prophet should be taken as normative today, nor does he explain how the context of John 10 supports the idea that Jesus is referring there to the sort of “hearing” that Comer has in mind.

Sola Scriptura or Silence?

Untethering communication with God from Scripture often allows people to move in unhelpful and potentially spiritually dangerous directions. According to Comer, in addition to knowing God through his word, “there are aspects of God that you can experience only in the quiet” (173). If Comer simply means that we must shut out noisy distraction to truly focus on biblical truth then there would be no problem. But he seems to be saying something more. While it is not always entirely clear what Comer believes will happen in the quiet, he seems to teach that direct divine encounter through silence provides a second and separate path to knowing God. “We enter the quiet to search for God himself. To encounter him, to hear his voice, and to know his love” (172). I understand him to mean that this divine encounter and voice are distinct from and in addition to what we would get from Scripture alone.

In this connection, he quotes Counter-Reformation mystic Teresa of Ávila (1515-1582) approvingly: “‘Settle yourself in solitude, and you will come upon God in yourself’” (173). What does this mean? It sounds like New Age messaging about discovering the divine within us. I’d assume that that isn’t actually what Comer has in view, but if not, why does he commend this unclear and seemingly unbiblical quotation? This sort of prescription implies that Scripture is insufficient to fully know and commune with God, and that after one puts down the Bible there is still more to discover through silence alone.

Moreover, if we follow this road, how do we know whether this new reality experienced in the quiet is from God or something else? An entire chapter of Into the Quiet emphasizes the reality of the demonic. There, Comer rightly notes that when Jesus encountered Satan in the wilderness, our Lord consistently rebuked the Devil by directly quoting Scripture, tightly tethering spiritual discernment to knowing God’s word (146). Yet later in the book, Comer encourages a wordless, and thus presumably extra-biblical spiritual process in which “solitude is a form of prayer, even when we’re not praying with words” (172).

The Protestant reformers stressed that we commune with God through his Word, and the Bible never suggests that as we deepen our spiritual life we will somehow move beyond Scripture or supplement it with an additional revelatory stream accessed only through silence. Comer’s advice that we seek experiential knowledge of God that transcends what God has revealed in Scripture is confusing and generates an expectation for an encounter that the Bible does not promise.

Comer is correct that we should, as Jesus models, carve out time for solitude and stillness. But when we do, Scripture itself reminds us that we only have one source of “God-breathed” words (2 Tim. 3:16). The Christian’s goal, amid noise or quiet, should be to hold fast to them.

It’s no surprise that rejections of God lead to confusion concerning the image of God and the biblical teaching that we’re humbly related to this material cosmos and yet dignified as the crown of creation. With the advent of artificial intelligence and ongoing debates about race, gender, and sexuality, it’s all the more important to be clear about what we are and who we’re made to be.

Learning about a Christian theological anthropology is no mere academic exercise. It gets to the heart of who we are, explains our daily experience, and pushes us toward the love of neighbor and the common good.

A Christian theological anthropology gets to the heart of who we are and pushes us toward the love of neighbor and the common good.

In my book, For Us and for Our Salvation, I seek to address these issues by providing a biblical, theological, and practical introduction to the doctrines of humanity and sin. In this article, I present 12 theses that summarize a biblical and Reformed-catholic theological anthropology that I explain throughout the book. These 12 theses, I hope, can ground us as we stand in culture’s ever-changing landscape.

1. All human beings are made in the image of the triune God and are thus called to represent, enjoy, and glorify God forever.

God creates each individual according to his image. The first-person plural in Genesis 1:26 indicates that the whole triune God is the archetype for the human being, for each person of the Trinity shares a singular divine substance (see also Col. 1:15–17). Humans are created as representatives of God and are thus religious creatures made to have communion with their Origin. Therefore, each human being as such is created good, with dignity and agency.

Our religiosity, corrupted by the fall, doesn’t lead us to cease being religious but rather causes us to elevate and idolize one aspect of creation over others, as we prefer the creature over the Creator (Rom. 1:18–23). We refuse to acknowledge God as the end for which we were made, and we seek enjoyment in other things—we idolize good, created reality and render it ultimate.

2. The doctrine of the image of God entails both ontological and ethical affirmations. God creates humans as embodied souls with intellectual and volitional capacities, and he calls humans to represent him by a proper exercise of those faculties in righteousness, holiness, and true knowledge.

Human beings are endowed with capacities for wisdom and righteousness. A twofold metaphysical concept is important here: act and potency. Potency refers to the natural power that distinguishes a particular kind of thing from other kinds, and act refers to the exercise of that power.

Humans, for instance, are the kinds of beings endowed with the potency to think rationally, but the actualization of those potencies is a distinct matter. Edward Feser clarifies,

In arguing for the existence of active potencies or causal powers, Scholastic writers emphasize the point that a cause is not always bringing about its characteristic effect. . . . My power to write must therefore be distinguished from this or that actual, particular action of writing, as a standing precondition of the latter.

Infants or those in a comatose state due to some serious injury, therefore, continue to be image-bearers, even while the potency for wisdom or will isn’t actualized in any way.

Similarly, those who are cognitively impaired still have the potency or essential capacity of reason and volition even though it manifests differently than in others, and even if the exercise of those powers is only actualized in the resurrection. (By contrast, a hypothetically resurrected squirrel will never actualize powers of rationality, because it was never in its nature to possess this capacity.) If humans are the particular creatures called to be in communion with and representatives of God, then such potencies are precisely those presupposed to make them fitting for the task.

This focus on what human beings are, with its attendant formal capacities (or essential potencies), then, doesn’t introduce a gradation for the image of God but rather complements and grounds the emphasis on human dignity. Every human is made in the image of God, whether or not he or she actualizes wisdom or righteousness.

3. Just as the visible creation witnesses to the invisible God, the image of God includes the body, as shown in its created goodness, dependence, and fittingness for the soul.

The body is a fitting home for the soul, and the soul is, in turn, the form of the body. As embodied souls, humans image God through their sexed bodies, and their personalities are communicated by way of embodiment.

God has created our bodies good, has assumed one in the incarnation, and is committed to resurrect them in the consummation of the new creation. The body is thus a reminder of humanity’s humility and exaltation (Ps. 8). Humans represent God and yet absolutely depend on God.

Humans are privileged to be embodied. Grasping our distinctiveness—even from that of the angels—can help us think well about artificial intelligence. Consider the parallels between angels and AI: Both are free from bodily limitations, both are said to be more intelligent than humans (although, angels also have a unique intelligence that AI cannot possess), both have longer lifespans, and both have access to a wealth of information that no human does.

One might ask the question this way: If the angels were created a little higher than humanity (v. 5), why is it good for us, not them, to be the image and representation of God?

The answer lies in our embodied agency and relational responsibilities toward one another. Wisdom and righteousness are embodied virtues. We bear unique responsibility for the other, as we share familial and natural relations with each other. Angels and AI cannot replicate this familial or physical bond and thus cannot participate in the care and love intrinsic to human relations and requisite for human wisdom and righteous love for God and neighbor.

When a human is righteous or fails to be righteous, his community rises or falls with him. AI can neither take the blame nor be responsible for the well-being or demise of humanity; it cannot come alongside humanity and participate in its embodied experiences, suffering, or joy. The responsibility for AI is traceable back to its producers and users.

Human embodiment isn’t a detrimental weakness of our nature that makes us inferior to the angels or AI, but it enriches human existence with a complex web of relations and a redemptive-history into which angels long to look (1 Pet. 1:12) and about which silicon machines cannot know.

4. The image of God entails stewarding and cultivating creation: the cultural mandate.

The cultural mandate is the vocational aspect of the image of God. God calls human beings to be fruitful and multiply (Gen. 1:28), and this involves not merely procreation but also the cultivation of creation through the formation of culture. If God creates out of nothing, humans create out of nature.

Human embodiment isn’t a detrimental weakness of our nature that makes us inferior to the angels or AI.

As human beings spread across the globe, so is the glory of God spreading through human representation. This natural development leads to the affirmation that cultural diversity itself is good. Given the fall, however, cultural diversity is mired in sin and leads to much conflict and division.

This side of the fall, the cultural mandate is carried out not merely by the natural course of the family and cultural formation but also by the preaching of the gospel. The gospel is the means through which humans are reformed to represent God properly, and the gospel orients regenerate cultures to the glory of God.

5. The image of God refers to humanity as a single, corporate whole, united under a federal head, and thus humanity has a teleological orientation for a consummated existence of perfect and everlasting fellowship with God in a sanctified and perfected cosmos.

Though God creates each individual in his image, God’s absolute perfection can never be reflected by mere individuals. It’s humanity, taken together as a corporate whole, that is called to image God in his fullness.

The promise of a consummated existence of a perfect and everlasting fellowship with God is offered to the first humans before the fall through the covenant of works, as the federal head (Adam) was called to be fruitful and multiply, and to work and keep the temple-garden as the prophet, priest, and king. Adam was thus promised a glorious existence that far exceeded his finite obedience—a heavenly world filled with cultures that glorify and enjoy God.

6. Adam was the federal head of humanity, and his originating sin resulted in the imputation of guilt and the transmission of corruption to humanity as a whole.

God has designed human beings to be diverse individuals united by a singular federal head, either in Adam or in Christ. If Adam had offered perfect, personal, and perpetual obedience in the state of innocence, he would have transmitted his natural, concreated original righteousness to his progeny and would have won the reward of a glorified existence with God in immutable, sinless perfection.

Adam, however, fell, and thus his guilt and ensuing corruption were transmitted to his progeny by imputation. Guilt is the status of condemnation, and corruption refers to the loss of original righteousness, which leads to the vicious acts of the flesh.

7. Original corruption refers to the loss of original righteousness and the illicit concupiscence that now marks human nature, the source of all actual sins.

Fallen humanity has forfeited the reward of everlasting fellowship with God and is now corrupted. The promise of glory, offered in the covenant of works, was lost, and nature is under a curse.

Recall from thesis #2 that human nature is created with the potencies for righteousness, holiness, and wisdom, and that created humanity actualized them. These natural potencies also entail a difference between a mere absence and a privation.

A privation is the lack of a natural property that was supposed to be actualized. A tree that lacks sight isn’t called blind, for it was never in its nature to see in the first place. Likewise, a lion who fails to pray isn’t called impious. A human who lacks wisdom, however, is foolish, and one who fails to love God is unholy.

In human beings, then, the absence of righteousness isn’t a mere absence, since humans were created to be righteous. That lack doesn’t leave us neutral; it issues in wickedness, vice, and depravity.

The privation of original righteousness leads to concupiscence, the illicit tendency toward all sin and the source of all acts of sin. The unregenerate person is thus totally depraved: Sin has marred the whole of human nature, and it’s only by God’s common grace that humans aren’t utterly sinful.

Fallen humanity, therefore, has no internal resources to prepare itself to receive salvation, and the grace of effectual regeneration is necessary for humans to have faith in Christ.

8. Death is the just wage of sin and the unnatural separation of the soul from the body.

Having sinned against God, humans are now destined to die (Rom. 6:23). Death is the separation of the soul from the body—and this isn’t God’s creational intention. Thus, God is committed to resurrect the body, without which humans are incomplete.

Death confirms our intuition that the world is deeply broken though it was originally good. Our longing to be free from death witnesses to our original end of everlasting fellowship with God. We long for the day when death will be no more in the resurrection of the body.

9. Christ’s human obedience is the exemplar for the restored and sanctified image of God.

What’s the relationship between who we are as image-bearers and Christ, who is called the image of God (Col. 1:15–17)?

We should be careful to distinguish passages in which Christ is referred to as the divine Son of God in his preincarnate state, on the one hand, and Christ according to his incarnation and the economy of the gospel, on the other. When one claims that Christ is the image of God, we should ask, In which respect and according to which nature—the divine nature or the human nature?

Second Corinthians 4:4 is about the latter, as the context indicates, and as such Christ came after the pattern and failed representation of the first Adam. The Son, in this sense, was made in the “likeness of men” (Phil. 2:7–8), and the Word was made “flesh” (John 1:14). He was made like us in every way, so that he might be the great high priest who sympathizes with us (Heb. 2:14–17; 4:15).

As the One who succeeded where Adam failed, Christ shows us perfect human obedience, and is as such the norm for all human beings. He is the last Adam (1 Cor. 15:45–49), and we will be made like him in death and resurrection (Rom. 8:17, 29; 1 John 3:2). The incarnation was for the redemption of humans from sin (1 Tim. 1:15).

As G. C. Berkouwer notes, “In [Bavinck’s and Calvin’s] thinking they always approach the Incarnation from a consideration of man’s fall and guilt.” In this sense, therefore, though Christ is the norm and standard for perfect human obedience, his human nature can only be understood by looking at that nature first, for he was made like us.

The place of Christ’s righteousness, as exemplified in his embodied human character, is in pointing us to the norm of human living—the law of God. The divine Son is the eternally begotten image of God, and his eternal sonship means he fittingly assumed a human nature in our likeness as a son of Adam, and lived that human life as the second Adam in perfect obedience to the law of God.

He shows us the perfect human being who images God in knowledge, righteousness, and holiness (Eph. 4:24; Col. 3:10). As humans imitate Christ and follow the law by the Spirit, we’re being conformed to that image once again.

Sanctified and perfected human beings are therefore image-bearers not merely ontologically but also morally and consummately. The saints of the church triumphant in heaven live consistently with who they are.

10. Regeneration of the ‘inner self’ is a definite starting point for the renewal of human nature and is a guarantee for a resurrected, glorified, and consummate human nature.

Regeneration is the result of God’s effectual calling, through which he restores our nature such that we’re enabled once again to obey God in holiness. God regenerates the “inner self,” that is, the center of human personality that directs the whole person.

It’s humanity, taken together as a corporate whole, that is called to image God in his fullness.

Talk of a “new man” or a “new creation” shouldn’t be misread as if our human nature itself is replaced with another. Christians are still human beings. Christians are still the same persons as their former, non-Christian selves, but re-formed and redirected. Regeneration doesn’t transmute us from humans to angels or something wholly other but rather conforms us to who we were made to be. The “newness,” in other words, refers to the spiritual qualities that now mark out the human nature of the believer.

Likewise, we should take care when talking about our sinfulness. We shouldn’t think of our fallen state as bestowing on us a “sin nature” alongside our human nature. Yes, we are by nature children of wrath; we have a body of sin (Rom. 7:24), but sin is parasitic on the good and doesn’t have a nature or substance of its own (for then God would be the author of sin).

Augustine, then, argues that the “creature, which cleaves to God, differs from those who do not, not by nature, but by fault.” As Thomas McCall reminds us, we have to remember that any talk of sinful nature presupposes that “our natures, originally created as good and called such by God, have become corrupted by sin.”

The Spirit as given is the firstfruits of the consummate human nature of the age to come (Rom. 8:23). This is a down payment for the glorified human nature that Christians will receive in the resurrection—what God has begun in us, he will complete (Phil. 1:6). Though Christians still struggle with indwelling sin now, they can, by the Spirit’s power, obey God. And in the last day, Christian righteousness is confirmed such that the presence of sin shall be no more.

11. Humanity is created male and female, and this sexed, complementary difference is good. It witnesses to Christ and the church, whether in marriage or in faithful singleness.

Human beings are sexed, embodied creatures, created male and female. This sexed distinction is good—males and females complement each other, as seen in the fruitfulness of procreation and companionship. Our bodies are thus authorities that one must heed, and our basic identity is given rather than constructed by our own sincerity, psychological inner sense, or desires.

John Kleinig rightly shows,

[It’s] misleading and unhelpful to identify a person as either homosexual or heterosexual. We are sexual people who can engage in heterosexual or homosexual acts or even in both kinds. But that does not determine who we are.

If God has given us our bodies, we should seek to glorify God with them, living in ways that please him, for our own good. We can act in ways consistent with who we are as image-bearers and as united to Christ, or we can act in ways inconsistent with those basic realities.

Our sexed bodies also point us to the hope of the resurrection. Gender dysphoria and the problems that have to do with our bodies now—including aging, decay, suffering, and the conflict between the sexes—are features of the fall and should make us long for the day when we will be perfected, glorified, and one with our consummate bodies.

As the One who succeeded where Adam failed, Christ shows us perfect human obedience, and is as such the norm for all human beings.

As Matthew Mason argues, “For those who experience gender dysphoria but cling to Christ for mercy and hope, surely one of the glories of the new creation will be to receive back the body they were originally given, transformed and glorified, to inhabit that body as their Creator and Redeemer’s loving gift, and finally to be at rest.” In the last day, we’ll exist in harmony with all that God has intended us to be.

We should also take care not to pressure ourselves into exemplifying (or even listening to!) all the cultural norms associated with masculinity and femininity that go beyond embodiment and Scripture (e.g., personality traits), for no one male or female can possibly exemplify them all (thesis #5), and we should distinguish between cultural custom and nature. Only in the last day, when the corporate image of God is consummated, can we see the fullness of masculinity and femininity.

Finally, both marriage and singleness point us to Christ, though in distinct ways. Marriage testifies to Christ’s sacrificial love and the church’s sanctified submission. Singleness testifies to the sufficiency of Christ as our true Bridegroom. To say singleness is a gift shouldn’t be misunderstood as claiming that those with the “gift” of singleness would find it easy or have no desire for a marital relation now. Singleness is a gift per se because it has eschatological significance—we will not be given in marriage in the last day, for the substance has come.

The church, therefore, should be a welcoming community for married families and singles, for the church is the body of Christ in which each has his or her place, and those who don’t have children may, too, have children in the Lord and participate as mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters in the community of Christ.

12. Human cultural diversity, though often leading to division due to sin, is a creational good, and the kingdom of God will comprise a diversity of cultures with a common confession of the triune God.

“Race” is a social construct, raised by sinful imagination, and the differences one sees among the peoples are cultural, not ontological. These organic cultural differences that morph and shift over time arise naturally due to the geographical and historical distribution of humanity have resulted in sin, conflict, and division after the fall.

In the last day, the kingdom of God will be made up of a diversity of tribes, tongues, and nations, with a common confession of the triune God. We should witness to this eschatological vision now by not mistaking cultural preferences for theological essentials, and by hospitality and a love of neighbor that crosses cultural boundaries.

God desires for the cultures, united under the confession of his lordship, to be consummated, and no single Christianized culture in any time or place is coterminous with the Christian culture or the kingdom of God. Christians are thus called to bear a chastened, transformational witness to the way of the kingdom now.

Holistic Vision

These 12 theses serve as merely an entryway to a broad Christian Reformed anthropology. If the pressing issue of our day concerns what it means to be human, we urgently need to retrieve the broader Christian tradition and biblical teaching on this doctrine.

We’re created in God’s image, made for fellowship with God and others, and restored by Christ and the Spirit. Christians, therefore, aren’t becoming less or other than human but becoming more fully human. May this witness to our fellow image-bearers.

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.