My contribution—which will appear in two parts—is to point out that meaningful portions of the present tension seem to be attributable to conceptual imprecision on the part of people who may not disagree as much as they think (or may disagree quite a bit more than they realize!). While I’ll do some weighing in, for now I’m content to simply give examples and ask questions in two important areas of the discussion. My primary (underwhelming?) contention is that many people with very confident views on the topic haven’t been conceptually careful enough to justify their confidence.

What Is a Desire?

What is the nature of desire? Checking the standard Greek New Testament lexicon (BDAG) won’t help here because one will simply find synonyms—this is inevitably what occurs when we get to basic concepts within lexicons and dictionaries. In this case, we find the narrow range of words that can be translated as “desire” only to learn that they mean “to wish, long for, crave, have urges toward….”

Excellent.

But what we are really after is the nature of desire, a subject which philosophers have explored in far greater depth than theologians (as the eye-watering entry on “desire” in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy reflects). Schroeder summarizes the landscape in a manner that has obvious application to discussions surrounding SSA:

“To desire is to be in a particular state of mind. It is a state of mind familiar to everyone who has ever wanted to drink water or desired to know what has happened to an old friend, but its familiarity does not make it easy to give a theory of desire. Controversy immediately breaks out when asking whether wanting water and desiring knowledge are, at bottom, the same state of mind as others that seem somewhat similar: wishing never to have been born, preferring mangoes to peaches, craving gin, having world conquest as one’s goal, having a purpose in sneaking out to the shed, or being inclined to provoke just for the sake of provocation (italics mine).”

Does desire require an element of delight or pleasure as part of the analysis, or can it be explained by duty alone? Do desires require a certain psychological experience, or can they be explained simply by appeal to one’s estimation of the good (“I donated my hard-earned money because it was a good thing to do”)? Are all desires teleological (having a goal or end in mind), or can desires be directed toward nothing in particular? Is genuine desire always indicated by taking steps to achieve its end, provided such achievement is within one’s power to realize (e.g., “You don’t really desire to lose weight, or you would be exercising”)? What do we make of desire in the case of someone who says, “I didn’t want to do X, but I did it because…”? We could go on. One’s answers are not only relevant for providing responses to the challenges posed by SSA but are necessary for even formulating the challenges coherently in the first place.

For now, let the reader understand.

A second question surrounding desire concerns how we relate to them. Robert Gagnon recently offered an excellent example of the need for clarity in this area. After plainly stating that desires for things forbidden by God are sinful, he writes, “The mere experience of sinful desire is not a defeat.” Whatever could this mean? How could I experience a sinful desire in a manner distinct from sinful desiring? One suggestion might be that I could think about sinful desires and imagine what it might be like to have them. Relating to sinful desires in this manner is clearly not sinful but also is clearly not what Gagnon has in mind.

Can I experience the sinful desire to besmirch my neighbor because he embarrassed me without any genuine desire to besmirch my neighbor? If so, we need to hear a story about how we can relate to desires without them being our own (see below?). To all appearances, however, Gagnon is actually trying to say something similar to the well-known Piper/Wilson story about concupiscence from James 1:14–15: provided I do not act on my sinful desires, nothing sinful has occurred. Outside of acting or not acting on them, Gagnon isn’t trying to make a meaningful statement about how we relate to desires at all, but the imprecision plays a critical role in the resultant plausibility of his view.

This leads to a final question we might ask about desires—must they be occurrent, or can they also be standing? Alternatively, do I have desires that “exist” in the absence of me desiring them in a particular moment? Or are desires similar to thoughts: if I am not thinking them, they don’t “exist” in any independent, meaningful sense? One’s conclusion here is substantive: if the only desires we have are occurrent desires, then concepts like “orientation” only serve as summaries of the kinds of desires we have had in the past: “In the past, I have desired X with regard to context Y. When I consider Y in the future, my guess is I will desire X again.”

By contrast, if desires can be standing, orientation can plausibly be explained in light of them: “In the ‘background’ of my heart and mind, I desire X with regard to Y. This ‘macro-desire’ is always there, even when I am not feeling or experiencing it consciously.” But perhaps this is something different altogether, something closer to disposition, understood not as a desire but as something about who we are that tends to produce desires with a certain kind of consistency.

Or perhaps not.

That these distinctions are important when it comes to discussions of SSA, desire and culpability should be obvious even if one are left with more questions than answers after considering them.

And yet, they are woefully underdiscussed.

What Is Temptation?

The standard distinction employed when discussing the nature of temptation is external vs. internal temptation. Most people agree that the distinction between the two is important, and many suggest that it explains, for example, how Jesus could have been genuinely tempted while James can nevertheless insist, “Let no one say when he is tempted, ‘I am being tempted by God,’ for God cannot be tempted with evil, and he himself tempts no one” (Jas. 1:13). So understood, evil external to Jesus tested his faithfulness, but in virtue of being the Son of God, Jesus did not have evil desires or inclinations to overcome in the first place.

In more mundane circumstances, external temptation might look like a recovering alcoholic spotting liquor in the hotel mini fridge. Internal temptation, on the other hand, might look like the same person strongly desiring to get plastered after work. In both cases, resistance is possible in the power of the Holy Spirit, and both cases are regularly discussed under the umbrella of “temptation.”

But does the external/internal distinction really deliver what it promises? Imagine that instead of an alcoholic discovering the stocked mini fridge, a teetotaler who hates the taste of alcohol stumbles upon the liquor instead. Of course, they don’t partake. Have they experienced and/or overcome temptation in any meaningful sense? Despite experiencing the same external conditions as the alcoholic, most people would not be willing to affirm that the envisioned teetotaler overcame temptation—in fact, it seems that they didn’t experience temptation at all.

The obvious question is: if Jesus merely experienced this second kind of temptation, how is that supposed to be encouraging to us or enable him to sympathize with us in our temptations (Heb. 4:15)? Given that he had no sinful nature and was perfectly righteous, clearly Jesus did not experience “internal temptation” like the man desiring to get plastered. Suggesting that Jesus had sinful desires he successfully overcame is simply not orthodox Christology.

But is the author of Hebrews just saying that Jesus’s experiences with overcoming temptation were like the teetotaler “resisting” the liquor? If so, how is that supposed to be encouraging to us or enable Jesus to sympathize with our weaknesses in temptation, which always involve an experiential/internal component? Recall: the alcoholic who resists the “merely external temptation” of the stocked mini fridge still experiences and overcomes an inward draw toward it (which is why we consider it temptation), unlike the teetotaler.

Are we forced to choose between either an unorthodox Christology or an all-but-impotent understanding of Jesus’s overcoming temptation? We are not—but I think you would be led to believe that we are by most of the current dialogue.

Why does all this matter if we are not Jesus and do, in fact, have sinful natures? Consider another Gagnon goof from the same post: “Temptation to sin, even internal temptation, is not an act of culpable sinning.” I think there is an interpretation of this phrase that can be correct, but it isn’t Gagnon’s. He suggests that, per a text like Galatians 5:17 (we’ll say), to experience sinful desires (here we go again) in conflict with our spiritual desires is not sinful—it is only when we acquiesce to them that sin occurs. So long as we carry our sinful desires in our pocket and don’t take them out, we aren’t culpable.

But on this understanding, how do we account for the 10th commandment? The whole commandment is a prohibition of desire sans action: “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male servant, or his female servant, or his ox, or his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s” (Ex. 20:17). Furthermore, drawing on the 10th commandment Paul says, “Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry. On account of these the wrath of God is coming” (Col. 3:5–6).

Is it really plausible to step away from these prohibitions and exhortations and believe that I can sit in my house desiring to have sex with my neighbor’s wife without moral culpability, provided I don’t actually take steps to make it happen? Even if I don’t sabotage my friend, should I not repent for privately desiring their moral failure because I think they need to learn humility? Surely these aren’t more than rhetorical questions.

Hopefully your interest is piqued.

In part two I’ll propose a more coherent framework for thinking about temptation, desire, and culpability that informs, but is not limited to, discussions surrounding SSA. I’ll suggest that there is conceptual space to acknowledge what can plausibly be considered “internal temptation” that is neverthessless not a species of occurrent desire. Sometimes this stripe of internal temptation will flow out of our sinful natures that require forgiveness but have been addressed in justification and sometimes it will flow from human frailty/limitations. This will allow us to simultaneously affirm the genuine temptation of Jesus, clarify culpability for our sinful desires and avoid making certain people feel as though they need to constantly feel guilty and repent for little more than their conscious existence.

And yet, despite its difficulty, listening well is not only a good thing, but a necessary thing. Progress often depends on it, particularly in the areas of advancing the common good and developing a healthy sense of collective cultural identity.

It is for these reasons that the disturbing trend to fundamentally redefine what “listening” means must be addressed head-on.

Two Kinds of “Listening”

Listening well to someone generally means hearing and understanding what they are saying well enough to repeat it back to them and have them affirm that our recapitulation accurately expresses their ideas. This looks something like: “What I hear you saying is…” followed by, “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” When we have listened well, we understand a position well enough to even play devil’s advocate on its behalf.

We should pause to point out that while this is not a particularly high bar to meet, it generally isn’t met by most interlocutors in discussions surrounding hot-button social issues. Nowhere is this failure more evident than on social media. Instead, people often resort to reactionary sensationalism after being “triggered” by the slightest phrasal infraction, or they grab hold of token slogans and cues in order to label and dismiss someone before truly hearing them out.

Once more—listening well is hard. Most people aren’t great at it, not because they lack the ability, but because they either don’t care enough to put in the effort it requires or they believe they already know the truth with such precision and confidence that they are no longer (if they ever were) in “learning mode.” Instead, they have shifted to “teacher mode,” seeking to coach the population. Both dispositions are antithetical to respecting others by listening well.

Having acknowledged this deficit, an even more disturbing pattern has emerged alongside ascendant activism: the insistence on a different definition of listening altogether. On this second view, listening well is tantamount to agreement with—or being persuaded by—what someone is saying. Hear someone out, summarize their ideas accurately, and then say, “I simply disagree and think you’re wrong”? You guessed it—you haven’t really listened.

The implication is that if you had truly listened well, you would come to agree with the viewpoint being expressed. Apparently, such ideas are self-evidently true once genuinely grasped.

Listening During the Black Lives Matter Movement

In recent memory, nowhere was this trend more visible than in the months and years following George Floyd’s murder and the explosion of the Black Lives Matter movement. Many white individuals, desiring to publicly express solidarity, emphasized their commitment to “listening well” to the voices of the oppressed and a wide range of minority perspectives.

Tragically, many found they had bitten off more than they could chew. They came to stand against racism and were presented not only with a new definition of it, but also with claims that their own racism was entrenched at deeper levels than they could imagine—that they were inevitably oppressors on account of their identity: white skin, two-parent households, cisgender norms, and heteronormative frameworks. Unsurprisingly, those who did not accept these claims wholesale were told they weren’t really listening—just like an oppressor.

Of course, more measured voices existed, but they didn’t receive the same attention—or the book deals. Those who listened but disagreed were often accused of having already made up their minds.

Listening During the #MeToo Movement

A similar trend appeared a few years earlier with the #MeToo movement. Despite beginning as an ostensibly healthy expression of solidarity among women who had experienced sexual abuse or harassment, the movement was quickly co-opted by more ideological agendas. It became a platform not only for sharing painful experiences, but also for advancing broader claims about gender, sexuality, and the nature of patriarchy.

As with later racial debates, people—especially men—who sought to “listen well” were often evaluated not on their understanding, but on their agreement. Perhaps more revealing than initially intended was one of the most popular accompanying hashtags: #BelieveWomen.

In many cases, this meant taking women seriously when they reported abuse or harassment. And while some—including many women—argued that terms like “trauma” and “abuse” were occasionally stretched beyond their meaningful limits, there was still something healthy in the call to take such claims seriously.

However, this expectation extended beyond personal testimony. Many insisted that others (especially men) affirm broader perspectives on issues such as abortion rights, feminist reinterpretations of history and dismantling “the patriarchy” (however that is defined). Men who expressed sympathy for victims but rejected the accompanying social philosophy were told they weren’t truly listening. If they had been, they would have recognized the interconnected nature of these ideas. They either hadn’t listened carefully enough or were simply too dull to understand the nuances of social causes and effects—and perhaps both.

In both cases, accusations of “not listening” gained traction partly because many people genuinely were, in fact, not listening. Some dismissed entire frameworks outright without engaging them, waiting only for their turn to speak while preparing to regurgitate talking points they hadn’t deeply examined or weaponize Thomas Sowell quotes to “own the libs.”

Unfortunately, those who listened carefully but disagreed were lumped together with those who dismissed ideas outright. After all, they ended in the same place—disagreement. The illusion was created that disagreement itself proved a failure to listen. Combined with the fact that some people did, in fact, change their minds after “waking up” to different perspectives, a new definition of listening began to take hold with the “humble mind-changer” held up as the paradigm.

Trust vs. Truth

To be clear, this redefinition is deeply problematic, primarily because it substitutes truth with trust. “Believe me because I have a unique, superior perspective” is fundamentally different from “Believe me because of reasons supported by evidence.”

It is true that much of our knowledge depends on testimony—especially in cases like personal experiences of abuse or scientific observation. But in discussions involving values, norms, historical interpretation, and ethical frameworks, lived experience alone does not confer infallibility, superior reasoning, or moral authority.

In fact, just as a dentist who has never had a toothache may still better understand its causes and treatments than a suffering patient, those outside a given experience may sometimes see the broader picture more clearly. Imagine a patient insisting: “You’ve never had a toothache, so you can’t disagree with my diagnosis—believe dental sufferers.” Clearly, something has gone wrong.

We must therefore evaluate listening not by agreement, but by demonstrated understanding—accurately representing another person’s position before responding.

Given that Christians are called to be “quick to listen, slow to speak” (James 1:19), it is especially important to understand what this requires. Listening well is an act of respect and love. Failure here risks more than mere stubbornness—it risks failing to properly hear God’s word.

And that is a mistake we cannot afford to make.

Let us, then, strive to be good listeners—while also insisting that the definition of listening has not changed.

No!

What I have been, however, is doing some other things. Chief among those is trying to finish up an eight chapter contribution to an introductory level systematic theology that I was asked to write as a part of a larger publishing project that has not been publicly announced. I was brought in late on the project and really need to use my spare time to focus on completing my chapters—I’m almost there!

Also, in conjunction with more or less quitting Facebook, I have in its place picked back up my old hobby of magic (think cards, coins and predictions, not Magic: The Gathering)—that has also filled my spare time, because while Grandpa’s pick a card trick is easy, effects that are actually good generally aren’t; they require a lot of learning and practice. It’s been great fun.

Having said all that, once I am done with my chapters, Lord willing, I’ll have time to pick things back up here, and I’m looking forward to it.

Until then.

1. Many people change their theology, ethics or denomination for reasons that have nothing to do with the Bible (e.g., hurt and anger, relationships, aesthetics, or pragmatism)

I have a degree in analytic philosophy and love theology. I’ve been to seminary. I’ve published. Giving reasons and providing thoughtful arguments (or trying to) are my intellectual currency. I can barely imagine changing my view on an “issue” without compelling evidence and argument. You can imagine my shock, then, to discover that people in the church do this all the time.

Folks, it confounds me.

How many times have I seen someone change their view on biblical sexuality because a friend or family member came out of the closet? How many times have I seen someone change their view on gender roles in marriage because they witnessed or experienced an abuse of authority? How many times have I seen people drift into Orthodoxy, Roman Catholicism, or Anglicanism on account of “beauty”? How many times have I seen a crying woman be more compelling than a good argument? How many times have I seen tribalism and solidarity be more theologically formative than biblical interpretation? How many times have I seen someone change their view on divorce because of the poor quality of their marriage or that of someone close to them? I could go on. The answer in every case is: far more than I ever imagined.

I remember a pastor friend once telling me that someone who loved literature came and asked him about the problem of evil. His answer: “What kind of author would God be if he didn’t write a villain and evil to be overcome into the story?” It was, apparently, the most compelling response this man had ever heard. I, on the other hand, immediately thought, “He would be an author who didn’t want terrible suffering and evil to exist.”

My consistent experience in ministry is that there are far more laity like the man in that example than there are people like me. Many people simply do not feel the weight of “three reasons and two arguments.” Blah blah blah. Don’t even think about referencing “the Greek” in an effort at course correction in such cases.

Feel. Experience. Beauty. Culture. In-groups. Family. Relationships. Ministry opportunities. Political alignment. Yearning for affirmation and acceptance.

All of these—in differing degrees—figure into the theological method of many people who confess the supremacy, clarity, and sufficiency of the Word of God. It’s a tough pill to swallow—and one that most pastors choke down more often than they would like to admit as they consider strategies for wise engagement.

2. Being indwelt by the Holy Spirit doesn’t mean that some people won’t have lower relational and emotional ceilings than others.

One mistake I fell into early in ministry was believing that a biblical doctrine of sanctification implied that everyone’s personal sense of well-being and relational capacity had the same ceiling. If there was a deficit here, sanctification was the answer. After all, the Spirit dwelt in them! Some of my very nouthetic friends probably still think this way.

But this way of thinking often confuses the goal of sanctification—transformation into Christlikeness—with altering certain capacities and dispositions that align more closely with personality and temperament than holiness. Melancholic personality types aren’t going to change into warm, bubbly people if they pray more fervently. Extroverts aren’t going to transform into introverts. People who don’t like to talk don’t become engaging conversationalists with Christian maturity. Same with people who can’t sit still for more than an hour. Marriages without good interpersonal chemistry may very well honor God but may not be feel delightful. People with very low emotional intelligence will always find relationships challenging. And so on.

By themselves, these things are not wrong—it’s not sinful to be socially awkward, or to naturally be more of an Eeyore, or to draw energy from social interaction rather than solitude. But the difficult pill to swallow is that these kinds of things often contribute to relational friction or downcast demeanors regardless of how mature in Christ such people may be. More holiness in these cases will not result in “improvement,” and exhortations toward that end will only discourage people and frustrate pastors.

The bottom line is that the wisdom required to navigate these challenges can’t be obtained at a weekend seminar where they offer a biblical counseling certificate.

It’s far tougher sledding, I’m sorry to say.

3. Your most mature people will rarely need your pastoral help.

Pastors are supposed to pastor people in their congregations. Duh. To pastor means to “shepherd.” So far, so good.

However, when the shepherd/sheep paradigm becomes the dominant framework by which a pastor approaches everyone in the church, a practical problem surfaces quickly: unlike sheep—who are relatively helpless, easily scared, and need to be led at every turn—many people in the church are very well-grounded, wise, mature, stable, and steadfast. So much so that a pastor may interpret their relative self-sufficiency as a reluctance to “be pastored” because they think they have it all figured out. “Why don’t they come and ask me about ______?”

This is a colossal mistake.

While on the leadership team at Dell before moving into full-time ministry, a leader imparted to me some invaluable wisdom about coaching and managing your top folks in corporate America:

1. Set clear objectives

2. Give them the tools required for success

3. Give them appropriate support, encouragement, and feedback

4. Get out of their way—they don’t need your help

I’ve found something similiar to be true in ministry. The most mature people in any church are very unlikely to require a great deal of hand-holding or regular counsel for the ins and outs of life. Instead, they want your prayers, your occasional check-ins, your hospital visits, your ability to work through very challenging things on occasion, and so forth.

Why is this a tough pill to swallow? Unlike the others, it’s only tough if your paradigm isn’t well-rounded and your approach to shepherding assumes that everyone desires or needs equal and identical attention. With this (errant) mindset, the most independent folks in a church can seem as though they don’t appreciate the pastor, don’t need him in any way whatsoever, or think they know better than him (even if sometimes they do). I’m very thankful to have swallowed this one early in ministry—it is the only pill on this list that, after passing through misconception and/or pride, very quickly turns sweet.

4. Some people will always judge your ministry on the basis of outside voices—you will never be their primary influencer.

Some people are skeptical of leadership and teaching in general. Some people listen to podcasts for hours each day. Some have very strong personal ties to a former pastor or a particular ministry. For reasons like these (and others), certain people will always evaluate your preaching, counseling model, discipleship paradigm, outreach strategy, and cultural engagement by how it lines up with their past influences and/or present external voices.

It won’t be most people, to be clear.

But the folks in this category are strong-willed, have a very high view of their own discernment, and simply trust other people more than you, at least in certain important areas. This generally will not change unless you conform to their expectations. Of course, there are exceptions.

Ironically, and related to the last point, one of the ways this can change is if the person or organization they have looked to as “the standard” experiences moral failure. Of course, the truth or falsehood of teaching has nothing to do with personal or organizational character, but for people in this category, sound teaching can’t endure beyond lack of integrity. At that point, you may be all they have left—and what an opportunity that is!

5. Men struggle to develop friendships and press into relationships (far more than women do)

I’ve always been an extrovert, enjoyed people, made friends easily, and joked that one of my spiritual gifts is hanging out. My experience is that most men, however—particularly married men—either (1) have very few, if any, friends or (2) struggle to make them (and sometimes 1 because of 2). Men tend to have lower degrees of emotional awareness than women and tend toward being relational loners. They may have had friends in high school or college, but developing new friendships is something that, for many men, all but evaporates after marriage and family. The research and surveys are conclusive.

Pastors know that women will show up to just about anything to talk, hang out, and develop relationships. Men, not so much. Some people at this point wonder what the problem is—aren’t men and women just wired differently? Well, yes and no. The problem is that we aren’t meant to be loners but to know others and be known in the context of relationships. Iron sharpens iron. A brother is born for adversity. And men shouldn’t feel gay when they read that David told Jonathan, “… very pleasant have you been to me; your love to me was extraordinary, surpassing the love of women” (2 Sam. 1:26).

Discipleship happens in relationships—it isn’t a mistake that Jesus spent three years with twelve men as His plan to reach the whole world. Many men would far prefer to believe that they can become spiritually mature behind their books and amidst their podcasts—they can’t. At best, they can become well-taught and self-disciplined. But the context for intentional love will always be relationships.

Some men deceive themselves into believing that their wife or children are the only “friendships” they need. This is just wishful thinking—men need friendships with other men, even if the circle is small. Many will resist this with every excuse under the sun.

It’s a tough pill.

Well there you have it—five pills from my pillbox with very little in the way of counsel about how to not choke on them. Don’t be discouraged, though; awareness is more than half the battle, and if you've pastored for a while, you probably spent most of your time nodding your head as you read this post because you're already aware.

I have more pills—care to share any of yours?

In 1 Timothy 2:9–10, Paul instructs that “women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control, not with braided hair and gold or pearls or costly attire.”

This is a classic example of a universal principle expressed through culturally specific illustrations. Paul’s instruction is more than a comment about clothing; he is speaking about adornment—jewelry, hair, makeup, the whole presentation of one’s self—done in a way that is externally dignified.

Modesty and Self-Control

We tend to remember the call to modesty, but Paul also emphasizes self-control—or sober-mindedness (Gr. sōphrosynēs). He is not saying to women, “Don’t trip when you put your dress on.” He is saying that there is a self-controlled way to present oneself, and godly women ought to be attentive to it. “Does this outfit exude self-control?” is not a question most women routinely ask themselves—but it may be a more helpful angle for understanding dignified adornment.

In Ephesus, Paul’s contrast points to hair and clothing arrangements that signaled showy displays of wealth, extravagance, self-absorption, or even sexual invitation.

First-Century Fashion

A specialist in first-century culture writes that Paul is referring to:

“The elaborate hairstyles fashionable among the wealthy and the styles worn by courtesans. Sculpture and literature from the period show women with enormously intricate arrangements—braids, curls piled high like towers, decorated with gems, gold, and pearls. Courtesans wore numerous small braids with jewels every inch or so, creating a shimmering screen of their locks.”

In other words, extravagance was intertwined with promiscuity.

The same combination appears in Revelation 17:4, where the great prostitute is “adorned with gold and jewels and pearls” and linked to sexual immorality.

So Paul is expressing a twofold desire that women be free from

• extravagance and self-absorption

• sexualized presentation or invitation

What Should Adorn a Woman Most?

Interestingly, Paul doesn’t replace one style of jewelry with another. Instead he says:

“…what is proper for women who profess godliness—with good works.” (v. 10)

A woman’s most compelling adornment—what should be most beautiful about her—is not her hair or makeup but the quality of her life. This does not forbid external beauty. It simply puts beauty in its proper place.

John Stott puts it wonderfully:

“The church should be a veritable beauty parlor because it encourages its women to adorn themselves with good deeds. Women need to remember that if nature has made them plain, grace can make them beautiful; and if nature has made them beautiful, good deeds can add to their beauty.”

Just as Paul doesn’t want men’s theological debates devolving into speculation, anger, and quarrels (1 Tim. 1:3–4; 2:8), he doesn’t want women’s desire to express their God-given beauty devolving into self-absorption, extravagance, or sexual invitation.

A Practical Principle of Adornment

I’ll now ask readers to bear with me as I set out into a landscape fraught with peril. I refer, of course, to the practice of giving women practical counsel about modest dress as a man. With tremendous courage, I offer the following principle:

A woman should feel free to adorn herself in a way that simultaneously (1) clarifies her distinct beauty and body, and (2) clarifies her distinct commitment to godliness.

1. Clarifying Beauty and Body

Consider Esther 2:7:

“The young woman had a beautiful figure and was lovely to look at.”

Esther—godly, faithful, above reproach—had a visible figure, not just a visible face (cf. NASB’s translation “beautiful of form and face”). She was not hiding under a burlap sack. She was not required to mask her embodied femininity or make herself invisible. In other words, Esther’s external adornment was consistent with others’ ability to straightforwardly discern that her body and beauty were superior.

Some women prefer very loose clothing on account of comfort. Other women prefer clothing that disguises (for different reasons). Of course, neither of these preferences is problematic.

But what we cannot do is shame the “Esthers” among us in the church, or suggest that they wear clothes or adorn themselves in ways that artificially suppress—perhaps in some cases, physically—their God-given constitution. God has made each woman to be different, and we should not suggest that there is something wrong with clothing or cosmetics that acknowledge those differences from head to toe, front to back.

Women do not need to disappear beneath their clothes or look intentionally plain, as if holiness requires appearing as though one is perpetually fasting with the Pharisees (Matt. 6:16–18). At this point, the Mennonites have it wrong—women are free to allow the beauty of their forms and faces to be public without being provocative.

2. Clarifying Commitment to Godliness

Women are free to clarify their embodied femininity through external adornment, but such adornment should simultaneously clarify their dignity and respectability as women of God. The two are not mutually exclusive, and those believing they are may be listening more to secular culture (or to church subculture reacting against it) than to Scripture itself.

A helpful exercise for those who struggle here is to take inventory of the Old Testament instances in which women are described as beautiful. One example is particularly compelling for our discussion.

In 1 Peter 3:5–6a (after largely rehearsing 1 Tim. 1:9–10), Peter writes, “For this [dressing modestly and adorning themselves with good works] is how the holy women who hoped in God used to adorn themselves, by submitting to their own husbands, as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord.”

Readers should not forget that Genesis not only records that (then) Abram thought (then) Sarai was beautiful, but that the Egyptians thought she was “very beautiful,” and the Pharaoh thought she was so beautiful that he took her as a wife (Gen. 12:11–20). Clearly, displaying internal and external adornment are not mutually exclusive.

Having said that, Paul is extremely aware that clarifying one's beauty can take a wrong turn very quickly. But that’s what sin does in every part of life—sneak into good things and ruin them, often bringing along pious-sounding excuses. That’s why he says what he says.

I trust that listing a host of sinful reasons that women might have for dressing extravagantly or promiscuously is not necessary. What is likely more necessary is explaining why what I have suggested will cause some people—men and women—to raise an eyebrow in discomfort.

The reasons vary. For some, it’s a generational thing—some women still aren’t comfortable wearing pants to church. Other women have been told that their form and face (but particularly their form) are the cause of male lust; should perky breasts cause Bradley Perkins to burn with passion, then the bearers of such breasts are always one wardrobe choice away from bearing responsibility for Bradley’s mammary-induced mental misstep.

Of course, this is not close to true—everyone is responsible for their own sin—but it’s what a lot of well-intending women were told growing up, particularly those coming out of more fundamentalist backgrounds and those influenced by the Purity Movement (for an excellent take on recovering biblical modesty from the Purity Movement, see here). Instead, what poor Bradley Perkins really needed was for a mature man to tell him to take ownership of his thoughts and desires and to exercise disciplined eye-control. And probably to stop watching porn.

Women are responsible for dressing with self-control, but men are responsible for demonstrating it themselves, even if they find themselves in the midst of a visual wonderland.

Others will struggle because, with regard to external adornment, they lack confidence about where to land on the spectrum of adornment possibilities; the gap between Mennonite and Moulin Rouge is indeed cavernous. Alas, at this point I will not be of much practical help—I still wear sweatpants from high school and the only jewelry I own is a wedding band I bought off Amazon for $20.

However, it’s worth noting that with regard to clothing, the desire to wear “clarifying adornment” is not to be confused with dressing up (down?) as a melanin exhibit, begging the next gust of wind to display one's backside or inviting the public to take a visual descent into bosom valley. Moreover, I doubt most women in our context are in danger of wearing hair and makeup that looks like the rich women in The Hunger Games.

Finally, as a plain matter of fact, most women do not normally dress at either extreme of the Mennonite-Moulin Rouge spectrum. This causes one to wonder if the aforementioned “uncertainty” is less about the ability to discern what it looks like to wear clothes that fit or makeup that enhances, and more about something else (like fear of what “those women” might say or think).

The bottom line is that women are to be godly, self-controlled, and dignified in their embodied beauty. The two are not mutually exclusive; indeed, they belong together.

And if this is true, then what God has joined together, let not fear of judgmental church ladies or poor church subculture, separate.

In the first post of the series, I laid out the first of a handful of philosophical questions that lie beneath the immigration debate. That question pertained to the fundamental units of international relations. On the one hand, all humans are made in God’s image and inhabit a shared earth. Given that the location of one’s birth is morally arbitrary, and that no one can lay claim to the earth in a God-like way, it stands to reason that people, for the most part, should have the freedom to migrate and settle wherever they like. Borders—and the soldiers with guns policing them—threaten this putative right (Carens). This outlook represents a cosmopolitan perspective on the world and views national borders as an obstacle to human freedom and flourishing at best, and a violation of human rights at worst.

Cosmopolitanism stands in tension with the empirical reality that since the 1648 Peace of Westphalia, we have inhabited a decentralized, fragmented international community. In this community, sovereign nation-states have particular responsibilities toward their own people, but also a responsibility to refrain from interfering with the internal workings of other nation-states. As autonomous units, each nation-state has a right to police migration into its jurisdiction.

Governing authorities have been appointed by God as ministers of public justice and peace for those under their jurisdiction. Therefore, states have a responsibility to make immigration allowances with the well-being and safety of their residents as a controlling guide. Residents and would-be immigrants must submit to the governing authorities and obey immigration laws even if they believe those laws to be less than ideal (à la Rom. 13).

Broadly speaking, this is a communitarian perspective on the global order. Objectively, there is no question that we live in a fragmented international arrangement with autonomous, sovereign states. Normatively, however, it isn’t clear that this is how things should be—after all, nation-states are relative newcomers to world history.

Perhaps the current state of affairs represents an unjust restriction of social and economic mobility—a kind of international feudalism that we should move beyond (Carens). Certainly the Bible does not prescribe a particular international order. Furthermore, Catholic Social Teaching, for example, is broadly antagonistic toward the current international situation and leans heavily into a cosmopolitan framework in its teaching about global justice and transnational migration. The church transcends international borders. We are called as Christians not only to love our neighbor, but to demonstrate hospitality toward the stranger and sojourner. Put all of this together, and Christians have a lot of careful philosophical and theological thinking to do before they get to a single policy question.

In exploring these issues, I’ll break my response into two parts. First, I’ll argue for states’ rights to regulate entry into their jurisdictions. In the next post, I’ll argue for a Christian posture toward migrants and would-be migrants and offer a synthesized analysis, drawing the threads of the first three posts together.

The Role of the Governing Authorities—Justice and Protection for Whom?

There are a variety of ways one might argue for the right of nation-states to regulate admissions, but perhaps the most foundational—and the one most likely to appeal to Christians—is the following:

1. Governments have the responsibility to eliminate and/or limit threats to peace, order, and justice within their jurisdiction.

2. Sometimes, migration into a jurisdiction threatens peace, order, or justice within it.

3. Therefore, sometimes governments have the responsibility to eliminate and/or limit migration into their jurisdiction.

The conclusion inescapably follows from the premises. What can be said in their favor?

Premise One

The first premise attempts to capture one implication of a Christian understanding of government derived from texts like Gen. 9:1–7; Matt. 22:21; Rom. 13:1–7; 1 Tim. 2:1–2; 1 Pet. 2:13–17; and Tit. 3:1. Broadly speaking, the primary role of the magistrate is to protect and promote peace, order, and justice within its jurisdiction. It stands to reason, therefore, that the state has a responsibility to stop or mitigate threats to those very things. After all, how could it accomplish its purpose without doing so? A few things stand out about this account, especially relevant to conversations surrounding transnational migration.

First, the civil government primarily serves in a protectionist role—not the role of moral tutor for the commonwealth or as a conduit for mercy and compassion. Of course, we cannot subtract morality from legislation, and the commuting of sentences—as well as clemency—can plausibly be construed as merciful elements of the justice system. Nevertheless, the governing authorities exist primarily to police and punish harmful conduct and to ensure peace and order so that people can live unmolested lives (1 Tim. 2:1–2). There is not a single verse in the New Testament suggesting that exercising compassion and mercy are normative goals for the state.

Furthermore, and contra Aristotle, the fact that there is no biblical evidence suggesting the state bears responsibility for the moral formation of its constituents implies that a Christian legislative state (one version of Christian Nationalism) as it is typically conceived lacks biblical warrant. One might object that all sin is “harmful conduct” (Rom. 13:3) and thus, along with Christian moral education, the state should punish sins such as worshipping other gods or criminalize consensual fornication among adults. And this is exactly what many versions of the Christian legislative state would entail.

However, when Paul wrote Romans 13, he was very aware that the governing authorities did not punish such things as a matter of plain fact. Nor is there any hint that they had the prerogative to do so. Indeed, the state does not have the God-given responsibility to punish offenses against God that are not miscarriages of public justice or threats to peace. Punishment for such moral infractions is reserved for the church in this age and for Christ on the day of judgment (e.g., Rom. 2:16; 2 Cor. 2:6; Tit. 3:10).

From a positive perspective—and directly relevant to the immigration debate—is the suggestion that the laws of nation-states should mirror the laws of Old Testament Israel, which is sometimes taken to be a model for how to arrange nations in general. Recalling that Israel was once an alien nation in the land of Egypt, the Old Testament adopts a welcoming posture toward those seeking to migrate (e.g., Ruth) and insists not only that sojourners be treated well, but that they be integrated into the life of Israel (Lev. 19:33–34; 24:22; Deut. 1:16; 10:18–19).

In fact, partially in service of their agenda to be a kingdom of priests to the nations (Ex. 19:5–6), there was no limit to how many sojourners could dwell among the people of Israel. We can leave Christian Nationalists and advocates of porous borders—rarely found in the same circles—to decide which party is being inconsistent. For those understanding the role of government along the lines sketched above, however, the manner in which Israel policed idolatry, fornication, and transnational migration is not a controlling factor in understanding contemporary states’ rights and responsibilities regarding admissions. No 21st-century nation-state is Old Testament Israel (including modern “Israel”), nor even a dim approximation thereof.

Another important element baked into the first premise is what David Carens (a non-Christian advocate for open borders) calls bounded justice. As the phrase implies, bounded justice is the idea that with regard to justice—and Christians would add peacekeeping—a government’s primary obligation is to those within its borders or jurisdiction. For many people, this seems so obvious that it’s hardly worth stating. Philosophically, however, things aren’t quite that simple—a perspective we’ll consider more closely in the next post. But nearly everyone agrees that at a certain point, nations should enter the battle for international justice, even when that means violating another state’s sovereignty and suffering national losses (e.g., U.S. involvement in WWII).

While we should admit that Scripture is not a work of political philosophy in the ordinary sense (i.e., Scripture doesn’t tell us what constitutes a legitimate state or how one is formed), its witness to the state’s role in achieving transnational justice is barely a whisper. From the standpoint of the Old Testament, the prospect of transnational justice comes from the Servant who will “bring justice to the nations” (Isa. 42:1) and the coming messianic King who will usher in global peace (Zech. 9:10).

Furthermore, when transnational justice is depicted in the Old Testament, it comes as a result of sin and with the aim of punishment—most memorably toward Israel (e.g., Gen. 15:6; Isa. 10:5–7; Jer. 25:11). Perhaps a very long chain of inferences from Gen. 9:5–6 could eventually conclude something about a state’s obligation to global justice, but it would be a very long chain indeed. The New Testament, on the other hand, is completely silent on transnational justice from the perspective of the governing authorities and their purpose—global peace and justice await the return of the King.

This is not to say that nation-states have no obligation to global justice. Rather, it is to say that these obligations do not flow in any direct way from how Scripture describes the role of the state (as opposed to the obligations of individuals within it—a very different proposition yet to be explored). If this is the case, then Christians should be very hesitant to insist on a state’s obligation to promote and protect justice for those outside its jurisdiction with the same zeal with which it seeks these things for those within it. The relationship of this principle to the entrance claims of would-be migrants should be obvious. Bounded justice, therefore, is not absolute, but from the standpoint of Scripture, it certainly seems primary. Governments should prioritize their people and their jurisdiction.

Before proceeding to the second premise, we should note that nothing in premise one assumes a particular form of government or a particular scope. For the Roman Empire, the obligation to protect and promote peace, order, and justice extended throughout the empire. If there were a single global government today, for example, then a governmental obligation to global justice would be fitting—though it would not constitute “transnational justice” in the way we conceive of it now. Such a government would still be primarily responsible for those under its jurisdiction (and not, say, settlers on Mars), but “its jurisdiction” would include the entire earth.

Indeed, Christians expect something like this in the new heavens and new earth. However, given that we currently find ourselves living within nation-states with independent governing authorities, “Caesar” has become far more local. In the absence of a supranational governmental authority, if we don’t understand the governments of individual nation-states to be the “governing authorities,” then we will find ourselves looking out on a world with no governing authorities at all—a world in which Rom. 13:1–7 has no application. Surely that is the wrong conclusion.

Premise Two

Premise two is much easier to defend. Why might migration be seen as a potential threat to peace, order, or justice? While acknowledging that these threats have often been used as boogeymen to justify apathy and xenophobia (e.g., the reluctance of most states to accept Jewish refugees fleeing Hitler prior to the Final Solution), the following sketch identifies potentially legitimate threats to the peace, order, and justice of a nation-state:

• Physical harm and wickedness
  States have a strong incentive to ensure the violent and lawless are barred from entry to the best of their ability.

• Disease
  If there are good reasons to believe certain migrants pose a significant health threat to a nation-state’s population, that state is justified in limiting their entrance, at least until the threat is diminished or eliminated.

• Lack of space (small countries)
  If a nation-state lacks the geographic capacity necessary to responsibly admit migrants—honoring them as people without dishonoring current members—it is justified in restricting immigration.

• Scarcity of natural resources
  If a nation-state does not have sufficient natural resources to sustain life—like food and clean water—it may prioritize the needs of its own people by limiting the flow of migrants.

• Threats to distributive justice
  If there is good reason to believe that an influx of migrants will meaningfully threaten the distribution of opportunities, goods, and services for a state’s constituents—housing, wages, the labor market—or overwhelm public infrastructure (education, healthcare), a state may restrict admissions to guard against distributive injustice.

• Threats to national solidarity
  National stability requires some kind of unity to form and sustain a “we” that presses forward as a collective. Often this unity is achieved through common narratives, languages, religions, a shared sense of national identity, and/or commitment to particular social and political values (e.g., rule of law, democratic process, First Amendment freedoms in the U.S.).

  • When a nation-state loses a meaningful sense of solidarity, its constituents descend into mutual distrust and suspicion, creating a fragile and vulnerable commonwealth. Sometimes this leads to civil war.

  • If a nation-state has credible reason to believe that admitting certain migrants will meaningfully threaten national solidarity and the resulting peace, it may deny admission to such would-be migrants to protect the long-term health of the commonwealth. This reason is likely the most abused, because—despite its importance—it is the least concrete.

Of course, all of these reasons for restricting immigration can be abused—and have been. Abuse, however, does not undercut appropriate use. The bottom line is that sometimes migration will threaten peace, order, or justice, and when there is good reason to believe it will, states are justified in denying or limiting admissions.

Conclusion

The conclusion of our argument follows from the two premises: sometimes, governments have the responsibility to eliminate and/or limit migration into their jurisdiction.

In this post, I’ve attempted to provide one argument in favor of discretionary admissions from the standpoint of the state. This argument has been based primarily on the role of government as laid out in Scripture and the potential effects of migration. The next post in the series will examine how individuals within a state should view their obligations to those outside it. This will create a healthy tension out of which to draw some principled conclusions about transnational migration in light of the world as it is currently arranged.

Helpful Resources

Joseph Carens, The Ethics of Immigration

David Miller, Strangers in Our Midst

David Miller, National Responsibility and Global Justice

David VanDrunen, Politics After Christendom

Stephen Wolfe, The Case for Christian Nationalism

James Baird, King of Kings: A Reformed Guide to Christian Government

Kristen Heyer, Kinship Across Borders: A Christian Ethic of Immigration (strong Catholic perspective)

In America, well, let’s just say things are moving in the opposite direction.

Carl Trueman recently ruffled feathers in a First Things article when he observed how “Big Eva” (a term he coined years ago to describe an evangelical culture heavily shaped by celebrity pastors and influential conferences) has given way to “Gig Eva”—a world in which anyone with an online platform can potentially be a formative Christian voice.

Being “big time” in Big Eva generally required some kind of credentials, well-established ministry experience or highly regarded publications. In Gig Eva, no such indicators of competence are required. Indeed, Gig Eva is largely dominated by “amateur pastors” and parishioners.

I suspect people have mixed feelings about Gig Eva as an emerging phenomenon within the church. But it’s important to recognize that Gig Eva is just a symptom of a much broader cultural trend—and Trueman briefly nods to this reality.

The shift toward amateurism in culture at large has been slowly growing for at least three decades and shows no sign of slowing down. Celebrity sex tapes, Pornhub, and now OnlyFans trace just one such progression. People have turned away from “professional” news media and commentary in droves, opting instead for the voices of independent publications—or the just the sober-minded “girl or guy next door” giving thoughtful reporting or analysis.

Public health professionals have lost credibility in the wake of their disastrous handling of COVID-19. In their place has arisen a host of online medical, health, and wellness consultants—united less by their wellness expertise than by their hatred of Big Pharma and Robert Fauci. Certified personal trainers now compete with online “fitness influencers” who film their workouts and divulge their best practices for the benefit of their online audiences. Ordinary couples who believe themselves to have exemplary marriages attract massive followings with short-form videos and online courses reserved for those bold enough to type “#savemymarriage” in the comments.

We could go on.

Some of it’s good, some of it’s terrible—but either way, amateurism is an ascendant force to be reckoned with. And it's here to stay.

Why Amateurism Appeals

Regardless of how one feels about the rise of amateurism, it’s important to understand its appeal.

From the standpoint of creating content, the primary reasons are fairly straightforward as I see them: economic opportunity, creative outlet, personal affirmation and the chance to be influential by gaining a following.

Outside of a fawning for personal affirmation, none of these motivations are necessarily problematic. Many content creators are genuinely talented or knowledgeable and know they have something valuable to offer for public consumption. People who film themselves shopping for groceries? Not so much. Having said that, amateur entertainment requiring little to no talent—like watching a good parking lot scrap instead of a UFC fight—has always had wide appeal.

Still, I’d like to focus on why amateurism is so compelling for consumers, not creators. While the sheer amount and diversity of content defy neat classification, amateurism’s appeal can be explained, I believe, by a yearning for two things: trust and authenticity.

Trust

Largely owing to a steady rise in skepticism toward higher education on the political right, amateurs now gain unprecedented public trust because they haven’t been “infected” by universities and their supposed brainwashing agendas. This is especially true in the humanities—STEM fields have fared much better.

Being educated once set a person apart in a positive way. Increasingly, however, a degree is seen as an advertisement for how much exposure one has had to intellectual idiocy disguised as knowledge.

Among many conservatives, not going to college has become a badge of honor—a validation of one’s cognitive purity. It is the uneducated, not the educated, who hold the unpolluted common sense necessary to be the voices of reason in a culture gone mad.

Amateurs are not merely tolerated; they are celebrated.

This intuition is one of the driving forces behind those who see Gig Eva as a welcome development in church culture. The professionals and established ministry folks failed us during COVID-19 and in response to BLM, the thinking goes. We need common-sense voices uncorrupted by seminary-inculcated tendencies to be “nuanced,” “winsome,” and eager to appease the left while policing the right.

This skepticism toward higher education and its products is merely one example of a more general mistrust of “elites.” We also crave non-politicians in politics, for example, so that the “swamp” might finally be drained. We’re not looking for Thomas Jeffersons anymore—bartenders from Manhattan will apparently do just fine.

Amateurs earn initial trust not because of their books, careers, credentials, or IQs, but because they seem pure, passionate, and untouched by institutional defilement.

Another reason amateurs earn trust is their ability to build personal rapport with audiences. This often happens through comment sections, reply videos, and live chats.

One’s chances of personally interacting with Jordan Peterson or Sam Harris are slim. But with John Dixon and Tina Jones? Much higher. Even a simple “like” or short reply can make a follower feel seen.

In a disconnected world, that kind of interaction builds both respect and likeability—two factors tightly linked to persuasiveness. Research confirms that we’re more likely to believe people we like than those we perceive as arrogant, regardless of credentials.

Creators who frequently and personally engage with their base often build trust that goes beyond fandom—it turns audiences into loyal followers, open to being shaped and led.

The importance of trust in understanding the rise of amateurism cannot be overstated, and is only eclipsed by authenticity.

Authenticity

Authenticity is the single most powerful driver of amateur content consumption.

Take pornography, for example (no, I don’t watch it, nor can I remember the last time I saw it—and I have a strong memory).

The rise of amateur porn was made possible by technological developments like home video cameras in the 1980s and, later, smartphones—but the demand for it was driven by the desire to see “authentic” sex.

Playboy and Hustler quickly became irrelevant with the advent of the internet, which then created new demand for professionally produced sex videos. But anyone who’s ever had sex realized those productions were about as realistic as the Titans winning the Super Bowl. The demand began to shift.

The bottom line is that many people are utterly compelled by the prospect of watching sexual interactions between attractive, normal people who could be their neighbors or co-workers. They desire to witness actual sexual performances and thus, what they might realistically hope to experience themselves one day. The IKEA decorations and crooked lampshade in the background scream “authenticity”—and perhaps, achievability—over and against the performances of paid professionals in a studio. The allure of being a fly on the wall watching real people have real sex is tantalizing.

Professional porn hasn’t disappeared, but the giants that have emerged alongside it—Pornhub and, more recently, OnlyFans—cater directly to the craving for “real” sex. According to Semrush, Pornhub ranks as the eighth most-visited site in the world. Moreover, in 2023, “Amateur” was the most searched porn category, accounting for about 70% of all online porn content.

People crave authenticity, and amateurs producing all kinds of content—sexual or otherwise—are perfectly suited to deliver the raw, unpolished and “real.”

Beyond pornography, amateurs are often perceived as free from the agendas that constrain professionals. Unlike those beholden to sponsors, organizations, and PR departments, amateurs are seen as truth-tellers—people with nothing to lose.

They can “keep it real” without fear of HR policies or corporate optics. That freedom gives them credibility and edge. It’s likely not an overstatement to say that authenticity is more appealing to many people than truthfulness. We crave raw expression—even when it’s misguided—because it feels viscerally human.

Experts and professionals, by contrast, often seem neutered by institutional caution. Influencers are obviously not completely free from influence themselves, but at least in their early stages, they’re largely free from the accountability and bureaucratic constraints that make many professionals careful and dull.

Finally, while amateurs may have strong political leanings—and indeed may produce political content—amateurs are not constrained by the political agendas of professional production companies or corporate America. For example, when race relations were the primary topic of social ethics in the wake of George Floyd’s murder and the Black Lives Matter movement, College Gameday (ESPN’s flagship pre-game show on Saturday mornings in the Fall) spent meaningful time discussing racism and how it affected black athletes.

You might think that football pundits aren’t the best candidates to unpack the structure of racism in America, but ESPN decided it had to play their part in the racial dialogue in between talking about quarterbacks and fired coaches. To simply focus on football seemed tone deaf. Other sports talk shows did the same.

Amateur sports commentators, on the other hand, conduct(ed) their analyses under no such burden. They—along with their colleagues in other fields—enjoy the freedom to be unapologetically narrow in their commentary and subject matter analysis. They feel no need to help shepherd the world through social issues or keep the optics politically shiny. For many (most?) people, this is a breath of fresh air.

Amateurism, therefore, frees content creators to be purists—avoiding mission creep— which not only increases their perceived authenticity but also gives their followers exactly what they want (and nothing more).

The Takeaway

There are other reasons amateurs are rising, but the foundational reason flowing out of the last decade or so is a yearning for trust and authenticity. This yearning is coupled with the conviction that amateurs often deliver on these desideratum better than the credentialed or professionals.

You don’t have to like the rise of amateurism—but you should definitely understand its wide appeal. You should also be careful not to throw the baby out with the bathwater in observing the trend—there's plenty to be thankful for. Experts and professionals aren’t going anywhere, but social media has ensured that the unprecedented prominence of amateur influence is here to stay.

May our patience be great and our discernment be sharp.

Regrettably, another application of the spectator imagery is now apropos: very much like electoral politics, the church has become a spectator sport at a national level. Fueled by the internet, social media and dueling factions, millions of Christians simply cannot resist the thrill of keeping up with what’s going on “out there in the church,” especially when controversy is involved.

Moving beyond the sports analogy, it is not inaccurate to suggest that many people are caught up in something akin to evangelical voyeurism. Delighted by observing a whole host of situations that aren’t really our business from behind a veil of pixels, we watch the misfortune and/or ostensible victories of people and organizations with algorithmic consistency. Of course, we feel better about it because at some point someone else made these things public, but we can’t shake the intuition that we were probably not the intended audience.

Have most so-described voyeurs contributed to the circumstances they are eagerly following? No. Do they have a responsibility to engage with what they are witnessing from afar? Almost certainly not. Do they have the ability to contribute solutions on behalf of people they have never met and churches they have never attended? Also no. Are they able to offer the subjects of their hidden gaze personal encouragment, thankfulness or rejoicing? Negative. But that doesn’t matter because the allure of peeking is potent—they still desire to watch the play-by-play from a distance, particularly when things start to get hot. Some people do birdwatching—they do evangelical-church-in-America watching. For many, it really is little more than a hobby, a spectator sport with its ups and downs—good teams and bad—very much like college football.

I should clarify that certain people do have legitimate reasons to be concerned for what is going on in the church more broadly, pastors and leaders of Christian organizations and denominations being clear examples. Furthermore, those who are members of particular denominations obviously have a stake in denominational goings-on. And of course, having a wider picture allows us to widen the scope of our prayers, even if such prayers will inevitably be quite general.

But here is the candid truth: the average Christian would be far better off keeping up with what is going on in their own church—through flesh and blood interactions—and being involved in it than spectating the internet for the next share or comment-worthy evangelical performance.

Of course, sometimes “church news” will be thrust before our eyes. Such exposure is inevitable and unproblematic. But I suppose I genuinely question what fruit comes from monitoring evangelical social media in the same manner that recruiters patrol LinkedIn. I’ve never met a single person who has claimed that their digital oversight of the evangelical church in America has contributed to their peace, joy and general edification or their ability to edify others in turn. Instead, I fear that such digital invigilation is little more than a church-wrapped dopamine snare that agitates as much as it “thrills.”

Over the years, people in our church have asked if I am aware of this or that happening in the larger evangelical church. Often, I am, but sometimes I am not. This has occasionally led to some surprised expressions. But the truth is, even as a pastor, I just don’t have that much interest in what is going on in “the American church” (if such a thing can be coherently described) at large. I have limited time, limited focus and a lot to do—church pulse-taking at the national level doesn’t regularly make it to the top of my priorities. With few exceptions, I simply don’t care what bizarre new thing they are doing out there at Bethel “Church,” the latest moral failure or who spoke at what conference. Do you? If so, why? Again, some have good reasons to care, but most don’t.

As an example, Ligonier recently released their State of Theology 2025, providing a (dismal) theological snapshot of those who profess to be evangelical Christians in America. I read the report and thought: 1) Wow, that’s very sad; I wonder what counts as “evangelical” nowadays and 2) virtually no one in our small (Reformed Baptist) church would provide any of the incorrect answers given in that survey (e.g., 53% of respondents agreed that the Holy Spirit is a force and not a person; 54% of respondents replied they agreed that everyone sins a little but most people are good by nature). Given that I have no ability to influence such people and no responsibility to pastor America, I read the report, asked some clarifying questions about it, sighed, and moved on.

I realize that Ligonier’s report was published research, not the latest “happenings” in American church life. Perhaps Steve Lawson’s very public fall would have been a better example. But my approach to both was more or less identical and represents how I believe most people should engage the events of the evangelisphere: superficially and sparingly. This posture will keep us from the tendency to engage in unhealthy, and potentially participatory, “peeking.” #peeksharing

In contrast to voyeuring the evangelisphere is vigilant localism—and localism, friends, is the way.

Local churches, local associations, local pastors’ fraternals, local communities—that’s where most people should really care about being informed (this includes our local support of international efforts). Our degree of concern for knowing “what’s going on in the church” should drop precipitously outside of our spheres of participation and influence. In other words, our desire to be informed should be delimited by and in proportion to the areas in which we will be most affected and in which we stand to similarly affect others.

For most people, becoming engrossed by the broader evangelical narrative lies somewhere between an odd hobby and utilizing a dopamine machine that causes frequent consternation. And while acknowledging that it isn’t wrong to be concerned about the weather patterns in Vermont as a Floridian, you might think that for most people there is a better way to spend one’s time and direct one’s focus.

Furthermore, in the case of spectating the evangelical church in America on the internet, there is also the real danger (inevitability?) of misperceiving the actual shape of the evangelical church. After all, one more faithful pastor preaching one more faithful sermon to an otherwise ordinary congregation doesn’t light up the socials; it doesn’t excite us. And yet, accurately discerning the shape of the “American evangelical church” without the tens of thousands of mundane pastors, posts and parishioners is a project doomed to certain failure.

And so, while it isn’t necessarily wrong to be curious or aware of evangelical headlines, most of us would benefit from caring quite a bit less about “what’s going on out there” and quite a bit more about what’s happening within our closest associations and partnerships. Proverbs 26:17 says, “Whoever meddles in a quarrel not his own is like one who takes a passing dog by the ears.” It’s fine to notice the dogs that pass by on our social media feeds, but for goodness’ sake—and perhaps even God’s sake—in most cases, we can afford to keep our hands to ourselves.

Christians are not utilitarians—does that mean they shouldn’t take consequences into account in their ethical decision-making? If John finds himself in a situation where his conscience conflicts with a biblical imperative, should he seek to keep his conscience clear or violate it? If Tina learns that coffee is often farmed by human slaves in poor countries, should she stop enjoying her morning cup of joe for fear that she is contributing to wickedness? Should Sam do the right thing if he understands himself to be doing it for the wrong reasons? Does Tori have an obligation to look into whether her pattern of giving homeless people cash hurts rather than helps?

Even on the most reductionist systems (e.g. utilitarianism) the landscape of ethical decision-making is fraught with difficulty. For many Christians, navigating ethical terrain in the run of real life appears even more difficult owing to a host of biblical concepts that clearly govern righteous action: cut and dry obedience to the Bible, maintaining a clear conscience, doing good (and thus understanding consequences), having the right motivations, and so on. What’s more is that sometimes these seem at odds. What is a Christian to do?

What I’d like to do in this post is lay out my long-considered understanding of the hierarchical framework of Christian, ethical decision-making. As in any hierarchy, elements higher up in the hierarchy “trump” elements lower in the hierarchy. This is not to be confused with saying that the Bible offers internally conflicting accounts for righteous decision-making. Instead, it is an acknowledgment that the Bible itself lays out such a hierarchy that is perfectly consistent with itself, so understood.

From our perspective, apparent conflicts only emerge when we get Scripture’s hierarchy wrong or take one element in the hierarchy and operate as though it is the only relevant factor in Christian decision-making. Clarity here will not give us answers to every circumstantial question; it will, however, give us a helpful framework with which to deliberate wisely, which we should all desire as Christians. For ease of reading, I’ve broken the hierarcy down into bullet point format.

Christian Hierarchicalism

Biblical Moral Norms

• The Scriptures are inspired, authoritative and inerrant divine communication. Thus, Scripture is the untrumpable trump and we should seek knowledge of its contents.

• Further, as the product of a divine author capable of transferring meaning through language, the Scriptures are clear in how they lay out the gospel and the framework of moral norms they prescribe, that we might be furnished with everything we need for life and godliness and be equipped unto “every good work” (2 Tim. 3:16).

  • This clarity accounts for the expectation that its readers and hearers will obey and justifies rebuke for not doing so (e.g. Matt. 22:31). This is the doctrine of the clarity of Scripture—there is no corresponding doctrine of the clarity of intuitions or conscience.

• We should obey Scripture even if we don’t want to and even if we have impure or wrong motives (Lk. 9:23; Eph. 4:22-24). This doesn’t mean that angry or despairing obedience isn’t sinful; it is (see below). It means that our internal motivational conflicts or conscience pangs don’t trump Scripture as our ethical lodestar.

  • A woman who stays married even when she doesn’t prefer to, or even if she only does so because she enjoys her husband’s money, is still doing something better than the woman who divorces her spouse because he is boring.

  • The man paying taxes to Caesar with disgust and confusion is doing something better than the man engaged in tax evasion.

• We should obey Scripture even if our conscience tells us differently, because our conscience is not God and is not infallible (see below).

  • Exhortations to keep a clear conscience (e.g. Rom. 14:23) mean “clear” from the standpoint of perceived conflict with God’s moral norms, not “clear” from the standpoint of personal psychology. It isn’t possible to “violate your conscience” in a biblically meaningful way if the “violation” is simply doing what Scripture commands. In that case, the only thing that is being violated is a misconception or wayward desire.

• Finally, those without Scripture still have an awareness of God’s moral law that their conscience uses to accuse and excuse them in their decision-making (Rom. 2:14–16). Thus, while God’s moral norms are most clearly and specifically laid down in Scripture, moral epistemology on the Christian worldview is not confined to biblicism.

Purity of Conscience

• Conscience (Gr. syneidesis) in Scripture refers both to our capacity for moral decision-making and a self-awareness of right and wrong, including awareness if we are in the right or in the wrong (Rom. 2:15). Furthermore, maintaining and acting from a clear conscience is important (e.g. Acts 24:16; Rom. 14:23).

  • Having a “good” conscience (1 Tim. 1:5), therefore, is both a disposition toward living in alignment with our understanding of God’s moral norms and an understanding that we have actually done or are doing so.

• Our consciences are not infallible owing both to sin that can damage and sear them (1 Tim. 4:2; Tit. 1:15) and to wrong beliefs that create moral pseudo-dilemmas in our minds (Rom. 14:14).

• Our decisions flowing from conscience have an asymmetrical relationship with biblical authority: they can never trump what Scripture commands or prohibits, but our conscience can create in us obligations to refrain from doing what Scripture permits (Rom. 14:14, 23).

  • While our consciences often straightforwardly apply biblical norms, they also play a role in applying those norms in particular circumstances about which Scripture has not spoken explicitly. In such cases, we are to follow our consciences such that we are free from self-condemnation (Rom. 14:22).

• In cases where we are unsure of what to do, conscience will often play a “defensive” role by clarifying at the very least what we should not do.

  • This is the role conscience played for many who did not vote at all the 2024 presidential election.

• Conscience trumps motives, intentions, and consequences in the logical order of moral decision-making because purity of motives, intentions or understanding of consequences will almost always determine if we can do something with a clear conscience in the first place (e.g. Heb. 13:8).

  • Thus, motives, intentions, and consequences are explanatorily downstream from God’s revealed moral norms and maintaining a clear conscience because they “look up” to those things as their goals.

• Ultimately, at this stage in the hierarchy, conscience says, “I understand what is right and wrong, good and evil—largely from Scripture—and have a desire to pursue the right and the good and avoid the wrong and the evil.”

Motives and Intentions

• God cares deeply about the heart such that doing otherwise good things for the wrong reasons is still sinful (e.g. Matt. 23). Honoring God with our lips (a good thing) while our hearts are far from him (a bad thing) actually dishonors God (Matt. 15:8).

• Thus, once we enter the circumstantial ground of seeking to honor God’s word through concrete action, we want to ensure that our love flows out of a pure heart, a good conscience, and a sincere faith (1 Tim. 1:5).

• In most cases, this will boil down to our motives and intentions for taking a particular action. We can ask, “Why do I believe that this particular action is an expression of obedience to God’s moral norms?”

• Progressing down through the hierarchy, we might envision someone who understands that 1) God’s authoritative word demands we care for the poor 2) desires to live out God’s word and therefore 3) gives $5 to the homeless man on the corner because they have a desire to help and provide for him and a belief that their $5 will help accomplish that aim.

• Alternatively, we could consider the young boy who 1) intuitively knows that it is wrong to mistreat animals 2) has a desire to do what is right and good by them 3) rescues a fish from drowning by throwing it up onto the beach as an application of 1) and 2).

• This step represents the essence of phrases like “it’s the heart that counts” and represents the meatiest practical element in Christian decision-making.

Consequences

• Undoubtedly, consequences are the most challenging aspect of understanding an action’s moral worth on a Christian framework for at least two reasons.

• First, from an epistemological standpoint, the consequences I might entertain for any given action do not fall cleanly into a single category of certainty (i.e. “certain,” “probable,” “possible,” “unlikely” etc.).

  • It is primarily for this reason that consequences, while important, fall to the bottom of the Christian decision-making hierarchy (not to be confused with what constitutes sin objectively or how bad it is). We simply have less control over, confidence in, and awareness of the consequences of our actions than we do the reasons and intentions for our actions.

  • Scripture seems to suggest that earnestly perceived, specific consequences—not remotely possible or certain, not general or ambiguous—is the category most relevant for our decision-making as far as consequences are concerned. While possibilities are enough to provide prudential reasons for acting (e.g. 2 Sam. 12:22; Prov. 22:3), as far as I am aware, there is not a single example in Scripture where the mere or hypothetical possibility of a negative consequence renders a particular action unwise or sinful.

    • It’s possible, for example, that the taxes Jesus said were to be paid to Caesar by Christians could be understood as funding the gladiatorial games, but that possibility and/or interpretation of paying taxes obviously did not and does not render paying them sinful (Matt. 22:15–22; Rom. 13:7).

    • It’s possible that someone with a weak conscience could have seen a Corinthian Christian buying meat in the market and be scandalized, but Paul says to eat whatever is purchased in the meat market with a clear conscience (1 Cor. 10:25). It’s only when someone sits down with another Christian making claims about the meat being sacrificed to idols that harming someone’s conscience becomes a specific, and confidently perceived consequence of action (10:28).

    • It’s possible that when I take my kids to school tomorrow, I could be distracted by new construction and kill another driver. It doesn’t follow from this possibile consequence that driving is wrong or unwise.

• Second, it is impossible to know all the consequences of my actions living in a world where the flutter of a butterfly’s wing might cause or contribute to a tsunami. And yet, objective consequences—not just known, suspected or intended ones—can sometimes affect the moral worth of my actions.

  • For example, God sent plagues on Pharaoh’s household because of his relations with Abraham’s wife despite being unaware that she was his wife (Gen. 12:17–20). Accidentally hitting a pregnant woman was a serious offense according to the Mosaic law, and if she miscarried as a consequence of being accidentally hit, the consequences were even more serious (Ex. 21:22–25). Hebrews reminds us that the high priest atoned for the unintentional sins of the people (Heb. 9:7; cf. Num. 15:21, “If one person sins unintentionally…”).

    • We could also consider two drunk drivers heading home who both run up on sidewalks. One sidewalk has a pedestrian on it who is struck and killed, while the other driver’s sidewalk has no one on it, and he swerves back into the road and continues home. Despite the fact that both drivers “did” the same thing, the consequences were different, and thus, the moral status of their actions. Consequences matter.

• The relationship of objective consequences to the moral worth of actions suggests that Christians have a responsibility to gradually increase their knowledge of the actual and likely consequences of their actions as they mature in wisdom, just like the young boy saving the fish from drowning must inevitably do. Indeed, while the heart is the focal point, it is not the only thing that counts—we have an obligation to move past sin and foolishness done in ignorance and with good intentions.

  • The woman giving money to homeless people should, out of an abiding and growing concern to help the needy, probably come to realize that throwing cash at poverty often hurts more than it helps. After realizing this very likely (though not certain) consequence, she should take different steps to care for the poor in order to maintain a good conscience.

  • Someone enjoying coffee frequently who becomes aware that coffee is often harvested by those in slavery should, at that point, at least do a Google search about the source of their coffee and the integrity of the supply chain.

  • Someone critiquing capitalism because it drives transnational migration that can have negative effects on sending countries and increase their need to borrow, on the other hand, is not going to have a very compelling argument. The consequences—objective and likely—are not straightforward and the link between cause and effect is vague and unspecific.

• How one grows in their understanding of consequences will in turn reflect how they think about motivations and keeping a clear conscience as they seek to love well and walk in holiness. Furthermore, the question, “What level of confidence is required to consider a potential consequence ‘likely’ as opposed to merely ‘possible’?” and related questions will themselves (likely) be a matter of conscience.

Christian Hierarchicalism

• Biblical moral norms—understanding special and natural revelation

  • A good conscience in applying and desiring to live out those norms

    • Loving and holy intentions driving our particular, concrete efforts at obedience

      • Allowing our understanding of likely, specific consequences to shape our concrete actions with wisdom

        • A responsibility to gradually grow in knowledge of actual and likely consequences of our actions that then filters back up through the framework

Substack ran out of bullet-types. Sorry.

As I mentioned at the beginning, this framework will not give us specific direction in every circumstance. But it does provide a nuanced and helpful progression for thinking about—and growing in—our ethical decision-making, one I'll likely be returning to in subsequent posts.

My reply brings to the surface two related concepts—one explicit, one implied.

The first concept is celebration. Celebration is “the action of marking one’s pleasure at an important event or occasion.” Celebration, therefore, involves knowledge, intent and endorsement. What would it mean to celebrate Halloween?

Halloween: A History

Halloween finds its roots in the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, celebrated on the final day of October, when it was believed that the barrier between the living and the dead was lifted. Druids built bonfires to offer food and animal sacrifices to Celtic deities as they wore costumes made from animal heads and skins and attempted to tell fortunes.

Throughout multiple centuries of Roman rule, beginning in the first half of the first century, two Roman festivals were blended into the celebration of Samhain: Feralia, a day when Romans commemorated the dead, and a day that honored Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees.

In the year 1000, the Catholic Church declared November 2nd All Souls’ Day, a day on which the dead were honored and those in purgatory prayed for. All Souls’ Day was celebrated with Samhain-like bonfires and the donning of “theological costumes” (e.g., saints, angels, demons).

One day prior to All Souls’ Day (November 1st) was declared All Saints’ Day, where the saints of the church were celebrated. “The All Saints’ Day celebration was also called All-Hallows or All-Hallowmas (from Middle English Alholowmesse, meaning All Saints’ Day), and the night before it (October 31st)—the traditional night of Samhain in the Celtic religion—began to be called All-Hallows Eve and, eventually, Halloween.”

Celebrating Halloween?

You could be forgiven for not knowing many of the details surrounding Halloween’s origin and development—I just learned half of them on History.com and summarized them for your great benefit.

But our collective ignorance is instructive, because if celebration requires knowledge, intent and endorsement, it isn’t possible to celebrate something about which we are ignorant, unintentional and therefore incapable of approving. Thus, talk of “celebrating” Halloween outside of a liturgical context is often misguided from the start.

Participation vs. Celebration

But my Halloween retort also implies a second concept: participation. While celebration requires participation, participation does not require celebration—playing in a football game and celebrating the sport are two different things. Further, a defensive back might participate in a play resulting in a touchdown, but they won’t be celebrating in the end zone.

Thinking about participation is important, because participating in and facilitating sin is itself sinful (Rom. 1:32; 2 Jn. 10–11). As such, someone could suggest that participation in Halloween frivolity is wrong even in the absence of celebration—particularly if someone has knowledge of its background.

But the primary challenge for this suggestion (generally expressed in good faith) is the storied history of Halloween itself, which robs it of any objective significance. To see this, we might ask: “What is a door-knocking candy collector dressed up as Spider-Man participating in, exactly?”

A celebration of druid deities? Honoring a Roman goddess? Honoring the lives and legacies of departed Christians a day early? In all likelihood, the answer is none of the above.

In most cases, people are participating in a cultural phenomenon removed as far from its origin story and significance as someone stretching in a yoga class. Halloween has, in other words, been so successively redefined by empire, church, and culture that we only have its latest iteration with which to define and evaluate participation.

This is not to say that the current iteration is immune from problematic forms of participation any more than enjoying Thanksgiving is immune from indulgence and gluttony.

Halloween in 21st-century America is often an evening of very heavy alcohol consumption among adults and is used as a lame excuse by some women for dressing like harlots. Furthermore, certain costumes, symbols and decorations should be avoided by Christians—particularly the demonic and violent.

Finally, there are fringe groups who do, in fact, seek to commune with the dead and summon evil spirits on Halloween. But none of these things define “participating in Halloween” in its current expression; rather, they simply indicate what certain people choose to do on October 31st.

The Issue of Conscience

None of this means that you should have anything to do with Halloween. Perhaps you’ve read what I’ve said and yet there remains a nagging sense that trick-or-treating, costumes, or carving pumpkins is wrong, and you’d just prefer to celebrate the Protestant Reformation on October 31st.

Maybe you are Hispanic and associate Halloween with the Nov. 1st–2nd observance of Día de los Muertos (“Day of the Dead”) and some of its theologically problematic elements. Or perhaps you come out of an occult background where Halloween was indeed a day of incantations and evil, such that to even acknowledge it in any sense seems wicked.

In any case, you should probably abstain from typical Halloween festivities for the sake of a clear conscience before God (Rom. 14:23).

Those of us who are convinced in our own minds (Rom. 14:5) that some Halloween fun isn’t problematic—or even see it as an opportunity for evangelism—should not look down on those with differing convictions. We likely shouldn’t try to persuade them, either, unless they come to us asking genuine questions, keeping in mind that they have a responsibility to refrain from judging us, too (Rom. 14:2-4).

Further, we shouldn’t create environments where people may be tempted to compromise their convictions—like the one time I accidentally forgot to announce that our Halloween party would involve trick-or-treating and put an abstaining family in a very awkward position that immediately resulted in them “re-evaluating” their perspective on Halloween under intense circumstantial pressure.

Regardless, one thing is clear: outside of preparing for All Saints’ Day on the Catholic liturgical calendar, Christians don’t “celebrate” Halloween for the simple reason that there is nothing coherent to celebrate. Nor is there any socially or culturally delineated purpose that objectively gives significance to participating in what Halloween has become.

Those enjoying Halloween fun on October 31st should ask: What am I communicating to whom by my participation in this cultural phenomenon, and do I have a clear conscience about it?

We don’t need another thing to divide over—especially in the church. Halloween should not provide an annual occasion to do just that.

In this introductory post to the series, I’d like to lay out one concept that every Christian seeking to think well about immigration must grapple with before having any justified confidence at the policy level. What we’ll find throughout this series is that passionate advocacy for this or that immigration policy is often conducted on the basis of philosophical and/or theological assumptions that have not been thoroughly examined.

The first question we’ll unpack—but won’t attempt to answer until a subsequent post—concerns the nature of the international community.

How Should We Understand the Structure of the International Community?

At the risk of oversimplifying things, there are, for our purposes, two main, big-tent perspectives on how we should view the international community.

Cosmopolitanism

In this context, cosmopolitanism refers to the perspective that the international community should be understood as a unified group of human beings, all equally entitled to pursue their own flourishing on the singular earth we inhabit. Borders are imaginary lines drawn in the ground (or through water) that arbitrarily divide the earth into chunks we now call nation-states. When sovereign states prohibit movement across these arbitrarily drawn lines, they often hinder human flourishing and perhaps even deny individuals the right they have—as human beings—to inhabit our shared earth.

The fundamental problem of immigration, according to cosmopolitanism, is the presence and regulation of national borders, which often stands as an impediment to human flourishing for those seeking a better life.

Communitarianism

Communitarianism can refer to several concepts in political philosophy, but here it refers to the perspective that sees nation-states as the main actors in the international community. Sometimes (regrettably) called nationalism—a term ripe for misunderstanding and one we’ll avoid—this view holds that, ever since the 1648 Peace of Westphalia and the introduction of state sovereignty, the world has been composed of sovereign, independent, geographically limited, and self-regulating nation-states. The nation-states are part of the United Nations charter and as such, cannot, under ordinary circumstances, interefere with other nation-states.

It hasn’t always been this way. But the days of feudalism, tribalism, city-states and empires are gone, and a one-world order is not on the horizon. A decentralized and fragmented collection of nation-states is our reality.

On a Christian understanding of the state, the governing authorities are responsible for ensuring peace, order, and public justice for those under their jurisdiction. Obviously, this includes regulating who can enter the state in order to protect and promote those ends. Furthermore, as a result of our current international situation, the governing authorities are embodied in the rulers and ruling structure of each nation-state. The fundamental problem of immigration, according to communitarianism, is when (or if) nation-states should allow immigration, and how they can do so in a way that preserves and promotes peace, order and justice for its citizenry.

You can probably see how adopting different positions on this philosophical (and theological) issue places very kind, thoughtful people at dramatically different starting points as they wrestle with immigration policy “further up” in the conversation.

Cosmopolitans will tend to see immigration laws—and the state’s enforcement of them—as contributing to injustice, insofar as borders stand in the way of human beings desperately seeking a better life on a shared planet. At best, border-policing and immigration policies will often been perceived as annoying hurdles to human flourishing. Communitarians, by contrast, will tend to see border-policing and immigration laws as critical to preserving and promoting justice, peace, and order for the citizenry. “How can a government protect its citizens if it doesn’t have a firm handle on who is crossing its borders and why?” says the communitarian. A man policing entry to his home is protecting his family; a state policing entry to its territory is protecting its citizens.

Cosmopolitans will often favor immigration policy driven by a kind of neighbor-love adapted for the state. Communitarians, on the other hand, will argue that the state’s primary imperative is justice, not love or compassion, which are ethical dispositions to be reflected by individuals (including personal compassion toward immigrants, regardless of legality). We are not tasked with doing public justice; the state is not tasked with doing public compassion and mercy, says the communitarian.

Cosmopolitans will likely reject the idea that a state should show significant favoritism toward its own citizens over others, including those living within its jurisdiction or even outside of it within its sphere of influence. Communitarians argue that distinguishing between citizens and non-citizens is an ancient and necessary practice: if governments don’t favor their own citizens, their responsibility to enact justice and maintain good order becomes an empty concept. There must be a stable concept of a “them” for whom justice is being done in the first place.

Finally, cosmopolitans tend to strongly reject the idea that certain cultures are superior to others and worthy of protection from “corruption” by outsiders—viewing such ideas as arrogant and ethnocentric. Communitarians, while supportive of cultural diversity, observe that not all social norms, practices, and traditions equally contribute to human flourishing. Furthermore, they hold that a nation-state can reasonably expect a degree of assimilation from its immigrants without erasing their unique cultural contributions which enrich the fabric of society. Moreover, states may sometimes enact immigration policy that protects the foundational values, norms, practices, and traditions of their citizens when credible threats to internal stability arise.

What Are We to Make of This? Can Political Theology Help?

I believe it can.

In the next post in this series—not to be confused with the next post on this Substack—I’ll argue that Scripture supports an individual and ecclesiological ethic of compassion (the kind that drives cosmopolitanism), but a state ethic of justice (the kind that drives communitarianism) in virtue of which governing authorities possess the right to regulate their borders and immigration for the sake of public justice and good order.

Helpful Resources

Mark Amstutz, Just Immigration: American Policy in Christian Perspective

Matthew Soerens and Jenny Yang, Welcoming the Stranger

M. Daniel Carroll, Christians at the Border

Kristin Heyer, Kinship Across Borders: A Christian Ethic of Immigration

I have in mind a phenomenon that occurs when someone’s views in a contested space are shown to be correct—whether by empirical data, overwhelming consensus, or some other means. That is, I’m talking about something that happens when someone’s views are truly vindicated, often multiple times, and particularly when that vindication comes in spite of scoffers and impassioned adversaries.

What tends to occur is something that might best be described as “muscle memory” or “momentum” toward being right.

Let me explain.

In epistemology, the problem of induction refers to the challenge of predicting the future based on patterns from the past. For example, we believe we’re justified in thinking the sun will rise tomorrow, but when we try to explain why, things get tricky. We initially reason that tomorrow will resemble today because today resembled yesterday. But of course, that simply assumes the very thing we’re trying to justify: that the future will follow the past.

Gallons of ink have been spilled trying to explain why we are justified in believing the future will resemble the past without falling into circularity. I won’t bore you with proposed solutions.

What’s important here is that there is an analogous (though distinct) problem of induction that rears its head when we enter into debate and dialogue.

Perhaps initially someone wades into controversial conversations a bit timidly, wielding a quivering sword (or shield). They’ve quietly held their convictions but have now decided it’s time to speak up. In doing so, they encounter strong opposition, which may lead them to question whether they’ve gotten things right or if they truly know as much as they thought.

But they stick to their guns. Eventually, their claims are validated in one way or another, and a powerful—and natural—feeling of vindication washes over them. So far, so good.

Curiously, however, this psychological effect of vindication does not remain an artifact of the past. Rather, it lingers—even in the absence of a particular target.

Something like the following begins to happen, and it gains strength with each new vindication:

“I was criticized last time for my view of X, and I was right. My defense or critique of Y will probably play out the same way. I won’t make the mistake of doubting myself this time. Time to stick to my guns and await vindication.”

In other words, people who have been right—and it honestly doesn’t take many instances—develop a kind of snowballing, psychological “muscle memory” for being right, often to the point of quietly saying to themselves:

“Remember all those times I’ve been right in contested waters? When the next issue comes along, I’ll probably be right about that, too.”

They come to believe that their pattern of past “victories” will follow them, even into areas unrelated to their earlier vindications.

It’s a kind of momentum—an inertia, if you will.

Winning teams in football expect to win on the field. The “winners” I’m describing expect to be right whenever they develop a strong opinion. After all, that’s what they’ve done in the past—sometimes while being ridiculed by experts and the highly educated. They’ve demonstrated to themselves that they have an edge in truth-perception. Why wouldn’t they stick to their guns?

There’s a lot we could unpack here about the problem of “argumentative induction.” For what it’s worth, I do believe there are principled reasons to think that one’s pattern of grasping truth might (imperfectly) continue into the future—say, due to training in research or critical thinking that provide a skillset for approaching problems more generally.

But my primary concern is this: people who develop muscle memory for vindication often become the least teachable, most uncorrectable and most stubborn individuals in society—and in the church.

Achilles always sneered at the next man up—so do they.

Whatever sense of exploration characterized their initial inquiries is now gone. Anyone who disagrees becomes someone to either educate or eventually dismiss—“agree to disagree” at best.

They barely entertain the possibility that they could be wrong. And if they are, it won’t be you who points it out to them, but someone they believe has cornered the market on truth even more than they have.

To be clear—I’m not talking about people who stick to their guns because they genuinely know more than most in a particular area (or even several). I’m talking about people whose confidence comes from a sense of momentum established by being right in the past.

The reasoning goes: the next time will resemble the last time, because the last time resembled the time before that—hence the snowball effect.

This is a deeply concerning phenomenon for at least two reasons.

1. It threatens our humility.

If we’re not extraordinarily careful, muscle memory for being right will destroy our humility, and we be at risk for developing a superiority complex that borders on embarrassment.

If our resilience in argument is rooted in a pattern of being right across unrelated subjects—not in our ability to actually argue well about the issue at hand—we will struggle to feel the need to truly listen. We don’t need to hear others’ arguments—except, perhaps, to help them understand things better. All we need to know is that it’s us versus them. And “them” looks a lot like those we’ve already triumphed over.

More concretely:
If someone was right about the (very bad) public mismanagement of COVID-19 and was called an idiot, and they were right about the harms of transgender ideology and called a bigot, it is incredibly unlikely that they’ll approach immigration debates with tentativeness once they form an opinion.

But how does being right about immunizations and intersex people translate into confidence on immigration?

Answer: The muscle memory for being right—and the momentum it builds.

Once more, I’m not talking about true polymaths who deep-dive every topic of interest. In a world where reading three significant books on a topic can put you in the top 5% of knowledge on that subject, some genuinely become very well-informed across multiple disciplines. After all, in 2016, the median American read only four books in the entire year—many of which were fiction. This hasn’t changed. (Source). While expertise requires years of high-level study, comparative competence does not, particularly when that competence is informed by said experts.

Even so, most of us are not time-rich, hyper-disciplined, exceptionally talented polymaths. And thus, in many cases, we’re not being driven by mastery—we’re being pushed forward by momentum.

We want to believe our confidence is rooted in a stable foundation: superior cognitive ability, better research habits, deeper discernment etc. And sometimes that may be true.

But that very yearning—even when justified—often betrays our vanity and pride.

Bottom line: Even if we happened to be smarter or more well-read than all our interlocutors, our muscle memory for being right should never determine our confidence. Only our ability to rigorously defend each position on its own terms can play that role.

Failure here will result in us becoming prideful people driven more by being right than getting it right.

2. It makes us unbearable to others.

If we become known as people carried along by the momentum of past vindication, others will ignore us.

They may do so because they don’t want to spar with someone who’s always waiting to coach them up. Or they may give up even when we’re badly wrong, simply because they don’t have the emotional energy to try to convince us we’re mistaken.

It just won’t be worth it.

Being left to ourselves to shout in a vacuum or throw red meat to our yes-men is the wages of being insufferably stubborn and prideful. We should seek to avoid this at all costs for the sake of our own souls and our own worldviews.

So what should we do instead?

1. When we feel momentum from past vindication fueling our confidence, pause and recalibrate. Focus on the issue at hand.

2. Refuse to believe we’ve ever “arrived” at the perfect view. Stay open to correction. Ask good questions.

3. In humility, acknowledge that we all have blind spots—even if we don’t know where they are.

4. Only speak with real confidence when we’ve:

   • Read at least three substantial books or peer-reviewed articles on a topic, and

   • Had in-person conversations with thoughtful dialogue partners, ideally, some of whom know the subject better than we do.

5. Don’t mistake real, comparative competence for genuine expertise—they are not even in the same ballpark.

If we adopt this posture and framework (or something like it), we’ll have everything to gain—and only a dubious, psychological form of justification to lose.

Never has such an innocuous phrase been the subject of such criticism and even outrage. Of course, as you might suspect, it isn’t the phrase itself that has drawn criticism, but how it is deployed in conversation. Taken at face value, “what about” is simply a preface to expressing some kind of concern or another. So, what’s all the fuss?

As far as I can tell, the phrase is used in at least five distinct ways.

‘What about’ Introducing an Aggregate Evaluation

“Charlie Kirk said and did these things, so he was a good person.”
“But what about these other things he said and did?”

When “what about” is used in this way, it serves to contribute information relevant to making an overall, bottom-line assessment. Thus, it introduces a pro or a con, generally to bring balance to a value claim. When making blanket evaluations that involve competing interests and a mix of good and bad, asking “but what about so-and-so” is not only unproblematic—it is inevitable. It merely serves as shorthand for:
“We must take this evidence into account as well in making such an overall value judgment,”
—which no one wants to say or type.

‘What about’ Pointing Out Contrary Evidence or Inconsistency

“Charlie Kirk wasn’t a racist.”
“But what about these comments he made about Ketanji Brown Jackson?”

When “what about” is used this way, it simply prefaces what purports to be incompatible with what someone has just said. Once again, such use is innocuous—and indeed, it is critical—for it amounts to little more than shorthand for:
“What you are saying cannot be correct because of X.”
The entire edifice of argument, therefore, depends on using “what about” in this way.

‘What about’ Asking a Legitimate Question

Despite pretending the form of an interrogative, “what about” is generally not used in polemical contexts to ask questions. However, sometimes it is:

“Charlie Kirk has been assassinated; we should pray for Erika.”
“Well, what about his kids and his parents?”

“The board of Turning Point USA is determined to continue course.”
“But what about their employees?”

Obviously, asking questions is not wrong. Moving on.

‘What about’ as a Diversion

“Charlie Kirk criticized the Civil Rights Act, which is widely regarded as an incredible achievement for civil rights.”
“Well, what about Derrick Bell (the father of critical race theory), who criticized Brown v. Board because he thought it served white interests?”

In this case, “what about” changes the subject and generally does so in some way that is considered to be counterevidence. As such, it often serves to direct focus away from the “man behind the curtain” (we just watched The Wizard of Oz) and simply ignores the import of what someone has said. Such use is obviously problematic. It is particularly problematic when people are trying to present thoughtful arguments and discuss difficult things. People using “what about” in this way simply want to rehearse their talking points and aren’t so much listening as they are waiting to talk. Don’t waste your time with them, and don’t be one of them.

Having said that, we should always remember: context is king. If two people were debating whether only white people would ever dare criticize ostensibly huge advances for the Black community, the “what about” above would then fall into the “contrary evidence or inconsistency” usage.

‘What about’ as a Downplay

“Slavery in the antebellum South was an utter abomination.”
“But what about masters who taught their slaves how to read and shared the Gospel with them?”

Those tempted to use “what about” in this way would do well to remember Proverbs 27:14:
“Whoever blesses his neighbor with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, will be counted as cursing.”
True things—even good things—spoken at the wrong time amount to foolish action. In this case, someone is drawing attention to something good in a way that downplays the seriousness of something bad. This remains the case even if they are ignorant of the effect of their speech—someone screaming blessings in the morning with the best of intentions is still doing something that counts as cursing.

Let’s be honest: some people use “what about” in this way simply because they are conversationally awkward and don’t know how to read a room. That awkwardness is exacerbated in the crucible of charged discussion. But many others use it for reasons similar to the diversion usage above: they have their talking points and are simply waiting to deliver. They have no real interest in good-faith discussion and would prefer to joust than reason together.

What’s the takeaway?

The takeaway is that instead of having apoplectic, knee-jerk reactions to a two-word phrase, people—and Christians in particular—should instead listen carefully to how the phrase is being used, rather than assuming the role of vocabulary police.

Those who have been discipled by a mindless culture to shout “Foul!” every time they hear a phrase are actually contributing to the breakdown of communication, not fostering healthy dialogue.

This frustration notwithstanding, we should likely aim a bit higher than introducing our responses with “what about”—not only to avoid premature, dismissal and misunderstanding, but also because the vibe it brings is closer to what one would expect of an opaque, middle school essay than a mature conversation. We need less of the former, and more of the latter.

As such, I provide the highlights of each view in bullet point form and without scriptural citations. Of course, more could be said of each.

Christian Establishmentarianism – A denominational state church

• The head of state is also, in some way, the head of the church
  (e.g., King Charles III is the Supreme Governor of the Church of England; the Archbishop of Canterbury is the chief cleric)

• The state church is a specific denomination—it does not promote “mere Christianity”
  (e.g., the Evangelical-Lutheran Church is the state church of Denmark)

• At least at a formal level, there is no clear separation of church and state

• The state may fund the church or promote denominational teaching in public schools
  (e.g., instruction in Catholicism is required in all state schools of Malta, though students can opt out)

• In certain cases, the magistrate may enter into ecclesiastical disputes and controversies

• Does not necessarily entail restrictions on religious liberty, nor does it require particularly Christian legislation
  (e.g., England and Denmark both enjoy robust religious liberty and have no distinctively Christian laws—e.g., legislation regarding false worship)

Christian Nationalism – A Christian legislative state

• A state that explicitly acknowledges a Christian foundation, despite (in most formulations) being non-denominational, with something like the Apostles’ Creed at the core of its constitution

• Facilitates and encourages the development of particularly Christian legislation
  (e.g., outlawing fornication and public worship of other gods) enforced through coercive means—fines, imprisonment, or the death penalty

• In its mature expression, political officeholders must be professing Christians

  • Non-Christians have no chance of fulfilling the divinely intended purpose of government: to administer biblical righteousness and justice

• The state has no authority over denominations or congregations, but does have authority to determine whether an ecclesiastical body qualifies as genuinely Christian for certain purposes (e.g., electoral politics)
  (e.g., Bethel Church members would not be eligible to hold political office)

Christian Structuralism – A state informed and limited by a Christian theology of civil government

• Like Christian nationalism and establishmentarianism, the state is seen as a divinely ordained minister of public justice, protecting and promoting peace, order, and the common good

  • The state’s authority and legal monopoly on coercive force is not derived from institutional monarchy or social contracts

    • At most, such arrangements help us identify states from other hierarchical structures (e.g., families, school systems, criminal syndicates) but do not confer legitimacy on the institution itself

• Holds that punishing ‘crimes against God’ (i.e., crimes without social injustice—such as fornication or blasphemy) is outside the state’s purview according to Scripture

  • Such sins await either future judgment or forgiveness through the justice achieved by the cross of Christ

• Acknowledges entrenched value pluralism and seeks to pass legislation that enjoys religiously overlapping consensus (e.g., murder, rape, and bearing false witness in court are illegal) through public reason and a politics of moral engagement

  • Entrenched value pluralism: People deeply disagree about what constitutes the ‘right’ and the ‘good’, and that disagreement—contra postmillennialism—isn’t going away

  • Religiously overlapping consensus: There is no neutral ground. “Do not murder” isn’t neutral; it’s religiously or worldview-popular

  • Public reason: Reasoning that does not appeal to uniquely Christian principles and thus, does not prematurely shutdown conversation with non-Christians

    • E.g., “Pornography is wrong because it demeans women and facilitates human trafficking” vs. “Pornography is wrong because it induces lust, which the Bible condemns.”

  • Politics of moral engagement: Politicians should openly defend the ethical foundations of their legislation to avoid fruitless, “ships-passing-in-the-night” dialogue

• Legislators are not encouraged to abandon their worldview in the legislative process

  • When no religously overlapping consensus can be found (e.g., abortion), legislators should advocate for the law that best represents their own value system (or perhaps that of their constituents). No one is to pretend worldview neutrality

Summary and Contrasts

• The “Christian” element of each model is different, but all can be considered robustly Christian in contrast to secular models:

  • In Christian establishmentarianism, the state is denominationally Christian by formal constitution, a titular (if not robust) state head and possibly, denominational public norms (e.g., Catholic education in Malta, historical infant baptism)

  • In Christian nationalism, the state is Christian primarily because it passes and enforces Christian legislation (e.g., outlawing fornication and/or public blasphemy) in order to develop and nurture a Christian society

  • In Christian structuralism, the state is Christian because it does what Christian Scripture prescribes—and no more (e.g., it does not legislate against ‘crimes against God’ in which no communal injustice is involved). The state is Christian in virtue of its operational structure

• In the American idiom, Christian establishmentarianism actually allows more First Amendment rights—particularly freedom of religion, speech, and press—than a Christian legislative state

  • Historically, the church has often been wed to the state in some form, even in the absence of First Amendment rights

• Among other reasons, Christian structuralism objects to Christian nationalism, holding that the latter is unbiblical because it misunderstands the scope of state authority according to Scripture

• Among other reasons, Christian nationalism objects to Christian structuralism, holding that the latter is theologically and ethically confused on account of believing that certain sins bring about societal injustice while others do not. There are no private sins, says the Christian nationalist—they all, at one level or another, harm others and contribute to injustice and collective unrighteousness (Gr. adikia)

• Christian nationalism as a political theology is not wed to race or ‘whiteness’

• None of the three models suggest that legislators—or voters—should pretend worldview neutrality, which is, in fact, impossible

Conclusion

There you have it: the three dominant views of the Christian state in recent history. Despite their overlap, all are “Christian” in different ways.

Which is correct? Is there a singular, “correct” model, or is the model for which Christians should advocate a matter of historical and circumstantial wisdom? Has word count betrayed my convictions?

These are fine questions, which I hope to address in the future.

But understanding the lay of the land in Christian political theology should help Christians pump the brakes on pretending that only one model of the state is viable for serious believers. Indeed, church history, in conjunction with Scripture, has not left us with political parochialism as an option.

Our goal here is to briefly examine the following claim:

“Inequalities correlated with race are best explained by the biased nature of the systems within our society, and any measure or institution that produces or sustains racial inequality is racist.”

We’ll examine this compound claim in rapid-fire fashion through a succient series of examples. Our conclusion will be that regardless of one’s view of systemic racism in America, systemic racism can’t be established simply by pointing to inequalities correlated with race or to otherwise neutral institutions that perpetuate those inequalities.

Marriage

The institution of marriage is one of the strongest bulwarks against poverty in society. It combines two incomes, provides tax benefits, fosters existential motivation for hard work, and helps build generational wealth. In 2019, the U.S. Census Bureau reported that married householders under 35 had a median net worth 9.2 times higher than unmarried men and 3.1 times higher than unmarried women.[1]

However, the same Census data shows that as of 2021, nearly 54% of the White population was married, compared to just 31.2% of the Black population.[2] In fact, Black Americans are the least married racial group in the U.S. If institutions that promote or sustain racial wealth gaps are racist, then marriage itself is a racist institution—dismantling marriage would significantly help even things out.

Democracy

While the U.S. is a constitutional republic rather than a direct democracy, we still operate within a democratic framework in which the will of the majority is more or less reflected—indirectly but genuinely—in public policy.

Because White Americans make up roughly 60% of the population, a democratic system inevitably grants them more influence and power. On the understanding of racism under consideration, then, democracy itself is a racist form of government (at least in 21st century America).

Capitalism

For similar reasons, capitalism becomes suspect. Since White Americans are the majority, allowing the free market to distribute goods and resources means that Whites will disproportionately shape and benefit from economic outcomes—there are more Whites and collectively, they have more money. On the understanding of racism under consideration, capitalism is a racist economic system (again, at least here and now).

Private Property

The existence of private property allows individuals to accumulate and retain both liquid and non-liquid assets far beyond what is necessary to live. In 2022, the median wealth of White households was around $284,310, while the median wealth of Black households was approximately $44,100.[3] Property laws help sustain income inequality that often correlates with race—inequality that would be drastically reduced if private property were abolished. On the understanding of racism under consideration, private property laws are racist.

Abolishing Capital Gains Tax

Because White Americans have more money invested in the stock market than Black Americans, reducing or eliminating capital gains tax across the board would disproportionately benefit Whites. By the logic we’re examining, such a policy would be racist (this is precisely the argument made by Ibram Kendi[4]).

The NBA

In the 2022–2023 season, approximately 70% of NBA players were Black, despite Black Americans making up just over 14% of the population—a staggering disparity.[5] Should we conclude that the NBA's player-selection system discriminates against non-Black hoopers? What else could explain such a disparity?

NFL Kickers

In 2023, 53.5% of the NFL was Black. However, 95% of the kickers were White! Should we conclude that those responsible for drafting kickers—or the established practices for doing so—discriminate against black athletes? What else could explain such a disparity?

Indian American Incomes

In 2019, Indian Americans, despite representing about 1.5% of the population, had a median family income of $133,130 (among those aged 25 to 55)—far above the White median of $86,400.[6] Should we conclude that, despite regular discrimination against them,[7] US society is structured to favor Indian Americans over Whites, Blacks and Hispanics?

Police Shootings

In 2024, police shot men at 20 times the rate of women.[8] Should we conclude that police departments and practices are systematically sexist? If not, should we conclude that police departments are systematically racist solely on the basis of racial disparities in the use of lethal force? Perhaps there is more to the story.

To be clear, these points do not demonstrate the absence of systemic racism; rather, they demonstrate that in order to be taken seriously, claims of systemic racism cannot be established simply by pointing to racial inequalities and the otherwise neutral structures that allow them to persist. Patterned inequalities do not by themselves entail corruption. We should not dismiss the possibility that racism still exists in our societal structures. Where we find it, we should oppose it and seek justice for those affected by it. But we should not assume that it lurks like a ghost under every societal rock and tree on the basis of facile, one-note explanations and knee-jerk reactions enslaved by the cultural zeitgeist.

To do so is to stop thinking seriously—something we simply cannot afford to do.

Endnotes

[1] https://fraser.stlouisfed.org/title/balance-6274/fewer-young-adults-wed-married-couples-wealth-surpasses-others-600901

[2] https://jbhe.com/2022/11/the-significant-racial-gap-in-marriage-rates-in-the-united-states/#:~:text=GapResearch%20&%20Studies-,The%20Significant%20Racial%20Gap%20in%20Marriage%20Rates%20in%20the%20United,be%20a%20widow%20or%20widower

[3] https://ncrc.org/the-racial-wealth-gap-1992-to-2022/#:~:text=In%202022%2C%20the%20median%20White%20household%20held,households%20have%20a%20wealth%20gap%20of%2078%25.

[4] https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/ibram-x-kendi-wants-to-redefine-racism/id1081584611?i=1000452609664

[5] https://www.espn.com/nba/story/_/id/38156961/nba-grade-racial-gender-hiring-practices

[6] https://www.deseret.com/opinion/2021/12/16/22838432/is-the-american-dream-dead-not-for-indian-americans-parag-agrawal-sundar-pichai-marriage-tech/

[7] https://carnegieendowment.org/research/2021/06/social-realities-of-indian-americans-results-from-the-2020-indian-american-attitudes-survey?lang=en

[8] https://www.statista.com/statistics/585149/people-shot-to-death-by-us-police-by-gender/

The letters demonstrate Screwtape’s penetrating insight into the human condition, highlighting the many ways in which we are tempted, distracted, self-deceived, puffed up, and so on. Wormwood is encouraged to exploit these tendencies as he works to influence his patient unto damnation to the best of his ability.

So, what’s the problem?

Having just preached on Ephesians 6:10–20, I was struck afresh by just how many popular-level misunderstandings exist about Satan and demons. Many Christians, for example, believe that Satan is omnipresent (i.e., present everywhere, like God), when in fact, he is not (cf. Job 1:6–7). He prowls about like a lion looking to devour because he isn’t omnipresent and has to “move around” in some manner or another (1 Pet. 5:8).

Many Christians also believe that Satan is omniscient (i.e., all-knowing, also like God), or at the very least, that he can read our minds. This is also not true. In the case of Job, Satan not only fails to “see” what is in Job’s heart but also makes an inaccurate prediction about Job’s behavior as a result (cf. Job 1:8–22).

Yes, Satan clearly understands human weakness and how circumstances can lead someone to sin or despair—but so do we! If asked to construct a scenario that would lead someone into despair and cursing God, we could all arrange something awful, even if we lacked the power to pull it off.

Ephesians 6 suggests that our struggle is not primarily against Satan as an individual agent, but rather against a formidable host of dark, demonic, spiritual entities that work according to the devil’s schemes (Eph. 6:11–12). And here is where my concern with The Screwtape Letters can be stated succinctly: I’m afraid it leads readers—even careful ones—to believe that demons can know and manipulate our thoughts, and perhaps even our wills, in accordance with the devil’s schemes.

The Screwtape Letters is great anthropology, but poor demonology. It insightfully observes the manifold frailty of the human condition, but it fancifully constructs the mechanics of demonic temptation. It could just as well have been titled Letters to the Flesh, in which a personified sinful nature is advised on how to wreck a person’s life and soul.

We should take Lewis’s insights into our sinful tendencies seriously. But beyond reminding us of the reality of an unseen demonic world at work (no small reminder), the book doesn’t provide helpful insight into how demons actually operate.

My aim here is not to be sensationalistic in critiquing a classic. But if demons operate by implanting or removing thoughts from our minds and interfering with our wills, then Christians are genuinely victims of something indistinguishable from either a mild form of possession or Manchurian Candidate-like manipulation. Either way, our understanding of moral responsibility would change dramatically. Was it my sinful desires—my flesh—that led to those lustful musings, or was I the hapless victim of demonic interference? Perhaps the Devil really did “make me do it” after all.

A handful of quotes from the first eight chapters will suffice to demonstrate the concern:

“I once had a patient, a sound atheist, who used to read in the British Museum. One day, as he sat reading, I saw a train of thought in his mind beginning to go the wrong way.” —Chapter 1

“Make his mind flit to and fro between an expression like ‘the body of Christ’ and the actual faces in the next pew.” —Chapter 2

“It is, no doubt, impossible to prevent his praying for his mother, but we have means of rendering the prayers innocuous. Make sure that they are always very ‘spiritual,’ that he is always concerned with the state of her soul and never with her rheumatism.” —Chapter 3

“Whenever they are attending to the Enemy Himself we are defeated, but there are ways of preventing them from doing so. The simplest is to turn their gaze away from Him towards themselves.” —Chapter 4 (cf. Prov. 4:25)

“If any faint suspicion of your existence begins to arise in his mind, suggest to him a picture of something in red tights, and persuade him that since he cannot believe in that (it is an old textbook method of confusing them), he therefore cannot believe in you.” —Chapter 7

“We can drag our patients along by continual tempting, because we design them only for the table, and the more their will is interfered with the better. He cannot ‘tempt’ to virtue as we do to vice.” —Chapter 8

To be candid: if someone in my congregation approached me and asked, “Pastor, how do I stop the demons from making me go back and forth between concepts and people here at church?” I would be concerned. If someone told me they were putting on the “helmet of salvation” so that demons couldn’t read their thoughts, I would be concerned. If someone believed demons were interfering with their prayer life by making them pray for the wrong things, I would be concerned. If someone claimed they were fighting demonic persuasion and mental images about how to conceive of biblical characters, I would be concerned. And if someone said they were striving for holiness, but demons kept interfering with their will, I would be very concerned. Most importantly for our purposes, these are tensions that are very reasonable for someone who has imbibed the demonology of The Screwtape Letters—alternate interpretations of the passages in question do not alleviate the pastoral concern.

Scripture does not lay out precisely how demons influence individuals, but it gives us enough material to make some very strong inferences about how they do not.

For example, Satan is the father of lies (John 8:44) and often works through deception (Rev. 12:9). But his greatest deception in Eden didn’t involve internal interference in the minds or will of Adam and Eve. Instead, through speech, he attacked God’s word and questioned His goodness (Gen. 3:4–5).

In the case of Job, Satan’s job would have been much easier if he could have simply read Job’s mind, implanted falsehoods, and interfered with his will to curse God. All of this would have fit comfortably within the initial parameters of not touching Job's flesh (Job 1:12). Of course, that isn't what Satan does. As it turns out, Job is explicitly pressured to curse God—but that pressure comes from his wife (Job 2:9). It is plausible that Satan understood Job’s wife well enough to know that her husband's suffering would elicit the kind of counsel that would advance his agenda (1:11).

The temptation of Christ shows more of the same. Satan recognizes that Jesus is hungry, humiliated, and facing a path of suffering—and offers “solutions” to each plight (Matt. 4:1–11).

We see demonic possession throughout the Gospels and a few times in Acts, but The Screwtape Letters is not dealing with possession or the occult. Noteworthy, however, is Jesus’ announcement to Peter that Satan has asked to sift the disciples like wheat (Luke 22:31). Jesus doesn’t say He denied Satan’s request. Instead, He prays for Peter’s faith—that after his denial, he would turn and strengthen his brothers (v. 32).

In the epistles, demonic influence appears through “the teaching of demons” (1 Tim. 4:1), “wisdom” that is “earthly, unspiritual, and demonic” (Jas. 3:15), and pagan religion (1 Cor. 10:20). As we stand against the devil’s schemes, we are told to put on the “full armor of God,” which begins and ends with truth—truth about ourselves, God and the world (Eph. 6:14, 17).

Satanic influence works in a particular way in the lives of unbelievers (Eph. 2:1–2), especially in keeping them from seeing the truth of the Gospel (2 Cor. 4:4). Yet even here, it seems that the “course of this world” (Eph. 2:2) and the spirit of the age (Rom. 12:2; Gr. aióni) provide the primary means of influence. Even the satanically energized “man of lawlessness” influences people through signs, wonders, and deception—not mind invasion (2 Thess. 2:9–10).

Believers, by contrast, are given a far better hope than the demonic equivalent of a guardian angel: “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you” (Jas. 4:7).

In light of all this, it seems very plausible to reason as follows: Possession aside, if Satan and the man of lawlessness do not rely on mind invasion or will-tampering at the most critical moments of their agenda, it is unlikely that “regular” demons do so in the course of tempting Todd Jones and Susan Smith. To suggest otherwise is to ascribe more power to lesser beings in less momentous circumstances.

The practical takeaway is significant: While demons may externally affect us (including, in some cases, our bodies), we are completely responsible for our sinful musings, desires, and actions (Jas. 1:14–15).

Not only is it unbiblical to blame our sinful patterns of thought and behavior on demonic mind-infiltration, it’s also unworkable in the process of sanctification. For how is one to distinguish between sin from the flesh and sin from demonic interference? Outside of strange occurrences—or perhaps vague feelings—it’s difficult to say.

And perhaps that’s why preparing ourselves to struggle against the forces of darkness looks so much like the meat and potatoes of the Christian life (Eph. 6:10–18): truth, righteous living, the hope of salvation, faith, Gospel readiness, the Word of God and prayer. We might otherwise expect to be arming ourselves with holy water, crucifixes, and prayers resembling incantations.

If The Screwtape Letters were an obscure work, this critique would be little more than sensationalism. But in reality, there are people who have “learned” more about how demons work from Lewis than from the Bible. I know them. You probably do, too. That's because the book genuinely is must-read material.

But regardless of whether Lewis himself believed demons operated this way—perhaps he simply enjoyed the literary framework—the book purports to provide insight into the mechanics of demonic temptation, not merely human nature. It isn’t Letters to the Flesh.1 Accordingly, it is open to precise criticism in this area in a way that does not throw the baby out with the bathwater.

In a world that seeks to disenchant everything, we should appreciate that Lewis draws our attention to the realities of spiritual warfare and offers wise observations about our sinful nature, that we might “guard our hearts with all vigilance” (Prov. 4:23).

But we should read The Screwtape Letters primarily to learn more about ourselves—not about the nature of demonic influence.

Fast forward to COVID-19, Donald Trump’s first election cycle, and the murder of George Floyd. In the wake of these events, a context emerged that was, frankly, quite hostile to responsible belief formation. People were forced to quickly develop views on a whole host of complicated issues stemming from critical race theory and the ethics of resistance to the justice of quarantines, the power dynamics of language and a theology of state authority. In many cases, failure to have views on these issues risked creating the appearance that one was either unintelligent or morally compromised (and perhaps both).

The result was scores of people (even very intelligent ones) holding beliefs that they had no business holding but felt pressured to hold anyway—they had violated Clifford’s Principle for the sake of belonging, self-image, and cultural combat. Asking questions, thinking slowly, and trying to “be nuanced” were simply not conducive to the pace of battle. Furthermore, staying up to date with the latest occurrences and breaking news never felt more necessary, and those refusing to drink from the firehose were simply left in the dust.

While that cultural moment is now behind us, the hostile context for belief formation that it created has endured. And while there are philosophical conversations to be had about belief formation, the weightier concerns are more practical: people who feel they must have justified beliefs about all “the issues” often end up exhausted, bewildered, and anxious from information overload, intellectual strain, and a sea of dissident voices. Let’s take each in turn.

Information Overload

Over the last ten years, news has seen a remarkable shift to social media platforms, which far outpace traditional news sources both in scope and speed. Some have embraced this change with sober-mindedness. For others, instant access to new information and the thrill of being on the cutting edge has become a kind of informational pornography that preys on their dopamine receptors. For others still, the sheer volume of what is ostensibly required to be informed has become a crushing burden. “Thrilling” or not, the thought that being informed requires being aware of the latest executive order, the latest tragedy, the latest international conflict, the latest march, the latest SCOTUS ruling, the latest church scandal and the latest research on Tylenol’s relationship to autism is a daunting one indeed.

Just how much news one should be processing is a matter of self-awareness and wisdom, but I suspect that the vast majority of people should be consuming less than they are. Sure, there will always be those with more time and more processing capacity, and for them, we can be thankful. But I believe most of us would benefit tremendously from pushing back against the information storm by allowing ourselves to be more ignorant about things that do not meaningfully affect us and that we have no ability to influence. The parts of our news consumption that amount to little more than a spectator sport need to either disappear or, in most cases, be reduced to footnotes where we are content to be only superficially aware.

We need to make “I don’t know” and “I wasn’t aware” extremely common parlance for the sake of our sanity and souls. For many, this will require getting off social media. For everyone, it will require answering the question, “Why do I feel like I need to have a solid grasp on X?” And for many (but certainly not all), that answer will be, “Because I want to be able to talk about what’s going on.” And that, in so many words, is the very problem. In the absence of omniscience and unlimited time, we will need to intentionally and wisely pick our areas of ignorance. We’ll be better off for it—qualified ignorance will pay far larger dividends than mere bliss.

Intellectual Strain

If information overload is about raw material, intellectual strain is about evaluating and analyzing the raw material—causes, solutions, moral status, and so on. While very few people would even begin to analyze a mathematical theorem or feel qualified to disagree with David McCullough about the life of John Adams, analysis of “the issues” is a free-for-all where everyone feels that their chance of “getting at the truth” is about as good as anyone else’s.

It isn’t.

Let’s be honest: most of us are simply not qualified to have firm views on complex and multi-layered social, political, philosophical and economic issues. And virtually no one is qualified to have confident views in all those areas. The fact that many people do so anyway, and that the answers aren’t “in the back of the book” to provide decisive refutation of those in error, creates the illusion that this is something we can do—and that we should be able to do if we aren’t stupid.

While information overload comes from without, the crisis of intellectual strain comes from within: we feel the drain on our mental energy required to process complex problems while simultaneously hoping that we have enough cognitive stock to do more than spin our wheels and pretend. We are existentially haunted by the fact that maybe certain things are just beyond our ability to reason about well. And we quietly entertain what that might mean for our intelligence, which we closely tie to our own sense of self-worth. We simply cannot afford to have anyone believe that we are less than intellectually talented. Average is failure.

It isn’t difficult to see where this leads: exhaustion, discouragement, and anxiety. Thankfully, the antidote is simple, despite being difficult. First, we must embrace humility in understanding the processing power we have relative to our backgrounds and natural intellectual abilities. Second, we need to know our strengths and stay in our lanes when it comes to being confident—narrow but deep is the way. Third, where pride and fear of man have resulted in us making intelligence a marker of self-worth and importance, we need to repent.

Dissident Voices

This is the simplest of the three. Listening to people bicker and passionately disagree—particularly when they are doing little more than broadcasting their own ignorance—is exhausting. Anyone who has listened to two children continuously argue will immediately resonate with the point. Social media calls us into a digital coliseum shouting over both the facts and their analysis. Unfortunately, there is no “filter” to silence opinions and just seek news when the news occurs in a feed alongside a host of “friends.” Often, these dissident voices will only contribute to our confusion and bewilderment, particularly when they are friends and family. We just want to be done with it all but realize that we “can’t afford” to have anything other than well-formed opinions on all the popular talking points. It’s all just exhausting.

Taking Action

Most fundamentally, we must resist the urge to hold beliefs that we have no business holding simply because we are expected to do so. Whether it comes from our workplaces, churches, families, schools, or social media, we must push back on the pressure to be impostors. Remember, more than intellectual honesty is at stake—failure here will leave us bewildered, anxious, and exhausted. Resistance will look different for each person. Some will need to close their social media accounts and get their news from subscription sources. Most people, I suspect, should read less news in general and come to terms with the many areas in which they can afford to have only superficial awareness. Others need to have a reality check about their analytical competence and be reminded that the desire to be perceived—and to perceive ourselves—as intellectually talented stems from pride and insecurity. Still others need to do their best to clean up their social media feeds and mute barking voices and bickering.

Bring back, “I didn’t hear that.” Bring back, “That sounds tough—my focus has been on other things.” Bring back, “I have no idea.” Bring back, “I’ve been too busy with life to keep up with that.” Bring back, “I don’t make a huge effort to be informed about that.” Bring back, “That’s over my head.” Bring back, “I heard X, but I'm not confident that's accurate.” If they were ever great, let’s make statements like these great again.

All of who we are will be better for it.

When George Floyd was murdered by Derek Chauvin in the summer of 2020, the country was cast into a full-blown war over the nature, structure, and pervasiveness of racism in 21st-century America. Spearheaded by the Black Lives Matter movement and fueled by national media attention, it seemed no one could avoid having an opinion on a host of radioactive claims about race—so much so that not having a vocal opinion—or not having one at all—was its own kind of social sin (“Silence is violence!”).

Not since the Civil Rights Movement had race relations been this much at the forefront of the national consciousness. As a result, the church was forced to respond (as it has throughout church history), and it did so, unsurprisingly, without a singular “Christian” perspective. In the course of this response, however, something very interesting occurred across the evangelical church: many who were influenced by the “Gospel-centered” movement of the prior 15 or so years entered the unfamiliar space of arguing passionately about issues not directly related to the Gospel itself (or revisiting that long-abandoned turf).

The Gospel-Centered Movement—Fruit and Failure

The Gospel-centered movement announced a salutary call to reconsider how the Gospel informed every area of Christian activity—from parenting to education to finances and, of course, church life. It bridged the gap from theology to practice in ways that many had never considered and encouraged looking at all of life through a Gospel lens. But for all its good—and there was a lot of it—it didn’t deliver on the “all of life” part and instead morphed into something that felt closer to the “spiritual-things only” movement.

Save the issue of abortion, social and political aspects of the Christian life were downplayed, being perceived as threats to unity at best and distractions from Christ and evangelism at worst. Christians could have opinions about “the issues,” sure, but they were to hold them loosely and not make them a point of focus.

The functional downplaying of social and political aspects of the Christian life was initially received as a breath of fresh air for those repulsed by the very public marriage between the church and the Republican Party that characterized much of the ’80s and ’90s (e.g., Jerry Falwell and the Moral Majority). The call to see churches united around Christ as opposed to a candidate was inspiring and on the right track. And the movement made many needed corrections of emphasis—but at a cost: the severe atrophy of certain philosophical and theological muscles in the church that were immediately called upon to lift heavy weight the moment Derek Chauvin was done applying his own to the back of George Floyd’s neck.

A Missing Discipline

The result was absolute chaos—a chaos only exacerbated by social media, where people who had not read a book since high school stood ready to help others “understand” the dangers of deconstructionist thought and Marxian power dynamics. Many evangelicals could name prominent Protestant pastors, and some could name a contemporary theologian or two—perhaps even a few apologists. But even those who could list ten pastors and twenty theologians had trouble naming a single Protestant authority on social and political theology or philosophy. It’s not that they didn’t exist, but they simply weren’t great in number or well known, even among many of the most bookish and theologically well-informed. Al Mohler and the SBC’s Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission were about as high as the ceiling rose.

Throughout this period, I remember routinely asking pastors if they had taken a single course in social or political philosophy, political theology, or public thought in seminary, and the overwhelming answer was, “No.” Despite having a degree in philosophy, my seminary experience didn’t include such training either. Furthermore, I discovered that the trend was not limited to pastors who attended seminary during the Gospel-centered movement but extended to pastors who attended seminary decades before. Thus, while this lacuna in evangelical thought was highlighted by the events of 2020 and following, it would be a mistake of oversimplification to blame the Gospel-centered movement for creating a problem that it only amplified.

2025

We’re now just over five years since Floyd, and to say things have changed in the national landscape would be a seismic understatement. Not only has Black Lives Matter been all but forgotten, but DEI initiatives are in rapid decline. Additionally, on some fronts, the LGBTQIA+ crowd is experiencing more problems than running out of letters, like the NCAA’s February rule change prohibiting biological men from competing in women’s sports. Roe v. Wade has been overturned. Evangelical publications on social and political issues have surged (a mixed bag, but progress nevertheless). There’s a lot for which to be thankful.

And yet, there is also a lot of work to do. Protestant social teaching is still light-years behind Catholic social thought and its current stars (e.g., Robert George at Princeton, Ryan Anderson, author of When Harry Became Sally, the book “banned by Amazon,” Sherif Girgis at Notre Dame et al.), and many of the Protestant heavyweights aren’t evangelical (e.g., Stanley Hauerwas). Many seminaries have begun to offer electives in public thought, but it would serve seminarians far better to have such classes included as part of the required core and leave “Introduction to Evangelism” to the local church.

Finally, because pastoral teaching flows downstream from scholarship, publications, and seminaries, much of the sharpest thought in the discipline is only beginning to trickle into pews. If church history has taught us anything, it’s that the next social and political “issues” are headed our way, and the church must respond. Some issues—like immigration and nationalism—are already upon us.

Five Suggestions

What have we learned from the past five years, and how can we avoid repeating our mistakes? A few suggestions:

• Evangelicals should be encouraging more of their sharpest folks to pursue advanced degrees in social and political philosophy, political theology, sociology and political science. Abandoning these disciplines to secularists and Catholics has been a huge mistake. I would bet no more than 1 in 100 Christians could name a Christian political scientist or sociologist. We won’t see this change unless we encourage it.

• Evangelicals should seek to inhabit a middle ground between caring about little more than spiritual formation and the Great Commission on the one hand, and being politically captured, party loyalists on the other. There is healthy real estate between being Amish and being an activist, being concerned and being consumed. We need more Christians intentionally filling that gap.

• Evangelicals should not expect their pastors to be talented cultural exegetes or reorient their pulpit ministries toward transforming society. However, the Bible has a lot to say about “the issues,” and especially when they come up in expositional preaching, pastors should seek to address them with wisdom.

• Evangelicals who listen and learn online should follow wise guides where they can learn in bite-size pieces. This isn’t a knock—I am aware that very few people are going to read Mark Amstutz’s book on just immigration or Shenvi and Sawyer’s massive takedown of critical theory. But everyone can follow people who have and learn from them in short-form media and publications.

• Finally, evangelicals should encourage one another to have conversations about social and political issues with flesh-and-blood interlocutors. This should not be seen (in itself) as divisive or distracting from ministry or the Gospel and space should be made for healthy disagreement without ostracization.

There’s more to be said, but this very doable framework represents a healthy push(back?) in the right direction. The only question is whether we'll build on what we've seen in the last five years or be content with fumbling the ball when the next set of social and political issues emerge.

His reply was remarkably perceptive: “Are you asking a question about theology or temperament?”

It turned out the committee (sadly) had only a mild interest in his theology—but a pronounced concern for his temperament. If you know, you know. If you don’t… that’s probably for the best.

That interaction has stuck with me—not just for its wit and wisdom, but because it points to a broader phenomenon I’ve observed, both in church subculture and in the culture at large: the tendency to categorize people not by what they believe or practice, but by the tone and disposition with which they carry those beliefs.

After the assassination of Charlie Kirk, a prominent pastor remarked that the “too conservative for liberals, too liberal for conservatives” crowd is being exposed for the frauds they are. At times, I’ve wondered if I inhabit that category. But I don’t. Theologically, socially, and morally, every conviction I hold is—by all accounts—firmly conservative. No one has ever questioned this.

Why, then, in quiet reflection, would I even consider myself to be in the crosshairs of such a comment? During an afternoon hitting golf balls onto the wrong fairways, the answer emerged with startling clarity: it was my temperament and tone. This is a difficult—and even pretentious-feeling—reality to acknowledge.

As much as it pains me to admit, there is often a particular “feel” that accompanies the comments and personal interactions of many who would identify themselves as squarely right-of-center: unwavering confidence, maximal candor, inability to sympathize, admitting error only by divine intervention, and waiting to talk instead of listening well. Somewhere, somehow, the opposite of all those things became associated with the dispositional currency of progressives.

I realized that I squarely exemplified right-wing orthodoxy but departed from (much of) right-wing interpersonal orthopraxy. I represented, for many, the (regrettable) paradox of the kind, non-snarky Calvinist.

Which brings us to the present. I have come to terms with the fact that I am not temperamentally “right enough” for many of my colleagues, and that makes some of them nervous—despite my down-the-middle conservative stances in every area. This realization has raised for me a variety of compelling questions related to temperament, soft skills, and socio-political classifications. Two of those questions are worth briefly considering.

First, how is it that caring dispositions, humble presentations, and cordial interactions have come to be considered the interpersonal currency of the Left rather than the Right? Paradoxically, and contrary to popular sentiment, the average inhabitant of the political Left fares no better in exemplifying these things across the board than the average inhabitant of the political Right. For some conservatives, this may feel like gaslighting, but the truth is that most people, regardless of persuasion, are exceedingly mediocre (I’m feeling generous today) at humble presentation and cordial disagreement when partisan issues are on the table.

Remember, the regular practice of calling people hateful bigots and misogynists because they hold a biblical view of sex/marriage and are pro-life is strongly associated with the Left side of the spectrum, not the Right. Mere disagreement here is sufficient to be angrily demonized. Nor is this pattern somehow “canceled out” by the gentle and thoughtful dispositions that quickly materialize when discussing the fate of immigrants, for example. Neither side is good at having challenging conversations, because people in general—I’m sorry to say—are not good at having challenging conversations.

How, then, have “charitable, interpersonal vibes,” to use an obtuse phrase, come under conservative attack through association with the Left side of the socio-political spectrum? Answer: genuine conversational charity, humility, and care have suffered from collateral damage in the sustained but necessary war on being “nice.” As a category, being “nice” has unfortunately been culturally poisoned by a kind of sympathy, acceptance, and affirmation untethered from objective foundations and unwilling to rebuke falsehood for the sake of people’s feelings. This brand of “niceness” (as opposed to biblical kindness guided by truth, for example) is a strong progressive motif and pretends virtue despite being more therapeutic than ethical. It takes all of the feel-good aesthetics and leaves firm rebuke and calls to repentance to the “mean, judgmental people.”

Because of this, conservatives (like me) attempting to advance the truth through measured and charitable interaction often receive from their right-wing colleagues an unfounded and “vibe-driven” verdict of ‘impostor’ or ‘squishy.’ For many, soft skills simply feel too close to poisoned “niceness,” and those demonstrating them, therefore, are held in suspicion. I suspect that many conservatives have suffered this evaluative injustice, and fellow conservatives making this mistake do so both to their own detriment and to the detriment of conservatism as a whole. They need to do better.

We should pause to say, though, that conservatives who are holding out this mushy, bastardized form of Christian kindness—driven by feelings and lacking rebuke—need to repent. Bottom line: it’s strange enough that interpersonal charity and gentleness have become politically associated; that such associations are not truly distinguishing in the first place only ratchets up the explanatory work required to understand where we’re at.

The second (and more harrowing) tone-related concern is the phenomenon of the temperamental conservative. Here, we can afford to be brief. The temperamental—or “temperament-defined”—conservative is a right-associating individual who has very little idea about what they are trying to conserve and is certain Thomas Jefferson was a Christian. They know the token issues, the “right” candidates, and the policies about which to be vocal, but beneath that veneer lies a psychic vacuum energized more by enemies to conquer than by anything positive to pursue or build.

The number of “temperament-primary” conservatives seems likely to continue to grow as the Left edge continues to press outward. They are ready for battle, loud on the socials, and their deepest fear is being called—well, we’ll go with “a coward.” They are thrilled that the Right feels like a tougher fighting force and have enlisted in its ranks with little more than conservative CliffNotes and partisan bravado passed on by parents or friends. They would probably benefit more from seeing a counselor than advancing a cause, but “getting help” feels humiliating. Armed with just enough right-leaning conviction to be dangerous, their rhetorical gusto and posturing is often sufficient to evade probing questions about the rootedness of their beliefs; firing in a leftward direction is sufficient to both earn and keep their spot on the team.

Surely all sober-minded conservatives can agree: something here has gone badly wrong, and it would seem that the elevation of temperament, tone, and disposition over principles is primarily to blame.

Returning to where we started, my buddy got that job. He’s a five-point Calvinist—and more importantly, he’s humble, kind, and wise. I’ve never forgotten his answer to that deceptively simple question. And I continue to reflect on the broader implications it raises, both for me personally and the national landscape more broadly. The social and political Right is already far more diverse than many would care to admit. But if we are now willing to discount conservatives with soft skills through guilt by association while applauding the part of our roster defined primarily by temperament, then the category of ‘conservative’ may die the death of so many categories before it, suffering so much conceptual distortion that it ceases to communicate anything meaningful.

And that, it seems to me, is a troubling possibility. Perhaps we should re-evaluate what’s going—and start “calling it like it is.”

This brings us to a jarring, recent phenomenon: the emphatic calls on social media—many from pastors—for Christians to leave their churches if their pastors did not publicly address the assassination of Charlie Kirk on the Sunday following his death. (Yes, that makes this post a little late by some standards—but tepid takes are more thoughtful than hot ones.)

What was striking about these calls was not just the urgency, but the rationale: they weren’t about discerning whether pastors were compassionate in tragedy or culturally aware. The critique was laser-focused on one metric—boldness. Or more precisely, a specific, highly visible, performative kind of boldness.

Mark Driscoll, continuing a pattern of rash absolutism that contributed to the collapse of his leadership in Acts 29, declared on Facebook:

“If your church didn’t address the demonic murder of Charlie Kirk this weekend, the pastor is a coward and needs to repent or resign.”

That post received over 15,000 likes.

The message was unmistakable:

“Trying to discern if your church has bold pastors? Here’s the ultimate test.”

For many pastors, it felt like a mini–COVID-era rerun. Once again, a public crisis became a litmus test, and the assumption was that boldness had a singular, unmistakable form. Anything short of a Sunday morning declaration was deemed insufficient. A midweek email? Too soft. Addressed in community groups? Too private. Mentioned in a prayer meeting? Not enough. Or so it was suggested.

And yet, many pastors did speak to the tragedy—publicly and pastorally. They were, I believe, wise to do so. Our church did. But we are entirely justified in pausing to ask those who demanded uniform action across the body of Christ:

Who do you think you are?

What gives you the authority to define boldness for pastors who shepherd entirely different flocks than your own? In the immortal words of R.C. Sproul:

“What’s wrong with you people?”

Has our theology of church membership, pastoral responsibility, and submission to local church elders eroded to such a degree that we presume our social media instincts should direct someone else’s pulpit? Is “cowardice” really the only explanation you can conceive for a different pastoral response?

Let me offer a counter-declaration—one I hope avoids the very folly I’m critiquing:
If your pastor proclaimed anything resembling Driscoll’s comment, it may be time to sit down with him and ask how he understands the latitude and focus of his ministry—along with his theology of the local church.

And if you’re not a pastor but still felt entitled to demand uniform boldness from pastors you've never met—perhaps you should consider sitting out these kinds of discussions. It won’t be as exhilarating, but it will do far more to preserve the unity and health of Christ’s church.

To those remaining enslaved by a rigid intuition about the practical expression of boldness, I leave you with the sobering words of Alasdair MacIntyre in After Virtue:

“One of the things that we ought to have learned from the history of moral philosophy is that the introduction of the word intuition by a moral philosopher is always a signal that something has gone badly wrong with an argument.”

Let’s hear the argument, not the intuition.