Jim has come to understand the same thing. The difference is that he typed a two-sentence prompt into ChatGPT that then revealed to him what John learned over the course of a few years.

Perhaps one of the central questions for our current AI moment is something like the following: do John and Jim really know the same thing? Is their knowledge equally valuable? Should we trust them the same way if they are both right?

It seems to me that there are at least three important, practical differences and implications that can be teased out as they relate to John and Jim’s understanding of the truth. I’ll argue that while both understand the truth, John’s knowledge is more valuable than Jim’s because he earned it in the dirt of thousands of pages and hundreds of hours as opposed to being fed the truth by a machine. This is why we are intuitively more impressed by John than Jim. Similar conclusions could be made about those being fed knowledge from other sources as opposed to earning it. This distinction has practical implications for both us and them.

Mature vs. Immature Knowledge

Perhaps the largest difference in John and Jim’s knowledge is the quality of justification or warrant they have for their beliefs. Let’s avoid philosophical puzzles and simply call knowledge warranted, true belief (à la Plantinga). So understood, two people can know the same thing with different degrees of warrant for their belief in the same way that a child can know the earth is spherical alongside an astronomer.

In the case of John and Jim, John’s belief rests on justification that is both deep and wide, whereas Jim’s justification rests solely on his belief that AI is generally reliable to answer such questions. It’s thin.

The practical upshot is that John will be able to identify when AI gets it wrong and why—Jim, on the other hand, will be at its mercy. Practically, then, Jim should be open to John’s correction in a way that John should not be open to Jim’s. Similarly, while we would want to acknowledge both John and Jim’s understandings to be true, our confidence runs primarily through John as a witness to the truth and only secondarily through Jim. Indeed, in many cases AI only fed Jim the answer it did because people like John wrote material for it to source.

Knowledge That Can Freestyle

Jim has vomit on his sweater already—mom’s spaghetti.

Okay, so not that kind of freestyle.

Nevertheless, the concept of being able to think “off script” is germane to the difference between John and Jim’s knowledge. Because of how John’s knowledge has been formed, he will be able to think and speak beyond bare assertions of the truth. When Jim is presented with counterevidence or alternate interpretations, he will hem and haw before either admitting ignorance or fabricating some ill-conceived reply that indicates he is out of his depth. John, on the other hand, is ready to play ball—or spit bars, whichever metaphor you prefer as you recall those deep scars.

Those deep scars, of course, refer to a phenomenon everyone has experienced: stating a truth claim only to find ourselves in the presence of someone who actually knows what they are talking about. Maybe they agreed with us and we were thankful. When they didn’t, it got awkward. We learned that we only knew just enough to be dangerous and recite what we had read or been told but didn’t actually know what to say once we were done with our memorized lines.

Unlike freestyle rap, our deficit in such cases is not one of quick-wittedness. It is instead a lack of depth and scope that prevents us from doing much more than listening if we are to keep our intellectual integrity (a great thing to do). But even when we were correct, we quickly learned that understanding the truth and being conversant in it are two very different things.

John will be able to freestyle out of his knowledge—Jim, despite the same starting point, will not. AI can only furnish one with scripts, even if they are layered on top of one another.

To speak figuratively, John’s knowledge is simply more talented, and we all recognize it.

Knowledge That Interprets and Contributes

Flowing out of the first two points is the following observation: the way John has gained his knowledge places him in a superior position to interpret and contribute to his area of focus. Jim, once more, will lack this ability despite being fed the same nugget(s) of truth by AI. By interpretation, I have in mind the ability to adjudicate rival perspectives offered on a particular topic, often offered by the best and brightest. As someone who frequently prepares sermons, this looks like being able to adjudicate between conflicting views instead of being a slave to this or that commentary or scholar. “I know that the Apostle John wrote Revelation because Greg Beale said so” all but awaits the vaunted protest of Richard Bauckham to crumble to pieces.

Unlike Jim, John’s knowledge will be couched within a larger scaffolding that enables him (in the best cases) to distinguish between competing truth claims. That won’t mean that he’s always right, but it will generally mean that his perspectives will be well-supported. A related advantage is that John will be able to quickly vet sources for credibility—he isn’t going to mistake the conclusions of a confident blogger for those of Mark Noll. Because the source of Jim’s knowledge doesn’t force him to have scope, he will be far more prone to wonder if what he is reading is trustworthy.

In addition to adjudicating rival interpretations, John will be better positioned to make unique contributions in his area of focus as opposed to waiting for an expert or AI to tell him what to believe. Sure, he may not publish books, but it’s likely that he will be able to furnish small pieces of thinking that are not yet represented in the tradition or field (he likely already has if he wrote a thesis, but this is not a post about credentialism per se).

This usually will not mean that John makes utterly new contributions, but that he has the ability to play new riffs in the same time and key signature of his received body of knowledge. Jim, by contrast, will tend to see such contributions as dangerous and ungrounded—better to stick to sheet music that AI or a good podcast may be able to provide.

Conclusion

All propositional knowledge is, by definition, true. But it isn’t the same quality. In an age of AI where laymen can write and say things that would have indicated years of study a decade ago, we should champion the value of “earned knowledge.” For it is those who have earned their knowledge over the long haul instead of having it handed to them by ChatGPT or a podcast who should have our ear. Repeating what we’ve been told—by AI, a book or a pastor—is easy and is often extremely valuable (catechisms come to mind). But mistaking knowing the truth for being competent in the truth is a gargantuan error. AI can provide the first but not the second.

Similarly, we should not overestimate the confidence we should have in what we believe if it has been handed to us but not at some level earned. “Because X said so” should progressively fade as the primary justification for our knowledge claims as we mature in various areas of thought and inquiry. Finally, we should accept the fact that much (most?) of our knowledge will never be justified beyond “because X said so” for the simple reason that we don’t have time to pursue 99.99% of that which can be known. Instead of pretending otherwise, we should prioritize our focus and time spent learning and not think of ourselves more highly than we ought.

If we do so, we’ll not only be better for it, but we’ll maintain the kind of intellectual integrity that should be inseparably wed to both the way we present ourselves and the way we conceive of ourselves.

Anyone utilizing AI in any way would be wise to ask themselves: does the way I use AI bear false witness to my intellectual abilities or studiedness?

Let it not be so.

Introduction

Over the last few years, there has been a peculiar amount of interest among Protestants in Eastern Orthodoxy and Roman Catholicism.

Some have dabbled. Some have converted.

There are a variety of reasons for this—an epistemology within which perceived beauty indicates or tracks truth, a desire for mystery and experience rooted in history as opposed to the charismatic movement, the allure of the ancient, and the appeal of an ultimate theological authority, among others.

These things aren’t necessarily bad.

In the Reformed world, “ressourcement” or “retrieval” of the Early Church Fathers in particular (ECFs) has played a particularly central role in fueling this phenomenon, with retrieval of the medieval schoolmen—especially Aquinas—playing a secondary role. Having observed this pattern for a while, I’ve noticed an unspoken presupposition that dominates efforts to “retrieve” the theological insights of the ECFs for today.

That presupposition is something like the following: the task of giving the theology of the earlier church its due in our quest for orthodoxy can be achieved by honest and neutral reflection on historical sources.

The primary contention of this article is that this presupposition is false.

Indeed, just as there is no “neutral” with regard to worldview, there is no “neutral” with regard to how one understands ancient documents, assigns value to their witness or uses them in theological formulation. In point of fact, while many readers will have slept through a history of philosophy class, many others will be shocked to learn that one of the sub-branches of philosophy is the philosophy of history, where questions like, “What constitutes a historical explanation?” “Can we separate history from its interpretation?” “Can history yield objective truth?” and “What counts as historical evidence?” are central subjects of discussion.

In what follows, I’ll lay out seven considerations for engaging historical theology through an explicitly Protestant lens, while hoping to clarify that such an approach is no more problematic than typical Orthodox and Catholic approaches that feign methodological neutrality on the way to sensationalistic conclusions like Newman’s famous one-liner: “To be deep in history is to cease to be Protestant” (John Henry Newman, Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine). My hope is that the kind of Protestant who is bewildered by reading the word “Tradition” in early Christian writings or disturbed by the fact that they hold views contrary to the ECFs will find conceptual architecture freeing them from feeling as though they are committing intellectual sin in retrieving early sources or, worse, feeling the need to avoid them altogether in order to preserve a flimsy theological framework.

Three quick notes: 1) While not every consideration is uniquely Protestant, in my experience, each consideration is particularly important for Protestants to keep in mind, and many of them are regularly overlooked or dismissed as irrelevant 2) As you'll see, these considerations are not exclusively philosophical or theological and in some cases, are not even controversial 3) Space does not permit a full-throated defense of each consideration. Because of this, I’m happy to more or less state each consideration and let readers dig deeper into each claim on their own time.

1. The Clarity and Authority of Scripture

The clarity of Scripture does not mean that every part of Scripture is equally clear or that everyone will be able to understand the Bible at equal depths. Nor does it imply that there will be no disagreements about theology and practice within the church. What it does imply, however, is that God has revealed what we must believe and how we must live before him in such a way that is understandable to ordinary Christians reading the Bible in the context of the church without the need to appeal to special, authoritative interpreters. The Bible is clear in this way because of its own purpose as special revelation in conjunction with God’s excellence as a communicator (see Mark Thompson’s A Clear and Present Word).

There is no doctrine of the clarity of church history or historical theology, which are not God-breathed like Scripture (2 Tim. 3:16).

The authority of Scripture is not uniquely Protestant and hardly requires explanation on account of its source and infallibility. However, combining clarity and authority has major implications for “retrieving” the Fathers, chief among them being that when they are at odds, the fruit of careful and corporate interpretation of Scripture should be preferred in theological construction over historical practices or theological positions claiming apostolic origin in the absence of a biblical foundation. On account of its authorial excellence yielding clarity, a methodological bias toward Scripture in the task of appropriating historical theology is the hallmark of synthesizing Scripture and church tradition Protestantly.

2. Development vs. Departure Is Determined by the Corporate Body

Every tradition acknowledges the historical development of doctrine as the church sought to clarify and tease out the faith “once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 3). From a Protestant perspective, the Christological and Trinitarian formulations of Nicaea, Constantinople and Chalcedon, for example, simply crystallized apostolic teaching about the Son and the Trinity. But how are we to adjudicate instances when what is claimed as development or clarification actually appears to be a departure from the apostolic deposit? Examples are legion, but the anathematizing of those who do not venerate icons at Nicaea II (the Seventh Ecumenical Council) and Vatican II’s Lumen gentium 16 (suggesting that those who have never heard of Jesus—and potentially even Muslims who “with us [Roman Catholics] adore the one true God”—can still be saved) are both low-hanging fruit. Are these developments or departures from apostolic Christianity? Who’s to decide?

The Protestant answer is clear: the corporate body of ordinary believers. The diligence of the “more noble” Bereans who checked Paul’s claims against Scripture (Acts 17:11) is a great example of the principle in action. Furthermore, Paul tells the Galatians that if he or an angel from heaven subsequently proclaimed something different than what he taught, they shouldn’t believe it. Wow! He thus held them responsible for determining when a supposed clarification or development by someone claiming divine authority was actually a departure deserving of an anathema (cf. Gal. 1:6–9). Critically, absent from the Galatian instance is any suggestion that the elders or church leaders were uniquely tasked with discerning and rebuking such error.

If a council of people were wrong, that is very sad indeed—and regardless of one’s view on icons, for example, everyone believes that councils of people have been wrong (e.g., the Second Council of Ephesus in 449, aka the “Robber Council” via Pope Leo I). Protestants, however, do not feel beholden to following their errors and instead, like good Bereans, take Paul’s admonition seriously in wading through claims of doctrinal development.

3. “Early” Doesn’t Entail Less Error

Students of the Greek New Testament are aware of a frustrating phenomenon: the most significant textual variants often occur in the earliest manuscripts. There is a loose analogy here related to retrieving theology from the Fathers, where it is often thought that after John died the church existed in its purest form before later corruption.

False.

Anyone who has read Galatians, John’s letters, or the Corinthian correspondence knows that very serious theological error has always been present in the church. Why would people expect less error after the death of the last Apostle? In certain cases, earlier may indeed imply less opportunity for error, but the “early therefore accurate” principle as a general rule is one that the New Testament itself simply won’t allow. Remember, Irenaeus—writing in the second century as one of our most valuable patristic witnesses—believed that Jesus lived well into his 40s (Against Heresies 2.22.5).

He was just wrong.

4. “Early” Doesn’t Imply Unanimity of Opinion

Sometimes Protestants uninitiated in historical theology are led to believe by their Catholic and Orthodox interlocutors that when the church was young, it was at the very least unified. Again, and related to the prior point, this is simply not true. Hear the words of J. N. D. Kelly to the would-be student of historical theology from chapter one of his universally respected Early Christian Doctrines:

“In the first place, he must not expect to find it characterized by that doctrinal homogeneity which he may have come across at other epochs. Being still at the formative stage, the theology of the early centuries exhibits the extremes of immaturity and sophistication. There is an extraordinary contrast, for example, between the versions of the Church’s teaching given by the second-century Apostolic Fathers and by an accomplished fifth-century theologian like Cyril of Alexandria. Further, conditions were favourable to the coexistence of a wide variety of opinions even on issues of prime importance. Modern students are sometimes surprised at the diversity of treatment accorded by even the later fathers to such a mystery as the Atonement; and it is a commonplace that certain fathers (Origen is the classic example) who were later adjudged heretics counted for orthodox in their lifetimes.”

5. Widespread Patristic Agreement Doesn’t Imply Authoritative Truth

Take charging interest on loans, for example. This practice was universally condemned by the early church and was condemned explicitly by the Roman Catholic Church for over 1,700 years. And yet, not only do Protestants reject this condemnation, but charging interest on money loaned to another is now permissible under official Roman Catholic dogma.

Paedocommunion (i.e., infants receiving communion) was widespread by the fourth century and was the nearly universal practice in the East, and yet the vast majority of Protestants, along with Roman Catholicism, reject the practice. It still remains standard practice among the Orthodox, however.

Finally, consider capital punishment. While some ECFs were made nervous by the prospect of Christians participating in the process itself, that the state could execute criminals enjoyed nearly universal support. But in 2018, Pope Francis amended the Catechism of the Catholic Church (claiming “development” from a long-accepted tradition of endorsement) to reflect that “the death penalty is inadmissible because it is an attack on the inviolability and dignity of the person” (CCC, no. 2267).

The bottom line is that the Protestant who is told by their Catholic friends that widespread, early (and even abiding) agreement on a particular doctrine constitutes decisive evidence for its soundness needs only to point to church history itself to indicate the opposite.

6. The Earliest ECFs Enjoyed Less Canonical Access

In the early church—not necessarily unlike today—the apostolic deposit circulated in both written and verbal form. One drawback to weighing patristic theology, however, is that there are good reasons to believe that many of the earliest ECFs wrote without knowledge of significant portions of the New Testament. To be sure, it does not necessarily follow from the absence of citation or allusion that an ECF was not aware of a particular New Testament book. On the other hand, consider how bizarre it would be to comment on and interact with numerous New Testament books but say nothing about others if one had equal access to them! What non-arbitrarily explanation could be offered? The best explanation is that as the apostolic deposit was formally collated over time and canonized, many of the earliest ECFs were simply not aware of certain parts of its content.

The import for appropriating the ECFs for theology is sobering, but should not be wielded proudly, triumphally, or naively: the average Christian has better access to the New Testament than most of the Early Church Fathers.

Surely that factors meaningfully into our “all-things-considered” theological construction.

7. The ECFs and Most of Church History Have Lacked 21st-Century Bible Analysis Capabilities

Very few ECFs had a working knowledge of Hebrew. Few Latin Fathers had a commanding knowledge of Greek. None of them had the ability to instantly search for and identify every instance of a particular syntactical construction via Bible software or find how many times a certain Greek word was used in the Septuagint. Simply put, with regard to studying the Bible, we now stand at a place in history that is wholly unmatched. How Clement and Jerome would have longed for Bible Works or Logos (sorry, Olive Tree)! Once more, this realization should not be taken lightly or render us guilty of Lewis’s “generational snobbery.” But the fact remains that between the fruits of textual criticism and technology, we now have an ability to analyze and reflect on the contents of Scripture that is far superior to any previous generation of church history.

Again, surely this staggering grace affects our theological methodology as we seek to engage early Tradition.

Conclusion

Much more could be said and should be said. Perhaps I’ll be the one to say it at some point. But my hope for now is that this minimalistic framework of considerations is helpful for Protestants seeking to think well about the integration of history and exegesis in theological formulation. Appropriating the theology of the ECFs in our doctrine is fertile soil for Protestants, too.

And we should not at all be ashamed to engage in that task Protestantly.

Burkean and Tocquevillian Change

In what for many probably read as a throwaway sentence toward the end of the article, Walker suggests that Christians should take a more Burkean or Tocquevillian approach to change. Some Christians will not be familiar with Alexis de Tocqueville, and even fewer with Edmund Burke. Taking Burke as representative, what Christians should know about Burke’s approach to political philosophy and affecting political change is that it was conservative in the truest and oldest sense of the word.

Burke wrote at a time when political philosophy was shot through with speculation about a “state of nature” out of which governmental power emerged in the form of “social contracts” between the state and its denizens (e.g., Hobbes and Locke). Roughly, the idea was that people gave up certain freedoms in exchange for various protections because few wanted to live in a world in which “every man is an enemy to every man” and life is “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short” (Hobbes). This social contract—and in particular, upholding it—gave the state its authority, its legitimate monopoly on coercive force.

This was all fine and good at one level, but ideas never remain sequestered in books and philosophy seminars. Instead, informed by these philosophies, statesmen began to make suggestions for political action. The arena for thinking well about statecraft took a few steps away from 17th and 18th century Europe and “real life” and a few steps toward thought experiments and broad conceptions of the ideal state. No one's head was completely in the sky, but that's where they breathed the freshest air.

Enter Burke.

Oversimplifying drastically, Burke suggested the history that has gotten us this far is the only arena in which we have any real experience and the arena of all of our greatest social and political achievements (along with our greatest failures). Instead of speculating about states of affairs dreamed up by idealists and philosophers, Burke’s philosophical approach was grounded in doing what has worked well for centuries and changing only what must be changed over time—hence, “conservatism.” Of course, change on conservatism is, by its nature, incremental and a product of careful reform.

Furthermore, in addition to being conservative, Burke’s approach was also pragmatic. If political philosophy is going to be the handmaiden of political action, shouldn't we spend most of our time thinking about what we actually have a chance of accomplishing in our day? Hypothetical societies, contracts, and states of nature were fun to discuss over a pint with friends, but while allowing that philosophical constructs can be helpful and even necessary, shouldn’t the present historical moment at least set some boundaries on how and where we channel our energies? Burke’s answer was a robust, “Yes.”

In asking Christians to take a more Burkean/Tocquevillian approach in their political thinking, Walker is asking Christians to spend more time thinking about what they might actually achieve in their own time instead of what they might privately desire or passionately exclaim on social media. Do people realize what would actually have to occur before the changes for which they are loudly lobbying even have a realistic context in which to take place? This kind of reasoning does not exclude taking action today in the hope of shaping the future, but it often excludes actions that pretend such futures can be fast-tracked to the present. It resists the idea that we are potentially on the cusp of dramatic political change simply because we can write books and blogs about our preferred future.

To be sure, some of the suggestions are theologically/morally good, but have no chance of happening prior to the revolution brought by the return of Christ.

Other ideas are mostly or entirely bad.

Mercifully, they too are completely unrealizable in any political climate resembling our own. And yet, these ideas tend to receive the most oxygen in a very small but vocal corner of Christian social media.

Abolishing the Nineteenth Amendment? Absolutely no chance of happening, and shouting about it is simply a form of signaling one’s “brand” to a very small group of Christians (many of whom believe themselves to be the last sober-minded, faithful folks). Suggesting that blasphemy laws be established and mosques shut down in conjunction with modifying the First Amendment? Again, absolutely no chance of happening. Returning to the magisterial church-state arrangements of the 17th century? Don’t hold your breath. Proclaiming that women shouldn’t be able to hold political office? There’s a better chance of speaking with Queen Elizabeth.

Even if they were good ideas, bringing about these changes in our day simply cannot be accomplished on a conservative approach to statecraft. This isn’t because conservative individuals are cowards who eat their steak well-done, but because they believe conservatism as a philosophy of action should ground our political thinking. In fact, many may believe that a realistic approach to cultural change within the boundaries of our historical “givens” best explains the absence of explicit commands to abolish slavery in the New Testament.

Simply put, at that time, such a world was simply not even conceivable because of how much of culture and economy depended on slavery. Such a call would not only have supplanted the Gospel as the social and political focal point of the Christian faith, but would have been as futile as someone calling for the abolition of money or the formation of one-world government in the 21st century. Even the best aims require the right contexts to have any chance of transforming entrenched patterns.

If this is true, then only an uprising or complete reset of society could achieve such changes in one’s own lifetime. As it turns out, few people were more aware of this than Karl Marx.

To Marx and his disciples, it was painfully obvious that conservative politics were not conducive to the kind/degree of change they sought and thus, they proposed an operative political philosophy on the other side of the spectrum—revolution requiring force. Oddly, Reformed social media edgelords seem to display an affinity for such an approach even if they aren’t willing to publicly go all the way or haven’t read much Marxist philosophy. For them, the talking and respectable dialogue simply hasn’t moved the needle nearly enough, if at all, or perhaps it has moved the needle in the wrong direction. It’s time for forceful action.

As an example, after complaining about Christians who seek to make fine distinctions and engage in tactful political maneuvering in the American machine, Brian Sauvé recently concluded:

“We’re all just Nazis to them. Unpersons. The only answer is to stop caring about what your enemy thinks of you and defeat him. Anything less than this is permitting your enemy a seat at your councils of war.”

Critiquing those within the Second International who argued that rule by the proletariat should be realized through democratic process, Vladimir Lenin wrote in The Tasks of the Third International:

“Ramsay MacDonald disposes of the problem of the dictatorship of the proletariat [rule of the working class] in a couple of words as if it were a subject for a discussion on freedom and democracy. But it is not. It is time to act, it is too late for discussions.”

For Lenin, of course, to “act” meant to revolt—you can’t play ball on the enemy’s terms, and only comical pedants “fail to understand that voting within the bounds, institutions and customs of bourgeois parliamentarism is a part of the bourgeois state machinery that has to be broken and smashed from top to bottom in order to give effect to the dictatorship of the proletariat, in order to pass from bourgeois democracy to proletarian democracy” (TTTI).

Now, I’m obviously not accusing Reformed-Twitter of being Marxist—but their “talk is over, time for battle, don’t care about the world, destroy the enemy” approach has far more in common with Marxist political thought as it relates to change than conservative thought, and Christians listening in should be aware of it. Burke and Tocqueville would not approve—neither would the plodding, non-revolutionary approach of the early Church.

Are Christians willing to thoughtfully consider and articulate what political philosophy we are assuming under the guise of “faithfulness?”

Could you identify what political philosophy undergirds your theory of social action? If not, it's something to consider, and now is a great time to do so.

But don’t consider skipping leg day or holding your wife's purse while she goes to the bathroom—some thoughts are simply too dangerous for thoughtful reflection.

Therapists as Social Sovereigns

Long before Alpert, the late Alasdair MacIntyre criticized both “managers” and “therapists” as competing, insufficient symbols and sources of moral authority in culture (After Virtue). Both pretended to their own kind of authority, said MacIntyre, but neither could provide moral standards by which to evaluate whether their guidance contributed to “the good life” or not.

One of the concerning aspects of therapy culture highlighted ad nauseam in the book is the degree to which many patients tend to view their therapists as supreme authorities in how they should live their lives. Particularly for the non-religious, therapists often seem to occupy a liminal space between the natural and the transcendent good—a kind of shaman without the monkey bones and weird clothes.

Accordingly, therapists are often perceived as experts at providing special “spaces,” helping people “protect their peace,” guiding people toward “well-being,” aiding patients in their quest for “genuine authenticity,” and partnering with the struggling to help them cope with “toxic” people and energy.

It isn’t difficult to see that when someone is perceived in this way, their nearly mystical authority goes before them. In chapter 14, “The Cult of Therapy,” Alpert opines, “Therapy hasn’t helped these patients grow; it’s turned them into entitled bullies, armed with the gospel of their therapists. They parrot their therapist’s words as if they were sacred truth, shutting down anyone who dares challenge them.”

In other words, “My therapist said X” becomes the ultimate trump card to your concerns about their behaviors or patterns of thought. What do you know? Would you give exercise advice to someone if you had never had a personal trainer yourself?

Then lock it up.

Alpert gives example after example of this unhealthy level of trust leading to dependence: patients asking their therapist who to invite to the party, whether they should cut off their parents because of their political views, and whether they should confront their boss, etc. What their therapist says is right is right.

Until it isn’t. Which is where the irony emerges.

As it turns out, the idea that therapists are perceived as social sovereigns comes with an important caveat: should a therapist challenge a patient’s foundational assumptions or fail to give the expected validation of a powerful emotional response, they frequently get fired. This means that while the counsel of therapists often serves as a sovereign, reassuring guide for patients, their counsel must fall within patient-determined guidelines or their $150 will quickly be lining the pocket of another shrink every other Thursday from 2:00–2:50.

The challenge this poses for foundational change and improvement is too obvious to require commentary. Furthermore, believing that a therapist’s counsel always trumps that of the pastor, the friend, the supervisor and the family member (who observe them in real life) actually serves to enslave patients rather than helping them think for themselves in community with sober-minded people.

The result is that we collectively get worse, not better.

The Abuse of Boundaries

Boundaries are important. We require them to function in life. We are responsible for setting and adhering to boundaries for our own behaviors, in addition to being responsible for preserving boundaries that we have established to protect our physical, mental, and spiritual health. Boundaries are not the problem.

The problem, as Alpert indicates, is when establishing or maintaining “boundaries” amounts to little more than demanding that everyone else interact with us and exist in our lives according to the rules of our kingdom as we determine and administer them. When boundaries become a therapy-baptized way of licensing self-centeredness under the guise of “self-care,” the result is people insisting on their own way but with a “clear” conscience.

In many cases, already fragile people are led to believe that a rigidly adopted and enforced set of social rules will keep them mentally safe and healthy. But in reality, abusing boundaries and boundary language only serves to further stifle social and emotional development, shut down good-faith compromise, and hinder learning how to relate to others as people instead of problems.

Sure, sometimes people have to be cut out of our lives. But that should be the exception, not the rule. The appeal of boundary-motivated action is clear enough—announcing that you don’t know how to socially interact with your friend who voted for Trump because your feelings control your life or because you can’t charitably disagree sounds bad; insisting that you are courageously drawing boundaries for the sake of peace sounds far better and is easier to sit with, even when it means fewer people will be sitting with you.

My suspicion (and I think Alpert would agree, given what he says in the final chapter, “Back to Sanity”) is that the proliferation of boundary language and misguided boundary-enforcing behavior is strongly correlated with a general atrophy of social skills and emotional health, particularly within Gen Z and younger millennials. Many people are anxious, socially maladapted, emotionally turbulent, and ideologically confused. This makes interaction with flesh-and-blood human beings feel dangerous and tense. Thus, it’s likely that part of fixing the boundaries-gone-wild problem will involve not only helping people distinguish between healthy boundaries and justifying self-centeredness, but also helping them become secure, stable people more generally.

Social Media Therapists

I don’t have a very active social media presence anymore, but I alternated between giggle-snorting and shaking my head as I read through Alpert’s discussion of therapeutic counsel on social media. Sadly, I’ve seen a lot of it.

True, not all of it is bad—a legit counselor can have a social media presence. But the overwhelming number of people giving therapeutic counsel on social media aren’t professionals. Instead, the space is dominated by ordinary folks (mostly women) weighing in on how to determine if your spouse or friend is a narcissist or whether you are on autism spectrum.

Umm, huh?

Language that used to be confined to academic anthropology and professional psychotherapy has now gone mainstream, along with people who feel as though they need nothing more than goodwill and AI editing to engender the trust of unwitting scrollers. Broadcasting from the front seat of her car, Sibyl from Missouri is eager to contribute to our collective mental health by helping us determine if we are being emotionally abused or if it’s likely we have unprocessed childhood trauma. Perhaps we are engaging in “emotional labor” that we shouldn’t have to endure.

Or perhaps we should keep scrolling, if we are to scroll at all.

Alpert details case after case of social media self-diagnosis that, upon professional evaluation, proves to be inaccurate. To be sure, it’s easy to understand why people seek out and imbibe TikTok therapy: life can be challenging, relationships are tough, and real counseling is expensive. Furthermore, people often don’t have friends or parents whom they look to as trusted advisors. Nevertheless, and despite the handful of legitimate counselors with a social media presence, the trend is a disturbing one indeed.

It often leads people into unhealthy patterns with false confidence that they have a firm grasp on themselves and those around them. They often come to believe that they have been provided with the categories and labels to name their struggles in a way that leads to empowerment and/or healing. In most cases, this simply is not true. Instead, confirmation bias leads them to seek out self-designated gurus who affirm their convictions and validate their feelings without having to face poignant challenges about themselves or be held accountable for their own behaviors and patterns of thought.

I’m thankful for wise, courageous therapists like Alpert whose goal is to help patients progress by speaking truth—even when it results in him getting fired—and prioritizing results. Sadly, he is a minority within a field that is currently in a dismal state. Despite the fact that Alpert does not approach counseling from a Christian perspective, my hope is that people who are in therapy will read his book and ask themselves the question that Alpert encourages: “Is this working? Can I tell I am making progress?”

And if the answer is no, it’s time to move on.

It was tempting.

To scream profanity, that is.

Ok, it wasn’t really.

But I still didn’t. Instead, I shook my head, deleted the email, and thought, “The day I use AI to write a sermon is the day I’m hanging it up, and if I were a church member who discovered that my pastor used AI to write their sermons, I would be throwing up the deuces and heading somewhere else.”

That’s because real preachers—and really, pastors more generally—don’t need AI to get it done.

Of course, some important caveats are in order. I am not condemning the use of AI as a research tool. After all, ChatGPT is what Ask Jeeves always yearned to be. It’s very helpful to ask ChatGPT what you might otherwise type into Google to remember that date of this, the name of that or the source of a quotation. It’s far more powerful than a search engine despite being far from perfect.

Fine.

Further, AI likely has some good uses in ministry more broadly. It’s great at checking for errors of spelling and grammar in written content. It can summarize shows, movies, and books that pastors don’t have time to watch or read (and in some cases, shouldn’t). AI can even distill a nice outline from a piece of content, and so on.

Fine.

But what no pastor should be using AI to do is write a sermon manuscript (or extended outline, or whatever). Richard Hanania recently wrote in the Boston Globe that having AI write content for people isn’t necessarily bad and may be positively good. He argues that a lot of people have great ideas but are just bad at writing. AI helps bridge the gap so the best ideas aren’t sidelined simply because the folks who have them can’t put together a paragraph.

Maybe in some cases that observation holds weight. But if a pastor finds themselves unable to give verbal expression to their exposition and application of the text of Scripture, they don’t really have the ability to teach and, therefore, need to go do something else (1 Tim. 3:2).

Why? There are multiple reasons. Three stand out.

AI Doesn’t Know Your People

No matter what prompt you feed AI, it really cannot handle the diversity of listeners in your congregation. Linda’s grief. John’s anger. Tim’s failing marriage. Sarah’s abusive father. Ian’s 80-hour workweeks. John’s promotion. Suzanne’s wayward children. And on and on.

AI knows facts and probabilities, but it isn’t a person, and it certainly doesn’t know the person sitting in the front row on Sunday (or Wednesday night, as the case may be). Sure, a pastor shouldn’t be crafting sermons as a slave to what this or that person may think, but they should preach a sermon with their congregation (or sometimes, audience) in mind. Sermons crafted with a generic audience in mind often feel just that—generic, plug-and-play, tone-deaf.

In other words, AI threatens one of the greatest gifts a pastor can give his congregation: preaching like a shepherd who is attuned to his own sheep as much as he is attuned to God’s Word.

AI Makes You Lazy

Writing is hard. Good writing is harder. I’m an above-average writer, but I’m not great and probably never will be. Having said that, writing a sermon—or a Substack piece—is an opportunity to earn it in the dirt. The hard work of crafting a message that faithfully delivers a text with conviction has a lot to commend it beyond simply connecting with your audience.

Writing sermons forces you to clarify your own thoughts and positions and demands that you be able to actually articulate the ideas in your head. As they say, if it’s mist in the pulpit, it’s fog in the pews.

Writing sermons is also an occasion for fantastic meditation on the text of Scripture. Further, it allows an opportunity for prayerful reflection and personal application of God's word spread over multiple hours (and often, days) that few other opportunities can match. My view is that pastors should enjoy the sermon preparation process to a degree that rivals or is equal to their enjoyment of the delivery process. When a pastor intimates that the pulpit thrills but the study bores, I begin to worry.

What an edifying honor it is to pore over Scripture, prayerfully hoping to honor God’s Word in the presence of the congregation. When AI takes over sermon production, all of this disappears. Not only do AI-written sermons represent the pinnacle of laziness, they also rob pastors of the spiritual formation wrapped up in the process itself. Pastors using AI to write sermons do so because writing good sermons is hard, and AI can probably write something that sounds better than they could come up with anyway. But they do so at tremendous cost and eventually, the lazy and empty fruit of having sermons written by a network of servers will sink their ministry.

AI Isn’t You

Before we heard talk of pastors using AI to write their sermons, it was pastors getting caught plagiarizing entire sermons in the hopes that their congregations were insular enough that their deceit would never be discovered.

And one day they discovered that someone in their congregation also listened to John MacArthur and R.C. Sproul.

Whoops.

I pastor multiple people who have this story as a part of their background in church. One of the ways these pastors were caught was the discrepancy between the voice and style of the person they were plagiarizing and their own. With AI it’s worse.

Sure, a pastor can ask AI to compose something in the style and theology of D.A. Carson, as John Piper recently demonstrated. But the problem is they can’t ask AI to compose a sermon in their style and theology because odds are they aren’t known well enough for AI to even get off the ground with the project. I asked ChatGPT if it could write a sermon based on “Tyler Krug’s theology and style” and after providing an admittedly accurate description of my style from whatever sources it analyzes, it “confessed” that the only way it could write such a sermon was by having me upload multiple sermon transcripts to then clone (or something close to it). In other words, someone who hasn’t written their own sermons wouldn’t even have a place to start.

But more to the point, a pastor trying to have AI write a sermon in the style and voice of some superstar preacher or theologian is, eventually, going to be found out. Maybe people will grow suspicious of their vocabulary. Perhaps the format will give things away. Maybe no one will believe that they actually read Goethe. Maybe the application will sound a little bit too insightful. Maybe it will sound polished but out of touch with the congregation. But one way or another, the pastor who delivers cloud-forged sermons will eventually be exposed as someone who has donned the verbal, rhetorical, and theological equivalent of a Halloween costume.

AI is a powerful tool that has much to commend it. But pastors using it to write their sermons will—regardless of intention or justification—be outsourcing their God-given responsibility to a server in a data center and in so doing, will neglect both their flock and their own spiritual development.

May it not be so in our churches.

In the comments of my last article, for example (which I don’t generally engage), I was urged to perform a Google search for “Did Paul write all his letters in the Bible?” (verbatim). Perhaps if I had done so instead of going to seminary or preaching through the Pastoral Epistles I would be as informed as those asking Google about authorship within the Pauline corpus. Another woman (who clearly didn’t mind publicly embodying the title of the article itself—“When Women Aren’t Taken Seriously”) voiced her frustration over male commentators writing about the birth of Jesus. Giving birth is, after all, something women do, and women are apparently far better positioned to give insight into the Christmas narrative as a result.

The furor of public, theological wrangling has largely been occasioned by the “Mohler Amendment” vote at the SBC annual convention last week. While I’ve already written about that amendment and some concerns related to it, I think it’s worth explicitly pointing out three patterns I’ve noticed over the past week that completely kill serious theological engagement before it ever gets started. Importantly, none of these patterns are unique to online theological engagement and are just as deadly “IRL” (as the cool kids say? I’m not sure—I’m not cool).

I address each briefly below.

A Hermeneutic of Hurt and Anger

Nothing shuts down fruitful theological engagement faster than someone who believes that their victimization or the victimization of others has resulted from a particular understanding of the Bible. The reasoning goes: “If people who do ‘bad thing X’ justify doing X with ‘theology Y,’ then ‘theology Y’ is clearly problematic or false.” In the wake of last week’s vote, complementarianism has been analyzed with this schema.

Many who have been abused by husbands or pastors who have justified their evil with complementarian interpretations of the Bible take it as obvious that complementarianism (whatever that now means, exactly) is false. In most cases, no amount of trying to explain that most complementarians do not, in fact, abuse anyone in any shape or form proves to be persuasive. Further, attempting to explain that people have been inappropriately appealing to Scripture to justify their sinful behavior for millennia is not enough to overcome the hermeneutic of hurt and anger.

Rather, the intuition that God’s word couldn’t possibly contain arrangements for church and the family that could yield disaster becomes the hermeneutical starting point. The problem is, “I approach this text uncertain about what it means, but certain about what it does not mean because I’ve seen it work out very badly or have been personally hurt by it” is not a hermeneutic for serious Bible interpreters.

I have genuine, deep sorrow for men and women who have been mistreated by those who have wrapped their sin in Bible verses. I really do—I am so sorry. On the Christian hope, one day, public vindication is coming for you!

But the fact remains that unwise and sinful implementation of biblical truths is not an argument against such truths but an indictment of those practicing them sinfully or misunderstanding them altogether. Someone mistaking bad behavior correlated with X for an argument that X is bad or that X causes the bad behavior itself has skipped informal logic class.

Remember, the birds fly south every time the leaves change color, but no one believes that orange and yellow leaves cause avian migration. Similarly, happy, “complementarian” women and loving, caring male leaders demonstrate that something poisonous has to be added to the recipe to get results that are hurtful or abusive.

Examples of hurt and anger hermeneutics can be multiplied far beyond the gender role controversies (e.g., biblical allowances for divorce, the moral status of homosexuality et al.). And yet, in every case, what you can be nearly certain of is this: someone with a hermeneutic of hurt is not going to be persuaded by Bible verses, Greek grammar, or the Church Fathers. In fact, they are going to search out every scholar they can find to buttress their hurt and anger-driven conclusions with some intellectual firepower. In most cases, the only practical hope of persuading them will lie with flesh and blood human beings who hold these apparently problematic views flourishing before them over time.

And that’s not possible to achieve online. The best practice when encountering a hermeneutic of hurt and anger online is to acknowledge and move on—they may have a broken framework for interpreting and applying the Bible, but you aren’t going to be the one to help them fix it.

A Hermeneutic of Pragmatism

A hermeneutic of hurt likely falls under a larger hermeneutical umbrella: a hermeneutic of pragmatism—when interpreting and applying the Bible we should play to our strengths, prize efficiency and do what works.

Does a woman have better “leadership skills” than her husband? Then she should take the lead in their marriage. Is this woman a good teacher—perhaps better than the pastor? Let’s get her some reps in the pulpit; we don’t want to squash her God-given gifts and people may even benefit more from hearing her than Pastor John. Is church discipline failing to cause this person to repent? Perhaps we should lift it. Maybe we shouldn’t even practice church discipline—it does make people feel shame, after all. People should not stay in marriages in which they are miserable or feel emotionally neglected; that is definitely not how Christ relates to the church.

And on and on.

A hermeneutic of pragmatism is driven by understanding Scripture in a way that most effectively and efficiently accomplishes certain ends. Taking cues from industrialization and corporate America, in its current form such a hermeneutic starts with certain circumstances and human resources and says, “Surely the Bible, properly understood, is a guide to optimizing what we’ve got here. If we are listening to it correctly and implementing it accurately, we are going to have people who feel utilized, fulfilled and joyful—the Bible works.”

But the problem is that obeying Scripture may be difficult, frustrating and inefficient for a whole host of reasons including our own ignorance and sin combined with that of others. Circumstances play a role, too.

Take a woman who has giftedness in teaching, for example. The responsible pastor doesn’t show her the way to the pulpit, tell her she has her gifts by mistake or ignore her—and those who do so should be ashamed.

Instead, he should help her find opportunities for her to exercise her gifts inside and outside the home—in addition to teaching her own children, perhaps she can lead a women’s Bible study, teach in a women’s ministry (or be a part of starting one), write a Substack, teach a women’s Sunday School class or do a variety of other things that Scripture clearly permits.

Of course, a woman who finds herself in a church context that lacks opportunities like these may very well feel frustrated or sad. But such frustration and sadness cannot morph into a cousin of the hurt and anger hermeneutic. Instead, we should trust God with the manner in which he has chosen to build his church.

And when we take a look at how he has chosen to do that, we find very little to suggest that Scripture’s revelation and instruction are aimed at efficiency or geared toward optimization as we conceive of it. Sanctification takes a long time. Relationships are messy. Church hierarchies aren’t pure meritocracy. The marriage covenant isn’t dependent on chemistry or personal satisfaction. Jesus has been gone for 2000 years.

Approaching the Bible with a “which interpretation works best” hermeneutic will tend to bulldoze right over inconvenient truths and unintuitive restrictions that flow out of God’s sovereign prerogative, especially when they offend our sensibilities. Further, God may be withholding certain things from us for our good, even when it seems as though we are being divinely stifled. We may find ourselves to be hoping Hannahs.

When we silently (or loudly) start considering God’s word to be an inconvenience to maximizing our marriages, ministries or moxie, we have taken a wrong turn. Remember, Jeremiah loathed his doomed-to-failure ministry, Hosea was told to marry a whore and Job never got answers.

Trusting God was enough.

And it must also be so for us even when we feel that we aren’t realizing our “full potential” in God’s sovereignly administered Kingdom. It’s not our hermeneutic that needs to change, it’s our perspective.

Psycho-Babble Polemics

Everyone has received strong “instruction” in psychology-driven polemics over the last five years, so we needn’t belabor this point.

“Of course you believe that—you’re a man.”
“Of course you believe that—you’re white.”
“Ok, well, you’re black but you believe that because you have internalized whiteness.”
“You hold that view because it helps you keep power.”

And so on.

Sadly, popular level theological dialogue has not escaped the same pseudo-psychological speculation that is now standard fare in cultural analysis. Even the most rigorously argued theological conclusion can now be dismissed out of hand with gusto and passion because of who is advancing the conclusion. It’s embarrassing and represents pseudo-intellectualism at its finest, creating the illusion that theological novices (if you can even call them that) can credibly stand toe to toe with people who have forgotten more about the Bible than they will ever know.

Furthermore, this tactic commits the well-known genetic fallacy in attempting to invalidate the truth of a claim by criticizing how one came to believe it. But claims are true or false independent of how one comes to believe them or what psychological forces were involved in the belief formation process; your belief that the earth is spherical is still true even if you came to believe it during an acid trip where a talking refrigerator told you that spheres are masculine and the earth is a man.

Of course, the fallacy is convenient because, once more, such invalidation serves as an “ace in the hole” and as a substitute for hours and hours—years even—of actual theological study (like with real books and possibly professors). Once we arrive here either online, in the church or at the coffee shop, no real theology is happening. Frankly, no real critical thinking is happening either. Truth claims stand or fall with their supporting reasons, arguments and evidence, not ad hominem attacks or armchair psychology.

Here’s a crazy idea: if we can’t judge people by the content of their character, perhaps we can at least strive to judge people by the character of their content.

Christian women on social media have been out in full force over the last few days to protest the recently affirmed SBC resolution to prohibit churches in friendly cooperation with the SBC from having women serve as pastors or preach to the assembled congregation. Occasionally, they have been joined by men offering the same “proof texts” for why women should, in fact, serve in these roles. The thousands of “likes” some of these posts receive indicate that these arguments speak persuasively to many people (particularly women). In light of this phenomenon, three observations are worth making.

How to Instantly Lose Credibility

If you rolled your eyes at the beginning of this piece, you weren’t alone. What’s sad is that the people offering these justifications for female pastors or preachers don’t realize that there are two kinds of people who dismiss what they are saying: patriarchalists (in the worst sense of the word) or misogynists, and people who take biblical interpretation seriously. They then lump all detractors into the first camp—a camp easy to dismiss and easier to disdain.

This is a terrible error.

To be clear, there are very serious biblical scholars who are egalitarian in their theology (or something indistinguishable from it): Scot McKnight, Michael Bird, Lucy Peppiatt, Susan Eastman, Cynthia Westfall, Jeannine Brown, and Linda Belleville, just to name a few. It would be a mistake to simply dismiss what these folks are saying; indeed, they represent the most articulate voices for egalitarian convictions currently on offer.

But these are not the kinds of voices we are hearing in response to Wednesday’s vote. Instead, we are being asked to believe that somehow it follows from Deborah being a judge in Israel that women can be pastors/elders in the local church, or that because Philip’s daughters prophesied, women can preach on Sunday morning.

Huh?

What kind of theological methodology yields inferences like these? One gets the very, very deep impression that something like the following is actually happening: “Here are these examples where God has placed and used women in important ways speaking the word of God. Therefore, they shouldn’t be prohibited from ministering and speaking the word of God.” A fine point, but one that most people aren’t really arguing against (as I type, women are currently speaking at the Women’s Gospel Coalition’s conference attended by thousands of women, most of whom would heartily endorse Wednesday’s vote).

Our confessional, Reformed church, for example, has women reading the Bible and speaking the “call” of the corporate prayer in anticipation of congregational response in our services, along with a robust women’s ministry in which women teach other women and lead women’s Bible studies. This might make some nervous, but we’re eager for our women to speak the word in such ways. But the thought that a woman would be an elder or preach the Sunday sermon is simply 100 miles away from these things, and no one in our church is confused about it. Further, the thought that a woman would functionally serve as some kind of “ruling” elder without the title and without preaching is similarly out of sight.

Perhaps the folks making these popular-level appeals and objections have bought into an all-or-nothing mentality when thinking about women in local church ministry that yields genuine fear—if their pastors agree with Mohler, they may reason, then perhaps their leadership of the food pantry may be on the chopping block. Maybe they're worried about a slippery slope. But whatever the reason, men and women drawing conclusions with elementary-school theological methodology should realize the following hard truth:

The reason many men and women dismiss you isn’t because they are trying to hold women down; it’s because you instantly lose credibility as a thoughtful interpreter of the Bible the second you throw up the “Mary Magdalene on Easter therefore female pastors” line.

Sorry, it’s just that simple.

Tuning Out Church History

On this point we can afford to be brief. It seems to be lost on many of those bemoaning the prohibition of female pastors in the SBC that this is and has been the view of the church for most of church history. Even extraordinarily influential women like Hildegard of Bingen and Catherine of Siena in the medieval period were not ordained clergy. Women began to publicly preach within Quakerism and Methodism in the 18th century, but it would not be until the mid-19th century that the first woman was ordained within a Protestant denomination (Antoinette Brown Blackwell in 1853). Her ordination into an autonomous Congregationalist church was, as you might expect, deeply controversial.

Blackwell was a strong advocate for women’s rights more generally, a fact that reveals more than initially meets the eye. For the rise of women’s ordination has coincided strongly with the rise of feminism more generally. Second-wave feminism in particular (1960s–1980s) saw female ordination skyrocket in the Episcopal Church, the Presbyterian Church (USA), and the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. This led to counter-movements and denominational splits (e.g., the PCA) trying to conserve the historic teaching of the church. Thus, people upset that the SBC upheld what has been—and still is—the majority and historic view of the church regarding women serving as elders/pastors/overseers should perhaps consider that most Christians who have ever lived would disagree with them.

And that should at least give one pause.

Historical-Theological Buoys

I’ll admit that I have poked around on a few of the pages of the folks we’ve been discussing. Of note is that, to all appearances, most of these folks serve either in (liberal) mainline Protestant churches or in evangelical churches that have no real confessional pedigree, with charismatic and other non-denominational churches probably being the most prominent. A trend I’ve observed in such churches is that they are often the first to drift away from the truth and call it progress or boldness. Generally, these are very trendy churches, like “The Belonging Co.” down the road from my house co-pastored by a man and his wife.

Perhaps now more than ever I am aware of the importance of being historically and theologically linked to what has been passed down to us for centuries by faithful brothers (and sisters). This is at the core of theological conservatism and is exactly what Paul instructed Timothy: “But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it” (2 Tim. 3:14). Paul’s exhortation in his last letter to Timothy does not encourage (or foresee) theological innovation or development, but instead, preservation and holding fast.

When answering questions about what we believe about the Bible, it is not inconsequential for one person to be able to point to the Westminster or 1689 Baptist Confession of Faith while another must appeal to the statement their pastors crafted for the church website. We should be seeking to stand on the shoulders of the best of the Christian tradition, tweaking things where appropriate but not trying to reinvent the wheel for the 21st century.

The debate about female pastors will, of course, rage on—the ACNA is probably up next. But those reasoning about it from within a confessional framework will be able to weather the storm with far greater resilience. That isn’t simply because most of the confessions are clear on the issue; it’s because one’s approach to the Bible will not be an individualistic product of the times.

The humility and solidarity wrought by church history are powerful hermeneutical tools in their own right, and evangelicals who find themselves on historical-theological islands are far more likely to have a “Pastor Cathy” both presently and down the road. Those lacking connection to the great traditions risk becoming theological bobbers on the water of the contemporary zeitgeist.

And fueled by Wednesday's vote, many of them are currently clicking “post” quite a bit.

Apparently, in response to feedback, Mohler changed “such as” to “specifically” to narrow the focus of the resolution, which ended up proposing that a church in friendly cooperation with the SBC “does not act to affirm, appoint, or endorse a woman serving in the office or function of a pastor/elder/overseer, specifically preaching to the assembled congregation” (emphasis mine). The resolution as phrased in its second iteration easily achieved the two-thirds majority with 74.66% of ballots cast for “yes.” Given that the SBC amended the Baptist Faith and Message in 2023 to reflect that ‘overseer,’ ‘elder,’ and ‘pastor’ refer to a singular office in the New Testament, all the controversy seemed to surround the function of pastor that women should not be performing.

Of course, the shift from “such as” to “specifically” significantly clarified the function in question—Mohler was not suggesting that women couldn’t make hospital visits, minister to people in their homes or be missionaries. And yet, we can imagine sober-minded Baptists asking: should a woman who is not an elder be determining how to allocate the benevolence fund, choosing which sermon series to start next or architecting a church merger provided she isn’t preaching to the gathered body and isn’t ordained?

In other words, does Mohler’s resolution only get halfway there (even though he is certainly “all the way” there)? In considering the question, I’ll offer my own sketch of why ‘overseer,’ ‘elder,’ and ‘pastor’ should be understood to refer to the same office in the New Testament church and why more is at stake than bare vocabulary.

Overseers Pastor, Pastors Oversee, Elders Oversee and Elders Pastor

The noun form of pastor (lit. “shepherd,” Gr. poimēn) occurs only once in the NT as it relates to designations within the church (as opposed to shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night or Jesus being the Good Shepherd, et al.). That (plural) occurrence is found in Ephesians 4: “And he gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the shepherds and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ...” (vv. 11–12).

This will likely be surprising to many Baptists, for whom the designation “pastor” is the title for church leadership with which they are most familiar and which they use most frequently (if we don’t count “brother,” a biblical term but one that doesn’t distinguish between church leaders and Christian men in general). However, in both 1 Pet. 5:1–2 and Acts 20:28–29, the command to shepherd/pastor (the verbal form of the same word) is tightly linked with the office of elder/overseer. In 1 Pet. 5:1–2, Peter exhorts the elders to shepherd/pastor the flock of God, exercising oversight of them. In so doing, they model the work of the Chief Shepherd (1 Pet. 5:4). In Acts 20:28–29, Paul addresses the Ephesian elders as overseers of the flock that the Spirit has appointed them to shepherd.

One might object that calling elders/overseers to shepherd/pastor does not mean that they are pastors but, instead, that pastoring is just an aspect of what they are to be doing as elders/overseers, alongside teaching and leading, for example. But this objection falters on at least two counts.

First, the command to shepherd/pastor is never given to anyone other than elders/overseers in the New Testament (in contrast to teaching; cf. Col. 3:16). This strongly suggests that pastoring, despite functional approximations in the church at large that may align with the general concept of “looking out for” others, is something that elders are uniquely responsible for doing. Accordingly, there is an important distinction to make between those who happen to be doing shepherd-like things in a church and those actually responsible for doing them. Surely, if we are to take our categories and words seriously, shepherds are responsible for shepherding. And since that responsibility is given only to elders/overseers, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that ‘pastor/shepherd’ is simply another designation for that office.

Second, by hand-waving away the verbal instances of exhortations to exercise oversight and shepherd, the objection fails to take seriously the contextual elements of both 1 Pet. 5:1–5 and Acts 20:28–29. For example, in his concluding charge to the elders, Peter says that they are to be examples to “the flock” (1 Pet. 5:3). But who leads and cares for flocks if not shepherds, the very elders he is addressing? Further, it seems that someone serving as a pastor should be able to answer the question, “Over what flock?” The “pastor” of technology and the “pastor” of music won’t have an answer, and neither will the person just trying to “watch out for people” more generally. To pastor—or to be a pastor—it seems, requires overseeing a collective (i.e., a local church), a role assigned to elders/overseers in the New Testament.

In the same vein, by serving as exemplary pastors/shepherds, Peter writes that elders will be rewarded by the “Chief Shepherd” (1 Pet. 5:4). It’s very difficult to avoid the conclusion that Peter understands the elders/overseers to be pastors/shepherds themselves who are to serve as under-shepherds of Christ.

In sum, the New Testament data suggests that ‘overseer,’ ‘elder,’ and ‘pastor’ refer to the same office in the church. These men are responsible for exercising oversight over and shepherding local church bodies. The implication is that, while women should be committed to robust local church ministry, they should never feel or be given the final responsibility of shepherding the souls of parishioners (even women); such a yoke is reserved for qualified men to bear with humility, love, and wisdom—along with fear and trembling.

Pastor-Teachers

In Eph. 4:11 (see above), the Greek grammar clarifies that “pastor” and “teacher” are to be understood as a unit. Eph. 4:11 reads: kai autos edōken tous men apostolous, tous de prophētas, tous de euangelistas, tous de poimenas kai didaskalous (“And he gave the [Gr. men] apostles, the [Gr. de] prophets, the [Gr. de] evangelists, the [Gr. de] pastors and teachers...”) Notice that a singular article precedes and sets apart “pastors and teachers” at the end of the chain. Grammatically, this indicates that the two are to be understood together as a unit—though not as identical (i.e., it isn’t a Granville Sharp construction, which only holds for singular nouns and when the article is repeated).

What is the relationship, then? The most plausible conclusion is that pastors should be understood as a subset of teachers—“pastor-teachers” as opposed to “non-pastor” teachers, we might say. All pastors are required to be able and gifted to teach, but not all teachers are required to be able and gifted to pastor. While it seems obvious that the ability to teach is wrapped up in the role of “teacher” (cf. Rom. 12:7; 1 Cor. 12:28), the only local church office enumerated in the New Testament that requires the ability to teach is the office of elder/overseer (cf. 1 Tim. 3:2; Tit. 1:9).

For this reason, surely Eph. 4:11 itself gives us meaningful reason to believe that pastors should be understood as elders, those tasked with overseeing (among other things) the teaching of the church. What follows is that, while many churches have tremendously gifted female Bible teachers, such women should not be confused with pastors on account of their title or their audience.

Faithful Guides

There is also a biblical-theological reason to believe that elders/overseers are to be understood as pastors. In the Old Testament, the prophets time and again criticize the shepherds of Israel (e.g., Jer. 23:1–2; Ezek. 34:2, et al.) and promise that one day God will give them shepherds after his own heart (e.g., Jer. 3:15; 23:1-4, Ez. 34:2; Zech. 10:2-3 et al.). The LXX (the Greek translation of the OT) uses poimēn (shepherd/pastor of Eph. 4:11) to translate the Hebrew ro‘i/ro‘im in these passages with great consistency. True, the same word often refers to non-leaders, as we might expect given the prominence of the profession. But in the context of 1) prophetic criticism and 2) prophetic promises regarding what God is going to do for Israel, ‘shepherds’ always refers to those tasked with oversight and care of the people.

It is quite plausible to think that Old Testament promises of better shepherds to come should lie behind our understanding of the scant New Testament usage of ‘pastor(s).’ After all, such a biblical-theological approach is taken when seeking to understand other important but seldom-used New Testament terms (e.g., Gr. hilastērion, trans. ‘propitiation,’ is used only twice in the New Testament—Rom. 3:25; Heb. 9:5). Thus, as leaders tasked with shepherding local congregations of God’s people, elders are the New Testament fulfillment of God’s promises that his latter-days people would have shepherds with renewed hearts who would feed them instead of leading them astray. If elders—those laboring under the Chief Shepherd—do not in some way fulfill these promises, who does? And if elders do fulfill these promises, then, given the office is reserved for qualified men, women shouldn’t be serving as pastors.

Something Identifiable

Finally, there is a serious pragmatic concern that accompanies broadening the pastoral office beyond elder/overseer. For if the designation “pastor” is reduced to a general description of anyone who cares for others in the church or has some kind of responsibility within it, the term becomes so broad as to lose all definitional force. In that case, nearly every mature Christian engaged in “one-another,” local church ministry might be called a pastor. But that raises an obvious problem: how would we identify the office at all? Where are its qualifications, boundaries, or responsibilities? Let’s be honest—if everyone is a pastor, no one is really a pastor. If we are going to designate people as pastors in our churches, our only non-arbitrary criterion for placing people in those roles and understanding their responsibilities comes from understanding pastors to be elders/overseers and evaluating them accordingly.

For these reasons, it seems best to conclude that a pastor—a shepherd—in the New Testament church should be understood as an elder or overseer and that these terms refer interchangeably to the same office, to be occupied only by qualified men. For whatever other ministry occurs within a church, these men bear the responsibility for shepherding and overseeing the flock with the teaching of the Word being a central aspect of that task.

Mohler’s resolution is welcome, but my suspicion is that even if the constitution is successfully amended by another two-thirds vote next year, the door has not closed on the discussion in the manner some might hope on account of the resolution’s amended scope. In fact, the final “urgent request” from the floor—conducted during the vote itself—was potentially quite prescient. Requesting clarification, the questioner asked, “Does the intent or implication of the motion have any present or future impact on women serving in ministry in positions such as, but not limited to, missionary, minister, director, or teacher outside of the position as stated as pastor, overseer, or elder?”

Clint Pressley’s answer from the podium: “Brother, the amendment says what it says.”

Yes, indeed it does.

Which is why the SBC is one female “Executive Minister” or “Director of Missions” away from revisiting the whole conversation a few years down the road.

“Remember, you are strong. You are so strong.”

What this means is rarely clarified explicitly, but whatever it means apparently characterizes almost anyone who is still physically alive in the midst of—or after—enduring difficulty. If we are “still standing” after suffering or hardship, our continued existence is a testament to the strength we didn’t know we had, or so we are told.

One might hope such an affirmation would be more discriminating, but common usage suggests otherwise.

This way of thinking about personal strength leads to a conclusion as astonishing as it is obviously false: given that most people have endured (or are enduring) some kind of meaningful adversity, most people are, in fact, strong. Or at least they were strong in the past.

The problem is that no one really believes this because it isn’t true.

To be sure, the appeal of believing oneself to be a particularly strong person is potent. After all, what’s the alternative? That I am a weak person? Not me.

The whole framework gets two things wrong that deserve our attention:

1. It sets up a false dichotomy of strong vs. weak.

2. It mistakes strength for effort.

A False Dichotomy

The truth is that, like physical strength, most people are not particularly strong or weak: they are average. Or, more precisely, they sit near the median while believing themselves to be closer to the outliers—or a veritable outlier themselves.

Why?

Because we consider being near the median or average to be failure. “Above average” is where we must see ourselves in order to avoid a small—or massive—existential crisis. The thought that we are merely average in areas we commonly value (e.g., intelligence, character, how good we are as husbands, wives, or parents, how successful we are, et al.) is simply not a conclusion most of us are willing to entertain.

We know we are likely not “the best,” but we are certainly better than a regular person in whatever valuable category we are considering.

This tendency to overestimate our abilities and virtues is extremely well studied, and our self-perceived sense of “strength” is no exception. In fact, our will to believe in our own strength is particularly powerful when we have bought into a fallacious binary and in a context in which weakness language is shame language.

Now, none of this implies that people are incapable of forming accurate views of their own strength—only that the reasons for believing should likely lie in data points that are more objective (“Tremendous difficulty does not generally cause me to lose hope or accept defeat”) and external (e.g., the strength-affirming words of sober-minded people, not personal cheerleaders), rather than psychological self-assessment.

Some strong people will read this brief assessment and accurately conclude, “True, but I am, in fact, on the stronger end of the spectrum.” Others will inaccurately conclude the same thing, thereby demonstrating the problem itself. The same phenomenon would arise if this analysis were about good vs. bad drivers.

Perhaps realizing that “weak” is not the only alternative to “strong”—that a genuine spectrum exists, and that we can find ourselves at different places on it during different seasons of life—can provide breathing room for honest self-evaluation in this area.

But if it does, it will require a second correction alongside it.

Effort vs. Strength

Consider Jill and Rose at the gym.

Both grab dumbbells for exercise. Jill grabs 10-pound dumbbells while Rose grabs 30-pound dumbbells. Both do sets of ten to failure, even when their muscles start burning and they consider quitting halfway through the set.

Who was stronger?

Answer: Rose.

Why?

Because equal personal exertion is not the same as equal strength.

The fact that both Jill and Rose gave it everything they had does not mean they each had as much to give. Just because their muscles burned equally does not mean their muscles were equally strong.

And so it is with strength of mind and soul.

In an attempt to inspire, would-be encouragers often confuse the effort someone is exerting with strength. But strength is the capacity to exert force, not the capacity to exert effort. The capacity to exert effort is something closer to willpower or determination (which may also be lacking, but that is for another time). That one can exert willpower and press 300 pounds off their chest as a result, is strength.

They are not the same.

When someone must summon all their willpower simply to do basic tasks or get out of bed, for example, we should commend them for being fighters but not powerlifters. Indeed, they know it more than you and I: they cannot wait to get to a place where ordinary life—and certainly enduring challenges—requires less effort because they are, in fact, stronger.

At that point, they will not be exhausted all the time.

Who Cares?

Is this reflection anything more than the musing of a heartless edgelord aimed at discouraging insecure, struggling people? Why insist on clarity here? Why does it matter?

It matters because we should not be telling one of Plato’s “noble lies” to people when they would be better served by truth, wisdom and our encouraging presence in times of adversity.

Moreover, people who believe themselves to be strong when they are not will tend to demonstrate a form of self-reliance that isolates them in times of adversity (e.g., the stereotypical man who exudes silent self-sufficiency and appears unphased by life while internally crumbling).

Finally, the Christian comforter who resorts to false platitudes robs sufferers of a far greater comfort: we do not have to be strong in ourselves. In fact, Christ’s power is made perfect in weakness (2 Cor. 1:8–9; 12:9). Because Christ is strong, we can rely on a strength that cannot be conjured up by self-talk or well-intended friends.

Indeed, in such cases, we would do well to remember the theological substance of one of our finest nursery hymns:

“Little ones to him belong;
we are weak, but he is strong.”

And for Christians, that should be enough.

Desire

Attraction and desire are similar but distinct concepts, even though they are often used interchangeably in the SSA debate. But what could attraction be if not desire? This requires saying something about the nature of desire itself, bringing us back to where we started in part one. Mercifully, a full-orbed theory of desire is not necessary in order to grasp important features of desire as they relate to the present debate.

As a conceptual tutor, we might consider the most widespread understanding of the nature of beliefs: pro-attitudes (or attitudes of endorsement) toward certain propositions. On this view, to believe that the sky is blue means that when I consider the claim “the sky is blue,” I have an internal attitude of “yes” toward it—my disposition toward it is one of endorsement. Beliefs, then, are not things floating around in our brains or taking up real estate in Platonic heaven; rather, they are dispositions of endorsement that we have toward certain truth claims. In my judgment, this understanding of the nature of beliefs is very plausible.

Can a similar story be told about desires? Yes and no. Desires can likely be explained as certain kinds of attitudes, but the major disanalogy is that desires are, for the most part, teleological, or telic (because no one wants to type or read the word “teleological”). For something to be telic is to be oriented toward a particular goal or end. If I desire ice cream, I have a particular state of affairs in mind that would satisfy that desire (e.g., spooning ice cream into my mouth). Thus, borrowing from a conceptual analysis of belief, we can understand desires as pro-attitudes toward certain states of affairs obtaining.

If I desire X, then when I consider state of affairs X coming to pass, I have an attitude of endorsement toward it. For example, when I consider “the Knicks winning the game,” I can be said to desire that the Knicks win if I have an attitude of endorsement toward that situation and give it my internal vote: “Yes!” Notice, this analysis is not concerned with why I have this pro-attitude—because I find X pleasant or good or whatever—nor does it necessarily imply that I always act in accordance with my strongest desires. This analysis, or something very close to it, provides a solid foundation upon which to reason about desire and distinguish it from attraction.

Attraction

Now consider attraction. While some may use the term interchangeably with desire, even very pedestrian examples demonstrate that they are not identical concepts. I might find a Lamborghini very attractive but have no desire to own one or even drive one. I might find a woman attractive but have no desire to engage with her whatsoever. I might find the shoulder rub someone starts giving me attractive in the sense that it pulls me in the direction of “more” and I experience the “mmm, that’s nice” feeling. But I may very well desire that the person immediately stop once I realize who it is or who’s watching, etc. I may find the prospect of eating dairy attractive but have no desire to do so because of the stomach pain I know I will experience. I may find the prospect of doing justice attractive but not desire to bring it about because of the effort it may take. I may feel the pull of a bribe because it could pay for my kids’ college but have no desire to take it. Attraction and desire are simply different things.

What we can say, I think, about how attraction and desire are necessarily related is that if someone is attracted to X, then they find at least something desirable about X. We might think of this as the desire-attraction overlap: when I experience the allure of X, there is at least some aspect of X that I—for whatever reason—desire, which is not to be confused with desiring X itself. Should we find ourselves dehydrated in the middle of the desert, we might find the poisoned water attractive because it could quench our thirst but not desire it because we aren’t eager to hasten death.

Most importantly, and for whatever else might be said, perhaps the most obvious and critical distinction between attraction and desire is that attraction is non-telic. Of course, attraction can easily, and many times does, lead to desire. But “experiencing attraction by or to X” or “recognizing that there is something delightful or good about X” are categorically different from “desiring that X obtain.” The former is compatible with nothing more than being acted on by external force, such as God graciously drawing people to himself (Jn. 6:44; Gr. helkyō). The latter requires something positive and/or reactive and has a goal in mind. While we shouldn’t insist on being the vocabulary police, genuine distinctions between words and concepts are worth making, if only because they allow us to be more precise about what we are trying to communicate.

In my judgment, this is precisely what the PCA’s Committee on Human Sexuality did not do in section four of its report provided to the 48th General Assembly. Under statement four, titled “Desire,” we read:

“We affirm not only that our inclination toward sin is a result of the Fall, but that our fallen desires are in themselves sinful (Rom 6:11-12; 1 Peter 1:14; 2:11). The desire for an illicit end—whether in sexual desire for a person of the same sex or in sexual desire disconnected from the context of Biblical marriage—is itself an illicit desire. Therefore, the experience of same-sex attraction is not morally neutral; the attraction is an expression of original or indwelling sin that must be repented of and put to death (Rom. 8:13).”

While the last sentence is slightly ambiguous, the section title itself and the “therefore” strongly suggest that attraction just is desire and thus, same-sex attraction is identical to (sinful) same-sex desire. Notably, there is no analysis of the nature of desire or attraction, nor is there any treatment of the two case studies that follow.

We might have hoped for more.

Temptation | Desire, Testing, Attraction

The precise nature of “temptation” (Gr. peirasmos) in the New Testament is underdetermined. “Temptation” might refer to being tested (primarily) through external circumstances (e.g. 1 Pet. 4:12; Job in the OT). “Temptation” might be taken as a reference to sinful desires that one must rule over (Gal. 5:16-17; Jas. 1:14-15). Or, temptation might be taken as resisting something that, for one reason or another, is attractive but forbidden (Gen. 3:6; Prov. 7; Matt. 4:1-11). This last category is the most compelling and least explored.

Case Study: The Forbidden Woman of Proverbs 7

The introduction to Proverbs (Prov. 1-9) depicts a father giving counsel to his son about how to navigate life in the fear of the Lord. In the course of the extended prologue, we are introduced to wisdom and folly, both personified as women who—perhaps surprisingly—share quite a bit in common in terms of appearance and operation (cf. Prov. 9:1-5, 13-18).

The adulterous woman—one presentation of Lady Folly—receives an extended presentation in chapter 7 where the father provides a strong exhortation to avoid her at all costs. In fact, the young man is to not even go near her house. Why? Because what she offers is very, very compelling: lips that drip honey (Prov. 5:3), the thrill of stolen water (9:17), a bed scented with expensive perfumes and adorned with expensive blankets (7:16-17), plenty of time to indulge (7:19), sexually bold and proactive (7:13), and an eager desire to curl the toes of naïve youths with her prowess (7:18). And yet, her pleasures come at the cost of one’s life (7:23, 26-27).

For our purposes, the most interesting thing about how the son is instructed is what is absent: the idea that one day, with enough wisdom and progreesive holiness, this woman will no longer appear attractive. Importantly, the father’s counsel to stay far from her is not because this woman is actually a decrepit old woman wearing a mask or that she cannot, in fact, provide a great roll in the hay. Nor does he suggest that recognizing there is something attractive about her is wrong; on the contrary, the father himself is the one making plain statements about why she seems compelling. What are we to make of this?

It seems to me that the most plausible understanding is that experiencing or recognizing “the pull” or “allure” of the forbidden woman is not necessarily problematic and is, perhaps, inevitable for people with sinful natures. When “experiencing the attraction” morphs into desire, however, then we have sin. This will be the case with sexual sin, but also with Folly more generally (9:13-18). Importantly, the thrill of sexual pleasure promised by this woman is not wrong to desire or experience, but it is wrong to experience or desire the thrill of sexual pleasure with this woman (more on this in the final section). Thus, the desire-attraction overlap here is the desire to enjoy sexual fulfillment.

As it turns out this will also be the desire-attraction overlap in the case of SSA. It is a mistake to conclude that same-sex attracted individuals fundamentally desire “sex with the same sex,” as their many prayers to “be attracted to the opposite sex” clearly indicate. Rather, they fundamentally desire sexual fulfillment—a fine thing—and are confounded by the fact that for them, it seems there is no righteous way to satisfy that desire.

Case Study: Forbidden Fruit That Delights the Eyes

I must keep my treatment of Genesis 3 brief so the length of this piece doesn’t get out of hand. Adam and Eve were created in the Garden able to sin, but until the Fall, in a state of innocence. Scripture plainly suggests that the decisive moment of the Fall was Adam and Eve partaking of the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil after Eve was deceived by Satan (Gen. 3:7, 11). But consider the fruit of the forbidden tree: was its fruit not attractive despite being forbidden? Clearly Eve thought so prior to her disobedient action: “So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate, and she also gave some to her husband who was with her, and he ate” (Gen. 3:6).

While Eve’s driving desire seems to have been the desire to be like God, there was something obviously “pre-Fall attractive” about the tree and the consumption of its fruit apart from understanding what I might provide. This attraction isn’t problematic, however, if attraction—experiencing the allure of something—is distinguished from desire. Such attraction could be experienced in a state of innocence sans desire to disobey. Tragically, in Adam and Eve’s case (and ours, all the time) attraction led to desire and sinful action.

One caveat.

It might be suggested that Eve’s desire to be like God was sinful (and I would say it was) and yet, was also prior to the “decisive moment of the Fall.” Someone might take this to imply that not only attraction, but also sinful desire, is not sinful given that it occurred “before the Fall.” But I would respond by saying that Eve’s desiring to be made wise like God, her taking the fruit and her eating the fruit all describe one “thick” event that could be referred to as “eating from the forbidden tree” (Gen. 3:11) or the “deception of Eve” (1 Tim. 2:14; 2 Cor. 11:3). The same can’t be said for how good the tree looked or how delightful its fruit appeared from the beginning.

Eve didn’t always desire to be like God, while the fruit was, presumably, always delightful looking. Indeed, such a strong prohibition regarding a tree whose fruit looked nasty and unattractive would seem odd, not to mention out of place, in the Garden of Eden. Thus, Eve’s desire to be like God, her recognition that the tree and its fruit looked good, her taking the fruit, her eating the fruit and then Adam eating the fruit she gave him can all rightly be called “the Fall,” “the deception of Eve” or “eating from the forbidden tree.” Determining the precise moment at which the state of innocence was corrupted and the precise, precipitating cause of that corruption is a task that “falls” to the sanctified speculation of the theologian.

Sinful Natures and Attraction

If our sinful natures are forgiven upon foundational repentance and faith (see part 2) and do not require iterative requests for forgiveness, what are we to make of cases where our sinful natures are “pulled” toward sin apart from desiring it? To use two analogies, if our sinful natures are likened to the negative poles of a magnet, it seems as though positive poles are all around us. We experience “the pull” of this or that with regularity. If our sinful natures are likened to tuning forks, it seems as though precise resonances are constantly reaching our spiritual ears to make them “sing” before we desire to enjoy the tone or silence the sound. How do we morally evaluate this phenomenon?

In my judgment, it seems that the burden of proof lies heavily on the one who would maintain that to experience “the draw” of sinful actions and states of affairs—attraction as we’ve analyzed it—is itself sinful. Without collapsing the distinction between desire and attraction, it’s not clear how such an argument would get started. If, when I experience a pull away from godliness, I desire to run away from the pull instead of toward it, what more could I possibly do to walk in holiness? Recall—Lady Folly will always be around the corner looking good until the day we die, even if what “looks good” to us as new Christians is different from what “looks good” after 30 years of faithfulness. More specifically, acknowledging that the adulterous woman looks good and can deliver pleasure isn’t wrong; desiring to be pleasured by her or enjoying her pleasure, is.

The takeaway for the SSA debate at this point should be clear, and yet, not at all unique to the SSA debate: same-sex attraction and same-sex desire may be used interchangeably in common parlance, but we should make a distinction at a conceptual level regardless. The same could be said for the Proverbs-7-woman-attraction vs. Proverbs-7-woman-desire debate that you’ve never heard of. What’s at stake is not trivial, for it involves knowing when we have sinned, and therefore, when we need to repent and ask forgiveness from God as we give thanks for our “daily bread”—is it when we experience the allure of something sinful or when we desire it? The conversation as I’ve sought to frame it isn’t a quibble about words, nor can the moral status of SSA be analyzed in isolation from sinful natures and dispositions in general. This realization should help us pump the brakes on sensationalism when coming alongside those struggling with SSA.

The Temptation of Jesus

Thoughtful readers will notice that the distinction between attraction and desire as they pertain to sinful actions and state of affairs simply won’t help us when we turn to explain the temptation of Jesus for the simple reason that he had no sinful nature to speak of. And not only did he lack sinful desires, he also lacked a nature disposed to produce them in the first place. In that case (and returning to part one), we might wonder how Jesus was tempted in any meaningful sense such that he could sympathize with our weaknesses (Heb. 4:15). Was the temptation of Jesus like someone refusing to eat liver and onions, which they hate, upon being offered the dish for dessert (“I overcame the temptation to eat liver and onions for dessert and instead ate the ice cream I love—it took incredible mental fortitude”)? Typical explanations of the internal/external temptation distinction would suggest so, leaving us thankful that Jesus passed a test, but scratching our heads about how he can relate to us in our weakness in temptation in any meaningful way.

However, we aren’t forced to choose between two bad options. Instead, a third option seems superior: Jesus experienced and resisted the enticement to satisfy fundamental and common aspects of human frailty in circumstances that prohibited righteously pursuing those things. Importantly, this does mean that Jesus never experienced attraction toward anything that was inherently sinful (murder, adultery, lying etc.). However, it seems plausible to suggest that, after fasting for forty days, for example, the thought of turning stones into bread to satisfy his hunger pains held a certain allure for him (Matt. 4:2-3). We might wonder why Satan, crafty as he is, zeroed in on Jesus’s hunger if he thought it would be a liver and onions effort. Further, the other two temptations also centered around avoiding human weakness and suffering (4:5-10). Also, if there was no “internal” experience of resistance whatsoever, we might wonder why angels came to minister to him post-temptation (4:11). Such resistance needn’t have been to sinful desires, but the longings of frail humanity.

Importantly, “eating food,” “avoiding suffering” and “achieving goals efficiently” are not sinful, though seeking such things under certain circumstances can be. We see this in the well-known distinction between John wanting to have sex with Jane now, versus John currently having a desire to have sex with Jane then (i.e., within marriage, for example). Thus, in the case of Satan’s initial temptation, there is no problem with allowing that Jesus desired to satisfy his hunger—the desire-attraction overlap that explained the allure—but had no desire to satisfy it under those conditions and in fact, was repulsed by the thought. Presumably, he ate quickly afterward when the bar to legitimate desire circumstantially disappeared and attraction permissibly gave way to desire and action.

While this won’t be enough for some people who demand that Jesus either overcame sinful temptations or felt attraction to inherently sinful things, it preserves orthodoxy while telling a plausible story about how Jesus experienced an “internal” sense of temptation sans sinful desire and sans sinful nature. In virtue of his humanity, not his sinful nature, we can say that Jesus likely resisted many things that delight human weakness on numerous occasions where such delights were circumstantially inappropriate—eating, sleeping, bathing or even scratching an itch under the wrong conditions. Thus, Jesus can sympathize with our weaknesses in virtue of his righteous humanity because despite being sinless, he experienced genuine frailty and appropriately resisted all compelling but compromising ways to avoid living an extended, genuinely human, life.

Summary

- Desires are telic—that is, directed toward particular ends or goals—and can be understood as pro-attitudes towards certain states of affairs obtaining. To desire X is to have an attitude of endorsement when I consider X coming to pass; it receives my internal vote: “Yes!”

- While attraction often leads to desire, attraction itself is non-telic. Should someone provide me with uninvited yet pleasurable stimulation, I may very well have a “mmm, that’s nice” experience and feel the strong appeal of “more,” but that sensation is distinct from my attitude (desire) toward the experience itself. Depending on a variety of factors, I may desire that such stimulation continue or cease.

- Desire and attraction overlap in the following manner: If I am attracted to X, then there is at least some aspect of X that I find desirable, not to be confused with desiring X itself. The annual allure of cheating on my taxes is explained by my desire to give less money to the government even when I have no desire to cheat on my taxes. Without this desire-attraction overlap, it is difficult to make sense of the nature of attraction.

- As those with sinful natures forgiven upon conversion, merely experiencing the inevitable allure of sin is not sinful provided sinful desires do not develop out of the sensation of attraction. This distinction is important because it clarifies when we must ask for forgiveness from God in the run of life—when we feel drawn by evil, or when we desire it? Lady Folly will always seem appealing to us until the day we die (cf. Rom. 7:21-24).

- The moral questions surrounding SSA are not fundamentally different from the moral questions concerning a host of other desires and dispositions that can never be righteously satisfied. In SSA, the desire-attraction overlap is the desire for sexual fulfillment, not the desire to have sex with the same sex.

- Despite lacking a sinful nature or sinful desires, Jesus experienced what can plausibly be considered internal temptation to sin on account of his embodied, human weakness and frailty. Though he never desired anything that was inherently sinful, he experienced the whole array of desires that accompany genuine humanity (not fallen humanity) that were not always permissible to satisfy (e.g., eating while hungry but at the bidding of Satan).

- In such cases, Jesus experienced the sensation of “saying no” and resisting that which seemed attractive in human weakness. As a result, he is able to sympathize with our weaknesses in temptation—he has experienced and resisted the attractive nature of taking actions that would be genuinely sinful even though he has not experienced and resisted the attractive nature of taking actions that are inherently sinful.

In the third and final installment, I’ll lay out a model for understanding temptation “internally” in a way that is not necessarily sinful, explain how Jesus could experience genuine temptation despite not having a sinful nature, and what that means for us.

Sin, Sinning, Sinful, A Sin, A Sinful Nature

“Your orientation is temptation, not sin.”

No one really knows what this means. The reason for this is that the statement is clunky, opaque, and low-definition, smuggling philosophical and theological heavy lifting into little more than a slogan. Having said that, it stands as a helpful point of departure in exploring how we think about our own sin and relate to it.

To “sin” in the New Testament is to miss the mark of righteousness or otherwise fail to live up to God’s standards for holiness. The Greek verb for sin is hamartanō (“to fall short” or “to miss the mark”). The Greek noun for “sin” is hamartia. The Greek adjective for sin is hamartōlos, which, despite being an adjective, is most often translated as a noun (e.g., “sinners”; for the adjectival rendering—“sinful”—see Mk. 8:38; Lk. 5:8; 24:7; Rom. 7:13 et al.). Finally, the sinful aspect of who we are, sometimes (not so precisely) called our sinful nature, is often referred to as “the flesh” (Gr. sarx). Our flesh in this sense—not to be confused with usages indicating physical flesh and humanity—is that which is opposed to God and drives our sinful desires and behaviors.

To sin. Sin. Sinful. Sinful nature/flesh. So far, so good.

Now consider what immediately seems like a silly question (my son argued with me about this just last week): is water wet? Curiously, answers inevitably split between “obviously” and “no,” reflecting something important about common parlance versus technical usage. Technically—both scientifically and philosophically—water is generally not considered wet. Instead, “wet” describes a condition in which liquid comes into contact with or adheres to a surface. As such, water wets things but is not itself wet.

Who cares? Answer: the person who wants to describe the flesh (i.e., our sinful nature) or the mere existence of a struggle against sin as “sin” itself (or “a sin”). On such a view—and given that we should repent of sin, something everyone in the discussion agrees upon—we are left wondering what Christians inevitably beset with sinful natures until death are supposed to do. Even in our best moments—even when we are unconscious during surgery—our flesh is nevertheless disposed toward all kinds of evil. As with the analogy of water, Scripture suggests that our flesh—our sinful nature—is sinful but is not “sinning” or “a sin” of a kind that requires iterative repentance.

This is not to say that having an inescapably sinful nature doesn’t require repentance at all—it does. But that repentance—repentance from being by nature objects of wrath (Eph. 2:3)—is the repentance of conversion and accompanying justification. The author of Hebrews describes it as “a foundation of repentance from dead works and of faith toward God” (Heb. 6:1). This repentance is accompanied by the new birth, gloriously outlined in 2 Cor. 5:17: Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.

Crucially (and sadly), the “old man” sticks around (Eph. 4:20–24), but we are given the Holy Spirit to walk in newness of life. All of this means that every Christian will have had their sinful natures, sinful desires, and sinful actions forgiven, but there is no indication that the task of sanctification involves making the flesh less sinful as Christians move through life. Indeed, such a thing is impossible.

Our sinful nature (or, more exactly, the aspect of our human nature that is opposed to God) is not like a cancerous tumor that can be shrunk, nor can it be made “less malignant.” Nor can it be eliminated in this life.

Sanctification works not by shrinking the flesh, but by the transforming power of the Holy Spirit working in us such that desires for holiness and righteousness both occur with greater regularity and “win out” over the desires produced by the flesh when conflict arises (cf. Jas. 4;1; Gal. 5:17). As we behold the glory of the Lord, we are transformed from one degree of glory to another (2 Cor. 3:18). That process will continue, as it turns out, until we end up in glorified resurrection bodies ourselves and redemption reaches its consummation. Failure to respect the endurance of sin’s potency is a recipe for moral failure after years of faithfulness.

Now, let’s zoom in.

Sexual Desires, Sinful Natures and Sin

Desires to sexually interact with—being consumed with passion for (Rom. 1:27)—the same sex are wrong because God has designed sex to be (only) between a man and a woman in the covenant of marriage (Gen. 2:24). Further, desires for actions, objects, or states of affairs forbidden by God are themselves sinful and instances of sin—they miss the mark of pure and holy desires and actions. Someone who struggles with same-sex desires has a sinful nature/flesh that—for whatever reason—produces sexual desires that are sinful, and sinful in such a way that no contextualization or caveating would possibly allow them to satisfy those desires.

In this sense, they are unlike someone who has heterosexual desires that could be satisfied in marriage (even if they happen not to be married).

But consider: John’s sinful nature, for whatever reason, produces desires for multiple sexual partners at once—one partner is boring, he claims. For as long as Erica can remember, she has had sexual desires to be dominated sexually to the point of near violence, shattering God’s intended design for sexual intimacy. Since puberty, Jackson has always struggled with strong desires to have sex with an older woman married to some poor chap who just can’t provide the thrill that he believes he could provide. Given that John, Erica, and Jackson tend to find themselves with sexual desires that could never be righteously satisfied, are they really in a meaningfully different boat than the individual who struggles with same-sex desires? Is Sadie, who has always been tantalized by voyeurism?

If so, it isn’t clear how, and the burden of proof lies strongly on the person who would treat these cases differently from the standpoint of sinfulness, sinful desire, and repentance.

Pulling Together Some Threads

When Jesus taught his disciples how to pray, he indicated that their prayers should regularly include repentance for sin and asking for forgiveness—just as often as they were thankful for their “daily bread.” Importantly, however, what he envisions asking forgiveness for are “debts” or “transgressions” understood as occurrences, not unchangeable realities about who we are in this age (i.e., “Please forgive me one more day for my sinful nature that regeneration did not remove and there is nothing I can do to eradicate”).

That we are to ask forgiveness for “things that occur” is confirmed by the corollary: “and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors” (Matt. 6:12). Christians are to regularly repent and ask forgiveness for occurrent sins. Beyond foundational repentance and justification, there is no indication that Christians are to regularly ask forgiveness for the bare fact that their sinful nature abides, regardless of what brand of sinful desires and actions that nature may produce.

The bottom line is that when Ferris desires to have sex with Winston, he should repent and ask forgiveness from God for the same reason that Shirley should repent and ask forgiveness when she finds herself desiring the moral downfall of her friend. And we should counsel John, Erica, Jackson, and Sadie above to repent of their sinful, under-no-circumstances-righteously-satisfied desires for the very same reason(s).

But if John, Erica, Jackson, and Sadie remain qualified for their respective ministries in virtue of the fact that they live in consistent victory over their sexual dispositions—all things being equal—does Ferris not as well? It is difficult to see a non-arbitrary distinction.

While there is reasonable concern that might be expressed about Sam Allberry’s career (though very clearly not his identity, contra some of his critics and unlike many Side B/Revoice folks) being largely driven by the “shape” of his sinful nature, this is question distinct from personal holiness or ministry fitness. For example, as her publications demonstrate, and despite being known for coming out of a lesbian lifestyle, Rosaria Butterfield seems like a strong example of someone who struggles against same-sex desires but fights them with utter tenacity and calls them exactly what they are—sinful.

She is qualified for ministry (obviously not pastoral ministry).

Summary

• All sex not between a man and a woman within the marriage covenant is sinful/wrong.

• All occurrent desires for sinful sex/stimulation are themselves sinful and are instances of “sin.”

• That the sinful nature/flesh of some—for whatever reason—inclines them toward sexual desires that can never be righteously satisfied is not a challenge unique to those struggling with same-sex desires.

• Not only does the flesh of some dispose them toward alternative, aberrant sexual desires, but everyone’s flesh disposes them toward certain sinful desires and behaviors that can never be righteously satisfied.

• Our sinful natures are (obviously) sinful and require repentance, but that repentance and forgiveness occurs in foundational repentance and justification. Our flesh will, unfortunately, remain with us until we die.

• Being unconscious such that our flesh is not producing any sinful behaviors or desires does not mean that our sinful natures have in any meaningful sense ceased. It would indeed be strange if our most God-honoring moments were in the midst of sedation. And yet, the New Testament does not suggest that we live in a constant state of “sin” as a result. Water isn’t wet even it requires remediation. It makes things wet and produces wetness.

• Iterative repentance and asking for forgiveness addresses sin occurring in the run of life, whether that sin occurs at the level of desire, thought, or action.

• Sanctification works not by making the flesh “less sinful,” like shrinking a tumor or making cancer less malignant. Instead, the Holy Spirit progressively transforms our hearts such that we desire righteousness more frequently and intensely. While the particular shape of our sinful dispositions may vanish entirely or experience radical reshaping, many others will stick around as patterned struggles to be progressively ruled over until we die.

• When we consciously experience sinful and righteous desires simultaneously (Jas. 4:1; Gal. 5:16–17), we should seek to mortify the flesh and walk in the desires of the Spirit while repenting over the evil we desired and feeling remorse similar to how someone should feel remorse for plotting to kill the king despite not going through with it.

All this leaves open the question of what same-sex “attraction” might mean if it is not synonymous with same-sex desire, what constitutes temptation, how Jesus could be tempted internally if he didn’t have a sinful nature, and what that means for us.

Unfortunately, that will require a part three.

My contribution—which will appear in three 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 parts two and three 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.