Few would deny the need for boldness; many, however, would dispute its shape. What does boldness actually look and sound like in any given moment? While most agree that boldness is a virtue and can rattle off its synonyms, pinpointing its practical expression remains more challenging. Is boldness found in the quiet defiance of Rosa Parks, the oratory defiance of Winston Churchill, Martin Luther’s refusal to recant, Jesus overturning tables in the temple courts, or the indomitable posture of a cancer patient staring death in the face? One might reasonably conclude that boldness wears many faces, even if it shares a single DNA. One might also believe that bold individuals sometimes act in ways that could be (mistakenly) perceived as cowardice—the apostle Paul’s many instances of fleeing persecution in the book of Acts come to mind.
This brings us to a jarring, recent phenomenon: the emphatic calls on social media—many from pastors—for Christians to leave their churches if their pastors did not publicly address the assassination of Charlie Kirk on the Sunday following his death. (Yes, that makes this post a little late by some standards—but tepid takes are more thoughtful than hot ones.)
What was striking about these calls was not just the urgency, but the rationale: they weren’t about discerning whether pastors were compassionate in tragedy or culturally aware. The critique was laser-focused on one metric—boldness. Or more precisely, a specific, highly visible, performative kind of boldness.
Mark Driscoll, continuing a pattern of rash absolutism that contributed to the collapse of his leadership in Acts 29, declared on Facebook:
“If your church didn’t address the demonic murder of Charlie Kirk this weekend, the pastor is a coward and needs to repent or resign.”
That post received over 15,000 likes.
The message was unmistakable:
“Trying to discern if your church has bold pastors? Here’s the ultimate test.”
For many pastors, it felt like a mini–COVID-era rerun. Once again, a public crisis became a litmus test, and the assumption was that boldness had a singular, unmistakable form. Anything short of a Sunday morning declaration was deemed insufficient. A midweek email? Too soft. Addressed in community groups? Too private. Mentioned in a prayer meeting? Not enough. Or so it was suggested.
And yet, many pastors did speak to the tragedy—publicly and pastorally. They were, I believe, wise to do so. Our church did. But we are entirely justified in pausing to ask those who demanded uniform action across the body of Christ:
Who do you think you are?
What gives you the authority to define boldness for pastors who shepherd entirely different flocks than your own? In the immortal words of R.C. Sproul:
“What’s wrong with you people?”
Has our theology of church membership, pastoral responsibility, and submission to local church elders eroded to such a degree that we presume our social media instincts should direct someone else’s pulpit? Is “cowardice” really the only explanation you can conceive for a different pastoral response?
Let me offer a counter-declaration—one I hope avoids the very folly I’m critiquing:
If your pastor proclaimed anything resembling Driscoll’s comment, it may be time to sit down with him and ask how he understands the latitude and focus of his ministry—along with his theology of the local church.
And if you’re not a pastor but still felt entitled to demand uniform boldness from pastors you've never met—perhaps you should consider sitting out these kinds of discussions. It won’t be as exhilarating, but it will do far more to preserve the unity and health of Christ’s church.
To those remaining enslaved by a rigid intuition about the practical expression of boldness, I leave you with the sobering words of Alasdair MacIntyre in After Virtue:
“One of the things that we ought to have learned from the history of moral philosophy is that the introduction of the word intuition by a moral philosopher is always a signal that something has gone badly wrong with an argument.”
Let’s hear the argument, not the intuition.